Cornell Mfiknmi^ Jitotg 
 
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 FROM THE 
 
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 ^..^.306.tr: agy^^//jF 
 
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Cornell University Library 
 PR 4967.R6 
 
 Robert Falconer. 
 
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Cornell University 
 Library 
 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013520097 
 
THE LIGHT FELL UPON HER FACE. 
 
Robert Falconer 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD 
 
 AUTHO9 OF " ANNALS OF A QUIKT NEIGHBORHOOD," '* THE SEABOARD PARISH," 
 ETC., ETC. (^U' 
 
 I!) 
 
 *' Countrymen, 
 My heart doth joy that yet, in all'my life, 
 I found no man but he was true to me." 
 
 — Brutus in Julius Casar, 
 
 BOSTON 
 D LOTHROP COMPANY 
 
 WASHINGTON ST OPPOSITE BROMFIELD 
 
 ^ 
 
o 
 
 A- 4-'3oG5' 
 
 tX5RhfEti 
 
 %• The author aesi) 
 this tale is of his owiiV«ai{iasUuU)i 
 
 and appear for the first time in print, 
 boyhood, he has not "vctn trimmed them. 
 
 It not a single pnem io 
 
 'e, however, Ms property, 
 
 The carelesa work of a friend of hit 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 PiET I. -HIS BOYHOOD. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A RECOLLECTION. 
 
 RoBBRT Falconer, school-boy, aged fourteen, thought he 
 had never seen his father ; that is, thought he had no recollec- 
 tion of having ever seen him. But the moment when my story 
 begins he had begun to doubt whether his belief in the matter 
 was correct. And, as he went on thinking, he became more 
 and more assured that he had seen his father somewhere about 
 six years before, as near as a thoughtful boy of his age could 
 judge of the lapse of a period that would form half of that por- 
 tion of his existence which was bound into one by the reticula- 
 tions of memory. 
 
 For there dawned upon his mind the vision of one Sunday 
 afternoon. Betty had gone to church, and he was alone with 
 his grandmother, reading the "Pilgrim's Progress" to her, 
 when, just as Christian knocked at the wicket-gate, a tap came 
 to the street door, and he went to open it. Tliere he saw a tall, 
 somewhat haggard-looking man, in a shabby black coat (the 
 vision gradually dawned upon him till it reached the minute- 
 ness of all these particulars) , his hat pulled down on to his 
 projecting eyebrows, and his shoes very dusty, as with a long 
 journey on foot, — it was a hot Sunday, he remembered that, 
 — who iDoked at him very strangely, and without a word 
 
» ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 pushed him aside, and went straight into his grandmother's 
 parlor, shutting the door behind him. He followed, not 
 doubting that the man must have a right to go there, but ques- 
 tioning very much his right to shut him out. When he 
 reached the door, however, he found it bolted ; and outside he 
 had to stay all alone, in the desolate remainder of the house, 
 till Betty came home from church. 
 
 He could even recall, as he thought about it, how drearily 
 the afternoon had passed. First he had opened the street door, 
 and stood in it. There was nothing alive to be seen, except 
 a sparrow picking up crumbs, and he would not stop till he 
 was tired of him. The " Royal Oak," down the street to the 
 right, had not even a horseless gig or cart standing before it ; 
 and King Charles, grinning awfully in its branches on the 
 signboard, was invisible from the distance at which he stood. 
 In at the other end of the empty street, looked the distant 
 uplands, whose waving corn and grass were likewise invisible, 
 and beyond them rose one blue truncated peak in the distance, 
 all of them wearily at rest this weary Sabbath day. However, 
 there was one thing than which this was better, and that was 
 being at church, which, to this boy at least, was the very fifth 
 essence of dreariness. 
 
 He closed the door and went into the kitchen. That was 
 nearly as bad. The kettle was on the fire, to be sure, in an- 
 ticipation*of tea ; but the coals under it were black on the top, 
 and it made only faint efforts, after immeasurable intervals of 
 silence, to break into a song, giving a hum like that of a beo 
 a mile off, and then relapsing into hopeless inactivity. Having 
 just had his dinner, he was not hungry enough to find any 
 resource in the drawer where the oatcakes lay, and, unfortu- 
 nately, the old wooden clock in the corner was going, else 
 there would have been some amusement in trying to torment 
 it into demonstrations of life, as he had often done in less des- 
 perate circumstances than the present. At last he went 
 upstairs to the very room in which he now was, and sat down 
 upon the floor, just as he was sitting now. He had not even 
 brought his "Pilgrim's Progress" with him from his grand- 
 mother's room. But searching about in all holes and corners, 
 he at length found Klopstock's '' Messiah " translated into Eng- 
 lish, and took refuge there till Betty came home. Nor did he 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 go djwn till she called him to tea, when, expecting to join his 
 grandmother and the stranger, he found, on the contrary, that 
 he was to have his tea with Betty in the kitchen, after wliicU 
 he again took refuge with Klopstock in the garret, and re- 
 mained there till it grew dark, when Betty came in search of 
 him, and put him to bed in the gable-room, and not in his 
 usual chamber. In the morning, every trace of the visitor 
 had vanished, even to the thorn stick which he had set down 
 behind the door as he entered. 
 
 All this Robert Falconer saw slowly revive on the palimp- 
 sest of his memory, as he washed it with the vivifying waters 
 ef recollection. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A VISITOR. 
 
 It was a very bare little room in which the boy sat ; but it 
 was his favorite retreat. Behind the door, in a recess, stood 
 an empty bedstead, without even a mattress upon it. This 
 was the only piece of furniture in the room, unless some 
 shelves crowded with papers tied up in bundles, and a cup- 
 board in the wall, likewise filled with papers, could be called 
 furniture. There was no carpet on the floor, no windows in 
 the walls. The only light came from the door, and from a 
 small skylight in the sloping roof, which showed that it was 
 a garret-room. Nor did much light come from the open door, 
 for there was no window on the walled stair to which it 
 opened; only opposite the door, a few steps led up into anoihei" 
 garret, larger, but with a lower roof, uncoiled, and perforated 
 with two or three holes, the panes of glass filling which were 
 no larger than the small blue slates which covered the 
 roof; from these panes a little dim brown light tumbled into 
 the room where the boy sat on the floor, with his head almost 
 between his knees, thinking. 
 
 But there was less light than usual in the room now, though 
 it was only half-past two o'clock, and the sun would not set for 
 
o ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 more than half an hour yet ; for if Eobert had lifted his head 
 and looked up, it would have been at, not through, the skylight. 
 No sky was to be seen. A thick covering of snow lay over tha 
 glass. A partial thaw, followed by frost, had fixed it there, — 
 a mass of imperfect cells and confused crystals. It was a cold 
 place to sit in ; but the boy had some faculty for enduring cold 
 when it was the price to be paid for solitude. And besides, 
 when he fell into one of his thinking moods, he forgot, for a 
 season, cold and everything else but what he was thinking 
 about, — a faculty for which he was to be envied. 
 
 If he had gone down the stair, which described half the turn 
 of a screw in its descent, and had crossed the landing to which 
 it brought him, he could have entered another bedroom, called 
 the gable or rather ga'le room, equally at his service for retire- 
 ment; but, though carpeted and comfortably furnished, and 
 having two windows at right angles, commanding two streets, 
 for it was a corner house, the boy preferred the garret room, — 
 he could not tell why. Possibly, windows to the streets were 
 not congenial to the meditations in which even now, as I have 
 said, the boy indulged. 
 
 These meditations, however, though sometimes as abstruse, 
 if not so continuous, as those of a metaphysician, — for boys are 
 not unfrequently more given to metaphysics than older people 
 are able or, perhaps, willing to believe, — were not by any means 
 confined to such subjects: castle-building had its full share in 
 the occupation of those lonely hours ; and for this exercise of 
 the constructive faculty, what he knew, or rather what he did 
 not know, of his own history ^ve him scope enough, nor was 
 his btain slow in supplying him with material corresponding in 
 :juantity to the space afforded. His mother had been dead for 
 so many years that he had only the vaguest recollections of 
 lier tenderness, and none of her person. All he was told of 
 his father was that he had gone abroad. His grandmother 
 would never talk about him, although he was her own son. 
 When the boy ventured to ask a question about where he was, 
 or when he would return, she always replied, " Bairns suld 
 baud their tongues." Nor would she vouchsafe another answer 
 to any question that seemed to her from the farthest distance to 
 bear down upon that subject. "Bairns maun learn to baud 
 their tongues," was the sole variation of which the response 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. T 
 
 Bdmitted. And the boy did learn to hold his tongue. Perhaps 
 he would have thought less about his father if he had had 
 brothers or sisters, or even if the nature of his grandmother 
 had been such as to admit of their relationship being drawn 
 closer — into personal confidence, or some measure of familiar- 
 ity. How they stood with regard to each other will soon 
 appear. 
 
 Whether the visions vanished from his brain because of the 
 thickening of blood with cold, or he merely acted from one 
 of those undefined and inexplicable impulses which occasion not 
 a few of our actions, I cannot tell, but all at once Robert started 
 to his feet and hurried from the room. At the foot of the garret 
 stair, between it and the door of the gable-room already men- 
 tioned, stood another door, at right angles to both, of the exist- 
 ence of which the boy was scarcely aware, simply because he 
 had seen it all his life and had never seen it open. Turning 
 his back on this last door, which he took for a blind one, he went 
 down a short broad stair, at the foot of which was a window. 
 He then turned to the left into a long flagged passage, or transe, 
 passed the kitchen door on the one hand, and the double-leaved 
 street door on the other ; but instead of going into the parlor, 
 the door of which closed the transe, he stopped at the passage- 
 window on the right, and there stood looking out. 
 
 What might be seen from this window certainly could not 
 be called a very pleasant prospect. A broad street, with low 
 houses of cold gray stone, is perhaps as uninteresting a form of 
 street as any to be found in the world, and such was the street 
 Robert looked out upon. Not a single member of the animal 
 creation was to be seen in it, not a pair of eyes to be dis- 
 covered looking out at any of the windows opposite. The sole 
 motion was the occasional drift of a vapor-like film of white 
 powder, which the wind would lift like dust from the snowy 
 carpet that covered the street, and wafting it along for a few 
 yards, drop again to its repose till another stronger gust, 
 prelusive of the wind about to rise at sundown, —a wind cold 
 and bitter as death, : — would rush over the street, and raise a 
 denser cloud of the white water-dust to sting the face of any 
 improbable persons who might meet it in its passage. It was a 
 keen, knife-edge frost, even in the house, and what Robert saw 
 to make him stand at the desolate window I do not know, and 
 
8 
 
 KUBEBT FALOOKEB. 
 
 I believe he could not himself have told. There he did stand, 
 however, for the space of five minutes or so, with nothing bettei 
 filling his outer ejes at least than a bald spot on the crown of 
 the street, whence the wind had swept away the snow, leaving 
 it brown and bare, a spot of March in the middle of January. 
 
 He heard the town drummer in the distance, and let the 
 sound invade his passive ears, till it crossed the opening of the 
 street, and vanished '' down the town." 
 
 "There's Dooble Sanny," he said to himself, "with such 
 cold hands 'at he's playin' upo' the drum-head as if he was 
 leaping in a cask." 
 
 Then he stood silent oncfe more, with a look as if anything 
 would be welcome to break the monotony. 
 
 While he stood, a gentle, timorous tap came to the door, so 
 gentle indeed that Betty in the kitchen did not hear it, or she, 
 tall and Roman-nosed as she was, would have answered it before 
 the long-legged dreamer could have reached the door, though he 
 was not above three yards from it. In lack of anything better 
 to do, Eiobert stalked to the summons. As he opened the door, 
 these words greeted him : — 
 
 " Is Robert at — eh ! it's Bob himself ! Bob, I'm exceed 
 ingly cold." 
 
 " What for dinna ye gang hame, then ? " 
 
 " What for wasna ye at the schnil the day ? " 
 
 " I put one question at you, and ye answer me wi' anither." 
 
 " Weel, I hae nae hame to gang till." 
 
 " Weel, and I had a headache. Butwhaur's yerhamegane 
 till then?" 
 
 " The hoose is there a' richt, but whaur my mither is I dinna 
 ken. The door's lockit, an' Jeames Jaup, they tell me,'s tane 
 awa' the key. I doobt my mither' s awa' upo' the tramp again, 
 and what's to come o' me, the Lord kens." 
 
 " What's this o' 't? " interposed a severe but not unmelodi 
 ous voice, breaking into the conversation between the two boys; 
 for the parlor door had opened without Robert's hearing it, and 
 Mrs. Falconer, his grandmother, had drawn near to the speakers. 
 
 " What's this o' t' ? " she asked again. " Wha's that ye're 
 conversin' wi' at the door, Robert ? Gin it be ony decent laddie 
 tell him to come in, and no stan' at the door in sio a day'i 
 this." 
 
ROBERT FALCONBR. » 
 
 As Robert hesitated with his reply, she looked round the 
 open half of the4|loor. but no sooner saw with whom he was 
 talking tban her tone changed. Bj this time, Betty, wiping her 
 hands in her apron, had completed the group by taking her 
 Btand in the kitchen door. 
 
 " Na, na," said Mrs. Falconer, " we want nane sic-like here. 
 What does he want wi' you, Robert ? Gie him a piece, Betty, 
 and lat him gang. Eh, sirs ! the lad hasna a stockin'-fit upo' 
 'im — and in sic weather ! " 
 
 For, before she had finished her speech, the visitor, as if in 
 terror of her nearer approach, had turned his back, and literally 
 showed her, if not a clean pair of heels, yet a pair of naked 
 heels from between the soles and uppers of his shoes : if he had 
 any stockings at all, they ceased before they reached his ankles. 
 
 " What ails him at me?" continued Mrs. Falconer, "that 
 he rins as if I war a hoodie? But it's nae wonner he canna 
 bide the sicht o' a decent body, for he's no used till't. What 
 does he want wi' you, Robert? " 
 
 But Robert had a reason for not telling his grandmother what 
 the boy had told him : he thought the news about his mother 
 would only make her disapprove of him the more. In this he 
 judged wrong. He did not know his grandmother yet. 
 
 "He's in my class at the schuil," said Robert, evasively. 
 
 " Him ? What class, noo ? " 
 
 Robert hesitated one moment, but, compelled to give some 
 answer, said , with confidence : — 
 
 "The Bible-class." 
 
 " I thocht as muckle ! What gars ye play at hide-and-seek 
 wi' me ? Do ye think I dinna ken weel eneuch there's no a 
 lad or a lass at the schuil but 's i' the Bible-class? What 
 wants he here ?" 
 
 " Ye hardly gae him time to tell me, grannie. Ye frighten 
 him" 
 
 "Me fright him! What for suld I fright him, laddie? 
 I'm no sic wonder that onybody needs be frightened at me." 
 
 The old lady turned with visible, though by no means profound 
 offence upon her calm forehead, and, walking back into her 
 parlor, where Robert could see the fire burning right cheerily, 
 shut the door, and left him and Betty standing together in the 
 transe. The latter returned to the kitchen, to resume the 
 
,10 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 washing of the dinner dishes ; and the former returned to his 
 post at the window. He had not stood more than half a min- 
 ute, thinking what was to be done with his school-fellow deserted 
 of his mother, when the sound of a coach-horn drew his atten- 
 tion to the right, down the street, where he could see part of the 
 other street which crossed it at right angles, and in which the 
 gable of the house stood. A minute after, the mail came in 
 sight, — scarlet, spotted with snow, — and disappeared, going 
 up the hill towards the chief hostelry of the town, as fast as 
 four horses, tired with the bad footing they had had through the 
 whole of the stage, could draw it after them. By this time 
 the twilight was falling ; for though the sun had not yet set, 
 miles of frozen vapor came between him and this part of the 
 world, and his light was never very powerful so far north at 
 this season of the year. 
 
 Robert turned into the kitchen, and began to put on his 
 shoes. He had made up his mind what to do. 
 
 " Ye're never gaein' oot, Robert? " said Betty, in a hoarse 
 tone of expostulation. 
 
 " 'Deed am I, Bettie. What for no ? " 
 
 " You 'at's been in a' day wi' a headache ! I'll just gang 
 and tell the mistress, and syne we'll see what she'll please to 
 say tiirt." 
 
 " Ye'll do naethin' o' the kin', Betty. Are ye gaein' to 
 turn telltale at your age? " 
 
 " What ken ye aboot my age? There's never a man-body 
 i' the toon kens aught aboot my age." 
 
 " It's ower muckle for onybody to remember, is't, Betty? " 
 
 "Dinna be ill-tongued, Robert, or I'll jist gang to the mis- 
 ■ tress." 
 
 "Betty, wha began wi' bein' ill-tongued? Gin ye tell my 
 grandmither that I gaed oot the nicbt, I'll gang to the schuil- 
 master o' Muckiedrum, and get a sicht o' the kirstenin bulk ; 
 and gin yer name binna there, I'll tell ilkabody I meet 'at oor 
 Betty was never kirstened ; and that'll be a sair affront, Betty." 
 
 " Hoot ! was there ever sic a laddie ! " said Bettie, attempt- 
 ing to laugh it off. " Be sure ye be back afore tay-time, 'cause 
 Jrer grannie '11 be speirin' efter ye, and ye wadna hae me 
 ie aboot ye?" 
 
 " I wad hae naebody lie about me. Ye jist needna lat on 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. IJ 
 
 'at ye hear her. Ye can be deif eneucli when ye like, Betty. 
 But I s' be back afore tay-time, or come on the waur." 
 
 Bstty, who was in far greater fear of her age being discoT- 
 ered than of being unchristianized in the search, though the 
 fact was that she knew nothing certain about the matter, and 
 had no desire to be enlightened, feeling as if she was thus left 
 at liberty to hint what she pleased, — Betty, I aay, never had 
 any intention of going "to the mistress," for the threat was 
 merely the rod of terror which she thought it convenient to 
 hold over the back of the boy, whom she always supposed to 
 be in some mischief unless he were in her own presence and 
 visibly reading a book ; if he were reading aloud, so much the 
 better. But Eobert likewise kept a rod for his defence, and 
 that was Betty's age, which he had discovered to be such a 
 precious secret that one would have thought her virtue de- 
 pended in some cabalistic manner upon the concealment of it. 
 And, certainly, nature herself seemed to favor Betty's 
 weakness, casting such a mist about the number of her years 
 as the goddesses of old were wont to cast about a wounded 
 favorite ; for some said Betty was forty, others said she was 
 sixty-five, and, in fact, almost everybody who knew her had a 
 different belief on the matter. 
 
 By this time Robert had conquered the difficulty of induing 
 boots as hard as a thorough wetting and as thorough a drying 
 could make them, and now stood prepared to go. His object 
 in setting out was to find the boy whom his grandmother had 
 driven from the door with a hastier and more abject flight than 
 she had in the least intended. But, if his grandmother should 
 'miss him, as Betty suggested, and inquire where he had beeu, 
 what was he to say ? He did not mind misleading his grand- 
 mother, but he had a great objection to telling her a lie. His 
 grandmother herself delivered him from this difficulty. 
 
 "Robert, come here," she called from the parlor door. 
 And Robert obeyed. 
 
 "Is't dingin' on, Robert? " she asked. 
 
 " No, grannie ; it's only a starnie o' drift." 
 
 The meaning of this was that there was no fresh snow falling, 
 or beating on, only a little surface snow blowing about. 
 
 " Weel, jist pit yer shune on, man, and rin up to Miss Nap 
 pier's upo' the Squaur, and say to Miss Napier, wi' my compli" 
 
12 ROBERT FALCONBR. 
 
 ments, that I wad be sair obleeged till her gin she wad len' 
 me that fine receipt o' hera for crappit heids, and I'll sen' 't 
 back safe the morn's mornin'. Rin, noo." 
 
 This commission fell in admirably with Robert's plana, and 
 he started at once. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE boar's head. 
 
 Miss Napier was the eldest of three maiden sisters who kept 
 the principal hostelry of Rothieden, called The Boar's Head ; 
 from which, as Robert reached the square in the dusk, the 
 mail-coach was moving away with a fresh quaternion of horses. 
 Ho found a good many boxes upon the pavement close by the 
 archway that led to the inn-yard, and around them had gathered 
 a group of loungers, not too cold to be interested. These were 
 looking towards the windows of the inn, where the owner of 
 the boxes had evidently disappeared. 
 
 " Saw ye ever sic a sicht in oor town afore ? " said Dooble 
 Sanny, as people generally called him, his name being Alex- 
 ander Alexander, pronounced, by those who chose to speak of 
 him with the ordinary respect due from one mortal to another, 
 Sandy Elshender. Double Sandy was a shoemaker, remarka- 
 ble for his love of sweet sounds and whiskey. He was, besides, 
 the town-crier, who went about with a drum at certain hours 
 of the morning and evening, like a perambulating clock, and 
 also made public announcements of sales, losses, etc. ; for the 
 rest, a fierce, fighting fellow when in anger or in drink, 
 which latter included the former. 
 
 " What's the sicht, Sandy? " asked Robert, coming up with 
 his hands in the pockets of his trousers. 
 
 " Sic a sicht as ye never saw, man," returned Sandy ; " th« 
 bonniest leddy ever man set his ee upo'. I culd nae hae thocht 
 there had been sic a woman i' this warl'." 
 
 " Hoot, Sandy ! " said Robert, " a body wad think she was 
 
ROBERT TALCONBR 13 
 
 lost, and ye had the cryin' o' her. Speak lower, man ; sbe'li 
 m»ybe hear ye. Is she i' the inn there ? " 
 
 "Ay is she," answered Sandy. " See, sic a warl' o' kist8 
 as she's brocht wi' her," he continued, pointing towards the 
 pile of luggage. " Saw ye ever sic a heap ? It jist beats me 
 to think what ae body can du wi' sae mony kists. For I 
 mayna doobt but there's something or ither in ilka ane o' them. 
 Naebody wad carry aboot empty kists wi' them. I cannot 
 mak' itoot." 
 
 The boxes might well surprise Sandy, if we may draw any 
 conclusions from the fact that the sole implement of personal 
 adornment which he possessed was two inches of a broken comb, 
 for which he had to search when he happened to want it, in 
 the drawer of his stool, among awls, lumps of rosin for his 
 violin, masses of the same substance wrought into shoemaker's 
 wax for his ends, and packets of boar's bristles, commonly 
 called birse, for the same. 
 
 " Are thae a' ae body's? " asked Robert. 
 
 " Troth are they. They're a' hers, I wat. Ye wad hae 
 thocht she had been gaein' to The Bothie ; but gin she had 
 been that, there wad hae been a carriage to meet her," said 
 Crookit Caumil, the ostler. 
 
 The 3othie was the name facetiously given by Alexander 
 Baron Rothie, son of the Marquis of Boarshead, to a house he 
 had built in the neighborhood, chiefly for the accommodation of 
 his bachelor friends from London during the shooting season. 
 
 "Hand yer tongue, Caumil," said the shoemaker. " She's 
 nae sic cattle, yon." 
 
 " Hand up the bit stable-lantern, man, and lat Robert here 
 Bee the direction upo' them. Maybe he'll mak' something o't. 
 He's a fine scholar, ye ken," said another of the bystanders. 
 
 The ostler held the lantern to the card upon one of the 
 boxes, but Robert found only an M., followed by something not 
 very definite, and a J., which might have been an I., Rothie- 
 den, Driftshire, Scotland. 
 
 As he was not immediate with big answer, Peter Lumley, 
 one of the group, a lazy ne'er-do-weel who had known better 
 daySj^but never better manners, and was seldom quite drunk, 
 and seldomer still quite sober, struck in with : — 
 
 " Ye dinna ken a' thing yet, ye see, Robbie." 
 
14 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 From Sandj this would have been nothing but a good-hu- 
 mored attempt at facetiousness. From Lumley it meant spite, 
 because Robert's praise was in his ears. 
 
 " I dinna preten' to ken ae mair than ye do yersel', Mr. 
 Luraley; and that's nae sayin' muckle, surely," returned 
 Robert, irritated at his tone more than at his words. 
 
 The bystanders laughed, and Lumley flew into a rage. 
 
 "Haud yer ill-tongue, ye brat," he said. " Wha are ye 
 to mak' sic remarks upo' yer betters? A' body kens yer gran'- 
 father was naethin' but the blin' piper o' Portcloddie." 
 
 This was news to Robert, — probably false, considering the 
 quarter whence it came. But his mother-wit did not forsake him. 
 
 " Weel, Mr. Lumley," he answered, "didna he pipe weel? 
 Daur ye tell me 'at he didna pipe weel? — as weel's ye cud 
 hae dune't yersel', noo, Mr. Lumley? " 
 
 The laugh again rose at Lumley's expense, who was well 
 known to have tried his hand at most things, and succeeded in 
 nothing. Dooble Sanny was especially delighted. 
 
 " De'il hae ye for a de'il's brat ! 'At I suld sweer ! " was 
 all Lumley's reply, as he sought to conceal his mortification by 
 attempting to join in the laugh against himself. Robert seized 
 the opportunity of turning away and entering the house. 
 
 " That ane's no to be droont or brunt aither," said Lumley, 
 as he disappeared. 
 
 "Ile'Unobehang'tfor closin' yowrmou', Mr. Lumley," said 
 the shoemaker. 
 
 Thereupon Lumley turned and followed Robert into the inn. 
 
 Robert had delivered his message to Miss Napier, who sat 
 in an arm-chair by the fire, in a little, comfortable parlor, 
 held sacred by all about the house. She was paralytic, 
 and unable to attend to her guests further than by giving or- 
 ders when anything especial was referred to her decision. She 
 was an old lady, — nearly as old as Mrs. Falconer, — and wore 
 glasses, but they could not conceal the kindness of her kindly 
 eyes. Probably from giving less heed to a systematic theology, 
 she had nothing of that sternness which first struck a stranger 
 on seeing Robert's grandmother. But then she did not know 
 what it was to be contradicted ; and if she had been married, and 
 had had sons, perhaps a sternness not dissimilar might have 
 shown itself in her nature. 
 
BOBERT FALCONER 15 
 
 " Noo ye muunna gang awa', till ye get something," she said, 
 after talring the receipt in request from a drawer within her 
 reaqh, and laying it upon the table. But ere she could ring 
 the bell which stood by her side, one of her servants came in. 
 
 "Please, mem," she said, "Miss Letty and Miss Lizzy's 
 seein' efter the bonny leddy; and sae I maun come to you." 
 
 " Is she a' that bonny, Meg?" asked her mistress. 
 
 "Na, na, she's nae sae fearsome bonny; but Miss Letty's 
 unco ta'en wi' her, 3 e ken. An' we a' say as Miss Letty says 
 i' this hoose. But that's no' the pint. Mr. Lumley's here, 
 seekin' a gill ; is ho to hae't? " 
 
 " Has he had eneuch already, do ye think, Meg? " 
 
 " I dinna ken aboot eneuch, mem ; that's ill to mizzer ; but 
 I dinna think he's had ower muckle." 
 
 " Weel, lat him tak' it. But dinna lat him sit doon." 
 
 " Verra weel, mem," said Meg, and departed. 
 
 "What gars Mr. Lumley say 'at my gran 'father was the 
 Win' piper 0' Portcloddie? Can ye tell me, Miss Napier?" 
 asked Robert. 
 
 " Whan said he that, Robert?" 
 
 " Jist as I cam' in." 
 
 Miss Napier rang the bell. Another maid appeared. 
 
 " Sen' Meg here direckly." 
 
 Meg came, her eyes full of interrogation. 
 
 " Dinna gie Lumley a drap. Set him up to insult a young 
 gentleman at my door-cheek ! He s' no hae a drap here the 
 nicht. He's had ower muckle, Meg, already, an' ye oucht to 
 hae seen that." 
 
 "Deed, mem, he's had mair than ower muckle, than; for 
 there's anither gill ower the thrapple 0' 'm. I div my best, 
 mem, but, never taatin' mysel', I canna aye tell hoo muckle's 
 i' the wame 0' a' body 'at comes in." 
 
 " Ye're no fit for the place, Meg; that's a fac'." 
 
 At this charge Meg took no offence, for she had been in the 
 place for twenty years. And both mistress and maid laughed 
 the moment they parted company. 
 
 " Wha's this 'at's come the nicht. Miss Napier, 'at they're sae 
 ta'en wi'?" asked Robert.. 
 
 ' Atweel, I dinna ken yet. She's ower bonnie by a'.accoonta 
 
16 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 to be gaein' about alone. It's a mercy the baron's no at hame 
 I wad hae to lock her up wi' the forks and spunes." 
 
 " What for that? " asked Robert. 
 
 But Miss Napier vouchsafed no further explanation. Sha 
 stuffed his pockets with sweet biscuits instead, dismissed him in 
 haste, and rang the bell. 
 
 " Meg, whaur hae they putten the stranger-leddy ?" 
 
 " She's no gaein' to bide at our hoose, mem." 
 
 " What say ye, lass? She's never gaein' ower to Lucky 
 Happit's, is she? " 
 
 " Ow na, mem. She's a leddy, ilka inch o' her. But she's 
 some relation to the auld captain, and she's gaein' doon the 
 street as sune's Caumil's ready to tak' her bit boxiea i' the 
 barrow. But I doobt there'll be maist three barrowfu'a o' 
 them." 
 
 " Atweel. Ye can gang." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SHARGAR. 
 
 Robert went out into the thin drift, and again crossing the 
 wide, desolate-looking square, turned down an entry leading 
 to a kind of court, which had once been inhabited by a, well- 
 to-do class of the towns-people, but had now fallen in estima- 
 tion. Upon a stone at the door of what seemed an out-house 
 he discovered the object of his search. 
 
 " What are ye sittin' there for, Shargar ? " 
 
 Shargar is a word of Gaelic origin, applied, with some sense 
 of the ridiculous, to a thin, wasted, dried-up creature. In 
 the present case, it was the nickname by which the boy was 
 known at school ; and, indeed, where he was known at all. 
 
 "What are ye sittin' there for, Shargar? Did naebody 
 offer to tak' ye in?" 
 
 " Na, nane o' them. I think they maun be a' i' their beds, 
 I'm most dreidfu' cauld," 
 
ROBKRT FALCONER. 17 
 
 The fact was, that Shargar's character, whether by imputa- 
 tion frcftn his mother, or derived from his own actions, was 
 none of the best. The consequence was that, although scarcely 
 one of the neighbors would have allowed him to sit there all 
 night, each was willing to wait yet a while in the hope that 
 somebody else's humanity would give in first, and save her 
 from the necessity of oflFering him a seat by the fireside, and a 
 share of the oatmeal porridge which probably would be scanty 
 enough for her own household. For it must be borne in mind 
 that all the houses in the place were occupied by poor people, 
 with whom the one virtue. Charity, was, in a measure, at 
 home, and amidst many sins, cardinal and other, managed to 
 live in even some degree of comfort. 
 
 " Get up, then, Shargar, ye lazy beggar ! Or are ye frozen 
 to the door-stane ? Is' awa' for a kettle o' bilin' water to 
 lowse ye." 
 
 " Na, na, Bob. J'm no stucken. I'm only some stiff wi' the 
 cauld; for wow, but I am cauld ! " said Shargar, rising with 
 difficulty. " Gie's ahaud o' yer han', Bob." 
 
 Robert gave him his hand, and Shargar was straightway 
 upon his feet. 
 
 " Come awa' noo, as fest and quaiet's as ye can." 
 
 " What are ye gaein' to du wi' me, Bob? " 
 
 " What's that to you, Shargar? " 
 
 " Naething. Only I wad like to ken." 
 
 " Hae patience, and ye will ken. Only mind ye do as 1 
 tell ye, and dinna speik a word." 
 
 Shargar followed in silence. 
 
 On the way Robert remembered that Miss Napier had not, 
 after all, given him the receipt for which his grandmother had 
 sent him. So he returned to The Boar's Head, and while he 
 went in, left Shargar in the archway, to shiver, and try in 
 vain to warm his hands by the alternate plans of slapping 
 them on the opposite arms, and hiding them under them. ^ 
 
 When Robert came out, he saw a man talking to him under 
 the lamp. The moment his eyes fell upon the two, he was 
 struck by a resemblance between them. Shargar was right 
 under the lamp, the man to the side of it, so that Shargar 
 was shadowed by its frame, and the man was in its full light 
 
18 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 The latter turned away, and, passing Robert, went into the 
 inn. 
 
 " Wha's that? " asked Robert. 
 
 "Idinnaken," answered Shargar. "He spak to me or 
 ever I kent he was there, and garred my hert gie sic a loup 
 'at it maist fell into my breeks." 
 
 " And what did he say to ye? " 
 
 " He said was the deevil at my lug, that I did naethia' 
 but caw my ban's to bits upo' my sLoothers." 
 
 " And what said ye to that? " 
 
 "I said I wissed he was, for he wad aiblins hae some spare 
 heat aboot him, an' I hadna quite eneuch." 
 
 " Weel dune, Shargar ! What said he to that? " 
 
 " He leuch, and speirt gin I wad list, and gae me a shil- 
 lin'." 
 
 " Ye didna tak' it, Shargar? " asked Robert in some alarm. 
 
 " Ay, did I. Catch me no takin' a shillin' ! " 
 
 " But they'll baud ye till't." 
 
 " Na, na. I'm owre in-kneed for a sodger. But that maa 
 was nae sodger." 
 
 " And what mair said he ? " 
 
 " He speirt what I wad do wi' the shillin'." 
 
 " And what said ye ? " 
 
 " Ow ! syne ye cam' oot, and he gaed awa'." 
 
 " And ye didna ken wha it was? " 
 
 " It was some like my brither, Lord Sandy ; but I dinna 
 ken," said Shargar. 
 
 By this time they had arrived at Yule the baker's shop. 
 
 " Bide ye here," said Robert, who happened to possess a 
 few coppers, " till I gang into Eel's." 
 
 Shargar stood again and shivered at the door, till Robert 
 same out with a penny loaf in one hand, and a twopenny loaf 
 in the other. 
 
 "Gie'sabit, Bob," said Shargar. "I'm as hungry as I 
 am cauld." 
 
 " Bide ye still," returned Robert. " There's a time for a' 
 things, and your time's no come to forgather wi' this loaf yet. 
 Does na it smell fine? It's new frae the bakehoose no teii 
 minutofl ago. I ken by the feel o' 't." 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 19 
 
 "Lat me feel," said Shargar, stretching out one hand, and 
 feeling his shilling with the other. 
 
 •'Na. Yer han's canna be clean. And*fowk suld aye eat 
 clean, whether they gang clean or no." 
 
 "I'll awa' in an' buy ane oot o' my ain shillin'," said 
 Shargar, in a tone of resolute eagerness. 
 
 "Ye'lldo naethin' o' the kin'," returned Robert, darting 
 his hand at his collar. "Gie me the shillin'. Ye' 11 want it 
 a' or lang." 
 
 Shargar yielded the coin and slunk behind, while Robert 
 again led the way till they came to his grandmother's door. 
 
 "Gang to the ga'le o' the hoose there, Shargar, and jist 
 keek roon' the neuk at me ; and gin I whustle upo' ye, come 
 up as quaiet's ye can. Gin a dinna, bide till I come to ye." 
 
 Robert opened the door cautiously. It was never locked 
 except at night, or when Betty had gone to the well for water, 
 or to the butcher's or baker's, or the prayer-meeting, upon 
 which occasions she put the key in her pocket, and left her 
 mistress a prisoner. He looked first to the right, along the 
 passage, and saw that his grandmother's door was shut ; then 
 across the passage to the left, and saw that the kitchen-door 
 was likewise shut, because of the cold, for its normal position 
 was against the wall. Thereupon, closing the door, but keep- 
 ing the handle in his hand, and the bolt drawn back, he turned 
 to the street and whistled soft and low. Shargar had, in a 
 moment, dragged his heavy feet, ready to part company with 
 their shoes at any instant, to Robert's side. He bent his ear 
 to Robert's whisper. 
 
 " Gang in there, and creep like a moose to the fit o' the 
 stair. I maun close the door ahin' 's," said he, opening the 
 door as he spoke. 
 
 "I'm frightened, Robert." 
 
 " Dinna be a fule. Grannie winna bite a£F yer heid. She 
 had ane till her denner, the day, an' it was ill singed." 
 
 " What ane o'?" 
 
 " A sheep's heid, ye fool. Gang in direckly." 
 
 Shargar persisted no longer, but, taking about four steps a 
 minute, slunk past the kitchen like a thief, — not so carefully, 
 however, but that one of his soles, yet looser than the other 
 gave one clap upon the flagged passage, when Betty straight- 
 
20 ROBERT FALCOKBB. 
 
 way stood in the kitchen-door, a fierce picture in a deal-frame 
 By this time Robert had closed the outer door, and was follow- 
 ing at Shargar's he'ela. 
 
 " What's this?" she cried, but not so loud as to reach the 
 ears of Mrs. Falconer ; for, with true Scotch foresight, she 
 would not willingly call in another power before the situation 
 clearly demanded it. " Whaur's Shargar gaein' that gait ? " 
 
 " Wi' me. Djnna ye see me wi' him ? I'm nae a thief, 
 nor yet's Shargar." 
 
 " There may be twa opingons upo' that, Robert. I s' jist 
 awa' to the mistress. I s' hae nae sic doin's i' iny hoose.'' 
 
 "It's nae your hoose, Betty. Dinna lee." 
 
 " Well, I s' hae nae sic things gang by my kitchie-door. 
 There, Robert! what'll ye mak o' that? There nae offence, 
 there, I houp, gin it suldna be a'thegither my ain hoose. Tak 
 Shargar oot o' that, or I s' awa', as I tell ye." 
 
 Meantime Shargar was standing on the stones, looking like 
 a terrified white rabbit, and shaking from head to foot with 
 cold and fright combined. 
 
 "I'll tak him oot o' this, but it's up the stair, Betty. An' 
 if ye speak aboot it, I sweir to ye, as sure's death, I'll gang 
 doon to Muckledrum upo' Setterday i' the efternune." 
 
 "Gang awa' wi' yer havers. Only gin the mistress speira 
 onything aboot it, what am I to say ? " 
 
 "Bide till she speirs. Auld Spunkie says, 'Ready-made 
 answers are aye to seek.' And I say, Betty, hae ye a cauld 
 potato?" 
 
 " I'll luik and see. Wadna ye like it het up? " 
 
 "Ow ay, gin ye binna lang aboot it." 
 
 Suddenly a bell rang, shrill and peremptory, right above 
 Shargar's head, causing in him a responsive increase of 
 trembling. 
 
 "Hand oot o' my gait. There's the mistress's bell," said 
 Betty. 
 
 "Jist bide till we're roon' the neuk and on to the stair,'' 
 said Robert, now leading the way. 
 
 Betty watched them safe round the corner before she mada 
 for the parlor,' little thinking to what she liad become an un- 
 willing accomplice, for she never imagined that moie than an 
 evening's^ visit was intended by Shargar, which in itself 
 
BOBBRT FALCONER. 21 
 
 seemed to her strange and improper enough, even for such an 
 eccentric boy as Robert to encourage. 
 
 Shargar followed in mortal terror, for, like Christian in the 
 " Pilgrim's Progress," he had no armor to his back. Once 
 round the corner, two strides of three steps each took them to 
 the top of the first stair, Shargar knocking his head in the 
 darkness against the never-opened door. Again three strides 
 brought them to the top of the second flight; and turning once 
 more, still to the right, Robert led Shargar up the few steps, 
 into the higher of the two garrets. 
 
 Here there was just glimmer enough from the sky to dis- 
 cover the hollow of a close bedstead, built in under the sloping 
 roof, which served it for a tester, while the two ends and most 
 of the front were boarded up to the roof This bedstead for- 
 tunately was not so bare as the one in the other ro6m, although 
 it had not been used for many years, for an old mattress cov- 
 ered the boards with which it was bottomed. 
 
 " Gang in there, Shargar. Ye'll be warmer there than upon 
 the door-step ony gait. Pit alF yer shune." 
 
 Sharger obeyed, full of delight at finding himself in such 
 good quarters. Robert went to a forsaken press in the room, 
 and brought out an ancient cloak of tartan, of the same form 
 as what is now called an Inverness cape, a blue dress-coat with 
 plain gilt buttons, which shone even now in the all but dark- 
 ness, and several other garments, amongst them a kilt, and 
 heaped them over Shargar as he lay on the mattress. He then 
 handed him the twopenny and the penny loaves, which were 
 all his stock had reached to the purchase of, and left him, 
 saying : — 
 
 "I maun awa' to my tay, Shargar. I'll fess ye a cauld 
 potato het again, gin Betty has ony. Lie still, and whatever 
 ye do, dinna come oot o' that." 
 
 The last injunction was entirely unnecessary. 
 
 " Eh, Bob, I'm jist in heaven ! " said the poor creature, for 
 his skin began to feel the precious possibility of reviving 
 warmth in the distance. 
 
 Now that he had gained a new burrow, the human animal 
 Boon recovered from his fears as well. It seemed to him, in 
 the novelty of the place, that he had made so many doublings 
 to reach it, that there could be no danger of even the mistress 
 
22 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 of the house finding him out, for she could hardly be sup- 
 posed to look after such a remote corner of her dominions. And 
 then he was boxed in with the bed, and covered with no end of 
 warm garments, while the friendly darkness closed him and 
 his shelter all round. Except the faintest blue gleam from 
 one of the panes in the roof, there was soon no hint of light 
 anywhere ; and this was only sufficient to make the darkness 
 visible, and thus add artistic eifect to the operation of it upon 
 Shargar's imagination, — a faculty certainly uneducated in 
 Shargar, but far, very far, from being therefore non-existent. 
 It was, indeed, actively operative, although, like that of many 
 a fine lady and gentleman, only in relation to such primary 
 questions as, "What shall we eat? And what shall we 
 drink ? And wherewithal shall we be clothed ? " But as he 
 lay and devoured the new "white breid," his satisfaction — 
 the bare delight of his animal existence — reached a pitch 
 such as even his imagination, stinted with poverty, and frost- 
 bitten with maternal oppression, had never conceived possible. 
 The power of enjoying the present, without anticipation of the 
 future or regard of the past, is the especial privilege of tha 
 animal nature, and of the human nature in proportion as it 
 has not been developed beyond the animal. Herein lies the 
 happiness of cab-horses and of tramps : to them the gift of 
 forgetfulness is of worth inestimable. Shargar's heaven was 
 for the present gained. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 Robert had scarcely turned out of the square on his way 
 to find Shargar, when a horseman entered it. His horse and 
 he were both apparently black on one side and gray on the 
 other, from the snow-drift settling to windward. The animal 
 looked tired, but the rider sat as easy as if he were riding to 
 cover. The reins hung loose, and the horse were in a straighi 
 
ROBERT FALCOKBK. 23 
 
 line for The Boar's Head, stopping under the archway only 
 when his master drew bridle at the door of the iim. 
 
 At that moment Miss Letty was standing at the back of 
 Miss Napier's chair, leaning her arms upon it as she talked to 
 her. This was her way of resting as often as occasion arose 
 for a chat with her elder si-iter. Miss Letty's hair was gath- 
 ered in a great knot at the top of her hea^d, and little ringlets 
 hung like tendrils down the sides of her face, the benevolence 
 of which was less immediately striking than that of her sister's, 
 because of the constant play of humor upon it, especially about 
 the mouth. If a spirit of satire could be supposed converted 
 into something Christian bj an infusion of the tenderest lov- 
 ing-kindness and humanity, remaining still recognizable not- 
 withstanding that all its bitterness was gone, such was the ex- 
 pression of Miss Letty's mouth. It was always half puckered, 
 as if in resistance to a comic smile, which showed itself at the 
 windows of the keen gray eyes, however the mouth might be 
 able to keep it within doors. She was neatly dressed in black 
 Bilk, with a lace collar. Her hands were small and white. 
 
 The moment the traveller stopped at the door. Miss Napier 
 started. 
 
 "Letty," she said, " what's that? I could amaist sweir to 
 Black Geordie's fit." 
 
 "A' four o' them, I think," returned Miss Letty, as the 
 horse, notwithstanding, or perhaps in consequence of his fatigue, 
 began to paw and move about on the stones impatiently. 
 
 The rider had not yet spoken. 
 
 " He'll be efter some o' 's deevil-ma'-care sculduddery. But 
 jist rin to the door, Letty, or Lizzy'll be there afore yc, and 
 maybe she wadna be ower ceevil. What can he be efter 
 noo7" 
 
 "What wad the grayhound be efter but hare?" returned 
 Miss Letty. 
 
 " Hoot ! nonsense ! He kens nae thing aboot her. liang to 
 the door, lassie." 
 
 Miss Letty obeyed. 
 
 " Wha's there?" she asked, somewhat sharply, as sha 
 opened it, " that neither knocks nor ca's ? " — Preserve 's a' 1 
 jfl't you, my lord? " 
 
 " Hoo ken ye me. Miss Letty, without seein' my face ? " 
 
84 ROBERT FALOOITER. 
 
 " A'body at the Boar's Heid kens Black Geordie as weel 's 
 yer lordship's ain sel'. But whaur comes yer lordship frae in 
 sic a nicht as this?" 
 
 "From Russia. Never dismounted between Moscow and 
 Aberdeen. The ice is bearing to-night." 
 
 And the baron laughed inside the upturned collar of hia 
 cloak, for he knew that strangely exaggerated stories were 
 current about his feats in the saddle. 
 
 " That's a lang ride, my lord, and a sliddery. And what's 
 yer lordship's wull ? " 
 
 " Muckle ye care aboot my lordship to stand jawin' there in 
 a night like this ! Is nobody going to take my horse? " 
 
 "I beg yer lordship's pardon. Caumuil ! — Yer lordship 
 never said ye wanted yer lordship's horse ta'en. I thocht yo 
 micht be gaein' on to The Bothie. Tak' Black Geordie here, 
 Caumil. Come into the parlor, my lord." 
 
 "How d'ye do, Miss Napier?" said Lord Rothie, as he en- 
 tered the room. " Hefe's this jade of a sister of youra 
 asking me why I don't go home to The Bothie, when I choose 
 to stop and water here." 
 
 " What'll ye tak', my lord? — Letty, fess the brandy." 
 
 " Oh ! curse your brandy ! Bring me a gill of good Glen- 
 dronach." 
 
 "Rin, Letty. His lordship's cauld. I canna rise to offer 
 ye the arm-cheir, my lord." 
 
 " I can get one for myself, thank Heaven! " 
 
 "Lang may yer lordship return sic thanks." 
 
 "For I'm only new begun, ye think, Miss Napier. Well, 
 I don't often trouble Heaven with my affairs. By Jove ! I 
 ought to be heard when I do." 
 
 " Nae doobt ye will, my lord, whan ye seek ony thing that's 
 fit to be gi'en ye." 
 
 "True. Heaven's gifts are seldom much worth the ask- 
 ing." 
 
 " Haud yer tongue, my lord, and dinna bring doon a judg- 
 ment upo' my hoose, for it wad be missed oot o' Rothieden." 
 
 I' You're right there. Miss Napier. And here comes the 
 whiskey to stop my mouth." 
 
 The Baron of Rothie sat for a few minutes with his feet on 
 the fender before Miss Letty's blazing fire, without speaking, 
 
ROBSBT FALCONER. 2c 
 
 while he sipped the whiskey neat from a wineglass. He was a 
 man about the middle height, rather full-figured, muscular and 
 active, with a small head, and an eye whose brightness had not 
 yet been dimmed by the sensuality which might be read in the 
 condition rather than frame of his countenance. But while he 
 spoke so pleasantly to the Miss Napiers, and his forehead 
 spread broad and smooth over the twinkle of his hazel eye, 
 there was a sharp curve on each side of his upper lip, half-way 
 between the corner and the middle, which reminded one of the 
 same curves in the lip of his ancestral boar's head, where it 
 was lifted up by the protruding tusks. These curves disap- 
 peared, of course, when he smiled, and his smile, being a lord's, 
 was generally pronounced irresistible. He was good-natured, 
 and nowise inclined to stand upon his rank, so long as he had 
 bis own way. 
 
 " Any customers by the mail to-night, Miss Napier? " he 
 asked, in a careless tone. 
 
 " Naebody particlar, my lord." 
 
 " I thought ye never let anybody in that wasn't particularly 
 particular. No foot-passengers — eh ? " 
 
 " Hoot, my lord ! that's twa year ago. Gin I had jaloosed 
 him to be a frien' o' yer lordship's, forby bein' a lord himsel', 
 ye ken as weel's I du that I wadna hae sent him ower the gait 
 to Luckie Happit's, whaur he wadna even be ower sure o' gettin' 
 clean sheets. But gin lords an' lords' sons will walk afit like 
 ither fowk, wha's to ken them frae ither fowk? " 
 
 " Well, Miss Napier, he was no lord at all. He was nothing 
 but a factor-body doon frae Glenbucket." 
 
 " There was sma' hairm dune than, my lord. I'm glaid to 
 hear't. But what'U yer lordship hae to yer supper? " 
 
 " I would like a dish o' your sweetbreads and kidneys." 
 
 " Noo, think o' that ! " returned the landlady, laughing. 
 "You great fowk wad hae the verra coorse o' natur' turned 
 opside doon to shuit yersels. Wha ever heard o' calves at 
 this time o' the year? " 
 
 " Weel, anything you like. Who was it came by the mail, 
 did you say ?" ' 
 J' I said naebody particlar, my lord." 
 i?'" Well, I'll just go and have a look at Black Geordie." 
 ,.»." Verra weel, my lord. Letty, rin an' luik efter him; 
 
 .■r* 
 
26 ROBERT FALCOI^EB. 
 
 aud as sune's he's roon' the neuk, tell Lizzie no to say a woi d 
 about the leddy. As sure's deith he's efter her. Whaur cud 
 he hae heard tell o' her ? " 
 
 Lord Rothie came, a moment after, sauntering into the bar- 
 parlor, where Lizzie, the third Miss Napier, a red-haired, 
 round-eyed, white-toothed woman of forty, was making entries 
 in a book. 
 
 " She's a bonnie lassie that, that came in the coach to-night, 
 they say. Miss Lizzie." 
 
 " As ugly's sin, my lord," answered Lizzie. 
 
 " I hae seen some sin 'at was nane sae ugly. Miss Lizzie." 
 
 " She wad hae clean disgusted ye, my lord. It's a mercy 
 ye didna see her." 
 
 "If she be as ugly as all that, I would just like to see her." 
 
 Miss Lizzie saw she had gone too far. 
 
 " Ow, deed ! gin yer lordship wants to see her, ye may see 
 her at her wull. I s' gang and tell her." 
 
 And she rose as if to go. 
 
 " No, no. Nothing of the sort. Miss Lizzie. Only I heard 
 that she was bonnie, and I wanted to see her. You know I 
 like to look at a pretty girl." 
 
 " That's ower weel kent, my lord." 
 
 " Well, there's no harm in that. Miss Lizzie." 
 
 "There's no harm in that, my lord, though yer lordship 
 says't." 
 
 The facts were that his lordship had been to the county town 
 some forty miles off, and Black Geordie had been sent to 
 Hillknow to meet him ; for in any weather that would let him 
 eit, he preferred horseback to every other mode of travelling, 
 though he seldom would be followed by a groom. He had 
 posted to Hillknow, and had dined with a friend at the inn. 
 The coach stopping to change horses, he had caught a glimpse 
 of a pretty face, as he thought, from its window, and had hoped 
 to overtake the coach before it reached Rothieden. But stop- 
 ping to drink another bottle, he had failed ; and it was on the 
 merest chance of seeing that pretty face, that he stopped at the 
 Boar's Head. In all probability, had the marquis seen the 
 lady, he would not have thought her at all such a beauty aa 
 she appeared in the eyes of Dooble Sanny ; nor, I venture to 
 think, had he thought as the shoemaker did, would he yet hav 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 27 
 
 dared to address her in other than the \rords of such respect aa 
 he could still feel in the presence of that which was more noble 
 than himself. 
 
 Whether or not on his visit to the siaole he tound anything 
 amiss with Black Geordie, I cannot tell ; but he now begged 
 Miss Lizzie to have a bedroom prepared for him. 
 
 It happened to be the evening of Friday, — one devoted by 
 some of the towns-people to a club. To this, knowing that the 
 talk will throw a glimmer on several matters, I will now in- 
 troduce my reader, as a spectator, through the reversed tele- 
 scope of my history. 
 
 A few of the more influential of the inhabitants had grown, 
 rather than formed themselves, into a kind of club, which met 
 weekly at the Boar's Head. Although they had no exclusive 
 right to the room in which they sat, they generally managed 
 to retain exclusive possession of it; for if any supposed objection- 
 able person entered, they always got rid of him, sometimes 
 without his being aware of how they had contrived to make 
 him so uncomfortable. They began to gather about seven 
 o'clock, when it was expected that boiling water would be in 
 readiness for the compound generally called toddy, sometimes 
 punch. As soon as six were assembled, one was always voted 
 into the chair. 
 
 On the present occasion, Mr. Innes, the school-master, was 
 unanimously elected to that honor. He was a hard-featured, 
 sententious, snuffy individual, of some learning, and great 
 respectability. 
 
 I omit the political talk with which their intercommunications 
 began ; for however interesting at the time is the scaffolding by 
 which existing institutions arise, the poles and beams when 
 gathered again in the builder's yard are scarcely a subject for 
 the artist. 
 
 The first to lead the way towards matters of nearer person- 
 ality was William MacGregor, the linen manufacturer, a man 
 who possessed a score of hand-looms or so, half of which, from 
 the advance of cotton and the decline of linen-wear, now 
 stood idle; but who had already a sufiBcient deposit in the 
 hands of Mr. Thomson, the banker, — agent, that is, for the 
 county bank, — to secure him against any necessity for taking 
 
28 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 to cotton shirts himself, ■which were an abomination and offence 
 unpardonable in his eyes. 
 
 " Can ye tell me, Mr. Cocker," he Said, "what male's Sandy, 
 Lord Rothie, or Wrathy, — or what suld he be ca'd ? — tak' to 
 The Bothie, at a time like this, whan there's neither huntin' nor 
 fishin', nor shutin', nor ony thing o' the kin' aboot ban' to beplay- 
 acks till him, the bonnie bairn — 'cep' it be otters an' sic like ? " 
 
 William was a shrunken old man, with white whiskers and. 
 a black wig, a keen black eye, always in search of the ludicrous 
 in other people, and a mouth ever on the move, as if masticat- 
 ing something comical. 
 
 "You know just as well as. I do," answered Mr. Cocker, 
 the Marquis of Boarshead's factor for the surrounding estate. 
 " He never was in the way of giving a reason for anything, 
 least of all for his own movements." 
 
 " Somebody was sayin' to me," resumed MacGregor, who, 
 in all probability, invented the story at the moment, " that 
 the prince took him kissin' ane o' his servan' lasses, and kickit 
 him oot o' Carlton Hoose into the street, and he canna win' 
 ower tlie disgrace o' 't." 
 
 " 'Deed for the kissin'," said Mr. Thomson, a portly, com- 
 fortable-looking man, " that's neither here nor there, though 
 it micht hae been a duchess or twa ; but for the kickin', my 
 word ! but Lord Sandy was mair likely to kick oot the prince. 
 Do ye min' hoo he did whan the markis taxed him wi' — ? " 
 
 " Haud a quaiet sough," interposed Mr. Cruickshank, tha 
 solicitor ; " there's a drap i' the hoose." 
 
 This was a phrase well understood by the company, indicat- 
 ing the presence of some one unknown, or unfit to be trusted 
 
 As he spoke he looked towards the further end of the room, 
 which lay in obscurity ; for it was a large room, lighted only 
 by the four candles on the table at which the company sat. 
 
 " Whaur, Mr. Cruickshank ?" asked the dominie, in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " There," answered Sampson Peddie, the bookseller, who 
 seized the opportunity jjf saying something, and pointed fur- 
 tively where the soliwPor had only looked. 
 
 A dim figure was descried at a table in the farthest cornel 
 aF tb'" room, and they proceeded to carry out the plan they 
 generally adopted to get rid of a stranger. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 29 
 
 "Ye made use o' a curious auld Scot's phrase this moment, 
 Mr. Curshank ; can ye explain hoo it comes to beir the meanin' 
 that it's weel kent to beir ? " said the manufacturer. 
 
 " Not I, Mr. MacGregor," answered the solicitor. " I'm 
 no philologist or antiquarian. Ask the chairman." 
 
 " Gentlemen," responded Mr. Innes, taking a huge pinch 
 of snuiF after the word, and then, passing the box to Mr. Cocker, 
 a sip from his glass before he went on : " the phrase gentle- 
 men, 'a drap i' the hoose,' no doobt refers to an undesirable 
 presence ; for ye're well awaur that it's a most unpleasin' dis- 
 covery, in winter especially, to find a drop o' water hang- 
 in' from yer ceiling ; a something, in short, whaur it has no 
 business to be, and is not accordingly looked for, or prepared 
 against." 
 
 "It seems to me, Mr. Innes," said MacGregor, "that ye 
 hae hit the nail, but no upo' the held. What mak' ye o' the 
 phrase, no confined to the Scot's tongue, I believe, o' an eaves- 
 dropper ? The whilk, no doobt, represents a body that hings 
 aboot yer winnoek, like a drap hangin' ower abune it frae the 
 eaves, — therefore called an eaves-dropper. But the sort of 
 whilk we noo speak, are a waur sort a'thegither ; for they come 
 to the inside o' yer hoose, o' yer verra chaumer, an' hing oot 
 their lang ears to hear what be carena to be hard save by a 
 dooce frien' or twa ower a het tum'ler." 
 
 At the same moment the door opened, and a ma» entered, 
 who was received with unusual welcome. 
 
 "Bless my sowl ! " said the president, rising; "if? Mr. 
 Lammie! — : Come awa', Mr. Lammie. Sit doon; sit doon. 
 Whaur hae ye been this mony a day, like a pelican o' the 
 wilderness? " 
 
 Mr. Lammie was a large, mild man, with florid cheeks, no 
 whiskers, and a prominent black eye. He was characterized 
 by a certain simple alacrity, a gentle, but outspeaking readi- 
 ness, which made him a favorite. 
 
 " I dinna richtly mak oot wha ye are," he answered. " Ye 
 hae unco little licht here ! Hoo are ye a', gentlemen? I s' 
 discover ye by degrees, and pay my respecks accordin'." 
 
 And he drew a chair to the table. 
 
 " 'Deed I wuss ye wad," returned MacGregor, in a voice 
 
80 EOBERT FALCONER. 
 
 pretentiously hushed, but none the less audible. " There's 4 
 drapin yon en' o' the hoose, Mr. Lammie." 
 
 " Hoot ! never min' the man," said Lammie, looking round 
 jn the direction indicated. "Is' warran' he cares as little 
 aboot hiz aa we care aboot him. There's nae treason nooa« 
 days. I carena wha hears what I say." 
 
 " For my pairt," said Mr. Peddie, " I canna help wonner 
 in' gin it cud be oor auld frien' Mr. Faukener." 
 
 " Speyk o' the de'il^^" said Mr. Lammie. 
 
 "Hoot! na," returned Peddie, interrupting. "Hewasna 
 a'thegither the de'il." 
 
 ' ' Haud the tongue o' ye, " retorted Lammie. ' ' Dinna ye ken 
 a proverb whan ye hear't? De'il hae ye ! ye're as sharpset 
 as a missionar'. I was only gaun to say that I'm dootin' An- 
 drew's deid." 
 
 " Ay ! ay ! " commenced a chorus of questioning. 
 
 "Mhm!" 
 
 " Aaay ! " 
 
 " What gars ye think that? " 
 
 " And sae he's deid ! " 
 
 "He was a great favorite, Andrew ! " 
 
 "Whaurdee'd he?" 
 
 " Aye some upsettin' though ! " 
 
 " Ay. He was aye to be somebody wi' his tale." 
 
 " A gude-hertit crater, but ye cudna lippen till him." 
 
 " Speyk nae ill o' the deid. Maybe they'll hear ye, and 
 turn roon' i' their coflSns, and that'll whumle you i' your beds," 
 said MacGregor, with a twinkle in his eye. 
 
 "Ring the bell for anither tum'ler, Sampson," said the 
 chairman. 
 
 " What' 11 be dune wi' that factory place, noo ? It'll be i' 
 the market? " 
 
 " It's been i' the market for mony a year. But it's no hia 
 ava. It belangs to the auld leddy, his mither," said the 
 weaver. 
 
 " Why don't you buy it, Mr. MacGregor, and set up a 
 cotton mill? There's not much doing with the linen now," 
 Baid Mr. Cocker. 
 
 "Me!" returned MacGregor, with indignation. " Th« 
 Lord forgie ye for hinting at sic a thing, Mr. Cocker.' 
 
KOBBRT FALCONKR. 31 
 
 Me tak to cottin ! I wad aa sune spin the haii frae Sawtan'a 
 hurdles. Short, fushionless dirt, that canna grow straucht oot 
 o' the halesome yird, like the bonnie lint-bells, but maun stick 
 itsel' upo' a buss ! — set it up ! Coorse, vulgar stuff, 'at nae- 
 body wad weir but loup-coonter lads that wad fain luik like 
 gentlemen by means o' the collars and ruffles — an' a' comin' 
 frae the auld loom ! They may weel affoord se'enteen hunner 
 linen to set it aff wi' 'at has naething but cotton inside the 
 breeks o' them." 
 
 " But Dr. Wagstaff says it's healthier," interposed Peddie. 
 
 " I'll wag a staff till him De'il a bit o' t' 's healthier : 
 an' that he kens. It's nae sae healthy, an' sae it mak's him 
 mair wark wi' 's poothers an' his drauchts, Aa' ither stuff. 
 Healthier ! What neist ? " 
 
 " Somebody tellt me," said the bookseller, inwardly con 
 Bcious of offence, " 'at hoo Lord Sandy himsel' weirs cotton." 
 
 " Ow 'deed, maybe. And he sets mony a worthy example 
 furbye. Hoo mony, can ye tell me, Mr. Peddie, has he pulled 
 doon frae honest, if no frae high estate, and sent oot to seek 
 their livin' as he taucht them ? Hoo mony — ? " 
 
 "Hoot, hoot ! Mr. MacGregor, his lordship hasn't a cotton 
 shirt in his possession, I'll be bound," said Mr. Cocker. "And, 
 besides, you have not to wash his dirty linen — or cottoa 
 either." 
 
 " That's as muckle as to say, accordin' to Cocker, that I'm 
 no to speik a word against him. But I'll say what I like. 
 He's no my maister," said MacGregor, who could drink very 
 little without suffering in his temper and manners ; and who, 
 besides, had a certain shrewd suspicion as to the person who 
 Btill sat in the dark end of the room, possibly because the 
 entrance of Mr. Lammie had interrupted the exorcism. 
 
 The chairman interposed with soothing words : and the whole 
 company. Cocker included, did its best to pacify the manufac- 
 turer ; for they all knew what would be the penalty if they failed. 
 
 A good deal of talk followed, and a great deal of whiskey was 
 drunk. They were waited upon by Meg, who, without their 
 being aware of it, cast a keen parting glance at them every 
 time she left the room. At length the conversation had turned 
 again to Andrew Falconer's death. 
 
 " Whaur said ye he dee'd, Mr. Lammie ? " 
 
32 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " I never said he i>raa deid. I said I was feared 'at he was 
 deid." 
 
 " An' what gars ye say that ? It micht be o' consequence 
 to hae't correck," said the solicitor. 
 
 " I had a letter frae my auld frien' and his, Dr. Anderson 
 Ye min' upo' him, Mr. Innes, dunna ye ? He's heid o' the 
 medical boord at Calcutta noo. He says naething but that he 
 doobts he's game. He gaed up the country, and he hasna 
 hard o' him for sae lang. We hae keepit up a correspondence 
 for mony a year noo, Dr. Anderson an' me. He was a rela- 
 tion o' Andrew's, ye ken — a second cousin, or something. 
 He'll be hame or lang, I'm thinkin', wi' a fine pension." 
 
 " He wanna weir a cotton sark, I'll be boon'," said Mac- 
 Gregor. 
 
 " What's the auld leddy gaein' to du wi' that lang-legged 
 grandson o' hers, Andrew's son? " asked Sampson. 
 
 " Ow ! he'll be gaein' to the college, I'm thinkin'. He's a 
 fine lad, and a clever, they tell me," said Mr. Thomson. 
 
 " Indeed, he's all that, and more too," said the school-master. 
 
 " There's naething 'ull du but the college noo ! " said Mac- 
 Gregor, whom nobody heeded, for fear of again arousing his 
 anger. 
 
 " Hoo 'ill she manage that, honest woman? She maunhao 
 but little to spare frae the cleedin' o' 'm." 
 
 " She's a gude manager. Mistress Faukner. And, ye see, 
 she has the bleachgreen yet." 
 
 " She doesna weir cotton sarks," growled MacGregor, 
 " Mon'y the wob o' mine she's bleached and boucht tu ! " 
 
 Nobody heeding him yet, he began to feel insulted, and 
 broke in upon the conversation with intent. 
 
 "'Ye haena telt's yet. Cocker," he said, " what that maister 
 o' yours is duin' here at this time o' thi^ year. I wad ken that, 
 gin ye pi ease, "j, 
 
 "How shoind I know, Mr. MacGregor?" returned the 
 factor, taking no notice of the offensive manner in which the 
 question was put. 
 
 "He's no a hair better nor ane 'o tbae Algerine pirates 'at 
 Lord Exmooth's bet the hips o' — and that's my opinion." 
 
 "He's nae amo' your feet, MacGregor," said the banker 
 "Ye micht jist lat him lie " 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 33 
 
 " Gin 1 had him doon, faith gin I wadna lat him lie ! I'll 
 jist tell ye ae thing, gentlemen, that cam' to my kno'wledge no 
 a hunner year ago. An' it's a' as true's gospel, .though I hae 
 aye held my tongue aboot it till this verra nicht. Ay ! ye' 11 
 hearken noo; but it's no lauchin', though there was sculdud- 
 dery eneuch, nae doobt, afore it cam' that len'th. And mony 
 a het drap did the puir lassie greet, I can tell ye. Faith ! it 
 was no lauchin' to her. She was a servan' o' oors, an' a ticht 
 bonnie lass she was. They ca'd her the weyver's bonny Mary, 
 — that's the name she gaed by. Weel, ye see — " 
 
 MacGregor was interrupted by a sound from the further end 
 of the room. The stranger, whom most of them had by this 
 time forgotten, had risen, and was approaching the table where 
 they sat. 
 
 " Guid guide us ! " interrupted several under their breaths, 
 as all rose ; " it's Lord Sandy himsel' ! " 
 
 " I thank you, gentlemen," he said, with a mixture of irony 
 and contempt, " for the interest you take in my private history. 
 I should have thought it had been as little to the taste as it ia 
 to the honor of some of you to listen to such a farrago of 
 lies." 
 
 " Lies ! my lord," said MacGregor, starting to his feet 
 Mr. Cocker looked dismayed, and Mr. Lammie sheepish, — al) 
 of them dazed and dumfoundered, except the old weaver, who, 
 as his lordship turned to leave the room, added : — 
 
 " Lang ears suld be made o' leather, my lord, for fear they 
 grow het wi' what they hear." 
 
 Lord Rothie turned in a rage. He, too, had been drinking. 
 
 "Kick that toad into the street, or, by Heaven! it's tht 
 last drop any of you drink in this house ! " he cried. 
 
 " The taed may tell the frog what the rat did i' the taed'a 
 hole, my lord," said MacGregor, whom independence, honesty, 
 bile, and drink combined to render fearless. 
 
 Lord Sandy left the room without another word. His factor 
 took his hat and followed him. The rest dropped into their 
 seats in silence. Mr. Lammie was the first to speak. 
 
 " There's a pliskie ! " he said. 
 
 " I cud jist say the word efther auld Simeon," said Mac- 
 Gregor. " I never thocht to be sae favored ! Et ! but I hae 
 
84 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 langed, and noo I hae spoken ! " with which words be sat down, 
 contented. 
 
 When Mr. Cocker overtook his master, as MacGregor had 
 not unfitly styled him, he only got a damning for his pains, 
 and went home considerably crestfallen. 
 
 Lord Kothie returned to the landlady in her parlor. 
 
 " What's the maitter wi' ye, my lord ? What's vexed ye ? " 
 asked Miss Napier, with a twinkle in her eyes, for she thought, 
 from the baron's mortification, he must have received some 
 rebuff, and now that the bonnie leddy was safe at Captain For- 
 syth's, enjoyed the idea of it. 
 
 " Ye keep an ill-tongued hoose, Miss Napier," answered his 
 lordship. 
 
 Miss Napier guessed at the truth at once, — that he had 
 overheard some free remarks on his well-known license of 
 behavior. 
 
 " Weel, my lord, I do my best. A body canna keep an inn 
 and speir the catechism at the door o' 't. But I believe ye're 
 i' the richt, my lord ; for I heard an awfu' aff-gang o' sweirin' 
 i' the yard, jist afore yer lordship cam' in. An' noo' 'at I think 
 o' 't, it wasna that onlike yer lordship's ain word." 
 
 Lord Sandy broke into a loud laugh. He could enjoy a 
 joke against himself when it came from a woman, and was 
 founded on such a trifle as a personal vice. 
 
 " I think I'll go to bed," he said, when his laugh was over. 
 " I believe it's the only safe place from your tongue, Miss 
 Napier." 
 
 "Letty," cried Miss Napier, " fess a can'le, and show his 
 lordship to the reid room." 
 
 Till Miss Letty appeared, the baron sat and stretched him- 
 self. He then rose and followed her into the archway, and up 
 an outside stair to a door which opened immediately upOn a 
 handsome, old-fashioned room, where a blazing fire lighted xBfm 
 ■ the red hangings. Miss Letty set down the candle, and, bid- 
 ding his lordship good-night, turned and left the room, shutting 
 the door, and locking it behind her, — a proceeding of which 
 his lordship took no notice, for, however especially suitable it 
 might bo in his case, it was only, from whatever ancient source 
 derived, the custom of the house in regard to this pjirticulaj 
 
ROBERT FALCONEE. 35 
 
 room and a corresponding chamber on the opposite aide of the 
 archway. 
 
 Meantime the consternation amongst the members of the 
 club was not so great as not to be talked over, or to prevent 
 the call for whiskey and hot water. All but MacGregcr, how- 
 ever, regretted what had occurred. He was so elevated with 
 his victory and a sense of courage and prowess, that he became 
 more and more facetious and overbearing. 
 
 "It's all very well for you, Mr. MacGregor," said the 
 "Jominie, with dignity; "you have nothing to lose." 
 
 " Troth ! he canna brak' the bank — eh, Mr. Tamson ? " 
 
 " He may give me a hint to make you withdraw your money, 
 though, Mr. MacGregor." 
 
 "De'il care gin I do!" returned the weaver. "I can 
 mak' better o' 't ony day." 
 
 " But there's yer hoose an' kail-yard," suggested Peddie. 
 
 " They're ma ain ! — a' ma ain ! He canna lay's finger on 
 onything o' mine but myservan' lass," cried the weaver, slap- 
 ping his thigh-bone — for there was little else to slap. 
 
 Meg, at the moment, was taking her exit glance. She went 
 straight to Miss Napier. 
 
 "Willie Macgreger's had eneuch, mem, an' a drappy ower." 
 
 " Sen' Caumil doon to Mrs. MacGregor, to say wi' my 
 colnpliments that she wad do weel to sen' for him," was the 
 response. 
 
 Meantime he grew more than troublesome. Ever on the 
 outlook, when sober, after the foibles of others, he laid himself 
 open to endless ridicule when in drink, which, to tell the truth, 
 was a rare occurrence. He was in the midst of a prophetic 
 denunciation of the vices of the nobility, and especially of Lord 
 Rothie, when Meg, entering the room, went quietly behind hiff 
 chair and whispered : — 
 
 " Maister MacGregor, there's a lassie come for ye." 
 
 " I'm nae in," he answered, magnificently. 
 
 "But it's the mistress 'at's sent for ye. Somebody's 
 wantin' ye." 
 
 " Somebody maun want me, than. — As I was say in', Mr. 
 Cheerman and gentlemen — " 
 
 •' Mistress MacGregor'U be efter ye hersel', gin ye dinna 
 gang." said Meg. 
 
86 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Let her come. Duv ye think I'm flejt at her? De'il a 
 Btep'll I gang till I please. Tell her that, Meg." 
 
 Meg left the room, with a broad grin on her good- humored 
 ^ce. 
 
 "What's the fool lauchin' at?" exclaimed MacGregor, 
 starting to his feet. 
 
 The whole company rose likewise, using their endeavor to 
 persuade him to go home. 
 
 "Duv ye think I'm drunk, sirs? I'll lat ye ken I'm no 
 drunk. I hae a will o' mine ain yet. Am I to gang hame wi' 
 a lassie to haud me oot o' the gutters ? Gin ye daur to alloc 
 that I'm drunk, ye ken hoo ye'll fare, for de'il a fit 'U I gang 
 ooto' this till I hae anither tum'ler." 
 
 "I'm thinkin' there's mair o' 's jist want ane mail," said 
 Peddie. 
 
 A confirmatory murmur airose as each looked into the bottom 
 of his tumbler, and the bell was instantly rung. But it only 
 brought Meg back with the message that it was time for them 
 all to go home. Every eye turned upon MacGregor reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 " Ye needna luik at me that gait, sirs. I'm no fou," said 
 he. 
 
 " 'Deed no. Naebody tak's ye to be," answered the chair- 
 man. "Meggie, there's naebody's hadower muckle yet, and 
 twa or three o' 's hasna had freely eneuch. Jist gang an' 
 fess a mutchkin mair. An' there '11 be a shillin' to yersel'j 
 lass." 
 
 Meg retired, but straightway returned. 
 
 " Miss Napier says there's no a drap mair drink to be had 
 i' this hoose the nicht." 
 
 " Here, Meggie," said the chairman, " there's yer shil- 
 lin' ; and ye jist gang to Miss Lettie, and gie her my compli- 
 ments, and say tbat Mr. Lammie's here, and we haena seen 
 him for a lang time. And " — the rest was spoken in a 
 whisper — "I'll sweir to ye, Meggie, the weyver body sanna 
 hae aedrap o' 't." 
 
 Meg withdrew once more, and returned. 
 
 "Miss Letty's compliments, sir, and Miss Napier has the 
 keys, and she's gane till her bed, and we maunna disturb her. 
 And it's time 'at a' honest fowk was in their beds tu. And gin 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 37 
 
 Mr. Lammie wants a bed i' this hoose, he maun gang till't. 
 An' here's his can'le. Gude-nicht to ye a', gentlemen." 
 
 So saying, Meg set the lighted candle on the sideboard, and 
 finally vanished. The good-tempered, who formed the greater 
 part of the company, smiled to each other, and emptied the 
 last drops of their toddy first into their glasses, and thence 
 into their mouths. The ill-tempered, numbering but one 
 more than MacGregor, growled and swore a little, the latter 
 declaring that he would not go home. But the rest walked 
 oui; and left him ; and, at last, appalled by the silence, he rose 
 wTlh his wig awry, and trotted — he always trotted when he 
 was tipsy — home to his wife. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MRS. FALCONER. 
 
 Meantime Robert was seated in the parlor at the little dark 
 mahogany table, in which the lamp, shaded towards his grand- 
 mother's side, shone brilliantly reflected. Her face being thus 
 hrdden both by the light and the shadow, he could not observe 
 the keen look of stern benevolence with which, knowing that 
 he could not see her, she regarded him as he ate his thick oat- 
 cake of Betty's skilled manufacture, well loaded with the 
 sweetest butter, and drank the tea which she had poured out 
 and sugared for him with liberal hand. It was a comfortable 
 little room, though its inlaid mahogany chairs and ancient sofa, 
 covered with horse-hair, had a certain look of hardness, no 
 doubt. A shepherdess and lamb, worked in silks whose bril- 
 liance had now faded half-way to neutrality, hung in a black 
 frame, with brass rosettes at the corners, over the chimneyr 
 piece, — the sole approach to the luxury of art in the homely 
 little place. Besides the muslin stretched across the lower 
 part of the window, it was undefended by curtains. There 
 was no cat in the room, nor was there one in the 'kitchen 
 even ; for Mrs. Falconer had such a respect for humanity that 
 she grudged every morsel consumed by the lower creation. 
 
38 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 She sat in one of the arm-chairs belonging to the hairy set, 
 leaning back in contemplation of her grandson, as she took her 
 tea. 
 
 She was a handsome old lady, — little, but had once been 
 taller, for she was more than seventy now. She wore a plain 
 cap of muslin, lying close to her face, and bordered a little 
 way from the edge with a broad black ribbon, which went round 
 her face, and then, turning at right angles, went round the 
 back of her neck. Her gray hair peeped a little way from 
 under this cap. A clear but short-sighted eye of a light hazel 
 shone under a smooth, thoughtful forehead; a straight and 
 well-elevated, but rather short nose, which left the firm upper 
 lip long, and capable of expressing a world of dignified of- 
 fence, rose over a well-formed mouth, revealing more moral 
 than temperamental sweetness ; while the chin was rather de- 
 ficient than otherwise, and took little share in indicating the 
 remarkable character possessed by the old lady. 
 
 After gazing at Robert for some time, she took a piece of 
 oat-cake from a plate by her side, — the only luxury in which 
 she indulged, for it was made with cream instead of water; 
 it was very little she. ate of anything, — and held it out to 
 Robert in a hand white, soft, and smooth, but with square 
 finger-tips, and squat, though pearly, nails. " Ha'e, Robert," 
 she said ; and Robert received it with a " Thank you, grannie ; " 
 but, when he thought she did not see him, slipped it under the 
 table and into his pocket. She saw him well enough, however, 
 and although she would not condescend to ask him why he put 
 it away -instead of eating it, the endeavor to discover what 
 could have been his reason for so doing cost her two hours of 
 sleep that night. She would always be at the bottom of a 
 thing if reflection could reach it ; but she generally declined 
 taking the most ordinary measures to expedite the process. 
 
 When Robert had finished his tea, instead of rising to get 
 his books and betake himself to his lessons, in regard to which 
 his grandmother had seldom any cause to complain, although 
 she would have considered herself guilty of high treason 
 against the boy's future if she had allowed herself once to 
 acknowledge as much, he drew his chair towards the fire, &ni 
 Baid: — 
 
 "Grandmamma?^' 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 39 
 
 gaein' to tell me something," said Mrs. Falconer to 
 herself. "Will't be aboot the puir barfut cratur they ca' 
 Shargar, or will't be aboot the piece he pat iatil's pooch ? " 
 
 " Weel, laddie? " she said aloud, willing to encourage him. 
 
 " Is't true that my gran'father was the blin' piper o' Port- 
 cloddie?" 
 
 " Ay, laddie ; true eneuch. Hoots na; nae yer grandfather, 
 but yer father's grandfather, laddie, — my husband's father." 
 
 " Hoo cam that aboot? " 
 
 " Weel, ye see, he was oot i' the Forty-five; and efter the 
 battle of Culloden he had to rin for't. He wasna wi' his ain 
 clan at the battle, for his father had broucht him to the Law- 
 lands whan he was a lad ; but he played the pipes till a reg'- 
 ment raised by the Laird o' Portcloddie. And for weeks he 
 had to hide amo' the rocks. And they tuik a' his property, 
 frae him. It wasna muckle, — a wheen hooses, and a kailyard 
 or twa, wi' a bit fairmy on the tap o' a cauld hill near the sea- 
 shore ; but it was eneuch and to spare ; and whan they tuik it 
 frae him, he had naething left i' the warl' but his sons. Yer 
 grandfather was born the verra day o' the battle, and the verra 
 day 'at the news cam the mother deed. But yer great-grand- 
 father wasna lang or he merried anither wife. He was sic a 
 man as ony woman niicht hae been prood to merry. She was 
 the daughter o' an Episcopalian minister, and she keepit a 
 school in Portcloddie. I saw him first mysel' when I was 
 aboot twenty, — that was jist the year afore I was merried. 
 He was a considerably auld man than, but as straucht as an ell- 
 wand, and jist pooerfu' beyond belief His wrist was as thick 
 as baith mine ; and years and years efter that, whan he tuik 
 his son, my husband, and his grandson, my Andrew — " 
 
 " What ails ye, grannie ? What for dinna ye gang on wi' 
 the story?" 
 
 ■After a somewhat lengthened pause, Mrs. Falconer resumed 
 as if she had not stopped at all. 
 
 " Ane in ilka ban', jist for the fun o't, he kneipit their heida 
 thegither, as gin they bed been twa stalks o' rib grass. But 
 maybe it was the lauchin' o' the twa lads, for they thoucht it 
 unco fun. They were maist killed wi' lauchin'. But the last 
 time he did it, the puir auld man coughed sair efterhin, and 
 
40 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 had to gang and lie doon. He didna live lang efter that. But 
 it wasna that 'at killed him, ye ken." 
 
 " But hoc cam he to play the pipes? " 
 
 "He likit the pipes. And yer grandfather he tuik to the 
 fiidle." 
 
 "But what for did they ca' him the Win' piper o' Port- 
 cloddie?" 
 
 "Because he turned blin' lang afore his en' cam, and there 
 was naething ither he cud do. And he wad aye mak an hon- 
 est baubee whan he cud ; for siller was fell scarce at that time 
 o' day amo' the Falconers. Sae he gaed throu' the toon at five 
 o'clock ilka mornin' playin' his pipes, to lat them 'at war up 
 ken they war up in time, and them 'at warna, that it was time 
 to rise. And syne he played them again aboot aucht o'clock 
 at nicht, to let them ken 'at it was time for dacent fowk to 
 gang to their beds. Ye see, there wasna sae mony clocks and 
 watches by half than as there is noo." 
 
 " Was he a guid piper, grannie? " 
 
 " What for speir ye that ? " 
 
 "Because I tauld that sunk, Lumley — " 
 
 " Ca' naebody names, Robert. But what richt had ye to be 
 epeikin' to a man like that? " 
 
 "He spak' to me first." 
 
 " Whaur saw ye him ? " 
 
 "At the Boar's Heid.'- 
 
 "And what richt had ye to gang stan'in' aboot? Ye 
 oucht to ha' gane in at ance." 
 
 "There was a half-dizzen o' fowk stan'in' aboot, and I be- 
 hoved to speik when I was spoken till." 
 
 " But ye budena stop an' mak ae fule mair." 
 
 " Isna that ca'in' names, grannie? " 
 
 " 'Deed, laddie, I doobt ye hae me there. But what said 
 the fellow Lumley to ye ? " 
 
 " He cast up to me that my grandfather was naething but 
 a blin' piper." 
 
 " And what said ye ? " 
 
 " I daured him to say 'at he didna pipe weel." 
 . " Weel dune, laddie ! And ye micht say't wi' a gude con- 
 Bdienoe, for he wadna hae been piper till's regiment at the bat- 
 tle o' Culloden gin he hadna pipit weel. Yon's hislcilthini^in 
 
ROBERT PALCONKB. 41 
 
 up i' the press i' the garret. Te'U hae to grow, Robert, my 
 man, afore ye fill that." 
 
 " And whase was that blue coat wi' the bonny gowd buttons 
 upon't? " asked Robert, who thought he had discovered a new 
 approach to an impregnable hold, which he would gladly storm 
 if he could. 
 
 "Lat the coat sit. What has that to do wi' the kilt? A 
 blu^ coat and^a tartan kilt gang na weel thegither." 
 
 "Excep' in an auld press whaur naebody sees them. Ye 
 wadna care, grannie, wad ye, gin I was to cut aff the bonnie 
 buttons?" 
 
 "Dinna lay a finger upo' them. Ye wad be gaein' playin' 
 at pitch and toss or ither sic ploys wi' them. Na, na, lat them 
 Bit." 
 
 " I wad only exchange th'em for marbles." 
 
 " I daur ye to touch the coat or onything ither that's i' that 
 press." 
 
 " Weel, weel, grannie. I's gang and get my lessons for the 
 morn." 
 
 "It's time, laddie. Ye^ae been jabberin' ower muckle. 
 Tell Betty to come and tak' awa' the tay-things." 
 
 Robert went to the kitchen, got a couple of hot potatoes and 
 a candle, and carried them upstairs to Shargar, who was fast 
 asleep. But the moment the light shone upon his face he 
 started up, with his eyes, if not his senses, wide awake. 
 
 " It wasna me, mither ! I tell ye it wasna me ! " 
 
 And he covered his head with both arms,, as if to defend it 
 from a shower of blows. ' 
 
 "Haud yer tongue, Shargar. It's me." 
 
 But before Shargar could come to his senses, the light of 
 tte candle • falling upon the blue coat made the buttons flash 
 confused suspicions into his mind. 
 
 "Mither, mither," he said, "ye hae gane ower far this 
 time. There's ower mony o' them, and they're no the safe 
 color. We'll be baith hangt, as sure's there's a deevil in hell." 
 
 As he said thus, he went on trying to pick the buttons from 
 the coat, taking them for sovereigns, though how he could have 
 seen a sovereign at that time in Scotland I can only conjec- 
 ture. But Robert caught him by the shoulders, and shook 
 
42 ROBERT FALCONKB. 
 
 him awake with no gentle hands, upon which he began to ruh 
 his eyes, and mutter sleepily : — 
 
 " Is that you. Bob ? I hae been dreamin', I doobt." 
 
 'Gin ye dinna learn to dream quaieter, ye'll get you and 
 me tu into mair trouble nor I care to hae aboot ye, ye rascal. 
 Haud the tongue o' ye, and eat this potato, gin ye want ony- 
 thing mair. And here's a bit o' reamy cakes tu ye. Ye 
 winna get that in ilka hoose i' the toon. It's my grannip's 
 especial." 
 
 Robert felt relieved after this, for he had eaten all the cakes 
 Miss Napier had given him, and had had a pain in his con- 
 science ever since. 
 
 " Hoo got ye a haud o' 't? " asked Shargar, evidently sup- 
 posing he had stolen it. 
 
 '■' She gies me a bit noo and than." 
 
 " And ye didna eat it yersel' ? Eh, Bob ! " 
 
 Shargar was somewhat overpowered at this fresh proof of 
 Robert's friendship. But Robert was still more ashamed of 
 what he had not done. 
 
 He took the blue coat carefully from the bed, and hung it 
 in its place again, satisfied now, from the way his grannie had 
 spoken, or, rather, declined to speak about it, that it had 
 belonged to his father. 
 
 "Ami to rise?" asked Shargar, not understanding thj 
 action. 
 
 " Na, na, lie still. Ye'll be warm eneuch wantin' thae 
 sovereigns. I'll lat ye oot i' the mornin' afore grannie's up. 
 And ye maun mak' the best o' 't efter that till it's dark again. 
 We'll sattle.a' aboot it at the schuil the morn. Only we maun 
 be circumspec', ye ken." 
 
 " Ye ouldna lay yer ban's upo' a drap o' whuskey, cud ye, 
 Bob?" 
 
 Robert stared in horror. A boy like that asking for whiskey ! 
 and in his grandmother's house, too ! 
 
 " Shargar," he said, solemnly, "there's no a drap o' whuskey 
 i' this hoose. It's awfu' to bear ye mention sic a thing. My 
 grannie wad smell the verra name o' 't a mile awa'. I doobt 
 that's her fit upo' the stair a' ready." 
 
 Robert crept to the door, and Shargar sat staring with hor- 
 ror, his eyes looking from the glorm of the bed like those of a 
 
BOBEBT FALCONER. 43 
 
 half-strangled dog. But it was a false alarm, as Robert pres- 
 ently returned to announce. 
 
 " Gin ever ye sae muckle as mention whuskey again, no to 
 Bay drink ae drap o' 't, you and me pairt company, and that I 
 tell you, Shargar," said he, emphatically. , 
 
 " I'll never luik at it; I'll never mint at dreamin' o' 't," 
 answered Shargar, coweringly. " Gin she pits't intil my 
 moo', I'll spit it cot. But gin ye strive wi' me, Bob, I'll cut 
 my throat — I will; an' that'll be seen and heard tell o'." 
 
 All this time, save during the alarm of Mrs. Falconer's 
 approach, when he sat with a mouthful of hoi potato, unable 
 to move his jaws for terror, and the remnant arrested half way 
 in its progress from his mouth after the bite, — all this time 
 Shargar had been devouring the provisions Robert had brought 
 him, as if he had not seen food that day. As soon as they 
 were finished, he begged for a drink of water, which Robert 
 managed to procure for him. He then left him for the night, 
 for his longer absence might have brought his grandmother 
 after him, who had perhaps only too good reasons for being 
 doubtful, if not suspicious, about boys in general, though cer- 
 tainly not about Robert in particular. He carried with him 
 his books from the other garret room where he kept them, and 
 sat down at the table by his grandmother, preparing his Latin 
 and geography by her lamp, while she sat knitting a white 
 stocking with fingers as rapid as thought, never looking at her 
 work, but staring into the fire, and seeing visions there which 
 Robert would have given everything he could call his own to 
 see, and then would have given his life to blot out of the world 
 if he had seen them. Quietly the evening passed, by the 
 peaceful lamp and the cheerful fire, with the Latin on the one 
 side of the table, and the stocking on the other, as if ripe and 
 purified old age and hopeful, unstained youth had been the 
 only extremes of humanity known to the world. But the 
 bitter wind was howling by fits in the chimney, and the off- 
 spring of a nobleman and a gypsy lay asleep in the garret, 
 covered with the cloak of an old Highland rebel. 
 
 At nine o'clock, Mrs. Falconer rang tHe bell for Bettie, and 
 they had worship. Robert read a chapter, and his grand- 
 mother prayed an extempore prayer, in which they that looked 
 at the wine when it is red in the cup, and they that wor- 
 
44 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 shipped the woman clothed in scarlet and seated upon the 
 seven hills, came in for a strange mixture, in which the veii- 
 geande yielded only to the pity. 
 
 " Lord, lead them to see the error of their ways," she cried. 
 " Let the rod of thy wrath awake the worm of their con- 
 science, that they may know verily that there is a God thai 
 ruleth in the earth. Didna lat them gang to hell, Lord, 
 we beseech thee." 
 
 As soon as prayers were over, Robert had a tumbler of milk 
 and some more oat-cake, and was sent to bed ; after which it 
 was impossible for him to hold any further communication 
 with Shargar. For his grandmother, little as one might sus- 
 pect it who entered the parlor in the daytime, always slept 
 in that same room, in a bed closed in with doors like those of 
 a large press in the wall, while Robert slept in a little closet, 
 looking into the garden at the back of the house, the door of 
 which opened from the parlor close to the head of his grand- 
 mother's bed. It was just large enough to hold a good-sized 
 bed with curtains, a chest of drawers, a bureau, a large, eight- 
 day clock, and one chair, leaving in the centre about five feet 
 square for him to move about in. There was more room as 
 well as more comfort in the bed. He was never allowed a can- 
 dle, for light enough came through from the parlor, his grand- 
 mother thought; so he was soon extended between the whitest 
 of cold' sheets, with his knees up to his chin, and his thoughts 
 following his lost father over all spaces of the earth with 
 which his geography-book had made him acquainted. 
 
 He was in the habit of leaving his closet and creeping 
 through his grandmother's room before she was awake, — or 
 at least before she had given any signs to the small household 
 that she was restored to consciousness, and that the life of the 
 house must proceed. He therefore found no difficulty in lib- 
 erating Shargar from his prison, except what arose from the 
 boy's own unwillingness to forsEtke his comfortable quarters 
 for the fierce encounter of the January blast which awaited 
 him. But Robert did not turn him out before the last moment 
 of safety had arrived ; for, by the aid of signs known to him- 
 self, ho watched the progress of his grandmother's dressing, — ■ 
 an operation which did not consume much of the morning, 
 scrupulous as she was with regard to neatness and cleanliness, 
 
BOBERT FALCONER. " 45 
 
 — until Bettie was called in to give her careful assistance to 
 the final disposition of the bed, when Shargar's exit could be 
 delayed no longer. Then he mounted to the foot of the sec- 
 ond stair, and called in a keen whisper : — 
 
 "Noo, Shargar, cut for the life o' ye." 
 
 And down came the poor fellow, with long, gliding steps, 
 ragged and reluctant, and, without a word or a look, launched 
 himself out into the cold, and sped away he knew not whither. 
 As he left the door, the only suspicion of light was the dull 
 and doubtful shimmer of the snow that covered the street, 
 keen particles of which were blown in his face by the wind, 
 which, having been up all night had grown very cold, and 
 seemed delighted to find one unprotected human being whom 
 it might badger at its own bitter will. Outcast Shargar ! 
 Where he spent the interval between Mrs. Falconer's door, 
 and that of the school, I do not know. There was a report 
 amongst his school-fellows that he had been found by Scroggie, 
 the fish-cadger, lying at full length upon the back of his old 
 horse, which, either from compassion or indifference, had not 
 cared to rise up under the burden. They said likewise that, 
 when accused by Scroggie of house-breaking, though nothing 
 had to be broken to get in, only a string with a peculiar knot, 
 on the invention of which the cadger prided himself, to be 
 undone, all that Shargar had to say in his self-defence was, 
 that he had a terrible sair wame, and that the horse was 
 warmer nor the stanes i' the yard ; and he had dune him nae 
 ill, nae even drawn a hair frae his tail, — which would have 
 been a difficult feat, seeing the horse's tail was as bare as his 
 hoof. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ROBERT TO THJpi RBSCCE ! 
 
 That Shargar was a parish scholar — which means that the 
 parish paid his fees, although, indeed, they were hardly worth, 
 paying — made very little difference to his position amongs* 
 
46 ROBBRT FALCONER. 
 
 his school-fellows. Nor did the fact of his being ragged anq 
 dirt J affect his social reception to his discomfort. But the 
 accumnlated facts of the oddity of his personal appearance, his 
 supposed imbecility, and the bad character borne by hia 
 mother, placed him in a very unenviable relation to the tyran- 
 nical and vulgar-minded amongst them. Concerning his person, 
 he was long, and, as his name implied, lean, with pale-red hair, 
 reddish eyes, no visible eyebrows or eyelashes, and very pale 
 face — in fact, he was half way to an Albino. His arms and legs 
 seemed of equal length, both exceedingly long. The hand- 
 someness of his mother appeared only in his nose and mouth, 
 which were regular and good, though expressionless ; and the 
 birth of his father only in his small, delicate hands and feet, 
 of which any girl, who cared only for smallness, and heeded 
 neither character nor strength, might have been proud. His 
 feet, however, were supposed to be enormous, from the diffi- 
 culty with which he dragged after him the huge shoes in which 
 in winter they were generally encased. 
 
 The imbecility, like the large feet, was only imputed. He 
 certainly was not brilliant, but neither did he make a fool of 
 himself in any of the few branches of learning of which the 
 parish scholar came in for a share. That which gained him 
 the imputation was the fact that his nature was without a par- 
 ticle of the aggressive, and all its defensive of as purely nega- 
 tive a character as was possible. Had he been a dog, he would 
 never have thought of doing anything for his own protection 
 beyond turning up his four legs in silent appeal to the mercy 
 of the heavens. He was an absolute sepulchre in the swallow- 
 ing of oppression and ill-usage. It vanished in him. There 
 was no echo of complaint, no murmur of resentment, from the 
 hollows of that soul. The blows that fell upon him resounded 
 not, and no one but God remembered them. 
 
 His mother made her living as she herself best knew, with 
 occasional well-begrudged assistance from the parish. Her 
 chief resource was no doubt begging from house to house for 
 the handful of oat-meal which was the recognized, and, in the 
 court of custom-taught conscience, the legalized dole upon 
 which every beggar had a claim; and if she picked up at 
 the same time a chicken, or a boy's rabbit, or any other stray 
 luxury, she was only following the general rule of society, that 
 
ROBERT WALCONER. 47 
 
 your first duty is to take care of yourself. She was generally 
 regarded as a gypsy, but I doubt if she had any gypsyolood in 
 her veins. She was simply a tramper, with occasional fits of 
 localization. Her worst fault was the way she treated her son, 
 whom she starved apparently that she might continue able to 
 beat him. 
 
 The particular occasion which led tcNihe recognition of the 
 growing relation between Robert and Shargar was the follow- 
 ing. Upon a certain Saturday, — some sidereal power inimical 
 to boys must have been in the ascendant, — a Saturday of bril- 
 liant but intermittent sunshine, the white clouds seen from the 
 school windows indicating, by their rapid transit across those 
 fields of vision, that fresh breezes, friendly to kites, or draigons, 
 as they were called at Rothieden, were frolicking in the upper 
 regions, — nearly a dozen boys were kept in for not being able 
 to pay down from memory the usual instalment of Shorter Cat- 
 echism always due at the close of the week. Amongst these 
 boys were Robert and Shargar. Sky-revealing windows and 
 locked door were too painful ; and in proportion as the feeling 
 of having nothing to do increased, the more uneasy did the 
 active element in the boys become, and the more ready to break 
 out into some abnormal manifestation. Everything — sun, 
 wind, clouds, — was busy out of doors, and calling to them to 
 come and join the fun; and activity at the same moment ex- 
 cited and restrained naturally turns to mischief. Most of them 
 had already learned the obnoxious task, — one quarter of an 
 hour was enough for that, — and now what should they do next ? 
 The eyes of three or four of the eldest of them fell simultane- 
 ously upon Shargar. 
 
 Robert was sitting plunged in one of his day-dreams, for he, 
 too, had learned his catechism, when he was roused from hia 
 reverie by a question from a pale-faced little boy, who looked 
 up to him as a great authority. 
 
 " What for 's 't ca'd the Shorter Catechism, Bob? " 
 
 " 'Cause it's no fully sae lang's the Bible," answered Robert, 
 without giving the question the consideration due to it, and 
 was proceeding to turn the matter over in his mind, when the 
 mental process was arrested by a shout of laughter. The other 
 boys had tied Shargar's feet to the desk at which he sat — like- 
 wise his hands, at full stretch ; then, having attached about a 
 
48 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 dozen strings to as many elf-locks of his pale-red. hair, which 
 was neTer cut or trimmed, had tied them to various pegs in the 
 wall behind him, so that the poor fellow could not stir. They 
 ware now crushing up pieces of waste paper, not a few leaves 
 of stray school-books being regarded in that light, into bullets, 
 dipping them in ink, and aiming them at Shargar's face. 
 
 For some time Shargar did not utter a word ; and Robert, 
 although somewhat indignant at the treatment he was receiv- 
 ing, felt as yet no impulse to interfere, for success was doubt- 
 ful. But, indeed, he was not very easily roused to action of 
 any kind; for he was as yet mostly in the larva-condition 
 of character, when everything is transacted inside. But 
 the fun grew more furious, and spot after spot of ink 
 gloomed upon Shargar's white face. Still Robert took no 
 notice, for they did not seem to be hurting him much. But 
 when he saw the tears stealing down his patient cheeks, mak- 
 ing channels through the ink which now nearly covered them, 
 he could bear it no longer. He took out his knife, and, undei 
 pretence of joining in the sport, drew near to Shargar, and 
 with rapid hand cut the cords, — all but those that bound his 
 feet, which were less easy to reach without exposing himself 
 defenceless. 
 
 The boys of course turned upon Robert. But ere they 
 came to more than abusive words a diversion took place. 
 
 Mrs. Innes, the school-master's wife, — a stout, kind-hearted 
 woman, the fine condition of whose temperament was clearly 
 the result of her physical prosperity, — appeared at the door 
 \shich led to the dwelling-house above, bearing in her hands a 
 huge tureen of potato-soup, for her motherly heart could not 
 longer endure the thought of dinnerless boys. Her husband 
 being engaged at a parish meeting, she had a chance of inter- 
 fering with success. 
 
 But ere Nancy, the servant, could follow with the spoons 
 and plates, Wattie Morrison had taken the tureen, and, out of 
 spite at Robert, had emptied its contents on the head of 
 Shargar, who was still tied by the feet, with the words : 
 " Shargar, I anoint thee king over us, and here is thy crown," 
 giving the tureen, as he said so, a push on to his head, where 
 it remained. 
 
 Shargar djd not move, and for one moment could not speak, 
 
BOBKRT FALCONER. 49 
 
 but the next he gave a shriek that made Robert think he waa 
 far worse scalded than turned out to be the case. He darted 
 to him in rage, took the tuseen from his head, and, his blood 
 being fairly up now, flung it with all his force at Morrison, 
 and felled him to the earth. At the same moment the master 
 entered by the street-door and his wife by the house-door, which 
 waa directly opposite. In the middle of the room the prisoners 
 surrounded the fallen tyrant, — Robert, with the red face of 
 wrath, and Shargar, with a complexion the mingled result of 
 tears, ink, and soup, which latter clothed him from head to 
 foot besides, standing on the outskirts of the group. I need 
 not follow the story farther. Both Robert and Morrison got 
 a lickin'; and if Mr. Innes had been like some school-masters 
 of those times, Shargar would not have escaped his share of 
 the evil things going. 
 
 From that day Robert assumed the acknowledged position 
 of Shargar's defender. And if there was pride and a sense of 
 propriety miiigled with his advocacy of Shargar's rights, nay, 
 even if the relation was not altogether free from some amount 
 of show-off on Robert's part, I cannot yet help thinking that 
 it had its share in that development of the character of Fal- 
 coner which has chiefly attracted me to the office of his biog- 
 rapher. There may have been in it the exercise of some 
 patronage ; probably it was not pure from the pride of benefi- 
 cence ; but at least it was a loving patronage and a vigorous 
 beneficence ; and, under the reaction of these, the good, which 
 in Robert's nature was as yet only in a state of solution, be- 
 gan to crystallize into character. 
 
 But the effect of the new relation was far more rema'rkable 
 on Shargar. As incapable of self-defence as ever, he was yet 
 in a moment roused to fury by any attack upon the person or the 
 dignity of Robert ; so that, indeed, it became a new and favor- 
 ite mode of teasing Shargar to heap abuse, real or pretended, 
 upon his friend. From the day when Robert thus espoused 
 his part, Shargar was Robert's dog. That very evening, 
 when she went to take a parting peep at the external before 
 locking the door for the night, Betty found him sitting upon 
 the door-step, only, however, to send him off, as she described 
 it, "wi' a flea in his ear." For the character of the mother 
 was always associated with the boy, and avenged upon him, 
 4 
 
50 ROBEET FALCONER. 
 
 I must, however, allow that those delicate, dirty fingers of his 
 could not with safety be warranted from occasional picking and 
 stealing. 
 
 At this period of my story, Robert himself was rather a 
 grotesque-looking animal, very tall and lanky, with especially 
 long arms, which excess of length they retained after he was 
 full-grown. In this respect Shargar and he were alike ; but 
 the long legs of Shargar were unmatched in Robert, for at this 
 time his body was peculiarly long. He had large black eyes, 
 deep sunk even then, and a Roman nose, the size of which in 
 a boy of his years looked portentous. For the rest, he was 
 dark-complexioned, with dark hair, destined to grow darker 
 still, with hands and feet well modelled, but which would have 
 made four feet and four hands such as Shargar s. 
 
 When his mind was not oppressed with the consideration of 
 any important metaphysical question, he learned his lessons 
 well ; when such was present, the Latin grammar, with all its 
 attendant servilities, was driven from the presence of the lordly 
 need. That once satisfied, in spite of pandies and imprison- 
 ments, he returned with fresh zest, and, indeed, with some 
 ephemeral ardor, to the rules of syntax or prosody, though the 
 latter, in the mode in which it was then and there taught, was 
 almost as useless as the task set himself by a worthy lay- 
 preacher in the neighborhood, — of learning the first nine 
 chapters of the first Book of the Chronicles, in atonement for 
 having, in an evil hour of freedom of spirit, ventured to sug- 
 gest that such lists of names, even although forming a portion 
 of Holy Writ, could scarcely be reckoned of equally divine au- 
 thority with St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE A.NGEL UNAWARES. 
 
 Although Betty seemed to hold little communication with 
 the outer world, she yet contrived somehow or other to bring 
 
ROBEBT FALCONER. 51 
 
 home what gossip was going to the ears of her mistress, who 
 had very few visitors ; for, while her neighbors held Mrs. Fal- 
 coner in great and evident respect, she was not the sort of per- 
 son to sit down and have a neios with. There was a certain 
 sedate, self-contained dignity about her which the common 
 mind felt to be chilling and repellant ; and from any gossip of 
 a personal nature — what Betty brought her always excepted — 
 she would turn away, generally with the words, " Hoots ! I 
 canna bide clashes." 
 
 On the evening following that of Shargar's introduction to 
 Mrs. Falconer's house, Betty came home from tha butcher's — 
 for it w^s Saturday night, and she had gone to fetch the beef 
 for their Sunday's broth — with the news that the people 
 next door, that is, round the corner in the next street, had a 
 visitor. 
 
 The house in question had been built by Robert's father, 
 and was, compared with Mrs. Falconer's one-story house, large 
 and handsome. Robert had been born and had spent a few 
 years of his life in it, but could recall nothing of the facts of 
 those early days. Some time before the period at which my 
 history commences it had passed into other hands, and it was 
 now quite strange to him. It had been bought by a retired 
 naval officer, who lived in it with his wife, — the only English- 
 woman in the place, until the arrival, at the Boar's Head, of 
 the lady so much admired by Dooble Sanny. 
 
 Robert was upstairs when Betty emptied her news-bag, 
 and so heard nothing of this bit of gossip. He had just 
 assured Shargar that as soon as his grandmother was asleep he 
 would look about for what he could find, and carry it up to 
 him in the garret. As yet he had confined the expenditure 
 out of Shargar's shilling to twopence. 
 
 The household always retired early, — earlier on Saturday 
 night in preparation for the Sabbath, — and by ten o'clock 
 grannie and Betty were in bed. Robert, indeed, was in bed 
 too ; but he had laid down in his clothes, waiting for such time 
 as might afibrd reasonable hope of his grandmother being 
 asleep, when he might both ease Shargar's hunger and get to 
 sleep himself. Several times he got up, resolved to make his 
 attempt ; but as often his courage failed and he lay down again, 
 sure that grannie could not be asleep yet. When the clock 
 
52 ROBERT TAIiCONBR. 
 
 beside him struck eleven, he could bear it no longer, and 
 finally rose to do his endeavor. 
 
 Opening the door of the closet slowly and softly, he. crept 
 upon his hands and knees into the middle of the parlor, feel- 
 ing very much like a thief, as, indeed, in a measure he was, 
 though from a blameless motive. But just as he had accom- 
 plished half the distance to the door, he was arrested and fixed 
 with terror; for a deep sigh came from grannie's bed, followed 
 by the voice of words. He thought at first that she had heard 
 him ; but he soon found that he was mistaken. Still, the fear 
 of discovery held him there on all-fours, like a chained animal. 
 A dull red gleam, faint and dull, from the embers of the fire, 
 was the sole light in the room. Everything so common to his 
 eyes in the daylight seemed now strange and eerie in the 
 dying coals, and at what was to the boy the unearthly hour of 
 the night. 
 
 He felt that he ought not to listen to grannie, but terror 
 made him unable to move. 
 
 " Och hone ! och.hone ! " said grannie from the bed. " I've 
 a sair, sair hert. I've a sair hert i' my breist, Lord ! thoo 
 knowest. My ain Andrew ! To think o' my bairnie that I 
 cairriet, and leuch i' my face — to think o' 'im bein' a repro- 
 bate ! Lord ! cudna he be eleckit yet ? Is there nae 
 turnin' o' thy decrees? Na, na; that wadna do at a'. But 
 while there's life there's houp. But wha kens whether he be 
 alive or no ? Naebody can tell. Glaidly wad I luik upon 'a 
 deid face gin I cud believe that his sowl wasna amang the lost. 
 But eh ! the torments o' that place ! and the reik that gangs 
 up forever an' ever, smothering the stars ! And my Andrew 
 doon i' the hert o' 't cryin' ! And me no able to win till him ! 
 Lord ! I canna say thy. will be done. But dinna lay 't to 
 my chairge ; for gin ye was a mither yersel' ye wadna pit him 
 there. Lord ! I'm verra ill-fashioned. I beg yer pardon. 
 I'm near oot o' my min'. Forgi'e me, Lord ! for I hardly 
 ken what I'm sayin'. He was my ain babe, my ain Andrew, 
 and ye gae him to me yersel'. And noo he's for the finger o' 
 scorn to pint at ; an ootcast an' a wan'erer frae his ain country, 
 an' daurna come within sicht o' 't for them 'at wad tak' the 
 law o' 'im. An' it's a' drink — drink an' ill company ! He 
 wad hae dune weel eneuch gin they wad only hae latten him 
 
KOBERT FALCONBB. 53 
 
 be. What for maun men be aye drink-drinkin' at something 
 or ither ? /never want it. Eh ! gin I war as young as whan 
 he was born, I wad be up an' awa' this verra nicht to luik for 
 him. But it's no use me tryin' 't. God ! ance mair I pray 
 thee to turn him frae the error o' 's ways afore he goes hence 
 an' isna more. And oh, dinna lat Robert gang efter him, as 
 he's like eneuch to do. Gie me grace to baud him ticht, that 
 he may be to the praise o' thy glory forever an' ever. Amen." 
 
 Whether it was that the weary woman here fell asleep, or 
 that she was too exhausted for further speech, Robert heard no 
 more, though he remained there frozen with horror for some 
 minutes after his grandmother had ceased. This, then, was 
 the reason why she would never speak about his father ! She 
 kept all her thoughts about him for the silence of the night, 
 and loneliness with the God who never sleeps, but watches the 
 wicked all through the dark. And his father was one of the 
 wicked ! And God was against him ! And when he died he 
 would go to hell ! But he was not dead yet : Robert was sure 
 of that. And when he grew a man, he would go and seek him, 
 aigi beg him on his knees to repent and come back to God, 
 who would forgive him then, and take him to heaven when he 
 died. And there he would be good, and good people would 
 love him. 
 
 Something like this passed through the boy's mind ere he 
 moved to creep from the room, for his was one of those natures 
 which are active in the generation of hope. He had almost 
 forgotten what he came there for ; and had it not been that 
 he had promised Shargar, he would have crept back to his bed 
 and left him to bear his hunger as best he could. But now, 
 first his right hand, then his left knee, like any other quadru- 
 ped, he crawled to the door, rose only to his knees to open it, 
 took almost a minute to the operation, then dropped and 
 crawled again, till he had passed out, turned, and drawn the 
 door to, leaving it slightly ajar. Then it struck him awfully 
 that the same terrible passage must be gone through again. 
 But he rose to his feet, for he had no shoes on, and there was 
 little danger of making any noise, althought it was pitch-dark — 
 he knew the house so well. With gathering courage, he felt 
 his way to the kitchen, and there groped about; but he could 
 find nothing beyond a few quarters of oat-cake, which, with 
 
54 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 a mug of water, he proceeded to carry up to Shargar in the 
 garret. 
 
 When he reached the kitchen-door, he was struck with 
 amazement and for a moment with fresh fear. A light was 
 shining into the transe from the stair which went up at right 
 angles from the end of it. He knew it could not be grannie, 
 and he heard Bettie snoring in her own den, which opened from 
 the kitchen. He thought it must be Shargar, who had grown 
 impatient ; but how he had got hold of a light he could not 
 think. As soon as he turned the corner, however, the doubt 
 was changed into mystery. At the top of the broad low stair 
 *tood a woman-form, with a candle in her hand, gazing about 
 her as if wondering which way to go. The light fell full upon 
 her face, the beauty of which was such that, with her dress, 
 which was white, — being, in fact, a night-gown, — and her hair, 
 which was hanging loose about her shoulders and down to her 
 waist, it led Robert at once to the conclusion (his reasoning 
 faculties already shaken by the events of the night) that she 
 was an angel come down to comfort his grannie ; and he 
 kneeled involuntarily at the foot of the stair, and gazed up at 
 her, with the cakes in one hand, and the mug of water in the 
 other, like a meat-and-drink offering. Whether he had closed 
 his eyes or bowed his head, he could not say ; but he became 
 suddenly aware that the angel had vanished — he knew not 
 when, how, or whither. This for a time confirmed his assur- 
 ance that it was an angel. And although he was undeceived 
 before long, the impression made upon him that night was 
 never effaced. But, indeed, whatever Falconer heard or saw 
 was something more to him than it would have been to any- 
 body else. 
 
 Elated, though awed, by the vision, he felt his way up the 
 stair in the new darkness, as if walking in a holy dream, trod 
 as if upon sacred ground as he crossed the landing where llie 
 angel had stood — went up and up, and found Shargar wide 
 awake with expectant hunger. He, too, had caught a glim- 
 mer of the light. But Robert did not tell him what he had 
 seen. That was too sacred a subject to enter upon with 
 Shargar, and he was intent enough upon his supper not to be 
 inquisitive. 
 
 Robert left him to finish it at his leisure, and returned to 
 
ROBERT FALCONEE. 55 
 
 cross his grandmother's room once more, half expecting to find 
 the angel standing by her bedside. But all was dark and stilL 
 Creeping back as he had come, he heard her quiet, though 
 deep, breathing, and his mind was at ease about her for the 
 night. What if the angel he had surprised had only come to 
 appear to grannie in her sleep ? Why not ? There were such 
 stories in the Bible, and grannie was certainly as good as some 
 of the people in the Bible that saw angels, — Sarah, for in- 
 stance. And if the angels came to see grannie, vrhf should 
 they not have some care over his father as well ? It might 
 be — who could tell ? 
 
 It is perhaps necessary to explain Robert's vision. The 
 angel was the owner of the boxes he had seen at thp Boar's 
 Head. Looking around her room before going to bed, she had 
 seen a trap in the floor near the wall, and, raising it, had dis- 
 covered a few steps of a stair leading down to a door. Curiosity 
 naturally led ber to examine it. The key was in the lock. It 
 opened outwards, and there she found herself, to her surprise, 
 in the heart of another dwelling, of lowlier aspect. She never 
 saw Robert ; for while he approached with shoeless feet, she 
 had been glancing through the open door of the gable-room, 
 and when he knelt, the light which she held in her hand had, 
 I presume^ hidden him from her. He, on his part, had not 
 observed that the moveleps door stood open at last. 
 
 I have already said that the house adjoining had been built 
 by Robert's father. The lady's room was that which he had 
 occupied with his wife, and in it Robert had been born. The 
 door, with its trap-stairs, was a natural invention for uniting the 
 levels of the two houses, and a desirable one in not a few of the 
 forms which the weather assumed in that region. When the 
 larger house pasised into other hands, it had never entered the 
 minds of the simple people who occupied the contiguous dwell- 
 ings to build ap the door-waj between. 
 
OO ROBERT FALCON KR. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A DISCOVERT. 
 
 The friendsLip of Robert had gained Shargar the favorable 
 notice of others of the school-public. These were chiefly of 
 those who came from the country ready to follow an example 
 set them by a town boy. When his desertion was known, 
 moved both by their compassion for him, and their respect for 
 Robert, they began to give him some portion of the dinner they 
 brought with them ; and never in his life had Shargar fared so 
 well as for the first week after he had been cast upon the world. 
 But in proportion as their interest faded with the novelty, so 
 their appetites reasserted former claims of use and wont, and 
 Shargar began once more to feel the pangs of hunger. For all 
 that Robert could manage to procure for him, without attract- 
 ing the attention he was so anxious to avoid, was little more 
 than sufficient to keep his hunger alive, Shargar being gifted 
 with a great appetite, and Robert having no allowance of 
 pocket-money from his grandmother. The threepence he had 
 been able to spend on him were what remained of sixpence 
 Mr. Innes had given him for an exercise which he wrote in 
 blank verse instead of in prose, — an achievement of which the 
 school-master was proud, both from his reverence for Milton, 
 and from his inability to compose a metrical line himself And 
 how and when he should ever possess another penny was even 
 unimaginable. Shargar's shilling was likewise spent. So 
 Robert could but go on pocketing instead of eating all that he 
 dared, watching anxiously for opportunity of evading the eyea 
 of his grandmother. On her dimness of sight, however, he 
 depended too confidently after all ; for either she was not so 
 blind as he thought she was, or she made up for the defect of 
 her vision by the keenness of her observation. She saw 
 enough to cause her considerable annoyance, though it sug- 
 gested nothing inconsistent with rectitude on the part of the 
 boy, further than that there was something underhand going 
 on. One supposition after another arose in the old lady's 
 brain, and one after another was dismissed as improbable. 
 First, she tried to persuade herself that he wanted to tako 
 
ROBEET FALCONER 67 
 
 tLtf provisions to school with him, and eat them there, — a pro- 
 ceciding of which she certainly did not approve, but for the re- 
 proof of which she was unwilling to betray the loopholes of her 
 eyes. Next she concluded, for half a day, that he must have 
 a pair of rabbits hidden away in some nook or other, — possi- 
 bly in the little strip of garden belonging to the house. And 
 so conjecture followed conjecture for a whole week, during 
 which, strange to say, not even Betty knew that Shargar slept 
 in the house. For so careful and watchful were the two boys, 
 that although she could not help suspecting something from 
 the expression and behavior of Kohert, what that something 
 might be she could not imagine ; nor had she and her mistress 
 as yet exchanged confidences on the subject. Her observation 
 coincided with that of her mistress as to the disappearance of 
 odds and ends of eatables, — potatoes, cold porridge, bits of 
 oat-cake ; and even, on one occasion, when Shargar happened 
 to be especially ravenous, a yellow, or cured and half-dried 
 haddock, which the lad devoured raw, vanished from her do- 
 main. He went to school in the morning smelling so strong, . 
 in consequence, that they told him he must have been passing 
 the night in Scroggie's cart, and not on his horse's back this 
 time. 
 
 The boys kept their secret well. 
 
 One evening towards the end of the week, Robert, after 
 seeing Shargar disposed of for the night, proceeded to carry 
 out a project which had grown in his brain within the last two 
 days, in consequence of an occurrence with which his relation 
 to Shargar had had something to do. It was this : — 
 
 , Tlie housing of Shargar in the garret had led Robert to 
 make a close acquaintance with the place. He was familiar 
 with all the outs and ins of the little room which he considered 
 his own, for that was a civilized, being a plastered, ceiled, and 
 comparatively well-lighted little room, but not with the other, 
 which was three times its size, very badly lighted, and show- 
 ing the naked couples from roof-tree to floor. Besides, it 
 contained no end of dark corners, with which his childish im- 
 agination had associated undefined horrors, assuming now one 
 shape, now another. Also, there were several closets in it, 
 constructed in the angles of the place, and several chests, — 
 two of which he had ventured to peep into. But although ho 
 
58 ROBERT FALCONER, 
 
 • 
 had found them filled, not with bones, as he had expected, but 
 one with papers, and one with garments, he had yet dared to 
 carry his researches no further. One evening, however, when 
 Betty was out, and he had got hold of her candle, and gone 
 up to keep Shargar company for a few minutes, a sudden im- 
 pulse seized him to have a peep into all the closets. One of 
 them he knew a little about, as containing, amongst other 
 things, his father's coat with the gilt buttons, and his great- 
 grandfather's kilt, as well as other garments useful to Shar- 
 gar ; now he would see what was in the rest. He did not find 
 anything very interesting, however, till he arrived at the last. 
 Out of it he drew a long, queer-shaped box into the light of 
 Betty's dip. 
 
 "Luik here, Shargar ! " he said, under his breath, for they 
 never dared to speak aloud in these precincts, "luik here! 
 What can there be in this box ? Is't a bairnie's coffin, duv 
 ye think? Luik at it." 
 
 In this case Shargar, having roamed the country a good deal 
 more than Robert, and having been present at some merry- 
 makings with his mother, of which there were comparatively 
 few in that country-side, was better informed than his friend. 
 
 " Eh ! Bob, duvna ye ken what that is ? I thocht ye kent 
 a' thing. That's a fiddle." 
 
 " That's stuff and nonsense, Shargar. Do ye think I dinna 
 ken a fiddle whan I see ane? " 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense yersel' !" cried Shargar, in indigna- 
 tion, from the bed. " Gie's a baud o't." 
 
 Robert handed him the case. Shargar undid the hooks in a 
 moment, and revealed the creature lying in its shell like a 
 boiled bivalve. 
 
 "I tollt ye sae ! " he exclaimed, triumphantly. "Maybe 
 ye'll trust me next time." 
 
 "An' I tellt jroM," retorted Robert, with an equivocation 
 altogether unworthy of his growing honesty, " I was sure that 
 cudna be a fiddle. There's the fiddle i' the hert o't ! Losh ! 
 I min' noo. It maun be my grandfather's fiddle 'at I hae 
 heard tell o'." 
 
 " Not to know a fiddle-C3se ! " reflected Shargar, with aa 
 much of contempt as it was posfable for him to show. 
 
 " 1 tell ye what, Shargar," returned Robert, indignantly, 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 59 
 
 m 
 
 " ye may know the box o' a fiddle better nor I do, but de'il hae 
 me gin I dinna know the fiddle itsel' raither better nor ye do in 
 B fortnicht frae this time. I s' tak' it to Dooble Sanny ; he can 
 play the fiddle fine. An' I'll play't too, or the de'il s' be in't." 
 "Eh, man, that'll be gran' ! " cried Sbargar, incapable of 
 jealousy. "We can gang to a' the markets thegither and 
 gaither half-pence." 
 
 To this anticipation Robert returned no reply, for, hearing 
 Betty come in, he judged it time to restore the violin to its 
 case, and Betty's candle to the kitchen, lest she should invade 
 the upper regions in search of it. But that very night he 
 managed to have an interview with Dooble Sanny, the shoe- 
 maker, and it was arranged between them that Robert should 
 bring his violin on the evening at which my story has now 
 arrived. 
 
 Whatever motive he had for seeking to commence the study 
 of music, it holds even in more important matters that, if the 
 thing pursued be good, there is a hope of the pursuit purifying 
 the motive. And Robert no sooner heard the fiddle utter a few 
 mournful sounds in the hands of the shoemaker, who was no con- 
 temptible performer, than he longed to establish such a rela- 
 tion between himself and the strange instrument, that, dumb 
 and deaf as it had been to him hitherto, it would respond to his 
 touch also, and tell him the secrets of its queerly twisted skull, 
 full of sweet sounds instead of brains. From that moment he 
 would be a musician for music's own sake, and forgot utterly 
 what had appeared to him, though I doubt if it was the sole 
 motive of his desire to learn, — namely, the necessity of re- 
 taining his superiority over Shargar. 
 
 What added considerably to the excitement of his feelings 
 on the occasion was the expression of reverence, almost of 
 awe, with which the shoemaker took the instrument from its 
 case, and the tenderness with which he handled it. The fact 
 was that he had not had a violin in his hands for nearly a year, 
 liaving been compelled to pawn his own in order to alleviate 
 the sickness brought on his wife by his own ill-treatment of 
 her once that he came home drunk from a wedding. It was 
 strange to think that such dirty hands should be able to bring 
 Buch sounds out of the instrument the moment he got it safely 
 cuddled under his cheek. So dirty were they, that it was said 
 
60 
 
 ROBBRT FALCONER. 
 
 Dooble Sanny never required to carry any rosin with him M 
 fiddler's need, his own fingers having always enough upon 
 them for one bow at least. Yet the points of those fingers 
 never lost the delicacy of their touch. Some people thought 
 this was in virtue of their being washed only once a week, — 
 a custom Alexander justified on the ground that, in a trade 
 like his, it was of no use to wash oftener, for he would be just 
 as dirty again before night. 
 
 The moment he began to play, the face of the shoemaker 
 grew ecstatic. He stopped at the very first note, notwithstand- 
 ing, let fall his arms, the one with the bow, the other with the 
 violin, at his .sides, and said, with a deep-drawn respiration 
 and lengthened utterance : — 
 
 "Eh!" 
 
 Then, after a pause, during which he stood motionless : — 
 
 " The cratet maun be a Cry Moany ! Hear till her ! " he 
 added, drawing another long note. 
 
 Then, after another pause : — 
 
 " She's a Straddle Vawrious at least ! Hear till her ! I 
 never had sic a combination o' timmer and catgut atween my 
 claws afore." 
 
 As to its being a Stradivarius, or even a Cremona, at all, 
 the testimony of Dooble Sanny was not worth much on the 
 point. But the shoemaker's admiration roused in the boy's 
 mind a reverence for the individual instrument which he never 
 lost. 
 
 From that day the two were friends. 
 
 Suddenly the shoemaker started off at full speed in a strath- 
 spey, which was soon lost in the wail of a Highland psalm- 
 tune, giving place to " Sic a wife as Willie had! " And on 
 he went, without pause, till Robert dared not stop any longer. 
 The fiddle had bewitched the fiddler. 
 
 " Come as aften 's ye like, Robert, gin ye fess this leddy 
 wi' ye," said the shoemaker. 
 
 And he stroked the back of the violin tenderly with his open 
 palm. 
 
 "But wad ye hae ony objection to lat it lie aside ye, and 
 lat me come whan I can ? " 
 
 "Objection, laddie? I wad as sune objeck to lattio' mv 
 ain wife lie aside me." 
 
EUBEET FALCONER. 61 
 
 *' Ay," said Robert, seized with some anxiety about the 
 volin as he remembered the fate of the wife, "but ye ken 
 Elspet comes oflF a' the waur sometimes." 
 
 Softened by the proximity of the wonderful violin, and <itung 
 afresh by the boy's words as his conscience had often stung 
 Lim before, for he loved his wife dearly, save when the demon 
 of drink possessed him, the tears rose in Elshender's eyes. He 
 held out the violin to Robert, saying, with unsteady voice : — 
 
 "Hae, tak' her awa'. I dinna deserve to hae sic a thing i' 
 my hoose. But hear mo, Robert, and lat heariu' be believin'. 
 I never was sae drunk but I cud tune my fiddle. Mair by 
 token, ance they found me lyin' o' my back i' the Corrie, an' 
 the waiter, they say. was ower a' but the mou' o' me ; but I 
 was haudin' my fiddle up abune my heid, and de'il a spark o' 
 watter was upo' /ier." 
 
 "It's a pity yer wife wasna yer fiddle, than, Sanny," said 
 Robert, with more presumption than wit. 
 
 " Deed ye're i' the richt there, Robert. Hae, tak yer 
 fiddle." 
 
 "Deed, no," returned Robert. " I maun jist trust to ye, 
 Sanders. I canna bide longer the nicht ; but maybe ye'U tell 
 me hoo to baud her the neist time 'at I come, — will ye ? " 
 
 "Thatlwull, Robert; come when ye like. An' gin ye 
 come o' ane 'at cud play this fiddle as this fiddle deserves to 
 be play't, ye'll do me credit." 
 
 " Ye min' what that sumph Lumley said to me the ithei 
 nicht, Sanders, aboot my grandfather?" 
 
 " Ay, weel eneuch. A dish o' drucken havers ! " 
 
 " It was true eneuch aboot my great-grandfather, though." 
 
 "No! Was'trailly?" 
 
 "Ay. He was the best piper in 'a regiment at Culloden. 
 Gin they had a' fouchten as he pipit, there wad hae been 
 anither tale to tell. And he was toon-piper forby, jist like 
 you, Sanders, efter they took frae him a' 'at he had." 
 
 " Na ! heard ye ever the like o' that? Weel, wha wad hae 
 thoucht it ? Faith ! we maun hae you fiddle as weel as yer 
 lucky-daidy pipit — But here's the King o' Bashan comm' 
 efter his butes, an' them no half dune yet ! " exclaimed Doo- 
 ble Sanny, settling in haste to his awl. He'll be roarin' maij 
 like a bull o' the country than the king o' 't." 
 
""i ROBERT FALCONBR, 
 
 As Robert departed, Peter Ogg came in, and as he pasao^J 
 the window, he heard the shoemaker averring : — 
 
 " I haena risen frae my stule sin' ane o'clock ; but there's 
 a sicbt to be dune to them, Mr. Ogg." 
 
 Indeed, Alexander ab Alexandra, as Mr. Innes facetiously 
 styled him, was in more ways than one worthy of the name of 
 Dooble. There seemed to be two natures in the man, which 
 all his music had not yet been able to blend. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 •iXOTHER DISCOVERT IN THE GARRET 
 
 Little did Robert dream of the reception that awaited him 
 at home. Almost as soon as he had left the house, the 
 following events began to take place. 
 
 The mistress's bell rang, and Betty, " gaed benn the hoose 
 to see what she cud be wantin'," whereupon a conversation 
 ensued. 
 
 " Wha was that at the door, Betty? " asked Mrs. Falconer ; 
 for Robert had not shut the door so carefully as he ought, see- 
 ing that the deafness of his grandmother was of much the same 
 faculty as her blindness. 
 
 Had Robert not had a hold of Betty by the forelock of her 
 years, he would have been unable to steal any liberty at all. 
 Still Betty had a conscience, and although she would not offend 
 Robert if she could help it, yet she would not lie. 
 
 "'Deed, mem, I canna jiat distinekly say 'at I heard the 
 door," she answered. 
 
 " Whaur's Robert? " was her next question. 
 
 " He's generally up the stair aboot this boor, mem, — that 
 is, when he's no i' the parlor at 's lessons." 
 
 " What gangs he sae muckle up the stair for, Betty, do ye 
 ken? It's something by ordinar' wi' 'm." 
 
 " 'Deed I dinna ken, mem. I never tuik it into my held to 
 gang considerin' aboot it. He'll hae some ploy o' 's ain, dm 
 doobt. Laddies will be laddies, je ken, mem " 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 63 
 
 " I doobt, Betty, ye'U be aidin' au' abettin'. An' it disna 
 become yer years, Betty." 
 
 "My years are no to fin' faut m', mem. They're weel 
 eneuch." 
 
 "That's naetbing to the pint, Betty. What's the laddie 
 aboot?" 
 
 " Do ye mean whan he gangs up the stair, mem ? " 
 
 "Ay. Ye ken weel eneuch what I mean." 
 
 " Weel, mem, I tell ye I dinna ken. An' ye never heard 
 me tell ye a lee sin' ever I was i' yer service, mem." 
 
 "Na, nae doonricht. Ye gang aboot it an' aboot it, an' at 
 last ye come sae near leein' that gin ye spak anither word, ye 
 wad be at it ; and it jist frights me frae speirin' ae ither ques- 
 tion at ye. An' that's hoc ye win cot o' 't. But noo 'at it's 
 aboot my ain grandson I'm no gaein' to lose him to save a 
 woman o' your years, wha oucht to know better ; an' sae I'll 
 speir at ye, though ye suld be driven to lee like Sawtan him- 
 s'eW — What's he aboot whan he gangs up the stair? Noo ! " 
 
 " Weel, as sure's deith, I dinna ken. Ye drive me to 
 Bweirin', mem, an' no to leein'." 
 
 " I carena. Hae ye no idea aboot it, than, Betty ? " 
 
 "Weel, mem, I think sometimes he canna be well, and 
 maun hae a fox in's stamack, or something o' that nater. For 
 what he eats is awfu'. An' I think whiles he jist gangs up the 
 stair to eat at 's ain wull." 
 
 " That jumps wi' my ain observations, Betty. Do ye think 
 he micht hae a rabbit, or maybe a pair o' them, in some boxie 
 i' the garret, noo? " 
 
 " And what for no, gin he had, mem ? " 
 
 "What for no? Nesty things ! But that's no the pint. 
 I aye hae to baud ye to the pinr, Betty. The pint is whether 
 he has rabbits or no ? " 
 
 " Or guinea-pigs," suggested Betty. 
 
 '■' Weel." 
 
 " Or maybe a pup or twa. Or I kent a laddie ance 'at 
 keepit a haill faimily o' kittlins. Or maybe he micht hae a 
 bit lammie. There was an uncle o' min' ain — " 
 
 " Haud yer tongue, Betty ! Ye hae ower muckle to say for 
 a' the sense there's intil 't." 
 
 " Weel, mem, ye speirt questions at me." 
 
64 ROBERT FALCONBB. 
 
 " Weel, I hae had eneuch o' yer answers, Betty. Gang and 
 teli Robert to come here dirookly. " 
 
 Betty went, knowing perfectly that Robert had gone out, 
 and returned with the information. Her mistress searched 
 her face with a keen eye. 
 
 "That maun hae been himsel' efter a' whan ye thocht ye 
 hard the door gang," said Betty. 
 
 " It's a strange thing that I suld hear him clar here wi' the 
 door steekit, an' your door open at the verra door-cheek o' the 
 ither, an' you no hear him, Betty. And me sae deif as 
 weel ! " 
 
 " 'Deed, mem," retorved Betty, losing her tempei a little. 
 " I can be as deif s ither towk mysel' whiles." 
 
 When Betty grew angi-y, Mrs. Falconer invariably grew 
 calm, or, at least, put her temper out of sight. She was silent 
 now, and continued silent till Betty moved to return to her 
 kitchen, when she said, in a toue of one who had just arrived 
 at an important resolution : — 
 
 " Betty, we'll jist awa' up th* utair an' luik." 
 
 " Weel, mem, I hae nae objections." 
 
 " Nae 'objections ! What for suM you or ony ither body 
 hae ony objections to me gaein' whaur i like i' my ain hoose ? 
 Umph ! " exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, tu/ning and facing her 
 maid. 
 
 " In coorse, mem. I only meant I had nae objections to 
 gang wi' ye." 
 
 "And what for suld you or ony ither woman that I paid 
 twa pun' five i' the half-year till, daur to hae objections to 
 gaein' whaur I wan tit ye to gang i' my ain hoose ? " 
 
 "Hoot, mem ! it was but a slip o' the tongue — naething 
 mair." 
 
 " Slip me nae sic slips, or ye'll come by a fa' at last, 1 
 doobt, Betty," concluded Mrs. Falconer, in a mollified tone, aa 
 she turned and led the way from the room. 
 
 They got a candle in the kitchen and proceeded upstairs, 
 Mrs. Falconer still leading, and Betty following. They did 
 not even look into the ga'lc-room, not doubting that the dignity 
 of the best bedroom was in no danger of being violated even 
 by Robert, but took their way upwards to the room in which 
 he kept his school-books. — almost the only articles of property 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 65 
 
 which the boy possessed. Here they found nothing suspicious. 
 All was even in the best possible order, — not a very wonderful 
 fact, seeing a few books and a slate were the only things there 
 besides the papers on the shelves. 
 
 What the feelings of Shargar must have been when he heard 
 the steps and voices, and saw the light approaching his place 
 of refuge, we will not change our point of view to inquire. He 
 certainly was as little to be envied at that moment as at any 
 moment during the whole of his existence. 
 
 The first sense Mrs. Falconer made use of in the search 
 after possible animals lay in her nose. She kept snuffing con- 
 stantly, but, beyond the usual musty smell of neglected apart- 
 ments, had as yet discovered nothing. The moment she 
 entered the upper garret, however — 
 
 " There's an ill-faured smell here, Betty," she said believing 
 that they had at last found the trail of the mystery ; " but it's 
 no like the smell b' rabbits. Jist luik i' the nuik there ahin' 
 the door." 
 
 "There's naething here," responded Betty. 
 
 " Boon the en' o' that kist there. I s' luik into the press." 
 
 As Betty rose from her search behind the chest and turned 
 towards her mistress, her eyes crossed the cavernous opening of 
 the bed. There, to her horror, she beheld a face like that of 
 a galvanized corpse staring at her from the darkness. Shargar 
 was in a sitting posture, paralyzed with terror, waiting, like Hi 
 fascinated bird, till Mrs. Falconer and Betty should make the 
 final spring upon him, and do whatever was equivalent to 
 devouring him upon the spot. He had sat up to listen to the 
 noise of their ascending footsteps, and fear had so overmastered 
 him, that he either could not, or forgot that he could, lie down 
 and cover his head with some of the many garments scattered 
 around him. 
 
 " I didna aa.ywhuskey, did I ? " he kept repeating to himself, 
 in utter imbecility of fear. 
 
 " The Lord preserve 's ! " exclaimed Betty, the moment she 
 could speak ; for during the first few seconds, having caught 
 the infection of Shargar's expression, she stood equally para- 
 lyzed. " The Lord preserve 's ! " she repeated. 
 
 "Ance is eneuch," said Mrs. Falconer, sharply, turning 
 round to see what the cause of Betty's ejaculation might be. 
 
66 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 I have said that she was dim-sighted. The candle they had 
 was little better than a penny dip. The bed was darker than 
 the rest of the room. Shargar's face had none of the more 
 distinctive characteristics of manhood upon it. 
 
 " Gude preserve 's ! " exclaimed Mrs. Falconer in her turn : 
 " it's a wumman." 
 
 Poor, deluded Shargar, thinking himself safer under any 
 fwm than that which he actually bore, attempted no protest 
 against the mistake. But, indeed, he was incapable of speech. 
 The two women flew upon him to drag him out of the bed. 
 Then first recovering his powers of motion, he sprang up in an 
 agony of terror, and darted out between them, overturning 
 Betty in his course. 
 
 " Ye rouch limmer ! " cried Betty, from the floor. " Ye 
 lang-leggit jaud ! " she added, as she rose, — and at the same 
 moment Shargar banged the street-door behind him in hia 
 terror, — " I wat ye dinna carry yer coats too long ! " 
 
 For Shargar, having discovered that the way to get the most 
 warmth from Robert's great-grandfather's kilt was to wear it in 
 the manner for which it had been fabricated, was in the habit 
 of fastening it round his waist before he got into bed ; and the 
 eye of Betty, as she fell, had caught the swing of this portion 
 of his attire. 
 
 But poor Mrs. Falconer, with sunken head, walked out of 
 the garret in the silence of despair. She went slowly down the 
 steep st9,ir, supporting herself against the wall, her round-toed 
 shoes breaking solemnly as she went, took refuge in. the ga'le- 
 room, and burst into a violent fit of weeping. For such de- 
 pravity she was not prepared. What a terrible curse hung 
 over her family ! Surely they were all reprobate from the 
 birth, not one elected for salvation from the guilt of Adam's 
 fall, and therefore abandoned to Satan as his natural prey, to 
 be led captive of him at his will. She threw herself on her 
 knees at the side of the bed, and prayed heart-brokenly. Betty 
 heard her as she limped past the door on her way back to her 
 kitchen. 
 
 Meantime Shargar had rushed across the next street on his 
 bare feet into the Crookit Wynd, terrifying poor old Kirstan 
 Peerie, the divisions betwixt the compartments of whose mem- 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 67 
 
 ory had broken down, into the exclamation to her next naigh-. 
 bor, Tam Rhin, with whom she was trying to gossip : — 
 
 "Eh, Tammas ! that'll be ane o' the slauchtert at Cullo- 
 den." 
 
 He never stopped till he reached his mother's deserted 
 abode, — strange instinct ! There he ran to earth like a 
 hunted fox. Rushing at the door, forgetful of everything but 
 refuge, he found it unlocked, and, closing it behind him, stood 
 panting like the hart that has found the water-brooks. The 
 owner had looked in one day to see whether the place was 
 worth repairing, for it was a mere outhouse, and had forgotten 
 to turn the key when he left it. Poor Shargar ! Was it 
 more or less of a refuge that the mother that bore him was not 
 there either to curse or welcome his return ? Less — if we 
 may judge from a remark he once made in my hearing many 
 long years after : — 
 
 "For, ye see," he said, "a mither's a mither, be she the 
 verra de'il." 
 
 Searching about in the dark, he found the one article unsold 
 by the landlord, — a stool, with but two of its natural three legs. 
 On this he balanced himself and waited, — simply for what 
 Robert would do ; for his faith in Robert was unbounded, and 
 he had no other hope on earth. But Shargar was not misera- 
 ble. In that wretched hovel, his bare feet clasping the clay 
 floor in constant search of a waving equilibrium, with pitch 
 darkness around him, and incapable of the simplest philosophi- 
 cal or religious reflection, he yet found life good. For it had 
 interest. Nay, more, it had hope. I doubt, however, whether 
 there is any interest at all without hope. 
 
 While he sat there, Robert, thinking him snug in the 
 garret, was walking quietly home from the shoemaker's; and 
 his first impulse on entering was to run up and recount the 
 particulars of his interview with Alexander. Arrived in the 
 dark garret, he called Shargar, as usual, in a whisper, — re- 
 ceived no reply, — thought he was asleep, — called louder (for 
 he had a penny from his grandmother that day for bringing 
 home two pails of water for Betty, and had just spent it upon a 
 loaf for him), — but no Shargar replied. Thereupon he went 
 to the bed to lay hold of him and shake him. But his search- 
 
68 KOBEBT FALCONER. 
 
 Ing hands found no Shargar. Becoming alarmed, he ran down- 
 stairs to beg a light from Bettie. 
 
 When he reached the kitchen, he found Betty's nose as 
 much in the air as its construction would permit. For a hook- 
 nosed body, she certainly was the most harmless and ovine 
 creature in the world ; but this was a case in which feminine 
 modesty was both concerned and aggrieved. She showed her 
 resentment no further, however, then by simply returning no 
 answer in syllable, or sound, or motion, to Robert's request. 
 She was washing up the tea-things, and went on with her 
 work as if she had been in absolute solitude, saving that her 
 countenance could hardly have kept up that expression of in- 
 jured dignity had such been the case. Robert plainly saw, to 
 his great concern, that his secret had been discovered in his 
 absence, and that Shargar had been expelled with contumely. 
 But, with an instinct of facing the worst at once, which accom- 
 panied him through life, he went straight to his grandmother's 
 parlor. 
 
 " Well grandmamma," he said, trying to speak as cheer- 
 fully as he could. 
 
 Grannie's prayers had softened her a little, «lse she would 
 have been as silent as Bettie ; for it was from her mistress 
 that Betty had learned this mode of torturing a criminal. So 
 she was just able to return his greeting in the words, " Weel 
 Robert! " pronounced with a finality of tone that indicated she 
 had done her utmost, and had nothing to add. 
 
 " Here's a brewage ! " thought Robert to himself; and still 
 on the principle of flying at the first of mischief he saw — the 
 best mode of meeting it, no doubt — addressed his grand- 
 mother at once. The efibrt necessary gave a tone of defiance 
 to his words. 
 
 "What for willna ye speik to me, grannie?" he said. 
 " I'm no a haithen, nor yet a papist." 
 
 " Ye're waur nor baith in ane, Robert." 
 
 "Hoots! ye winna say baith, grannie," returned Robert, 
 who, even at the age of fourteen, when once compelled to 
 assert himself, assumed a modest superiority. 
 
 "Nane o' sic impidence!" retorted Mrs. Falconer. "I 
 wonner whaur ye learn that. But it's nae wonner. Evil 
 communications corrupt gude mainners. Ye're a lost prtfdi' 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 69 
 
 gal, Robert, like yer father afore ye. I hae jist been sittin' 
 here thinkin' wi' mysei' whether it wadna be better for baith 
 o' 's to lat ye gang an' reap the fruit o' yer doin's at ance ; 
 for the hard ways is the best road for transgressors. Tm 
 no bund to keep ye." 
 
 " Weel, weel, I s' awa' to Shargar. Him and me 'ill baud 
 on thegithor better nor you an' me, grannie. He's a puir 
 cratur, but he can stick till a body." 
 
 " What are ye haverin' aboot Shargar for, ye heepocreet 
 loon? Ye'll no gang to Shargar, Is' warran' ! Ye'll be 
 efter that vile limmer that's turnt my honest hoose intil a 
 sty this last fortnicht." 
 
 " Grannie, I dinna ken what ye mean." 
 
 " She kens, than. I sent her aff like ane o' Samson's 
 foxes, wi' a firebrand at her tail. It's a pity it wasna tied 
 atween the twa' o' ye." 
 
 " Preserve 's, grannie ! Is't possible ye hae ta'en Shargar 
 for ane o' wumman-kin' ? " 
 
 "I ken naething aboot Shargar, I tell ye. I ken that 
 Bettie an' me tuik an' ill-faured dame i' the bed i' the garret." 
 
 " Cud it be his mither ? " thought Robert, in bewilderment; 
 but he recovered himself in a moment, and answered : — 
 
 " Shargarwiay beaqueanefter a', foronything 'at I ken to 
 the contrairy ; but I aye tuik him for a loon. Faith, sic a 
 quean as he'd mak' ! " 
 
 And careless to resist the ludicrousness of the idea, he burst 
 into a loud fit of laughter, which did more to reassure hia 
 grannie than any amount of protestation could have done, how- 
 ever she pretended to take offence at his ill-timed merriment. 
 
 Seeing his grandmother staggered, Robert gathered courage 
 to assume the offensive. 
 
 "But, granny! hooever Betty, no to, say you, cud hae 
 driven oot a puir half-stervit cratur like Shargar, even suppos- 
 in' he oucht to hae been in coaties, and no in trousers, — and the 
 mither o' him run awa' an' left him, — it's mair nor I can unner- 
 Btan'. I misdoobt me sair but he's gane and droont himsel'." 
 
 Robert knew well enough that Shargar would not drown him- 
 self without at least bidding him good-by ; but he knew, too, 
 that his grandmother could be wrought upon. Her conscience 
 was more tender than her feelings ; and this peculiarity occa- 
 
70 ROBERT FALCONER, 
 
 sioned part of the mutual non-unclerstaiiding rather tha,n mis* 
 understanding between her grandson and herself. The first 
 relation she bore to most that came near her was one of sever- 
 ity and rebuke ; but underneath her cold outside lay a warm 
 heart, to which conscience acted the part of a somewhat 
 capricious stoker, now quenching its heat with the cold water 
 of duty, now stirring it up with the poker of reproach, and 
 ever treating it as an inferior and a slave. But her conscience 
 was, on the whole, a better friend to her race than her heart ; 
 and, indeed, the conscience is always a better friend than a 
 heart whose motions are undirected by it. From Falconer's 
 account of her, however, I cannot help thinking that she not 
 nnfrequently took refuge in severity of tone and manner from 
 the threatened ebullition of a feeling which she could not 
 otherwise control, and which she was ashamed to manifest. 
 Possibly conscience had spoken more and more gently as its 
 behests were more and more readily obeyed, until the heart 
 began to gather courage, and at last, as in many old people, 
 took the upper hand, which was outwardly inconvenient to 
 one of Mrs. Falconer's temperament. Hence, in doing the 
 kindest thing in the world, she would speak in a tone of com- 
 mand, even of rebuke, as if she were compelling the perform- 
 ance of the most unpleasant duty in the person who received 
 the kindness. But the human heart is hard to analyze, and, 
 indeed, will not submit quietly to the operation, however 
 gently performed. Nor is the result at all easy to put into 
 words. It is best shown in actions. 
 
 Again, it may appear rather strange that Robert should be 
 able to talk in such an easy manner to his grandmother, seeing 
 he had been guilty of concealment, if not of deception. But 
 she had never been so actively severe towards Robert as she 
 had been towards her own children. To him she was wonder- 
 fully gentle for her nature, and sought to exercise the saving 
 harshness which she still believed necessary, solely in keeping 
 from him every enjoyment of life which the narrowest theories 
 as to the rule and will of God could set down as worldly. 
 Frivolity, of which there was little in this sober boy, was in 
 her eyes a vice ; loud laughter almost a crime ; cards and nov' 
 elles, as she called them, were such in her estimation, as to be 
 beyond my powers of characterization. Her commonest in- 
 
KOBERT FALCONER. 71 
 
 junction was, " Noo be douce^" — ^that is^ sober, — uttered to 
 the soberest boy she could ever have known. But Kobert was 
 a large-hearted boy, else this life would never have had to be 
 written ; and so, through all this, his deepest nature came into 
 unconscious contact with that of his noble old grandmother. 
 There was nothing small about either of them. Hence Robert 
 was not afraid of her. He had got more of her nature in him 
 than of her son's. She and his own mother had more share 
 in him than his father, though from him he inherited good 
 qualities likewise. 
 
 He had concealed his doings with Shargar simply because 
 he believed that they could not be done if his grandmother 
 knew of his plans. Herein he did her less than justice. But 
 BO unpleasant was concealment to his nature, and so much did 
 the dread of discovery press upon him, that the moment he 
 saw the thing had come out into the daylight of her knowledge, 
 such a reaction of relief took place as, operating along with 
 his deep natural humor and the comical circumstance of the 
 case, gave him an ease and freedom of communication, which 
 he had never before enjoyed with her. Likewise there was a 
 certain courage in the boy which, if his own natural disposi- 
 tion had not been so quiet that he felt the negations of her 
 rule the less, might have resulted in underhand doings of a 
 very different kind, possibly, from those of benevolence. 
 
 He must have been a strange being to look at, I always 
 think, at this point of his development, with his huge nose, his 
 black eyes, his lanky figure, and his sober countenance, on 
 which a smile was rarely visible, but from which burst occa- 
 sional guffaws of laughter. 
 
 At the words " droont himsel'," Mrs. Falconer started. 
 
 "Bin, laddie, rin," she said, "an' fess him back direckly ! 
 Betty ! Betty ! gang wi' Robert, and help him to luik for 
 Shargar. Ye auld, blin', doited body, 'at says ye can see, 
 and canna tell a lad frae a lass ! " 
 
 "Na, na, grannie. I'm no gaein' oot wi' a dame like her 
 trailin' at my fat. She wad be a sair hinnerance to me. 
 Gin Shargar be to be gotten — that is, gin he be in life — Is' 
 get him wantin' Betty. Antl gin ye dinna ken him for the 
 cratur ye fand i' the garret, he maun be sair changed sin' I 
 left him there." 
 
72 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Weel, weel, Robert, gang yer wa's. But gin ye be de- 
 ceivin' me, may the Lord forgie ye, Robert, for sair ye'll 
 need it." 
 
 " Nae fear o' that, grannie," returned Robert, from the 
 etreet-door, and vanished. 
 
 Mrs. Falconer stalked — No, I will not use that word of 
 the gait of a woman like my friend's grandmother. " Stately 
 Btept she butt the Loose" to Betty. She felt strangely soft 
 at the heart, Robert not being yet proved a reprobate ; but she 
 was not therefore prepared to drop one atom of the dignity of 
 her relation to her servant. 
 
 " Betty," she said, " ye hae made a mistak." 
 
 " What's that, mem ? " returned Betty. 
 
 " It wasna a lass ava; it was that crater Shargar." 
 
 " Ye said it was a lass yersel' first, mem." 
 
 "Ye ken weel eneuch that I'm short sichtit, an' hae been 
 frae the day o' my birth." 
 
 "I'm no auld eneuch to min' upo' that, mem," returned 
 Betty, revengefully, but in an undertone, as if she did not in- 
 tend her mistress to hear. And although she heard well 
 enough, her mistress adopted the subterfuge. " But I'll swear 
 the crater /saw was in petticoats." 
 
 " Sweir not at all, Betty. Ye hae made a mistak' ony 
 gait." 
 
 " Wha says that, mem? " 
 
 " Robert." 
 
 " Aweel, gin he be tellin' the trowth — " 
 
 " Daur ye insinuate to me that a son o' mine wad tell ony- 
 thingbutthe trowth?" 
 
 " Na, na, mem. But gin that wasna a quean, ye canna deny 
 but she luikit unco ane, and no a bashful ane eyther." 
 
 " Giu he was a loon, he wadna luik like a bashful lass, ony 
 way, Betty. And there ye're wrang." 
 
 " Weel, weel, mem, hae't yer ain way," muttered Betty. 
 
 "I wuU hae't my ain way," retorted her mistress, "because 
 It's the richt way, Betty. An' noo ye maun jist gang up tlia 
 Btair, an' get the place clean t oot an' put in order." 
 
 " I wull do that, mem." 
 
 "Ay wull ye. An' luik weel aboot, Betty, you that can 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 73 
 
 see sae weel, in case there suld be ony cattle aboot j for he'a 
 Dane o' the cleanest, yon dame ! " 
 
 " I wuU do that, mem." 
 
 " An' gang direckly, afore he comes back." 
 
 " Wha comes back? " 
 
 " Kobert, of coorse." 
 
 "What for that?" 
 
 " 'Cause he's comin' wi' 'im." 
 
 " What he's comin' wi' 'im?" 
 
 " Ca' 't she, gin ye like. It's Shargar." 
 
 "Wha says that? " exclaimed Betty, sniflBng and starting 
 at once. 
 
 " / say that. An' ye gang an' du what I tell ye, this 
 minute." 
 
 Betty obeyed instantly ; for the tone in which the last words 
 were spoken was one she was not accustomed to dispute. She 
 only muttered as she went, "It'll a' come upo' me as usual." 
 
 Betty's job was long ended before Robert returned. Never 
 dreaming that Shargar could have gone back to the old haunt, 
 he had looked for him everywhere before that occurred to him 
 as a last chance. Nor would he have found him even then, for 
 he would not have thought of his being inside the deserted 
 house, had not Shargar heard his footsteps in the street. 
 
 He started up from his stool, saying, " That's Bob ! " but 
 was not sure enough to go to the door ; he might be mistaken ; 
 it might be the landlord. He heard the feet stop, and did not 
 move ; but when he heard them begin to go away again, he 
 rushed to the door, and bawled on the chance at the top of his 
 voice, "Bob! Bob!" 
 
 " Eh ! ye crater ! " said Robert, " ir ye there efter a' ? " 
 
 " Eh ! Bob," exclaimed Shargar, and burst into tears. " 1 
 thocht ye wad come efter me." 
 
 " Of coorse," answered Robert, coolly. " Come awa' 
 hame." 
 
 " Whaurtill?" asked Shargar, in dismay. 
 
 " Ilame to yer ain bed at my grannie's." 
 
 " Na, na," said Shargar, hurriedly, retreating within the 
 door of the hovel. " Na, na. Bob, lad, 1 s' no du that. She's 
 an awfu' wuman, that grannie o' yours. I canna think hoo ye 
 can bide wi' her. I'm weel oot o' her grups, /can tell ye." 
 
74 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 It required a good deal of persuasion, but at last Eobert 
 prevailed upon Shargar to return. For was not Robert hia 
 tower of strength? And if Robert was not frightened at his 
 grannie, or at Betty, why should he be? At length they 
 entered Mrs. Falconer's parlor, Robert dragging in Shargar 
 after him. having failed altogether in encouraging him to enter 
 after a more dignified fashion. 
 
 It must be remembered that although Shargar was still 
 kilted, he was not the less trowsered, such as the trowsers 
 were. It makes my heart ache to think of these trowsers, — ■ 
 not believing trowsers essential to blessedness either, but know- 
 ing the superiority of the old Roman costume of the kilt. 
 
 No sooner had Mrs. Falconer cast her eyes upon him than 
 she could not but be convinced of the truth of Robert's aver- 
 ment. 
 
 " Here he is, grannie ; and gin ye bena satisfeed yet — " 
 
 "Haud yer tongue, laddie. Ye hae gi'en me nae cause to 
 doobt yer word." 
 
 Indeed, during Robert's absence, his grandmother had had 
 leisure to perceive of what an absurd folly she had been guilty. 
 She had also had time to make up her mind as to her duty 
 with regard to Shargar ; and the more she thought about it, 
 the more she admired the conduct of her grandson, and the 
 better she saw that it would be right to follow his example. 
 No doubt she was the more inclined to this benevolence that 
 she had as it were received her grandson back from the jaws 
 of death. 
 
 When the two lads entered, from her arm-chair Mrs. Fal- 
 coner examined Shargar from head to foot with the eye of » 
 queen on her throne, and a countenance immovable in stern 
 gentleness, till Shargar would gladly have sunk into the shelter 
 of the voluminous kilt from the gaze of those quiet hazel eyes. 
 
 At length she spoke : — 
 
 " Robert, tak' him awa'." 
 
 " Whaur'll I tak' him till, grannie? " 
 
 " Tak' him up to the garret. Betty 'ill ha' ta'en a tub o' het 
 water up there 'gen this time, and ye maun see that he washes 
 himsel' frae heid to fut, or he's no bide an 'oor i' my hoose 
 Gang awa' an' see till't this minute." 
 
 But she detained them yet a while with various directiona 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 75 
 
 in regard or cleansing, for the carrying out of whicli Robert 
 was only too glad to give his word. Slie dismissed them at 
 last, and Shargar by and by found himself in bed, clean, and, 
 for the first time in his life, between a pair of linen sheets, — 
 not altogether to his satisfaction, for mere order and comfort 
 were substituted for adventure and success. 
 
 But greater trials awaited him. In the morning he waa 
 visited by Brodie, the tailor, and Elshender, the shoemaker, 
 both of whom he held in awe as his superiors in the social scale, 
 and by them handled and measured from head to feet, the 
 latter included ; after which he had to lie in bed for three days, 
 till his clothes came home ; for Betty had carefully committed 
 every article of his former dress to the kitchen fire, not without 
 a sense of pollution to the bottom of her kettle. Nor would 
 he have got them for double the time, had not Robert haunted 
 the tailor, as well as the shoemaker, like an evil conscience, 
 till they had finished them. Thus grievous was Shargar's in- 
 troduction to the comforts of respectability. Nor did he like 
 it much better when he was dressed, and able to go about ; for 
 not only was he uncomfortable in his new clothes, which, after 
 the very easy fit of the old ones, felt like a suit of plate-armor, 
 but he was liable to be sent for at any moment by the awful 
 sovereignty in whose dominions he found himself, and which, 
 of course, proceeded to instruct him not merely in his own relig- 
 ious duties, but in the religious theories of his ancestors, if, 
 indeed, Shargar's ancestors ever had any. And now the 
 Shorter Catechism seemed likely to be changed into the Longer 
 Catechism ; for he had it Sundays as well as Saturdays, be- 
 sides Alleine's "Alarm to the Unconverted," Baxter's 
 "Saint's Rest," Erskine's " Gospel Sonnets," and other books 
 of a like kind. Nor was it any relief to Shargar that the 
 gloom was broken by the incomparable " Pilgrim's Progress " 
 and the "Holy War," for he cared for none of these things 
 Indeed, so dreary did he find it all. that his love to Robert was 
 never put to such a severe test. But for that, he would have 
 run for it. Twenty times a day was he so tempted. 
 
 At school, though it was better, yet it was bad. For he 
 was ten times as much laughed at for his new clothes, though 
 they were of the plainest, as he had been for his old rags. 
 Still he bore all the pangs of unwelcome advancement without 
 
76 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 a grumble, for the sake of his friend alone, whose dog he re. 
 mained as much as ever. But his past life of cold and neg« 
 lect, and hunger and blows, and homelessness and rags, began 
 to glimmer as in the distance of a vaporous sunset, and the 
 loveless freedom he had then enjoyed gave it a bloom as of 
 summer roses. 
 
 I wonder whether there may not have been in some unknown 
 corner of the old lady's mind this lingering remnant of pagan- 
 ism, that, in reclaiming the outcast from the error of his ways, 
 she was making an offering acceptable to that God whom her 
 mere prayers could not move to look with favor upon her 
 prodigal son Andrew. Nor from her own acknowledged relig- 
 ious belief as a background would it have stuck so fiery off 
 either. Indeed, it might have been a partial corrective of some 
 yet more dreadful articles of her creed, — which she held, be it 
 remembered, because she could not help it. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 PRIVATE INTERVIEWS. 
 
 The winter passed slowly away. Robert and Shargar weni 
 to school together, and learned their lessons together at Mrs. 
 Falconer's table. Shargar soon learned to behave with tolerable 
 propriety ; was obedient, as far as eye-service went ; looked as 
 queer as ever ; did what he pleased, which was nowise very 
 wicked, the moment he was out of the old lady's sight ; was 
 well fed and well cared for ; and when he was asked how he 
 was, gave the invariable answer: "Middlin'." He was not 
 very happy. 
 
 There was little communication in words between the two 
 boys, for the one had not much to say, and the pondering fits of 
 the other grew rather than relaxed in frequency and intensity 
 Yet amongst chance acquaintances in the town Robert had tlie 
 character of a wag, of which he was totally unaware himself. 
 Indeed, eilthough he had more than the ordinary share cf hu« 
 
ROBERT FAICONER, 77 
 
 mor, I suspect it was nc^so much his fun as his earnest that 
 got bim the character : fo^e woald say such altogether unheard- 
 of and strange things, that the only way they were capable 
 of accounting for him was as a humorist. 
 
 "Eh ! " he said once to Elshender, during a pause common 
 to a thunder-storm and a lesson on the violin, " eh ! wadna ye 
 like to be up in that clood wi' a spaud, turnin' ower the divots 
 and catchin' the flashes lyin' aneath them like lang reid fiery 
 worms ? " 
 
 " Ay, man, but gin ye luik up to the cloods that gait, ye'U 
 never be muckle o' a fiddler." 
 
 This was merely an outbreak of that insolence of advice so 
 often shown to the young from no vantage-ground but that of 
 age and faithlessness, reminding one of the "jigging fool " who 
 interfered between Brutus and Cassius on the sole ground that 
 he had seen more years than they. As if ever a fiddler that 
 did not look up to the clouds would be anything but a catgut- 
 scraper ! Even Elshender's fiddle was the one angel that held 
 back the Tieavy curtain of his gross nature, and let the sky 
 shine through. He ought to have been set fiddling every Sun- 
 day morning, and from his fiddling dragged straight to church. 
 It was the only thing man could have done for his conversion, 
 for then his heart was open. But I fear the prayers would have 
 closed it before the sermon came. He should rather have been 
 compelled to take his fiddle to church with him, and have a gen- 
 tle scrape at it in the pauses of the service ; only there are no 
 such pauses in the service, alas ! And Dooble Sanny, though 
 not too religious to get drunk occasionally, was a great deal too 
 religious to play his fiddle on the Sabbath ; he would not will- 
 ingly anger the powers above ; but it was sometimes a sore temp- 
 tation, especially after he got possession of old Mr. Falconer's 
 wonderful instrument. 
 
 " Hoots, man ! " he would say to Robert ; " dinna han'lo her 
 as gin she war an egg-box. Tak' baud o' her as gin she war a 
 leevin' crater. Ye maun jist straik her canny, an' while the 
 music oot o' her ; for she's like ither women : gin ye be rouch wi' 
 her, ye winna get a word oot o' her. An' dinna han'le her that 
 gait. She cjinna bide to be centred an' pu'd this gait and that 
 gait. Come to me, my bonny leddy. Ye'U tell me yer story, 
 winna ye, my pet? " 
 
T8 ROBERT PALCONER. 
 
 And with every gesture aa if he ^re humoring a shy and 
 invalid girl, he would, as he said, wire the music out of her in 
 Bobs and wailing, till the instrument, gathering courage in his 
 embrace, grew gently merry in its confidence, and broke at last 
 into airy laughter. He always spoke, and apparently thought, 
 of his violin as a woman, just as a sailor does of his craft. But 
 there was nothing about him, except his love for music and its 
 instruments, to suggest other than a most uncivilized nature. 
 That which was fine in him was constantly checked and held 
 down by the gross ; the merely animal overpowered the spir- 
 itual ; and it was only upon occasion that his heavenly com- 
 panion, the violin, could raise him a few feet above the mire 
 and the clay. She never succeeded in setting his feet on a rock : 
 while, on the contrary, he often dragged her with him into the 
 mire of questionable company and circumstances. Worthy 
 Mr. Ealconer would have been horrified to see his umquhile 
 modest companion in such society as that into which she was now 
 introduced at times. But nevertheless the shoemaker was a good 
 and patient teacher, and although it took Robert rSttlier more 
 than a fortnight to redeem his pledge to Shargar, he did make 
 progress. It could not, however, be rapid, seeing that an hour 
 at a time, two evenings in the week, was all that he could give 
 to the violin. Even with this moderation, the risk of his ab- 
 sence exciting his grandmother's suspicion and inquiry was fai' 
 from small. 
 
 And now, were those really faded old memories of his 
 grandfather and his merry kindness, all so different from the 
 solemn benevolence of his grandmother, which seemed to re- 
 vive in his bosom with the revivification of the violin ? The 
 instrument had surely laid up a story in its hollow breast, had 
 been dreaming over it all tlie time it lay hidden away in the 
 closet, and was now telling out its dreams about the old times 
 in the ear of the listening boy. To him also it began to as- 
 sume something of that mystery and life which had such a 
 softening, and, for the moment, at least, elevating influence on 
 his master.' 
 
 At length the love of the violin had grown upon him so, that 
 he could not but cast about how he might enjoy more of its 
 company. It would not dg, for many reasons, to go oftener to 
 the shoemaker's especially now that the days were gettina 
 
BOBERT FALCONER. 79 
 
 longer. Nor was that what he wanted. He wanted oppor- 
 tunity for practice. He wanted to be alone with the creature, 
 to see if she would not say something more to him than she 
 had ever said yet. Wafts and odors of melodies began to steal 
 upon him ere he was aware in the half lights between sleeping 
 and waking ; if he could only entice them to creep out of the 
 violin, and once "bless his humble ears " with the bodily hear- 
 ing of them! Perhaps he might, — who could tell? But 
 how? But where? 
 
 There was a building in .Rothieden, not old, yet so deserted 
 that its very history seemed to have come to a stand-still, and 
 che dust that filled it to have fallen from the plumes of passing 
 eenturies. It was the property of Mrs. Falconer, left her by 
 her husband. Trade had gradually ebbed away from the town 
 till the thread-factory stood unoccupied, with all its machinery 
 rusting and mouldering, just as the work-people had risen and 
 left it one hot, midsummer day, when they were told that their 
 services were no longer required. Some of the thread even 
 remained upon the spools, and in the hollows of sjme of the 
 sockets the oil had as yet dried only into a paste ; although to 
 Eobert the desertion of the place appeared immemorial. It 
 stood at a furlong's distance from the house, on the outskirt of 
 the town. There was a large, neglected garden behind it, with 
 some good fruit-trees, and plenty of the bushes which boys love 
 for the sake of their berries. After grannie's jam-pots were 
 properly filled, the remnant of these, a gleaning far greater 
 than the gathering, was at the disposal of Robert, and, phi- 
 losopher although in some measure he was already, he appre- 
 ciated the privilege. Haunting this garden in the previous 
 summer, he had, for the first time made acquaintance with the 
 interior of the deserted factory. The door to the road was 
 always.^ kept locked, and the key of it lay in one of grannie's 
 drawers; but he had then discovered a back entrance less se- 
 curely fastened, and with a strange mingling of fear and curi- 
 osity had from time to time extended his rambles over what 
 seemed to him the huge desolation of the place. -Half of it 
 was well built of stone and lime, but of the other half the upper 
 part was built of wood, which now showed signs of considerable 
 decay. One room opened into another through the length of 
 the place, revealing a vista of machines, standing with an air 
 
80 KOBERT FALCONER. 
 
 of the last folding of the wings of silence over them, and the 
 sense of a deeper and deeper sinking into the soundless abyss. 
 But their activity was not so far vanished but that by degrees 
 Robert came to fancy that he had some time or other seen a 
 woman seated at each of those silent powers, whose single hand 
 set the whole frame in motion, with its numberless spindles 
 and spools rapidly revolving, — a vague mystery of endless 
 threads in orderly complication, out of which came some de- 
 sired, to him unknown, result, so that the whole place was full 
 of a bewildering tumult of work, every little reel contributing 
 its share, as the water-drops clashing together make the roar 
 of a tempest. Now all was still as the church on a week-day ; 
 still as the school on a Saturday afternoon. Nay, the silence 
 seemed to have settled down like the dust, and grown old and 
 thick ; so dead and old that the ghost of the ancient noise had 
 arisen to haunt the place. 
 
 Thither would Robert carry his violin, and there would ht 
 woo her. 
 
 "I'm thinkin' I maun tak her wi' me the nicht, Sanders," 
 he said, holding the fiddle lovingly to his bosom, after he had 
 finished his next lesson. 
 
 The shoemaker looked blank. 
 
 " Ye' re no gaein to desert me, are ye? " 
 
 " Na, weel I wat!" returned Robert. "But I want to 
 try her at hame. I maun get used till her a bittie, ye ken, 
 afore I can du onything wi' her." 
 
 " I wiss ye had na brought her here, than. What I am to 
 du wantin' her! " 
 
 " What for dinna ye get yer ain back ? " 
 
 " I haena the siller, man. And, forbye, I doobt I wadna be 
 that sair content wi' her noo gin I had her. I used to think 
 her gran'. But I'm clean oot o' conceit o' her. That bonnie 
 leddy's ta'en't clean oot o' me." 
 
 " But ye canna hae her aye, ye ken, Sanders. She's no 
 mine. She's my grannie's, ye ken." 
 
 " What's the use o' her to her? She pits nae vailue upon 
 her. Eh, man, gin she wad gie her to me, I wad baud her i' 
 the best o' shune a' the lave o' her days." 
 
 " That wadna be mucklo, Sanders, for she hasna had a new 
 pair sin' ever I mind." 
 
KOBBRT FALCONER. 81 
 
 " But I wad baud Betty in shune as weel." 
 
 " Bettj pays for her ain shune, I reckon." 
 
 " Weel, I -wad baud you in shune, and yer bairns, and yer 
 bairns' bairns," cried the shoijmaker, with enthusiasm. 
 
 "Hoot, toot, man! Lang or that ye' 11 be fiddlin' i' the new 
 Jerooslem." 
 
 "Eh, man!" said Alexander, looking up, — he had just 
 cracked the roset-ends off his hands, for he had the upper 
 leather of a boot in the grasp of the clamps, and his right hand 
 hung arrested on its blind way to the awl, — " duv ye think 
 there'll be fiddles there? I thocht they war a' hairps, a thing 
 'at I never saw; but it canna be up till a fiddle." 
 
 " I dinna ken," answered Kobert ; " but ye suld mak' a pint 
 o' seein' for yersel'." 
 
 " (rin I thocht there wad be fiddles there, faith I wad hae a 
 try. It wadna be muckle o' a Jerooslem to me wantin' my 
 fiddle. But gin there be fiddles,. I daursay they'll be gran' 
 anes. I daursay they wad gi' me a new ane, — I mean ane 
 Buld es Noah's 'at he played i' the ark whan the de'il cam' in 
 by to hearken. I wad fain h££e a try. Ye ken a' aboot it wi' 
 that grannie o' yours : hoo's a body to begin? " 
 
 "By giein' up the drink, man." 
 
 " Ay — ay — ay — I reckon ye're richt. Weel, I'll think 
 aboot it when ance I'm throu wi' this job. That'll be next 
 week, or thereabouts, or aiblins twa days efter. I'll hae some 
 leiser than." 
 
 Before he had finished speaking he had caught up his awl 
 and began to work vigorously, boring his holes as if the nerves 
 of feeling were continued to the point of the tool, inserting the 
 bristles that served him for needles with a delicacy worthy of 
 soft-skinned fingers, drawing through the rosined threads with 
 a whisk, and untwining them with a crack from the leather that 
 guarded his hands. 
 
 " Gude-nicht to ye," said Robert, with the fiddle-case under 
 his arm. 
 
 The shoemaker looked up, with his hands bound in hia 
 threads. 
 
 " Ye're na gaein' to tak' her frae me the nicht? " 
 
 " Ay am I, but I'll fess her back again. I'm no gaein' to 
 Jericho wi' her." 
 
82 ROBEEI FALCONER. 
 
 " Gang to Hecklebirnie wi' her, and that's three milea 
 ayont hell." 
 
 "Na; -we maun win farther nor that. There canna be 
 muckle fiddlin' there." 
 
 " Weel, tak' her to the new Jerooslem. I s' gang doon to 
 Lucky Leary's, and fill mysel' roarin' fou, an' it'll be a' your 
 l)lame." 
 
 " I doobt ye'll get the blows, though. Or maybe ye think 
 Bell 'ill tak' them for ye." 
 
 Dooble Sanny caught up a huge boot, the sole of which was 
 filled with broad-headed nails as thick as they could be driven, 
 and, in a rage, threw it at Robert as he darted out. Through 
 its clang against the door-cheek the shoemaker heard a cry 
 from the instrument. He cast everything from him and sprang 
 after Robert. But Robert was down the wynd like a long- 
 legged greyhound, and Elshender could only follow like a fierce 
 mastiff. It was love and grief, though, and apprehension and 
 remorse, not vengeance, that winged his heels. He soon saw 
 that pursuit was in vain. 
 
 "Robert! Robert!" he cried; "I canna win up wi' ye. 
 "Stop, for God's sake ! Is she hurtit? " 
 
 Robert stopped at once. 
 
 " Ye hae made a bonny leddy o' her, — a cripple, I doobt, 
 like yer wife," he answered, with indignation. 
 
 " Dinna be aye fiingin' a man's fau'ts in 's face. It jist 
 mak's him 'at he canna bide himsel' or you eyther. Lat's see 
 the bonny crater." 
 
 Robert complied, for he too was anxious. They were now 
 standing in the space in front of Shargar's old abode, and 
 there was no one to be seen. Elshender took the box, opened 
 it carefully, and peeped in wJth a face of great apprehension. 
 
 "I thocht that was a'!" he said, with some satisfaction. 
 " I kent the string whan I heard it. But we'll suno get a new 
 thairm till her," he added, in a tone of sorrowful commisera- 
 tion and condolence, as ho took the violin from the case, ten- 
 derly, as if it had been a hurt child. 
 
 One touch of the bow, drawing out a goul of grief, satisfied 
 him that she was uninjured. Next a hurried inspection 
 showed him that there was enough of the catgut twisted round 
 the peg to make up for the part that was broken off. In a 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 83 
 
 moment he had fastened it, to the tail-piece, tightened and 
 tuned it. Forthwith he took the bow from the case-lid, and 
 in jubilant guise he expatiated upon the wrong lie had done 
 his bonny leddy, till the doors and window's around were 
 crowded with heads peering through the dark to see whence 
 the sounds came, and a little child toddled across from one of 
 the lowliest houses with a ha'penny for the fiddler. Gladly 
 would Kobert have restored it with interest, but, alas ! there 
 was no interest in his bank, for not a ha'penny had he in the 
 world. The incident recalled Sandy to Rothieden and its 
 cares. He restored the violin to its case, and while Robert 
 was fearing he would take it under his arm and walk away 
 with it, handed it back with a humble sigh and a " Praise be 
 thankit ; " then, without another word, turned and went to his 
 lonely stool and home "untreasured of its mistress." Robert 
 went home too, and stole like a thief to his room. 
 
 The next day was a Saturday, which, indeed, was the real 
 old Sabbath, or at least the half of it, to the sohool-boys of 
 Rotheiden. Even Robert's grannie was Jew enough, or 
 rather Christian enough, to respect this remnant of the fourth 
 commandment, — ^.divine antidote to the rest of the godless 
 money-making and soul-saving week, — and he had the half- 
 day to himself So as soon as he had had his dinner, be 
 managed to give Shargar the slip, left him to the inroads of a 
 desolate despondency, and stole away to the old factory-gar- 
 den. The key of that he had managed to purloin from thd 
 kitchen where it hung; nor was there much danger of ita 
 absence being discovered, seeing that in winter no one thought 
 of the garden. The smuggling of the violin out of the house 
 was the " dearest danger," — the more so that he would not 
 run the risk of carrying her out unprotected, and it was 
 altogether a bulky venture with the case. But by spying and 
 speeding he managed it, and soon found himself safe withip 
 the high walls of the garden. 
 
 It was early spring. There had been a heavy fall of sleet 
 in the morning, and now the wind blew gustfully about the 
 place. The neglected trees shook showers upon him as he 
 passed under them, trampling down the rank growth of the 
 grass-walks. The long twigs of the wall-trees, which had 
 never been nailed up, or had been torn down by the snow and 
 
84 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 the blasts of winter, went trailing away in the moan of the 
 fitful wind, and swung back as it sunk to a sigh. The cur- 
 rant and gooseberry bushes, bare and leafless, and " shivering 
 all for cold," neither reminded him of the feasts of the 
 past summer, nor gave him any hope for the- next. He strode 
 careless through it all to gain the door at the bottom. It 
 yielded to a push, and the long grass streamed in over the 
 threshold as he entered. He mounted by a broad stair in the 
 main part of the house, passing the silent clock in one of its 
 corners, now expiating in motionlessness the false accusations 
 it had brought against the work-people, and turned into the 
 chaos of machinery. 
 
 I fear that my readers will expect, from the minuteness 
 with which I recount these particulars, that, after all, I am 
 going to describe a rendezvous with a lady, or a ghost at least. 
 I will not plead in excuse that I, too, have been infected with 
 Sandy's mode of regarding her, but I plead that in the mind 
 of Robert the proceeding was involved in something of that 
 awe and mystery with which a youth approaches the woman 
 he loves. He had not yet arrived at the period when the 
 feminine assumes its paramount influence, combining in 
 itself all that music, color, form, odor, can suggest, with 
 something infinitely higher and more divine ; but he had 
 begun to be haunted with some vague aspirations towards the 
 infinite, of which his attempts on the violin were the outcome 
 And now that he was to be alone, for the first time, with this 
 wonderful realizer of dreams and awakener of visions, to do 
 with her as he would, to hint by gentle touches at the 
 thoughts that were fluttering in his soul, and listen for her 
 voice that by the echoes in which she strove to respond he 
 might know that she understood him, it was no wonder if he 
 felt an ethereal foretaste of the expectation that haunts the 
 approach of souls. 
 
 But I am not even going to describe his first tete-a-tete with 
 his violin*. Perhaps he returned from it somewhat disap- 
 pointed. Probably he found her coy, unready to acknowledge 
 his demands on her attention. But not the less willingly did 
 he return with her to the solitude of the ruinous factory. On 
 every safe occasion, becoming more and more frequent as the 
 days grew longer, he repaired thither, and every time r»" 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 85 
 
 turned more capable of drawing the coherence of melody from 
 that matrix of sweet sounds. 
 
 At length the people about began to say that the factory 
 was haunted ; that the ghost of old Mr. Falconer, unable to 
 repose while neglect was ruining the precious results of his 
 industry, visited the place night after night, and solaced his 
 disappointment by renewing on his favorite violin strains not 
 yet forgotten by him in his grave, and remembered we}l by 
 those who had been in his service, not a few of whom lived in 
 the neighborhood of the forsaken building. 
 
 One gusty afternoon, like the first, but late in the spring, 
 Robert repaired as usual to this his secret haunt. He had 
 played for some time, and now, from a sudden pause of impulse, 
 had ceased, and begun to look around him. The only light 
 came from two long pale cracks in the rain-clouds of the west. 
 The wind was blowing through the broken windows, which 
 stretched away on either hand. A dreary, windy gloom, 
 therefore, pervaded the desolate place ; and in the dusk, and 
 their settled order, the machines looked multitudinous. An 
 eerie sense of discomfort came over him as he gazed, and he 
 lifted his violin to dispel the strange, unpleasant feeling that 
 grew upon him. But at the first long stroke across the 
 strings, an awful sound arose in a further room : a sound that 
 made him all but drop the bow, and cling to his violin. It 
 went on. It was the old, all but forgotten whirr of bobbins, 
 mingled with the gentle groans of the revolving horizontal 
 wheel, but magnified in the silence of the place, and the echo- 
 ing imagination of the boy, into something preternatural ly 
 awful. Yielding for a moment to the growth of goose-skin, 
 and the insurrection of hair, he recovered himself by a violent 
 effort, and walked to the door that connected the two compart- 
 ments. Was it more or less fearful that the jenny was not 
 going of itself? that the figure of an old woman sat solemnly 
 turning and turning the hand-wheel ? Not without calling iq 
 the jury of his senses, however, would he yield to the special 
 plea of his imagination, but went nearer, half expecting to find 
 that the mutch, with its big flapping borders, glimmering 
 white in the gloom across many a machine, surrounded the 
 face of a skull. But he was soon satisfied that it was only a 
 blind woman everybody knew, — so old that she had become 
 
86 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 childish. She had heard the reports of the factory being 
 haunted, and, groping about with her half-withered brain full 
 of them, had found the garden and the back door open, and 
 had climbed to the first-floor by a farther stair, well known to 
 her when she used to work that very machine. She had 
 seated herself instinctively, according to ancient wont, and 
 had set it in motion once more. 
 
 Yielding to an impulse of experiment, Robert began to play 
 again. Thereupon her disordered ideas broke out in words. 
 And Robert soon began to feel that it could hardly be more 
 ghastly to look upon a ghost than to be taken for one. 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir," said the old woman, in atone of wmmisera- 
 tion, " it maun be sair to bide. I dinna wonner 'at ye cannot 
 lie still. But what gars ye gang daunerin aboot <A"'s place ? 
 It's no yours ony langer. Ye ken whan fowk's dcid, they 
 loose the grip. Ye suld gang hame to yer wife. She micht 
 say a word to quaet yer auld banes, for she's a douce an' a 
 wice woman, — the mistress." 
 
 Then followed a pause. There was a horror about the old 
 woman's voice, already half dissolved by death, in the desolate 
 place, that almost took from Robert the power of motion. 
 But his violin sent forth an accidental twang, and that set her 
 going again. 
 
 " Ye was aye a douce honest gentleman yersel', an' I dinnj* 
 wonner ye canna bide it. But I wad hae thoucht glory micht 
 hae hauden ye in. But yer ain son ! Eh, ay ! And a braw 
 lad and a bonnie ! It's a sod thing he bude to gang the 
 wrang gait ; and it's no wonner, as I say, that ye lea' the 
 worms to come an' luik efter him. I doobt — I doobt it 
 winna be to you he'll gang at the lang last. There winna be 
 room for him aside ye in Awbrahawm's boasom. And syne to 
 behave sae ill to that winsome wife o' his ! I dinna wonner 
 'at ye maun be up ! Eh, na ! But, sir, sin ye arc up, I 
 wish ye wad speyk to John Thamson no to tak' afi" the day 
 'at I was awa' last wak, for 'deed I was verra unweel, and 
 bude to keep my bed." 
 
 Robert was beginning to feel uneasy as to how he should 
 get rid of her, when she rose, and saying, ^' Aj, ay, I ken 
 it's sax o'clock," went out as she had come in. Robert 
 
ROBKET FALCONER, 87 
 
 followed, and saw her safe out of the garden, but did noi re- 
 turn to the factory. 
 
 So his father had behaved ill to his mother too ! 
 
 " But what for hearken to the havers o' a dottled auld 
 wife? " he said to himself, pondering as he walked home. 
 
 Old Janet told a strange story of how she had seen the 
 ghost, and had had a long talk with him, and of what he said, 
 and of how he groaned and played the fiddle between. And 
 finding that the report had reached his grandmother's ears, 
 Robert thought it prudent, much to his discontent, to intermit 
 his visits to the factory. Mrs. Ealconer, of course, received 
 the rumor with indignant scorn, and peremptorily refused to 
 allow any examination of the premises. 
 
 But how have the violin by him and not hear her speak "/ 
 One evening the longing after her voice grew upon him till he 
 could resist it no longer. He shut the door of his garret- 
 room, and, with Shargar by him, took her out and began to 
 play softly, gently, — oh, so softly, so gently ! Shargar was 
 enraptured. Robert went on playing. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened, and his grannie stood awfully 
 revealed before them. Betty had heard the violin, and had 
 flown to the parlor in the belief that, unable to get any one 
 to heed him at the factory, the ghost had taken Janet's advice, 
 and come home. But his wife smiled a smile of contempt, 
 went with Betfy to the kitchen, — over which Robert's room 
 lay, — heard the sounds, put off her creaking shoes, stole 
 upstairs on her soft white lamb's-wool stockings, and caught the 
 pair. The violin was seized, put in its case, and carried oif ; 
 and Mrs. Falconer rejoiced to think she had broken a trap 
 set by Satan for the unwary feet of her poor Robert. Little 
 she knew the wonder of that violin — how it had kept the 
 soul of her husband alive ! Little she knew how dangerous 
 it is to shut an open door, with ever so narrow a peep into the 
 eternal, in the face of a son of Adam ! And little she knew 
 how determinedly and restlessly a nature like Robert's would 
 search for another, to open one possibly which she might con- 
 sider tea times more dangerous than that which she had 
 closed. 
 
 When Alexander heard of the affair, he was at first over ■ 
 whelmed with the misfortune ; but gathering a little heart at 
 
88 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 last, he set to "working" as he said himself, "like a varra 
 deevil ; " and as he was the best shoemaker in the town, and 
 for the time abstained utterly from whiskey, and all sorts of 
 drink but well-water, he soon managed to save the money nee 
 essary, and redeem the old fiddle. But whether it was from 
 fancy, or habit, or what, even Robert's inexperienced ear could 
 not accommodate itself, save under protest, to the instrument 
 which once his teacher had considered all but perfect ; and it 
 needed the master's finest touch to make its tone other than 
 painful to the sense of the neophyte. 
 
 No one can estimate too highly the value of such a resource 
 to a man like the shoemaker, or a boy like Robert. Whatever 
 it be that keeps the finer faculties of the mind awake, wonder 
 alive, and the interest above mere eating and drinking, money- 
 making and money-saving ; whatever it be that gives gladness, 
 or sorrow, or hope, — this, be it violin, pencil, pen, or, highest 
 of all, the love of woman, is simply a divine gift of holy in- 
 fluence for the salvation of that being to whom it comes, for the 
 lifting of him out of the mire and up on the rock. For it keeps 
 a way open for the entrance of deeper, holier, grander influences, 
 emanating from the same riches of the Godhead. And though 
 many have genius that have no grace, they will only be so 
 much the worse, so much the nearer to, the brute, if you take 
 from them that which corresponds to Dooble Sanny's fiddle. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ROBERT'S PLAN OF SALVATION. 
 
 For some time after the loss of his friend, Robert went 
 loitering and mooning about, quite neglecting the lessons to 
 which he had not, it must be confessed, paid much attention 
 for many weeks. Even when seated at his grannie's table, he 
 could do no more than fix his eyes on his book : to learn was 
 impossible ; it was even disgusting to him. But his was a 
 nature which, foiled in one direction, must, absolutely helpless 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 89 
 
 against its own vitality, straightway send out its searching 
 roots in another. Of all forces, that of growth is the one irre- 
 sistihle, for it is the creating power of God, the law of life and 
 of being. Therefore no accumulation of refusals, and checks, 
 and turnings, and forbiddings, from all the good old grannies 
 in the world, could have prevented Robert from striking root 
 downward, and bearing fruit upward, though, as in all higher 
 natures, the fruit was a long way off yet. But his soul was 
 only sad and hungry. He was not unhappy, for he had been 
 guilty of nothing that weighed on his conscience. He had 
 been doing many things of late, it is true, without asking leave 
 of his grandmother ; but wherever prayer is felt to be of no avail, 
 there cannot be the sense of obligation save on compulsion. 
 Even direct disobedience in such case will generally leave little 
 soreness, except the thing forbidden should be in its own nature 
 wrong, and then, indeed, "Don Worm, the conscience," may 
 begin to bite. But Robert felt nothing immoral in playing 
 upon his grandfather's violin, nor even in taking liberties with 
 a piece of lumber for which nobody cared but possibly the dead ; 
 therefore he was not unhappy, only much disappointed, very 
 empty, and somewhat gloomy. There was nothing to look 
 forward to now, no secret full of riches and endless in hope, — 
 in short, no violin. 
 
 To feel the full force of his loss, my reader must remembei 
 that around the childhood of Robert, which he was fast leaving 
 behind him, there had gathered no tenderness, — none at least 
 by him recognizable as such. AH the women he came in con- 
 tact with were his grandmother and Betty. He had no recol- 
 IfiOtion of having ever been kissed. From the darkness and 
 negation of such an embryo-existence, his nature had been un- 
 consciously striving to escape, — struggling to get from below 
 ground into the sunlit air, — sighing after a freedom he could 
 not have defined, — the freedom that comes, not of independence, 
 but of love; not of lawlessness, but of the perfection of law. 
 Of this beauty of life, with its wonder and its deepness, this 
 unknown glory, his fidd'.e had been the type. It had been the 
 a/rk that held, if not the tables of the covenant, yet the golden 
 pot of angel's food, and the rod that budded in death. And 
 now that it was gone, the gloomier aspect of things began to 
 lay hold upon him ; his soul turned itself away from the sun, 
 
90 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 and entered into the shadow of the under-world. Like th« 
 white-horsed twins of Lake Kegillus ; like Phoebe, the queen of 
 skyey plain and earthly forest, every boy and girl, every man 
 and woman, that lives at all, has to divide many a year be- 
 tween Tartarus and Olympus. 
 
 For now arose within him, not without ultimate good, the 
 evil phantasms of a theology which would explain all God'a 
 doings by low conceptions — low I mean for humanity even — 
 of right, and law, and justice, then only taking refuge in the fact 
 of the incapacity of the human understanding when its own 
 inventions are impugned as undivine. In such a system, hell 
 is invariably the deepest truth, and the love of God is not so 
 deep as hell. Hence, as foundations must be laid in the deepest, 
 the system is founded in hell, and the first article in the creed 
 that Robert Falconer learned was, " I believe in hell." Prac- 
 tically, I mean, it was so ; else how should it be that as often 
 as a thought of religious duty arose in his mind, it appeared in 
 the form of escaping hell, of fleeing from the wrath to come ? 
 For his very nature was hell, being not born in sin and brought 
 forth in iniquity, but born sin and brought forth iniquity. And 
 yet God made him. He must Believe that. And he must be- 
 lieve, too, that God was just, awfully just, punishing with 
 fearful pains those who did not go through a certain process of 
 mind which it was utterly impossible they should go through 
 without a help which he would give to some, and withhold 
 from others, the reason of the difference not being such, to say 
 the least of it, as to come within the reach of the persons con- 
 cerned. And this God they said was love. It was logically 
 absurd, of course, yet, thank God, they did say that God was 
 love ; and many of them succeeded in believing it, too, and in 
 ordering their ways as if the first article of their creed had been 
 " I believe in God ; " whence, in truth, we are bound to say it 
 was the first in power and reality, if not in order ; for what are 
 we to say a man believes, if not what he acts upon? Still the 
 former article was the one they brought chiefly to bear upon 
 their children. This mortar, probably they thought, threw the 
 shell straighter than any of the other field-pieces of the church- 
 militant. Hence it was even in justification of God himseK 
 that a party arose to say that a man could believe without the 
 help of God at all, and after believing only began to receive 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 91 
 
 God's help, — a heresy all but as dreary and barren as the 
 former. Not one dreamed of saying — at least such a glad 
 word of prophecy never reached Kothieden — that, while no- 
 body can do without the help of the Father aiiy more than a 
 new-born babe could of itself live and grow to a man, yet that 
 in the giving of that help the very fatherhood of the Father 
 finds its one gladsome labor ; that for that the Lord came ; for 
 that the world was made ; for that we were born into it ; for 
 that Grod lives and loves like the most loving man or woman 
 on earth, only infinitely more, and in other ways and kinds 
 besides, which we cannot understand ; and that therefore to oe 
 a man is the soul of eternal jubilation. 
 
 Robert consequently began to take fits of soul-saving, a most 
 rational exercise, worldly wise and prudent ; right, too, on- the 
 principles he had received, but not in the least Christian in its 
 nature, or even God-fearing. His imagination began to busy 
 itself in representing the dire consequences of not entering into 
 the one refuge of faith. He made many frantic eflforts to 
 believe that he believed ; took to keeping the Sabbath very 
 carefully, — that is, by going to church three times, and to 
 Sunday school as well ; by never walking a step save to or from 
 church ; by never saying a word upon any subject unconnected 
 with religion, chiefly theoretical ; by never reading any but 
 religious books ; by never whistling ; by never thinking of hia 
 lost fiddle, and so on, — all the time feeling that God was ready 
 to pounce upon him if he failed once ; till again and again the 
 intensity of his efibrts utterly defeated their object by destroy- 
 ing for the time the desire to prosecute them with the power to 
 will them. But through the horrible vapors of these vain 
 endeavors, which denied God altogether as the maker of the 
 world, and the former of his soul and heart and brain, and 
 sought to worship him as a capricious demon, there broke a 
 little light, a little soothing, soft twilight, from the dim windows 
 of such literature as came in his way. Besides the " Pilgrim's 
 Progress," there were several books which shone moon-like on 
 his darkness, and lifted something of the weight of that Egyp- 
 tian, gloom off his spirits. One of these, strange to say, was 
 Defoe's "Religious Courtship," and one., Young's '" Night 
 Taoughts." But there was another which deserves particular 
 lSi>tice, inasmuch as it did far more than merely interest or 
 
92 KOBEKT FALCONER. 
 
 amuse him, raising a deep question in his mind, and one worthy 
 to be asked. This book was the translation of Klopstock's 
 " Messiah," to which I have already referred. It was not one 
 of his grandmother's books, but had probably belonged to his 
 father ; he had found it in his little garret room. But as often 
 as she saw him reading it, she seemed rather pleased, ho 
 thought. As to the book itself, its florid expatiation could neither 
 offend nor injure a boy like Robert, while its representation of 
 our Lord was to him a wonderful relief from that given in the 
 pulpit, and in all the religious books be knew. But the point 
 for the sake of which I refer to it in particular is this : Amongst 
 the rebel angels who are of the actors in the story, one of the 
 principal is a cherub who repents of making his choice with 
 Satan, mourns over his apostasy, haunts unseen the Steps of 
 our Saviour, wheels lamenting about the cross, and would 
 gladly return to his lost duties in heaven, if only he might, — 
 a doubt which I believe is left unsolved in the volume, and 
 naturally enough remained unsolved in Robert's mind : — 
 Would poor Abaddon be forgiven and taken home again ? For 
 although naturally, that is, to judge by his own instincts, there 
 could be no question of his forgiveness, according to what he 
 had been taught there could be no question of his perdition. 
 Having no one to talk to, he divided himself and went to buffets 
 on the subject, siding, of course, with the better half of himself, 
 which supported the merciful view of the matter ; for all hia 
 efforts at keeping the Sabbath had, in his own honest judgment, 
 failed so entirely, that he had no ground for believing himself 
 one of the elect. Had he succeeded in persuading himself that 
 he was, there is no saying to what lengths of indifference about 
 others the chosen prig might have advanced by this time. 
 
 He made one attempt to open the subject with Shargar. 
 
 " Shargar, what think ye?" he said suddenly, one day. 
 '' Gin a de'il war to repent, wad God forgie him? " 
 
 " There's no sayin' what folk wad du till ance they're 
 tried," returned Shargar, cautiously. 
 
 Robert did not care to resume the question with one who 
 BO circumspectly refused to take a metaphysical or a priori 
 view of the matter. 
 
 He made an attempt with his grandmother. 
 
 One Sunday, his thoughts, after trying for a time to r©- 
 
ROBERT lALCOKER. 93 
 
 rolve in due orbit around the mind of the Rev. Hutfli Mac- 
 Cleary, as projected in a sermon which he had botched up out 
 of a commentary, failed at last, and flew off into whaf the said 
 gentleman would have pronounced " very dangerous specula- 
 tion, seeing no man is to go beyond what is written in the 
 Bible, which contains not only the truth, but the whole truth, 
 and nothing but the truth, for this time and for all future 
 time — both here and in the world to come." Some such sen- 
 tence, at least, was in his sermon that day, and tlie preacher 
 no doubt supposed St. Matthew, not St. Matthew Henry, ac- 
 countable for its origination. In the Limbo into which 
 Robert's spirit then flew, it had been sorely exercised about 
 the substitution of the sufferings of Christ for those which 
 humanity must else have endured while ages rolled on, — 
 mere ripples on the ocean of eternity. 
 
 " Noo, be quiet," said Mrs. Falconer, solemnly, as Robert 
 a trifle lighter at heart from the result of his cogitations than 
 usual, sat down to dinner : he had happened to smile across 
 the table to Shargar. And he was quiet, and smiled no 
 more. 
 
 They ate their broth, or, more properly, supped it, with 
 horn spoons, in absolute silence ; after which Mrs. Falconer 
 put a large piece of meat on the plate of each, with the same 
 formula : — 
 
 " Hae. Ye's get nae mair." 
 
 The allowance was ample in the extreme, bearing a rela- 
 tion to her words similar to that which her practice bore to 
 her theology. A piece of cheese, because it was the Sabbath, 
 followed, and dinner was over. 
 
 When the table had been cleared by Betty, they drew their 
 chairs to the fire, and Robert had to read to his grandmother, 
 while Shargar sat listening. He had not read long, how- 
 ever, before he looked up from his Bible and began the follow- 
 ing conversation : — 
 
 " Wasna it an ill trick o' Joseph, gran'mither, to put that 
 cup, an' a siller ane tu, into the mou' o' Benjamin's seek?" 
 
 "What for that, laddie? He wanted to gar them come 
 back again, ye ken." 
 
 ■' But he needna hae ken aboot it in sic a play-actor like 
 
94 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 gait. He needna hae latten them awa' without telling them 
 that he was their brither." 
 
 " They had behaved verra ill till him." 
 
 " lie used to tell tales upo' them, though." 
 
 "Laddie, tak' ye care what ye say aboot Joseph, for he was 
 a type o' Christ." 
 
 " Hoo was that, gran'mither? " 
 
 "They sellt him to the Ishmeleets for siller, as Judas did 
 Him." 
 
 " Did he beir the sins o' them 'at sellt him? " 
 
 "Ye may say, in a mainner, 'at he did; for he was sair 
 afflicted afore he waun up to be the king's richt hand; an' 
 syne he keepit a hantle o' ill aff o' 's brithren." 
 
 " Sae, gran'mither, ither fowk nor Christ micht suffer foi 
 the sins o' their neebors ? " 
 
 " Ay, laddie, mony a ane has to do that. But no to mak' 
 atonement, ye ken. Naething but the sufferin' o' the spot- 
 less cud du that. The Lord wadna be satisfeet wi' less nor 
 that. It maun be the innocent to suffer for the guilty." 
 
 " I understan' that," said Robert, who had heard it so 
 often that he had not yet thought of trying to understand it. 
 " But gin we gang to the gude place, we'll be a' innocent, 
 willna We, grannie ? " 
 
 "Ay, that we will, — washed spotless, and pure, and 
 clean, and dressed i' the weddin' garment, and set doon at the 
 table wi' Him and wi' his Father. That's them 'at believes 
 in him, ye ken." 
 
 " Of coorse, grannie. — Weel, ye see, I hae been thinkin' o' 
 a plan for almost emptying hell." 
 
 "What's i' the bairn's heid noo? Troth, ye're no blate, 
 meddlin' wi' sic subjecks, laddie ! " 
 
 " I didna want to say ony thing to vex ye, grannie. I s' 
 gang on wi' the chapter." 
 
 " Ow, say awa'. Ye canna say muckle 'at's wrang afore I 
 cry haud," said Mrs. Falconer, curious to know what had 
 been moving in the boy's mind, but watching him like a cat. 
 ready to spring upon the first visible hair of the old Adam. 
 
 And Robert, recalling the outbreak of terrible grief which 
 he bad heard on that memorable night, really thought that hia 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 95 
 
 project would bring comfort to a mind burdened with such 
 care, and went on witli the exposition of his plan. 
 
 " A' them 'at sits doon to the supper o' the Lamb '11 sit there, 
 because Christ suflFert the punishment due to their sins, — - 
 winna they, grannie ? " 
 
 " Doobtless, laddie." 
 
 "But it '11 be some sair upo' them to sit there aitin' an' 
 drinkin' an' talkin' awa' an' enjoyin' themsel's, whan ilka noo 
 an' than there'll come a sough o' wailin' up frae the ill place, 
 an' a smell o' burnin' ill to bide." 
 
 " What put that i' yer heid, laddie ? There's no rizzon to 
 think 'at hell's sae near haven as a' that. The Lord forbid it ! " 
 
 "Weel, but, grannie, they'll know a' the same, whether 
 they smell 't or no.. An' I canna help thinkin' that the farrer 
 awa' I thoucht they war, the waur I waud like to think upo' 
 them. 'Deed it wad be waur." 
 
 " What are ye drivin' at, laddie ? I canna unnerstan' ye," 
 said Mrs. Falconer, feeling very uncomfortable, and yet 
 curious, almost anxious, to hear what would come next. " I 
 trust we winna hae to think muckle — " 
 
 But here, I presume, the thought of the added desolation of 
 her Andrew if she, too, were to forget him, as well as his Father 
 in heaven, checked the flow of her words. She paused, and 
 Robert took up his parable and went on, first with yet another 
 question. 
 
 " Duv ye think, grannie, that a body wad be allooed to 
 speik a word i' public, like, there, — at the lang table, like, I 
 mean? " 
 
 " What for no, if it was dune wi' moedesty, and for a guid 
 rizzon ? But railly, laddie, I doobt ye're haverin' a'thegither. 
 Ye hard naethjng like that, I'm sure, the day, frae Mr. Mac- 
 cleary." 
 
 " Na, na; he said naething aboot it. But maybe I'll gang 
 and speir at him, though." 
 
 "What aboot?" 
 
 " What I'm gaein' to tell ye, grannie." 
 
 " Weel, tell awa', and hae dune wi' 't. I'm growin' tired 
 o' 't." 
 
 It was something else than tired she was growing. 
 
 " Weel, I'm gaein' to try a' that I can to win in there." 
 
96 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " I houp ye will. Strive and pray. Resist the deevil. 
 Walk i' the licht. Lippen not to yersel', but trust in Christ 
 and his salvation." 
 
 " Ay, ay, grannie. Weel — " 
 
 "Are ye no dune yet? " 
 
 " Na. I'm but jist beginnin'." 
 
 " Beginnin' are ye ? Humph ! " 
 
 " Weel, if I win in there, the verra first nicht I sit down 
 wi' the lave o' them, I'm gaein' to rise up an' say — that is if 
 the Manistee at the heid o' the table disna bid me sit doon — 
 an' 'say : ' Brithers an' sisters, the haill o' ye, hearken to me 
 for ae minute; an', Lord! if I say wrang, jist tak' the 
 speech frae me, and I'll sit doon dumb an' rebukit. We're a' 
 here by grace and no by merit, save His, as ye a' ken better 
 nor I can tell ye, for ye hae been langer here nor me. But 
 it's jisj; fuggin' an' rivin' at my hert to think o' them 'at 's 
 doon ther?. Maybe ye can hear them. I canna. Noo, we 
 hae nae merit, an' they hae nae merit, an' what for are we 
 here and them there ? But we're washed clean and innocent- 
 noo ; and noo, whan there's no wyte lying upo' oursel's, it 
 seems to me that we micht heir some o' the sins o' them 'at 
 hae ower mony. I call upo' ilk' ane o' ye 'at has a frien' 
 or a neebor down yonner, to rise up and taste nor bite nor sup 
 mair till we gang up a'thegither to the fut o' the throne, and 
 pray the Lord to lat's gang and du as the Maister did afore's, 
 and bier their griefs, and carry their sorrows doon in hell 
 there ; if it maybe that they may repent and get remission o' 
 their sins, an' come up here wi' us at the lang last, and sit 
 doon wi' 's at this table, a' throu' the merits o' oor Saviour 
 Jesus Christ, at the heid o' the table there. Amen.' " 
 
 Half ashamed of his long speech, half overcome by the feel- 
 ings fighting within him, and altogether bewildered, Robert 
 burst out crying like a baby, and ran out of the room — up to 
 his own place of meditation, where he threw himself on the 
 floor. Shargar, who had made neither head nor tail of it all, 
 as he said afterwards, sat staring at Mrs. Falconer. She rose, 
 and going into Robert's little bedroom, closed the door, and 
 what she did there is not far to seek. 
 
 When she came out, she rang the bell for tea, and sent 
 Shargar to look for Robert. When he appeared, she was so 
 
Robert falconer. 97 
 
 gentle to him that it woke quite a new sensation in him. Eut 
 after tea was over, she said : — 
 
 " Noo, Robert, let's hae nae mair o' this. Ye ken as weel'a 
 I du that them 'at gangs there their doom is fixed, and noething 
 can alter 't. An' we're not to alloo oor ain fancies to cairry 
 's ayont the Scripter. We hae oor ain salvation to work oot 
 ffi' fear an' trimlin'. We hae naething to do wi' what's hid- 
 den. Luik ye till 't 'at ye win in yersel'. That's eneuch for 
 you to min'. — Shargar, ye can gang to the kirk. Robert's 
 to bide wi' me the nicht." 
 
 Mrs. Falconer very rarely went to church, for she could not 
 Lear a word, and found it irksome. 
 
 When Robert and she were alone together, — 
 
 " Laddie," she said, "be ye waure o' judgin' the Almichty, 
 What luiks to you a' wrang may be a' richt. But it's true 
 eneuch 'at we dinna ken a'thing ; an' he's no deid yet, — I 
 dinna believe 'at he is, — and he'll maybe win in yet." 
 
 Here her voice failed her. And Robert had nothing to say 
 now. He had said all his wy before. 
 
 " Pray, Robert, pray for yer father, laddie," she resumed; 
 " for we hae muckle rizzon to be anxious aboot 'im. Pray 
 while there's life an' houp. Gie the Lord no rist. Pray till 
 'im day an' nicht, as I du, that he wad lead 'im to see the 
 error o' his ways, an' turn to the Lord, wha's ready to pardon. 
 If yer mother had lived, I wad hae had mair houp, I confess, 
 for she was a braw leddy and a bonny, and that sweet-tongued ! 
 She cud hae wiled a maukin frae its lair wi' herbonnie Ilielan' 
 speech. I never likit to hear nane o' them speyk the L'ish 
 (that is Gaelic), it was aye sae gloggie and baneless; and I 
 cudna unnerstan' ae word o' 't. Nae mair cud yer father, — 
 hoot ! yer gran'father, I mean, — though his father cud speyk 
 it weel. But to hear yer mother, — mamma, as ye used to 
 oa' her aye, efter the new fashion, — to hear her speyk English, 
 that was sweet to the ear ; for the braid Scotch she kent as 
 Kttle o' as I do o' the Gaelic. It was hert's care aboot him 
 that shortent her days. And a' that '11 be laid upo' him. 
 He'll hae 't a' to heir an' accoont for. Och hone ! Och hone ! 
 Eh ! Robert, my man, be a guid lad, an' serve the Lord wi' a' 
 yer hert, an' sowl, an' stren'th, an' min'; for gin ye gang 
 wrang, yer ain father '11 hae to beir naebody kens hoo muckla 
 
98 ROBERT FALCONKB. 
 
 o' the wyte o' 't, for he's dune naething to bring ye ap i' the 
 way ye suld gang, an' baud ye oot o' the ill gait. For the 
 sake o' yer puir father, hand ye to the richt road. It may 
 spare him a pang or twa i' the ill place. Eh, gin the Lord 
 wad only tak' me, and lat him gang ! " 
 
 Involuntarily and unconsciously the mother's love was 
 adopting the hope which she had denounced in her grandson. 
 And Robert saw it, but he was never the man when I knew 
 him to push a victory. He said nothing. Only a tear or two 
 at the memory of the wayworn man, his recollection of whose 
 visit I have already recorded, rolled down his cheeks. He was 
 at such a distance from him ! — such an impassable gulf yawned 
 bdlween them ! — that was the grief ! Not the gulf of death, 
 nor the gulf that divides hell from lieaven, but the gulf of 
 abjuration by the good, because of his evil ways. His grand- 
 mother, herself weeping fast and silently, with scarce altered 
 countenance, took her neatly folded handkerchief from her 
 pocket, and wiped her grandson's fresh cheeks, then wiped her 
 own withered face ; and from that moment Robert knew that 
 he loved her. 
 
 Then followed the Sabbath-evening prayer that she always 
 offered with the boy, whichever he was, who kept her company. 
 They knelt down together, side by side, in a certain corner of 
 the room, — the same, I doubt not, in which she knelt at her 
 private devotions, before going to bed. There she uttered a 
 long, extempore prayer, rapid in speech, full of divinity and 
 Scripture phrases, but not the less earnest and simple, for it 
 flowed from a heart of faith. Then Robert had to pray after 
 her, loud in her ear, that she might hear him thoroughly, so 
 that he often felt as if he were praying to her, and not to God 
 at all. 
 
 She had begun to teach him to pray so early that the custom 
 reached beyond the confines of his memory. At first he had 
 had to repeat the words after her ; but soon she made him con- 
 struct his own utterances, now and then giving him a sugges- 
 tion in the form of a petition when he seemed likely to break 
 down, or putting a phrase into what she considered more puitar- 
 ble language. But all such assistance she had given up long 
 ago. 
 
 On the present occasion, after she had ended her petitions 
 
BOBBRT FALCONER. 99 
 
 with those for Jews and Pagans, and especially l^r the " Pop* 
 o' Rom'," in whom with a rare liberality she took the kindest 
 interest, she turned to Robert with the usual "Noo, Robert," 
 and Robert began. But after he had gone on for some time 
 with the ordinary phrases, he turned all at once into a new 
 track, and instead of praying in general terms for " those that 
 would not walk in the right way," said : — 
 
 " Lord ! save my father," and there paused. 
 
 " If it be thy will," suggested his grandmother. 
 
 But Robert continued silent. His grandmother repeated 
 the subjunctive clause. 
 
 "I'm tryin', grandmother," said Robert; "but I canna 
 say 't. I daurna say an' if aboot it. It wad be like giein'Jin 
 till 's damnation. We maun liae him saved, grannie ! " 
 
 " Laddie ! laddie ! baud yer tongue ! " said Mrs. Falconer, 
 in a tone of distressed awe. " Lord, forgie 'im. He's 
 young, and disna know better yet. lie canna unnerstan' thy 
 ways, nor, for that maitter, can I preten' to unnerstan' them 
 mysel'. But thoo art a' licht, and in thee is no darkness at 
 all. And thy licht comes into oor blin' een, and mak's them 
 blinner yet. But, Lord, if it wad please thee to hear oor 
 prayer .... eh ! hoo we wad praise thee ! And my Andrew 
 wad praise thee mair nor ninety and nine o' them 'at need nae 
 repentance." 
 
 A long pause followed. And then the only words that 
 would come, were, "For Christ's sake. Ame»." 
 
 When she said that God was light, instead of concluding 
 therefrom that he could not do the deeds of darkness, she was 
 driven, from a faith in the teaching of Jonathan Edwards as 
 implicit as that of "any lay papist of Loretto," to doubt 
 whether the deeds of darkness were not after all deeds of light, 
 or at least to conclude that their character depended not on 
 their own nature, but on who did them. 
 
 They rose from their knees, and Mrs. Falconer sat down by 
 her fire, with her feet on her little wooden stool, and began, as 
 was her wont in that household twilight, ere the lamp was 
 lighted,. to review her past life, and follow her lost son through 
 all conditions and circumstances to her imaginable. And when 
 the world to come arose before her, clad in all the glories which 
 her fancy, chilled by education and years, could supply, it wa» 
 
lOO KOBERT FALCONER. 
 
 but to vanish in the gloom of the remembrance of him with 
 whom she dared not hope to share its blessedness. This at 
 least was how Falconer afterwards interpreted the sudden 
 changes from gladness to gloom which he saw at such times on 
 her countenance. 
 
 But while such a small portion of the universe of thought 
 was enlightened bj the glowworm lamp of the theories she had 
 been taught, she was not limited for light to that feeble source. 
 While she walked on her way, the moon, unseen herself behind 
 the clouds, was illuminating the whole landscape so gently and 
 evenly, that the glowworm being the only visible point of 
 radiance, to it she attributed all the light. But she felt bound 
 to go on believing as she had been taught ; for sometimes the 
 most original mind has the strongest sense of law upon it, and 
 will, in default of a better, obey a beggarly one — only till the 
 higher law that, swallows it up manifests itself Obedience was 
 as essential an element of her creed as of that of any purest- 
 minded monk ; neither being suflBciently impressed with this : 
 that, while obedience is the law of the kingdom, it is of con- 
 siderable importance that that which is obeyed should be in 
 very truth the will of God. It is one thing, and a good thing, 
 to do for God's sake that which is not his will ; it is another 
 thing, and altogether a better thing, — how much better, no 
 words can tell, — to do for God's sake that which is his will. 
 Mrs. Falconer's submission and obedience led her to accept as 
 the will of God,1est she should be guilty of opposition to him, 
 that which it was anything but giving him honor to accept as 
 such. Therefore her love to God was too like the love of the 
 slave or the dog; too little like the love of the child, with 
 whose obedience the Father cannot be satisfied until he cares 
 for His reason as the highest form of His will. True,'the child 
 who most faithfully desires to know the inward will or reason 
 of the Father will be the most ready to obey without it ; only 
 for this obedience it is essential that the apparent command at 
 least be such as he can suppose attributable to the Father. 
 Of his own self he is bound to judge what is right, as the Lord 
 said. Had Abraham doubted whether it was in any case right 
 to slay his son, he would have been justified in doubting 
 whether God really required it of him, and would have been 
 bound to delay action until the arrival of more light. True, 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 10) 
 
 the will of God can never be other than good ; but I doul t if 
 any man can ever be sure that a thing is the will of God, save 
 by seeing into its nature and character, and beholding its 
 goodness. Whatever God does must be right, but are we sure 
 that we know what he does ? That which men say he does 
 may be very wrong indeed. 
 
 This burden she in her turn laid upon Robert, — not un- 
 kindly, but as needful for his training towards well-being. 
 Her way with him was shaped after that which she recognized 
 as God's way with her. "Speir nae questions, but gang an' 
 du as ye're tellt." And it was anything but a bad lesson for 
 the boy. It was one of the best he could have had, — that 
 of authority. It is a grand thing to obey without asking 
 questions, so long as there is nothing evil in what is com- 
 manded. Only grannie concealed her reasons without reason ; 
 and God makes no secrets. Hence she seemed more stern and 
 less sympathetic than she really was. 
 
 She sat with her feet on the little wooden stool, and Robert 
 eat beside her staring into the fire, till they heard the outer 
 door open, and Shargar and Betty come in from church. 
 
 CHAPTER Xni. 
 
 EarlT" on the following morning, while Mrs. Falconer, 
 Robert, and Shargar were at breakfast, Mr. Lammie came. 
 He had delayed communicating the intelligence he had received 
 till be should be more certain of its truth. Older than An- 
 drew, he had been a great friend of his father, and likewise 
 of some of Mrs. Falconer's own family. Therefore he was 
 received with a kindly welcome. But there was a cloud on his 
 brow, which in a moment revealed that his errand was not a 
 pleasant one. 
 
 " I baena seen ye fer a lang time, Mr. Lammie. Gae butt 
 
102 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 the hoose, lads. Or I'm thinkin' it maun be schule-time. Sit 
 ye doon, Mr. Lammie, and lat's hear yer news." 
 
 " I came frae Aberdeen last nicht, Mistress Faukner,'' he 
 began. 
 
 "Ye haena been hame sin' syne? " she rejoined. 
 
 " Na. I sleepit at the Boar's Heid." 
 
 " What for did ye that? What gart ye be at that expense, 
 whan ye kent I had a bed i' the ga'le-room ? " 
 
 " Weel, ye see, they're auld frien's o' mine, and I like to 
 gang to them whan I'm i' the gait o' 't." 
 
 " Weel, they're a fine faimily, the Miss Napiers. And, I 
 wat, sin' they maun sell drink, they du 't wi' discretion. 
 That's weel kent." 
 
 Possibly Mr. Lammie, remembering what then occurred, 
 may have thought the discretion a little in excess of the drink, 
 but he had other matters to occupy him now. For a few 
 moments both were silent. 
 
 " There's been some ill news, they tell me, Mrs. Faukner," 
 he said at length, when the silence had grown painful. 
 
 " Humph ! " returned the old lady, her face becoming stony 
 with the effort to suppress all emotion. " Na aboot Andrew? " 
 
 " 'Deed is't, mem. An' ill news, I'm sorry to say." 
 
 "Is he ta'en?" 
 
 "Ay, is he — by a jyler that winna loose the grip." 
 
 " He's no deid, John Lammie? Dinna say 't." 
 
 " I maun say 't, Mrs. Faukner. I had it frae Dr. Ander- 
 son, yer ain cousin. He hintit at it afore, but his last letter 
 leaves nae room to doobt upo' the subjeck. I'm unco sorry 
 to be the beirer o' sic ill news, Mrs. Faukner, but I had nae 
 chice." 
 
 " Ohone ! ohone !' the day o' grace is by at last ! ' My puir 
 Andrew ! " exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, and sat dumb thereafter. 
 
 Mr. Lammie tried to comfort her with some of the usual 
 comfortless commonplaces. She neither wept nor replied, but 
 Bat with stony face staring into her lap, till, seeing that she 
 was as one that heareth not, he rose and left her alone with 
 her grief A few minutes after he was gone, she rang the 
 bell, and told Betty in her usual voice to send Robert to her. 
 
 " He's gane to the schule, mem." 
 
 " Bin efter him, an' tell him to come hame." 
 
ROBERT FALCC NER, 103 
 
 When Eobert appeared, wondering what his grandmother 
 could want with him, she said : — 
 
 " Close the door, Robert. I canna lat ye gang to the 
 Bchule the day. We maun lea' him oot noo." 
 
 " Lea' wha oot, grannie ? " 
 
 " Him, him — Andrew. Yer father, laddie. I think mj 
 iiert '11 brak'." 
 
 " Lea' him oot o' what, grannie? I dinna understan' ye." 
 
 " Lea' him oot o' oor prayers, laddie, and I canna bide it." 
 
 •'What for that?" 
 
 "He'sdeid." 
 
 " Are ye sure?'' 
 
 "Ay, ower sure — ower sure, laddie." 
 
 " Weel, I dinna believe 't." 
 
 "What for that?" 
 
 " 'Cause I winna believe 't. I'm no bund to believe 't, 
 am I ? " 
 
 "What's the gude o' that? What for no believe 't? Dr. 
 Anderson's sent hame word o' 't to John Lammie. Och 
 hone ! och hone ! " 
 
 "I tell ye I winna believe 't, grannie, 'cep' God himsel' tells 
 ine. As lang 's I dinna believe 'at he's deid, I can keep him 'i 
 my prayers. I'm nogaein' to lea' him oot, I tell ye, grannie." 
 
 " Weel, laddie, I canna argue wi' ye. I hae nae hert till 't. 
 I doobt I maun greit. Come awa'." 
 
 She took him by the hand and rose, then let him go again, 
 saying : — 
 
 " Shut the door, laddie." 
 
 Robert bolted the door, and his grandmother, again taking 
 bis hand, led him to the usual corner. There they knelt 
 down together, and the old woman's prayer was one great and 
 bitter cry for submission to the divine will. She rose a little 
 strengthened, if not comforted, saying • — 
 
 " Ye maun pray yer lane, laddie. But oh be a guid lad, 
 for ye're a' that I hae left ; and if ye gang wrang tu' ye'll 
 bring doon my gray hairs wi' sorrow to the grave. They're 
 gray eneuch, and they're near eneuch to the grave, but if ye 
 turn oot weel, I'll maybe baud up my held a bit yet. But 
 Andrew ! my son ! my ^on ! Would to God I had died for 
 thee ! " 
 
104 ROBERT FALC0:TER. 
 
 And the word3 of her brother in grief, the King of Israel, 
 epened the floodgates of her heart, and she Wipt. Robert 
 left her weeping, and closed the door quietly as if his dead 
 father had been lying in the room. 
 
 He took his way up to his own garret, closed that door too. 
 and sat down upon the floor, with his back against the empty 
 bedstead. 
 
 There were no more castles to build now. It was all very 
 well to say that he would not believe the news, and would pray 
 for his father, but he did believe them — enough at least to 
 spoil the praying. His favorite employment, seated there, 
 had hitherto been to imagine how he would grow a great man, 
 and set out to seek his father, and find him, and stand by him, 
 and be his son and servant. Oh ! to have the man stroke his 
 head and pat his cheek, and love him ! One moment he im- 
 agined himself his indignant defender, the next he would bo 
 climbing on his knee, as if he were still a little child, and lay- 
 ing his head on. his shoulder. For he had had no fondling 
 his life long, and his heart yearned for it. But all this was 
 gone now. A dreary time lay before him, with nobody to 
 please, nobody to serve ; with nobody to praise him. Grannie 
 never praised him. She must have thought praise something 
 wicked. And his father was in misery, forever and ever ! 
 Only somehow that thought was not quite thinkable. It was 
 more the vanishing of hope fi-om his own life than a sense of 
 his father's fate that oppressed him. 
 
 He cast his eyes, as in a hungry despair, around the empty 
 room, — or, rather, I should have said, in that faintness which 
 makes food at once essential and loathsome ; for despair has 
 no proper hunger in it. The room seemed as empty as his 
 life. There was nothing for his eyes to rest upon but those 
 bundles and bundles of dust-browned papers on the shelves 
 before him. What were they all about ? He understood that 
 they were his father's ; now that he was dead, it would be no 
 sacrilege to look at them. Nobody cared about them. He 
 would see at least what they were. It would be something to 
 do in this dreariness. 
 
 Bills and receipts, and everything ephemeral — to feel the 
 interest of which, a man must be a poet indeed — was all that 
 met his view. Bundle after bundle he tried, with no better 
 
BOBBRT FALCONER. 105 
 
 success. But as he drew near the middle of the second shelf, 
 upon which they lay several rows deep, he saw something dark 
 behind, hurriedly displaced the packets between, and drew 
 forth a small work-box. His heart beat like that of the prince 
 in the fairy-tale, when lie comes to the door of the Sleeping 
 Beauty. This at least must have been hers. It was a com- 
 mon little thing, probably a childish possession, and kept to 
 hold trifles worth more than they looked to be. He opened it 
 with bated breath The first thing he saw was a half-finished 
 reel of cotton, — a pirn, he called it. Beside it was a gold thim- 
 ble. He lifted the tray. A lovely face in miniature, with 
 dark hair and blue eyes, lay looking earnestly upward. At 
 the lid of this coffin those eyes had looked for so many years ! 
 The picture was set all round with pearls in an oval ring. 
 How Robert knew them to be pearls, he could not tell, for he 
 did not know that he had ever seen any pearls before, but he 
 knew they were pearls, and that pearls had something to do 
 with the New Jerusalem. But the sadness of it all at length 
 overpowered him, and he burst out crying. For it was aw- 
 fully sad that his mother's portrait should be in his own moth- 
 er's box. 
 
 He took a bit of red tape off a bundle of the papers, put it 
 through the eye of the setting, and hung the picture round 
 his neck, inside his clothes, for grannie must not see it. She 
 would take that away as she had taken his fiddle. He had a 
 nameless something now for which he had been longing for 
 years. 
 
 Looking again in the box, he found a little bit of paper, 
 discolored with antiquity, as it seemed to him, though it was 
 not so old as himself. Unfolding it, he found written upon it 
 a well-known hymn, and at the bottom of the hymn, the 
 words, "OLord! my heart is very sore.'' — The treasure 
 upon Eobert's bosom was no longer the symbol of a mother's 
 love, but of a woman's sadness, which he could not reach to 
 comfort. In that hour, the boy made a great stride towards 
 manhood. Doubtless his mother's grief had been the same aa 
 grannie's, — the fear that she would lose her husband forever. 
 The hourly fresh griefs from neglect and wrong did not occur 
 to him : only the never, never more. He looked no farther, 
 took the portrait from his neck and replaced it with the paper, 
 
106 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 put the box back, and walled it up in solitude once more with 
 the dusty bundles. Then he went down to his grandmother, 
 sadder and more desolate than ever. 
 
 He found her seated in her usual place. Her New Testa^ 
 ment, a large-print octavo, lay on the table beside her un- 
 opened ; for where within those boards could she find comfort 
 for a grief like hers ? That it was the will of God might 
 well comfort any suffering of her own ; but would it comfort 
 Andrew ? and if there was no comfort for Andrew, how was 
 Andrew's mother to be comforted ? 
 
 Yet God had given his first-born to save his brethren : how 
 could he be pleased that she should dry her tears and be com- 
 forted? True, some awful unknown force of a necessity with 
 which God could not cope came in to explain it ; but this did 
 not make God more kind, for he knew it all every time he 
 made a man ; nor man less sorrowful, for God would have his 
 very mother forget him, or, worse still, remember him and be 
 happy. 
 
 " Read a chapter to me, laddie," she said. 
 
 Robert opened and read, till he came to the words, "1 
 pray not for the world." 
 
 " He was o' the world," said the old woman ; " and if Christ 
 wadna pray for him, what for suld I? " 
 
 Already, so soon after her son's death, would her theology 
 begin to harden her heart. The strife which results from be- 
 lieving that the higher love demands the suppression of the 
 lower" is the most fearful of all discords, the absolute love 
 slaying love, — the house divided against itself; one moment 
 all given up for the will of Him, the next the human tender- 
 ness rushing back in a flood. Mrs. Falconer burst into a very 
 agony of weeping. From that day, for many years, the name 
 of her lost Andrew never passed her lips in the hearing of her 
 grandson, and certainly in that of no one else. 
 
 But in a few weeks she was more cheerful. It is one of the 
 mysteries of humanity that mothers in her circumstances, and 
 holding her creed, do regain not merely the faculty of going 
 on with the business of life, but, in most cases, even cheerful- 
 ness. The infinite Truth, the Love of the universe, supports 
 them beyond their consciousness, coming to them like sleep 
 from the roots of their being, and having nothing to do with 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 107 
 
 tneir opiniona or beliefs. And hence spring those comforting 
 subterfuges of hope to which they all fly. Not being able to 
 trust the Father entirely, they yet say, " Who can tell what 
 took place at the last moment ? Who can tell whether God 
 did not please to grant them saving faith at the eleventh hour? '' 
 — that so they might pass from the very gates of hell, the 
 only place for which their life had fitted them, into the bosom 
 of love and purity ! This God could do for all ; this for the 
 son beloved of his mother perhaps he might do ! 
 
 rebellious mother heart ! dearer to God than that which 
 beats laboriously solemn under Genevan gown or Lutheran 
 surplice ! if thou wouldst read by thine own large light, in- 
 stead of the glimmer from the phosphorescent brains of theolo- 
 gians, thou mightest even be able to understand such a simple 
 word as that of the Saviour, when, wishing his disciples to 
 know that he had a nearer regard for them as his brethren in 
 holier danger, than those who had not yet partaken of his 
 light, and therefore praying for them not merely as human 
 beings, but as the human beings they were, he said to his 
 Father in their hearing, "I pray not for the world, but for 
 them," — not for the world now, but for them, — a meaning- 
 less utterance, if he never prayed for the world ; a word of 
 small meaning, if it was not his very wont and custom to pray 
 for the world, — for men as men. Lord Christ ! not alone 
 from the pains of hell, or of conscience, — not alone from the 
 outer darkness of self and all that is mean and poor and low, 
 do we fly to thee ; but from the anger that arises within us at 
 the wretched words spoken in thy name, at the degradation of 
 thee and of thy Father in the. mouths of those that claim 
 especially to have found thee, do we seek thy feet. Pray thou 
 for them also, for they know not what they do. 
 
108 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MART ST. JOHN. 
 
 After this, day followed day. in calm, dull progress. 
 Robert did not care for the games through which his school- 
 fellows, forgot the little they had to forget, and had therefore 
 few in any sense his companions. So he passed his time out 
 of school in the society of his grandmother and Shargar, except 
 that spent in the garret, and the few hours a week occupied by 
 the lessons of the shoemaker. For he went on, though half- 
 heartedly, with those lessons, given now upon Sandy's re- 
 deemed violin, which he called his old wife, and made a little 
 progress even, as we sometimes do when we least think it. 
 
 lie took more and more to brooding in the garret ; and aa 
 more questions presented themselves for solution, he became 
 more anxious to arrive at the solution, and more uneasy as he 
 failed in satisfying himself that he had arrived at it ; so that 
 his brain, which needed quiet for the true formation of its sub- 
 stance, as a cooling liquefaction or an evaporating solution for 
 the just formation of its crystals, became in danger of settling 
 into an abnormal arrangement of the cellular deposits. 
 
 I believe that even the new-born infant is, in some of his 
 moods, already grappling with the deepest metaphysical prob- 
 lems, in forms infinitely too rudimental for the understanding 
 of the grown philosopher, — as far, in fact, removed from his 
 ken on the one side, that of intelligential beginning, the 
 germinal subjective, as his abstrusest speculations are from the 
 final solutions of absolute entity on the other. If this be the 
 case, it is no wonder that at Robert's age the deepest questions 
 of his coming manhood should be in active operation, although 
 BO surrounded with the yolk of common belief, and the" shell of 
 accredited authority, that the embryo faith, which in minds 
 like his always takes the form of doubt, could not be defined 
 any more than its existence could be disproved. I have given 
 a hint at the tendency of his mind already, in the fact that 
 one of the most definite inquiries to which he had yet turned 
 his thoughts was, whether God would have mercy upon a 
 repentant devil. An ordinary puzzle had been, — if his 
 
EOBERt FALCONER. 109 
 
 fathe.' were to marry again, and it should turn out after all 
 that his mother was not dead, what was his father to do ? But 
 this was over now. A third was, why, when he came out of 
 church, sunshine always made him miserable, and he felt 
 better able to be good when it rained or snowed hard. I might 
 mention the inquiry whether it was not possible somehow to 
 elude the omniscience of God ; but that is a common question 
 with thoughtful children, and indicates little that is character- 
 istic of the individual. That he puzzled himself about the 
 perpetual motion may pass for little likewise ; but one thing 
 that is worth mentioning, for indeed it caused him considerable 
 distress, was, that, in reading the "Paradise Lost," he could 
 not help sympathizing with Satan, and feeling — I do not say 
 thinking — that the Almighty was pompous, scarcely reason- 
 able, and somewhat revengeful. 
 
 He was recognized amongst his school-fellows as remarkable 
 for his love of fair play ; so much so, that he was their con- 
 stant referee. Add to this that, notwithstanding his sympa- 
 thy with Satan, he almost invariably sided with his master, in 
 regard of any angry reflection or seditious movement, and even 
 when unjustly punished himself, the occasional result of a 
 certain backwardness in self-defence, never showed any resent- 
 ment, — a most improbable statement, I admit, but neverthe- 
 less true, — and I think the rest of his character may be left 
 to the gradual dawn of its historical manifestation. 
 
 He had long ere this discovered who the angel was that had 
 appeared to him at the top of the stair upon that memorable 
 night ; but he could hardly yet say that he had seen her ; for, 
 except one dim glimpse he had had of her at the window as he 
 passed in the street, she had not appeared to him save in the 
 vision of that night. During the whole winter she scarcely 
 left the house, partly from the state of her health, affected by 
 the sudden change to a northern climate, partly from the atten- 
 tion required by her aunt, to aid in nursing whom she had left 
 the warmer south. Indeed, it was only to return the visits of 
 a few of Mrs. Forsyth's chosen, that she had crossed the 
 threshold at all ; and those visits were paid at a time when 
 all such half-grown inhabitants as Robert were gathered under 
 the leathery wing of Mr. Innes. 
 
 But long before the winter was over, Rothieden had dis- 
 
110 ROBERT FALOONBR. 
 
 covered that the stranger, the English lady, Mary St. John, 
 outlandish, almost heathenish as her lovely name sounded in 
 its ears, had a power as altogether strange and new as her 
 name. For she was not only an admirable performer on the 
 pianoforte, but such a simple enthusiast in music that the man 
 must have had no music or little heart in him in whom her 
 playing did not move all that there was of the deepest. 
 
 Occasionally there would be quite a small crowd gathered 
 at night by the window of Mrs. Forsyth's drawing-room, which 
 was on the ground-floor, listening to music such as had never 
 before been heard in Eothieden. More than once, when Rob- 
 ert had not found Sandy Elshender at home on the lesson- 
 night, and had gone to seek him, he had discovered. him lying 
 in wait, like a fowler, to catch the sweet sounds that flew from 
 the opened cage of her instrument. He leaned against the 
 wall, with his ear laid over the edge, and as near the window 
 as he dared to put it, his rough face, gnarled and blotched, 
 and hirsute with the stubble of neglected beard, — his whole 
 face transfigured by the passage of the sweet sounds through 
 his chaotic brain, which they swept like the wind of God, 
 when of old it moved on the face of the waters that clothed the 
 void and formless world. 
 
 " Hand yer tongue ! " he would say, in a hoarse whisper, 
 when Robert sought to attract his attention; "baud yer 
 tongue, man, and hearken. If yon bbnnie leddie 'at yer 
 grannie keeps lockit up i' the aumry war to tak' to the piano, 
 that's jist boo she wad play. Lord, man ! pit yer sowl i' yer 
 ears, an' hearken." 
 
 The shoemaker was all wrong in this ; for if old Mr. 
 Falconer's violin had taken woman-shape, it would have been 
 that of a slight, worn, swarthy creature, with wild black eyes, 
 great and restless, a voice like a bird's, and thin fingers that 
 clawed the music out of the wires like the quills of the old 
 harpsichord ; not that of Mary St. John, who was tall, and 
 could not help being stately, was large and well fashioned, aa 
 full of repose as Handells music, with a contralto voice to 
 make you weep, and eyes that would have seemed, but for 
 their maidenliness, to be always ready to fold you in their 
 lucid gray depths. 
 
 Robert stared at the shoemaker, doubting at first whether 
 
ROBERT FALCONER, 111 
 
 he had not been drinking. But the intoxication of music pro- 
 duces such a different expression from that of drink, that 
 Eobert saw at once that if he had indeed been drinking, at 
 least the music had got above the drink. As long as the 
 playing went on. Elshender was not to be moved from the 
 window. 
 
 But to many of the people of Rothieden the music did not 
 recommend the musician ; for every sort of music, except the 
 most unmusical of psalm-singing, was in their minds of a 
 piece with "dancin' an' play-actin," an' ither war Idly vani- 
 ties an' abominations." And Robert, being as yet more 
 capable of melody than harmony, grudged to lose a lesson on 
 Sandy's " auld wife o' a fiddle," for any amount of Miss St 
 John's playing. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ERIC BEICSON. 
 
 One gusty evenings it was of the last day in March — 
 Robert well remembered both the date and the day — a bleak 
 wind was driving up the long street of the town, and Robert 
 was standing looking out of one of the windows in the gable- 
 room. The evening was closing into night. He hardly knew 
 how he came to be there, but when he thought about it he 
 found it was play- Wednesday, and that he had been all the 
 half-holiday trying one thing after another to interest himself 
 withal, but in vain. He knew nothing about east winds; 
 but not the less did this weary wind of the dreary March 
 world prove itself upon his soul. For such a wind has a 
 shadow wind along with it, that blows in the minds of men. 
 There was nothing genial, no growth in it. It killed, and 
 killed most dogmatically. But it is an ill wind that b]ow3 
 nobody good. Even an east wind must bear some blessing on 
 its ugly wings. And as Robert looked down from the gable, 
 the wind was blowing up the street before it half-a-dozen foot« 
 
. 112 ROBBRT FALCONER. 
 
 faring students from Aberdeen, on their way home at the clobfl 
 of the session, probably to the farm-labors of the spring. 
 
 This was a glad sight, as that of the returning storks in 
 Denmark. Robert knew where they would put up, sought 
 his cap, and went out. His grandmother never objected to 
 his going to see Miss Napier : it was in her house that the 
 weary men would this night rest. 
 
 It was not without reason that Lord Rothie had teased his 
 hostess about receiving foot-passengers, for to such it was her 
 invariable custom to make some civil excuse, sending Meg or 
 Peggy to show them over the way to the hostelry next in 
 rank, — a proceeding recognized by the inferior hostess as both 
 just and friendly, for the good woman never thought of 
 measuring The Star against the Boar's Head. More than one 
 comical story had been the result of this law of the Boar's 
 Head, unalterable almost as that of the Modes and Persians. 
 I say almost, foi: to one class of the footfaring community the 
 ofBcial ice about the hearts of the three women did thaw,, 
 yielding passage to a full river of hospitality and generosity ; 
 and that was the class to which these wayfarers belonged. 
 
 Well may Scotland rejoice in her universities, for whatever 
 may be said against their system — I have no complaint to 
 make — they are divine in their freedom : men who follow 
 the plough in the spring, and reap the harvest in the autumn, 
 may, and, often do, frequent their sacred precincts when the 
 winter comes, — so fierce, yet so welcome ; so severe, yet so 
 blessed, — opening for them the doors to yet harder toil and 
 yet poorer fare. I fear, however, that of such there will be 
 fewer and fewer, seeing one class which supplied a portion of 
 them has almost vanished from the country, — that class 
 which was its truest, simplest, and noblest strength ; that 
 class which at one time rendered it something far other than 
 ridicule to say that Scotland was pre-eminently a God-fearing 
 nation, — I mean the class of cotters. 
 
 Of this class were some of the footfaring company. But 
 there were others of more means than the men of this lowly 
 origin, who either could not afford to travel by the expensive 
 coaches, or could find none to accommodate them. Possibly 
 Bome preferred to walk. However this may have been, the 
 various groups which at the beginning and close of the sessioE 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 113 
 
 passed through Rothieden, weary and footsore, were sure of a 
 hearty welcome at the Boar's Head. And much the men 
 needed it. Some of them would have walked between one 
 and two hundred miles before completing their journey. 
 
 Robert made a circuit, and, fleet of foot, was in Miss 
 Napier's parlor before the travellers made their appearance 
 on the square. When they knocked at the door. Miss Letty 
 herself went and opened it. 
 
 " Can ye tak's in, mem ? " was on the lips of their spokes- 
 man, but Miss Letty had the first word. 
 
 " Come in, come in, gentlemen. This is the first o' ye, 
 and ye're the mair welcome. It's like seein' the first o' the 
 swallows. An' sic a day as ye hiae had for yer lang traivel ! '' 
 she went on, leading the way to her sister's parlor, and 
 followed by all the students, of whom the one that came hind- 
 most was the most remarkable of the group, — at the same 
 time the most weary and downcast. 
 
 Miss Napier gave them a similar welcome, shaking hands 
 with every one of them. She knew them all but the last. 
 To him she involuntarily showed a more formal respect, partly 
 from his appearance, and partly that she had never seen him 
 before. The whiskey-bottle was brought out, and all partook, 
 save still the last. Miss Lizzie went to order their supper. 
 
 " Noo, gentlemen," said Miss Letty, "wad ony o' ye 
 like to gang an' change yer hose, and pit on a pair o' 
 slippers?" 
 
 Several declined, saying that they would wait until they 
 had had their supper; the roads had been quite dry, etc., etc. 
 One said he would, and another said his feet were blistered. 
 
 " Hoot awa' ! " * exclaimed Miss Letty. "Here, Peggy! " 
 she cried, going to the door; "tak' a pail o' het watter up 
 to the chackit room. Jist ye gang up, Mr. Cameron, and Peg- 
 gy '11 see to yer feet. — Noo, sir, will ye gang to yer room an' 
 mak' yersel' comfortable? — jist as if ye war at harne, for sae 
 ye are.'' 
 
 She addressed the stranger thus. He replied in a low, in- 
 different tone : — 
 
 * An exclamation of pitiful sympathy, inexplicable to the understand- 
 ing. Thus the author covers his philological ignorance of the crost* 
 breeding of the phrase. 
 8 
 
114 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " No, thank you ; I must be off again directly." 
 
 He was from Caithness and talked no Scotch. 
 
 '"Deed, sir, ye'll do naething o' the kin'. Here ye s' 
 bide, tho' I suld lock the door." 
 
 " Come, come, Ericson, none o' your nonsense ! " said one 
 of his fellows. ' ' Ye know yer feet are sae blistered ye can 
 hardly put ane by the ither. — It was a' we cud du, mem, to 
 get him alang the last mile." 
 
 "That s' be my business, than," concluded Miss Letty. 
 
 She left the room, and returning in a few minutes, said, aa 
 a matter of course, but with authority : — 
 
 "Mr. Ericson, ye maun come wi' me." 
 
 Then she hesitated a little. Was it maidenliness in the 
 waning woman of five and forty ? It was, I believe ; for how 
 can a woman always remember how old she is ? If ever there 
 was a young soul in God's world, it was Letty Napier. And 
 the young man was tall and stately as a Scandinavian chief, 
 with a look of command, tempered with patient endurance, in 
 his eagle face, for he was more like an eagle than any other 
 creature, and in his countenance signs of suffering. Miss 
 Letty, seeing this, was moved, and her heart swelled, and she 
 grew conscious and shy, and turning to Robert, said : — 
 
 " Come up the stair wi' 's, Robert ; I may want ye." 
 
 Robert jumped to his feet: His heart, too, had been yearn- 
 ing towards the stranger. 
 
 As if yielding to the inevitable, Ericson rose and followed 
 Miss Letty. But when they had reached the room and the 
 door was shut behind them, and Miss Letty pointed to a chair 
 beside which sfejod a little wooden tub full of hot water, say- 
 ing, " Sit ye doon there, Mr. Ericson," he drew himself up, 
 all but his graciously-bowed head, and said : — 
 
 "Ma'am, I must tell you that I followed the rest in here 
 from the very stupidity of weariness. I have not a shilling 
 in my pocket." 
 
 "Gcd bless me! " said Miss Letty, — and God did blesa 
 her, I am sure, — "we maun see to the feet first. What wad 
 ye du wi' a shillin' if ye had it ? Wad ye clap ane upo' ilka 
 blister?" 
 
 Ericson burst out laughing, and sat down. But still ha 
 hesitated. 
 
KOBERT FALCONER. 115 
 
 " Aff wi' yer shune, sir. Duv ye think I can wash yer 
 feet throu' ben' leather ? " said Miss Letty, not disdaining to 
 advance her fingers to a shoe-tie. 
 
 " But I'm ashamed. My stockings are all in holes." 
 
 " Weel, ye s' get a clean pait to put on the morn', an' I'll 
 darn them 'at ye hae on, if they be worth darnin', afore ye 
 gang — an' what are ye sae unmanageable for ? A body 
 wad think ye had a clo'en fit in ilk ane o' thae bits o' shune 
 o' yours. I winna promise to please yer mither wi' my 
 darnin' though." 
 
 " I have no mother to find fault with it," said Ericson. 
 
 " Weel, a sister's waur." 
 
 " I have no sister either." 
 
 This was too much for Miss Letty. She could keep up the 
 bravado of humor no longer. She fairly burst out crying. 
 In a moment more the shoes and stockings were off, and the 
 blisters in the hot water. Miss Letty's tears dropped into the 
 tub, and the salt in them did not hurt the feet with which she 
 busied herself, more than was necessary, to hide them. 
 
 But no sooner had she recovered herself than she resumed 
 her former tone. 
 
 "A shillin' ! said ye? An' a' thae greedy kites o' pro- 
 fessors to pay, that live upo' the verra blude and banes o' 
 sairvroucht students ! Hoo cud ye hae a shillin' ower ? 
 Troth, it's nae wonner ye haena ane left. An' a' the mer- 
 chan's there jist leevin' upo' ye ! Lord, hae a care o' 's ! sic 
 boEnie feet ! — Wi' blisters, I mean. I never saw sic a sicht 
 o' raw puddin's in my life. Ye're no fit to come doon the 
 stair again." 
 
 All the time she was tenderly washing and bathing the 
 weary feet. When she had dressed them and tied them up, 
 she took the tub of water and carried it away, but turned at 
 the door. 
 
 "Ye' 11 jist make up yer min' to bide a twa three days," 
 ahe said ; " for thae feet cudna bide to be carried, no to say to 
 Barry a weicht like you. There's uaebody to luik for ye, ye 
 know. An ye're not to come doon the nicht. I'll sen' up 
 yer supper. And Robert there '11 bide and keep ye com- 
 pany." 
 
 She vanished ; and a moment after, Peggy appeared with a 
 
116 ROBERT rALCONER. 
 
 salamander, — that is, a huge poker, ending not in a point,' 
 but a red-hot ace of spades, — which she thrust between the 
 bars of the grate, into the heart of a nest of brushwood. 
 Presently a cheerful fire illuminated the room. 
 
 Ericson was seated on one chair, with his feet on another, 
 his head sunk on his bosom, and his eyes thinking. There 
 was something about him almost as powerfully attractive to 
 Robert as it had been to Miss Letty. So he sat gazing at 
 him, and longing for a chance of doing something for him. He 
 had reverence already, and some love, but he had never felt at 
 all as he felt towards this man. Nor was it as the Chinese 
 puzzlers, called Scotch metaphysicians, might have represented 
 it, — a combination of love and reverence. It was the recog- 
 nition of the eternal brotherhood between him and one nobler 
 than himself, — hence, a lovely, eager worship. 
 
 Seeing Ericson look about him as if he wanted something, 
 Robert started to his feet. 
 
 " Is there ony thing ye want, Mr. Ericson ? " he said, with 
 service standing in his eyes. 
 
 " A small bundle I think I brought up with me" replied 
 the youth. 
 
 It was not there. Robert rushed downstairs, and returned 
 with it, — a night-shirt and a hairbrush or so, tied up in a blue 
 cotton handkerchief. This was all that Robert was able to do 
 for Ericson that evening. 
 
 He went home and dreamed about him. He called at the 
 Boar's Head the next morning before going to school, but 
 Ericson was not yet up. When he called again as soon as 
 morning school was over, he found that they had persuaded 
 him to keep his bed ; but Miss Letty took him up to his room. 
 He looked better, was pleased to see Robert, and spoke to him 
 kindly. Twice yet Robert called to inquire after him that 
 day_ and once more he saw him, for he took his tea up to 
 Lim. 
 
 The next day Ericson was much better, received Robert 
 with a smile, and went out with him for a stroll, for all his 
 companions were gone, and of some students who had arrived 
 since, he did not know any. Robert took him to his grand- 
 mother, who received him with stately kindness. Then they 
 went out again, and passed the windows of Captain Forsyth't 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 117 
 
 bouse. Mary St. John was playing. They stood for a mo. 
 ment, almost involuntarily, to listen. She ceased. 
 
 " That's the music of the spheres," said Ericson, in a low 
 voice, as they moved on. 
 
 "Will you tell me what that means?" asked Robert. 
 "I've come upon 't ower an' ower in Milton." 
 
 Thereupon Ericson explained to him what Pythagoras had 
 taught about the stars moving in their great orbits with sounds 
 of awful harmony, too grandly loud for the human organ to 
 Vibrate in response to their music — hence unheard of men. 
 And Ericson spoke as if he believed it. But after he had 
 spoken, his face grew sadder than ever ; and, as if to change 
 the subject, he said, abruptly : — 
 
 " What a fine old lady your grandmother is, Robert! " 
 
 " Is she? " returned Robert. 
 
 " I don't mean to say she's like Miss Letty," said Ericson. 
 " She^s an angel ! " 
 
 A -long pause followed. Robert's thoughts went roaming in 
 their usual haunts. 
 
 " Do you think, Mr. Ericson," he said, at length, taking 
 up the #ld question still floating unanswered in his mind, " do 
 you think if a devil was to repent, God would forgive him ? '' 
 
 Ericson turned and looked at him. Their eyes met. ihe 
 youth wondered at the boy. He had recognized in him a 
 younger brother, one who had begun to ask questions, calling 
 them out into the deaf and dumb abyss of the universe. 
 
 "If God was as good as I would like him to be, the devils 
 themselves would repent," he said, turning away. 
 
 Then, he turned again, and, looking down upon Robert like 
 a sorrowful eagle from a crag over its harried nest, said : — 
 
 " If I only knew that God was as good as — that woman, I 
 should lie content." 
 
 Robert heard words of blasphemy from the mouth of an 
 angel, but his respect for Ericson compelled a reply. 
 
 " What woman, Mr. Ericson? " he asked. 
 
 " I mean Miss Letty, of course." 
 
 " But surely ye dinna think God's nae as guid as she is? 
 Surely he's as good as he can be. He is good, ye know." 
 
 " Oh, yes. They say so. And then they tell you some- 
 thing about him that isn't good, and go on calling him good 
 
118 KOBKRT FALCONER. 
 
 all the same. But calling anybody good doesn't make him 
 good, you know." 
 
 "Then ye dinna believe 'at God is good, Mr. Ericson?" 
 said Robert, choking with a strange mingling of horror and 
 hope. 
 
 " I didn't say that, my boy. But to know that God was 
 good, and fair, and kind, — heartily, I mean, not half-ways, 
 and with ifs and huts, — my boy, there would be nothing left 
 to be miserable about." 
 
 In a momentary flash of thought, Robert wondered whether 
 this might not be his old friend, the repentant angel, sent to 
 earth as a man. that he might have a share in the redemption, 
 and work out his own salvation. And from this very moment 
 the thoughts about God that had hitherto been moving in 
 formless solution in his mind began slowly to crystallize. 
 
 The next day, Eric Ericson, not without a piece in ae 
 pouch and money in another, took his way home, if home it 
 could be called where neither father, mother, brother, nor 
 sister awaited his return. For a season Robert saw him no 
 more. 
 
 As often as his name was mentioned, Miss Lettji's eyea 
 would grow hazy, and as often she would make some comical 
 remark. 
 
 "Puir fallow! " she would say, "he was ower lang-leggit 
 for this warld." 
 
 Or again : — 
 
 "Ay, he was a braw chield. But he canna live. His 
 feet's ower sma'." 
 
 Or yet again : — 
 
 " Saw ye ever sic a gowk, to mak sic a wark aboot sittin' 
 doon an' haein' his feet washed, as if that cost a body ony« 
 thing ! " 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 119 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MR. LAMMIE'S farm. 
 
 One of the first warm mornings in the beginning of 
 Bummer, the boy -woke early, and lay awake, as was his cus- 
 tom, thinking. The sun, in all the indescribable purity of its 
 morning light,' had kindled a spot of brilliance just about 
 where his grannie's head must be lying asleep in its sad 
 thoughts, on the opposite side of the partition. 
 
 He lay looking at the light. There came a gentle tapping 
 at his window. A long streamer of honeysuckle, not yet in 
 blossom, but alive with the life of the summer, was blown by the 
 air of the morning against his window-pane, as if calling him 
 to get up and look out. He did get up and look out. 
 
 But he started back in such haste that he fell against the 
 side of his bed. Within a few yards of his window, bending 
 over a bush, was the loveliest face he had overseen, — the 
 only face, in fact, he had ever yet felt to be beautiful. For 
 the window looked directly into the garden of the next house ; 
 its honeysuckle tapped at his window, its sweet-peas grew 
 against his window-sill. It was the face of the angel of that 
 night ; , but how different when illuminated by the morning 
 sun from then, when lighted up by a chamber-candle ! The first 
 thought that came to him was the half-ludicrous, all-fantastic 
 idea of the shoemaker about his grandfather's violin being a 
 woman. A vaguest dream-vision of her having escaped from 
 his grandmother's store-closet, and wandering free amidst the 
 wind and among the flowers, crossed his mind before he had re- 
 covered sufiiciently from his surprise to prevent Fancy from 
 cutting any more of those too ridiculous capers in which slie 
 indulged at will in sleep, and as often besides as she could 
 get away from the spectacles of old Grannie Judgment. 
 
 But the music of her revelation was not that of the violin ; 
 and Eobert vaguely felt this, though he searched no further 
 for a fitting instrument to represent her. If he had heard 
 the organ indeed ! — but he knew no instrument save the 
 violin ; the piano he had only heard through the window. 
 For a few moments her face brooded over the bush, and hei 
 
120 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 long finely modelled fingers travelled about it as if they were 
 creating a flower upon it, — probably they were aesisting the 
 birth or blowing of some beauty, — and then she raised herself 
 with a lingering look, and vanished from the field of the 
 window. 
 
 But ever after this, when the evening grew d;irk, Robert 
 would steal out of the house, leaving his book open by his gran- 
 nie's lamp, that its patient expansion might seem to say, ' ' He 
 will come back presently," and dart round the corner with 
 quick, quiet step, to hear if Miss St. John was playing. If she 
 was not, he would return to the Sabbath stillness of the parlor, 
 where his grandmother sat meditating or reading, and Shargar 
 sat brooding over the freedom of the old days ere Mrs. Falconer 
 had begun to reclaim him. There he would seat himself once 
 more at his book, to rise again ere another hour had gone by, 
 and hearken yet again at her window whether the stream might 
 not be flowing noAV. If he found her at her instrument he 
 would stand listening in earnest delight, until the fear of being 
 missed drove him in : this secret, too, might be discovered, and 
 this enchantress, too, sent, by the decree of his grandmother, into 
 the limbo of vanities. Thus strangely did his evening life 
 oscillate between the two peaceful negations of grannie's par- 
 lor, and the vital gladness of the unknown lady's window. 
 And skilfully did he manage his retreats and returns, curtailing 
 his absences with such moderation that, for a long time, they 
 awoke no suspicion in the mind of his grandmother. 
 
 I suspect myself that the old lady thought he had gone to his 
 prayers in the garret. And I believe she thought that he was 
 praying for his dead father ; with which most papistical, and, 
 therefore, most unchristian observance, she yet dared not inter- 
 fere, because she expected Robert to defend himself triumph- 
 antly with the simple assertion that he did not believe his father 
 was dead. Possibly the mother was not sorry that her poor son 
 should be prayed for, in case he might be alive after all, though 
 she could no longer do so herself, — not merely dared not, but 
 persuaded herself that she would not. Robert, however, was 
 convinced enough,, and hopeless enough, by this time, and had 
 even less temptation to break the twentieth commandment by 
 praying for the dead, than his grandmother had ; for with all his 
 imaginative outgoings after his father, his love to him wa? ?^ yet 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 121 
 
 compared to that father's mother's, " as moonlight unto sun- 
 light, and as water unto wine." 
 
 Shargar would glance up at him with a queer look as he 
 came in from these excursions, drop his head over his task 
 again, look busy and miserable, and all would glide on as before. 
 
 When the first really summer weather came, Mr. Lammie one 
 day paid Mrs. Falconer a second visit. He had not been able 
 to get over the remembrance of the desolation in which he had 
 left her. But he could do nothing for her, he thought, till it 
 was warm weather. He was accompanied by his daughter, a 
 woman approaching the further verge of youth, bulky and 
 florid, and as full of tenderness as her large frame could hold. 
 After much, and, for a long time, apparently useless persua- 
 sion, they at last believed they had prevailed upon her to pay 
 them a visit for a fortnight. But she had only retreated within 
 another of her defences. 
 
 "I canna leave thae twa laddies alane. They wad be up to 
 a' mischeef." 
 
 " There's Betty to luik after them," suggested Miss Lammie. 
 
 " Betty !" returned Mrs. Falconer, with scorn, "Betty's 
 naething but a bairn heirsel', — muckler and worse favored.'' 
 
 " But what for shouldna ye fess the lads wi' ye? " suggested 
 Mr. Lammie. 
 
 " I hae no richt to burden you wi' them." 
 
 "Weel, I hae aften wonnert what made ye burden yersel' 
 wi' that Shargar, as I understan' they ca' him," said Mr. Lam- 
 mie. 
 
 " Jist naething but a bit o' greed," returned the old lady, 
 with the nearest approach to a smile that had shown itself upon 
 her face since Mr. Lammie's last visit. 
 
 "Idinna understan' that, Mistress Fg,ulkner," said Misa 
 Lammie. 
 
 " I'm sae sure o' haein' 't back again, ye ken, — wi' interest," 
 returned Mrs. Falconer. 
 
 "Hoo's that? His father winna con ye ony thanks for 
 haudin' him in life." 
 
 " ' He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord,' ye know, 
 Miss Lammie." 
 
 " Atweel, if ye like to lippen to that bank, nae doobt ae way 
 or anither it'll gang to yer accoont," said Miss Lammie. 
 
122 HOBEBT FAIiCONBB. 
 
 " It waud ill become us, ony way," said her father, " nae 
 to gie him shelter for your sake, Mrs. Faukner, no to mention 
 ither names, sin' it's yer wuU to mak' the puir lad ane o' the 
 family. They say his ain mither's run awa' an' left him." 
 
 " 'Deed she's dune that." 
 
 " Can ye mak' onything o' 'im?" 
 
 "He's quiet eneuch. An' Robert says he does nae that 
 ill at the schuil." 
 
 " Weel, jist feas him wi' ye. We'll hae some place or 
 ither to put him intil, if it suld be only a shak'-doon upo' the 
 flure." 
 
 " Na, na. There's the schuilin', — what's to be dune wi' 
 that?" 
 
 "They can gang i' the mornin', and get their dinner wi' 
 Betty here ; and syne come hame to their four-o'clock tea 
 whan the schule's ower i' the efternune. 'Deed, mem, ye 
 maun jist come for the sake o' the auld frien'ship atween the 
 faimilies." 
 
 "Weel, if it maun be sae, it maun be sae," yielded Mrs. 
 Falconer, with a sigh. 
 
 She had not left her own house for a single night for ten 
 years. Nor is it likely she would have now given in, for im- 
 movableness was one of the most marked of her characteristics, 
 had she not been so broken by mental suffering that she did 
 not care much about anything, least of all about herself. 
 
 Innumerable were the instructions in propriety of behavior 
 which she gave the boys in prospect of this visit. The proba- 
 bility being that they would behave just as well as at home, 
 these instructions were considerably unnecessary, for Mrs. Fal- 
 coner was a strict enforcer of all social rules. Scarcely less un- 
 necessary were the directions she gave as to the conduct of 
 Betty, who received them all in erect submission, with her 
 hands under her apron. She ought to have been a young (rii\ 
 instead of an elderly woman, if there was any propriety in the 
 way her mistress spoke to her. It proved at least her own 
 belief in the description she had given of her to Miss Lammie. 
 
 " Noo, Betty, ye maun be quiet. An' dinna stan' at the 
 door i' the gloamin'. An' dinna stan' claikin' an' jawin' wi' the 
 ither lasses whan ye gang to the wall for watter. An' whan 
 ye gang intil a chop, dinna hae them sayin' ahint yer back, aa 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 123 
 
 Bune's yer oot again, ' She's her ain mistress by way o',' or 
 Bic like. An' min' ye hae worship wi' yersel', when I'm nae 
 here to hae 't wi' ye. Ye can come +o the parlor if ye like. 
 An' there's my muckle Testament. And dinna gie the lads a' 
 thing they want. Gie them plenty to ait, but no ower muckle. 
 Fowk suld aye lea' aff wi' an eppitcet." 
 
 Mr. Lammie brought his gig at last, and took grannie away 
 to Bodyfauld. When the boys returned from school at the 
 dinner-hour, it was to exult in a freedom which Robert had 
 never imagined before. But even be could not know what a 
 relief it was to Shargar to eat without the awfully calm eyes of 
 Mrs. Falconer watching, as it seemed to him, the progress of 
 every mouthful down "that capacious throat of his. The old 
 lady would have been shocked to learn how the imagination of 
 the ill-mothered lad interpreted her care over him, but she 
 would not have been surprised to know that the two were merry 
 in her absence. She knew that, in some of her own moods, it 
 would be a relief to think that that awful eye of God was not 
 upon her. But she little thought that, even in the lawless 
 proceedings about to follow, her Robert, who now felt such a 
 relief in her absence, would be walking straight on, though 
 blindly, towards a sunrise of faith, in which he would know that 
 for the eye of his God to turn away from him for one moment 
 would be the horror of the outer darkness. 
 
 Merriment, however, was not in Robert's thoughts, and still 
 less was mischief. For the latter, whatever- his grandmother 
 might think, he had no capacity. The world was already too 
 serious, and was soon to be too beautiful for mischief. After 
 that, it would be too sad, and then, finally, until death, too 
 solemn glad. The moment he heard of his grandmother's in- 
 tended visit, one wild hope and desire and intent had arisen 
 within him. 
 
 When Betty came to the parlor-door to lay the cloth for 
 their dinner, she found it locked. 
 
 " Open the door ! " she cried, but cried in vain. From im- 
 patience she passed to passion ; but it was of no avail : there 
 came no more response than from the shrine of the deaf Baal. 
 For to the boys it was an opportunity not at any risk to be 
 lost. Dull Betty never suspected what they were about. They 
 were ranging the place like two tiger-cats whose whelps had 
 
124 EOBEKT FALCONER. 
 
 been carried off in their absence — questing, with nose to earth 
 and tail in air, for the scent of their enemy. My simile has 
 carried me too far : it was only a dead old gentleman's violin 
 that a couple of boys were after ; but with what eagerness, 
 and, on the part of Robert, what alternations of hope and fear ! 
 And Shargar was always the reflex of Robert, so far as Shar- 
 gar could reflect Robert. Sometimes Robert would stop, stand 
 still in the middle of the room, cast a mathematical glance of 
 survey over its cubic contents, and then dart off in 0nother in- 
 wardly suggested direction of search. Shargar, on the other 
 hand, appeared to rummage blindly, without a notion of casting 
 the illumination of thought upon the field of search. Yet to him 
 fell the success. When hope was growing dim, after an hour 
 and a half of vain endeavor, a scream of utter discordance 
 heralded the resurrection of the lady of harmony. Taught by 
 his experience of his wild mother's habits to guess at those of 
 quiet Mrs. Falconer, Shargar had found the instrument in her 
 bed at the foot, between the feathers and the mattress. For 
 one happy moment Shargar was the benefactor, and Robert the 
 grateful recipient of favor. Nor, I do believe, was this thread 
 of the still thickening cable that bound them ever forgotten ; 
 broken it could not be. 
 
 Robert drew the recovered treasure from its concealment, 
 opened the case with trembling eagerness, and was stooping, 
 with one hand on the neck of the violin, and the other on the 
 bow, to lift them from it, when Shargar stopped him. 
 
 His success had given him such dignity, that for once ho 
 dared to act from himself. 
 
 " Betty '11 hear ye," he said. 
 
 " What care I for Betty ? She daurna tell. I know hoo to 
 manage her." 
 
 " But wadna 't be better 'at she didna know ? " 
 
 " She's sure to fin' oot whan she mak's the bed. She turns't 
 ower and ower jist like a muckle dog worryin' a rat." 
 
 " De'il a bit o' her s' be a hair wiser ! Ye dinna play tunes 
 upo' the boxie, man." 
 
 Robert caught at the idea. He lifted the " bonny laddy" 
 from her coffin ; and while he was absorbed in the contempla- 
 tion of her risen beauty, Shargar laid his hands on Boston's 
 " Fourfold State," the torment of his life on the Sunday 
 
BOBKBT FALCONER. 125 
 
 evenings which it was his turn to spend with Mrs. Falojner, 
 and threw it as an offering to the powers of Hades into the 
 case, which he then buried carefully, with the feather-bed for 
 mould, the blankets for sod, and the counterpane studiously ar- 
 ranged for stone, over it. He took heed, however, not to let 
 Robert know of the substitution of Boston for the fiddle, because 
 he knew Robert could not tell a lie. Therefore, when he mur- 
 mured over the volume some of its own words which he had 
 read the preceding Sunday, it was in a quite inaudible whisper : 
 " Now is it good for nothing but to cumber the ground, and 
 furnish fuel for Tophet." 
 
 Robert must now hide the violin better than his grannie had 
 done, while at the same time it was a more delicate necessity, 
 seeing it had lost its shell, and he shrunk from putting her in 
 the power of the shoemaker again. It cost him much trouble 
 to fix on the place that was least unsuitable. First he put it 
 into the well of the clock-case, but instantly bethought him 
 what the awful consequence would be if one of the weights 
 should fall from the gradual decay of its cord. He had heard 
 of such a thing happening. Then he would put it into his own 
 place of dreams and meditations. But what if Betty should 
 take a fancy to change her bed ? or some friend of his grannie's 
 should come to spend the night ? How would the bonny lady 
 like it ? What a risk she would run ! If he put her under the 
 bed, the mice would get at her strings, — nay, perhaps, gnaw 
 a hole right through her beautiful body. On the top of the 
 clock, the brass eagle with outspread wings might scratch her, 
 and there was not space to conceal her. At length he con- 
 cluded, — wrapped her in a piece of paper, and placed her on 
 the top of the chintz tester of his bed, where there was just 
 room between it and the ceiling ; that would serve till he bora 
 her to some better sanctuary. In the mean time she was safe, 
 and the boy was the blessedest boy in creation. 
 
 These things done, they were just in the humor to have a 
 lark with Betty. So they unbolted the door, rang the bell, and 
 when Betty appeared, red-faced and wrathful, asked her very 
 gravely and politely whether they were not going to have some 
 dinner before they went back to school ; they had now but 
 twenty minutes left. Betty was so dumfoundered with their 
 impudence that she could not say a word. She did make haste 
 
126 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 with the dinner though, and revealed her indignation only in 
 her manner of putting the things on the table. As the bojs 
 left her, Robert contented himself with the single hint : — 
 
 " Betty, Bodyfauld 's i' the perris o' Kettledrum. Min' ye 
 that." 
 
 Betty glowered and said nothing. - 
 
 But the delight of the walk of three miles over hill and dale 
 and moor and farm to Mr. Lammie's ! The boys, if not as wild 
 as colts, — that is, as wild as most boys would have been, — 
 were only the more deeply excited. That first summer walk, 
 with a goal before them, in all the freshness of the perfecting 
 year, was something which to remember in after days was to 
 Falconer nothing short of ecstasy. The westering sun threw 
 long shadows before them as they trudged away eastward, 
 lightly laden with the books needful for the morrow's lessons. 
 Once beyond the immediate purlieus of the town and the vari- 
 ous plots of land occupied by its inhabitants, they crossed a 
 small river, and entered upon a region of little hills, some 
 covered to the top with trees, chiefly larch, others cultivated, 
 and some bearing only heather, now nursing in secret its purple 
 flame for the outburst of the autumn. The road wound between, 
 now swampy and worn into deep ruts, now sandy and broken 
 with large stones. Down to its edge would come the dwarfed 
 oak, or the mountain ash, or the silver birch, single and small, 
 but lovely and fresh ; and now green fields, fenced with walls 
 of earth as green as themselves, ur of stones overgrown with 
 moss, would stretch away on both sides, sprinkled with busily 
 feeding cattle. Now they would pass through a farm-steading, 
 perfumed with the breath of cows, and the odor of burning 
 peat, — so fragrant ! though not yet so grateful to the inner 
 sense as it would be when encountered in after years and in 
 foreign lands. For the smell of burning and the smell of earth 
 are the deepest underlying sensuous bonds of the earth's unity, 
 and the common brotherhood of them that dwell thereon. Now 
 the scent of the larches would steal from the hill, or the wind 
 would waft the odor of the white clover, beloved of his grand- 
 mother, to Robert's nostrils, and he would turn aside to pull 
 her a handful. Then they climbed a high ridge, on the top of 
 which spread a moorland, dreary and desolate, brightened by 
 nothing save "the canna's hoary beard," waving in the wind, 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 127 
 
 and making it look even more desolate from the <ympalhy they 
 felt with the forsaken grass. This crossed, they descended 
 between young plantations of firs and rowan-trees and birches, 
 till they reached a warm house on the side of the slope, with 
 farm-offices and ricks of corn and hay all about it, the front 
 overgrown with roses and honeysuckle, and a white-flowering 
 plant unseen of their eyes hitherto, and therefore full of mys- 
 tery. From the open kitchen-door came the smell of some- 
 thing good. But beyond all to Robert was the welcome of Miss 
 Lammie, ■whose small fat hand closed upon his like a very love- 
 pudding, after partaking of which even his grandmother's 
 stately reception, followed immediately by the words, " Noo be 
 quiet," could not chill the warmth in his bosom. 
 
 I know but one writer whose pen would have been able 
 worthily to set forth the delights of the first few days at Body- 
 fauld, — Jean Paul. Nor would he have disdained to make 
 the gladness of a country school-boy the theme of that pen. 
 Indeed, often has he done so. If the writer has any higher 
 purpose than the amusement of other boys, he will find the life 
 of a country boy richer for his ends than that of a town boy. 
 For example, he has a deeper sense of the marvel of nature, a 
 tenderer feeling of her feminality. I do not mean that the 
 other cannot develop this sense, but it is generally feeble, and 
 there is consequently less chance of its surviving. As far aa 
 my experience goes, town girls and country boys love nature 
 most. I have known town girls love her as passionately as 
 country boys. Town boys have too many books and pictures. 
 They see Nature in mirrors, — invaluable privilege after they 
 know herself, not before. They have greater opportunity of 
 observing human nature ; but here also the boohs are too many 
 and various. They are cleverer than country boys, but they 
 are less profound ; their observation may be quicker ; their 
 perception is shallower. They know better wha; to do on an 
 emergency ; they know worse how to order their ways. Of 
 course, in this, as in a thousand other matters. Nature will 
 burst out laughing in the face of the would-be philosopher, and, 
 bringing forward her town-boy, will say, " Look here ! " For 
 the town boys are Nature's boys after all, at least so long as 
 doctrines of self-preservation and ambition have not turned 
 them from children of the kingdom into dirt-worms. But I 
 
128 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 must stop, for I am getting up to the neok in a bog of discrimi- 
 nation. As if I did not know the nobility of some towns-peo- 
 ple, compared with the worldliness of some country folk ! I 
 give it up. We are all good and all bad. God mend all. 
 Nothing will do for Jew or Gentile, Frenchman or English- 
 man, Negro or Circassian, town boy or country boy, but the 
 kingdom of heaven which is within him, and must come thenoa 
 to the outside of him. 
 
 To a boy like Robert the changes of every day, from country 
 to town with the gay morning, from town to country with the 
 sober evening, — for country as Rothieden might be to Edin- 
 burgh, much more was Bodyfauld country to Rothieden, — were 
 a source of boundless delight. Instead of houses, he saw the 
 horizon ; instead of streets or walled gardens, he roamed over 
 fields bathed in sunlight and wind. Here it was good to get 
 up before the sun, for then he could see the sun get up. And 
 of all things those evening shadows, lengthening out over the 
 grassy wildernesses, — for fields of a very moderate size ap- 
 peared such to an imagination ever ready at the smallest hint 
 to ascend its solemn throne, — were a deepening marvel. 
 Town to country is what a ceiling is to a caelum. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ADVENTURES. 
 
 Grannie's first action every evening, the moment the boys 
 entered the room, was to glance up at the clock, that she might 
 see whether they had arrived in reasonable time. This was not 
 pleasant, because it admonished Robert how impossible it was 
 for him to have a lesson on his own violin so long as the visit 
 to Bodyfauld lasted. If they had only been allowed to sleep 
 at Rothieden, what a universe of freedom would have been 
 theirs ! As it was, he had but two hours to himself, pared at 
 both ends, in the middle of the day. Dooble Sanny mij^'ht 
 bave given him a lesson at that time, but he did not dare to 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 129 
 
 carry his instrument through the streets of Eothieden, for the 
 proceeding would be certain to come to his grandmother's ears. 
 Several days passed indeed before he made lip his mind as to 
 how he was to reap any immediate benefit from the recovery of 
 the violin. For after he had made up his mind to run the risk 
 cf successive mid-day solos in the old factory, he was not 
 prepared to carry the instrument through the streets, or bo 
 Been entering the place with it. 
 
 But the factory lay at the opposite corner of a quadrangle 
 of gardens, the largest of which belonged to itself; and the 
 corner of this garden touched the corner of Captain Forsyth's, 
 which had formerly belonged to Andrew Falconer : he had had 
 a door made in the walls at the point of junction, so that he 
 could go from his house to his business across his own proper- 
 ty ; if this door were not locked, and Robert could pass with- 
 out offence, what a north-west passage it would be for him ! 
 The little garden belonging to his grandmother's house had 
 only a slight wooden fence to divide it from the other, and even 
 in this fence there was a little gate ; he would only have to 
 run along Captain Forsyth's top walk to reach the door. The 
 blessed thought came to him as he lay in bed at Bodyfauld ; he 
 would attempt the passage the very next day. 
 
 With his violin ia its paper, under his arm, he sped like a 
 hare from gate to door, found it not even latched, only pushed 
 to and rusted into such rest as it was dangerous to the hinges 
 to disturb. He opened it, however, without any accident, and 
 passed through ; then closing it behind him, took his way more 
 leisurely through the tangled grass of his grandmother's prop- 
 erty. When he reached the factory, he judged it prudent to 
 search out a more secret nook, one more full of silence, that is. 
 whence the sounds would be less certain to reach the ears of 
 the passers-by, and came upon a small room, near the top, 
 which had been the manager's bedroom, and which, as he 
 judged from what seemed the signs of ancient occupation, a 
 cloak hanging on the wall, and the ashes of a fire lying in the 
 grate, nobody had entered for years ; it wus the safest place in 
 the world. He undid his instrument carefully, tuned its 
 strings tenderly, and soon found that his former facility, such 
 as it was, had not ebbed away beyond recovery. Hastening 
 back as he came, he was just in time for his dinner, and nar- 
 9 
 
"ISO ROBERT FALCONER, 
 
 rowly escaped encountering Betty in the transe. lie had been 
 tempted to leave the instrument ; but no one could tell what 
 might happen, and to doubt would be to be miserable with 
 anxiety. 
 
 He did the same for several days without interruption ; 
 not, however, without observation. When, returning from hia 
 fourth visit, he opened the door between the gardens, he started 
 back in dismay, for there stood the beautiful lady. 
 
 Robert hesitated for a moment whether to fly or speak. He 
 was a Lowland country boy, and therefore rude of speech ; but 
 he was three parts a Celt, and those who know the address of 
 the Irish or of the Highlanders, know how much that involves 
 as to manners and bearing. He advanced the next instant and 
 spoke. 
 
 " I beg yer pardon, mem. I thocht naebody wad see me. 
 I haena dune nae ill." 
 
 " I had not the least suspicion of it, I assure you," returned 
 Miss St. John. " But, tell me, what makes you go through 
 here always at the same hour with the same parcel under your 
 arm?" 
 
 " Ye winna tell naebody, will ye, mem, if I tell you ? " 
 
 Miss St. John, amused, and interested besides in the con- 
 trast between the boy's oddly noble face and good bearing on 
 the one hand, and on the other the drawl of his bluntly articu- 
 lated speech and the coarseness of his tone, both seeming to her 
 in the extreme of provincialism, promised; and Robert, en- 
 tranced by all the qualities of her voice and speech, and noth- 
 ing disenchanted by the nearer view of her lovely face, confided 
 in her at once. 
 
 " Ye see, mem," he said, " I cam' upo' my grandfather's 
 fiddle. But my grandmither thinks the fiddle's no gude. And' 
 sae she tuik and she bed it. But I faun't it again. An' I 
 daurna play i' the hoose, though my grannie's i' the country, 
 for Betty hearin' me and tellin' her. And sae I gang to the 
 auld fact'ry there. It belangs to my grannie, and sae does the 
 garden. An' this hoose and yaird was ance my father's, and 
 sae he had that door throu', they tell mo. An' I tlioclit if it 
 Buld be open, it wad be a fine thing for me, to haad fowk ohn 
 seen me. But it was verra ill-bred to you mem, I ken, to 
 come throu' your yaird ohn speirt leave. I beg yor pardon. 
 
ROBERT FAIiCONBB. 131 
 
 mem, an' I'll jist gang back, and roon' by the ro d. This ia 
 my fiddle I hae aneath my airm. We bude to pit back the 
 case o' 't whaur it was afore, i' my grannie's bed, to baud her 
 ohn kent 'at she had tint the grup o' 't." 
 
 Certainly Miss St. John could not have understood the half 
 of the words Robert used, but she understood his story not- 
 withstanding. Herself an enthusiast in music, her sympathies 
 were at once engaged for the awkward boy who was thus trying 
 to steal an entrance into the fairy halls of sound. But she 
 forbore any further allusion to the violin for the present, and 
 contented herself with assuring Robert that he was heartily 
 welcome to go through the garden as often as he pleased. She 
 accompanied her words with a smile that made Robert feel not 
 only that she was the most beautiful of all princesses in fairy- 
 tales, but that she had presented him with something beyond 
 price in the most self-denying manner. He took off his cap, 
 thanked her with much heartiness, if not with much polish, and 
 hastened to the gate of his grandmother's little garden. A 
 few years later such an encounter might have spoiled his din - 
 ner : 1 have to record no such evil result of the adventure. 
 
 With Miss St. John, music was the highest form of human 
 expression, as must often be the case with those whose feeling 
 is much in advance of their thought, and to whom, therefore, 
 what may be called mental sensation is the highest known con- 
 dition. Music to such is poetry in solution, and generates that 
 infinite atmosphere, common to both musician and poet, which 
 the latter fills with shining worlds. But if my reader wishes 
 to follow out for himself the idea herein suggested, he must be 
 careful to make no confusion between those who feel musically 
 or think poetically, and the musician or the poet. One who 
 can only play the music of others, however exquisitely, is not 
 a musician, any more than one who can read verse to tlie sat- 
 isfaction, or even expound it to the enlightenment of the poet 
 himself, is therefore a poet. When Miss St. John would 
 worship God, it was in music that she found the chariot of fira 
 in which to ascend heavenward. Hence masic was the divine 
 thing in the world for her ; and to find any one loving music 
 humbly and faithfully was to find a brother or sister believer. 
 But she had been so often disappointed in her expectations 
 &om those she took to be such, that of late she had become 
 
13Si ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 less sanguine. Still there was something ahout this boy that 
 roused once more her musical hopes ; and, however she may 
 have restrained herself from the full indulgence of them, certain 
 it is that the next day, when she saw Robert pass, this time 
 leisurely, along the top of the garden, she put on her bonnet 
 and shawl, and, allowing him time to reach his den, followed 
 him, in the hope of finding out whether or not he could play. 
 I do not know what proficiency the boy had attained, very 
 likely not much, for a man can feel the music of his own bow, 
 or of his own lines, long before any one else can discover it. 
 He had already made a path, not exactly worn one, but 
 trampled one, through the neglected grass, and Miss St. John 
 had no difficulty in finding his entrance to the factory. 
 
 She felt a little eerie, as Robeft would have called it, when 
 she passed into the waste, silent place ; for besides the waste- 
 ness and the silence, motionless machines have a look of death 
 about them, at least when they bear such signs of disuse as 
 those that filled these rooms. Hearing no violin, she waited 
 for a while in the ground-floor of the building ; but still hear- 
 ing nothing, she ascended to the first floor. Here, likewise, 
 all was silence. She hesitated, but at length ventured up the 
 next stair, beginning, however, to feel a little troubled as well 
 as eerie, the silence was so obstinately persistent. Was it 
 possible that there was no violin in that brown paper ? But 
 that boy could not be a liar. Passing shelves piled up with 
 stores of old thread, she still went on, led by a curiosity 
 stronger than her gathering fear. At last she came to a little 
 room, the door • of which was open, and there she saw Robert 
 lying on the floor with his head in a pool of blood. 
 
 Now Mary St. John was both brave and kind ; and, there- 
 fore, though not insensible to the fact that she, too, must be in 
 danger where violence had been used to a boy, she set about 
 assisting him at once. His face was deathlike, but she did not 
 think he was dead. She drew him out into the passage, for 
 the room was close, and did all she could to recover him ; but 
 for some time he did not even breathe.. At last his lips moved^ 
 and he murmured : — 
 
 " Sandy, Sandy, ye've broken my bonnie leddy." 
 
 Then he opened bis eyes, and seeing a face to dream about 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 133 
 
 bending in kind consternation oyer him, closed them again 
 with a smile and a sigh, as if to prolong his dream. 
 
 The blood now came fast into his forsaken cheeks, and began 
 to. flow again from the wound in his head. The lady bound 
 it up with her handkerchief. After a little he rose, though 
 with di£5culty, and stared wildly about him, saying, with im- 
 perfect articulation, "Father! father!" Then he looked at 
 Miss St. John with a kind of dazed inquiry in his eyes, tried 
 Beveral times to speak, and could not. 
 
 " Can you walk at all? " asked Miss St. John, supporting 
 him, for she was anxious to leave the place. 
 
 "Yes, mem, weel eneuch," he answered. 
 
 " Come along, then. I will help you home." 
 
 " Na, na," he said, as if he had just recalled something 
 " Dinna min' me. Rin hame, mem, or he'll see ye ! " 
 
 " Who will see me ? " 
 
 Robert stared more wildly, put his hand to his head, and 
 made no reply. She half led, half supported him down the 
 stairs as far as the first landing, when he cried out in a tone 
 of anguish : — 
 
 " My bonny leddy ! " 
 
 "What is it?" asked Miss St. John, thinking he meant 
 her. 
 
 ' ' My fiddle ! my fiddle ! She'll be a' in bits," he answered, 
 and turned to go up again. 
 
 " Sit down here," said Miss St. John, " and I'll fetch it." 
 
 Though not without some tremor, she darted back to the 
 room. Then she turned faint for the first time, but, deter- 
 minedly supporting herself, she looked about, saw a brown- 
 paper parcel on a shelf, took it, and hurried out with a 
 shudder. 
 
 Robert stood leaning against the wall. He stretched out 
 his hands eagerly. 
 
 " Gie me her. Gie me her." 
 
 " You had better let me carry it. You are not able." 
 
 " Na, na, mem. Ye dinna ken hoo easy she is to hurt." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do ! " returned Miss St. John, smiling, and 
 Robert could not withstand the smile. 
 
 " Weel, tak' care o' her, as ye wad o' yer ain sel', mem," 
 he said, yielding. 
 
184 BOBERT FALCONER. 
 
 He was now much better, and, before he had been two 
 minutes in the open air, insisted that he was quite well. When 
 they reached Captain Forsyth's garden he again held out hia 
 hands for his violin. 
 
 "No, no," said his new friend. "You wouldn't have 
 Betty see you like that, would you ? " 
 
 " No, mem ; but I'll put in the fiddle at my ain window, 
 and she sanna hae a chance o' seein' 't," answered Robert, not 
 understanding her ; for though he felt a good deal of pain, he 
 had no idea what a dreadful appearance he presented. 
 
 " Don't you know that you have a wound on your head? " 
 asked Miss St. John. 
 
 " Na ! hev I ? " said Robert, putting up his band. " But 
 I maun gang, — there's nae helf^ for 't," he added. "If I 
 cud only win to my ain room ohn Betty seen me ! Eh ! mem, 
 I hae spoiled a' yer bonny goon. That's a sair vex." 
 
 "Never mind it," returned Miss St. John, smiling. "It 
 is of no consequence. But you must come with me. I must 
 see what I can do for your head. Poor boy ! " 
 
 " Eh, mem ! but ye are kin' ! If ye speik like that ye'll 
 gar me greit. Naebody ever spak' to me like that afore. 
 Maybe ye knew my mamma. Ye're sae like her." 
 
 This word mamma was the only remnant of her that lingered 
 in his speech. Had she lived he would have spoken very differ- 
 ently. They were now walking towards the house. 
 
 " No, I did not know your mamma. Is she dead ? " 
 
 " Lang syne, mem. And sae they tell me is yours." 
 
 " Yes ; and my father too. Your father is alive, I hope ?" 
 
 Robert made no answer. Miss St. John turned. 
 
 The boy had a strange look, and seemed struggling with 
 Bomething in his throat. She thought he was going to faint 
 again, and hurried him into the drawing-room. Her aunt had 
 not yet left her room, and her uncle was out. 
 
 " Sit down," she said, — so kindly, — and Robert sat down 
 on the edge of a chair. Then she left the room, but presently 
 returned with a little brandy. " There," she said, offering tha 
 glass, " that will do you good." 
 
 "What is 't, mem?" 
 
 " Brandy. There's water in it, of course." 
 
 " I daurna touch 't. Grannie cudna bide me to touch 't." 
 
ROBERT TALCONEB. 135 
 
 So determined was he, that Miss St. John was forced to 
 yield. Perhaps she wondered that the boy who would deceive 
 his grandmother about a violin should be so immovable in re- 
 garding her pleasure in the matter of a needful medicine. But 
 in this fact 1 begin to see the very Falconer of my manhood's 
 worship. 
 
 " Eh, mem ! If ye wad play something upo' her,'" he re- 
 sumed, pointing to the piano, which, although he had never 
 seen one before, he at once recognized by some hidden mental 
 operation as the source of the sweet sounds heard at the win- 
 dow, " it wad du me mair guid than a hail bottle o' brandy, or 
 whuskey either." 
 
 " IIow do you know that? " asked Miss St. John, proceed- 
 ing to sponge the wound. • 
 
 " 'Cause mony's the time I hae stud oot there i' the street, 
 hearkenin'. Dooble Sanny says 'at ye play jist as if ye war 
 my gran'father's fiddle hersel', turned into the bonniest cratur 
 ever God made." 
 
 " How did you get such a terrible cut? " 
 
 She had removed the hair, and found that the injury was 
 severe. 
 
 The boy was silent. She glanced round in his face. He 
 was staring as if he saw nothing, heard nothing. She would 
 try again. 
 
 " Did you fall? Or how did you cut your head? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, mem, I fell," he answered, hastily, with an air 
 of relief, and possibly with some tone of gratitude for the sug- 
 gestion of a true answer. 
 
 "What made you fall?" 
 
 Utter silence again. She felt a kind of turn — I do not 
 know another word to express what I mean ; the boy must 
 have fits, and either could not tell, or was ashamed to tell, 
 what had befallen him. Thereafter she, too, was silent, and 
 Robert thought she was offended. Possibly he felt a change 
 in the touch of her fingers. 
 
 " Mem, I wad like to tell ye," he said, " but I daurna." 
 
 " Oh ! never mind," she returned, kindly. 
 
 " Wad ye promise nae to tell waebody ? " 
 
 "I don't want to know," she answered, confirmed in her 
 
136 KOBERT FALCONER. 
 
 suspicion, and at the same time ashamed of the alteration of 
 feeling which the discovery had occasioned. 
 
 An unojmfortable silence followed, broken by Robert. 
 
 "If ye binna pleased wi' me, mem," he said, "I canna 
 bide ye to gang on wi' siccan a job 's that." 
 
 How Miss St. John could have understood him, I cannot 
 think ; but she did. 
 
 "Oh! very well," she answered, smiling. "Just as you 
 please. Perhaps you had better take this piece of plaster to 
 Betty^ and ask her to finish the dressing for you." 
 
 Robert took the plaster mechanically, and, sick at heart and 
 speechless, rose to go. forgetting even his honny leddy in his 
 grief. 
 
 "You had better take your violin with you," said Miss St. 
 John, urged to the cruel experiment by a strong desire to see 
 what the strange boy would do. 
 
 He turned. The tears were streaming down his odd face. 
 They went to her heart, and she was bitterly ashamed of 
 herself 
 
 " Come along. Do sit down again. I only wanted to see 
 what you would do. I am very sorry," she said, in a tone 
 of kindness such as Robert had never imagined. 
 
 He sat down instantly, saying : — 
 
 " Eh, mem ! it's sair to bide ; " meaning, no doubt, the 
 conflict between his inclination to tell her all, and his duty to 
 be silent. 
 
 The dressing was soon finished, his hair combed down over 
 it, and Robert looking once more respectable. 
 
 " Now, I think that will do," said his nurse. 
 
 " Eh, thank ye, mem ! " answered Robert, rising. " Whan 
 I'm able to play upo' the fiddle as weel 's ye play upo' the 
 plana, I'll come and play at yer window ilka nicht, as lang 'a 
 ye like to hearken." 
 
 She smiled, and he was satisfied. He did not dare again 
 ask her to play to him. But she said of herself, "Now I 
 will play something to you, if you like," and he resumed his 
 seat devoutly. 
 
 When she had finished a lovely little air, which sounded t</ 
 Robert like the touch of her hands, and her breath on his 
 forehead, she looked, round, and was satisfied, from the rnpt 
 
ItOBERT FALCONER. 137 
 
 expression of the boy's countenance, that at least he had 
 plenty of musical sensibility. As if despoiled of volition, he 
 stood motionless till she said : — 
 
 •' Now you had better go, or Betty will miss you." 
 
 Then he made her a bow in which awkwardness and grace 
 were curiously mingled, and taking up his precious parcel, 
 and holding it to his bosom as if it had been a child for whom 
 he felt an access of tenderness, he slowly left the room and 
 the house. 
 
 Not even to Shargar did he communicate his adventure. 
 And he went no more to the deserted factory to play there.' 
 Fate had again interposed between him and his bonny leddy. 
 
 When he reached Bodyfauld he fancied his grandmother's 
 eyes more watchful of him than usual, and he strove the more 
 to resist the weariness, and even faintness, that urged him to 
 go to bed. Whether he was able to hide as well a certain 
 trouble that clouded his spirit I doubt. His wound he did 
 manage to keep a secret, thanks to the care of Miss St. John, 
 who had dressed it with court-plaster. 
 
 When he woke the next morning, it was with the conscious- 
 ness of having seen something strange the night before, and 
 only when he found that he was not in his own room at hia 
 grandmother's was he convinced that it must have been a 
 dream and no vision. For in the night, he had awaked there, 
 as he thought, and the moon was shining with such clearness, 
 that although it did not shine into his room, he could see 
 the face of the clock, and that the hands were both together at 
 the top. Close by the clock stood the bureau, with its end 
 against the partition forming the head of his grannie's bed. 
 
 All at once he saw a tall man, in a blue coat and bright 
 buttons, about to open the lid of the bureau. The same 
 moment he saw a little elderly man in a brown coat and a 
 brown wig, by his side, who sought to remove his hand from 
 the lock. Next appeared a huge stalwart figure, in shabby 
 old ta.'tans, and laid his hand on the head of each. But the 
 wonder widened, and grew ; for now came a stately Highlander, 
 with his broadsword by his side, and an eagle's feather in his 
 bonnet, who laid his hand on the other Higlilander's arm. 
 
 When Robert looked in the direction whence this had 
 appeared, the head of his grannie's bed had vanished, and a 
 
138 KOBERT FALCONER, 
 
 wild hill-side, covered with stones and heather, sloped away 
 into the distance. Over it passed man after man, each with 
 an ancestral air, while on the gray sea to the left, galleys, 
 covered with Norsemen, tore up the white foam, and dashed 
 one after the otuer up to the strand. How long he gazed, he 
 did not know, but when he withdrew his eyes from the ex- 
 tended scene, there stood the figure of his father, still trying 
 to open the lid of the bureau, his grandfather resisting him, 
 the blind piper with his hand on the head of both, and the 
 stately chief with his hand on the piper's arm. Then a mist 
 of forgetfulness gathered over the whole, till at last he awoke 
 and found himself in the little wooden chamber at Bodyfauld, 
 and not in thevisioned room. Doubtless his loss of blood the 
 day before had something to do with the dream or vision, 
 whichever the reader may choose to consider it. He rose, and 
 after a good breakfast, found himself very little the worse, 
 and forgot all about his dream, till a circumstance which took 
 place not long after recalled it vividly to his mind. 
 
 The enchantment of Bodyfauld soon wore off. The boys 
 had no time to enter into the full enjoyment of country ways, 
 because of those weary lessons, over the getting of which Mrs. 
 Falconer kept as strict a watch as ever ; while to Robert the 
 evening journey, his violin and Miss St. John left at Rothie- 
 den, grew more than tame. The return was almost as happy 
 an event to him as the first going. Mow he could resume his 
 lessons with the shoemaker. 
 
 With Shargar it was otherwise. The freedom for so much 
 longer from Mrs. Falconer's eyes was in itself so much of a 
 positive pleasure, that the walk twice a day, tlie fresh air, and 
 the scents and sounds of the country, only came in as supple- 
 mentary. But I do not believe the boy even then had so 
 much happiness as when he was beaten and starved by hia 
 own mother. And Robert, growing more and more absorbed 
 in his own thoughts and pursuits, paid him less and less at- 
 tention, as the weeks went on, till Shargar at length judged 
 it for a time an evil day on which he first had slept under old 
 Ronald Falconer's kilt. 
 
ROBERT I'ALCONEB. 139 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 NATURE PUTS IN A CLAIM. 
 
 Before the day of return arrived, Robert had taken care to 
 remove the violin from his bedroom, and carry it once more to 
 its old retreat in Shargar's garret. The very first evening, 
 however, that grannie again spent in her own arm-chair, he 
 hied from the house as soon as it grew dusk, and made hia 
 way with his brown-paper parcel to Sandy Elshender's. 
 
 Entering the narrow passage from which his shop-door 
 opened, and hearing him hammering away at a sole, he stood 
 and unfolded his treasure, then drew a low sigh from her 
 with his bow, and awaited the result. He heard the lap-stone 
 fall thunderiag on the floor, and, like a spider from his cavern, 
 Dooble Sandy appeared in the door, with the SencZ-leather in 
 one hand, and the hammer in the other. 
 
 " Lordsake, man ! hae ye gotten her again ? Gie's a grup 
 o' her ! " he cried, dropping leather and hammer. 
 
 " Na, na," returned Robert, retreating towards the outer 
 door. " Ye maun sweir upo' her that, whan I want her, I 
 sail hae her ohn demur, or I sanna lat ye lay reset upo' her." 
 
 "I sweir 't, Robert; I sweir 't upo' her" said the shoe- 
 maker hurriedly, stretching out both his hands as if to receive 
 some human being into his embrace. 
 
 Robert placed the violin in those grimy hands. A look of 
 heavenly delight dawned over the hirsute and dirt-besmeared 
 countenance, which drooped into tenderness as he drew the 
 bow across the instrument, and wiled from her a thin wail as 
 of sorrow at their long separation. He then retreated into 
 his den, and was soon sunk in a trance, deaf to everything but 
 the violin, from which no entreaties of Robert, who longed for 
 a lesson, could rouse him ; so that he had to go home griev- 
 ously disappointed, and unrewarded for the risk he had run in 
 venturing the stolen visit. 
 
 ■Next time, however, he fared better ; and he contrived so 
 well that, from the middle of June to the end of August, he 
 had two lessons a week, mostly upon the afternoon of holidays. 
 
140 ROBERT FALCONBK. 
 
 For these his master thought himself well paid by the use of 
 the instrument between. And Robert made great progress. 
 
 Occasionally he saw Miss St. John in the garden, and once 
 or twice met her in the town ; but her desire to find in him a 
 pupil had been greatly quenched by her unfortunate con- 
 jecture as to the cause of his accident. She had, however, 
 gone so far as to mention the subject to her aunt, who assured 
 her that old Mrs. Falconer would as soon consent to his being 
 taught gambling as music. The idea, therefore, passed away ; 
 and beyond a kind word or two when she met him, there was 
 no further communication between them. But Robert would 
 often dream of waking from a swoon, and finding his head 
 lying on her lap, and her lovely face bending over him full 
 of kindness and concern. 
 
 By the way, Robert cared nothing for poetry. Virgil was 
 too troublesome to be enjoyed ; and in English he had met 
 with nothing but the dried leaves and gum-flower« of the last 
 century. Miss Letty once lent him " The Lady of the 
 Lake," but before he had read the first canto through, his 
 grandmother laid her hands upon it, and, without saying a 
 word, dropped it behind a loose skirting-board in the pantry, 
 where the mice soon made it a ruin sad to behold. For Miss 
 Letty, having heard from the woful Robert of its strange dis- 
 appearance, and guessing its cause, applied to Mrs. Falconer 
 for the volume ; who forthwith, the tongs aiding, extracted it 
 from its hole, and without shade of embarrassment, held it up 
 like a drowned kitten before the eyes of Miss Letty, intending 
 thereby, no doubt, to impress her with the fate of all seducing 
 spirits that should attempt an entrance into her kingdom. 
 Miss Letty only burst into merry laughter over its fate. So 
 the lode of poetry failed for the present from Robert's life. 
 Nor did it matter much ; for had he not his violin ? 
 
 I have, I think, already indicated that his grandfather had 
 been a linen manufacturer. Although that trade had ceased, 
 his family had still retained the bleachery belonging to it, com- 
 monly called the bleach-field, devoting it now to the service of 
 those large calico manufactures which had ruined the trade in 
 linen, and to the whitening of such yarn as the country house- 
 wives still spun at home, and the webs they got woven of it in 
 private looms. To Robert and Shargar it was a wondroua 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 141 
 
 pleasure when the pile of linen which the week had accnmu- 
 lated at the oflSce under the ga'le-roon; was on Saturday 
 heaped high upon the base of a broad-wheeled cart, to get up 
 on it and be carried to the said bleach-field, which lay along 
 the bank of the river. Soft-laid and high-borne, gazing into 
 the blue sky, thoy traversed the streets in a holiday triumph ; 
 and although, once arrived, the manager did not fail to get 
 some labor out of them, yet the store of amusement was end- 
 less. The great wheel, which drove the whole machinery ; the 
 plash-mill, or, more properly, wauk-niill, — a word Robert 
 derived from the resemblance of the mallets to two huge feet, 
 and of their motion to walking, — with the water plashing 
 and squirting from the blows of their heels ; the beetles thun- 
 dering in arpeggio upon the huge cylinder round which the 
 white cloth was wound, — each was haunted in its turn and 
 season. The pleasure of the water itself was inexhaustible. 
 Here sweeping in a mass along the race ; there divided into 
 branches and hurrying through the walls of the various houses ; 
 here sliding through a wooden channel across the floor to fall 
 into the river in a half-concealed cataract, there bubbling up 
 through the bottom of a huge wooden cave or vat, there rest- 
 ing placid in another ; here gurgling along a spout ; there 
 flowing in a narrow canal through the green expanse of th* 
 well-mown bleach-field, or lifted from it in narrow, curved 
 wooden scoops, like fairy canoes with long handles, and flung 
 in showers over the outspread yarn, — the water was an end- 
 less delight. 
 
 It is strange how some individual broidery or figure upon 
 Nature's garment will delight a boy long before he has ever 
 looked Nature in the face, or begun to love herself. But 
 Robert was soon to become dimly conscious of a life within 
 these things, — a life not the less real that its operations on 
 his mind had been long unrecognized. 
 N, On the grassy bank of the gently flowing river, at the othei 
 edge of whose level the little canal squabbled along, and on the 
 grassy brae which rose immediately from the canal, were 
 stretched, close beside each other, with scarce a stripe of green 
 betwixt, the long white webs of linen, fastened down to the 
 Boft, mossy ground with wooden pegs whose tops were twisted 
 into their edges. Strangely would they billow in the wind 
 
142 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 sometimes, like sea-waves, frozen and enchanted flat, seekmg 
 to rise and wallow in the wind with conscious depth and 
 whelining mass. But generally they lay supine, saturated 
 with light and its cleansing power. Falconer's jubilation in 
 the white and green of a little boat, as we lay, one bright 
 morning, on the banks of the Thames, between Richmond and 
 Twickenham, led to such a description of the bleach-field that 
 I can write about it as if I had known it myself 
 
 One Saturday afternoon in the end of July, when the west- 
 ering sun was hotter than at midday, he went down to the 
 lower end of the field, where the river was confined by a dam, 
 and plunged from the bank into deep water. After a swim of 
 half an hour, he ascended the higher part of the field, and lay 
 down upon a broad web to bask in the sun. In his ears was 
 the hush rather than rush of the water over the dam, the 
 occasional murmur of a belt of trees that skirted the border of 
 the field, and the dull, continuous sound of the beetles at their 
 work below, like a persistent growl of thunder on the horizon. 
 
 Had Robert possessed a copy of " Robinson Crusoe," or 
 had his grandmother not cast the " Lady of the Lake," mistak- 
 ing it for an idol, if not to the moles and the bats, yet to the 
 mice and the black beetles, he might have been lying reading 
 it, blind and deaf to the face and the voice of Nature, and 
 years might have passed before a response awoke in his heart. 
 It is good that children of faculty, as distinguished from 
 capacity, should not have too many books to read, or too much 
 of early lessoning. The increase of examinations in our coun- 
 try will increase its capacity and diminish its faculty. We 
 shall have more compilers and reducers, and fewer thinkers ; 
 more modifiers and jompleters, and fewer inventors. 
 
 He lay gazing up into the depth of the sky, rendered deeper 
 and bluer by the masses of white cloud that hung almost mo- 
 tionless below it, until he felt a kind of bodily fear lest he 
 should fall off the face of the round earth into the abyss. A 
 gentle wind, laden with pine odors from the sun-heated trees 
 behind him, flapped its light wing in his face : the humanity 
 of the world smote his heart ; the great sky towered up over 
 him, and its divinity entered his soul ; a strange longing after 
 something " he knew not nor could name " awoke within him, 
 followed by the pang of a sudden fear that there was no such 
 
ROBERT FALCOKBR. 143 
 
 thing as that which he sought, that it was all a fancy of hia 
 own spirit ; and then the voice of Shargar broke the spell, 
 calling to him from afar to come and see a great salmon that 
 lay by a stone in the water. But, once aroused, the feeling 
 was never stilled ; the desire never left him ; sometimes grow- 
 ing even to a passion that was relieved only by a flood of tears. 
 
 Strange as it may sound to those who have never thought 
 of such things save in connection with Sundays and Bibles 
 and churches and sermons, that which was now working in 
 Ealconer's mind was the first dull and faint movement of the 
 greatest need that the human heart possesses, — the need of 
 the God-Man. There must be truth in the scent of that pine- 
 wood : some one must mean it. There must be a glory in 
 those heavens that depends not upon our imagination : some 
 power greater than they must dwell in them. Some spirit 
 must move in that wind that haunts us with a kind of human 
 sorrow : some soul must look up to us from the eye of that 
 starry flower. It must be something human, else not to us 
 divine. 
 
 Little did Eobert think that such was his need, — that his 
 soul was searching after One whose form was constantly pre- 
 sented to him, but as constantly obscured and made unlovely 
 by the words without knowledge spoken in the religious assem- 
 blies of the land ; that he was longing witliout knowing it on 
 the Saturday for that from which on the Sunday he would be 
 repelled without knowing it. Years passed before he drew 
 nigh to the knowledge of what he sought. 
 
 For weeks the mood broken by the voice of his companion 
 did not return, though the forms of nature were henceforth full 
 of a pleasure he had never known before. He loved the grass; 
 the water was more gracious to him ; he would leave his bed 
 early, that he might gaze on the clouds of the east, with their 
 borders gold-blasted with sunrise ; he would linger in the 
 fields, that the amber and purple, and green and red, of the 
 sunset, might not escape after the sun unseen. And as long 
 as he felt the mystery, the revelation of the mystery lay be- 
 fore and not behind him. 
 
 And Shargar, — had he any soul for such things ? Doubt- 
 less ; but how could he be other than lives behind Robert ? 
 .For the latter bad ancestors, — that is, he came of people with 
 
144 EGBERT JALCONER. 
 
 a mental and spiritual history ; while the former had been 
 born the birth of an animal ; of a noble sire, whose familj had 
 for generations filled the earth with fire, famine, slaughter, and 
 licentiousness ; and of a wandering, outcast mother, who blindly 
 loved the fields and woods, but retained her aflection for her 
 oflFspring scarcely beyond the period while she suckled them. 
 The love of freedom and of wild animals that she had given 
 him, however, was far more precious than any share his male 
 ancestor had borne in his mental constitution. After his fash- 
 ion he as well as Robert enjoyed the sun and the wind and the 
 water and the sky ; but he had sympathies with the salmon 
 and the rooks and the wild rabbits even stronger than those 
 of Bobert. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ROBERT STEALS HIS OWN. 
 
 The period of the Jiairst-play, that is, of the harvest holi- 
 day time, drew near, and over the north of Scotland thousands 
 of half-grown hearts were beating with glad anticipation. Of 
 the usual devices of boys to cheat themselves into the half-be- 
 lief of expediting a blessed approach by marking its rate, 
 Robert knew nothing ; even the notching of sticks was un- 
 known at Rothieden ; but he had a mode notwithstanding. 
 Although indifferent to the games of his school-fellows, there 
 was one amusement, a solitary one, nearly, and therein not 
 BO good as most amusements, into which lie entered with the 
 whole energy of his nature : it was kite-ilying. The moment 
 that the hairst-play approached near enough to strike its image 
 through the eyes of his mind, Robert proceeded to make his kite, 
 or draigon, as he called it. Of how many pleasures does 
 pocket-money deprive the unfortunate possessor! What ia the 
 going into a shop and buying what you want, compared with 
 the gentle delight of hours and days filled with gaining effort 
 after the attainment of your end ? Never boy that bought his 
 kite, even if the adornment thereafter lay In his own hands, 
 
ROBEKT FALCONER. 145 
 
 and the pictures were gorgeous with color and gilding, could 
 have half the enjoyment of Robert from the moment he went 
 to the cooper's to ask for an old gird or hoop, to the moment 
 when he said, " Noo, Shargar ! " and the kite rose slowly 
 from the depth of the aerial flood. The hoop was carefully 
 examined, the best portion cut away from it, that pared to a 
 light strength, its ends confined to the proper curve by a string, 
 and then away went Robert to the wrighfs shop. There a 
 slip of wood, of proper length and thickness, was readily 
 granted to his request, free as the daisies of the field. Oh ! 
 those horrid town conditions, where nothing is given for the 
 asking, but all sold for money ! In Robert's kite the only 
 thing that cost money was the string to fly it with-, and that 
 the grandmother willingly provided, for not even her ingenuity 
 could discover any evil, direct or implicated, in kite-flying. 
 Indeed, I believe the old lady felt not a little sympathy with 
 the exultation of the boy when he saw his kite far aloft, 
 diminished to a speck in the vast blue ; a sympathy, it may 
 be, rooted in the religious aspirations which .she did so much 
 at once to rouse and to suppress in the bosom of her grand- 
 child. But I have not yet reached the kite-flying, for I have 
 said nothing of the kite's tail, for the sake of which princi- 
 pally I began to describe the process of its growth. 
 
 As soon as the body of tho dragon was completed, Robert 
 attached to its spine the string which was to take the place of its 
 caudal elongation, and at a proper distance from the body 
 joined to the string the first of the cross-pieces of folded paper 
 which in this animal represent the continued vertebral proces- 
 ses. Every morning, the moment he issued from his cham- 
 ber, he proceeded to the garret, where the monster lay, to add 
 yet another joint to his tail, until at length the day should 
 arrive when, the lessons over for a blessed eternity of five or 
 six weeks, he would tip the whole with a piece of wood, to 
 which grass, quantum siiff. , might be added from the happy 
 fields. 
 
 Upon this occasion the dragon was a monster one. With a 
 little help from Shargar, he had laid a skeleton of a'six-foot 
 specimen, and had carried the body to a satisfactory comple- 
 tion. 
 
 The tail was still growing, having as yet only sixteen joints, 
 10 
 
146 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 when Mr. Lammie called with an invitation for the boys to spend 
 their holidays with him. It was fortunate for Eobert that ha 
 was in the room when Mr. Lammie presented his petition, 
 otherwise he would never have heard of it till the day of de- 
 parture arrived, and would thus have lost all the delights of 
 anticipation. In frantic effort to control his ecstasy, he sped 
 to the garret, and with trembling hands tied the second joint 
 of the day to the tail of the dragon, — the first time he had 
 ever broken the law of its accretion. Once broken, that law 
 was henceforth an object of scorn, and the tail grew with 
 frightful rapidity. It was indeed a great dragon. And none 
 of the paltry fields about Kothieden sliould be honored with 
 its first flight, but from Bodyfauld should the majestic child 
 of earth ascend into the regions of upper air. 
 
 My reader may here be tempted to remind me that Robert 
 had been only too glad to return to Rothieden from his former 
 visit. But I must in my turn remind him that the circum- 
 stances were changed. In the first place, the fiddle was sub- 
 stituted for grannie ; and in the second, the dragon for the 
 school. 
 
 The making of this dragon was a happy thing for Shargar, 
 and a yet happier thing for Robert, in that it introduced again 
 for a time some community of interest between them. Shar- 
 gar was happier than he had been for many a day, because 
 Robert used. him; and Robert was yet happier than Shargar, 
 in that his conscience, which had reproached him for his 
 neglect of him, was now silent. But not even his dragon had 
 turned aside his attentions from his violin ; and many were 
 the consultations between the boys as to how best she might 
 be transported to Bodyfauld, where endless opportunities of 
 aolding communion Avith her would not be wanting. The 
 difficulty was only how to get her clear of Rothieden. 
 
 The play commenced on a Saturday ; but not till the Mon- 
 «ay were they set at liberty. Wearily the hours of mental 
 labor and bodily torpidity which tiie Scotch called the Sabbath 
 passed away, and at length the millennial morning dawned. 
 Robert and Shargar were up before the sun. But strenuous 
 were the efforts they made to suppress all indications of excite- 
 ment, lest grannie, fearing the immoral influence of gladness, 
 should give orders to delay their departure for an awfully in- 
 
ROBERT FALCOKBR. 147 
 
 definite period, which might be an hour, a day, or even a 
 week. I-Iorrible conception ! Their behavior was so decorous 
 that not even a hinted threat escaped the lips of Mrs. Fal- 
 coner. 
 
 They set out three hours before noon, carrying the great 
 kite, and Robert's school-bag, of green baize, full of sundries ; 
 a cart from Bodyfauld was to fetch their luggage later in the 
 day. As soon as they were clear of the houses, Shargar lay 
 down behind a dyke with the kite, and Robert set off at full 
 speed for Dooble Sanny's shop, making a half-circuit of the 
 town to avoid the chance of being seen by grannie or Be^ty. 
 Having given due warning before, he found the brown-paper 
 parcel ready for him, and carried it off in fearful triumpl). 
 He joined Shargar in safety, and they set out on their jour- 
 ney as rich and happy a pair of tramps as ever tramped, 
 having six weeks of their own in their pockets to spend and 
 not spare. 
 
 A hearty welcome awaited them, and they were soon rev- 
 elling in the glories of the place, the first instalment of which 
 was in the shape of curds and cream, with oat-cake and butter, 
 as much as they liked. After this they would "e'en to it like 
 French falconers " with their kite, for the wind had been blowing 
 bravely all the morning, having business to do with the har- 
 vest. The season of stubble not yet arrived, they were lim- 
 ited to the pasturage and moorland, which, however, large as 
 their kite was, were spacious enough. Slowly the great- 
 headed creature arose from thei hands of Shargar, and ascended 
 about twenty feet, when, as if seized with a sudden fit of 
 wrath or fierce indignation, it turned right round and dashed 
 itself with headlong fury to the earth, as if sooner than submit 
 to such influences a moment longer it would beat out its brains 
 at once. 
 
 "Ithasna half tail eneuch," cried Robert. "It's queer 
 'at things winna gang up ohn hauden them down. Pu' a 
 guid ban' fu' o' clover, Shargar. She's had her fa', an' noo 
 she'll gang up a' richt. She's nane tlie waur o' 't." 
 
 Upon the next attempt, the kite rose triumphantly. But' 
 just as it reached the length of the string it shot into a faster 
 current of air, and Robert found himself first dragged along 
 in spite of hia efforts, and then lifted from his feet. Aftei 
 
118 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 carrying him a few yards, the dragon broke ita string, dropped 
 him in a ditch, and, drifting away, went fluttering and 
 waggling downwards in the distance. 
 
 " Luik whaur she gangs, Shargar," cried Robert, from the 
 ditch. 
 
 Experience coming to his aid, Shargar took landmarks of 
 the direction in which it went ; and ere long they found it 
 with its tail entangled in the topmost branches of a hawthorn- 
 tree, and its head beating the ground at its foot. It was at 
 once agreed that they would not fly it again till they got some 
 stronger string. 
 
 Having heard the adventure, Mr. Lammie produced a shil- 
 ling from the pocket of his corduroys, and gave it to Robert 
 to spend upon the needful string. He resolved to go to the 
 town the next morning and make a grand purchase of the 
 same. During the afternoon he roamed about the farm with 
 his hands in his pockets, revolving if not many memories, yet 
 many questions, while Shargar followed like a pup at the heels 
 of Miss Lammie, to whom, during his former visit, he had 
 become greatly attached. 
 
 In the evening, resolved to make a confidant of Mr. 
 Lammie, and indeed to cast himself upon the kindness of tlie 
 household generally, Robert went up to his room to release 
 his violin from its prison of brown paper. What was his dis- 
 may to find — not his bonny leddy, but her poor cousin, the 
 shoemaker's auld wife ! It was too bad. Dooble Sanny 
 indeed ! 
 
 He first stared, then went into a rage, and then camo out 
 of it to go into a resolution. He replaced the unwelcome 
 fiddle in the parcel, and came downstairs gloomy and still 
 wrathful, but silent. The evening passed over, and the in- 
 habitants of the farm-house went early to bed. Robert tossed 
 about fuming on his. He had not undressed. 
 
 About eleven o'clock, after all had been still for more than 
 an hour, he took his shoes in one hand and the brown parcel 
 in the other, and, descending the stairs like a thief, undid the 
 quiet wooden bar that secured the door, and let himself out. 
 AH was darkness, for the moon was not yet up, and he felt a 
 strange sensation of ghostliness in himself, — awake and out 
 of doors, when he ought to be asleep and unconscious in bei 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 143 
 
 He had never been out so late before, and felt as if walking 
 in the region of the dead, existing when and where he had no 
 business to exist. For it was the time Nature kept for her 
 own quiet, and having once put her children to bed, — hidden 
 them away with the world wiped out of them ; enclosed them 
 in her ebony box, as George Herbert says, — she did not ex- 
 pect to have her hours of undress and meditation intruded 
 upon by a fenturesome school-boy. Yet she let him pass. 
 He put on his shoes and hurried to the road. He heard a 
 horse stamp in the stable, and saw a cat dart across the corn- 
 yard as he went through. These were all the signs of life 
 about the place. 
 
 It was a cloudy night and still. Nothing was to be heard 
 but his own footsteps. The cattle in the fields were all asleep. 
 The larch and spruce-trees on the top of the hill by the foot 
 of which his road wound were still as clouds. He could just 
 see the sky through their stems. It was washed with the 
 faintest of light, for the moon, far below, was yet climbing to- 
 wards the horizon. A star or two sparkled where the clouds 
 broke, but so little light was there, that, until he had passed 
 the moorland on the hill, he could not get the horror of moss- 
 holes, and deep springs covered with treacherous green, out 
 of his head. But he never thought of turning. When the 
 fears of the way at length fell back and allowed his own 
 thoughts to rise, the sense of a presence, or of something that 
 might grow to a presence, was the first to awake in him. 
 The stillness seemed to be thinking all around his head. But 
 the way grew so dark, where it lay through a corner of the 
 pine-wood, that he had to feel the edge of the road with his 
 foot to make sure that he was keeping upon it, and the sense 
 of the silence vanished. Then he passed a farm, and the 
 motions of horses came through the dark, and a doubtful crow 
 from a young inexperienced cock, who did not yet know the 
 moon from the sun. Then a sleepy low in his ear startled 
 him, and made him quicken his pace involuntarily. 
 
 By the time he reached Rothieden all the lights were outj 
 and this was just what he wanted. 
 
 The economy of Dooble Sanny's abode was this : the outer 
 door was always left on the latch at night, because several 
 families lived in the house ; the shoemaker's workshop opened 
 
150 ROBERT PALOONER. 
 
 from the passage, close to the outer door, therefore its door waa 
 locked ; but the key hung on a nail just inside the shoemaker's 
 bedroom. All this Robert knew. 
 
 Arrived at the house, he lifted the latch, closed the door 
 behind him, took off his shoes once more, like a house-breaker, 
 as indeed he was, although a righteous one, and felt his way to 
 and up the stair to the bedroom. There was a sound of snor- 
 ing within. The door was a little ajar. He reached the key 
 and descended, his heart beating more and more wildly as he 
 approached the realization of his hopes. Gently as he could 
 he turned it in the lock. In a moment more he had his hands 
 on the spot where the shoemaker always laid his violin. But 
 his heart sank within him : there was no violin there. A blank 
 of dismay held him both motionless and thoughtless ; nor had 
 he recovered his senses before he heard footsteps, which he well 
 knew, approaching in the street. He slunk at once into a 
 corner. Elshender entered, feeling bis way carefully, and 
 muttering at his wife. He was tipsy, most likely, but that 
 had never yet interfered with the safety of his fiddle ; Robert 
 heard. its faint echo as he laid it gently down. Nor was he too 
 tipsy to lock the door behind him, leaving Robert incarcerated- 
 amongst the old boots and leather and rosin. 
 
 For one moment only did the boy's heart fail him. The 
 next he was in action, for a happy thought had already struck 
 him. f lastily, that he might forestall sleep in the brain of the 
 shoemaker, he undid his parcel, and, after carefully enveloping 
 his own violin in the paper, took the old wife of the shoemaker, 
 and proceeded to perform upon her a trick which in a merry 
 moment his master had taught him, and which, not without 
 some feeling of irreverence, he had occasionally practised upon 
 his own bonny leddy. 
 
 The shoemaker's room was overhead ; its thin floor of planks 
 was the ceiling of the workshop. Ere Dooble Sanny was well 
 laid by the side of his sleeping wife, he heard a frightful sound 
 from below, as of some one tearing his beloved violin to pieces. 
 No sound of rending coffin-planks or rising dead would have 
 been so horrible in the ears of the shoemaker. He sprang from 
 his bed with a haste that shook the crazy tenement to its foun< 
 dation. 
 
 The moment Robert heard that, he put the violin in its place. 
 
■ROBERT FALCONER. 151 
 
 and took- his station- by the door-cheek. The shoemaker came 
 tumbling down the stair, and rushed at the door, but found 
 that he Had to go back for the key. When, with uncertain 
 hand, he Lad opened at length, he went straight to the litst of 
 hia treasuie, and Robert, slipping out noiselessly, was in the 
 next street Ijefore Dooble Sanny, having found the fiddle un- 
 injured, and not discovering the substitution, had finished con- 
 cluding that the whiskey and his imagination had played him 
 a very discourteous trick between them, and retired once more 
 to bed. And not till Robert had cut his foot badly with a 
 piece of glass, did he discover that he had left his shoes behind 
 him. He tied it up with his handkerchief, and limped home 
 the three miles, too happy to think of consequences. 
 
 Before he had gone far, the moon floated up on the horizon, 
 large and shaped like the broad side of a barrel. She stared 
 at him in amazement to see him out at such a time of the 
 night. But he grasped his violin and went on. He had no 
 fear now, even when he passed again over the desolate moss, 
 although he saw the stagnant pools glimmering about him in 
 the moonlight. And ever after this he had a fancy for roaming 
 at night. He reached home in safety, found the door as he had 
 left it, and ascended to his bed, triumphant in his fiddle. 
 
 In the morning bloody prints were discovered on the stair, 
 and traced to the door of his room. Miss Lammie entered in 
 some alarm, and found him fast asleep on his bed, still dressed, 
 with a brown-paper parcel in his arms, and one of his feet 
 evidently enough the source of the frightful stain. She was 
 too kind to wake him, and inquiry was postponed till they met 
 at breakfast, to which he descended barefooted, save for a 
 handkerchief on the injured foot. 
 
 " Robert, my lad," said Mr. Lammie, kindly, " hoo cam ye 
 by that bluidy fut ? " 
 
 Robert began the story, and, guided by a few questions from 
 his host, at length told the tale of the violin from beginning to 
 end, omitting only his adventure in the factory. Many a 
 guffaw from Mr. Lammie greeted its progress, and Miss 
 Lammie laughed till the tears rolled unheeded down her cheeks, 
 especially when Shargar, emboldened by the admiration Robert 
 had awakened, imparted his private share in the comedy, 
 namely, the entombment of Boston in a fifth-fold state : for the 
 
152 ROBERT FAlCCNfcB. 
 
 Lammies were none of the unco guid to be censorious upon 
 Buch exploits. The whole business advanced the boys in favoi 
 at Bodyfauld : and the entreaties of Robert that nothing should 
 reach his grandmother's ears were entirely unnecessary. 
 
 After breakfast Miss Lammie dressed the wounded foot. 
 But what was to be done for shoes, for Robert's Sunday pair 
 had been left at home ? Under ordinary circumstances it would 
 liave been no great hardship to him to go barefoot for the rest 
 of the autumn ; but the cut was rather a serious one. So his 
 feet were cased in a pair of Mr. Lammie's Sunday boots, which, 
 from their size, made it so difficult for him to get along, that 
 he did not go far from the doors, but revelled in the company 
 of his violin in the corn-yard amongst last year's ricks, in the 
 barn, and in the hayloft, playing all the tunes he knew, and 
 trying over one or two more from a very dirty old book of 
 Scotch airs, which his teacher had lent him. 
 
 In the evening, as they sat together after supper, Mr. Lam- 
 mie said : — 
 
 " Weel, Robert, hoo's the fiddle ? " 
 
 "Fine, I thank ye, sir," answered Robert. 
 
 " Lat 's hear what ye can do wi' 't." 
 
 Robert fetched the instrument and complied. 
 
 "That's no that ill," remarked the farmer. '•' But eh ! man, 
 ye suld hae heard yer gran'father han'le the bow. That was 
 something to hear — ance in a body's life. Ye wad hae jist 
 thocht the strings had been drawn frae his ain inside, he kent 
 them sae weel, and han'led them sae fine. He jist felt them 
 like wi' 's fingers throu' the bow an' the horsehair an' a', an' a' 
 the time he was drawin' the soun' like the sowl frae them, an' 
 they jist did onything 'at he likit. Eh ! to hear him play the 
 ' Flooers o' the Forest' wad hae garred ye greit." 
 
 " Cud my father play ? " asked Robert. 
 
 " Ay, well eneuch for Mm. He could do onything he likit 
 to try better nor middlni'. I never saw sic a man. He played 
 upo' the bagpipes, an' the flute, an' the bugle, an' I kenna 
 what a' ; but a'thegither they cam na within sicht o' his father 
 upo' the auld fiddle. Lat 's hae a luik at her." 
 
 He took the instrument in his hands reverently, turned it 
 over and over, and said : — 
 
 "Ay, ay; it's the same auld mull, an' I wat it ground 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 153 
 
 ooiiTiy meal. That sma' crater noo 'ill be worth a hunner poun', 
 1 3' warran','' he added, as he restored it carefully into 'Robert's 
 hands, to ■whom it was honey and spice to hear his bonny lady 
 paid her due honors. " Can ye play the ' Flooers 0' the Forest,' 
 noo ? " he added yet again. 
 
 " Ay can I," answered Robert, with some pride, and laid the 
 bow on the violin, and played the air through without blunder- 
 ing a single note. 
 
 " Weel, that's verra weel," said Mr. Lammie. " But it 's 
 nae mair like as yer gran'father played it, than gin there war 
 twa sawyers at it, ane at ilka lug 0' the bow, wi' the fiddle 
 atween them in a saw-pit." 
 
 Robert's heart sank within him ; but Mr. Lammie went on : — 
 
 " To hear the bow cooing and wailin', an' greitin' ower the 
 strings, wad hae jist garred ye see the lands o' braid Scotlan' 
 wi' a' the lasses greitin' for the lads that lay upo' reid Flodden 
 side; lasses to cut, and lasses to gether, and lasses to bin', and 
 lasses to stook, and lasses to lead, an' no a lad amo' them a'. 
 It's just the murnin' 0' women, doin' men's wark as weel 'a 
 their ain, for the men that suld hae been there to du 't ; and 
 I s' warran' ye, no a word to the exceptional, over-all lad that 
 didna gang wi' the rest." 
 
 Robert had not hitherto understood it, — this wail of a 
 pastoral and ploughing people over those who had left their 
 side to return no more from the field of battle. But Mr. 
 Lammie's description of his grandfather's rendering laid hold 
 of his heart. 
 
 " I wad raither be grutten for nor kissed," said he, simply. 
 
 " Hand ye to that, my lad," returned Mr. Lammie. "Lat 
 the lasses greit for ye gin they like ; but baud oot ower frae the 
 kissin'. I wadna mell wi' 't." 
 
 " Hoot, father, dinna put sic nonsense i' the bairns' heids," 
 said Miss Lammie. 
 
 " Whilk 's the nonsense, Aggy? " asked her father, slyly 
 " But I doobt," he added, " he'll never play the ' Flooers' 0' the 
 Forest ' as it suld be playt, till he's had a taste 0' the kissin'. 
 
 " Weel, it's a queer instructor 0' yowth, 'at says an' onsaya 
 i' the same breith." 
 
 " Never ye min'. I haena contradickit mysel' yet ; for I hae 
 
154 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 said naething. But, Robert, my man, ye maun pit mair sowl 
 into yer fiddlin'. Ye canna play the fiddle till ye can gar 't 
 greit. It's unco ready to that o' 'ts ain sel' ; an' it's my 
 opinion that there's no anither instrument but the fiddle fit to 
 play the ' Flooers o' the Forest ' upo', for that very rizzon, in a' 
 his Maijesty's dominions. — My father play t the fiddle, but no 
 like your gran'father." 
 
 Robert was silent. He spent the whole of the next morning 
 in reiterated attempts to alter his style of playing the air in 
 question, but in vain, — as far at least as any satisfaction to 
 himself was the result. He laid the instrument down in 
 despair, and sat for an hour disconsolate upon the bedside. His 
 visit had not as yet been at all so fertile in pleasure as he had 
 anticipated. He could not fly his kite ; he could not walk ; he 
 "had lost his shoes ; Mr. Lammie had not approved of his play- 
 ing ; and, although he had his will of the fiddle, he could not 
 get his will out of it. He could never play so as to please 
 Miss St. John. Nothing but manly pride kept him from cry- 
 ing. He was sorely disappointed and dissatisfied ; and the 
 world might be dreary, even at Bodyfauld. 
 
 Few men can wait upon the bright day in the midst of the 
 dull one. Nor can many men even wait /or it. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 JESSIE HEWSON. 
 
 The wound on Robert's foot festered, and had not yet 
 healed when the sickle was first put to the barley. He hob- 
 bled out, however, to the reapers, for he could not bear to be 
 left alone with his violin, so dreadfully oppressive was the 
 knowledge that he could not use it after its nature. He 
 began to think whether hia incapacity was not a judgment upon 
 him for taking it away from the shoemaker, who could do so 
 much more with it, and to whom, consequently, it was so 
 much more valuable. The pain in his foot, likewise, had 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 155 
 
 been very depressing ; and but for the kindness of his friends, 
 especially of JMiss Lammie, he would have been altogether " a 
 weary wight forlorn." 
 
 Shargar was happier than ever he had been in his life. 
 His white face hung on Miss Eammie's looks, and haunted 
 her steps from store-room to milk-house, and from milk- 
 house to chessel, surmounted by the glory of his red hair, 
 which a farm-servant , declared he had once mistaken for a 
 whin-bush on fire. This day she had gone to the field to 
 see the first handful of barley cut, and Shargar was there, 
 of course. 
 
 It was a glorious day of blue and gold, with just wind 
 enough to set the barley heads a-talking. But, whether from 
 the heat of the sun, or the pain of his foot operating on the 
 general discouragement under which he labored, Robert turned 
 faint all at once, and dragged himself away to a cottage on the 
 edge of the field. 
 
 It was the dwelling of a cotter, whose family had been 
 settled upon the farm of Bodyfauld from time immemorial. 
 They were, indeed, like other cotters, a kind of feudal dcr 
 pendents, occupying an acre or two of the land, in return 
 for which they performed certain stipulated labor, called 
 cotter-warJe. The greater part of the family was employed 
 in the work of the farm, at the regular wages. 
 
 Alas for Scotland that such families are now to seek ! 
 Would that the parliaments of our country held such a pro- 
 portion of noble-minded men as was once to be found in the 
 clay huts on a hill-side, or grouped about a central farm, — huts 
 whose wretched look would move the pity of many a man as 
 inferior to their occupants as a King Charles's lap-dog is to a 
 shepherd's coUey. The utensils of their life were mean 
 enough : the life itself was often elixir vitce, — a true family 
 life, looking up to the high, divine life. But well for the 
 world that such life has been scattered over it, east and west, 
 the seed of fresh growth in new lands. Out of offence to the 
 individual, God brings good to the whole ; for he pets no 
 nation, but trains it for the perfect globular life of all nations 
 — of his world — of his universe. As he makes families 
 mingle, to redeem each from its family selfishness, so will he 
 make nations mingle, and love and correct and reform and dor 
 
156 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 velop each other, till the planet-world shall go singing through . 
 space one harmony to the God of the whole earth. The ex- 
 cellence must vanish from one portion, that it may be diffused 
 through the whole. The seed ripens on one favored mound, 
 and is scattered over the plain. We console ourselves with the 
 higher thought, that, if Scotland is worse, the world is better. 
 Yea, even they by whom the offence came, and who have first 
 to reap the woe of that offence, because they did the will of 
 God to satisfy their own avarice in laying land to land and 
 house to house, shall not reap their punishment in having 
 their own will, and standing therefore alone in the earth when 
 the good of their evil deeds returns upon it ; but the tears of 
 men that ascended to heaven in the heat of their burning 
 dwellings shall descend in the dew of blessing even on the 
 hearts of them that kindled the fire. " Something too much 
 of this." 
 
 Robert lifted the latch, and walked into the cottage. It 
 was not quite so strange to him as it would be to most of my 
 readers ; still, he had not been in such a place before. A girl 
 who was stooping by the small peat fire on the hearth looked 
 up, and, seeing that he was lame, came across the heights and 
 hollows of the clay floor to meet him. Robert spoke so faintly 
 that she could not hear. 
 
 " What's yer wuU ? " she asked ; then, changing her tone, 
 — "Eh! ye're no weel," she said. "Come in to the firo 
 Tak' a baud o' me, and come yer wa's butt." 
 
 She was a pretty, indeed graceful, girl of about eighteen, 
 with the elasticity rather than undulation of movement which 
 distinguishes the peasant from the city girl. She led him to 
 the ear of the chimney, carefully levelled a wooden chair to 
 the inequalities of the floor, and said : — 
 
 " Sit ye doon. Will I fess a drappy o' milk ? " 
 
 " Gie me a drink o' water, gin ye please," said Robert. 
 
 She brought it. He drank, and felt better. A baby woke 
 in a cradle on the other side of the fire, and began to cry. 
 The girl went and took him up ; and then Robert saw what 
 she was like. Light-brown hair clustered about a delicately- 
 colored face and hazel eyes. Later in the harvest her cheeks 
 would be ruddy; now they were peach-colored. A white 
 neck rose above a pink print jacket, called a wrapper; and 
 
EOBERT FALCONER. 157 
 
 the rest of her visible dress was a blue petticoat. She ended 
 in pretty, brown bare feet. Robert liked her, and began to 
 talk. If his imagination had not been already filled, he 
 would have fallen in love with her, I dare say, at once ; for, 
 except Miss St. John, he had never seen anything he thought 
 so beautiful. The baby cried now and then. 
 
 " What ails the bairnie ? " he asked. 
 
 " Ow, it's jist cuttin' its teeth. Gin it greits muckle, 1 
 maun jist tak' it oot to my mither. She'll sune quaiet it. 
 Are ye haudin' better? " 
 
 " Hoot, ay. I'm a' richt noo. Is yer mither shearin' ? " 
 
 "Na. She's gatherin'. The shearin' 's some sair wark 
 for her e'en noo. I suld hae been shearin', but my mither 
 wad fain hae a day o' the hairst. She thocht it wud du her 
 gude. But I s' warran' a day o' 't '11 satisfy her, and I s' be 
 at it the morn. She's been unco ailing a' the summer ; and 
 Bae has the bairnie." 
 
 " Ye maun hae had a sair time o' 't, than." 
 
 " Ay, some. But I aye got some sleep. I jist tuik the 
 string into the bed wi' me, and whan the bairnie grat, I 
 waukit, an' rockit till 't fell asleep again. But whiles naeth- 
 ing wad du but tak' him till 's mammie." 
 
 All the time she was hushing and fondling the child, who 
 went on fretting when not actually crying. 
 
 "Is he yer brither, than? " asked Robert. 
 
 " Ay, what ither ? I maun tak' him, I see. But ye can 
 sit there as lang 's ye like ; and gin ye gang afore I come 
 back, jist turn the key i' the door to lat onybody know that 
 there's naebody i' the hoose." 
 
 Robert thanked her, and remained in the shadow by the 
 chimney, which was formed of two smoke-browned planks 
 fastened up the wall, one on each side, and an inverted wooden 
 funnel above to conduct the smoke through the roof. He sat 
 for some time gloomily gazing at a spot of sunlight which 
 burned on the brown-clay floor. All was still as death. 
 And he felt the whitewashed walls even more desrolate than 
 if they had been smoke-begrimed. 
 
 Looking about him^ be found over his head something 
 which he did not understand. It was as big as the stump of a 
 great tree. Apparently it belonged to the structure of the 
 
158 ROBEKT FALCONEK. 
 
 cottage, but he could not, in the imperfect light, and the 
 dazzling of the sun-spot at which he had been staring, make 
 out what it was, or how it came to be up there, — unsupported 
 as far as he could see. He rose to examine it, lifted a bit of 
 tarpaulin which hung before it, and found a rickety box, sus- 
 pended by a rope from a great nail in the wall. It had two 
 shelves in it full of books. 
 
 Now, although there were more books in Mr. Lammie's 
 house than in his grandmother's, the only one he had found 
 that in the least enticed him to read, was a translation of 
 George Buchanan's "History of Scotland." This he had 
 begun to read faithfully, believing every word of it, but had 
 at last broken down at the fiftieth king or so. Imagine, then, 
 the moon that arose on the boy when, having pulled a ragged 
 and thumb-worn book from among those of James Hewson the 
 cotter, he, for the first time, found himself in the midst of the 
 " Arabian Nights." I shrink from all attempt to set forth 
 in words the rainbow-colored delight that coruscated in his 
 brain. When Jessie Hewson returned, she found him seated 
 where she had left him, so buried in his volume that he did 
 not lift his head when she entered. 
 
 " Ye hae gotten a bulk," she said. 
 
 " Ay, have I," answered Robert, decisively. 
 
 " It's a fine buik, that. Did ye ever see 't afore ? " 
 
 " Na, never." 
 
 " There's three wolums o' 't about, here and there," said 
 Jessie ; and, with the child on one arm, she proceeded with the 
 other hand to search for them on the top of the wall where 
 the rafters rest. 
 
 There she found two or three books, which, after examining 
 them, she placed on the dresser beside Robert. 
 
 " There's nane o' them there," she said; "but maybe yo 
 wad like to luik at that anes." 
 
 Robert thanked her, but was too busy to feel the least curi- 
 osity about any book in the world but the one he was reading. 
 He read on, heart and soul and mind absorbed in the marvels 
 of the eastern skald ; the stories told in the streets of Cairo, 
 amidst gorgeous costumes, and camels, and white-veiled 
 women, vibrating here in the heart of a Scotch boy, in the 
 darkest corner of a mud cottage, at the foot of a hill of cold- 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 159 
 
 loving pines, with a barefoot girl and a baby for his compan- 
 ion. 
 
 But the pleasure he had been having was of a sort rather to 
 expedite than to delay the subjective arrival of dinner-time. 
 There was, however, liappily, no occasion to go home in order 
 to "appease his hunger : he had but to join the men and women 
 in the barley-field ; there was sure to be enough, for Miss 
 Lammie was at the head of the commissariat. 
 
 When he had had as much milk-porridge as he could eat, 
 and a good slice of cheese, with a wooden bowl of ale, all of 
 which he consumed as if the good of them lay in the haste of 
 their appropriation, he hurried back to the cottage, and sat 
 there reading the " Arabian Nights " till the sun went down 
 in the orange-hued west, and the gloamin' came, and with it 
 the reapers, John and Elspet Hewson, and their son George 
 to their supper and early bed. 
 
 John was a cheerful, rough, Roman-nosed, black-eyed man, 
 who took snuff largely, and vras not careful to remove the 
 traces of the habit. He had a loud voice, and an original way 
 of regarding things, which, with his vivacity, made every re- 
 mark sound like the proclamation of a discovery. 
 
 " Are ye there, Robert? " said he, as he entered. Robert 
 rose, absorbed and silent. 
 
 "Ile.'s been here a' day, readin' like a colliginer," said 
 Jessie. 
 
 " What are ye r^din' sae diligent, man? " asked John. 
 
 "A buik o' stories, here," answered Robert, carelessly, 
 shy of bei»»g supposed so much engrossed with them as he 
 really was. 
 
 I should never expect much of a young poet who was not 
 rather ashamed of the distinction which yet he chiefly coveted. 
 There is a modesty in all young delight. It is wild and shy, 
 and would hide itself, like a boy's or maiden's first love, from 
 the gaze of the people. Something like this was Robert's 
 feeling over the " Arabian Nights." 
 
 "Ay," said John, taking snuff from a small bone spoon; 
 •'it's a gran' buik that. But my son Charley, him 'at's deid 
 an' gane hame, wad hae tell 't ye it was idle time readin' that, 
 wi' sic a buik as that ither lyin' at yer elbuck." 
 
 He pointed to one of the books Jessie had taken, and laid 
 
160 ROBERT FALCONKK. 
 
 down beside him on the well-scoured dresser. Robert took up 
 the volume and opened it. There was no title-page. 
 
 " ' The Tempest ' ? " he said. " What is't ? Poetry ? " 
 
 " Ay, is't. It's Shackspear." 
 
 " I hae heard o' him" said Robert. " What was he? " 
 
 " A player kin' o' a chiel', wi' an unco sicht o' brains," 
 answered John. " He cudna hae had muckle time to gang 
 skelpin' and sornin' aboot the country like mast o' thae cattle, 
 gin he vrote a' that, I'm thinkin'." 
 
 " Whaur did he bide ? " 
 
 " Awa' in Englan', — maistly aboot Lonnon, I'm thinkin'. 
 That's the place for a' by-ordinar fowk, they tell me." 
 
 " Hoo lang is 't sin he deid ? " 
 
 "I dinna ken. A hunner year or twa, I s' warran'. It's 
 a lang time. But I'm thinkin' fowk than was jist something 
 like what they are noo. But I ken unco little aboot him, for 
 the prent 's some sma', and I'm some ill for losin' my char- 
 acters, and sae I dinna win that far benn wi' him. Geordie 
 there'll tell ye mair aboot him." 
 
 But George Hewson had not mUch to communicate, for he 
 bad but lately landed in Shakespeare's country, and had got 
 but a little way inland yet. Nor did Robert much care, for 
 his head was full of the " Arabian Nights." This, however, 
 was his first introduction to Shakespeare. 
 
 Finding himself much at home, he stopped yet a while, 
 shared in the supper, and resumed his seat in the corner when 
 the book was bi-ought out for worship. The iron lamp, with 
 its wick of rush-pith, which hung against the *ide of the 
 chimney, was lighted, and John sai down to read. But as 
 his eyes, and the print too, had grown a little- dim with years, 
 the lamp was not enough, and he asked for a "fir-can'le." 
 A splint of fir dug from the peat-bog was handed to him. He 
 lighted it at the lamp, and held it in his hand over the page. 
 Its clear, resinous flame enabled him to read a short psalm. 
 Then they sang a most wailful tune, and John prayed. If I 
 were to give the prayer as he uttered it, I might make my 
 reader laugh; therefore I abstain, assuring him only that, 
 although full of long words, — amongst the rest, aspiration 
 and ravishment, — the prayer of the cheerful, joke-loving 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 161 
 
 cotter contained evidence of a degree of religious development 
 rare, I doubt, amongst bishops. 
 
 When Eobert left the cottage, he found the sky partly 
 clouded and the air cold. The nearest way home Aims across 
 the barley-stubble of the day's reaping, which lay under a 
 little hill, covered with various species of the pine. His own 
 Boul, after the restful day he had spent, and under the reac- 
 tion from the new excitement of the stories he had been read- 
 ing, was like a quiet, moonless night. The thought of his 
 mother came back upon him, and her written words, " 
 Lord, my heart is very sore;" and the thought of his father 
 followed that, and he limped slowly home, laden with mourn- 
 fulness. As he reached the middle of the field, the wind was 
 suddenly there with a low sough from out of the north-west. 
 The heads of barley in the sheaves leaned away with a soft 
 rustling from before it ; and Robert felt for the first time the 
 sadness of a harvest-field. Then the wind swept away to the 
 pine-covered hill, and raised a rushing and a wailing amongst 
 its thin-clad branches, and to the ear of Robert the trees were 
 singing over .^.gain, in their night solitudes, the air sung by the 
 cotter's family. When he looked to the north-west, whence 
 the wind came, he saw nothing but a pale cleft in the sky. 
 The meaning, the music of the night awoke in his soul ; he 
 forgot his lame foot, and the weight of Mr. Lammie's great 
 boots, ran home and up the stair to his own room, seized his 
 violin with eager haste, nor laid it down again till he could 
 draw from it, at will, a sound like the moaning of the wind 
 over the stubble-field. Then he knew that he could play the 
 "Flowers of the Forest." "The Wind that Shakes the 
 Barley " cannot have been named from the barley after it was 
 cut, but while it stood in the field ; the " Flowers of the For- 
 est" was of the gathered harvest. 
 
 He tried the air once over in the dark, and then carried hia 
 violin down to the room where Mr. and Miss Lammie sat. 
 
 "I think I can play 't noo, Mr. Lammie," he said, ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 " Play what, callant? " asked his host. 
 
 " The ' Flooers o' the Forest.'" 
 
 " Play awa' than." 
 
 And Robert played, — not so well as he had hoped. I dure 
 u 
 
162 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 say it was a humble enough performance, but he gave some- 
 thing at least of the expression Mr. Lammie desired. For, 
 the moment the tune was over, he exclaimed : — 
 
 "Weel dune, Eobert man! ye' 11 be a fiddler some day 
 yet!" 
 
 And Robert was well satisfied with the praise. 
 
 " I wish yer mother had been alive," the farmer went on. 
 '' She wad hae been rael prood to hear ye play like that. Eh ! 
 she likit the fiddle weel. And she culd play bonny upo' the 
 plana hersel'. It was something to hear the twa o' them 
 playing thegither, him on the fiddle — that verra fiddle o' 's 
 father's 'at ye hae i' yer han' — and her on the plana. Eh ! 
 but she was a bonnie wuman as ever I saw, an' that quaiot ! 
 It's my belief she never thocht aboot her ain beowty frae 
 week's en' to week's en', and that's no sayin' little, — is "t, 
 
 Aggy?" 
 
 "I never preten't ony richt to think aboot sic," returned 
 Miss Lammie, with a mild indignation. 
 
 " That's richt, lass. Od, ye're aye i' the richt — though I 
 say 't 'at sudna." 
 
 Miss Lammie must indeed have been good-natured, to 
 answer only with a genuine laugh. Shargar looked explosive 
 with anger. But Robert would fain hear more of hia 
 mother. 
 
 " What was my mother like, Mr. Lammie? " he asked. 
 
 " Eh, my man ! ye suld hae seen her upon a bonny bay 
 mere that yer father gae her. Faith ! she sat as straught as 
 a rash, wi' jist a hing i' the held o' her, like the held o' a 
 halm o' wild aits." 
 
 " My father wasna thai ill till her than ? " suggested 
 Robert. 
 
 " Wha ever daured say sic a thing?" returned Mr. 
 Lammie, but in a tone so far from satisfactory to Robert, that 
 he inquired no more in that direction. 
 
 I need hardly say that from that night Robert was mors 
 than ever diligent with his violin. 
 
BOBEBI 17ALC0IIEB. 163 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE DRAGON. 
 
 Next day, his foot was so much better, that he sent Shar- 
 gar to Rothieden to buy the string, taking with him Robert's 
 school-bag, in which to carry ofiF his Sunday shoes ; for as to 
 those left at Dooble Sanny's, they judged it unsafe to go in 
 quest of them : the shoemaker could hardly be in a humor fit 
 to be intruded upon. 
 
 Having procured the string, Shargar went to Mrs. Fal- 
 coner's. Anxious not to encounter her, but, if possible, to bag 
 the boots quietly, he opened the door, peeped in, and, seeing 
 no one, made his way towards the kitchen. He was arrested, 
 however, as he crossed the passage, by the voice of Mrs. Fal- 
 coner calling, "Wha's that?" There she was at the parlor 
 door. It paralyzed him. His first impulse was to make a 
 rush and escape. But the boots — he could not go without at 
 least an attempt upon them. So he turned and faced her with 
 inward trembling. 
 
 "Wha's that?" repeated the old lady, regarding him 
 fixedly. " Ow, it's you! What duv ^e want? Ye camna 
 to see me, I'm thinkin' ! What hae ye i' that bag? " 
 
 " I cam to buy twine for the draigon," answered Shargar. 
 
 " Ye had twine eneuch afore ! " 
 
 " It bruik. It wasna Strang eneuch." 
 
 " Whaur got ye the siller to buy mair? Lat's see 't." 
 
 Shargar took the string from the bag. 
 
 " Sic a sicht o' twine! What paid ye for 't? " 
 
 "Ashillin'." 
 , " Whaur got ye the shillin' ? " 
 
 " Mr. Lammie gae 't to Robert." 
 
 " I winna hae ye tak' siller frae naebody. It's ill mainners. 
 Hae ! " said the old lady, putting Ker hand in her pocket, and 
 taking out a shilling. " Hae," she said. " Gie Mr. Lammie 
 back his shillin', an' tell 'im 'at I wadna hae ye learn sic ill 
 customs as tak' siller. It's eneuch to gang exacting free quar- 
 ters as ye du, ohn beggit for siller. Are they a' weel ? "' 
 
164 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 "Ay, brawly," answered Shargar, putting the shilling in 
 his pocket. 
 
 In another moment Shargar had, without a word of adieu, 
 embezzled the shoes, and escaped from the house without seeing 
 Betty. He went straight to the shop he had just left, and 
 bought another shilling's worth of string. 
 
 When he got home, he concealed nothing from Robert, whom 
 he found seated in the barn, with his fiddle, waiting his 
 return. 
 
 Robert started to his feet. He could appropriate his grand- 
 father's violin, to which, possibly, he might have shown as 
 good a right as his grandmother, — certainly his grandfather 
 would have accorded it him, — but her money was sacred 
 
 "Shargar, ye vratch!" he cried, " fess that shillin' here 
 direckly. Tak' the twine wi' ye, and gar them gie ye back 
 the shillin'." 
 
 " They winna brak the bargain," cried Shargar, beginning 
 almost to whimper, for a savory smell of dinner was coming 
 across the yard. 
 
 " Tell them it's stown siller, and they'll be in bet watter 
 aboot it gin they dinna gie ye 't back." 
 
 I maun hae my denner first," remonstrated Shargar. 
 
 But the spirit of his grandmother was strong in Rob-^rt, and 
 m a matter of rectitude there must be no temporizing. There- 
 in he could be as tyrannical as the old lady herself. 
 
 " De'il a bite or a sup s' gang ower your thrapple t>ll I see 
 that shillin'." 
 
 There was no help for it. Six hungry miles must be 
 trudged by Shargar ere he got a morsel to eat. Two hours 
 and a half passed before he reappeared. But he brought the 
 shilling. As to how he recovered it, Robert questioned him in 
 vain. Shargar, in his turn, was obstinate. 
 
 "Shejsa some unmanageable wife, that grannie o' yours," 
 said Mr. Lammie, when Robert returned the shilling with 
 Mrs. Falconer's message; " but I reckon I maun pit it i' my 
 pooch, for she will hae her ain gait, an' I dinna want to strive 
 wi' her. But gin ony o' ye be in want o' a shillin' ony day, 
 lads, as lang's I'm abune the yird, — this ane '11 be grown 
 twa, or maybe mair, 'gen that time." 
 
ROBERT FAICONEB. , Wh 
 
 So saying, the farmer put the shilling into his pocket, and 
 huttoned it up. 
 
 The dragon flew splendidly now, and its strength was 
 mighty. It was Robert's custom to drive a stake into the 
 ground, slanting against the wind, and thereby tether the 
 animal, as if it were up there grazing in its own natural region. 
 Then he would lie down by the stake and read the " Arabian 
 Nights," every now and then casting a glance upward at the 
 creature alone in the waste air, yet all in his power by the 
 string at his side. Somehow the high-flown dragon was a bond 
 between him and the blue ; he seemed nearer to the sky while 
 it flew, or at least the heaven seemed less far away and inac- 
 cessible. While he lay there gazing, all at once he would find 
 that his soul was up with the dragon, feeling as it felt, tossing 
 about with it in the torrents of the air. Out at his eyes it 
 would go, traverse the dim, stairless space, and sport with the 
 wind-blown monster. Sometimes, to aid his aspiration, he 
 would take a bit of paper, make a hole in it, pass the end of 
 the string through the hole, and send the messenger scudding 
 along the line athwart the depth of the wind. If it stuck by 
 the way, he would get a telescope of Mr. Lammie's, and there- 
 with watch its struggles till it broke loose, then follow it 
 careering up to the kite. Away with each successive paper 
 his imagination would fly, and a sense of air, and height, and 
 freedom settled from his play into his very soul, a germ to 
 sprout hereafter, and enrich the forms of his aspirations. And 
 all his after-memories of kite-flying were mingled with pictures 
 of eastern magnificence, for from the airy height of the dragon 
 his eyes always came down upon the enchanted pages of John 
 Hewson's book. . 
 
 Sometimes, again, he would throw down his book, and, sit- 
 ting up with his back against the stake, lift his bonny leddy 
 from his side, and play as he had never played in Rothieden. 
 playing to the dragon aloft, to keep him strong in his soaring, 
 md fierce in his battling with the winds of heaven. Then he 
 -iancied that the monster swooped, and swept in arcs, and 
 swayed curving to and fro, in rhythmic response to the musio 
 floating up through the wind. 
 
 What a full globated symbolism lay then around the heart 
 of the boy in his book, his violin, his kite !^ 
 
166 • ROBERT FAtCONER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 DE. ANDERSON. 
 
 One afternoon, as they were sitting at their tea, a footstep 
 in the garden approached the house, and then a figure passed 
 the window. Mr. Lammie started to his feet. 
 
 " Bless my sowl, Aggy ! that's Anderson ! " he cried, and 
 hurried to the door. 
 
 His daughter followed. The boys kept their seats. A loud 
 and hearty salutation reached their ears ; but the voice of the 
 farmer was all they heard. Presently he returned bringing 
 with him the tallest and slenderest man Robert had ever seen. 
 He was considerably over six feet, with a small head, and deli- 
 cate, if not fine features, a gentle look in his blue eyes, and a 
 slow, clear voice, which sounded as if it were thinking about 
 every word it uttered. The hot sun of India seemed to have 
 burned out everything self-assertive, leaving him quietly and 
 rather sadly contemplative. 
 
 " Come in, come in," repeated Mr. Lammie, overflowing 
 with glad welcome. "What' 11 ye hae? There's a frien' o' 
 yer ain," he continued, pointing to Robert, "an' a fine lad." 
 Then, lowering his voice, he added, " A son o' poor Andrew's, 
 ye ken, doctor." 
 
 The boys rose, and Dr. Anderson, stretching his long arms 
 across the table, shook hands kindly with Robert and Shargar. 
 Then he sat down and began to help himself to the cakes (oat- 
 cake), at which Robert wondered, seeing there was "white 
 breid " on the table. Miss Lammie presently came in with 
 the teapot and some additional dainties, and the boys took the 
 opportunity of beginning at the beginning again. 
 
 Dr. Anderson remained for a few days at Bodyfauld, send- 
 ing Shargar to Rothieden for some necessaries from the Boar's 
 Head, where he had left his servant and luggage. During 
 this time Mr. Lammie was much occupied with his farm aifairs,- 
 anxious to get his harvest in as quickly as possible, because a 
 change of weather was to be dreaded ; so the doctor was left a 
 good deal to himself. He was fond of wandering about, but, 
 thoughtful as he was, did not object to the companionship 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 167 
 
 which Robert implicitly offered him ; before miny hours were 
 over, the two were friends. 
 
 Various things attracted Robert to the doctor. First, he 
 ■was a relation of his own, older than himself, the first he bad 
 known except his father, and Robert's heart was one of the 
 most dutiful. Second, or perhaps I ought to have put this 
 first, he was the only gentleman, except Eric Ericson, whoso 
 acquaintance he had yet made. Third, he was kind to him, 
 and gentle to him, and, above all, respectful to him; and to 
 be respected was a new sensation to Robert altogether. And, 
 lastly, he could tell stories of elephants and tiger hunts, and 
 all "The Arabian Nights" of India. He did not volunteer 
 much talk, but Robert soon found that he could draw him 
 out 
 
 But what attracted the man to the boy? 
 
 "Ah! Robert," said the doctor, one day sadly, " it's a 
 Bore thing to come home after being thirty years away." 
 
 He looked up at the sky, then all round at the hills ; the 
 face of nature alone remained the same. Then his glance fell 
 on Robert, and he saw a pair of black eyes looking up at him, 
 brimful of tears. And thus the man was drawn to the boy. 
 
 Robert worshipped Dr. Anderson. As long as he remained 
 their visitor, kite and violin and all were forgotten, and he fol- 
 lowed him like a dog. To have such a gentleman for a rela- 
 tion was grand indeed. What could ha do for him? He 
 ministered to him in all manner of trifles, — a little to the 
 amusement of Dr. Anderson, but more to his pleasure, for he 
 saw that the boy was both large-hearted and lowly-minded. 
 Dr. Anderson had learned to read character, else he would 
 neiffir liave been the honor to his profession that he was. 
 
 But all the time Robert could not get him to speak about 
 his father. He steadily avoided the subject. 
 
 When he went away, the two boys walked with him to the 
 Boar's Head, caught a glimpse of his Hindoo attendant, much 
 to their wonderment, received from the doctor a sovereign 
 upiece and a kind good-by, and returned to Bodyfauld. 
 
 Dr. Anderson remained a few days longer at Rothieden, and 
 amongst others visited Mrs. Falconer, who was his first cousin. 
 .What passed between them Robert never heard, nor did hia 
 grandmother even allude to the visit. He went by the mail- 
 
168 ROBERT TALCONIEB, 
 
 coach from Rothieden to Aberdeen, and whether he should ever 
 see him again Robert did not know. 
 
 He flew his kiw no more for a while, but betook himself to 
 the work of the harvest-field, in which ho was now able for a 
 share. But his violin was no longer neglected. 
 
 Day after day passed in the delights of labor, broken for 
 Robert by the "Arabian Nights " and the violin, and for Shar- 
 gar by attendance upon Miss Lammie, till the fields lay baie 
 of their harvest, and the night-wind of autumn moaned every- 
 where over the vanished glory of the country, and it was time 
 to go back to school. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 AN AUTO DA FB. 
 
 The morning at length arrived when Robert and Shargar 
 must return to Rothieden. A keen autumnal wind was blow- 
 ing far-off feathery clouds across a sky of pale blue ; the cold 
 freshened the spirits of the boys, and tightened their nerves 
 and muscles, till they were like bow-strings. No doubt the 
 winter was coming, but the sun. although his day's work was 
 short and slack, was still as clear as ever. So gladsome was 
 the world, that the boys received the day as a fresh holiday, 
 and strenuously forgot to-morrow. The wind blew straight 
 from Rothieden, and between sun and wind a bright thought 
 awoke in Robert. The dragon should not be carried — he 
 should fly home. 
 
 After they had said farewell, in which Shargar seemed tc 
 sufier more than Robert, and had turned the corner of the sta- 
 bles, they heard the good farmer shouting after them, 
 " There'll be anither hairst neist year, boys," which won- 
 derfully restored their spirits. When they reached the open 
 road, Robert laid his violin carefully into a broom-bush. Then 
 the tail was unrolled, and the dragon ascended steady as an 
 angel whose work id done. Shargar took the stick at the end 
 of the string, and Robert resumed his violin. But the crea- 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 16 S 
 
 ture was hard to lead in such a wind ; so they made a loop 
 on the string, and passed it round Shargar's chest, and he 
 tugged the dragon home. Robert longed to take his share ii. 
 the struggle, but he could not trust his violin to Shargar, and 
 so had to -walk beside ingloriously. On the way they laid 
 their plans for the accommodation of the dragon. But the vio- 
 lin was the greater diflSculty. Robert would not hear of the 
 factory, for reasons best known to himself, and there were se- 
 rious objections to taking it to Dooble Sanny. It was resolved 
 that the only way was to seize the right moment, and creep 
 upstairs with it before presenting themselves to Mrs. Falconer. 
 Their intended manoeuvres with the kite would favor the con- 
 cealment of this stroke. 
 
 Before they entered the town they drew in the kite a little 
 way, and cut off a dozen yards of the string, which Robert put 
 in his pocket, with a stone tied to the end. When they reached 
 the house, Shargar went into the little garden and tied the 
 string of the kite to the paling between that and Captain For- 
 syth's. Robert opened the street-door, and, having turned his 
 bead on all sides like a thief, darted with his violin up the stairs. 
 Having laid his treasure in one of the presses in Shargar's 
 garret, he went to his own, and from the skylight threw the 
 stone down into the captain's garden, fastening the other end 
 of the string to the bedstead. Escaping as cautiously as he 
 had entered, he passed hurriedly into their neighbor's garden, 
 found the stone, and joined Shargar. The ends were soon 
 united, and the kite let go. It sunk for a moment, then, ar- 
 rested by the bedstead, towered again to its former " pride of 
 place," sailing over Rothieden, grand and unconcerned, in the 
 wastes of air. 
 
 But the end of its tether was in Robert's garret. . And that 
 was to him a sense of power, a thought of glad mystery. 
 There was henceforth, while the dragon flew, a relation between 
 the desolate little chamber, in that lowly house buried among 
 80 many more aspiring abodes, and the unmeasured depths and 
 spaces, the stars, and the unknown heavens. And in the next 
 chamber lay the fiddle, free once more, yet another magical 
 power whereby his spirit could forsake the earth and mount 
 heavenwards. 
 
170 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 All that night, all the next day, all the next night, tht 
 dragon flew. 
 
 Not one smile hroke over the face of the old lady as sha 
 received them. Was it because she did not know, what acts of 
 disobedience, what breaches of the moral law, the two childiei) 
 of possible perdition might have committed while they were be- 
 yond her care, and she must not run the risk of smiling upon in- 
 iquity ? I think it was rather that there was no smile in her 
 religion, which, while it developed the power of a darkened 
 conscience, overlaid and half-smothered all the lovelier impulses 
 of her grand nature. How could she smile ? Did not the 
 world lie under the wrath and curse of God ? Was not her 
 own son in hell forever ? Had not the blood of the Son of 
 God been shed for him in vain ? Had not God meant that it 
 should be in vain ? For by the gift of his Spirit could he not 
 have enabled him to accept the oifered pardon ? And, for any- 
 thing she knew, waa not Robert going after him to the place 
 of misery ? How could she smile ? 
 
 " Noo be quiet," she said, the moment she had shaken hands 
 with them, with her cold hands, so clean and soft and smooth. 
 With a volcanic heart of love, her outside was always so still 
 and cold ! — snow on the mountain-sides, hot, vein-coursing lava 
 within. For her highest duty was submission to the will of 
 God. Ah ! if she had only known the God who claimed her 
 submission ! But there is time enough for every heart to 
 know him. 
 
 " Noo be quiet," she repeated, " an' sit doon, and tell me 
 aboot the fowk at Bodyfauld. I houpe ye thankit them, or ye 
 left, for their muckle kindness to ye." 
 
 The boys were silent. 
 
 " Didna ye thank them ? " 
 
 " No, grannie ; I dinna think 'at we did." 
 
 "Weel, that was ill-faured o' ye. Eh! but the hert 18 
 deoeitfu' aboon a' thing, and desperately wicked. Who can 
 know it? Come awa'. Come awa'. Robert, festen the 
 door." 
 
 And she led them to the corner for prayer, and poured forth 
 a confession of sin for them and for herself, such as left little 
 that could have been added by her own profligate son, had he 
 joined in the prayer. Either there are no degrees in guilt, or 
 
KOBERT ITALGONES. 171 
 
 the Scotch language was equal only to the confession of children 
 and holy women, and could provide no more awful words for 
 the contrition of the prodigal or the hypocrite. But the words 
 did little harm, for Robert's mind was full of the ki:e andlhe 
 violin, and was probably nearer God thereby than if he had 
 been trying to feel as wicked as his grandmother told God that 
 he was. Shargar was even more divinely employed at the time 
 than either ; for though he had not had the manners to thank 
 his benefactor, his heart had all the way home been full of 
 tender thoughts of Miss Lammie's kindness ; and now, instead 
 of confessing sins that were not his, he was loving her over and 
 over, and wishing to be back with her instead of with this 
 awfully good woman, in whose presence there was no peace, 
 for all the atmosphere of silence and calm in which she sat. 
 
 Confession over, and the boys at liberty again, a new anx- 
 iety seized them. Grannie must find out that Robert's shoes 
 were missing, and what account was to be given of the misfor- 
 tune, for Robert would not, or could not, lie ? In the midst 
 of their discussion a bright idea flashed upon Shargar, which, 
 however, he kept to himself: he would steal them, and bring 
 them home in triumph, emulating thus Robert's exploit in de- 
 livering his bonny leddy. 
 
 The shoemaker sat behind his door to be out of the draught : 
 Shargar might see a great part of the workshop without being 
 seen, and he could pick Robert's shoes from among a hundred. 
 Probably they lay just where Robert had laid them, for Doo- 
 ble Sanny paid attention to any job only in proportion to the 
 persecution accompanying it. 
 
 So the next day Shargar contrived to slip out of school just 
 as the writing-lesson began, for he had great skill in convey- 
 ing himself unseen, and, with his book-bag, slunk barefooted 
 into the shoemaker's entry. 
 
 The shop-door was a little way open, and the red eyes of 
 Sh.argar had only the corner next it to go peering about in. 
 But there he saw the shoes. He got down on his hands and 
 knees, and crept nearer. Yes, they were beyond a doubt 
 Robert's shoes. He made a long arm, like a beast of prey, 
 seized them, and, losing his presence of mind upon possession, 
 drew them too hastily towards him. The shoemaker saw them 
 as they vanished through th* dooi and darted after them. 
 
172 ROBERT FALCONER, 
 
 Shari^aT was off at full speed, and Sandy followed with hue- 
 and-cry. Every idle person in the street joined in the pursuit, 
 and all who were too busy or too respectable to run crowded 
 to doors and windows. Shargar made instinctively for hia 
 mother's old lair ; but, bethinking himself when he reached the 
 door, he turned, and, knowing nowhere else to go, fled in ter- 
 ror to Mrs. Falconer's, still, however, holding fast by the 
 shoes, for they were Robert's. 
 
 As Robert came home from school, wondering what could 
 have become of his companion, he saw a crowd about his grand- 
 mother's door, and, pushing his way through it in some dismay, 
 found Dooble Sanny and Shargar confronting each other before 
 the stern justice of Mrs. Falconer. 
 
 " Ye're a leear," the shoemaker was panting out, "1 
 haena had a pair o' shune o' Robert's 1' my ban's this three 
 month. Thae shune — lat me see them — they're — Here's 
 Robert himsel'. Are thae shune yours, noo, Robert ? " 
 
 " Ay are they. Ye made them yersel'," 
 
 " Hoo came they in my shop, than ? " 
 
 " Speir nae mair quest'ons nor's worth answerin'," said 
 Robert, with a look meant to be significant. " They're my 
 shune, and I'll keep them. Aiblins ye dinna aye ken wha's 
 shune ye hae, or whan they cam in to ye." 
 
 " What for didna Shargar come an' speir efter them, than, 
 in place o' makin' a thief o' himsel' that gait? " 
 
 "ye may baud yer tongue," returned Robert, with yet 
 more significance. 
 
 "I was aye an idiot," said Shargar, in apologetic reflection, 
 looking awfully wliite, and afraid to lift an eye to Mrs. Falconer, 
 yet reassured a little by^ Robert's presence. 
 
 Some glimmering seemed now to have dawned upon the 
 shoemaker, for he began to prepare a retreat. Meantime Mrs. 
 Falconer sat silent, allowing no word that passed to escape 
 her. She wanted to be at the bottom of the mysterious afiair 
 and therefore held her peace. 
 
 " Weel, I'm sure, Robert, ye never tellt me aboot the 
 shune," said Alexander. " I' s' jist tak' them back wi' me' 
 and du what's wantit to them. And I'm sorry that I hae 
 gien ye this trihble, Mistress Faulkner; but it was a 'that 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 173 
 
 fule's wite there. I didna even ken it was him, till we war 
 near-han' the hoose." 
 
 " Lat me see the shune," said Mrs. Falconer, speaking al- 
 most for the first time. " What's the maitter wi' them ? " 
 
 Examining the shoes, she saw they were in a perfectly 
 Bound state, and this confirmed her suspicion that there was 
 more in the affair than had yet come out. Had she taken 
 the straightforward measure of examining Robert, she would 
 soon have arrived at the truth. But she had such a dread of 
 causing a lie to be told, that she would adopt any roundabout 
 way rather than ask a plain question of a suspected culprit. 
 So she laid the shoes down beside her, saying to the shoe- 
 maker : — 
 
 " There's naething amiss wi' the shune. Ye can lea' them." 
 
 Thereupon Alexander went away, and Robert and Shargar 
 would have given more than their dinner to follow him. Gran- 
 nie neither asked any questions, however, nor made a single 
 remark on what had passed. Dinner was served and eaten, 
 and the boys returned to their afternoon school. 
 
 No sooner was she certain that they were safe under the 
 schoolmaster's eye than the old lady put on her black silk 
 bonnet and her black woollen shawl, took her green cotton 
 umbrella, which served her for a stafi", and, refusing Betty's 
 proflfered assistance, set out for Dooble Sanny's shop. 
 
 As she drew near she heard the sounds of his violin. When 
 she entered, he laid his auld wife carefully aside, and stood in 
 an expectant attitude. 
 
 " Mr. Elshender, I want to be at the boddom o' this," said 
 Mrs. Falconer. 
 
 "Well, mem, gang to the boddom o' 't," returned Dooble 
 Sanny, dropping on his stool, and taking his stone upon hia 
 lap and stroking it, as if it had been some quadrupedal pet. 
 Full of rough but real politeness to women when in good hu- 
 mor, he lost all his manners along with his temper upon the 
 slightest provocation, and her tone irritated him. 
 
 "Hoo came Robert's shune to be i' your shop? " 
 
 " Somebody bude till hae brocht them, mem. In a' my ox- 
 pairience, and that's no sma', I never kent pair o' shune gang 
 ohn a pair o' feet i' the wame o' them." 
 
174 ROBERT FALCONEa. 
 
 "Hoots! what kin' o' gait 's that to speyk till a bodyl 
 Whase feet was inside the shune?" 
 
 " De'il a bit e' ine kens, mem." 
 
 " Dinna sweir, whatever ye du." 
 
 "De'il but I will sweir, mem; an' gin ye anger me, I'll 
 jist sweir awfu'." 
 
 " I'm sure I hae nae wuss to anger ye, man ! Canna yo 
 help a body to win at the boddom o' a thing ohn angert an' 
 Bworn ? " 
 
 " Weel, I kenna wha brocht the shune, as I telltye a'ready." 
 
 " But they wantit nae men'in'." 
 
 " I micht hae men't them an' forgotten 't, mem." 
 
 "Noo ye're leein'." 
 
 "Gin ye gang on that gait, mem, I winna speyk a word o' 
 trowth frae this moment foret." 
 
 "Jist tell me what ye ken aboot thae shune, an' I'll no say 
 anither word." 
 
 " Weel, mem, I'll tell ye the trowth. The de'il brocht them 
 in ae day in a lang taings ; and says he, ' Elshender, men' 
 thae shune for puir Robby Faulkner ; an' dooble-sole them for 
 the life o' ye ; for that auld luckie-minnie o' his 'ill sune hae 
 him doon oor gait, and the grun' 's bet i' the noo ; an' I dinna 
 want to be ower sair upon him, for he's a fine chield, an' '11 
 mak a fine fiddler gin he live lang eneuch.' " 
 
 Mrs. Falconer left the shop without another word, but with 
 an awful suspicion, which the last heedless words of the shoe- 
 maker had aroused in her bosom. She left him bursting with 
 laughter over his lapstone. He caught up his fiddle, and played 
 " The De'il's i' the Women' ' lustily and with expression. But 
 he little thought what he had done. 
 
 As soon as she reached her own room, she went straight to 
 her bed and disinterred the bonny leddy's coflSn, She was 
 gone ; and in her stead — horror of horrors ! — lay in the unhal- 
 lowed chest that body of divinity known as Boston's " Fourfold 
 State." Vexation, anger, disappointment, and grief possessed, 
 themselves of the old woman's mind. She ranged the house' 
 like the "questing beast " of the "Round Table," but failed in 
 finding the violin before the return of the boys. Not a word 
 did she say all that evening, and their oppressed hearts fore- 
 boded ill They felt that there was thunder in the clouds, a 
 
KOBEKT FaLOONEH. 175 
 
 sleeping storm in the air ; but how or when it would break they 
 had no idea. 
 
 Robert came home to dinner the next day a few minutes 
 before Shargar. As he entered his grandmother's parlor, a 
 strange odor greeted his sense. A moment more, and he^tood 
 rooted with horror, and his hair began to rise on his head. His 
 violin lay on its back, on the fire, and a yellow tongue of flame 
 was licking the red lips of a hole in its belly. All its strings 
 were shrivelled up save one, which burst as he gazed. And 
 beside, stern as a Druidess, sat his grandmother in her chair, 
 feeding her eyes with grim satisfaction on the detestable sacri- 
 fice. At length the rigidity of Robert's whole being relaxed in 
 an involuntary howl like that of a wild beast, and he turned 
 and rushed from the house in a helpless agony of horror 
 Where he was going he knew not, only a blind instinct of 
 modesty drove him to hide his passion from the eyes of men. 
 
 From her window Miss St. John saw him tearing, like one 
 demented, along the top walk of the captain's garden, and 
 watched for his return. He came far sooner than she expected. 
 
 Before he arrived at the factory, Robert began to hear 
 strange sounds in the desolate place. When he reached the 
 upper floor, he fodnd men with axe and hammer destroying the 
 old wood-work, breaking the old jennies, pitching the balls of 
 lead into baskets, and throwing the spools into crates. Was 
 there nothing but destruction in the world ? There, — most hor- 
 rible ! — his " bonny leddy " dying of flames, and here, the 
 temple of his refuge torn to pieces by unhallowed hands ! 
 What could it mean ? Was his grandmother's vengeance here 
 too ? But he did not care. He only felt, like the dove sent 
 from the ark, that there was no rest for tlie sole of his foot ; 
 that there was no place to hide his head in his agony : that 
 he was naked to the universe ; and, like a heartless, wild thing 
 hunted till its brain is of no more use, he turned and rushed 
 back again upon his track. At one end was the burning idol, 
 at the other the desecrated temple. 
 
 No sooner had he entered the captain's garden than Miss St. 
 John met him. 
 
 "What is the matter with you, Robert ? " she asked, kindly. 
 
 " mem ! " gasped Robert, and ourst into a ■'ery storm 
 of weeping. 
 
176 BOBERT FALCONER. 
 
 It was long before he could speak. He cowered before Miss 
 St. John as if conscious of an unfriendly presence, and seeking 
 to shelter himself by her tall figure from his grandmother's 
 eyes. For who could tell but at the moment she might be 
 gazing upon him from some window, or even from the blue 
 vault above? There was no escaping her. She was the all- 
 seeing eye personified, — the eye of the God of the theologians 
 of his country, always searching out the evil, and refusing to 
 acknowledge the good. Yet so gentle and faithful was the 
 heart of Robert, that he never thought of her as cruel. He 
 took it for granted that somehow or other she must be right. 
 Only what a terrible thing such righteousness was ! He stood 
 and wept before the lady. 
 
 Her heart was sore for the despairing boy. She drew him to 
 a little summer-seat. He entered with her, and sat down, 
 weeping still. She did her best to soothe him. At last, sorely 
 jnterrupted by sobs, he managed to let her know the fate of hia 
 "bonny leddy." But when he came to the words, "She's 
 burnin' in there upo' grannie's fire," he broke out once more 
 with that wild howl of despair, and then, ashamed of himself, 
 ceased weeping altogether, though he could not help the intru- 
 sion of certain chokes and sobs upon his otheiVise even, though 
 low and sad speech. 
 
 Knowing nothing of Mrs. Falconer's character, Miss St. 
 John set her down as a cruel and heartless as well as a tyran- 
 nical and bigoted old woman, and took the mental position of 
 enmity towards her. In a gush of motherly indignation she 
 kissed Robert on the forehead. 
 
 From that chrism he arose a king. 
 
 He dried his eyes ; not another sob even broke from him ; he 
 gave one look, but no word of gratitude, to Miss St. John ; 
 bade her good-by, and walked composedly intd his grand- 
 mother's parlor, where the neck of the violin yet lay upon the 
 fire only half consumed. The rest had vanished utterly. 
 
 " What are they duin' doon at the fact'ry, grannie? " ha 
 asked. 
 
 "What's wha duin', laddie?" returned his grandmother 
 curtly. 
 
 " They're takin' 't doon." 
 
 "Takin' what doon?" she returned, with raised voice. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 177 
 
 '' Takin' doon the hoose." 
 
 The old -woman rose. 
 
 " Robert, ye may hae spite in yer hert for what I hae dun<? 
 this mornin', but I cud do no ither. An' it's an ill thing to 
 tak' sic amen's o' me, as gin I had dune vrrang, by garrin' me 
 troo 'at yer grandfather's property was to gang the gait o' 's 
 auld, useless, ill-mainnerfscraich o' a fiddle" 
 
 " She was the bonniest fiddle i' the country-side, grannie. 
 And she never gae a scraich in her life 'cep' whan she was 
 han'let in a mainner unbecomin'. But we s' say nae mair 
 aboot her, for she's gane, an' no by a fair death on one's own 
 straw either. She had nae blude to cry for vengeance ; but 
 the snappin' o' her strings an' the crackin' o' her banes may 
 hae made a cry to gang far eneuch notwithstandin'." 
 
 The old woman seemed for one moment rebuked under her 
 grandson's eloquence. He had made a great stride towards 
 manhood since the morning. 
 
 " The fiddle's my ain, " she said, in a defensive tone. " And 
 flae is the facfry," she added, as if she had not quite reassured 
 herself concerning it. 
 
 " The fiddle's yours nae mair, grannie. And for the fact'ry 
 — ye winna believe me ; gang and see yersel'." 
 
 Therewith Robert retreated to his garret. 
 
 When he opened the door of it, the first thing he saw was 
 the string of his kite, which, strange to tell, so steady had been 
 the wind, was still up in the air, — still tugging at the bedpost. 
 Whether it was from the stinging thought that the true sky- 
 soarer, the violin, having been devqured by the jaws of the fire- 
 devil, there was no longer any significance in the outward and 
 visible sign of the dragon, or from a dim feeling that the time 
 of kites was gone by and manhood on the threshold, I cannot 
 tell ; but he drew his knife from his pocket, and with one down- 
 stroke cut the string in twain. Away went the dragon, free, 
 like a prodigal, to his ruin. And with the dragon afar into 
 the past flew the childhood of Robert Falconer. He made one 
 remorseless dart after the string as it swept out of the skylight ; 
 but it was gone beyond remedy. And never more, save in 
 twilight dreams, did he lay hold on his childhood again. But 
 he knew better and better, as the years rolled on, that he ap 
 12 
 
lT8 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 proached a deeper and holier childhood, of which tnat had heen , 
 but the feeble and necessarily vanishing type. 
 
 As the kite sank in the distance, Mrs. Falconer issued from 
 the house, and went down the street towards the factory. 
 
 Before she came back the cloth was laid for dinner, and 
 Robert and Shargar were both in the parlor awaiting her 
 return. She entered heated and distoayed, went into Eobert's 
 bedroom, and shut the door hastily. They heard her open 
 the old bureau. In a moment after she came out with a more 
 luminous expression upon her face than Robert had ever seen 
 it bear. It was as still as ever, but there was a strange light 
 in her eyes, which was not confined to her eyes, but shone in 
 a measure from her colorless forehead and cheeks as well. It 
 was long before Robert was able to interpret that change in 
 her look, and that increase of kindness towards himself and 
 Shargar, apparently such a contrast with the holocaust of the 
 morning. Had they both been Benjamins they could not havfe 
 had more abundant platefuls than she gave them that day. 
 And when they left her to return to school, instead of the 
 usual, " Noo be quiet," she said, in gentle, almost loving tones, 
 '' Noo be good lads, baith o' ye." 
 
 The conclusion at which Falconer did arrive was that his 
 grandmother had hurried home to see whether the title-deeds 
 of the factory were still in her possession, and had found that 
 they were gone, — taken, doubtless, by her son Andrew. At 
 whatever period he had appropriated them, he must have 
 parted with them but recently. And the hope rose luminous 
 that her son had not yet passed into the region " where all life 
 dies, death lives." Terrible consolation ! Terrible creed, which 
 made the hope that he was still on this side of the grave, work- 
 ing wickedness, light up the face of the mother, and open her 
 hand in kindness ! Is it suflFering, or is it wickedness, that ts 
 the awful thing? " Ah ! but they are both combined in the 
 other world." And in this world too, I answer; only, accord- 
 ing to Mrs. Falconer's creed, in the other world Grod, for the 
 Bake of the suffering, renders the wickedness eternal ! 
 
 The old factory was in part pulled down, and out of its re- 
 mains a granary constructed. Nor did the old lady interpose 
 a word to arrest the alienation of her property. 
 
BOBKBI EAI.CONEB. 179 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 BOOT FOR BALE. 
 
 Mary St. John was the orphan daughter of an English 
 clergyman, who had left her money enough to make bor at 
 least independent. Mrs. Forsyth, hearing that her niece was 
 left alone in the world, had concluded that her society would 
 be a pleasure to herself and a relief to the house-keeping. Even 
 before her father's death, Misa St. John, having met with a 
 disappointment, and concluded herself dead to the world, had 
 been looking about for some way of doing good. The prospect 
 of retirement, therefore, and of being useful to her sick aunt, 
 had drawn her northwards. 
 
 She was now about six-and-twenty, filled with two passions, 
 — one for justice, the other for music. Her griefs had not 
 made her selfish, nor had her music degenerated into senti- 
 ment. The gentle style of the instruction she had received 
 had never begotten a diseased self-consciousness ; and if her 
 religion lacked something of the intensity without which a 
 character like hers could not be evenly balanced, its force was 
 not spent on the combating of unholy doubts and selfish fears, 
 but rose on the winga of her music in gentle thanksgiving. Tears 
 had changed her bright-hued hopes into a dove-colored submis- 
 sion, through which her mind was passing towards a rainbow 
 dawn such as she had never dreamed of. To her as yet the 
 Book of Common Prayer contained all the prayers that human 
 heart had need to ofier; what things lay beyond its scope must 
 lie beyond the scope of religion. All such things must be 
 parted with one day, and if they had been taken from her very 
 soon, she was the sooner free from the painful necessity of 
 watching lest earthly love should remove any of the old land- 
 marks dividing what was God's from what was only man's. 
 She had now retired within thfe pale of religion, and left the 
 rest of her being, as she thouglit, " to dull forgetfulness a 
 prey." 
 
 She had little comfort in the society of her aunt. Indeed, 
 she felt strongly tempted to return again to England the same 
 month, and seek a divine service elsewhere. £ut it was not 
 
180 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 at all so easy then as it is now for a woman to find the oppor- 
 tunity of being helpful in the world of suffering. 
 
 Mrs. Forsyth was one of those women who get their own 
 way by the very vis inertice of their silliness. No argument 
 could tell upon her. She was so incapable of seeing anything 
 noble that her perfect satisfaction with everything she herself 
 thought, said, or did, remained unchallenged. She had just 
 illness enough to swell her feeling of importance. She looked 
 down upon Mrs. Falconer from such an immeasurable height 
 that she could not be indignant with her for anything ; she 
 only vouchsafed a laugh now and then at her oddities, holding 
 no further communication with her than a condescending bend 
 of the neck when they happened to meet, which was not once 
 a year. But, indeed, she would have patronized the angel 
 Gabriel, if she had had a chance, and no doubt given him a 
 hint or two upon the proper way of praising God. For the 
 rest, she was good-tempered, looked comfortable, and quar- 
 relled with nobody but her rough, honest old bear of a hus- 
 band, whom, in his seventieth year, she was always trying to 
 teach good manners, with the frequent result of a storm of 
 swearing. 
 
 But now Mary St. John was thoroughly interested in the 
 strange boy whose growing musical pinions were ever being 
 clipped by the shears of unsympathetic age and crabbed relig- 
 ion, and the idea of doing something for him to make up for 
 the injustice of his grandmother awoke in her a slight glow of 
 that interest in life which she sought only in doing good. But 
 although ere long she came to love the boy very truly, and 
 although Shargar's life was bound up in the favor of Robert, 
 yet neither stooping angel nor foot-following dog ever lovea 
 the lad with the love of that old grandmother, who would for 
 him have given herself to the fire to which she had doomed hia 
 greatest delight. 
 
 For some days Robert worked hard at his lessons, for he nad 
 nothing else to do. Life was very gloomy now. If he could 
 only go to sea, or away to keep sheep on the stormy moun- 
 tains ! If there were only some war going on, that he might 
 'list I Any fighting with the elements, or with the oppressora 
 of the nations, would make life worth having, a man wwth 
 being. But God did not heed. He learned over the world, a 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 181 
 
 dark care, an immovable fate, bearing down with the weight 
 of his presence all aspiration, all budding delights of children 
 and young persons ; all must cro'ich before him, and uphold 
 bis glory with the sacrificial death of every impulse, every 
 admiration, every lightness of heart, every bubble of laughter. 
 Or, — which to a mind like Robert's was as bad, — if he did 
 not punish for these things, it was because they came not with- 
 in the sphere of his condescension, were not worth his notice : 
 of sympathy could be no question. 
 
 But this gloom did not last long. When souls like Robert's 
 have been ill-taught about God, the true God will not let them 
 gaze too long upon the Moloch which men have set up to rep- 
 resent him. He will turn away their minds from that which 
 men call him, and fill them with some of his own lovely 
 thoughts or works, such as may by degrees prepare the way 
 for the vision of the Father. 
 
 One afternoon Robert was passing the shoemaker's shop 
 He had never gone near him since his return. But now, 
 almost mechanically, he went in at the open door. 
 
 " Weel, Robert, ye are a stranger. But what's the maittei 
 wi' ye ? Faith ! yon was an ill plisky ye played me to brak' 
 into my shop an' steal the bonny leddy." 
 
 "Sandy," said Robert, solemnly, "ye dinna ken what ye 
 hae dune by that trick ye played me. Dinna ever mention her 
 again i' Tny hearin'." 
 
 "The auld witch hasna gotten a grup o' her again?" 
 cried the shoemaker, starting half up in alarm. " She cam' 
 here to me abootthe shune, but I reckon I sortet her ! " 
 
 " I winna speir what ye said," returned Robert. " It's 
 no maitter noo." 
 
 And the tears rose to his eyes. His bonny leddy ! 
 
 " The Lord guide 's ! " exclaimed the shoemaker. "What 
 is the maitter wi' the bonny leddy? " 
 
 " There's nae bonnic leddy ony mair. I saw her burnt to 
 death afore my verra ain een." 
 
 The shoemaker sprang to his feet and caught up his paring' 
 knife. 
 
 " For God's sake, say 'at yer leein' ! " he cried. 
 
 " I wish I war leein'," returned Robert. 
 
 The shoemaker uttered a terrible oath, and swore : — ■ 
 
182 ROBERT ^iXCONEB,. 
 
 " I'll murder the auld — " The epithet he ended with ia 
 too ugly to write. 
 
 " Daur to say sic a word in ae breath wi' my grannie," cried 
 Robert, snatching up the lapstone, " an' I'll brain ye upo' yer 
 ain shop-flure." 
 
 Sandy threw the knife on his stool, and sat down beside it. 
 Robert dropped the lapstone. Sandy took it up and burst into 
 tears, which, before they were half down his face, turned into 
 tar with the blackness of the same. 
 
 " I'm an awfu' sinner," he said, "and vengeance has ower- 
 ta'en me. Gang oot o' my shop ! I wasna worthy o' her. 
 Gang oot, I isay, or I'll kill ye." 
 
 Robert went. Close by the door he met Miss St. John. 
 He pulled off his cap, and would have passed her. But she 
 stopped him. 
 
 " I am going for a walk a little way," she said. " Will 
 you go with me? " 
 
 She had come out in the hope of finding him, for she had 
 Been him go up the street. 
 
 " That I wuU," returned Robert, and they walked on 
 together. 
 
 When they were beyond the last house. Miss St. John 
 said : — 
 
 " Would you like to play on the piano, Robert? " 
 
 "Eh, mem ! " said Robert, with adeepsuspiration. Then, 
 after a pause, " But duv ye think I cud?" 
 
 " There's no fear of that. Let me see your hands." 
 
 " They're some black, I doobt, mem," he remarked, rubbing 
 them hard upon his trowsers before he showed them ; " for I 
 was amaist cawin' oot the brains o' Dooble Sanny wi' his ain 
 lapstane. He's an ill-tongued chield. But eh ! mem, ye suld 
 hear him play upo' the fiddle ! He's greitin' his een oot e'en 
 Doo for the bonnie leddy." 
 
 Not discouraged by her inspection "of his hands, black as 
 ihey were, Miss St. John continued : — 
 
 " But what would your grandmother say ? " she asked. 
 
 "She maun ken naething abootit, mem. I can-not tell her 
 A'tbing. She wad greit an'- pray awfu', an' lock me up, I 
 daur say. Ye see, she thinks a' kin' o' music 'cep' psalm-sing- 
 in' comes o' the deevil himsel'. An' I canna believe that 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 183 
 
 For aye whan I see onything by ordinar bonnie, sic like as the 
 mune was last nicht, it aye gars me greit for my burnt fiddle." 
 
 " Well, you must come to me every day for half an hour at 
 least, and I will give you a lesson on ray piano. But you 
 can't learn by that. And my aunt could never bear to hear 
 you practising. So I'll tell you what you must do. I have a 
 small piano in my own room. Do you know there is a door 
 from your house into my room ? " 
 
 " Ay," said Robert. " That hoose was my father's afore 
 your uncle bought it. My father built it." 
 
 "Is it long since your father died ? " 
 
 ''I dinna ken." 
 
 "Where did he die?" 
 
 " I dinna ken." 
 
 " Do you remember it ? " 
 
 "No, mem." 
 
 " Well, if you will come to my room, you shall practise 
 there. I shall be downstairs with my aunt. But perhaps I 
 may look up now and then, to see how you are getting on. I 
 will leave the door unlocked, so that you can come in when 
 you like. If I don't want you, I will lock the door. You 
 understand? You mustn't be handling things, you know." 
 
 " Deed, mem, ye may trust to me. But I'm jist feared to 
 lat ye hear me lay a finger upo' the plana, for it's little I cud 
 do wi' my fiddle, an', for the piana ! I'm feart I'll jist disgust 
 
 ye." 
 
 " If you really want to learn, there will be no fear of that," 
 returned Miss St. John. "I don't think I am doing anything 
 wrong," she added, half to herself, in a somewhat doubtful 
 tone. 
 
 "Deed no, mem. Ye're jist an angel unawares. For I 
 maist think sometimes that my grannie '11 drive me mad ; for 
 there's naething to read but guid bulks, an' naething to sing 
 but psalms ; aai' there's nae fun aboot the hoose but Betty ; an' 
 puir Shargar's near-han' dementit wi' 't. An' we maun pray 
 till her whether we will or no. An' there's no comfort i' the 
 place, but plenty to ate ; an' that canna be guid for onybody. 
 She likes flooers, though, an' w^.d like me to gar them grow; 
 but I dinna care aboot it ; they tak' sic a time afore they come 
 to onything." 
 
I Si: EOBKRT FALCONER. 
 
 Then Miss St. John inquired aboat Shargar, and began t« 
 feel rather diiFerently towards the old lady when she had 
 heard tlie story. But how she laughed at the tale, and how 
 light-hearted Robert went home, are neither to be told. 
 
 The next Sunday, the first time for many years, Dooble 
 Sanny was at church with his wife, though how much good ha 
 got by going -would be a serious question to discuas. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE GATES OF PARADISE. 
 
 Robert had his first lesson the next Saturday afternoon. 
 Eager and undismayed by the presence of Mrs. Forsyth, good- 
 natured and contemptuous, — for had he not a protecting angel 
 by him? — he hearkened for every word of Miss St. John, 
 combated every fault, and undermined every awkwardness 
 ■with earnest patience. Nothing delighted Robert so much as 
 to give himself up to one greater. His mistress was thoroughly 
 pleased, and even Mrs. Forsyth gave him two of her soft fin- 
 ger tips to do something or other with — Robert did not know 
 what, and let them go. 
 
 About eight o'clock that same evening, his heart beating 
 like a captured bird's, he crept from grannie's parlor, past the 
 kitchen, and up the low stair to the mysterious door. He had 
 been trying for an hour to summon up courage to rise, feeling 
 as if- his grandmother must suspect where he was going. 
 Arrived at the barrier, twice his courage failed him ; twice he 
 turned and sped back to the parlor. A third time he made the 
 essay, a third time stood at the wondrous door, — so long as 
 blank as a wall to his careless eyes ; now like the door of the 
 magic Sesame that led to the treasure-cave of Ali Baba. He 
 laid his hand on the knob, withdrew it, thought he heard some 
 one in the transe, rushed up the garret stair, and stood lisien-. 
 ing, hastened down, and with a sudden influx of determination 
 opened the doer, saw that the trap was raised, closed the dooJ 
 
ROBERT TALCONER. 185 
 
 behind him, and, standing with his head on the level of the 
 floor, gazed into the paradise of Miss St. John's room. To 
 have one peep into such a room was a kind of salvation to the 
 half-starved nature of the boy. All before him was elegance, 
 richness, mystery. Womanhood radiated from everything. 
 A fire blazed in the chimney. A rug of long white wool lay 
 before it. A little way off stood the piano. Ornaments 
 sparkled and shone upon the dressing-table. The door of a 
 wardrobe had swung a little open, and discovered the sombre 
 shimmer of a black silk dress. Something gorgeously red, a 
 China crape shawl, hung glowing beyond it. He dared not 
 gaze any longer. He had already been guilty of an im- 
 modesty. He hastened to ascend, and seated himself at the 
 piano. 
 
 Let my reader aid me for a moment with his imagination, 
 reflecting what it was to a boy like Robert and in Robert's 
 misery, to open a door, in his own meagre dwelling, and gaze 
 into such a room — free to him. If he will aid me so, then 
 let him.aid himself by thinking that the house of his own soul 
 has such a- door into the infinite beauty, whether he has yet 
 found it or not. 
 
 " Just think." Robert said to himself, " o' me in sic a 
 place ! It's a pailace. It's a fairy pailace. And that angel 
 o' a leddy bides here, and sleeps there ! I wonner gin she 
 ever dreams aboot ony thing as bonny 's hersel' ! " 
 
 Then his thoughts took another turn. 
 
 " I wonner if the room was onything like this whan my 
 mamma sleepit in't ? 1 cudna hae been born in sic a gran' 
 place. But my mamma micht hae weel lien here." 
 
 The face of the miniature, and the sad words written below 
 the hymn, came back upon him, and he bowed his head upon 
 his hands. He was sitting, thus when Miss St. John came 
 behind him, and heard him murmur the one word Mammal 
 She laid her hand on his shoulder. He started and rose. 
 
 " I beg yer pardon, mem. I hae no business to be here, 
 excep' to play. But I cudna help thinkin' aboot my mother ; 
 for I was born in this room, mem. Will I gang awa' 
 again ? " 
 
 He turned towards the door. 
 
 " No, no, ' said Miss St. John. "I only came to see if 
 
186 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 you were here. I cannot stop now ; but to-morrow you must 
 tell me about your mother. Sit down, and don't lose any 
 more time. Your grandmother will miss you. And then 
 what would come of it? " 
 
 Thus was this rough diamond of a Scotch boy, rude in 
 <peech, but full of delicate thought, gathered under the mod- 
 elling influences of the finished, refined, tender, sweet- 
 tongued, and sweet-thoughted Englishwoman, who, if she had 
 been less of a woman, would have been repelled by his un- 
 couthness ; if she had been less of a lady, would have mis- 
 taken his commonness for vulgarity. But she was just, like 
 the type of womankind, a virgin-mother. She saw the no- 
 bility of his nature through its homely garments, and had 
 been, indeed, sent to carry on the work from which his mother 
 had been too early taken away. 
 
 " There's jist ae thing, mem, that vexes me a we6, an I 
 dinna ken what to think aboot it," said Robert, as Miss St. 
 John was leaving the room. " Maybe ye cud bide ae minute 
 till I tell ye." 
 
 "Yes, lean. What is it?" 
 
 " I'm near-han' sure that whan I lea' the parlor, grannie 'ill 
 think I'm awa' to my prayers; and sae she'll think better o' 
 me nor I deserve. An' 1 canna bide that." 
 
 " What should make you suppose that she will think so? " 
 
 " Fowk knows what ane anither's aboot, ye know, mem." 
 
 " Then she'll know you are not at your prayers." 
 
 " Na. For sometimes I div gang to my prayers for a 
 whilie like, but nae for lang, for I'm nae like ane o' them 'at 
 He wad care to hear sayin' a lang screed o' a prayer till 'im. 
 I hae but ae thing to pray aboot." 
 
 "And what's that, Robert?" 
 
 Ono of his silences had seized him. He looked confused, 
 and turned away. 
 
 " Never mind," said Miss St. John, anxious to relieve him, 
 and establish a comfortable relation between them ; " you will 
 tell me another time." 
 
 "I doobt no, mem," answered Robert, with what most 
 people would think an excess of honesty. 
 
 But Miss St. John made a better conjecture as to his ap> 
 parent closeness. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 18T 
 
 " At all events,'' she said, " don't mind what your grannie 
 may think, so long as you have no wish to make her think it. 
 Good-night." 
 
 Had she been indeed an angel from heaven, Robert could 
 not have worshipped her more. And why should he ? Was 
 she less God's messenger that she had beautiful arms instead 
 of less beautiful wings? 
 
 He practised his scales till his unaccustomed fingers were 
 stiff, then shut the piano with reverence, and departed, care- 
 fully peeping into the disenchanted region without the gates to 
 see that no enemy lay in wait for him as he passed beyond 
 them. He closed the door gently ; and in one moment the 
 rich, lovely room and the beautiful lady were behind him, and 
 before him the bare stair between two whitewashed walls, and 
 the long flagged transe that led to his silent grandmother 
 seated in her arm-chair, gazing into the red coals, — for some- 
 how grannie's fire always glowed and never blazed, — with 
 her round-toed shoes pointed at them from the top of her little 
 wooden stool. He traversed the stair and the transe, entered 
 the parlor, and sat down to his open book as though nothing 
 had happened. But his grandmother saw the light in his 
 face, and did think he had just come from his prayers. And 
 she blessed God that he had put it into her heart to burn the 
 fiddle. 
 
 The next night Robert took with him the miniature of his 
 mother, and showed it to Miss St. John, who saw at once that, 
 whatever might be his present surroundings, his mother must 
 have been a lady. A certain fancied resemblance in it to her 
 own mother likewise drew her heart to the boy. Then Robert 
 took from his pocket the gold thimble, and said : — 
 
 " This thimmel was my mamma's. Will ye tak' it, mem, 
 for ye ken it's o' nae use to me." 
 
 Miss St. John hesitated for a moment. 
 
 " I will keep it for you, if you like," she said, for she could 
 not bear to refuse it. 
 
 " Na, mem; I want ye to keep it to yersel' ; for I'm sura 
 my mamma wad hae likit you to hae 't better nor ony ither 
 body." 
 
 "Well, I will use it sometimes for your sake. But mind, 
 1 will not take it from you; I will only keep it fcr you." 
 
188 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Weel, weel, mem ; if ye'll keep it till I speir for 't. that'll 
 du weel eneuch." answered Robert, with a smile. 
 
 He labored diligently ; and his progress corresponded to hia 
 labor. It was more than intellect that guided him ; Falconer 
 had genius for whatever he cared for. 
 
 Meantime the love he bore his teacher, and the influence 
 of her beauty, began to mould him, in his kind and degree, 
 after her likeness, so that he grew nice in his person and dress, 
 and smoothed the roughness and moderated the broadness of 
 his speech with the amenities of the English which she made 
 so sweet upon her tongue. He became still more obedient to 
 his grandmother, and more diligent at school ; gathered to 
 himself golden opinions without knowing it, and was gradually 
 developing into a rustic gentleman. 
 
 Nor did the piano absorb all his faculties. Every divine 
 influence tends to the rounded perfection of the whole. Hia 
 love of nature grew more rapidly. Hitherto it was only in 
 summer that he had felt the presence of a power in her and 
 yet above her ; in winter, now, the sky was true and deep, 
 though the world was waste and sad , and the tones of the 
 wind that roared at night about the goddess-haunted house, 
 and moaned in the chimneys of the lowly dwelling that 
 nestled against it, woke harmonies within him which already 
 be tried to spell out falteringly. Miss St. John began to find 
 that he put expressions of his own into the simple things she 
 gave him to play, and even dreamed a little at his own will 
 when alone with the passive instrument. Little did Mrs. Fal- 
 coner think into what a seventh heaven of accursed music she 
 had driven her boy. 
 
 But not yet did he tell his friend, much as he Ic ved and 
 much as he trusted her, the little he knew of his mother's 
 sorrows and his father's sins, or whose the hand that had 
 struck him when she found him lying in the waste factory. 
 
 For a time almost all his trouble about God went from 
 him. Nor do I think that this was only because he rarely 
 thoughtof him at all; God gave him of Himself in Miss St. John. 
 But words dropped now and then from off the shelves where 
 his old difficulties lay, and they fell like seeds upon the heart 
 of Miss St. John, took root, and rose in thoughts; in tha 
 heart of a true woman the talk of a child even will take life. 
 
ROBERT FALCONEK. 18S 
 
 One evening Robert rose from the table, not unwatchcci cf 
 his grandmother, and sped swiftly and silently through the 
 dark, as was his custom, to enter the chamber of enchant- 
 ment. Never before had his hand failed to alight, sure as a 
 lark on its nest, upon the brass handle of the door that ad- 
 mitted him to his paradise. It missed it now, and fell on 
 something damp, and rough, and repellent instead. Horrible, 
 but true suspicion ! While he was at school that day, his 
 grandmother, moved by what doubt or by what certainty she 
 never revealed, had had the door-way walled up. He felt the 
 place all over. It was to his hands the living tomb of his 
 mother's vicar on earth. 
 
 He returned to his book, pale as death, but said never a 
 word. The next day the stones were plastered over. 
 
 Thus the door of bliss vanished from the earth. And 
 neither the boy nor his grandmother ever said that it lid 
 been. 
 
PART II. -HIS YOUm 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 ROBERT KNOCKS — AND THE DOOR IS NOI OPENED. 
 
 The remainder «f that winter was dreary indeed. Every 
 time Robert went up the stair, to his garret, he passed the 
 door of a tomb. With that gray mortar Mary St. John was 
 wallod up, like the nun he had read of in the " Marmion " she had 
 lent him. He might have rung the bell at the street-dooi, 
 and been admitted into the temple of his goddess ; but a certain 
 vague terror of bis grannie, combined with equally vague 
 qualms of conscience for having deceived her, and the approach 
 in the far distance of a ghastly suspicion that violins, pianos 
 moonlight, and lovely women were distasteful to the over- 
 ruling Fate, and obnoxious to the vengeance stored in the 
 gray cloud of his providence, drove him from the awful en- 
 trance of the temple of his Isis. 
 
 Nor did Miss St. John dare to make any advances to the 
 dreadful old lady. She would wait. For Mrs. Forsyth, she 
 cared nothing about the whole affair. It only gave her fresh 
 opportunity for smiling condescensions about " poor Mrs. Fal- 
 coner." So Paradise was over and gone. 
 
 But though the loss of Miss St. John and the piano was 
 the last blow, his sorrow did not rest there, but returned to 
 brood over his bonny leddy. She was scattered to the winds. 
 Would any of her ashes ever rise in the corn, and moan in 
 the ripening wind of autumn ? Might not some atoms of the. 
 bonily leddy creep into the pines on the hill, whose " soft and 
 Boul-like sounds" had taught him to play the "Flowers of 
 the Forest " on those strings which, like the nerves of an 
 amputated limb, yet thrilled through his being? Or might 
 
 130 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 191 
 
 not some particle find its way by winds and waters to syca< 
 more forest of Italy, there creep up through the channels of 
 its life to some finely rounded curve of noble trees, on the 
 side that ever looks sunwards, and be chosen once again by 
 the violin-hunter, to be wrought into a new and fame-gather- 
 ing instrument ? 
 
 Could it be that his bonny leddy had learned her wondrous 
 music in those forests, from the shine of the sun, and the 
 sighing of the winds tlirough the sycamores and pines ? For 
 Robert knew that the broad-leaved sycamore, and the shar}), 
 needle-leaved pine, had each its share in the violin. Only aa 
 the wild innocence of human nature, uncorrupted by wrong, 
 untaught by suflFering, is to that nature struggling out of 
 darkness into light, such and so different is the living wood, 
 with its sweetest tones of obedient impulse, answering only to 
 the wind which bloweth where it listeth, to that wood, chosen, 
 separated, individualized, tortured into strange, almost vital 
 shape, after a law to us nearly unknown, strung with strings 
 from animal organizations, and put into the hands of man to 
 utter the feelings of a soul that has passed through a like his- 
 tory. This Robert could not yet think, and had to grow able 
 to think it by being himself made an instrument of Gods 
 music. 
 
 What he could think was that the glorious mystery of his 
 bonny leddy was gone forever — and alas ! she had no soul. 
 Here was an eternal sorrow. He could never meet her again. 
 His affections, which must live forever, were set upon that 
 which had passed away. But the child that weeps because 
 his mutilated doll will not rise from the dead, shall yet find 
 relief from his sorrow, — a true relief, both human and divine. 
 He shall know that that which in the doll made him love the 
 doll has not passed away. And Robert must yet be com- 
 forted for the loss of his bonny leddy. If she had had a soul, 
 nothing but her own self could ever satisfy him. As she had 
 no soul, another body might take herplace, nor occasion reproach 
 of inconstancy. 
 
 But, in the mean time, the shears of Fate having cut the 
 string of the sky-soaring kite of his imagination, had left him 
 with the stick in his hand. And thus the rest of that winter 
 waa dreary enough. The glow was out of his heart ; the 
 
192 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 glow was out of the world. The bleak, kindless wind was 
 hissing through those pines that clothed the hill above Body- 
 fauldj and over the dead garden, where in the summer time 
 the rose had looked down so lovingly on the heart's-ease. If 
 he had stood once more at gloaming in that barley-stubble, 
 not even the wail of Flodden-field would have found him there, 
 but a keen sense of personal misery and hopeless cold. Was 
 the summer a lie ? 
 
 Not so. The winter restrains, that the summer may have 
 the needful time to do its work well ; for the winter is but the 
 sleep of summer. 
 
 Now in the winter of his discontent, and in nature finding 
 no help, Robert was driven inwards, — into his garret, into his 
 Boul. There the door of his paradise being walled up, he 
 began, vaguely, blindly, to knock against other doors, — 
 sometimes against stone walls and rocks, taking them for 
 doors, — as travel-worn, and hence brain-sick men have done 
 in a desert of mountains. A door, out or in, he must find, or 
 perish. 
 
 It fell, too, that Miss St. John went to visit some friends 
 who lived in a coast town twenty miles ofi"; and a season of 
 heavy snow followed by frost setting in, she was absent for 
 six weeks, during which time, without a single care to 
 trouble him from without, Robert was in the very desert of 
 desolation. His spirits sank fearfully. He would pass his 
 old music-master in the street with scarce a recognition, as 
 if the bond of their relation had been utterly broken, had van- 
 ished in the smoke of the martyred violin, and all their afifec 
 tion had gone into the dust-heap of the past. 
 
 Dooble Sanny's character did not improve. He took more 
 and more whiskey, his bouts of drinking alternating as before 
 with fits of hopeless repentance. His work was more neg- 
 lected than ever, and his wife, having no money to spend even 
 upon necessaries, applied in desperation to her husband's bottle 
 for comfort. This comfort, to do him justice, he never 
 grudged her ; and sometimes before midday they would both 
 be drunk, — a condition expedited by the lack of food. When 
 they began to recover, they would quarrel fiercely; and at 
 lastthey became a nuisance to the whole street. Little did 
 the whiskey-hating old lady know to what god she had really 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 193 
 
 offered up that violin, — if the consequences of the holocaust 
 can be admitted as indicating the power which had accepted 
 it. 
 
 But now began to appear in Robert the first signs of a 
 practical outcome of such truth as his grandmother had taught 
 him, operating upon the necessities of a simple and earnest 
 nature. Reality, however lapped in vanity, or even in falsehood, 
 cannot lose its power. It is ; the other is not. She had 
 taught him to look up, — that there was a God. He would 
 put it to the test. Not that he doubted it yet; he only 
 doubted whether there was a hearing Grod. But was not that 
 worse ? It was, I think. For it is of far more consequence 
 what kind of a God, than whether a God or not. Let not my 
 reader suppose I think it possible there could be other than a 
 perfect God, — perfect, — even to the vision of his creatures, 
 the faith that supplies the lack of vision being yet faithful to 
 that vision. I speak from Robert's point of outlook. But, 
 indeed, whether better or worse is no great matter, so long as 
 he would see it or what there was. He had no comfort, and, 
 without reasoning about it, he felt that life ought to have 
 comfort, — from which point he began to conclude that the 
 only thing left was to try whether the God in whom his 
 grandmother believed might not help him. If the God would 
 but hear him, it was all he had yet learned to require of his 
 Godhood. And that must ever be the first thing to require. 
 More demands would come, and greater answers he would 
 find. But now — if God would but hear him ! If he spoke 
 to him but one kind word, it would be the very soul of com- 
 fort ; he could no more be lonely. A fountain of glad imagi- 
 nations gushed up in his heart at the thought. What if, from ' 
 the cold winter of his life, he had but to open the door of his 
 giirret-room, and, kneeling by the bare bedstead, enter into 
 the summer of God's presence ! What if God spoke to him 
 face to face ! He had so spoken to Moses. He sought him 
 from no fear of the future, but from present desolation ; and if 
 God came near to him, it would not be with storm and tem- 
 pest, but with the voice of a friend. And surely, if there was 
 a God at all, that is, not a power greater than man, but a 
 power by whose power man was, he must hear the voice of 
 the creature whom he had made, a voice that came crying out 
 -3 
 
194 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 of the very need which he had created. Younger people than 
 Eobert are capable of such divine metaphysics. Hence h« 
 continued to disappear from his grandmother's parlor at much 
 the same hour as before. In the cold, desolate garret, ha 
 knelt and cried out into that which lay beyond the thought 
 that cried, the unknowable infinite, after the God that may be 
 known as surely as a little child knows his mysterious mother. 
 And from behind him, the pale-blue, star-crowded sky shone 
 upon his head, through the window that looked upwards 
 only. 
 
 Mrs. Falconer saw that he still went away as he had been 
 wont, and instituted observations, the result of which was the 
 knowledge that he went to his own room. Her heart smote 
 her, and she saw that the boy looked sad and troubled. There 
 was scarce room in her heart for increase of love, but much for 
 increase of kindness, and she did increase it. In truth, he 
 needed the smallest crumb of comfort that might drop from the 
 table of God's "feastful friends." 
 
 Night after night he returned to the parlor cold to the very 
 heart. God was not to be found, he said then. He said after- 
 wards that even then " God was with him, though he knew it 
 not." 
 
 For the very first night, the moment that he knelt and cried, 
 " Father in heaven, hear me, and let thy face shine upon 
 me," — like a flash of burning fire the words shot from the 
 door of his heart, " I dinna care for him to leva me, if he 
 doesna love ilka body ; " and no more prayer went from the 
 desolate boy that night, although he knelt an hour of agony in 
 the freezing dark. Loyal to what he had been taught, he 
 struggled hard to reduce his rebellious will to what he sup- 
 posed to be the will of God. It was all in vain. Ever a voice 
 within him — surely the voice of that God who he thought 
 was not hearing — told him that what he wanted was the love 
 belonging to his human nature, his human needs, — not the 
 preference of a court-favorite. He had a dim consciousness 
 that he would be a traitor to his race if he accepted a love, 
 even from God, given him as an exception from his kind. But 
 he did not care to have such a love. It was not what his heart 
 yearned for. It was not love. He could not love such a love 
 Yet he strove against it all, — fought for religion against right 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 19S 
 
 as he could ; struggled to reduce his rehellious feelings, to love 
 that whicli was unlovely, to choose that which was abhor- 
 rent, until nature almost gave way under the effort. Often 
 would he sink moaning on the floor, or stretch himself like a 
 corpse, save that it was face downwards, on the boards of the 
 bedstead. Night after night he returned to the battle, but with 
 no permanent success. What a success that would have been ! 
 Night after night he came pale and worn from the conflict, 
 found his grandmother and Shargar composed, and, in the qui- 
 etness of despair, sat down beside them to his Latin version. 
 
 He little thought, that every night, at the moment when he 
 stirred to leave the upper room, a pale-faced, red-eyed figure 
 rose from its seat on the top of the stair by the door, and sped 
 with long-legged noiselessness to resume its seat by the grand- 
 mother before he should enter. Shargar saw that Eobert was 
 unhappy, and the nearest he could come to the sharing of his 
 unhappiness was to take his place outside the door within whicn 
 he had retreated. Little, too, did Shargar, on his part, think 
 that Robert, without knowing it, was pleading for him inside, 
 
 — pleading for him and for all his race in the weeping that 
 would not be comforted. 
 
 Robert had not the vaguest fancy that God was with him, — 
 the spirit of the Father groaning with the' spirit of the boy in 
 intercession that could not be uttered. If God had come to 
 him then, and comforted him with the assurance of individual 
 favor, — but the very supposition is a taking of his name in vain, 
 
 — had Robert found comfort in the fancied assurance that God 
 was his friend in especial ; that some private favor was granted 
 to his prayers, — that, indeed, would have been to be left to 
 his own inventions, to bring forth not fruits meet for repent- 
 ance, but fruits for which repentance alone is meet. But God 
 was with him, and was indeed victorious in the boy when he 
 rose from his knees, for the last time, as he thought, saying, 
 "I cannot yield — I will pray no more." With a burst of 
 bitter tears he sat down on the bedside till the loudest of the 
 storm was over, then dried his dull eyes, in which the old out- 
 look had withered away, and trod unknowingly in the silent 
 footsteps of Shargar, who was ever one corner in advance of 
 him, down to the dreary lessons and unheeded prayers ; but, 
 
19G BOBEET FALCONEB. 
 
 thank God, not to the sleepless night, for some griefs bring 
 sleep the sooner. 
 
 My reader must not mistake my use of the words especial 
 and private, or suppose that I do not believe in an individual 
 relation between every man and God, yes, a peculiar relation, 
 diflfering from the relation between every other man and God ! 
 But this very individuality and peculiarity can only be founded 
 on the broadest truths of the Godhood and the manhood. 
 
 Mrs. Falconer, ere she went to sleep, gave thanks that the 
 boys had been at their prayers together. And so, in a very 
 deep sense, they had. 
 
 And well they might have been ; for Shargar was nearly as 
 desolate as Robert, and would certainly, had his mother claimed 
 him now, have gone on the tramp with her again. Wherein 
 could this civilized life show itself to him better than that to 
 which he had been born ? For clothing he cared little, and he 
 had always managed to kill his hunger or thirst, if at longer 
 intervals, then with greater satisfaction. Wherein is the life 
 of that man who merely does his eating and drinking and cloth- 
 ing after a civilized fashion better than that of the gypsy or 
 tramp ? If the civilized man is honest to boot, and gives good 
 work in return for the bread or turtle on which he dines, and 
 the gypsy, on the other hand, steals his dinner, I recognize the 
 importance of the difference ; but if the rich man plunders the 
 community by exorbitant profits, or speculation with other 
 people's money, while the gypsy adds a fowl or two to the prod- 
 uce of his tinkering ; or, once again, if the gypsy is as honest 
 as the honest citizen, which is not so rare a case by any means 
 as people imagine, I return to my question : Wherein, I say, 
 are the warm house, the windows hung with purple, and the 
 table covered with fine linen, more divine than the tent or the 
 blue sky, and the dipping in the dish ? Why should not Shar- 
 gar prefer a life with the mother God had given him to a life 
 with Mrs. Falconer? Why should he prefer geography to 
 rambling, or Latin to Romany ? His purposelessness and his 
 love for Robert alone kept him where he was. 
 
 The next evening, having given up his praying, Robert sat 
 with his " Sallust " before him. But the fount of tears began 
 to swell, and the more he tried to keep it down, the more it went 
 on swelling till his throat was filled with a lump of pain. He 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 197 
 
 K.se and left the room. But he could not go near the garrei. 
 That door, too, was closed. He opened the house-door instead, 
 and went out into the street. There, nothing was to be seen 
 but faint blue air, full of moonlight, solid houses, and shining 
 snow. Bareheaded he wandered round the corner of the house 
 to the window whence first he had heard the sweet sounds of 
 the piano-forte. The fire within lighted up the crimson cur- 
 tain, but no voice of music came forth. The window was aa 
 dumj) as the pale, faintly befogged moon overhead, itself seem- 
 ing but a skylight through which shone the sickly light of the 
 passionless world of the dead. Not a form was in the street. 
 The eyes of the houses gleamed here and there upon the snow. 
 He leaned his elbow on the window-sill behind which stood that 
 sealed fountain of lovely sound, looked up at the moon, care- 
 less of her or of aught else in heaven or on earth, and sunk into 
 a reverie, in which nothing was consciously present but a stream 
 of fog-smoke that flowed slowly, listlessly, across the face of 
 the moon, like the ghost of a dead cataract. All at once a wail- 
 ful sound arose in his head. He did not think for some time 
 whether it was born in his brain, or entered it from without. 
 At length he recognized the " Flowers of the Forest," played aa 
 only the shoemaker could play it. But, alas ! the cry respon- 
 sive to his bow came only from the auld wife, — no more from 
 the bonny leddy ! Then he remembered that there had been a 
 humble wedding that morning on the opposite side of the way ; 
 in the street department of the jollity of which Shargar had 
 taken a small share by firing a brass cannon, subsequently con- 
 fiscated by Mrs. Falconer. But this was a strange tune to 
 play at a wedding ! The shoemaker, half way to his goal of 
 drunkenness, had begun to repent for the fiftieth time that 
 year ; had with his repentance mingled the memory of the bonny 
 leddy ruthlessly tortured to death for, his wrong, and had 
 glided from a strathspey into that sorrowful moaning. The 
 lament interpreted itself to his disconsolate pupil as he had 
 never understood it before, not even in the stubble-field ; for it 
 now spoke his own feelings of waste, misery, forsaken loneli- 
 ness. Indeed, Robert learned more of music in those few min- 
 utes of the foggy winter night and open street, shut out of all 
 doors, with the tones of an ancient grief and lamentation floats 
 ing through the blotted moonlight over his ever-present sorrow, 
 
198 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 than be could have learned from many lessons, even of Miss St. 
 John. He was cold to the heart, yet went in a little com- 
 forted. 
 
 Things had gone ill with him. Outside of Paradise, de- 
 serted of his angel, in the frost and the snow, the voice of the 
 despised violin once more the source of a sad comfort ! But 
 there is no better discipline than an occasional descent from 
 'what we count well being, to a former despised or less happy 
 condition. One of the results of this taste of damnation in 
 Rqjjert was that, when he was in bed that night, his heart be- 
 gan to turn gently towards his old master. How much did he 
 not owe him, after all ! Had he not acted ill and ungratefully 
 in deserting him ? His own vessel filled to the brim with grief, 
 had he not let the waters of its bitterness overflow into the 
 heart of the shoemaker ? The wail of that violin echoed now 
 in Kobert's heart, not for Flodden, not for himself, but for the 
 debased nature that drew forth the plaint. Comrades in mis- 
 ery, why should they part ? What right had he to forsake an 
 old friend and benefactor, because he himself was unhappy? 
 He would go and see him the very next night. And he would 
 make friends once more with the much " suffering instrument " 
 he had so wrongfully despised. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE STROKE. 
 
 The following night, he left his books on the table, and tlw 
 house itself behind him, and sped like a greyhound to Double 
 Sanny's shop, lifted the latch, and entered. 
 
 By the light of a single dip set on a chair, he saw the shoe- 
 maker seated on his stool, one hand lying on the 'lap of his 
 leathern apron, his other hand hanging down by his side, and 
 the fiddle on the ground at his feet. His wife stood behind 
 him, wiping her eyes with her blue apron. Through all its 
 accumulated dirt, the face of the shoemaker looked ghastly, and 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 199 
 
 they were eyes of despair that he lifted to the face of the yjuth 
 as he stood holding the latch in his hand. Mrs. Alexander 
 moved towards Robert, drew him in, and gently closed the 
 door behind him, resuming her station like a sculptured 
 mourner behind her motionless husband. 
 
 "What on airth's the maitter wi' ye, Sandy?" said 
 Robert. 
 
 " Eh, Robert ! " returned the shoemaker, and a tone of 
 affection tinged the mournfulness with which he uttered the 
 strange words, — "eh, Robert ! the Almichty will gang his 
 ain gait, and I'm in his grup noo." ♦ 
 
 "He's had a stroke," said his wife, without removing her 
 apron from her eyes. 
 
 "I hae gotten my blows,"- resumed the shoemaker, in a 
 despairing voice, which gave yet more effect to the fantastic 
 eccentricity of conscience, which from the midst of so many 
 grave faults chose such a one as especially bringing the divine 
 displeasure upon him, — " I hae gotten my blows for cryin' doo" 
 my ain auld wife to set up your bonny leddy. The one's 
 gane a' to ashes and dust, an' frae the tither," he went on, 
 looking down on the violin at his feet as if it had been some- 
 thing dead in its youth, — "an' frae the tither I canna draw 
 a sound, for my richt ban' has forgotten her cunnin'. Man, 
 Robert, I canna lift it frae my side." 
 
 " Ye maun gang to yer bed," said Robert, greatly con- 
 cerned. 
 
 " Ow, ay, I maun gang to my bed, and syne to the kirk- 
 
 Jraird, and syne to hell, — I ken that weel eneuch. Robert, I 
 ea' my fiddle to you. Be guid to the auld wife, man, — bet- 
 ter nor I hae been. An auld wife's better nor nae fiddle," 
 
 He stooped, lifted the violin with his left hand, gave it to 
 Robert, rose, and made for the door. They helped him up 
 the creaking stair, got him half-undressed, and laid him in hia 
 bed, Robert put the violin on the top of a press within sight 
 of the sufferer, left him groaning^ and ran for the doctor. 
 Having seen him set out for the patient's dwelling, he ran 
 home to his grandmother. 
 
 Now while Robert was absent, occasion had arisen to look 
 for. him : unusual occurrence, a visitor had appeared, no less a 
 person than Mr, Jnnes, the schcol-master. Shargar had been 
 
200 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 baiiished in consequence from the parlor, and Lad seated him- 
 self outside Robert's room, never doubting that Robert waa 
 inside. Presently he heard the bell ring, and then Betty came 
 up ihe stair, and said Robert was wanted. Thereupon Shargar 
 knocked at the door, and, as there was neither voice nor hear- 
 ing, opened it, and found, with a well-known horror, that he 
 had been watching an empty I'oom. He made no haste to 
 communicate the fact. Robert might return in a moment, and 
 his absence from the house not be discovered. He sat down 
 on the bedstead and waited. But Betty came up again, and, 
 before Shargar could prevent her, walked into the room with 
 her candle in her hand. In vain did Shargar entreat her to 
 go and say that Robert was coming. Betty would not risk 
 the danger of discovery in connivance, and descended to open 
 afresh the fountain of the old lady's anxiety. She did not, 
 liowever, betray her disquietude to Mr. Innes. 
 
 She had asked the school-master to visit her, in order that 
 she might consult him about Robert's future. Mr. Innes 
 expressed a high opinion of the boy's faculties and attainments, 
 and strongly urged that he should be sent to college. Mrs. 
 Falconer inwardly shuddered at the temptations to which this 
 course would expose him ; but he must leave home, or be ap- 
 prenticed to some trade. She would have chosen the latter, I 
 believe, but for religion towards the boy's parents, who would 
 never have thought of other than a profession for him. While 
 the school-master was dwelling on the argument that he waa 
 jjretty sure to gain a good bursary, and she would thus be re- 
 lieved for four years, probably forever, from further expense 
 on his account, Robert entered. 
 
 " Whaur hae ye been, Robert? " asked Mrs. Falconer 
 
 "At Dooble Sanny's," answered the boy. 
 
 " What hae ye been at there? " 
 
 "Helpin' him till's his bed." 
 
 " What's come ower him ? " 
 
 "A stroke." 
 
 " That's what comes o' j)layin' the fiddle." 
 ' I never heard o' a stroke comin' frae a fiddle, grannie. 
 It comes oot o' a cloud whiles. If he had hauden till 's fiddle, 
 he wad hae been playin' her the nicht, in place o' 's airm l^in' 
 at 's side like a — shoemaker's thread." 
 
ROBERT FAICONER. 201 
 
 "Hm ! " said his grandmother, concealing her indignation 
 ftt this freedom of speech, "ye dinna believe in God's judg- 
 ments? '' 
 
 "Not upon fiddles," returned Robert. 
 
 Mr. Innes sat and said nothing, with difficulty concealing 
 his amusement at this passage-of-arms. 
 
 It was within the last few days that Robert had become 
 capable of speaking thus. His nature had at length arrived 
 at the point of so far casting off the incubus of his grand- 
 mother's authority as to assert some measure of freedom and 
 act openly. His very hopelessness of a hearing in heaven had 
 made him indifferent to things on earth, and therefore bolder. 
 Thus, strange as it may seem, the blessing of God descended 
 on him in the despair which enabled him to speak out and free 
 his soul from the weight of concealment. But it was not de- 
 spair alone that gave him strength. On his way home from 
 the shoemaker's he had been thinking what he could do for 
 him ; and had resolved, come of it what might, that he would 
 visit him every evening, and try whether he could not comfort 
 him a little by playing upon his violin. So that it was loving 
 kindness towards man, as well as despair towards God, that 
 gave him strength to resolve that between him and his grand- 
 mother all should be above-board from henceforth. 
 
 " Not upon fiddles," Robert had said. 
 
 " But upon them 'at plays them," returned his grand 
 mother. 
 
 "Na; nor upo' them 'at burns them," retorted Robert,-- 
 impudently, it must be confessed ; for every man is open to 
 commit the fault of which he is the least capable. 
 
 But Mrs. Falconer had too much regard to her own dignity 
 to indulge her feelings. Possibly, too, her sense of justice, 
 which Falconer always said was stronger than that of any 
 other woman he had ever known, as well as some movement 
 of her conscience, interfered. She was silent, and Robert 
 rushed into the breach which his last discharge had effected, 
 
 "An' I want to tell ye, grannie, that I mean to gang an' 
 play the fiddle to puir Sanny ilka nicht for the best pairt o' 
 an hoor ; an' excep' ye lock the door an' hide the key, I will 
 gang. The puir sinner sanna be desertit by God an' man 
 baith." 
 
202 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 He scarcely knew what he was saying before it was out of 
 his mouth ; and as if to cover it up he hurried on : — 
 
 "An' there's mair in 't. Dr. Anderson gae Shargar an' 
 me a sovereign the piece. An' Dooble Sanny s' hae them, to 
 hand him ohn deid o' hunger an' cauld." 
 
 "What for dinna ye tell me 'at Dr. Anderson had gien ye 
 sic a sicht o' siller ? It was ill-faured o' ye, — an' him aa 
 weel." 
 
 " 'Cause ye wad hae sent it back till 'im ; an' Shargar and 
 me thocht we wad raither keep it." 
 
 " Considerin' 'at I'm at sae muckle expense wi' ye baith, 
 it wadna hae been ill-contrived to hae brocht the siller to me, 
 an' latten me du wi' 't as I thocht fit. — Gang na awa', laddie," 
 she added, as she saw Robert about to leave the room. 
 
 "I'll be back in a minute, grannie," returned Robert. 
 
 "He's a fine lad, that! " said Mr. Innes; "and guid 'll 
 come o' 'm, and that'll be heard tell o'." 
 
 " If he had but the grace o' God, there wadn« be muckle 
 to compleen o'," acquiesced his grandmother. 
 
 " There's time eneuch for that, Mrs. Falconet. Ye canna 
 get auld heids upo' young shoothers, ye ken." 
 
 " Deed for that maitter, ye may getmony an auld heid upo' 
 auld shoothers, and nae a spark o' grace in 't to lat it see hoo 
 to lay itsel' down i' the grave." 
 
 Robert returned before Mr. Innes had made up his mind as 
 to whether the old lady intended a personal rebuke. 
 
 "Hae, grannie," he said, going up to her, and putting the 
 two sovereigns in her white palm. 
 
 He had found some difficulty in making Shargar give up 
 his, else he would have returned sooner. 
 
 " What's this o' 't, laddie ? " said Mrs. Falconer. " Hoots • 
 I'm nae gaein' to tak' yer siller. Lat the puir shoemaker- 
 craturs hae 't. But dinna gie them mair nor a shillin' or twa 
 at ance, — jist to baud them in life. They deserve nae mair. 
 But they maunna starve. And jist ye tell them, laddie, at if 
 they spen' ae saxpence o' 't upo' whuskey, they s' get nat 
 mair." 
 
 " Ay, ay, grannie," responded Robert, with a glimmer oi 
 gladness in his heart. "And what aboot the fiddlin', gran 
 
KOBEBT FALCONER. 203 
 
 nio?" he added, half playfully, hoping for some kind oonces- 
 sif n therein as well. 
 
 But he had gone too far. She vouchsafed no reply, and her 
 face grew stern with offence. It- was one thing to give biead 
 to eat, another to give music and gladness. No music but 
 , that which sprung from effectual calling and the perseverance 
 of the saints could be lawful in a world that was under the 
 wrath and curse of God. Robert waited in vain for a reply. 
 " Gang yer wa's," she said at length. " Mr. Innes and me 
 hfA some business to mak' an en' o', an' we want nae 
 ae .distance." 
 
 Robert rejoined Shargar, who was still bemoaning the loss 
 of his sovereign. His face brightened when he saw its well- 
 known yellow shine once more, buu darkened again as soon as 
 Robert told him to what service it was now devoted. 
 
 "It's my ain," he said, with a suppressed expostulatory 
 growl. 
 
 Robert threw the coin on the floor. 
 
 " Tak' yer filthy lucre ! " he exclaimed with contempt, and 
 turned to leave Shargar alone in the garret with his sovereign. 
 " Bob ! " Shargar almost screamed, " tak' it, or I'll cut my 
 throat." 
 
 This was his constant threat when he was thoroughly in 
 earnest. 
 
 " Cut it, an' hae dune wi' 't," said Robert, cruelly. 
 Shargar burst out crying. 
 
 " Len' me yer knife, than. Bob," he sobbed, holding out hia 
 hand. 
 
 Robert burst into a roar of laughter, caught up the sovereign 
 from the floor, sped with it to the baker's, who refused to change 
 it, because he had no knowledge of anything representing the 
 Bum of twenty shillings except a pound note, succeeded in getting 
 silver for it at the bank, and then ran to the shoemaker's. 
 
 After he left the parlor, the discussion of his fate was re- 
 sumed, and flnally settled between his grandmother and the 
 school-master. The former, in regard of the boy's determina- 
 tion to befriend the shoemaker in the matter of music as well 
 as of money, would now have sent him at once to the gram- 
 mar school in Old Aberdeen, to prepare for the competition in 
 the month of November ; but the latter persuaded her that if 
 
204 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 the boy gave his whole attention to Latin till the next sum- 
 mer, and then went to the grammar school for three months or 
 so, he would have an excellent chance of success. As to the 
 violin, the school-master said, wisely enough : — 
 
 " He that will to Cupar maun to Cupar ; and if ye inter- 
 cept him upo' the shore-road, he'll tak' to the hill-road ; an' I 
 b' warran' a braw lad like Robert '11 get mony a ane in Eb- 
 berdeen '11 be ready eneuch to gie him a lift wi' the fiddle, and 
 maybe tak' him into waur company nor the puir bed-ridden 
 shoemaker ; an' wi' you an' me to hing on to the tail o' 'im 
 like, he canna gang ower the clifiF afore he learns wit." 
 
 " Hm ! " was the old lady's comprehensive response. 
 
 It was further arranged that Robert should be informed ol 
 their conclusion, and so roused to effort in anticipation of the 
 trial upon which his course in life must depend. 
 
 Nothing could have been better for Robert than the pros- 
 pect of a college education. But his first thought at the news 
 was not of the delights of learning nor of the honorable course 
 that would ensue, but of Eric Ericson, the poverty-stricken, 
 friendless descendant of yarla and sea-rovers. He would see 
 Mm, — the only man that understood him! Not until the 
 passion of'this thought had abated, did he begin to perceive the 
 other advantages before him. But so practical and thorough 
 was he in all his proposals and means, that ere half an hour 
 was gone, he had begun to go over his " Rudiments " again. He 
 now wrote a version, or translation from English into Latin, five 
 times a week,andread" Caesar," "Virgil," or "Tacitus," every 
 day. He gained permission from his grandmother to remove 
 his .bed to his own garret, and there, from the bedstead at 
 which he no longer kneeled, he would often rise at four in the 
 morning, even when the snow lay a foot thick on the skylight, 
 kindle his lamp by means of a tinder-box and a splinter of 
 wood dipped in sulphur, and sitting down in the keen cold, turn 
 half a page of Addison into something as near Ciceronian Latin 
 as he could effect. This would take him from an hour and a 
 half to two hours, when he would tumble again into bed, blue 
 and stiff, and sleep till it was time to get up and go to tha 
 morning school before breakfast. His health was excellent, 
 else it could never have stood such treatment. 
 
EGBERT FALCONER. 206 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 His sole relaxation almost lay in the visit he paid every 
 evening to the shoemaker and his wife. Their home was a 
 wretched place; but notwithstanding the poverty in which 
 they were now sunk, Robert soon began to see a change, like 
 the dawning of light, an alba, as the Italians call the dawn, in 
 the appearance of something white here and there about the 
 room. Robert's visits had set the poor woman trying to make 
 the place look decent. It soon became at least clean, and there 
 is a very real sense in which cleanliness is next to godliness. 
 If the people who want to do good' among the poor would give 
 up patronizing them ; would cease from trying to convert them 
 before they have gained the smallest personal influence with 
 them ; would visit them as those who have just .as good a right 
 to be here as they have, it would be all the better for both, 
 perhaps chiefly for themselves. 
 
 For the first week or so, Alexander, unable either to work 
 or play, and deprived of his usual consolation of drink, was 
 very testy and unmanageable. If Robert, who strove to do his 
 best, in the hope of alleviating the poor fellow's sufierings, — 
 chiefly those of the mind, — happened to mistake the time or 
 to draw a false note from the violin, Sandy would swear as if 
 he had been the Grand Turk and Robert one of his slaves. 
 But Robert was too vexed with himself, when he gave occasion 
 to such an outburst, to mind the outburst itself And invari- 
 ably when such had taken place, the shoemaker would ask for- 
 giveness before he went. Holding out his left hand, from 
 which nothing could efiace the stains of rosin and lamp-black 
 and heel-ball, save the sweet cleansing of mother-earth, he 
 would say : — 
 
 " Robert, ye'U jist pit the sweirin' doon wi' the rest, an' 
 score 't oot a'thegither. I'm an ill-tongued wretch, an' I'm 
 beginnin' to see 't. But, man, ye're jist. behavin' to me like 
 God himsel', an' if it warna for you, I wad jist lie here roarin* 
 an' greitin' an' damnin' frae mornin' to nicht. Ye will be in 
 
206 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 the morn's night, — willna ye?" he would always end by 
 asking, with some anxiety. 
 
 " Of coorse I will," Robert would answer. 
 
 " Gude-nicht, than, gude-nicht. I'll try and get a sicht o' 
 my sins ance mair," he added, one evening. " If I could only 
 be a wee bit sorry for them, I reckon He wad forgie me. Dinna 
 ye think he wad, Robert? " 
 
 "Nae doobt, nae doobt," answered Robert, hurriedly. 
 " They a' say 'at if a man repents the richt gait, he'll forgio 
 him." 
 
 He could not say more than " They say," for his own hori- 
 zon was all dark, and even in saying this much he felt like a 
 hypocrite. A terrible waste, heaped thick with the potsherds 
 of hope, lay outside that door of prayer which he had, as he 
 thought, nailed up forever. 
 
 " An' what is the richt gait? " asked the shoemaker. 
 
 " 'Deed, that's mair nor I know, Sandy," answered Robert, 
 mournfully. 
 
 " Weel, if ye dinna know, what's to come o' me?" said 
 Alexander, anxiously. 
 
 " Ye maun speir at Himsel'," returned Robert, " an' jist 
 tell him 'at ye dinna know, but ye'll do onything 'at he 
 likes." 
 
 With these words he took his leave hurriedly, somewhat 
 amazed to find that he had given the shoemaker the strange 
 advice to try just what he had tried so unavailingly himself 
 And, stranger still, he found himself, before he reached home, 
 praying once more in his heart, — both for Dooble Sanny and 
 for himself. From that hour a faint hope was within him that 
 some day he might try again, though he dared not yet encoun- 
 ter such effort and agony. 
 
 All this time he had never doubted that there was a God : 
 nor had he ventured to say within himself that perhaps God 
 was not good; he had simply come to the conclusion that for 
 him there was no approach to the fountain of his being. 
 
 In the course of a fortnight or so, when his system had 
 covered over its craving after whiskey, the irritability of the 
 shoemaker almost vanished. It might have been feared that 
 his conscience would then likewise relax its activity ; but it 
 was not so ; it grew yet more tender. He now began to give 
 
EOBBKT FALCONER. 207 
 
 Robert some praise, and make allowances for his faults, and 
 Robert dared more in consequence, and played ■with more 
 spirit. I do not say that his style could have grown fine under 
 such a master ; but at least he learned the difierence between 
 slovenliness and accuracy, and between accuracy and expres- 
 sion, which last is all of original that the best mere performer 
 can claim. 
 
 One evening he was scraping away at " Tullochgorum," when 
 Mr. Maccleary walked in. Robert ceased. The minister gave 
 him one searching glance, and sat down by the bedside. 
 Robert would have left the room. 
 
 " Dinna gang, Robert," said Sandy, and Robert remained. 
 
 The clergyman talked very faithfully as far as the shoemaker 
 was concerned ; though whether he was equally faithful towards 
 God might be questioned. He was one of those prudent men, 
 who are afraid of dealing out the truth freely lest it should fall 
 on thorns or stony places. Hence of course the good ground 
 came in for a scanty share too. Believing that a certain precise 
 condition of mind was necessary for its proper reception, he 
 would endeavor to bring about that condition first. He did 
 not know that the truth makes its own iiest in the ready heart, 
 and that the heart may be ready for it before the priest can 
 perceive the fact, seeing that the imposition of hands confers, 
 nowadays at least, neither love nor common sense. He there- 
 fore dwelt upon the sins of the shoemaker, magnifying them 
 and making them hideous, in the idea that thus he magni- 
 fied the law, and made it honorable, while of the special ten- 
 derness of God to the sinner he said not a word. Robert was 
 offended, he scarcely knew why, with the minister's mode of 
 treating his friend ; and after Mr. Maccleary had taken a far 
 kinder leave of them than God could approve, if he resembled 
 his representation, Robert sat still, oppressed with darkness. 
 
 "It's a' true," said the shoemaker; "but, man Robert, 
 dinna ye think the minister was some sair upo' me ? " 
 
 "I du think it," answered Robert. 
 
 " Something heirs 't in upo' me 'at He wadna be sae sail 
 upo' me himsel'. There's something i' the New Testament, 
 some thought 'at's pitten 't into my held ; though, faith, I 
 dinna know whaur to luik for 't. Canna ye help me oot wi' 't, 
 man?" 
 
208 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Robert could think of nothing but the parable of the prodigal 
 Boa. Mrs. Alexander got him the New Testament and he read 
 it. She sat at the foot of the bed listening. 
 
 " There ! " cried the shoemaker triumphantly, " I tolled je 
 sae ! Not ae word aboot the puir lad s sins ! It was a' a 
 hurry an' a scurry to get the new shune upo' 'im, an' win at 
 the calfie an' the fiddlin' an' the dancin'. Lord," he broke 
 out, " I'm comin' hame as fest 's I can ; but my sins are jist 
 like shoes down at heel upo' my feet, and winna lat me. I 
 expec' nae ring and nae robe, but I wad fain hae a fiddle i' my 
 grup when the neist prodigal comes hame ; an' if Idanna fiddle 
 weel, it 's no be my wyte. Eh, man ! but that is what 1 ca' 
 gude, an' a' the minister said — honest man — 's jist blether 
 till 't. — Lord, I sweir if ever I win up again, I'll put in 
 ilka stitch as if the shune war for the feet o' the prodigal him- 
 eel'. It sail be gude wark, Lord. An' I'll never lat taste 
 o' whusky intil my mou', — nor smell o' whusky intil my nose, 
 if sae be 'at I can help it, — I sweir 't, Lord. An' if I 
 binna raised up agaip — " 
 
 Here his voice trembled and ceased, and silence ensued for 
 a short minute. Then he called his wife. 
 
 " Come here, Bell. Gie me a kiss, my bonny lass. I hae 
 been an ill man to you." 
 
 " Na, na, Sandy. Ye hae aye been gude to me, — better 
 nor I deserved. Ye hae been naebody's enemy but yer ain." 
 
 " Haud yer tongue. Ye 're speykin' waur blethers nor Ijhe 
 minister, honest man ! I tell ye I hae been a scoon'rel to ye. 
 I haena ever hauden my ban's aff o' ye. And eh ! ye war a 
 bonny lass when I merried ye. I hae spoiled ye a'thegither. 
 But if I war up, see if I wadna gie ye a new goon, an' that 
 wad be something to make ye like yersel' again. I'm affrontet 
 wi' mysel' 'at I hae been sic a brute o' a man to ye. But ye 
 maun forgie me noo, for I do believe i' my hert 'at the Lord's 
 forgi'en me. Gie me anither kiss, lass. God be praised, and 
 mony thanks to you I Ye micht hae run awa' frae me lang or 
 noo, an' a'body wad hae said ye did richt. Robert, play a 
 spring." 
 
 Absorbed in his own thoughts, Robert began to play " The 
 Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn." 
 
 " Hoota ! hoots ! " cried Sandy, angrily. " What are y« 
 
ROBEai FALCONER. 209 
 
 ftboot ? Nae mair o' that. I hae dune wi' that. What's i' 
 the heid' o' ye, man ? " 
 
 " What'U I play than, Sandy ? " asked Robert, meekly. 
 
 "Play ' The Lan' o' the Leal,' or ' My Nannie's awa','or some- 
 thing o' that kin'. I'll be leal to ye noo, Bell. An' we winna 
 pree o' the whusky nae mair, lass." 
 
 " I canna bide the smell o' 't," cried Bell, sobbing. 
 
 Robert struck in with " The Lan' o' the Leal." When he had 
 played it over two or three times, he laid the fiddle in its place, 
 and departed, — able just to see, by the light of the neglected 
 candle, that Bell sat on the bedside stroking the rosiny hand 
 of her husband, the rhinoceros-hide of which was yet delicate 
 enough to let the love through to his heart. 
 
 After this the shoemaker never called his fiddle his auld 
 wife. 
 
 Robert walked home with his head sunk on his breast. 
 
 Dooble Sanny. the drinking, ranting, swearing shoemaker, 
 was inside the wicket-gate ; and he was left outside, for all his 
 prayers, with the arrows from the castle of Beelzebub sticking 
 in his back. He would have another try some day ; but not 
 yet, — he dared not yet. 
 
 Henceforth Robert had more to do in reading the New Tes- 
 tament than in playing the fiddle to the shoemaker, though 
 they never parted without an air or two. Sandy continued 
 hopeful and generally cheerful, with alternations which the 
 reading generally fixed on the right side for the night. Robert 
 never attempted any comments, but left him to take from the 
 word what nourishment he could. There was no return of 
 strength to the helpless arm, and his constitution was gradually 
 yielding. 
 
 The rumor got abroad that he was a " changed character," 
 — how is not far to seek, for Mr. Maccleary fancied himself the 
 honored instrument of his conversion, whereas paralysis and 
 the New Testament were the chief agents, and even the violin 
 had more share in it than the minister. For the Spirit of God 
 lies all about the spirit of man like a mighty sea, ready to rush 
 in at the smallest chink in the walls that shut him out from hia 
 OTTO, — walls which even the tone of a violin afloat on the wind 
 of that spirit is sometimes enough to rend from battlement to 
 base, as the blast of the rams' horns rent the walls of Jericho 
 
210 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 And now to the day of his death, the shoemaker had need of 
 nothing. Food, wine, and delicacies were sent him by many, 
 who, while they considered him outside of the kingdom, would 
 Have troubled themselves in no way abott him. What with 
 visits of condolence and flattery, inquiries into his experience, 
 and long prayers by his bedside, they now did their best to 
 send him back among the swine. The shoemaker's humor, 
 however, aided by his violin, was a strong antidote against these 
 evil influences. 
 
 " I doobt I'm gaein' to dee, Robert," he said at length one 
 evening as the lad sat by his bedside. 
 
 " Weel, that winna do ye nae ill," answered Robert, adding, 
 with just a touch of bitterness, — "ye needna care abootthat." 
 
 " I do not care aboot the deein' o' 't. But I jist want to 
 live lang eneuch to lat the Lord know 'at I'm in doonricht 
 earnest aboot it. I hae nae chance o' drinkin' as lang 's I'm 
 lyin' here." 
 
 " Never ye fret yer heid aboot that. Ye can trust that to 
 him, for it's his ain business. He'll see 'at ye're a' richt. 
 Dinna ye think 'at he'll lat ye aff." 
 
 " The Lord forbid," responded the shoemaker, earnestly. 
 " It maun be a' pitten richt. It wad be dreidfu' to be latten 
 aflT. I wadna hae him content wi' cobbler's wark. I hae 't," 
 he resumed, after a few minutes' pause : " the Lord's easy 
 pleased, but ill to saitisfee. I'm sair pleased wi' your playin', 
 Robert; but it's naething like the richt thing yet. It does me 
 gude to hear ye, though, for a' that." 
 
 The very next night he found him evidently sinking fast. 
 Robert took the violin, and was about to play ; but the shoe- 
 maker stretched out his one left hand, and took it from him, 
 laid it across his chest and his arm over it, for a few momentSj 
 as if he were bidding it farewell, then held it out to Robert, 
 Baying: — 
 
 " Hae, Robert. She's yours. Death's a sair divorce. 
 Maybe they'll hae an extra fiddle whaur I'm gaein', though 
 Think o' a Rothieden shoemaker playin' afore his Grace ! " 
 
 Robert saw that his mind was wandering,- and mingled the 
 paltry honors of earth with the grand simplicities of heaven. 
 He began to play " The Land o' the Leal." For a little while 
 Sandy seemed to follow and comprehend the tones but by slow 
 
ROBERT FALCONER, 2J1 
 
 degrees the light departed from his face. At length his jaw 
 fell, and with a sigh the body parted from Dooble Sanny, and 
 he went to God. 
 
 His wife closed mouth and eyes without a word, laid the two 
 arms, equally powerless now, straight by his sides, then, seat- 
 ing herself on the edge of the bed, said : — 
 
 " Dinna bide, Robert. ltd a' ower noo. He's gane hame. 
 If I war only wi' 'im, wharever he is ! " 
 
 She burst into tears, but dried her eyes a moment after, and, 
 seeing that Robert still lingered, said : — 
 
 " Gang, Robert, an' sen' Mistress Downie to me. Dinna 
 grieve, — there's a gude lad ; but tak' yer fiddle an' gang. 
 Ye can be no more use." 
 
 Robert obeyed. With his violin in his hand, he went home ; 
 and, with his violin still in his hand, walked into his grand- 
 mother's parlor. 
 
 " Hoo daur ye bring sic a thing into my hoose ? " she said, 
 roused by the apparent defiance of her grandson. " Hoo daur 
 ye, efter what's come an' gand ? " 
 
 " 'Cause Dooble Sanny 's come and gane, grannie, and left 
 naething but this ahint him. And this ane's mine, whase ever 
 the ither micht be. His wife's left wi'oot a plack, an' I s' 
 warran' the gude fowk o' Rothieden winna mak' sae muckle o' 
 her noo 'at her man's awa' ; for she never was sic a randy as 
 he was, an' the triumph o' grace in her 's but sma', therefore. 
 Sae I maun mak' the best 'at I can o' the fiddle for her. An' 
 ye maunna touch this ane, grannie ; for though ye may think 
 it richt to burn fiddles, ither fowk disna ; and this has to do 
 wi' ither fowk, grannie ; it's no atween you an' me, ye know," — 
 Robert went on, fearful lest she might consider herself divinely 
 commissioned to extirpate the whole race of stringed instru- 
 ments, — " for I maun sell 't for her." 
 
 " Tak it oot o' my sicht," said Mrs. Falconer, and said no 
 more. 
 
 He carried the instrument up to his room, laid it on hia ■ 
 bed, locked his door, put the key in his pocket, and descended 
 to the parlor. 
 
 "He's deid, is he?" said his grandmother, as he re-en- 
 tered. 
 
212 BOBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Ay, he is, grannie," answered Robert. " Ht deid a re- 
 pentant man." 
 
 " An' a believin' ? " asked Mrs. Falconer. 
 
 "Weel, grannie, I canna say 'at lie believed a' thing 'at 
 ever was, for a body michtna know a' thing." 
 
 " Toots, laddie ! Was 't savin' faith ? " 
 
 "I dinna richtly know what ye mean by that; but I'm 
 thinkin' it was muckle the same kin o' faith 'at the prodigal 
 Lad ; for they baith turned an' gaed hame." 
 
 " 'Deed, maybe ye're richt, laddie," returned Mrs. Fal- 
 coner, after a moment's thought. " We'll houp the best." 
 
 All the remainder of the evening she sat motionless, with 
 her eyes fixed on the rug before her, thinking, no doubt, of 
 the repentance and salvation of the fiddler, and what hope 
 there might yet be for her own lost son. 
 
 The next day being Saturday, Robert set out for Bodyfauld, 
 taking the violin with him. He went alone, for he was in no 
 mood for Shargar's company. It was a fine spring day, the 
 woods were budding, and the fragrance of the larches floated 
 across his way. There was a lovely sadness in the sky, and 
 in the motions of the air, and in the scent of the earth, — as 
 if they all knew that fine things were at hand which never 
 could be so beautiful as those that had gone away. And 
 Robert wondered how it was that everything should look so 
 dilTerent. Even Bodyfauld seemed to have lost its enchant- 
 ment, though his friends were as kind as ever. Mr. Lammie 
 went into a rage at the story of the lost violin, and Miss 
 Lammie cried from sympathy with Robert's distress at the 
 fate of his bonny leddy. Then he came to the occasion of his 
 visit, which was to beg Mr. Lammie, when next he went to 
 Aberdeen, to take the shoemaker's fiddle, and get what he 
 could for it, to help his widow. 
 
 " Poor Sanny ! " said Robert ; " it never cam' intil 's heid 
 to sel'i her. nae mair nor if she had been the auld wife 'at he 
 •ca'd her." 
 
 Mr. Lammie undertook the commission ; and the next time 
 he saw Robert, handed him ten pounds as the result of the 
 negotiation. It was all Robert could do, however, to get the 
 poor woman to take the money She looked at it with repug- 
 nance, almost as if it ha,d been the prise of bloo<i. But Robert 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 213 
 
 having succeeded in overcoming her scruples, she did take it, 
 and therewith provide a store of sweeties, and reels of 
 cotton, and tobacco, for sale in Sandy's workshop. She cer- 
 tainly did not make money by her merchandise, for her 
 anxiety to be honest rose to the absurd ; but she contrived to 
 live without being reduced to prey upon her own gingerbread 
 and rock. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE ABERDEEN GARRET. 
 
 Miss St. John had long since returned from her visit, but, 
 having heard how much Robert was taken up with his dying 
 friend, she judged it better to leave her intended proposal of 
 renewing her lessons alone for the present. Meeting him, 
 however, soon after Alexander's death, she introduced the sub- 
 ject, and Robert was enraptured at the prospect of the re- 
 opening of the gates of his paradise. If he did not inform his 
 grandmother of the fact, neither did he attempt to conceal it ; 
 but she took no notice, thinking probably that the whole affair 
 would be effectually disposed of by his departure. Till that 
 period arrived, he had a lesson almost every evening, and Miss 
 St. John was surprised to find how the boy had grown since 
 the door was built up. Robert's gratitude grew into a„ kind 
 of worship. 
 
 The evening before his departure for Bodyfauld, — whence 
 his grandmother had arranged that he should start for Aber- 
 deen, in order that he might have the company of Mr. 
 Lammie, whom business drew thither about the same time, — 
 as he was having his last lesson, Mrs. Forsyth left the room. 
 Thereupon Robert, who had been dejected all day at the 
 thought of the separation from Miss St. John, found his heart 
 beating so violently that he could hardly breathe. Probably 
 she saw his emotion, for she put her hand on the keys, as if 
 to cover it by showing him how some movement was to be 
 better effected. He seized her hand and lifted it to his lips. 
 
214 ROBERT JJ'ALCONER. 
 
 But when he found that, instead of snatching it away, she 
 yielded it, nay, gently pressed it to his face, he burst into tears 
 and dropped on his knees, as if before a goddess. , 
 
 "Hush, Robert ! Don't be foolish," she said, quietly and 
 tenderly. "Here is my aunt coming." 
 
 The same moment he was at the piano again, playing " My 
 Bonny Lady Ann," so as to astonish Miss St. John, and him- 
 self as well. Then he rose, bade a hasty good-night, and 
 hurried away. 
 
 A strange conflict arose in his mind at the prospect of leav- 
 ing the old place, on every house of whose streets, on every 
 swell of whose surrounding hills, he left the clinging shadows 
 of thought and feeling. A faintly purpled mist arose, and 
 enwrapped all the past, changing even his gayest troubles 
 into tales of fairyland, and his deepest griefs into songs of a 
 sad music. Then he thought of Shargar, and what ^as to 
 become of him after he was gone. The lad was paler and his 
 eyes were redder than ever, for he had been weeping in secret. 
 He went to his grandmother, aud begged that Shargar might 
 accompany him to Bodyfauld. 
 
 "He maun bide at hame an' min' his beuks," she answered; 
 " for he winna hae them that muckle langer. He maun be 
 doin' something for himsel'." 
 
 So tlie next morning the boys parted, — Shargar to school, 
 and Robert to Bodyfauld, — Shargar left behind with his 
 desolation, his sun gone down in a west that was not even 
 stormy, only gray and hopeless, and Robert moving towards 
 an east which reflected, like a faint prophecy, the west behind 
 him tinged with love, death, and music, but mingled the 
 colors with its own saffron of coming dawn. 
 
 When he reached Bodyfauld he marvelled to find that all 
 its glory had returned. He found Miss Lammie busy among 
 the rich yellow pools in her dairy, and went out into the 
 garden, now in the height of its summer. Great cabbage 
 roses hung heavy-headed splendors towards purple-black 
 heart' s-eases, and thin-filmed silvery pods of honesty; tall white 
 lilies mingled with the blossoms of currant-bushes, and at their 
 feet the narcissi of old classic legend pressed their warm- 
 hearted paleness into the plebeian thicket of the many-striped 
 gardener's garters. It was a lovely type of a commonwealth 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 215 
 
 indeed, of the garden and kingdom of God. His whole mind 
 was flooded with a sense of sunny wealth. The farmer's 
 neglected garden blossomed into higher glory in his soul. The 
 bloom and the richness and the use were all there ; but in- 
 stead of each flower was a delicate, ethereal sense or feeling 
 about that flower. Of these how gladly would he have 
 gathered a posy to offer Miss St. John ! but, alas ! he was no 
 . poet ; or rather he had but the half of the poet's inheritance 
 — he could see ; he could not say. But even if he had been 
 full of poetic speech, he would yet have found that the half 
 of his posy remained ungathered, for although we have speech 
 enough now to be "cousin to the deed," as Chaucer says it 
 must always be, we have not yet enough speech to cousin the 
 tenth part of our feelings. Let him who doubts recall one 
 of his own vain attempts to convey that which made the oddest 
 of dreams entrancing in loveliness, — to convey that aroma of 
 thought, the conscious absence of which made him a fool in 
 his own eyes when he spoke such silly words as alone pre- 
 sented themselves for the service. I can no more describe the 
 emotion aroused in my mind by a gray cloud parting over a 
 gray stone, by the smell of a sweet pea, by the sight of one of 
 those long, upright pennons of striped grass with the homely 
 name, than I can tell what the glory of God is who made these 
 things. The man whose poetry is like nature in this, that 
 it produces individual, incommunicable moods and conditions 
 of mind, — a sense of elevated, tender, marvellous, and evanes- 
 cent existence, — must be a poet indeed. Every dawn of such 
 a feeling is a light-brushed bubble, rendering visible for a 
 moment the dark, unknown sea of our being which lies beyond 
 the lights of our consciousness, and is the stuff and the region 
 of our eternal growth. But think what language must become 
 before it will tell dreams ! — before it will convey the delicate 
 shades of fancy that come and go in the brain of a child ! — 
 before it will let a man know wherein one face differeth from 
 another face in glory ! I suspect, however, that for such pur- 
 poses it is rather music than articulation that is needful ; 
 that, with a hope of these finer results, the language must 
 rather be turned into music than logically extended. 
 
 The next morning he awoke at early dawn, hearing the 
 birds at his window. He rose and went out. The air was 
 
216 ROBERT FAI.COXKR. 
 
 clear and fresh as a new-made soul. Bars of mottled cloud 
 were bent across the eastern quarter of the sky, which lay like a 
 great ethereal ocean ready for the launch of the ship of glory 
 that was now gliding towards its edge. Everything was waiting 
 to conduct him across the far horizon to the south, where lay 
 the stored- up wonder of his coming life. The lark sang of 
 something greater than he could tell ; the wind got up, 
 whispered at it, and lay down to sleep again ; the sun was at 
 hand to bathe the world in the light and gladness, alone fit to 
 typify the radiance of Eobert's thoughts. The clouds that 
 formed the shore of the upper sea were already burning from 
 saffron into gold. A moment more and the first insupportable 
 sting of light would shoot from behind the edge of that low 
 blue hill, and the first day of his new life would be begun. 
 He watched, and it came. The well-spring of day, fresh and 
 exuberant as if now first from the holy will of the Father of 
 Lights, gushed into the basin of the world, and the world was 
 more glad than tongue or pen can tell. The supernal light 
 alone, dawning upon the human heart, can exceed the marvel 
 of such a sunrise. 
 
 And shall life itself be less beautiful than one of its days ? 
 Do not believe it, young brother. Men call the shadow, 
 thrown upon the universe where their own dusky souls come 
 between it and the eternal sun, life, and then mourn that it 
 should be less bright than the hopes of their childhood. 
 Keep thou thy soul translucent, that thou mayest never see 
 its shadow : at least never abuse thyself with the philosophy 
 which calls that shadow life. Or, rather would I say, become 
 thou pure in heart, and thou shalt see God, whose vision alone 
 is life. 
 
 Just as the sun rushed across the horizon he heard the 
 tramp of a heavy horse in the yard, passing from the stable to 
 the cart that was to carry his trunk to the turnpike road, 
 three miles off, where the coach would pass. Then Miss 
 Lammie came and called him to breakfast, and there sat the 
 farmer in his Sunday suit of black, already busy. Robert 
 was almost too happy to eat ; yet he had not swallowed two 
 mouthfuls before the sun rose unheeded, the lark sang un- 
 heeded, and the roses sparkled with the dew that bowed yet 
 lower their heavy heads, all unheeded. By the time they had 
 
ROBERT FALCaNER. 217 
 
 Guished, Mr. Lammie's gig Avas at the door, and they 
 mounted and followed the cart. Not even the recurring 
 doubt and fear that hollowness was at the heart of it all, for 
 that God could not mean such reinless gladness, prevented the 
 truth of the present joy from sinking deep into the lad's heart, 
 la his mind he saw a boat moored to a rock, with no one on 
 board, heaving on the waters of a rising tide, and waiting to 
 bear him out on the sea of the unknown. The picture arose 
 of itself ; there was no paradise of the west in his imagination, 
 as in that of a boy of the sixteenth century, to authorize its 
 appearance. It rose again and again ; the dew glittered as if 
 the light were its own ; the sun shone as he had never seen it 
 shine before ; the very mare that sped them along held up her 
 head and stepped out as if she felt it the finest of mornings. 
 Had she also a future, poor old mare ? Might there not be a 
 paradise somewhere? and if in the furthest star instead of 
 next-door America, why, so much the more might the Atlan- 
 tis of the nineteenth century surpass Manoa, the golden of 
 the seventeenth ! 
 
 The gig and the cart reached the road together. One of 
 the men who had accompanied the cart took the gig ; and they 
 were left on the roadside with Robert's trunk and box, — the 
 latter a present from Miss Lammie. 
 
 Their places had been secured, and the guard knew where 
 he had to take them up. Long before the coach appeared, 
 the notes of his horn, as like the color of his red coat as the 
 blindest of men could imagine, came echoing from the side of 
 the heathery, stony hill under which they stood, so that 
 Robert turned wondering, as if the chariot of his desires had 
 been coming over the top of Drumsnaig, to carry him into a 
 heaven where all labor was delight. But round the corner in 
 front came the four-in-hand red mail instead. She pulled up 
 gallantly; the wheelers lay on their hind quarters, and the 
 leaders parted theirs from the pole ; the boxes were hoisted up ; 
 Mr. Lammie climbed, and Robert scrambled, to his seat ; the 
 horn blew; the coachman spake oracularly ; the horses obeyed; 
 and away went the gorgeous symbol of sovereignty careering 
 through the submissive region. Nor did Robert's delight 
 abate during the journey, — certainly not when he saw the 
 blue line of the sea in the distance, a marvel and yet a fact. 
 
218 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Mrs. Falconer had consulted the Misses Napier, who had 
 many acquaintances in Aberdeen, as to a place proper for 
 Robert, and suitable to her means. Upon this point Miss 
 Letty, not without a certain touch of design, as may appear in 
 the course of my story, had been able to satisfy ,hcr. In a 
 small house of two floors and a garret, in the old town, Mr. 
 Lammie took leave of Robert. 
 
 It was from a garret window still, but a storm-window now, 
 that Robert looked, eastward across fields and sand-hills, 
 to the blue expanse of waters, — not blue like southern seas, 
 but slaty blue, like the eyes of northmen. It was rather 
 dreary : the sun was shining from overhead now, casting short 
 shadows and much heat ; the dew was gone up, and the lark 
 had come down ; he was alone ; the end of his journey was 
 come, and was not anything very remarkable. His landlady 
 interrupted his gaze to know what he would have for dinner ; 
 but he declined to use any discretion in the matter. Wh^n 
 she left the room he did not return to the window, but sat 
 down upon his box. His eye fell upon the other, a big wooden 
 cube. Of its contents he knew nothing. He would amuse 
 himself by making inquisition. It was nailed up. He bor- 
 rowed a screw-driver and opened it. At the top lay a linen 
 bag full of oatmeal ; underneath that was a thick layer of oat- 
 cake ; underneath that two cheeses, a pound of butter, and six 
 pots of jam, which ought to have tasted of roses, for it came 
 from the old garden where the roses lived in such sweet com- 
 panionship with the currant-bushes; underneath that, etc.; 
 and underneath etc., a box which strangely recalled Shargar's 
 garret, and one of the closets therein. With beating heart he 
 opened it, and lo, to his marvel, and the restoration of all the 
 fair day, there was the violin which Dooble Sanny had left 
 him when he forsook her for — some one or other of the queer 
 instruments of Fra Angelico's angels ! 
 
 In a flutter of delight he sat down on his trunk again, and 
 played the most mournful tunes. Two white pigeons, which 
 had been talking to each other in the heat on the roof, came 
 one on each side of the window and peeped into the room ; and 
 out between them, as he played, Robert saw the sea, and the 
 blue sky above it. Is it any wonder that, instead of turning 
 to the lying pages and contorted sentences of the " Livy ' ' which 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 219 
 
 he had already unpacked from his hex, he forgot all about 
 school and college, and went on playing till hia landlady 
 brought up his dinner, which he swallowed hastily that h*" 
 might return to the spells of his enchantress ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE COMPETITION. 
 
 1 COULD linger with gladness even over this part of my 
 hero's history. If the school work was dry it was thorough. 
 If that academy had no sweetly shadowing trees ; if it did 
 stand within a parallelogram of low stone walls, containing a 
 roughly gravelled court ; if all the region about suggested hot 
 stones and sand, — beyond still was the sea and the sky ; and that 
 court, morning and afternoon, was filled with the shouts of 
 eager boys, kicking the football with mad rushings to and fro, 
 and sometimes with wounds and faintings, — fit symbol of the 
 equally resultless ambition with which many of them would 
 follow the game of life in the years to come. Shock-headed 
 Highland colts, and rough Lowland steers, as many of them 
 were, out of that group, cut of the roughest of them, would 
 emerge in time a few gentlemen, — not of the type of your 
 trim, self-contained, clerical exquisite ; but large-hearted, 
 courteous gentlemen, for whom a man may thank God. And 
 if the master wa's stern and hard, he was true ; if the pupils 
 feared him, they yet cared to please him ; if there might be ' 
 found not a few more widely read scholars than he, it would 
 be hard to find a better teacher. 
 
 Robert leaned to the collar and labored, not greatly moved 
 by ambition, but much by the hope of the bursary .and the 
 college life in the near distance. Not unfrequently he would 
 rush into the thick of the football game, fight like a maniac 
 for one short jburst, and then retire and look on. He oftener 
 regarded than mingled. He seldom joined his fellows after 
 school hours, for his work lay both upon his conscience and 
 
220 ROBERT FALCONER, 
 
 Ilis hopes ; but if he formed no very deep friendships amongst 
 them, at least he made no enemies, for he was not selfish, and 
 in virtue of the Celtic blood in him was invariably courteous. 
 His habits were in some things altogether irregular. He 
 never went out for a walk ; but sometimes, looking up from 
 his '"Virgil " or his Latin version, and seeing the blue expanse in 
 the distance breaking into white under the viewless wing of 
 the summer wind, he would fling down his dictionary or his 
 pen, rush from his garret, and fly in a straight line, like a sea- 
 gull weary of lake and river, down to the waste shore of the 
 great deep. This was all that stood for the " Arabian Nights " 
 of moon-blossomed marvel ; all the rest was Aberdeen days of 
 Latin and labor. 
 
 Slowly the hours went, and yet the dreaded, hoped-for day 
 came quickly. The quadrangle of the stone-crowned college 
 grew more awful in its silence and emptiness every time 
 Robert passed it ; and the professors' houses looked like the 
 sentry-boxes of the angels of learning, soon to come forth and 
 judge the feeble mortals who dared present a claim to their 
 recognition. October faded softly by, with its keen, fresh 
 mornings, and cold memorial green-horizoned evenings, whose 
 stars fell like the stray blossoms of a more heavenly world, 
 from some ghostly wina of space that had caught them up on 
 its awful, shoreless sweep. November came, " chill and drear," 
 with its heartless, hopeless nothingness ; but as if to mock the 
 poor competitors, rose, after three days of Scotch mist, in a 
 lovely, " halcyon day " of " St. Martin's summer," through 
 whose long shadows anxious young faces gathered in the quad- 
 rangle, or under the arcade, each with his " Ainsworth's Dic- 
 tionary," the sole book allowed, under his arm. But when 
 the sacrist appeared and unlocked the public school, and the 
 black-gowned professor walked into the room, and the door 
 was left open for the candidates to follow, then indeed a great 
 awe fell upon the assembly, and the lads crept into their seats 
 as if to a trial for life before a bench of the incorruptible. 
 They took their places ; a portion of Robertson's " History of 
 Scotland " was given them to turn into Latin; and soon there 
 was nothing to be heard in the assembly but the turning of the 
 leaves of dictionaries, and the scratching of pens constructing 
 the first rough copy of the Latinized theme. 
 
EGBERT FALCONER. 221 
 
 It was done. Four weary hours, nearly five, cae or two of 
 which passed like minutes, the others as if each minute had 
 been an hour, went by, and Robert, in a kind of desperation, 
 after a final reading of the Latin, gave in his paper, and left 
 the room. When he got home, be asked his landlady to get 
 him some tea. Till it was ready he would take his violin. 
 But even the violin had grown dull, and would not speak 
 freely. He returned to the torture, — took out his first copy, 
 and went over it once more. Horror of horrors ! a maxie ! — 
 that is a maximus error. Mary, Queen of Scots, had been 
 left so far behind in the beginning of. the paper, that she for- 
 got the rights of her sex in the middle of it, and in the accusa- 
 tive of a future participle passive, — I dp not know if more 
 modern grammarians have a different name for the growth, — 
 had submitted to be dum, and her rightful dam was henceforth 
 and forever debarred. 
 
 He rose, rushed out of the house, down through the garden, 
 across two fields and a wide road, across the links, and so to 
 the moaning lip of the sea, — for it was moaning that night.' 
 From the last bulwark of the sandhills he dropt upon the wet 
 sands, and there he paced up and down, — how long, God only, 
 who was watching him, knew, — with the low, limitless form of 
 the murmuring lip lying out and out into the sinking sky lika 
 the life that lay low and hopeless before him, for the want at 
 most of twenty pounds a year (that was the highest bursary 
 then) to lift him into a region of possible well-being. Sud- 
 denly a strange phenomenon appeared within him. The sub- 
 ject hitherto became the object to a new birth of consciousness. 
 He began to look at himself. " There's a sair bit in there," 
 he said, as if his own bosom had been that of another mortal. 
 "What's to be dune wi' 't? I doobt it maun bide it. Wcel, 
 the crater had better bide it quaietly, and no cry oot. Lie 
 doon, an' haud yer tongue. /Soror tua haud meretrix est, 
 ye brute ! " He burst out laughing, after a doubtful and ulu- 
 lant fashion, I dare say ; but he went home, took up his auld 
 wife, and played " Tullochgorum " some fifty times over, with 
 extemporized variations. 
 
 The next day he had to translate a passage from " Tacitus ; " 
 after executing which somewhat heartlessly, he did not open a 
 Latin book for a whole week. The very sight of one was dis- 
 
222 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 gusting to him. He wandered about the new town, along 
 [Jnion Street, and up and down the stairs that led to the lower 
 parts, haunted the quay, watched the vessels, learned their 
 forms, their parts and capacities, made friends with a certain 
 Dutch captain, whom he heard playing the violin in his cabin, 
 and on the whole, notwithstanding the wretched prospect before 
 him, contrived to spend the week with considerable enjoyment. 
 Nor does an occasional episode of lounging hurt a life with 
 any true claims to the epic form. 
 
 The day of decision at length arrived. Again the black- 
 robed powers assembled, ijnd again the hoping, fearing lads — 
 some of them not lads, men and mere boys — gathered to hear 
 their fate. Name after name was called out ; — a twenty 
 pound bursary to the first, one of seventeen to the next, three 
 or four of fifteen and fourteen, and so on, for about twenty, 
 and still no Robert Falconer. At last, lagging wearily in the 
 rear, he heard his name, went up listlessly, and was awarded 
 five pounds. He crept home, wrote to his grandmother, and 
 awaited her reply. It was not long in coming ; for, although 
 the carrier was generally the medium of communication. Miss 
 Letty had contrived to send the answer by coach. It was to 
 the effect that his grandmother was sorry that he had not been 
 more successful, but that Mr. Innes thought it would be quite 
 worth while to try again, and he must therefore come home for 
 mother year. 
 
 This was mortifying enough, though not so bad as it might 
 have been. Robert began to pack his box. But before he had 
 finished it he shut the lid and sat upon it. To meet Miss St. 
 John thus disgraced was more than he could bear. If he re- 
 mained, he had a chance of winning prizes at the end of the 
 session, and that would more than repair his honor. The five- 
 pound bursars were privileged in paying half fees ; and if he 
 could only get some teaching, he could manage. But who 
 would employ a hejan when a marjistrand might be had for 
 next to nothing ? Besides, who would recommend him ? The 
 thought of Dr. Anderson flashed into his mind, and he rushed 
 from the house without even knowing where he lived. 
 
BOBEKT FALCOKER. 223 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 DR. ANDERSON AGAIN. 
 
 At tlie post office he procured the desired information at 
 once. Dr. Anderson lived in Union Street, towards the west- 
 ern end of it. 
 
 Away went Robert to find the house. That was easy. 
 What a grand house of smooth granite and wide approach it 
 was ! The great door was opened by a man-servant, who 
 looked at the country boy from head to foot. 
 
 " Is the doctor in ? " asked Robert. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I wad like to see him." 
 
 " Wha will I say wants him ? " 
 
 " Say the laddie he saw at Bodyfauld." 
 
 The man left Robert in the hall, which was spread with 
 tiger and leopard skins, and had a bright fire burning in a large 
 stove. Returning presently, he led him through noiseless 
 swing-doors, covered with cloth, into a large library. Never 
 had Robert conceived such luxury. What with Turkey car- 
 pet, crimson curtains, easy-chairs, grandly bound books, and 
 morocco-covered writing table, it seemed the very ideal of com- 
 fort. But Robert liked the grandeur too much to be abashed 
 by it. 
 
 " Sit ye doon there," said the servant, "and the doctor 'ill 
 be wi' ye in ae minute." 
 
 He was hardly out of the room before a door opened in the 
 middle of the books, and the doctor appeared in a long dress- 
 ing-gown. He looked inquiringly at Robert for one moment, 
 then made two long strides, like a pair of eager compasses, 
 holding out his hand. 
 
 " I'm Robert Faukner," said the boy. " Ye'll min', maybe, 
 doctor, 'at ye war verra kin' to me ance, and tellt me lots o' 
 stories, — at Bodyfauld, ye ken." 
 
 "I'm very glad to see you, Robert," said Dr. Anderson. 
 '•Of course I remember you perfectly; but my servant did 
 not bring your name, and I did not know but it might be tho 
 other boy — I forget his name," 
 
224 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Ye mean Shargar, sir. It's uo him." 
 
 " I can see that," said the doctor, laughing, " although you 
 are altered. You have grown quite a man ! I am very glad 
 to see you," he repeated, shaking hands with him again. 
 " When did you come to town? " 
 
 " I hae been at the grammar school i' the auld toon for the 
 last three months," said Robert. 
 
 " Three months ! " exclaimed Dr. Anderson. " And never 
 came to see me till now ! That was too bad of you, Robert." 
 
 " Weel, ye see, sir, I didna know better. An' I had a heap 
 to do, an' a' for naething, efter a'. But if I had known 'at 
 ye wad like to see me, I wad hae likit weel to come to yc." 
 
 " I have been away most of the summer," said the doctor ; 
 " but I have been at home for the last month. You haven't 
 had your dinner, have you?". 
 
 " Weel, I dinna exackly know Avhat to say, sir. Ye see I 
 wasna that sharp-set the day, sae I had jist a mou'fu' o' bried 
 and cheese. I'm turnin' hungry, noo, I maun confess." 
 
 The doctor rang the bell. 
 
 "You must stop and dine with me. — Johnston," he con- 
 tinued, as his servant entered, "tell the cook that I liave a 
 gentleman to dinner with me to-day, and she must be liberal." 
 
 " Guidsake, sir ! " said Robert, "dinna set the woman agen 
 me." 
 
 He had no intention of saying anything humorous, but Dr. 
 Anderson laughed heartily. 
 
 ■ " Come into my room till dinner-time," he said, opening 
 the door by which he had entered. 
 
 To Robert's astonishment, he found himself in a room bare 
 as that of the poorest cottage. A small square window, small 
 as the window in John Hewson's, looked out upon a garden 
 neatly kept, but now " having no adorning but cleanliness." 
 The place was just the end of a cottage. The walls were 
 whitewashed, the ceiling was of bare boards, and the floor was 
 sprinkled with a little white sand. The table and chairs were 
 of common deal, white and clean, save that the former was 
 spotted with ink. A greater contrast to the soft, large, richly 
 colored room they had left could hardly be imagined. A few 
 book-shelves on the wall were filled with old books. A fire 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 225 
 
 blazed cheerily in the little grate. A bed with snow-white 
 coverlet stood in a recess. 
 
 "This is the nicest room in the house, Kobert," said the 
 doctor. " When I was a student like you — " 
 
 Robert shook his head. 
 
 "I'm nae student yet," he said ; but the doctor went on . • 
 
 " I had the benn end of my father's cottage to study in, for 
 he treated me like a stranger-gentleman when I came home 
 from college. The father respected the son, for whose advan- 
 tage he was working like a slave from morning till night. My 
 heart is sometimes sore with the gratitude I feel to him. 
 Though he has been dead for thirty years — would you believe 
 it, Robert? — Well, I can't talk more about him now. I 
 made this room as like my father's as I could, and I am hap- 
 pier here than anywhere in the world." 
 
 By this time Robert was perfectly at home. Before the din- 
 ner was ready he had not only told Dr. Anderson his presen< 
 difficulty, but his whole story as far back as he could remem- 
 ber. The good man listened eagerly, gazed at the boy with 
 more and more of interest, which deepened till his eyes glistened 
 as he gazed, and when a ludicrous passage intervened, welcomed 
 the laughter as an excuse for wiping them. When dinner was 
 announced, he rose without a word and led the way to the din- 
 ing-room. Robert followed, and they sat down to a meal sim- 
 ple enough for such a house, but which to Robert seemed a 
 feast followed by a banquet. For after they had done eating, 
 — on the doctor's part a very meagre performance, — they re- 
 tired to his room again, and then Robert found the table covered 
 with a snowy cloth, and wine and fruits arranged upon it. 
 
 It was far into the night before he rose to go home. As he 
 passed through a thick rain of pin-point drops, he felt thai 
 although those cold granite houses, with glimmering dead face, 
 stood like rows of sepulchres, he was in reality walking through 
 an avenue of homes. Wet to the skin long before he reached 
 Mrs. Fyvie's in the auld toon, he was notwithstanding as 
 warm as the under side of a bird's wing. For he had to sit 
 down and write to his grandmother, informing her that Dr. 
 Anderson had employed him to copy for the printers a book 
 of his upon the " Medical Boards of India," and that as he was 
 going to pay him for that and other work at a rate which wduld 
 15 
 
226 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 secure him ten shillings a week, it would be a pity to lose a 
 year, for the chance of getting a bursary next winter. 
 
 The doctor did want the manuscript copied ; and he knew 
 that 1 he only chance of getting Mrs. Falconer's consent to 
 Robert's receiving any assistance from him was to make some 
 business arrangement of the sort. He wrote to her the same 
 nightj and, after mentioning the unexpected pleasure of Robert's 
 visit, not only explained the advantage to himself of the ar- 
 rangement he had proposed, but set forth the greater advan- 
 tage to Robert, inasmuch as he would thus be able in some 
 measure to keep a hold of him. He judged that, although Mrs. 
 Falconer had no great opinion of his religion, she would yet 
 consider his influence rather on the side of good than other • 
 wise in the case of a boy else abandoned to his own resources. 
 
 The end of it all was that his grandmother yielded, and 
 Robert was straightway a Bejan, or Yellow-beak. 
 
 Three days had he clothed in the red gown of the Aberdeen 
 student, and had attended the Humanity and Greek class-rooms. 
 On the evening of the third day he was seated at his table, pre- 
 paring his "Virgil " for the next, when he found himself growing 
 very weary, and no wonder, for, except the walk of a few hun- 
 dred yards to and from the college, he had had no open air for 
 those three days. It was raining in a persistent November 
 fashion, and he thought of the sea away through the dark and 
 the rain, tossing uneasily. Should he pay it a visit ? He 
 sat for a moment, — 
 
 " Tbis way and that dividing the swift mind," * 
 
 when his eye fell on his violin. He had been so full of his 
 new position and its requirements, that he had not touched it 
 since the session opened. Now it was just what he wanted. 
 He caught it up eagerly, and began to play. The power of 
 the music seized upon him, and he went on playing, forgetful 
 of everything else, till a string broke. It was all too short 
 for further use. Regardless of the rain or th/ depth of dark- 
 ness to be traversed before he could find a music-shop, ha 
 caught up his cap, and went to rush from the house. 
 
 • Tennyson's " Morte d'Arthur." 
 
 " Atque auimum nunc hue celerem, nunc dividit iliuc." 
 
 yF.neid; IV. Si' 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 227 
 
 His door opened immediately on the top step of the stair, 
 without any landing. There was a door opposite, to which 
 likewise a few steps led immediately up. The stairs from the 
 two doors united a little below. So near were the doors that 
 one might stride across the fork. The opposite door was 
 open, and in it stood Eric Ericson. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 ERIO ERICSON. 
 
 Robert sprang across the dividing chasm, clasped Ericson's 
 hand in both of his, looked up into his face, and stood speech- 
 less. Ericson returned the salute with a still kindness, — ten- 
 der and still. His face was like a gray morning sky of sum- 
 mer, from whose level cloud-fields rain will fall before noon. 
 
 " So it was you," he said, " playing the violin so well." 
 
 " I was doin' my best," answered Robert. " But eh ! Mr. 
 Ericson, I wad hae dune better if I had known ye was beark- 
 enin'." 
 
 "You couldn't do better than your best," returned Eric, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Ay, but yer best micht aye grow better, ye know," per- 
 sisted Robert. 
 
 "Come into my room," said Ericson. "This is Friday 
 night, and there is nothing but chapel to-morrow. So we'll 
 liave talk instead of work." 
 
 In another moment they were seated by a tiny coal fire in a 
 room one side of which was the slope of the roof, with a large, 
 low skylight in it looking seawards. The sound of the distant 
 waves, unheard in Robert's room, beat upon the drum of the 
 skylight, through all the world of mist that lay between it and 
 them, — dimly, vaguely, — but ever and again with a swell 
 of gathered force, that made the distant tumult doubtful no 
 more. 
 
 "I am sorry I have nothing to ofier you," said Ericson 
 
228 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 "You remind me of Peter and John at the Beautiful Gato 
 of the temple," returned Robert, attempting to speak English 
 like the Northerner, but breaking down as his heart got the 
 better of him. " Eh ! Mr. Ericson, if ye know what it is to 
 me to see the face o' ye, ye wadna speyk like that. Jist lat 
 me sit an' leuk at ye. I want nae mair." 
 
 A smile broke up the cold, sad, gray light of the young 
 eagle-face. Stern at once and gentle when in repose, its smile 
 was as the summer of some lovely land where neither the heat 
 nor the sun shall smite them. The youth laid his hand upon 
 the boy's head, then withdrew it hastily, and the smile van- 
 ished like the sun behind a cloud. Robert saw it, and, as if he 
 had been David before Saul, rose instinctively and said : — 
 
 "I'll gang for my fiddle. Hoots ! I hae broken ane o' the 
 strings. We maun bide till the morn. But I want nae fiddle 
 mysel' whan I hear the great water oot there." 
 
 " You're young yet, my boy, or you might hear voices in 
 that water ! I've lived in the sound of it all "my days. 
 When I can't rest at night, I hear a moaning and crying in the 
 dark, and I lie and listen till I can't tell whether I'm a man 
 or some God-forsaken sea in the sunless north." 
 
 " Sometimes I believe innaething but my fiddle," answered 
 Robert. 
 
 "Yes, yes. But when it comes into you, my boy! You 
 won't hear much music in the cry of the sea after that. As 
 long as you've got it at arm's length, it's all very well. It's 
 interesting then, and you can talk to your fiddle about it, and 
 make poetry about it," said Ericson, with a smile of self-con- 
 tempt. " But as soon as the real earnest comes that is all 
 over. The sea-moan is the cry of a tortured w"brld then. Its 
 hollow bed is the cup of the world's pain, ever rolling from 
 side to side and dashing over its lip. Of all that might be, 
 ought to be, nothing to be had ! — I could get music out of it 
 once. Look here, I could trifle like that once." 
 
 He half rose, then dropped on his chair. But Robert's be- 
 lieving eyes justified confidence, and Ericson had never had 
 any one to talk to. He rose again, opened a cupboard at hia 
 side, took out some papers, threw them on the table, and, 
 taking his hat, walked towards the door. 
 
 " Which of your strings is broken? " ha asked. 
 
BOBEKT FALCONER. 229 
 
 " The third," answered Robert. 
 
 " I will get you one," said Ericson ; and before Robert could 
 reply he was down the stair. Robert heard him cough, then 
 the door shut, and he was gone in the rain and fog. 
 
 Bewildered, unhappy, ready to fly after him, yet irresolute, 
 Robert almost mechanically turned over the papers upon the 
 little deal table. He was soon arrested by the following 
 rcrses, headed 
 
 "A NOONDAY MELODY. 
 
 " Everything goes to its rest; 
 
 The hills are asleep in the noon ; 
 And life is as still in its nest 
 
 As the moon when she looks on a moon 
 In the depths of a calm river's breast 
 As it steals through a midnight in June. 
 
 " The streams have forgotten the sea 
 
 In the dream of their musical sound; 
 The suulight is thick on the tree, 
 
 And the shadows lie warm on the ground, — 
 So still, you may watch them and see 
 
 Every breath that awakens around. 
 
 " The church-yard lies still in the heat, 
 With its handful of mouldering bone; 
 As still as the long stalk of wheat 
 
 In the shadow that sits by the stone, 
 As still as the grass at my feet 
 When I walk in the meadows alone. 
 
 " The waves are asleep on the main , 
 
 And the ships are asleep on the wave; 
 And the thoughts are as still in my brain 
 
 As the echo that sleeps in the cave ; 
 All rest from their labor and pain, — 
 
 Then why should not I in my grave ? " 
 
 His heart ready to burst with a sorrow, admiration, and de- 
 votion, which no criticism interfered to qualify, Robert rushed 
 out into the darkness, and sped, fleet-footed, along the only 
 path which Ericson could have taken. He could not bear 
 to be left in the house while his friend was out in the rain. 
 
 He was sure of joining him before he reached the new town, 
 for he was fleet-footed, and there was a path only on one side 
 of the way, so that there was no danger of passing him in the 
 dark. As he ran he heard the moaning of the sea. There 
 
230 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 must be a, storm somewhere, away in the deep spaces of ita 
 dark bosom, and its lips muttered of its far unrest. When the 
 sun rose it would be seen misty and gray, tossing about under 
 the one rain cloud that like thinner ocean overspread the 
 heavens, - — tossing like an animal that would fain lie down 
 and be at peace, but could not compose its unwieldy strength. 
 
 Suddenly Robert slackened his speed, ceased running, stood, 
 gazed through the darkness at a figure a few yards before him. 
 
 An old wall, bowed out with age and the weight behind it, 
 flanked the road in this part. Doors in this wall, with a few 
 steps in front of them and more behind, led up into gardens 
 upon a slope, at the top of which stood the houses to which 
 they belonged. Against one of these doors the figure stood 
 with its head bowed upon its hands. When Robert was within 
 a few feet, it descended and went on. 
 
 " Mr. Ericson ! " exclaimed Robert. " Ye'U get yer deith 
 if ye Stan' that way i' the weet." 
 
 "Amen," said Ericson, turning with a smile that glim- 
 mered wan through the misty night. Then, changing his tone, 
 he went on, " What are you after, Robert? " 
 
 " You," answered Robert. " I cudna bide to be left alone 
 whan I micht be wi' ye a' the time — if ye wad lat me. Ye 
 war oot o' the hoose afore I weel knew what ye was aboot. 
 It's no a fit nicht for ye to be oot at a', mair by token 'at ye're 
 no the ablest to stan' cauld an' weet." 
 
 " I've stood a great deal of both in my time," returned 
 Ericson; "but come along. We'll go and get that fiddle- 
 string." 
 
 "Dinna ye think it wad be fully better to gang hame? '■ 
 Robert ventured to suggest. 
 
 " What would be the use ? I'm in no mood for Plato to- 
 night," he answered, trying hard ti keep from shivering. 
 
 " Ye hae an ill cauld upo' ye," persisted Robert; "an' ye 
 maun be as weet 's a dishcloot." 
 
 Ericson laughed, — a strange, hollow laugh. 
 
 " Come along," he said. " A walk will do me good. We'll 
 get the string, and then you shall play to me. That will do 
 me more good yet." 
 
 Robert ceased opposing him, and they walked together to 
 
ROBERT FALC0N3R, 233 
 
 the new town. Robert bouglit the string, and they set out, as 
 he thought, to return. 
 
 But not yet did Ericson seem inclined to go home. He 
 took the lead, and they emerged upon the quay. 
 
 There were not many vessels. One of them was the Ant- 
 werp tub, already known to Robert. He recognized her even 
 in the dull light of the quay lamps. Her captain, being a 
 prudent and well-to-do Dutchman, never slept on shore ; he 
 preferred saving his money; and therefore, as the friends 
 passed, Robert caught sight of him walking his own deck, and 
 smoking a long clay pipe before turning in. 
 
 " A fine nicht, capt'n," said Robert. 
 
 " It does rain," returned the captain. " Will you come on 
 board and have one schnapps before you turn in? " 
 
 "I hae afrien' wi' me here," said Robert, feeling his way. 
 
 " Let him come and be welcomed." 
 
 Ericson making no objection, they went on board, and down 
 into the neat little cabin, which was all the roomier for the 
 straightness of the vessel's quarter. The captain got out a 
 square, coffin-shouldered bottle, and having respect to the con- 
 dition of their garments, neither of the young men refused his 
 hospitality, though Robert did feel a little compunction at the 
 thought. of the horror it would have caused his grandmother. 
 Then the Dutchman got out his violin, and asked Robert to 
 play a Scotch air. But in the middle of it his eyes fell on 
 Ericson, and he stopped at once. Ericson was sitting on a 
 locker, leaning back against the side of the vessel ; his eyes 
 were open and fixed, and he seemed quite unconscious of what 
 was passing. Robert fancied at first that the Hollands he had 
 taken had gone to his head, but he saw at the same moment, 
 from his glass, that he. had scarcely tasted the spirit. In great 
 alarm they tried to rouse him, and at length succeeded. lie 
 closed his eyes, opened them again, rose up, and was going 
 away. 
 
 " What's the maitter wi' ye, Mr. Ericson?" said Robert, 
 in distress. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," answered Ericson, in a strange voice. 
 " I fell asleep, I believe. It was very bad manners, captain. 
 I beg your pardon. I believe I am overtired." 
 
 The Dutchman was as kind as possible, and begged Ericson 
 
282 ROBKKT FALCONER. 
 
 to Stay the night and occupy his berth. But he insisted on 
 going home, although he was clearly unfit for such a walk. 
 They bade the skipper good-night, went on shore, and set out, 
 Ericson leaning rather heavily upon Robert's arm. Robert led 
 him up Marischal Street. 
 
 The steep ascent was too much for Ericson. He stood still 
 upon the bridge and leaned over the wall of it. Robert stood 
 beside, almost in despair about getting him home. 
 
 "Have patience with me, Robert," said Ericson, in his 
 natural voice. " I shall be better presently. I don't know 
 what's come to me. If I had been a Celt now, I should have 
 said I had a touch of the second sight. But I am, as far as I 
 know, pure Northman." 
 
 " What did you see? '" asked Robert, with a strange feel- 
 ing that miles of the spirit world, if one may be allowed such a 
 contradiction in words, lay between him and his friend. 
 
 Ericson returned no answer. Robert feared he was going 
 to have a relapse ; but in a moment more he lifted himself up 
 and bent again to the work. 
 
 They got on pretty well till they were about the middle of 
 the Gallowgate. 
 
 "I can't," said Ericson, feebly, and half leaned, half fell 
 against the wall of a house. 
 
 "Come into this shop," said Robert. "I know the man 
 He'll lat ye sit doon." 
 
 He managed to get him in. He was as pale as death. The 
 bookseller got a chair, and he sank into it. Robert was almost 
 at his wit's end. There was no such thing as a cab in Aber- 
 deen for years and years after the date of my story. He was 
 holding a glass of water to Ericson's lips, when he heard 
 his name, in a low, earnest whisper, from the door. There, 
 round the door-cheek, peered the white face and red head of 
 Shargar. 
 
 " Robert ! Robert ! " said Shargar. 
 
 "I hear ye," returned Robert, coolly ; he was too anxious 
 to be surprised at anything. " Haud yer tongue. I'll come 
 to ye in a minute." 
 
 Ericson recovered a little, refused the whiskey offered by th^ 
 bookseller, rose, and staggered out. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 233 
 
 "If I were only home!" he said. "But where ia 
 home ? " 
 
 " We'll try to mak' ane," returned Robert. " Tak' a hand 
 o' me. Lay yer weicht upo' me. If it warna for yer len'th, 
 I cud cairry ye weel eneuch. Whaur's that Shargar?" he 
 muttered to himself, looking up and down the gloomy street. 
 
 But no Shargar was to be seen. Robert peered in vain into 
 every dark court they crept past, till at length he all but 
 came to the conclusion that Shargar was only " fantastical." 
 
 When they had reached the hoLjw, and were crossing the 
 canal-bridge by Mount Hooly, Ericson's strength again failed 
 him, and again he leaned upon the bridge. Not had he leaned 
 long before Robert found that he had fainted. In desperation 
 he began to hoist the tall form upon his back, when he heard 
 the quick step of a runner behind him and the words : — 
 
 "Gie 'im to me, Robert; gie 'im to me. I can cairry 'im 
 fine." 
 
 " Haud awa' wi' ye," returned Robert ; and again Shargar 
 fell behind. 
 
 For a few hundred yards he trudged along manfully ; but 
 his strength, more from the nature of his burden than its 
 weight, soon gave way. He stood still to recover. The same 
 moment Shargar was by his side again. 
 
 "Noo, Robert," he said, pleadingly. 
 
 Robert yielded- and the burden was shifted to Shargar's 
 back. 
 
 How they managed it they hardly knew themselves; but 
 after many changes they at last got Ericson home, and up to 
 his own room. He had revived several times, but gone off 
 again. In one of his faints, Robert undressed him and got 
 him into bed. He had so little to cover him, that Robert 
 could not help crying with misery. He himself was well- 
 provided, and would gladly have shared with Ericson: but that 
 was hopeless. He could, however, make him warm in bed. 
 Then leaving Shargar in charge, he sped back to the new town 
 to Dr. Anderson. The doctor had his carriage out at once, 
 wrapped Robert in a plaid, and brought him home with him. 
 
 Ericson came to himself, and, seeing Shargar by his bedsids, 
 tried to sit up, asking, feebly : — 
 
 " Where am I ? " 
 
234 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " In yer ain bed, Mr. Ericson," answered Shargar. 
 
 "And who are you? " asked Ericson again, bewildered. 
 
 Shargar's pale face no doubt looked strange under Lis crowK 
 of red hair 
 
 "Ow! I'mnaebody." 
 
 " You must be somebody, or else my brain's in a bad state/' 
 returned Ericson. 
 
 " Na, na, I'm naebody. Naething at all. Robert'll be 
 Lame in ae meenit. — I'm Robert's dog," concluded Shagar, 
 with a sudden inspiration. 
 
 This answer seemed to satisfy Ericson, for Le closed Lis eyes 
 and lay still ; nor did Le speak again till Robert arrived with 
 the doctor. 
 
 Poor food, scanty clothing, undue exertion in travelling to 
 and from the university, hard mental effort against weakness, 
 disquietude of mind, all borne with an endurance unconscious 
 of itself. Lad reduced Eric Ericson to Lis present condition. 
 Strength had given way at last, and he was now lying in the 
 low border wash of a dead sea of fever. 
 
 The last of an ancient race of poor men, he had no relative 
 but a second cousin, and no means except the little he advanced 
 him, cLiefly in kind, to be paid for wLcn Eric Lad a profession. 
 TLis cousin was in the herring trade, and the- chief assistance 
 he gave him was to send him by sea, from Wick to Aberdeen, 
 a small barrel of his fish every session. One herring, wit'- 
 two or three potatoes, formed his dinner as long as the barrel 
 lasted. But at Aberdeen or elsewhere, no one carried his 
 head more erect than Eric Ericson, — not from pride, but 
 from simplicity and inborn dignity ; and there was not a man 
 during his curriculum more respected than he. An excellent 
 classical scholar, — as scholarship went in those days, — he 
 was almost the only man at the university who made his knowl- 
 edge of Latin serve towards an acquaintance with the Romance 
 languages. He had gained a small bursary, and gave lessons 
 when he could. 
 
 But having no level channel for the outgoing of the waters 
 of one of the tenderest hearts that ever lived, those waters had 
 Bought to break a passage upwards. Herein his experience 
 corresponded in a considerable degree to that of Robert ; only 
 Erie's more fastidious and more instructed nature bred a thou- 
 
Robert falconer. 235 
 
 sand diiBculties which he would meet one by one; whereas 
 ilobert, less delicate and more robust, would break through all 
 the oppositions of theological science falsely so called, and take 
 the kingdom of heaven by force. But indeed the ruins of the 
 ever-falling temple of theology had accumulated far more heav- 
 ily over Robert's well of life than over that of Ericson : the 
 obstructions to his faith were those that rolled from the disin- 
 tegrating mountains of humanity, rather than the rubbish 
 heaped upon it by the careless masons who take the quarry 
 wlience they hew the stones for the temple — built without hands, 
 etei'nal in the heavens. 
 
 When Dr. Anderson entered, Ericson opened his eyes wide. 
 The doctor approached, and, taking his hand, began to feel his 
 pulse. Then first Ericson comprehended his visit. 
 
 " I can't," he said, withdrawing his hand. " I am not so ill 
 as to need a doctor." 
 
 "My dear sir," said Dr. Anderson, courteously, "there 
 will be no occasion to put you to any pain." 
 
 " Sir," said Eric, " I have no money." 
 
 The doctor laughed. 
 
 " And I have more than I know how to make a good use of." 
 
 " I would rather be left alone," persisted Ericson, turning 
 his face away. 
 
 "Now, my dear sir," said the doctor, with gentle decision, 
 " that is very wrong. With what face can you offer a kind- 
 ness when your turn comes, if you won't accept one yourself ? " 
 
 Ericson held out his wrist. Dr. Anderson questioned, pre- 
 scribed, and, having given directions, went home, to call again 
 in the morning. 
 
 And now Robert was somewhat in the position of, the old 
 woman who "had so many children she didn't know what to 
 do." Dr. Anderson ordered nourishment for Ericson, and 
 here was Shargar upon his hands as well ! Shargar and he 
 could share, to be sure, and exist ; but for Ericson — 
 
 Not a word did Robert exchange with Shargar till he had 
 gone to the druggist's and got the medicine for Ericson, who, 
 after taking it, fell into a troubled sleep. Then, leaving the 
 two doors opened, Robert joined Shargar in his own room 
 There he made up a good fire, and they sat and dried them« 
 selves. 
 
236 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 •■ Noo, Shargar," said Robert at length, " hoo cam ye 
 here? " 
 
 His question was too like one of his grandmother's to be 
 pleasant to Shargar. 
 
 " Dinna speyke to me that way, Robert, or I'll cut my 
 throat," he returned. 
 
 "Hoots! I maun know a' aboot it," insisted Robert, but 
 with much modified and partly convicted tone. 
 
 "Weel, I never said I wadna tell ye a' aboot it. The 
 fac' 's this, — an' I'm no' up to the lyin' as I used to be, 
 Robert. I hae tried it ower an' ower 5 but a lie comes rouch 
 throw my windpipe noo. Faith ! I cud hae lied ance wi' ony- 
 body, barrin' the de'il. I winna, lie. I'm nae lyin'. The 
 fac' 's jist this : I cudna bide ahin' ye ony langer." 
 
 "But what, the muckle lang-tailed deevil ! am I to do wi' 
 ye?" returned Robert, in real perplexity, though only pre- 
 tended displeasure. 
 
 " Gie me something to ate, an' I'll tell ye what to do wi' 
 me," answered Shargar. " I dinna care a scratch what it is." 
 
 Robert rang the bell and ordered some porridge, and while it 
 was preparing Shargar told his story, — how having heard a 
 rumor of apprenticeship to a tailor, he had the same night 
 dropped from the gable window to the ground, and with three 
 halfpence in his pocket had wandered and begged his way to 
 Aberdeen, arriving with one halfpenny left. 
 
 "But what am I to do wi' ye? " said- Robert once more, in 
 as much perplexity as ever. 
 
 "Bide till I hae tellt ye, as I said I wad," answered Shar- 
 gar. " Dinna ye think I'm the careless and therefore helpless 
 crater I used to be. I hae been in Aberdeen three days ! 
 Ay, an' I hae seen you ilka day in yer reid goon, an' richt 
 braw it is. Luik ye here ! " 
 
 He put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out what amounted 
 to two or three shillings, chiefly in coppers, which he exposed 
 with triumph on the table. 
 
 " Whaur got ye a' that siller, man?" asked Robert. 
 
 " Here and there, I kenna whaur ; but I hae gien the weicht 
 0' 't for 't a' the same, — rinnin' here an' rinnin' there, 
 cairryin' boxes till an' frae the smacks, an' doin' a 'thing whether 
 they bade me or no. Yesterday mornin' I got thrippence by 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 237 
 
 liingin' aboot the Royal afore the coches startit. I luiket a' 
 up and doon the street till I saw somebody hine awa vri' a 
 porkmanty. Till 'im I ran, an' he was an auld man, an' 
 maist at the last gasp wi' the weioht o' 'it, an' gae me 't to 
 carry. An' wha duv ye think gae me a shillin' the veriU first 
 nicht ? — Wha but my brither Sandy ? " 
 "LordRothie?" 
 
 " Ay, faith. I knew him weel eneuch, but little he knew 
 me. There he was, upo' Black Geordie. He's turnin' auld 
 noo." 
 
 " Yer brither ? " 
 
 "Na. He's young eneuch for ony mischeef; but Black 
 Geordie. What on earth gars him gang stravaguin' aboot upo' 
 that deevil ? I doobt he's a kelpie, or a hell-horse, or some- 
 thing no canny o' that kin' ; for faith ! brither Sandy's no ower 
 canny himsel', I'm thinkin'. But Geordie — the aulder the 
 waur inclined. An' sae I'm thinkin' wi' his maister." 
 " Did ye ever see yer father, Shargar ? " 
 " Na. Nor I dinna want to see 'im. I'm upo' my mither's 
 side. But that's naething to the pint. A' that I want o' you 
 'a to lat me come hame at nicht, and lie upo' the flure here. 
 I sweir I'll lie i' the street if ye dinna lat me. I'll sleep aa 
 soun' 's Peter Maclnnes whan Maccleary's preachin'. An' I 
 winna ate muckle, — I hae dreidfu' pooer o'aitin', — an' a' 'at 
 I gether I'll fess hame to you, to du wi' 't as ye like. — Man, 
 I cairriet a heap o' things the day till the skipper o' that boat 
 'at ye gaed intil wi' Maister Ericson the nicht. He's a fine 
 chiel, that skipper! " 
 
 Robert was astonished at the change that had passed upon 
 Shargar. His departure had cast him upon his awn resources, 
 and allowed the individuality repressed by every event of his 
 history, even by his worship of Robert, to begin to develop 
 itself. Miserable for a few weeks, he had revived in the fancy 
 that to work hard at school would give him some chance of re- 
 joining Robert. Thence, too, he had watched to please Mss. 
 Falconer, and had indeed begun to buy golden opinions from 
 all sorts of people. . He had a hope in prospect. But into 
 the midst fell the whisper of the apprenticeship like a thunder- 
 bolt out of a clear sky. He fled at once. 
 
238 RCBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Weel, ye can hae my bed the nicht," said Robert, "for 1 
 maun sit up wi' Mr. Ericson." 
 
 " 'Deed I'll hae naething o' the kin'. I'll sleep upo' the 
 flure, or else upo' the door-stane. Man, I'm no clean eneucb 
 efter -what I've come throu' sin' I drappit frae the window-siU 
 i' the ga'le-room. But jist lin' me yer plaid, an' I'll sleep 
 upo' the rug here as if I war i' Paradees. An' faith, sac ] 
 am, Robert. Ye maun gang to yer bed some time the nicht 
 besides, or ye winna be fit for yer wark the morn. Ye can 
 jist gie me a kick, an' I'll be up afore ye can gie me anither." 
 
 Their supper arrived from below, and, each on the one side 
 of the fire, they ate the porridge, conversing all the while about 
 old times, — for the youngest life has its old times, its golden 
 age, and old adventures, — Dooble Sanny, Betty, etc., etc. 
 There were but two subjects which Robert avoided, — Miss St. 
 John and the Bonny Leddy. Shargar was at length deposited 
 upon the little bit of hearth-rug which adorned rather than en- 
 riched the room, with Robert's plaid of shepherd tartan arounii 
 him, and an Ainsworth's dictionary under his head for a 
 pillow. 
 
 "Man, I fin' mysel' jist like a muckle sheep-dog," he said. 
 " Whan I close my een, I'm no sure 'at I'm no i' the inside 
 o' yer auld luckie-daiddie's kilt. The Lord preserve me frae 
 ever sic a fricht again as yer grannie an' Betty gae me the 
 nicht they fand me in 't ! I dinna believe it's in natur' to hae 
 sic a fricht twisein ae lifetime. Sae I'll fa' asleep at ance, an' 
 sae nae mair, — but as muckle o' my prayers as I can min' 
 upo' noo' 'at grannie's no at my lug." 
 
 " Haud yer impidence, an' yer tongue thegither," said 
 Robert. "Min' 'at my granny's been the best frien' ye ever 
 had." 
 
 "'Cep' my ain mither," returned Shargar, with a sleepy 
 doggedness in his tone. 
 
 During their conference, Ericson had been slumbering. 
 Robert bad visited him from time to time, but he had not 
 awakened. As soon as Shargar was disposed of, he took his 
 candle and sat down by him. He grew more uneasy. Robert 
 guessed that the candle was the cause, and put it out. Ericson 
 was quieter. So Robert sat in the dark. 
 
 But the rain had now ceased. Some upper wind had swept 
 
ROBEKT FALCONER. 239 
 
 the clouds from the sky, and the whole world of stars was 
 radiant over the earth and its griefs. 
 
 " God, where art thou? " he said in his heart, and wer t 
 to his own room to look out. 
 
 There was no curtain, and the blind had not been drawn 
 down, therefore the earth looked in at the storm-window. The 
 sea neither glimmered nor shone. It lay across the horizon 
 like a low-level cloud, out of which came a moaning. Was thi? 
 moaning all of the earth, or was there trouble in the starry 
 places too ? thought Robert, as if already he had begun to sus- 
 pect the truth from afar, — that save in the secret place of 
 the Most High, and in the heart that is hid with the Son of 
 Man in the bosom of the Father, there is trouble, — a sacred 
 unrest, — everywhere, — the moaning of a tide setting home- 
 wards, even towards the bosom of that Father. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 A HUMAN PKOVIDENCB. 
 
 Robert kept himself thoroughly awake the whole night, and 
 it was well that he had not to attend classes in the morning. 
 As the gray of the world's reviving consciousness melted in at 
 the window, the things around and within him looked and felt 
 ghastly. Nothing is liker the gray dawn than the soul of one 
 who has been watching by a sick-bed all the long hours of the 
 dark, except, indeed, it be the first glimmerings of truth on the 
 mind lost in the dark of a godless life. 
 
 Ericson had waked often, and Robert had administered his 
 medicine carefully. But he had been mostly between sleeping 
 and waking, and had murmured strange words, whose passing 
 shadows rather than glimmers roused the imagination of the 
 youth as with messages from regions unknown. 
 
 As the light came he found his senses going, and went to his 
 own room again to get a book that he might keep himself 
 awake by reading at the window. To his surprise Shargar viaa 
 
240 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 gone, and for a moment he doubted whether he had not beer 
 dreaming all that had passed between them the night before. 
 His plaid was folded up and laid upon a chair, as if it had been 
 there all night, and his Ainsworth was on the table. But 
 beside it was the money Shargar had drawn from his pockets. 
 
 About nine o'clock Dr. Anderson arrived, found Ericson not 
 BO much worse as he had expected, comforted Robert, and told 
 him he must go to bed. 
 
 " But I cannot leave Mr. Ericson," said Robert. 
 
 "Let your friend — what's his odd name? — watch him 
 during the day." 
 
 " Shargar, you mean, sir. But that's his nickname. His 
 rale name, they say his mither says, is George Moray, — wi' 
 an an' no a u-r, — Do you see, sir?" concluded Robert, 
 significantly. 
 
 " No, I don't," answered the doctor. 
 
 " They say he's a son o' the auld markia's, that's it. Hia 
 mither's a randy wife 'at gangs aboot the country, — a gypsy, 
 they say. There's nae doobt aboot her. An' by a' accounts 
 the father's likely eneuch." 
 
 " And how on earth did you come to have such a question- 
 able companion? " 
 
 " Shargar' s as fine a crater as ever God made," said Robert, 
 warmly. "Ye'U alloo 'at God made him, doctor; though 
 his father an' mither thochtna muckle aboot him, or God either, 
 whan they got him atween them ? An' Shargar couldna help 
 it. It micht ha' been you or me for that maitter, doctor." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Robert," said Dr. Anderson, quietly, 
 although delighted with the fervor of his young kinsman ; "I 
 only wanted to know how he came to be your companion." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, doctor; but I thocht ye was some 
 Bcunnert at it ; an' I canna bide Shargar to be luikit doon upo'. 
 Luik here," he continued, going to his box, and bringing out 
 Shargar's little heap of coppers, in which two sixpences 
 obscurely shone, " he brocht a' that hame last nicht, an' syne 
 sleepit upo' the rug i' my room there. We'll want a' 'at he 
 can mak an' me too afore we get Mr. Ericson up again." 
 
 " But ye haena tellt me yet," said the doctor, so pleased 
 with the lad that he relapsed into the dialect of his youth, '' hoo 
 ye cam to forgether wi' 'im." 
 
KOBEBT FALCONER. 241 
 
 " I tellt ye a' aboot it, doctor. It was a' my grannie's 
 doin', God bless her ! — for weel he may, an' muckle she 
 needs 't." 
 
 " Oh ! yes : I remember now all your grandmother's part in 
 the story," returned the doctor. " But I still want to know 
 how he came here." 
 
 " She was gaein' to mak' a tailor o' 'im ; an' he jist run awa , 
 an' cam to me." 
 
 " It was too bad of him that, — after all she had done for 
 him." 
 
 " Ow, 'deed no, doctor. Even whan ye boucht a man an' 
 paid for him, accordin' to the Jewish law, ye cudna mak' a 
 slave o' 'im for a'thegither, ohn him seekin' 't himsel'. — Eh ! 
 if she could only get my father hame ! " sighed Robert, after a 
 pause. 
 
 " What should she want him home for ? " asked Dr. Ander- 
 son, still making conversation. 
 
 " I didna mean hame to Rothieden. I believe she cud bide 
 never seein' 'im again, if only he wasna i' the ill place. She 
 has awfu' notions aboot burnin' ill sowls forever an' ever. But 
 it's DO hersel'. It's the wyte o' the ministers. Doctor, I do 
 believe she wad gang an' be burnt hersel' wi' a great thanks- 
 givin', if it wad lat ony puir crater oot o' 't, — no to say my 
 father. An' I sair misdoobt if mony o' them 'at pat it in her 
 heid wad do as muckle. I'm some feared they're like Paul 
 afore he was convertit ; he wadna lift a stane himsel', but he 
 likit weel to stan' oot by an' luik on." 
 
 A deep sigh, almost a groan, from the bed, reminded them 
 that they were talking too much, and too loud for a sick-room. 
 It was followed by the words, muttered, but articulate : — 
 
 " What's the good when you don't know whether there's a 
 God at all?" 
 
 " Deed, that's verra true, Mt. Ericson," returned Robert. 
 " I wish ye wad fin' oot an' tell me. I wad be blithe to 
 hear what ye had to say anent it — if it was ay, ye ken." 
 
 Ericson went on murmuring, but inarticulately now. 
 
 " This won't do at all, Robert, my boy," said Dr. Anderson. 
 " You must not talk about such things with him, or, indeed, 
 about anything. You must keep him as quiet as ever you 
 can." 
 
 16 
 
242 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " I thocht he was comin' to himsel','' returned Robert 
 " But I will tak' care, I assure ye, doctor. Only I'm feared 1 
 may fa' asleep the nicht, for I was so sleepy this mornin'." 
 
 " I will send Johnston as soon as I get home, and you must 
 go to bed when he comes." 
 
 " Deed, doctor, that winna do at a'. It wad be ower mony 
 strange faces a'thegither. We'll get Mrs. Fyvie to luik till 
 'im the day, an' Shargar canna work the morn, bein' Sunday. 
 An' I'll gang to my bed for fear o' doin' waur, though I 
 doobt I winna sleep in' the daylicht." 
 
 Dr. Anderson was satisfied, and went home — cogitating 
 much. This boy, this cousin of his, made a vortex of good 
 about him into which whoever came near it was drawn. He 
 seemed at the same time quite unaware of anything worthy in 
 his conduct. The good he did sprung from some inward neces- 
 sity ; with just enough in it of the salt of choice to keep it 
 from losing its savor. To these cogitations of Dr. Anderson, 
 I add that there was no conscious exercise of religion in it ; 
 for there his mind was all at sea. Of course I believe not- 
 withstanding that religion had much, I ought to say every- 
 thing, to do with it, Robert had not yet found in God a 
 reason for being true to his fellows ; but, if God was leading 
 him to be the man he became, how could any good results of this 
 leading be other than religion ? All good is of God. Robert 
 began where he could. The first table was too high for him ; 
 he began with the second. If a man love his brother whom 
 he hath seen, the love of God whom he hath not seen is not 
 very far off. These results in Robert were the first outcome 
 of divine facts and influences ; they were the buds of the fruit 
 hereafter to be gathered in perfect devotion. God be praised 
 by those who know religion to be the truth of humanity, — its 
 own truth that sets it free, — not binds, and lops, and mutilates 
 it ! who see God to be the Father of every human soul, — the 
 ideal Father, not an inventor of schemes, or the upholder of a 
 court etiquette for whose use he has chosen to desecrate the 
 name of justice ! 
 
 To return to Dr. Anderson. I have had little opportunity 
 of knowing his history in India. He returned from it half 
 way down the hill of life, sad, gentle, kind, and rich. Whence 
 bia sadness came, we need not inquire. Some woman out in 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 243 
 
 that fervid land may have darkened his story, — darkened it 
 wronglessly, it may be, with coldness, or only -with death. 
 But to return home vrithout wife to accompany him or child 
 to meet him ; to sit by his riches like a man over a fire of 
 straws in a Siberian frost ; to know that old faces were gone 
 and old hearts changed ; that the pattern of things in the heav- 
 ens had melted away from the face of the earth ; that the chill 
 evenings of autumn were settling down into longer and longer 
 nights, and that no hope lay any more beyond the mountains, 
 — surely this was enough to make a gentle-minded man sad, 
 even if the individual sorrows of his history had gathered into 
 gold and purple in the west. I say west advisedly. For we 
 are journeying, like our globe, ever towards the east. Deatb 
 and, the west are behind us — ever behin(? us, afid settling into 
 the unchangeable. 
 
 It was natural that he should be interested in th«! fine prom- 
 ise of Robert, in whom he saw revived the hopes of his own 
 youth, but in a nature at once more robust and more ideal. 
 Where the doctor was refined, Robert was strong ; where the 
 doctor was firm with a firmness he had cultivated, Robert was 
 imperious with an imperiousness time would mellow ; where 
 the doctor was generous and careful at once, Robert gave his 
 mite and forgot if. He wa? rugged in the simplicity of hi^ 
 truthfulness, and his speech betrayed him as altogether of the 
 people ; but the doctor knew the hole of the pit whence ha 
 had been himself digged. All that would fall away as the 
 spiky shell from the polished chestnut, and be reabsorbed in 
 the growth of the grand cone-flowering tree, to stand up in the 
 sun and wind of the years a very altar of incense. It is no 
 wonder, I repeat, that he loved the boy, and longed to furthei 
 his plans. But he was too wise to overwhelm him with a cat' 
 aract of fortune instead of blessing him with the merciful dev 
 of progress. 
 
 " The fellow will bring me in for no end of expense," hr 
 said, smiling to himself, as he drove home in his chariot 
 " The less he means it the more unconscionable ho will be 
 There's that Ericson — but that isn't worth thinking of. 1 
 must do something for that queer protege oi his, though — 
 that Shargar. The fellow is as good as a dog, and that's say- 
 ing not a little for him. I wonder if he can learn — or if ho 
 
244 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 takes after his father, the marquis, who never could spelL 
 Well, it is a comfort to have something to do worth doing. I 
 did think of endowing a hospital ; but I'm not sure that it isn't 
 better to endow a good man than a hospital. I'll think about 
 it. I won't say anything about Shargar either, till I see hov 
 he goes on. I might give him a job, though, now and then. 
 But where to fall in with him — prowling about after jobs ? " 
 
 He threw himself back in his seat, and laughed with a de- 
 light he had rarely felt. He was a providence watching over 
 the boys, who expected nothing of him beyond advice for 
 Ericson ! Might there not be a Providence that equally tran- 
 scended the vision of men, shaping to nobler ends the blocked- 
 out designs of their rough-hewn marbles ? 
 
 His thoughts wandered back to his friend the Brahmin, who 
 died longing for that absorption into deity which had been the 
 dream of his life ; might not the Brahmin find the grand idea 
 shaped to yet finer issues than his aspiration had dared con- 
 template ? — might he not inherit in the purification of his 
 will such an absorption as should intensify his personality ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 A HUMAN SOUL. 
 
 Ericson lay for several weeks, during which time Robert 
 and Shargar were his only nurses. They contrived, by abridg- 
 ing both rest and labor, to give him constant attendance. 
 Sharger went to bed early and got up early, so as to let 
 Robert have a few hours' sleep before his classes began. Rob- 
 ert again slept in the evening, after Shargar came home, and 
 made up for the time by reading while he sat by his friend. 
 Mrs. Fyvie's attendance was in requisition only for the hours 
 when he had to be at lectures. By the greatest economy of 
 means, consisting of what Shargar brought in by jobbing about 
 the quay and the coach-offices, and what Robert had from Dr. 
 Anderson for copying his manuscript, they contrived to pro- 
 euro for Ericson all that he wanted. The shopping of the two 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 245 
 
 boys, in their utter ignorance of such df .icacies as the doctor 
 told them to get for him, the blunders they made as to the 
 shops at which they were to be bought, and the consultations 
 they held, especially about the preparing of the prescribed 
 nutriment, afforded them many an amusing retrospect in after 
 years. For the house was so full of lodgers, that Robert 
 begged Mrs. Fyvie to give herself no trouble in the matter, 
 ller conscience, however, was uneasy, and she spoke to Dr. 
 Anderson ; but he assured her that she might trust the boys. 
 What cooking they could not manage, she undertook cheer- 
 fully, and refused to add anything to the rent on Shargar'a 
 account. 
 
 Dr. Anderson watched everything, — the two boys as much as 
 his patient. He allowed them to work on, sending only the 
 wine that was necessary from his own cellar. The moment the 
 supplies should begin to fail, or the boys to look troubled, he 
 was ready to do more. About Robert's perseverance he had 
 no doubt ; Shargar's faithfulness he wanted to prove. 
 
 Robert wrote to his grandmother to tell her that Shargar 
 was with him, working hard. Her reply was somewhat cold 
 and offended, but was enclosed in a parcel containing all Shar- 
 gar's garments, and ended with the assurance that as long as 
 he did well, she was ready to do what she could. 
 
 Few English readers will like Mrs. Falconer ; but her grand- 
 child considered her one of the noblest women ever God made ; 
 and I, from his account, am of the same mind. Her care was 
 fixed 
 
 " To fill her odorous lamp with deeds of light, 
 And hope that reaps not shame." 
 
 And if one must choose between the how and the what, let me 
 have the what, come of the how what may. I know of a man 
 so sensitive, that he shuts his ears to his sister's griefs, 
 because it spoils his digestion to think of them. 
 
 One evening Robert was sitting by the table in Ericson's 
 room. Dr. Anderson had not called that day, and he did not 
 expect to see him now, for he had never come so late. He 
 was quite at his ease, therefore, and busy with two things at 
 once, when the doctor opened the door and walked in. I 
 think it is possible that he came up quietly with some design 
 
246 ROBERl FALOONBR. 
 
 of surprising him. He found him with a stocking on one 
 hand, a darning-needle in the other, and a Greek book open 
 before him. Taking no apparent notice of him, he walked up 
 to the bedside, and Robert put away his work, After hia 
 interview with his patient was over, the doctor signed to him 
 to follow him to the next room. There Shargar lay on the 
 rug, already snoring. It was a cold night in December, but 
 he lay in his underclothing, with a single blanket round him. 
 
 "Good training for a soldier," said the doctor; "and so 
 was your work a minute ago, Robert." 
 
 "Ay," answered Robert, coloring a little ; " I was readin' a 
 bit o' the ' Anabasis.' " 
 
 The doctor smiled a far-oflF, sly smile. 
 
 "I think it was rather the Katabasis, if one might venture 
 to judge from the direction of your labors." 
 
 " Weel," answered Robert, "what wad ye hae me do? 
 Wad ye hae me lat Mr. Ericson gang wi' holes i' the heels o' 
 's hose, whan I can mak' them whole, an' learn my Greek at 
 the same time ? Hoots, doctor ! dinna laugh at me. I was 
 doin' nae ill. A body may please themsel's, — which, surely, 
 is no sin." 
 
 "But it's such waste of time ! Why don't you buy him 
 new ones? " 
 
 " 'Deed, that's easier said than dune. I hae eneuch ado wi' 
 my siller as 'tis ; an' if it warna for you, doctor, I do not 
 know what wad come o' 's ; for ye see I hae no richt to come 
 apo' my grannie for ither fowk. There wad be nae en' to 
 that." 
 
 " But I could lend you the money to buy him some stock- 
 ings." 
 
 ^' An' whan wad I be able to pay ye, do you think, doctor? 
 In anither warl' maybe, whaur the currency micht be sae 
 diflferent there wad be no possibility o' reckonin' the rate o' 
 exchange. Na, na." 
 
 " But I will give you the money, if you like." 
 
 " Na, na. You hae dune eneuch already, an' mony 
 thanks. Siller's no sae easy come by to be wastit, as lang's a 
 darn '11 do. Forbye, if ye began wi' his claes, ye wadna 
 know whaur to baud ; for it wad jist be the new claith upo' 
 the auld garment : ye mich* as weel new deed him at ance." 
 
nOBBRT FALCOKER. 247 
 
 ' And why not, if I choose, Mr. Falconer ? " 
 
 " Spoir ye that at Mm, an' see what ye^ll get, ■— a luik 'at 
 wad fess a carrion crow frae the shy. I wadna hae ye try 
 that. Some fowk's poverty maun be han'let jist like a sair 
 place, doctor. He canna weel compleen o' a bit darnin'. — 
 He canna tak' that ill," repeated Robert, in a tone that 
 showed he yet felt some anxiety on the subject; "but 
 new anes ! I wadna like to be by whan he fand that oot. 
 Maybe he micht tak' them frae a wuman ; but frae a man 
 body ! — na, na; I maun jist darn awa'. But I'll mak' them 
 dacent eneuch afore I hae dune wi' them. A fiddler has 
 fingers." 
 
 The doctor smiled a pleased smile ; but, when he got into 
 his carriage, again he laughed heartily. 
 
 The evening deepened into night. Robert thought Ericson 
 was asleep. But he spoke. 
 
 " Who is that at the street-door? " he said. 
 
 They were at the top of the house, and there was no win- 
 dow to the street. But Ericson's senses were preternaturally 
 acute, as is often the case in such illnesses. 
 
 " I dinna hear onybody," answered Robert. 
 
 " There was somebody," returned Ericson. 
 
 From that moment he began to be restless, and was more 
 feverish than usual throughout the night. 
 
 Up to this time he had spoken little, was depressed with a 
 suffering to which he could give no name, — not pairi, he said ; 
 but such that he could rouse no mental effort to meet it ; his 
 endurance was passive altogether. This night his brain was 
 more affected. He *did not rave, but often wandered ; never 
 spoke nonsense, but many words that would have seemed non- 
 sense to ordinary people ; to Robert they seemed inspired. 
 His imagination, which was greater than any other of his fine 
 faculties, wag so roused that he talked in verse — probably 
 verse composed before and now recalled. He would even pray 
 sometimes in measured lines, and go on murmuring petitions, 
 till the words of the murmur became undistinguishable, and 
 he fell asleep. But even in his sleep he would speak, and 
 Robert would listen in awe ; for such words, falling from such 
 a man, were to him as dim breaks of colored light from th« 
 rainbow walls of the heavenly city. 
 
248 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 •' If God were thinking me," said Ericson, " ab ! But if 
 he be only dreaming me, I sball go mad." 
 
 Ericson's outside was like his own nortbern clime, - - dark, 
 gentle, and clear, with gray-blue seas, and a sun thti seems 
 to shine out of the past, and know nothing of the future. 
 Eui within glowed a volcanic angel of aspiration, fluttering 
 his half-grown wings, and ever reaching towards the heights 
 wheme all things are visible, and where all passions are safe 
 beeaui'e true, that is, divine. Iceland herself has her Hecla. 
 
 Robort listened with keenest ear. A mist of great meaning 
 hung ahout the words his friend had spoken. He might 
 speak more. For some minutes he listened in vain, and was 
 turning at last towards his book in hopelessness, when he did 
 speak yet again. Robert's ear soon detected the rhythmic 
 motion of his speech : — 
 
 " Come In the glory of thine excellence ; 
 Kive the dense gloom with wedges of clear light ; 
 And let the shimmer of thy chariot wheels 
 Burn through the cracks of night. — So slowly, Lord, 
 To lift myself to thee with hands of toil, 
 Climbing the slippery cliflf of unheard prayer 1 
 Lift up a hand among my idle days — 
 One beckoning finger. I will cast aside 
 The clogs of earthly circumstance, and run 
 Up the broad highways where the countless worlds 
 Sit ripening in the summer of thy love." 
 
 Breathless for fear of losing a word, Robert yet remembered 
 that he had seen something like these words in the papers 
 Ericson had given him to read on the night when his illness 
 began. When he had fallen asleep and silent, he searched 
 and found it. But I prefer giving another of his poems, 
 which Robert read at the same time, revealing another of his 
 moods when some one of the clouds of holy doubt and ques- 
 tioning love, which so often darkened his sky, did, it length, 
 
 " Turn forth her silver lining on the night." 
 
 " SONG. 
 
 " They are blind and they are dead ; 
 We will wake them as we goj 
 
aOBEET FALCONER. 24J> 
 
 There are words have not been said; 
 There are sounds they do not know. 
 We will ripe and we will sing, — 
 With the music and the spring, 
 Set their hearts a-wondering. 
 
 •• They are tired of what is old ; . 
 We will give it voices new; 
 For the half hath not been told 
 Of the Beautiful and True. 
 Drowsy eyelids shut and sleeping! 
 Heavy eyes oppressed with weeping I 
 Flashes through the lashes leaping I 
 
 " Te that have a pleasant voice, 
 Hither come without delay ; 
 Ye will never have a choice 
 Like to that ye have to-day : 
 Round the wide world we will go, 
 Singing through the fi-ost and snow, 
 Till the daisies are in blow. 
 
 " Te that cannot pipe or sing. 
 
 Ye must also come with speed ; 
 Ye must come, and with you bring 
 Weighty words and weightier deed : 
 Helping hands and loving eyes, 
 These will make them truly wise, — 
 Then will be our Paradise." 
 
 As Robert read, the sweetness of the rhythm seized upon 
 him, and, almost unconsciously, he read the last stanza aloud. 
 Looking up from the paper with a sigh of wonder and delight 
 — there was the pale face of Ericson gazing at him from the 
 bed ! He had risen on one arm, looking like a dead man 
 called to life against his will, who found the world he had 
 left already stranger to him than the one into which he had 
 but peeped. 
 
 " Yes," he murmured ; " I could say that once. It's alJ 
 gone now. Our world is but our moods." 
 
 He fell back on his pillow. After a little, he murmured 
 again : — 
 
 " I might fool myself with faith again. So it is better not. 
 I would not be fooled. To believe the false and be happy, is 
 the very belly' of misery. To believe the true and be miser- 
 able, is to be true — and miserable. If there is no God, let 
 me know it. I will not be fooled. I will not believe in a 
 
250 llOBERT FALCONER. 
 
 God that does not exist. Better be miserable because I ar», 
 and cannot help it. — God ! " 
 
 Yet, in his misery, he cried upon God. 
 
 These words came upon Robert with such a shock of sym. 
 pathy, that they destroyed his consciousness for the moment, 
 and when he thought about .them, he almost doubted if he had 
 heard them. He rose and approached the bed. Ericson lay ' 
 with his eyes closed, and his face contorted as by inward 
 pain. Robert put a spoonful of wine to his lips. lie swal- 
 lowed it, opened his eyes, gazed at the boy, as if he did not 
 know him, closed them again, and lay still. 
 
 Some people take comfort from the true eyes of a dog, — 
 and a precious thing to the loving heart is the love of even a 
 dumb animal.* What comfort, then, must not such a boy as 
 Robert have been to such a man as Ericson? Often and 
 often when he was lying asleep, as Robert thought, he was 
 watching the face of his watcher. When the human soul is 
 not yet able to receive the vision of the God-man, God some- 
 times — might I not say always ? — reveals himself, or at 
 least gives himself, in some human being whose face, whose 
 hands, are the ministering angels of his unacknowledged presence, 
 to keep alive the fire of love on the altar of the heart, until 
 God hath provided the sacrifice, — that is, until the soul ia 
 strong enough to draw it from the concealing thicket. Here 
 ■were (swo, each thinking that God had forsaken him, or was 
 xiot to be found by him, and each the very love of God, com- 
 aiissioned to tend the other's heart. In each was he present 
 to the other. The one thought himself the happiest of mortals 
 in waising upon his big brother, whose least smile was joy 
 enough for one day ; the other wondered at the unconscious 
 goodness of the boy, and while he gazed at his ruddy-brown 
 fece, believed in God. 
 
 For some time after Ericson was taken ill, he was too de- 
 pressed and miserable to ask how he was cared for. But by 
 
 • Why should Sir Walter Scott, who felt the death of Camp, his buU- 
 terrler, so much that he declined a dinner engagement in consequence, 
 say on the death of his next favorite, a greyhound bitch, " Best her 
 body, since I dare not say soul " ? Whei'e did he get that dare not? Is 
 It well that the daring of genius should be circumscribed by an un- 
 belief so commonplace as to be capable only of subscription ? 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 251 
 
 slow degrees it dawned upon him that a heart deep and gra- 
 cious, like that of a woman, watched over him. True, Robert 
 was uncouth, but his uncouthness was that of a half-fledgod 
 angel. The heart of the man and the heart of the boy were 
 drawn close together. Long before Ericson was well he loved 
 Robert enough to be willing to be indebted to him, and would 
 lio pondering, — not how. to repay him, but how to return hia 
 kindness. 
 
 How much Robert's ambition to stand well in the eyes of 
 Miss St. J ohn contributed to his progress I can only imagine ; 
 but certainly his ministrations to Ericson did not interfere 
 with his Latin and Greek. I venture to think that they ad- 
 vanced them ; for difficulty adds to result, as the ramming of 
 the powder sends the bullet the further. I have heard, indeed, 
 that when a carrier wants to help his horse up hill, he sets 
 a boy on his back. 
 
 Ericson made little direct acknowledgment to Robert ; his 
 tones, hia gestures, his looks, all thanked him ; but he shrunk 
 from words, with the maidenly shamefacedness that belongs 
 to true feeling. He would even assume the authoritative, and 
 send him away to his studies ; but Robert knew how to hold 
 his own. The relation of elder brother and younger was 
 already established between them, ^hargar, likewise, took his 
 share in the love and the fellowship, worshipping in that bn 
 believed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 A FATHER AND A DAUGHTER. 
 
 The presence at the street-door, of which Ericson's over- 
 acute sense had been aware on a past evening, was that of Mr. 
 Lindsay, walking home with bowed back and bowed head from 
 the college library, where he was privileged to sit after hours 
 as long as he pleased over books too big to be comfortably 
 carried home to his cottage. He had called to inquire after 
 Ericson, whose acquaintance he had made in the library, and 
 
252 V ROBEUT FALCONEK. 
 
 cultivated, until almost any Friday evening Ericson was to be 
 found seated by Mr. Lindsay's parlor fire. 
 
 As he entered the room that same evening, a young girl 
 raised herself from a low seat by the fire to meet him. There 
 was a faint, rosy flush on her cheek, and she held a volume in 
 her hand as she approached her father. They did not kiss ; 
 kisses were not a legal tender in Scotland then ; possibly there 
 has been a depreciation in the value of them since they were. 
 
 " I've been to ask after Mr. Ericson," said Mr. Lindsay. 
 
 "And how is he ? " asked the girl. 
 
 " Very poorly indeed," answered her father. 
 
 " I am sorry. You'll miss him, papa." 
 
 " Yes, my dear. Tell Jenny to bring my lamp." 
 
 " Won't you have your tea first, papa? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, if it's ready." 
 
 " The kettle has been boiling for a long time, but I wouldn't 
 make the tea till you came in." 
 
 Mr. Lindsay was an hour later than usual, but Mysie was 
 quite unaware of that ; she had been absorbed in her book, too 
 much absorbed even to ring for better light than the fire 
 afforded. When her father went to put off his long, bifurcated 
 great-coat, she returned to her seat by the fire, and forgot to 
 make the tea. It was a warm, snug room, full of dark, old- 
 fashioned, spider-legged furniture ; low-pitched, with a bay- 
 window, open like an ear to the cries of the German Ocean at 
 night, and like an eye during the day to look out upon its 
 wide expanse. This ear or eye was now curtained with dark 
 crimson, and the room, in the firelight, with the young girl 
 for a soul to it, affected one like an ancient book in which he 
 reads his own latest thought. 
 
 Mysie was nothing over the middle height, — delicately 
 fashioned, at once slender and round, with extremities neat as 
 buds. Her complexion was fair, and her face pale, except 
 when a flush, like that of a white rose, overspread it. Her 
 cheek was lovelily curved, and her face rather short. But at 
 first one could see nothing for her eyes. They were the 
 largest eyes ; and their motion reminded one of those of Sor- 
 dello in the " Purgatorio " : — 
 
 " £) nel maover degli occhi onesta e tarda : " 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 253 
 
 tbey semed too largo to move otherwise than with a slow turn- 
 ing like that of the heavens. At first they looked black, but 
 if one ventured inquiry, which was as dangerous as to gaze 
 from the battlements of Elsinore, he found them a not very 
 dark brown. In her face, however, especially when flushed, 
 they had all the effect of what Milton describes as 
 
 " Quel sereuo fUlgor d'amabil nero. " 
 
 A wise observer would have been a little troubled in regard- 
 ing her mouth. The sadness of a morbid sensibility hovered 
 about it, — the sign of an imagination wrought upon from the 
 centre of self. Her lips were neither thin nor compressed, — 
 they closed lightly, and were richly curved ; but there was a 
 mobility almost tremulous about the upper lip,, that gave sign 
 of the possibility of such an oscillation of feeling as might 
 cause the whole fabric of her nature to rock dangerously. 
 
 The moment her father re-entered, she started from her 
 stool on the rug, and proceeded to make the tea. Her father 
 took no notice of her neglect, but drew a chair to the table, 
 helped himself to a piece of oat-cake, hastily loaded it with as 
 much butter as it could well carry, and while eating it forgot 
 it and everything else in the absorption of a volume he had 
 brought in with him from his study, in which he was tracing 
 out some genealogical thread of which he fancied he had got a 
 hold. Mysie was very active now, and lost the expression of 
 far-off-ness which had hitherto characterized her countenance ; 
 till, having poured out the tea, she, too, plunged at once into 
 her novel, and, like her father, forgot everything and every- 
 body near her. 
 
 Mr. Lindsay was a mild, gentle man, whose face and hair 
 seemed to have grown gray together. He was very tall, and 
 stooped much. He had a mouth of much sensibility, and 
 clear blue eyes, whose light was rarely shed upon any one 
 within reach except his daughter, — they were so constantly 
 bent downwards, either on the road as he walked, or on his 
 book as he sat. He had been educated for the church, but 
 had never risen above the position of a parish school-master. 
 He had little or no impulse to utterance, was shy, genial, and, 
 save in reading, indolent Ten years before this point of my 
 
254 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 history he had been taken upby an active lawyer ;n Edin 
 burgh, from information accidentally supplied by Mr. Lindsay 
 himself, as the next heir to a property to which claim was laid 
 by the head of a county family of wealth. Probabilities were 
 altogether in his favor, when he gave up the contest upon the 
 offer of a comfortable annuity from the disputant. To leave 
 his schooling and his possible estate together, and sit down 
 comfortably by his own fireside, with the means of buying 
 books, and within reach of a good old library, — that of King's 
 College, by preference, — was to him the sum of all that was 
 desirable. The income offered him was such that he had no 
 fear of laying aside enough for his only child, Mysie ; but 
 both were so ill-fitted for saving, — he from looking into the past, 
 she from looking into — what shall I call it? I can only 
 think of negatives — what was neitherpast, present nor future, 
 neither material nor eternal, neither imaginative in any true 
 sense, nor actual in any sense, — that up to the present hour 
 there was nothing in the bank, and only the money for impend- 
 ing needs in the house. He could not be called a man of 
 learning ; he was only a great bookworm ; for his reading lay 
 all in the nebulous regions of history. Old family records, 
 wherever he could lay hold upon them, were his favorite 
 dishes ; old, musty books, that looked as if they knew some- 
 thing everybody else had forgotten, made his eyes gleam, and 
 his white, taper-fingered hand tremble with eagerness. With 
 such a book in his grasp he saw something ever beckoning him 
 on, a dimly precious discovery, a wonderful fact, just the shape 
 of some missing fragment in the mosaic of one of his pictures 
 of the past. To tell the truth, however, his discoveries seldom 
 rounded themselves into pictures, though many fragments of 
 the minutely dissected map would find their places, whereupon 
 he rejoiced like a mild giant refreshed with soda-water. But 
 I have already said more about him than his place justifies ; 
 therefore, although I could gladly linger over the portrait, I 
 will leave it. He had taught his daughter next to nothing. 
 Being his child, he had the vague feeling that she inherited 
 his wisdom, and that what he knew she knew. So she sat 
 reading novels, generally trashy ones, while he knew no more 
 of what was passing in her mind than of what the Admirable 
 Crichton might, at the moment, be disputing with the angela. 
 
KOBERT FALCONER. 255 
 
 I would not have my reader suppose that Mjsie's mind was 
 corrupted. It was so simple and childlike, leaning to what was 
 pure, and looking up to what was noble, that anything di- 
 rectly bad in the books she happened — for it was all hap- 
 hazard — to read, glided over her as a black cloud may glide 
 over a landscape, leaving it sunny as before. 
 
 I cannot therefore say, however, that she was nothing the 
 worse. If the darkening of the sun keep the fruits of the 
 earth from growing, the earth is surely the worse, though it 
 bo blackened by no deposit of smoke. And where good things 
 do not grow, the wild, and possibly noxious, will grow more 
 freely. There may be no harm in the yellow tansy ; there 
 is much beauty in the red poppy ; but they are not good for 
 food. The result in Mysie's case would be this, — not that 
 she would call evil good and good evil ; but that she would 
 take the beautiful for the true and the outer shows of good- 
 ness for goodness itself; not the worst result, but bad enough, 
 and involving an awful amount of suffering and possibly of de- 
 filement He who thinks to climb the hill of happiness thus 
 will find himself floundering in the blackest bog that lies at 
 the foot of its precipices. I say he, not she, advisedly. All 
 will acknowledge it of the woman ; it is as true of the man, 
 though he may get out easier. Will he ? I say, checking 
 myself. I doubt it much. In the world's eye, yes ;• but in 
 God's ? Let the question remain unanswered. 
 
 When he had eaten his toast, and drunk his tea, apparently 
 without any enjoyment, Mr. Lindsay rose with his book in his 
 hand, and withdrew to his study. 
 
 He had not long left the room when Mysie was stjirtled by 
 a loud knock at the back-door, which, opened on a lane, lead- 
 ing along the top of a hill. But she had almost forgotten it 
 again, when the door of the room opened, and a gentleman en- 
 tered without any announcement, — for Jennie had never heard 
 of the custom. When she saw him, Mysie started from her 
 seat, and stood in visible embarrassment. The color went and 
 came on her lovely face, and her eyelids grew very heavy; She 
 had never seen the visitor before ; whether he had never seen 
 her before, I cannot certainly say. She felt herself trembling 
 in his presence, while he advanced with perfect composure. He 
 was a man no longer young, but in the full strength and show 
 
256 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 of manhood, — the Baron of Rothie. Since the time of mj 
 first description of him, he had grown a mustache, which im- 
 proved his countenance greatly, by concealing his upper lip 
 with its tusky curves. On a girl like Mysie, with an imagi- 
 nation so cultivated, and with no opportunity of comparing its 
 fancies with reality, such a man would make an instant impres- 
 sion. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss — Lindsay, I presume ? — for in- 
 truding upon you so abruptly. I expected to see your father, 
 — not one of the graces." 
 
 She blushed all the color of her blood now. The baron was 
 quite enough like the hero of whom she had just been reading 
 to admit of her imagination jumbling the two. Her book fell. 
 He lifted it and laid it on the table. She could not speak even 
 to thank him. Poor Mysie was scarcely more than sixteen. 
 
 " May I wait here till your father is informed of my visit ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 Her only answer was to drop again upon her low stool. 
 
 Now Jennie had left it to Mysie to acquaint her father with 
 the fact of the baron's presence ; but, before she had time to 
 think of the necessity of doing something, he had managed to 
 draw her into conversation. He was as great a hypocrite as 
 ever walked the earth, although he flattered himself that he 
 was none, because he never pretended to cultivate that which 
 he despised, — namely, religion. But he was a hypocrite nev- 
 ertheless ; for the falser he knew himself, the more honor he 
 judged it to persuade women of his truth. 
 
 It is unnecessary to record the slight, graceful, marrowlesa 
 talk into which he drew Mysie, and by which he both bewil- 
 dered and bewitched her.. But at length she rose, admonished 
 by her inborn divinity, to seek her father. As she passed him, 
 the baron took her hand and kissed it. She might well trem- 
 ble. Even such contact was terrible. Why ? Because there 
 was no love in it. When the sense of beauty, which God had 
 given him that he might worship, awoke in Lord Rothie, he did 
 not worship, but devoured, that he might, as he thought, pos- 
 sess ! The poison of asps was under those lips. His kiss was 
 as a kiss from the grave's mouth, for his throat was an open 
 sepulchre. This was all in the past, reader. Baron Rothie 
 was a foam-flake of the court of the Prince Regent. Tbcra 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 257 
 
 are no such men nowadays ! It is a shame to spe-ak of such, 
 and there/ore they are not I Decency has gone so far to abol- 
 ish virtue. Would to God that a writer could be decent and 
 honest 1 St Paul counted it a shame to speak of some things, 
 and yet he did speak of them — because those to whom ho 
 spoke did them. 
 
 Lord Rothie had, in five minutes, so deeply interested Mr 
 Lindsay, in a question of genealogy, that he begged his lord- 
 ship to call again in a few days, when he hoped to have some 
 result of research to communicate. 
 
 One of the antiquarian's weaknesses, cause and result both 
 of his favorite pursuits, was an excessive reverence for rank. 
 Had its claims been founded on mediated revelation, he could 
 not have honored it more. Hence, when he communicated to 
 his daughter the name of their visitor, it was "with bated 
 breath and whispering humbleness," which deepened greatly 
 the impression made upon her by the presence and conversation 
 of the baron. Mysie was in danger. 
 
 Shargar was late that evening, for he had a job that detained 
 him. As he handed over his money to Robert, he said : — 
 
 " I saw Black Geordie the nicht again, stan'in at a back- 
 door, an' Jock Mitchell, upo' Reid Rorie, haudin' him." 
 
 " "Wha's Jock Mitchell ? " asked Robert. 
 
 "My brither Sandy's ill-faured groom," answered Shargar. 
 " Whatever mischeef Sandy's up till, Jock comes in i' the 
 heid or tail o' 't." 
 
 " I wonner what he's up till noo." 
 
 " Faith ! nae guid. But I aye like waur to meet Sandy by 
 himsel' upo' that reekit deevil o' his. Man, it's awfu' whan 
 Black Geordie turns the white o' 's ee, an' the white o' 's teeth 
 upo' ye. It's a' the white there is about 'im." 
 
 " Wasna yer brither i' the air my, Shargar?" 
 
 " Ow, 'deed, ay. They tell me he was at Waterloo. Ile'a 
 a cornel, or something like that." 
 
 "Whatellt yea' that?" 
 
 " My mother whiles," answered Shargar. 
 
 17 
 
258 BOBBRT FALCONER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI, 
 
 ROBERT'S VO-W. 
 
 Ehioson was recovering slowly. He could sit up in bed the 
 greater part of the day, and talif about getting out of it. He 
 was able to give Robert an occasional holp with his Greek, and 
 to listen with pleasure to his violin. The night-watching grew 
 less needful, and Ericson would have dispensed with it will- 
 ingly, but Robert would not yet consent. 
 
 But Ericson had seasons of great depression, during which 
 he could not bear with music, or listen to the words of the New 
 Testament. During one of these Robert had begun to read a 
 chapter to him, in the faint hope that he might draw some com- 
 fort from it. 
 
 "Shut the book," he said. "If it were the word of God 
 to men, it would have brought its own proof with it." 
 
 "Are ye sure it hasna ? " asked Robert. 
 
 " No," answered Ericson. " But why should a fellow that 
 would give his life — that's not much, but it's all /'ve got — 
 to believe in God, not be able? Only I confess that God in 
 the New Testament wouldn't satisfy me. There's no help. I 
 must just die, and go and see. She'll be left without anybody. 
 What does it matter ? She would not mind a word I said. 
 And the God they talk about will just let her take her own 
 way. He always does." 
 
 He had closed his eyes and forgotten that Robert heard him. 
 He opened them now, and fixed them on him with an expres- 
 sion that seemed to ask, "Have I been saying anything I ought 
 not?" 
 
 Robert knelt by the bedside, and said, slowly, with strongly 
 repressed emotion : — 
 
 "Mr. Ericson, I sweir by God, if there he ane, that if y 
 die, I'll tak' up what ye lea' ahin' ye. If there be onybody ye 
 want luikit efter, I'll luik efter her. I'll do what I can for her 
 to the best o' my abeelity, sae help me God ! — aye savin' what 
 I maun do for my ain father, if he be in life, to bring him back 
 to the richt way, if there be a richt way. Sae ye can think 
 aboot whether there's onything ye wad like to confide till mo.'' 
 
ROBERT FALCONER, 259 
 
 A something grew in Ericson'a eyes as Robert spoke. Be- 
 fore he had finished, they beamed on the boy. 
 
 " I think there must be a God somewhere, after all," he said, 
 half soliloquizing. " I should be sorry you hadn't a God, 
 Robert. Why should I wish it for your sake ? How could 
 I want one for myself if there never was one ? If a God had 
 nothing to do with my making, why should I feel that nobody 
 but God can set things i'ight? Ah ! but he must be such a 
 God as I could imagine, — altogether, absolutely, true and good. 
 If we came out ot nothing, we could not invent the idea of a 
 God, — could we, Robert ? Nothing would be our God. If 
 we come from God, nothing is more natural, nothing so natu- 
 ral, as to want him, and when we haven't got him, to try to 
 find him. What if he should be in us, after all, and working 
 in us this way? just this very way of crying out after him? " 
 
 "Mr. Ericson," cried Robert, "dinna say ony mair 'at ye 
 dinna believe in God. Ye duv believe in 'im, — mair, I'm 
 thinkin', nor onybody 'at I know, cep', maybe, my grannie; 
 only hers is a some queer kin' o' a God to believe in. I dinna 
 think I cud ever manage to believe in him mysel'. 
 
 Ericson sighed and was silent. Robert remained kneeling 
 by his bedside, happier, clearer-headed, and more hopeful than 
 he had ever been. What if all was right at the heart of things, 
 — right, even as a man, if he could understand, would say was 
 right ; right, so that a man who understood in part could believe 
 it to be ten times more right than he did understand ! 
 Vaugely, dimly, yet joyfully, Robert saw something like this 
 in the possibility of things. His heart was full, and the 
 tears filled his eyes. Ericson spoke again. 
 
 "I have felt like that often for a few moments," he said, 
 " but always something would come and blow it away. I re- 
 member one spring morning — but if you will bring me that 
 bundle of papers, I will show you what, if I can find it, will 
 let you understand — " 
 
 Robert rose, went to the cupboard, and brought the pile of 
 loose leaves. Ericson turned them over, and, Robert was glad 
 to see, now and then sorted them a little. At length he drew 
 out a sheet, carelessly written, carelessly corrected, and hard 
 to read. 
 
260 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 •' Tt is not finished, or likely to be," he said, as he put the 
 paper in Robert's hand. 
 
 "Won't you read it to me yourself, Mr. Ericson?" sug-- 
 gested Robert. 
 
 "I would sooner put it in the fire," he answered; "it's 
 fate, anyhow. I don't know why I haven't burnt them all 
 long ago. — Rubbish, and diseased rubbish ! Bead it your- 
 self, or leave it." 
 
 Eagerly Robert took it, and read. The folioFing was the 
 best he could make of it : — 
 
 " Oh, that a wind would call 
 
 From the depths of the leafless wood ' 
 Oh, tfiat a voice would fall 
 
 On the ear of my solitude I 
 Far away is the sea, 
 
 With its sound and its spirit-tono ; 
 Over it white clouds flee ; 
 
 But I am alone, alone. 
 
 ♦' Straight and steady and tall 
 
 The trees stand on their feet; 
 Fast by the old stone wall 
 
 The moss grows green and sweet j 
 But my heart is full of fears, 
 
 For the sun shines far away; 
 And they look in my face through tesra, 
 
 And the light of a dying day. 
 
 •' My heart was glad last night. 
 
 As I pressed it with my palm; 
 Its throb was airy and light 
 
 As it sang some spirit-psalm ; 
 But it died away in my breast, 
 
 As I wandered forth to-day, — 
 As a bird sat dead on its nest, 
 
 While others sang on the spray. 
 
 " O weary heart of mine, 
 
 Is there ever a truth for thee ? 
 Will ever a sun outshine 
 
 But the sun that shines on me? 
 Away, away through the air 
 
 The clouds and the leaves are blown; 
 And my heart hath need of prayer, 
 
 For it sitteth alone, alone." 
 
 And Robert looked with sad reverence at Ericson, — d«i 
 ever thought that there was one who, in the face of the fact. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 2G1 
 
 and in recognition of it, had dared say, " ITot a sparrow shall 
 fall on the ground without your Father." The sparrow does 
 fall, — but he who sees it is yet the Father. 
 
 And we only know the fall, and not the sparrow. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE GRANITE CHURCH. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. Robert sat, after breakfast, 
 by his friend's bed. 
 
 "You haven't been to church for a long time, Robert, 
 wouldn't you like to go to-day? " said Ericson. 
 
 "I dinna want to lea' you, Mr. Ericson; I can bide wi' 
 ye a' day the day, an' that's better nor goin' to a' the kirks in 
 Aberdeen." 
 
 "I should like you to go to-day, though, and see if, after 
 all, there may not be a message for us. If the church be the 
 house of God, as they call it, there should be, now and then 
 at least, some sign of a pillar of fire about it, some indication 
 of the presence of God, whose house it is. 1 wish you would 
 go and see. I haven't been to church for a long time, except 
 to the college-chapel, and I never saw anything more than a 
 fog there." 
 
 "Might not the fog be the torn-edge like o' the cloudy 
 pillar?" suggested Robert. 
 
 " Very likely," assented Ericson ; " for, whatever truth 
 tliere may be in Christianity, I'm pretty sure the mass of our 
 clergy have never got beyond Judaism. They hang on about 
 the skirts of that cloud forever." 
 
 " Ye see, they think as lang's they see the fog, they hae a 
 grup o' something. But they canna get a grup o' the glory 
 that excelleth, for it's not toluik at, but to latye see a'thing." 
 
 Ericson regarded him with some surprise. Robert has- 
 tened to be honest. 
 
 "It's not that I know ony thing aboot it, Mr. Ericson. I 
 was only talking nonsense, — reasoning from the two symbols 
 o' the cloud an' the fire, — knowing nothing aboot the thing 
 
262 KOBERT FALCOWBR. 
 
 itsel'. I'll awa' to the kirk, an' see what it's like. Will I 
 give ye a hook before I go ? " 
 
 "No, thank you. I'll just lie quiet till you comeback 
 — if I can." 
 
 Robert instructed Shargar to watch for the slightest sound 
 from the sick-room, and went to church. 
 
 As he approached the granite cathedral, — the only one in 
 the world, I presume, — its stern solidity, so like the country 
 and ita men, laid hold of his imagination for the first time 
 No doubt the necessity imposed by the unyielding materia.' 
 had its share, and that a large one, in the character of the 
 building : whence else that simplest of west windows, six lofty, 
 narrow slits of light, parted by granite shafts of equal width, 
 filling the space between the corner buttresses of the nave, and 
 reaching from door to roof? whence else the absence of tracery 
 in the windows — except the severely gracious curves into 
 which the mullions divide ? — But this cause could not have 
 determined those towers, so strong that they might have borne 
 their granite weight soaring aloft, yet content with the depth 
 of their foundation, and aspiring not. The whole aspect of the 
 building is an outcome, an absolute blossom of the northern 
 nature. 
 
 There is but the nave of the church remaining. About 
 1680, more than a century after the Reformation, the great 
 tower fell, destroying the choir, chancel, and transept, which 
 have never been rebuilt. May the reviving faith of the nation 
 in its own history, and God at the heart of it, lead to tlie res- 
 toration of this grand old monument of the belief of their 
 fathers ' Deformed as the interior then was with galleries, 
 and with Gravin Dunbar's flat ceiling, an awe fell upon Robert 
 as he entered it. When in after years he looked down from 
 between the pillars of the gallery, that creeps round the 
 church through the thickness of the wall, like an artery, and 
 recalled the service of this Sunday morning, he felt more 
 strongly than ever that such a faith had not reared that cathe- 
 dral. The service was like the church only as a dead body is 
 like a man. There was no fervor in it, no aspiration. The 
 great central tower was gone. 
 
 That morning prayers and sermon were philosophically dull, 
 and respectable as any after-dinner speech. Nor could it well 
 
ROBERT FAIiCONKR. 263 
 
 be otherwise : one of the favorite sayings of its minister was. 
 that a clergyman is nothing but a moral policeman. As such, 
 however, he more resembled one of Dogberry's watch, lie 
 could not even preach hell with any vigor ; for as a gentleman 
 he recoiled from the vulgarity of the doctrine, yielding only 
 a few feeble words on the subject as a sop to the Cerberus 
 that watches over the dues of the Bible, — quite unaware that 
 his notion of the docti-ine had been drawn from the ^neid, 
 and not from the Bible. 
 
 "Well, have you got anything, Robert?" asked Ericson, 
 as he entered his room 
 
 "Nothing," answered Robert. 
 
 " What was the sermon about?" 
 
 " It was all to prove that God is a benevolent being." 
 
 " Not a devil, that is," answered Ericson. " Small conso- 
 lation that." 
 
 " Sma' eneuch," responded Robert. "I cudna help 
 thinkin' I knew mony a dog that God had made wi' mair o' 
 what 1 wad ca' the divine natur' in him nor a' that Dr. Soulis 
 made oot to be in God himsel'. He had no ill intentions wi' 
 us, — it amuntit to that. He wasna ill-willy, as the bairns 
 say. But the doctor had some sair wark, I thocht, to mak' 
 that oot, seein' we war a' the children o' wrath, accordin' to 
 him, born in sin, and inheritin' the guilt o' Adam's first tres- 
 pass. I dinna think Dr. Soulis cud say that God had dune 
 the best he cud for's. But he never tried to say onything 
 like that. He jist made oot that he was a verra respectable 
 kin' o' a God, though maybe no a'thing we micht wuss. We 
 oucht to be thankfu' that he gae's a week blink o' a chance o' 
 no bein' burnt to a' eternity, wi' nae chance ava. I dinna 
 say that he said that ; but that's what it a' seemed to me to 
 come till. He said a hantle aboot the care o' Providence, 
 but a' the gude that he did seemed to me to be but a haudin' 
 aff o' something ill that he had made as weel. Ye wad hae 
 thocht the deevil had made the warl, and syne God had pit- 
 ten us intil't, and jist gied a bit wag o' 's han' whiles to hand 
 the deevil aflf o' 's whan he was like to destroy the breed 
 a'thegither. For the grace that he spak aboot, that was less 
 nor the natur' an' the providence. I cud see unco little o 
 grace intil 't." 
 
264 ilOBBRT FALCONER. 
 
 Here Ericson broke in, — fearful, apparently, lest his boy 
 friend should be actually about to deny the Ood in whom he 
 did not himself believe. 
 
 " Robert," he said, solemnly, " one thing is certain : if there 
 be a God at all, he is not like that. If there be a God at all, ' 
 Ke shall know him by his perfection, — his grand perfect truth, 
 fairness, love, — a love to make life an absolute good, — not :v 
 mere accommodation of difficulties, not a mere preponderance 
 of the balance on the side of well-being. Love only could 
 have been able to create. But they don't seem jealous for the 
 glory of God, those men. They don't mind a speck, or even 
 a blot, here and there upon him. The world doesn't make 
 them miserable. They can get over the misery of their fellow- 
 men without being troubled about them, or about the God that 
 could let such things be.* They represent a God who does 
 wonderfully well, on the whole, after a middling fashion. 
 
 * Amongst Ericson's papers I find the fcHowing sonnets, whicli 
 belong to the mood here embodied : — 
 
 " Oft, as I rest In quiet peace, am I 
 Thrust out at sudden doors, and madly driven 
 Through desert solitudes, and thunder-riven 
 
 Blacli: passages which have not any sky. 
 
 The scourge is on me now, with all the cry 
 Of ancient life that hath with murder striven. 
 How many an anguish hath gone up to heaven ! 
 
 How many a hand in prayer been lifted high, 
 When the black fate came onward with the rush 
 
 Of whirlwind, avalanche, or fiery spume 1 
 
 Even at my feet is cleft a shivering tomb 
 Beneath the waves ; or else, with solemn hush, 
 The graveyard opens, and I feel a crush 
 
 As if we were all huddled in one doom. " 
 
 " Comes there, O Earth, no breathing time for theet 
 No pause upon thy many-chequered lands? 
 Now resting on my bed with listless hands, 
 
 I mourn thee resting not. Continually 
 
 Hear I the plashing borders of the sea 
 Answer each other from the rocks and sands. 
 Troop all the rivers seawards ; nothing stands, 
 
 But with strange noises hasteth terribly. 
 
 Loam-eared hyenas go a-moaning by. 
 Howls to each other all the bloody crew 
 Of Afric's tigers. But, O men, from you 
 
 Comes this perpetual sound more loud and high 
 Than aught that vexes air. I hear the cry 
 
 Of infant generations rising too." 
 
KOBBRT FALCONER. 265 
 
 I, want a God who loves perfectly. He may kill ; he may 
 torture even ; but if it be for love's sake, Lord, here am I. 
 Do with me as thou wilt." 
 
 Had Ericsoa forgotten that he had no proof of such a God 7 
 The next moment the intellectual demon was awake. 
 
 " But what's the good of it all ? " he said. " I don't even 
 know that there is anything outside of me." 
 
 "Ye know that I'm here, Mr. Ericson," suggested Rob- 
 ert. 
 
 "I know nothing of the sort. You may be another phan- 
 tom — only clearer." 
 
 " Ye speik to me as if ye thooht me somebody." 
 
 " So does the man to his phantoms, and you call him mad. 
 It is but a yielding to the pressure of constant suggestion. I 
 do not know — I cannot know if there is anything outside of 
 me." 
 
 " But if there warna, there wad be naebody for ye to love, 
 Mr. Ericson." 
 
 "Of course not." 
 
 "Nor naebody to love you, Mr. Ericson." 
 
 "Of course not." 
 
 " Syne ye wad be yer ain God, Mr. Ericson." 
 
 "Yes. That would follow." 
 
 "I canna imagine a waur hell — closed in amo' naething 
 — wi' naething a' aboot ye, luikin' something a' the time — 
 knowing 'at it 's a' a lee, and nae able to win clear o' 't." 
 
 " li is hell, my boy, or anything worse you can call it." 
 
 "What for suld ye believe that, than, Mr. Ericson? I 
 wadna believe sic an ill thing as that. I don't think I could 
 believe 't if ye war to pruv 't to me." 
 
 " I don't believe it. Nobody could prove that either, oven 
 if it were so. I am only miserable that I can't prove the 
 contrary.' 
 
 "Suppose there war a God, Mr. Ericson, do ye think ye 
 behovei to be able to pruv that ? Do ye think God cud stan' 
 to be pruved as if he war something sma' eneuch to be turned 
 roon' and roon', and luikit ap upo' ilka side? If there war a 
 God, wadna it jist be sae — that we sudna prove him to be, J 
 mean?" 
 
266 ROBERT FALCONER 
 
 " Perhaps. That is something. I have often thought of 
 that. But then you can't prove anything about it." 
 
 " I canna help thinkin' o' what Mr. Innes said to me ance. 
 I was but a laddie, but I never forgot it. I plaguit him sair 
 wi' wantin' to unnerstan' ilka thing afore I wad gang on wi' 
 my sums. Says he, ae day, ' Robert, my man, if ye will aye 
 unnerstan' afore ye du as ye 're tellt, ye'll never unnerstan' 
 onything. But if ye du the thing I tell ye, ye'll be i' the midst 
 o' 't afore ye know 'at ye're gaein' intil 't.' I jist thoeht I 
 wad try him. It was at lang division that I boglet maist. 
 Weel, I gaed on, and I cud du the thing weel eneuch, ohn 
 made ae mistak. And aye I thoclit the maister was wrang, 
 for I never knew the riazon o' a' that beginnin' at the wrang 
 en', an' taking doon an' substrackin', an' a' that. Ye wad 
 hardly believe me, Mr. Ericson ; it was only this verra day, 
 as I was sittin' i' the kirk, — it was a lang psalm they war 
 Bingin', — that ane wi' the foxes i' the tail o' 't, — lang divis- 
 ion came into my heid again ; and first ae bit glimmerin' o' 
 licht came in, and syne anither, an afore the psalm was dune 
 I saw tbrou' the hail process o' 't. But ye see, if 1 hadna dune 
 as I was tauld, and learnt a' aboot boo it was dune aforehan', I 
 wad bae had naething to gang rizzonin' aboot, and wad hae 
 fun' oot naething." 
 
 " That's good, Robert. But when a man is dying for food, 
 he can't wait." 
 
 " He micht try to get up and luik, though. He needna 
 bide in 's bed till somebody comes an' sweirs till him 'at he 
 saw a haddock i' the press." 
 ' "I have been looking, Robert — for years." 
 
 "Maybe, like me, only for the rizzon o' 't, Mr. Ericson — 
 if ye'll forgie my impidence." 
 
 " But what's to be done in this case, Robert? Where's the 
 work that you can do in order to understand ? Where's your 
 long division, man?" 
 
 " Ye're beyond me noo. I canna tell that, JMr. Ericson. 
 It canna be gaein' to the kirk, surely. Maybe it micht bo 
 sayin' yer prayers and readin' yer Bible." 
 
 Ericson did not reply, and the conversation dropped. Is it 
 Strange that neither of these disciples should have thouglit of 
 turning to the story of Jesus, finding some word that he had 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 2(i7 
 
 epoken, and beginning to do that as a first step towards a 
 knowledge of the doctrine that Jesus was the incarnate God, 
 come to visit his people, — a very unlikely thing to man's 
 wisdom, yet an idea that has, notwithstanding, ascended above 
 man's horizon, and shown itself the grandest idea in bis firma- 
 ment? 
 
 In the evening Ericson asked again for his papers, from 
 hich he handed Robert the following poem : — 
 
 "WORDS IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 ' I woke at midnight, and my heart. 
 
 My beating heart, said this to me : 
 Thou soest the moon, how calm and bright ; 
 The world is fair by day and night ; 
 
 But what is that to thee ? 
 One touch to me — down dips the light 
 
 Over the land and sea. 
 All is mine, all is my own ! 
 
 Toss the purple fountain high ! 
 The breast of man is a yat of stone ; 
 
 I am alive, I, only I ! 
 
 " One little touch and all is dark, — 
 
 The winter with its sparkling moons, 
 The spring with all her violets. 
 The crimson dawns and rich sunsets. 
 
 The autumn's yellowing noons. 
 I only toss my purple jets. 
 
 And thou art one that swoons 
 Upon a night of gust and roar, 
 
 Shipwrecked among the waves, and seenu 
 Across the purple hills to roam ; 
 Sweet odors touch him from the foam, 
 
 And downward sinking still he dreams 
 He walks the clover field at home, 
 
 And hears the rattling teams. 
 All is mine ; all is my own ! 
 
 Toss the purple fountain highl 
 The breast of man is vat of stone ; 
 
 I am alive, I, only 1 1 
 
 " Thou hast beheld a throated fountain spout 
 
 Full in the air, and in downward spray 
 A hovering Iris span the marble tank, 
 Which as the wind came, ever rose and sank 
 
 Violet and red ; so my continual play 
 Makes beauty for the Gods with many a prank 
 
 Of human excellence, while they. 
 Weary of all the noon, in shadows sweet. 
 Supine and heavy-eyed, rest in the boundless heat; 
 
 Let the world's fountain play 1 
 
868 ROBERT FALCONBH. 
 
 Beauty is pleasant in the eyes of Jore ; 
 Betwixt the wavering shadows where he lies 
 He marks the dancing column with his eyes 
 
 Celestial, and amid his inmost grove 
 Upgathers all his limbs, serenely blest, 
 Lulled by the mellow noise of the great world's unreal. 
 
 " One heart beats in all nature, differing 
 
 But in the work it works ; its doubts and clamon 
 ^e but the waste and brunt of instruments 
 
 Wherewith a work is done ; or as the hammers 
 On forge Cyclopean piled beneath the rents 
 
 Of lowest Etna, conquering into shape 
 The hard and scattered ore ; 
 
 Choose thou narcotics, and the dizzy grape 
 Outworking passion, lest with horrid crash 
 
 Thy life go from thee in a night of pain. 
 So, tutoring thy vision, shall the flash 
 Of dove white-breasted be to thee no more 
 
 Than a white stone heavy upon the plain. 
 
 " Hark, the cock crows loud ! 
 
 And without, all ghastly and ill, 
 Like a man uplift in his shroud, 
 
 The white, white morn is propped on the hill | 
 
 And adown from the eaves, pointed and chill, 
 The icicles 'gin to glitter ; 
 
 And the birds, with a warble short and shrill, 
 
 Pass by the chamber-window still, 
 With a quick uneasy twitter. 
 Let me pump warm blood, for the cold is bitter ; 
 And wearily, wearily, one by one, 
 Men awake with the weary sun. 
 Life is a phantom shut in thee ; 
 I am the master and keep the key ; 
 So let me toss thee the days of old, 
 Crimson and orange and green and gold ; 
 So let me fill thee yet again 
 With a rush of dreams from my spout amain ; 
 
 For all is mine ; all is my own ; 
 Toss the purple fountain high ! 
 
 The breast of man is a vat of stono ; 
 And I am alive, I, only I." 
 
 Robert, having read, sat and wept in silence. Ericson saw 
 Iiim, and said, tenderly : — 
 
 " Robert, my boy, I'm not always so bad as that. Read 
 this one — though I never feel like it now. Perhaps it may 
 come again some day, though. I may onoe more deceive my- 
 self and be happy," 
 
 " Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson. That's waur than despair. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 269 
 
 That's flat unbelief. Ye no more know that ye're deceivin' 
 yersel' than ye know that ye're no doin' 't." 
 
 Ericson did not reply ; and Robert read the following 8on« 
 net aloud, feeling his way delicately through its mazes : — 
 
 " Lie down upon the ground, thou hopeless one 1 
 
 Press thy face in grass, and do not speak. 
 
 Dost feel the green globe whirl? Seven tim«s a week 
 Climbeth she out of darkness to the sun, 
 Which is her god ; seven times she doth not shun 
 Awful eclipse, laying her patient cheek 
 Upon a pillow, ghost-beset with shriek 
 
 Of voices utterless, which rave and run 
 Through all the star-penumbra, craving light 
 
 And tidings of the dawn from East and West, 
 
 Calmly she sleepeth, and her sleep is blest 
 With heavenly visions, and the joy of Night 
 Treading aloft with moons. Nor hath she fright 
 
 Though cloudy tempests beat upon her breast," 
 
 Ericson turned his face to the wall, and Robert withdrew 
 to his own chamber. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 SHARGAR'S ARM. 
 
 XoT many weeks passed before Shargar knew Aberdeen 
 better than most Aberdonians. From the Pier-head to the 
 Rubislaw Road, he knew, if not every court, yet every thor- 
 oughfare and short cut. And Aberdeen began to know him. 
 He was very soon recognized as trustworthy, and had pretty 
 nearly as much to do as he could manage. Shargar, therefore, 
 was all over the city like a cracker, and could have told at 
 almost any hour whei'e Dr. Anderson was to be found, — gen- 
 erally in the lower parts of it ; for the good man visited much 
 among the poor, giving them almost exclusively the benefit of 
 his large experience. Shargar delighted in keeping an eye 
 upon the doctor, carefully avoiding to show himself 
 
 One day, as he was hurrying through the Green (a non 
 virendo) on a mission from the Rothieden carrier, he camo 
 upon the doctor's chariot standing in one of the narrowest 
 
270 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Streets, and, as usual, paused to contemplate the equipage and 
 get a peep of the owner. The morning was very sharp. 
 There was no snow, but a cold fog, like vaporized hoar-frost, 
 filled the air. It was weather in which the East Indian could 
 not venture out on foot, else he could have reached the place 
 by a stair from Union Street far sooner than he could drive 
 thither. His horses apparently liked the cold as little as him- 
 self. They had been moving about restlessly for some time 
 before the doctor made his appearance. The moment he got 
 in and shut the door, one of them reared, while the other began 
 to haul on his traces, eager for a gallop. Something about the 
 chain gave way, the pole swerved round under the rearing 
 horse, and great confusion and danger would have ensued, had 
 not Shargar rushed from his coign of vantage, sprung at the 
 bit of the rearing horse, and dragged him off the pole, over 
 which he was just casting his near leg. As soon as his feet 
 touched the ground he, too, pulled, and away went the chariot 
 and down went Shargar. But in a moment more several men 
 had laid hold of the horses' heads, and stopped them. 
 
 " Lord ! " cried Shargar, as he rose, with his arm dan- 
 gling by his side, "what will Donal' Joss say? I'm like to 
 faint. Hand awa' frae that basket, ye gallows-birds ! he 
 cried, darting towards the hamper he had left in the entry of 
 a court, round which a few ragged urchins had gathered ; but 
 just as he reached it he staggered and fell. Nor did he know 
 anything more till hfe found the carriage stopping with himself 
 and the hamper ina>ide it. 
 
 As soon as the coachman had got his harness put to rights,- 
 the doctor had driven back to see how he had fared, for 
 he had felt the carriage go over something. They had found 
 him lying beside his hamper, had secured both, and as a pre- 
 liminary measure were proceeding to deliver the latter. 
 
 " Whaur am I? whaur the deevil am I?" cried Shargar, 
 •umping up and falling back again. 
 
 " Don't you know me, Moray? " said the doctor, for he felt 
 shy of calling the poor boy by his nickname ; he had no right 
 to do so. 
 
 " Na, I dinna know ye. Lat me awa'. — I beg yer pardon, 
 doctor : I thoclit ye was ane o' thae gallows-birds rinnin' awa' 
 wi' Donal' Joss's basket. Eh me! sic a stoun i' my airm ' 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 271 
 
 But naebody ca's me Moray. They a' ca' me Shargar. WhaJ 
 richt have /to be ca'd Moray ?^^ added the poor boy, feeling, 
 I almost believe for the first time, the stain upon his birth. 
 Yet he had as good a right before God to be called Moray aa 
 any other son of that worthy sire, the Baron of Kothie in- 
 cluded. Possibly the trumpet-blowing angels did call him 
 Moray, or some better name. 
 
 "The coachman will deliver your parcel, Moray," said the 
 doctor, this time repeating the name with emphasis. 
 
 " De'il a bit o' 't ! " cried Shargar. " He daurna lea' his 
 box wi' thae deevils o' horses. What makes ye keep sic 
 horses, doctor? They'll play some mischeef some day." 
 
 " Indeed, they've played enough already, my poor boy. 
 They've broken your arm." 
 
 " Never min' thatT That's no muckle. You're welcome, 
 doctor, to my twa airms for what ye hae dune for Robert an' 
 that lang-leggit frien' o' his, — the Lord forgie me! — Mr. 
 Ericson. But ye maun jist pay him what I canna mak' for a 
 day or twa, till 'tjines again, — to baud them gaein', ye ken. 
 — It winna be muckle to you, doctor," added Shargar, be- 
 seechingly. 
 
 " Trust me for that, Moray," returned Dr. Anderson. " 1 
 owe you a good deal more than that. My brains might have 
 been out by this time." 
 
 "The Lord be praised!" said Shargar, making about his 
 first profession of Christianity. " Robert'll think something 
 o' me noo." 
 
 During this conversation the coachman sat expecting some 
 one to appear from the shop, and longing to pitch into the 
 " camstary " horse, but not daring to lift his whip beyond ita 
 natural angle. No one came. All at once Shargar knew 
 where he was. 
 
 ' ' Guid be here ! we're at Donal's door ! Guid-day to ye, 
 doctor : an' I'm muckle obleeged to ye. Maybe, gin ye war 
 comin' cor way, the morn, or the neist day, to see Maister 
 Ericson, ye wad tie up my airm, for it gangs wallopin' aboot; 
 an' that canna be guid for the stickin' o' 't thegither again." 
 
 " My p^or boyi you don't think I'm going to leave you 
 here, do you ? " said the doctor, proceeding to open the car« 
 dage-door. 
 
272 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " But whaur's the hamper?" said Shargar, looting about 
 him in dismay. 
 
 "The coachman has got it on the box," answered the 
 doctor. 
 
 "Eh ! that'll never do. If thae rampaugin' brutes war to 
 take a start again, what wad come o' the bit basket ? I maun 
 get it doon direckly." 
 
 " Sit still. I will get it down, and deliver it myself." Aa 
 he spoke, the doctor got out. 
 
 " Take care o' 't, sir ; take care o' 't. William Walker said 
 there was a jar o' drained hinney i' the basket ; an' the bairns 
 wad miss 't sair if 't war spult." 
 
 " I will take good care of it," responded the doctor. 
 
 He delivered the basket, returned to the carriage, and told 
 the coachman to drive home. 
 
 "Whaur are ye takin' me to?" exclaimed Shargar. 
 "Willie hasna payed me for the parcel." 
 
 " Never mind Willie. I'll pay you," said the doctor. 
 
 " But Robert wadna like me to tak' siller whaur I did nae 
 wark for 't," objected Shargar. "He's some precise — 
 Robert. But I'll jist say 'at ye garred me, doctor. Maybe 
 that'll saitisfee him. An' faith ! I'm queer about my left arm 
 here." 
 
 " We'll soon set it all right," said the doctor. 
 
 When they reached his house he led the way to his surgery, 
 and there put the broken limb in splints. He then told John- 
 ston to help the patient to bed. 
 
 " I maun gang hame," objected Shargar. " What wad 
 Robert think?" 
 
 " I will tell him all about it," said the doctor. 
 
 "Yersel, sir?" stipulated Shargar. 
 
 "Yes, myself" 
 
 " Afore nicht?" 
 
 "Directly," answered the doctor, and Shargar yielded. 
 
 "But what will Robert say?" were his last words, as he 
 fell asleep, appreciating, no doubt, the superiority of the bed 
 to his usual lair upon the hearth-rug. 
 
 Robert was delighted to hear how well Shargar had acquitted 
 himself. There followed a small consultation about him ; for tho 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 27 
 
 accident had ripened the doctor's intentions concerung the 
 outcast. 
 
 '' As .soon as his arm is sound again, he shall go to the 
 grammar school," he said. 
 
 " An' the college? " asked Robert. 
 
 " I hope so," answered the doctor. " Do you think he will 
 do well ? He has plenty of courage, at all events, and that is 
 a fine thing." 
 
 " Ow, ay," answered Robert; "he's no ill aff for spirit, — 
 that is, if it be for ony ither body. He wad never lift a ban' 
 for himsel' ; an' that's what made me tak' till him sae muckle. 
 He's a fine crater. He canna gang him lane, but he'll gang 
 wi' onybody, — and baud up wi' him." 
 
 " What do you think him fit for, then ? " 
 
 Now Robert had been building castles for Shargar out of the 
 hopes which the doctor's friendliness had given him. Therefore 
 he was ready with his answer. 
 
 "If ye cud ensure him no bein' made a general o', he wad 
 mak' a gran' sojer. Set's face foret, and say 'quick, raairch,' 
 an' he'll ca his bagonet throu' Auld Hornie. But lae nae con- 
 sequences upo' him, for he cudna stan' unner them." 
 
 Dr. Anderson laughed, but thought none the less, and went 
 home to see how his patient was getting on. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 mtsib's face. 
 
 Meantime Ericson grew better. A space of hard, clear 
 weather, in which everything sparkled with frost and sunshine, 
 did him good. But not yet could he use his brain. He turaed 
 with dislike even from his friend Plato. He would sit in bed 
 or on his chair by the fireside for hours, with his hands folded 
 before him, and his eyelids drooping, and let his thoughts flow, 
 for he could not think. And that these thoughts flowed not 
 always with other than sweet sounds over the stones of question, 
 the curves of his lip would testify to the friendly furtive glance 
 of the watchful Robert. None but the troubled min'l knows 
 
274 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 its own consolations ; and I believe the saddest life bas its own 
 presence — however it may be unrecognized as such — of the 
 upholding Deity. Doth God care for the hairs that perish 
 from our heads? To a mind like Ericson's the remembered 
 scent, the recurring vision of a flower loved in childhood, is 
 enough to sustain anxiety with beauty ; for the lovely is itself 
 healing and hope-giving, because it is the form and presence of 
 the true. To have such a presence is to he ; and while a mind 
 exists in any high consciousness, the intellectual trouble that 
 springs from the desire to know its own life, to be assured of its 
 rounded law and security, ceases, for the desire itself falls into 
 abeyance. 
 
 But although Ericson was so weak, he was always able and 
 ready to help Robert in any difficulty not unfrequently spring- 
 ing from bis imperfect preparation in Greek ; for while Mr. 
 Innes was an excellent Latin scholar, his knowledge of Greek 
 was too limited either to compel learning or inspire enthusiasm. 
 And with the keen instinct he possessed in everything imme- 
 diate between man and man, Robert would sometimes search 
 for a difficulty in order to request its solution ; for then Ericson 
 would rouse himself to explain as few men could have explained. 
 Where a clear view was to be had of anything, Ericson either 
 had it, or knew that he had it not. Hence Robert's progress 
 was good ; for one word from a wise helper will clear off a whole 
 atmosphere of obstructions. 
 
 At length one day when Robert came home he found him 
 seated at the table, with his slate, working away at the Differen- 
 tial Calculus. After this he recovered more rapidly, and ere 
 another week was over began to attend one class a day. He 
 had been so far in advance before, that though he could not ex- 
 pect prizes, there was no fear of his passing. 
 
 One morning, Robert, coming out from a lecture, saw Ericson 
 in the quadrangle talking to an elderly gentleman. When 
 they met in the afternoon Ericson told him that that was Mr. 
 Lindsay, and that he had asked them both to spend the even- 
 ing at his house. Robert would go anywhere to be with his 
 friend. 
 
 He got out his Sunday clothes, and dressed himself with 
 anxiety ; he had visited scarcely at all, and was shy and doubt* 
 ful. He then sat down to his books, till Ericson came to his 
 
ECTBBRT FALCONER. 275 
 
 door, — dressed, and hence in Eobert's eyes ceremonial, ^— a 
 stately, graceful gentleman. Renewed awe came upon him at 
 the sight, and renewed gratitude. There was a flush on 
 Ericson's cheek, and a fire in his eye. Robert had never seen 
 him look so grand. But there was a something about him that 
 rendered him uneasy, — a look that made Ericson seem strange, 
 as if his life lay in some far-off region. 
 
 "I want you to take your violin with you, Robert," he 
 said. 
 
 " Hoots ! " returned Robert, " boo can I do that? To tak' 
 her wi' me the first time I gang to a strange hoose, as if I 
 thocht a'body wad think as muckle o' my auld wife as I do 
 mysel' ! That widna be mainners, — wad it noo, Mr. Eric- 
 son?" 
 
 " But I told Mr. Lindsay that you could play well. The 
 old gentleman is fond of Scotch tunes, and you will please him 
 if you take it." 
 
 " That's mak's a' the differ," answered Robert. 
 
 " Thank you," said Ericson, as Robert went towards his in- 
 strument; and, turning, would have walked from the house 
 without any additional protection. 
 
 " Whaur are ye gaein' that gait, Mr. Ericson? Tak' yer 
 plaid, or ye'll be laid up again, as sure's ye live." 
 
 " I'm warm enough," returned Ericson. 
 
 " That's naething. The cauld's jist layin' i' the street like 
 a verra deevil to get a grup o' ye. If ye dinna pit on yer 
 plaid, I wanna tak' my fiddle." 
 
 Ericson yielded ; and they set out together. 
 
 I will account for Ericson's request about the violin. 
 
 He went to the Episcopal church on Sundays, and sat where 
 he could see Mysie, — sat longing and thirsting ever till the 
 music returned. Yet the music he never heard ; he watched 
 only its transmutation into form, never taking his eyes off 
 Mysie's face. Reflected thence in a metamorphosed echo, he 
 followed all its changes. Never was one powerless to produce 
 it more strangely responsive to its influence. She had no voice ; 
 she had never been taught the use of any instrument. A world 
 of musical feeling was pent up in her, and musjc raised the 
 Buddener storms in her mobile nature, that she was unable to 
 give that feeling utterance. The waves of her soul dashed tha 
 
276 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 more wildly against their shores, inasmuch as those shores were 
 precipitous, and yielded no outlet to the swelling waters. It 
 was that hia soul might hover like a bird of Paradise over the 
 lovely changes of her countenance, — changes more lovely and 
 frequent than those of an English May, — that Ericson persuaded 
 Robert to take his violin. 
 
 The last of the sunlight was departing, and a large full moon 
 was growing through the fog on the horizon. The sky was 
 almost clear of clouds, and the air was cold and penetrating. 
 Robert drew Eric's plaid closer over his chest. Eric thanked 
 him lightly, but his voice sounded eager ; and it was with a 
 long, hasty stride that he went up the hill through the gather- 
 ing of the light, frosty mist. He stopped at the stair upon 
 which Robert had found him that memorable night. They went 
 up. The door had been left on the latch for their entrance. 
 They went up more steps between rocky walls. When, in after 
 years, he read the "Purgatorio," as often as he came to one of 
 its ascents, Robert saw this stair with his inward eye. At the 
 top of the stair was the garden, still ascending, and at the top 
 of the garden shone the glow of Mr. Lindsay's parlor through 
 the red-curtained window. To Robert it shone a refuge for 
 Ericson from the night air ; to Ericson it shone the casket of 
 the richest jewel of the universe. Well might the ruddy glow 
 stream forth to meet him ! Only in glowing red could, such 
 beauty be rightly closed. With trembling' hand he knocked 
 at the door. 
 
 They were shown at once into the parlor. Mysie was put- 
 ting away her book as they entered, and her back was towards 
 them. When she turned, it seemed even to Robert as if all 
 the light in the room came only from her eyes. But that light 
 had been all gathered out of the novel she had just laid down. 
 Bhe held out her hand to Eric, and her sweet voice was yet 
 more gentle than wont, for ho had been ill. His face flushed 
 at the tone. But although she spoke kindly, he could hardly 
 tiave fancied that she showed him special favor. 
 
 Robert stood with his violin under his arm, feeling as awk- 
 ward as if he had never handled anything more delicate than a 
 pitchfork. But Mysie sat down to the table, and begun to pour 
 out the tea, and he came to himself again. Presently her father 
 entered. His greeting was warm and mild and sleepy. He had 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 277 
 
 come from poring over " Spotiswood," in search of some " Will- 
 o' -the- wisp " or other, and had grown stupid from want of suc- 
 cess. But he revived after a cup of tea, and began to talk 
 about northern genealogies ; and Ericson did his best to listen. 
 Robert wondered at the knowledge he displayed ; he had been 
 tutor the foregoing summer in one of the oldest and poorest, 
 and therefore proudest, families in Caithness. But all the time 
 his host talked Ericson's eyes hovered about Mysie, who sat 
 gazing before her with look distraught, with wide eyes and 
 scarce-moving eyelids, beholding something neither on sea or 
 shore ; and Mr. Lindsay would now and then correct Ericson in 
 some egregious blunder ; while Mysie would now and then start 
 awake, and ask Robert or Ericson to take another cup of tea. 
 , Before the sentence was finished, however, she would let it die 
 away, speaking the last words mechanically, as her conscious- 
 ness relapsed into dreamland. Had not Robert been with Erie- 
 son, he would have found it wearisome enough ; and except 
 things took a turn Ericson could hardly be satisfied with the 
 pleasure of the evening. Things did take a turn. 
 
 "Robert has brought his fiddle," said Ericson, as the tea was 
 removed. 
 
 "I hope he will be kind enough to play something," said 
 Mr. Lindsay. 
 
 "I'll do that," answered Robert, with alacrity. ""But ye 
 maunna expec' ower, muckle, for I'm but a prentice-han'," he 
 added, as he got the instrument ready. 
 
 Before he had drawn the bow once across it, attention 
 awoke in Mysie's eyes ; and before he had finished playing, 
 Ericson must have had quite as much of the " beauty born of 
 murmuring sound " as was good for him. Little did Mysie 
 think of the sky of love, alive with silent thoughts, that arched 
 over her. The earth teems with love that is unloved. The 
 universe itself is one sea ,of infinite love, from whose consort 
 of harmonies, if a stray note steal across the sense, it starta 
 bewildered. 
 
 Robert played better than usual. His touch grew intense, 
 and put on all its delicacy, till it was like that of the spider, 
 which, as Pope so admirably saya, 
 
 " Feels at each thread, and lives along the line. ' 
 
278 ROBBRT FALCONER. 
 
 And while Ericson watched its shadows, the music must hare 
 taken hold of him too; for when Robert ceased, he sang a 
 wild ballad of the northern sea, to a tune strange as itself. It 
 was the only time Robert ever heard him sing. Mysie'a eyea 
 grew wider and wider as she listened. When it was over, 
 
 "Did ye write that sang yersel', Mr. Ericson?" asked 
 Robert. 
 
 " No," answered Ericson. "An old shepherd up in our 
 parts used to say it to me when I was a boy." 
 
 " Didna he sing't? " Robert questioned further. 
 
 " No, he didn't. But I heard an old woman crooning it to 
 a child in a solitary cottage on the shore of Stroma, near the 
 Swalchie whirlpool, and that was the tune she sang it to, if 
 singing it could be called." 
 
 "I don't quite understand it, Mr. Ericson," said Mysie. 
 " What does it mean ? " 
 
 "There was once a beautiful woman lived there-away," 
 began Ericson. — But I have not room to give the story as he 
 told it, embellishing it, no doubt, as with such a mere tale 
 was lawful enough, from his own imgination. The substance 
 was that a young man fell in love with a beautiful witch, who 
 let him go on loving her till he cared for nothing but her, and 
 then began to kill him by laughing at him. For no witch can 
 fall in love herself, however much she may like to be loved. 
 She mocked him till he drowned himself in a pool on the sea- 
 shore. Now the witch did not know that ; but as she walked 
 along the shore, looking for things, she saw his hand lying 
 over the edge of a rocky basin. Nothing is more useful to a 
 witch than the hand of a man ; so she went to pick it up. 
 When she found it fast to an arm, she would have chopped it 
 off; but seeing whose it was, she would, for some reason 
 or other best known to a witch, draw off his ring first. For it 
 was an enchanted ring which she had given him to bewitch hia 
 love, and now she wanted both it and the hand to draw to her- 
 self the lover of a young maiden whom she hated. But the 
 dead hand closed its fingers upon hers, and her power waa 
 powerless against the dead. And the tide came rushing upj 
 and the dead hand held her till she was drowned. She lies 
 with her lover to this day at the bottom of the Swalchie whirl- 
 pool ; and when a storm is at hand, strange moanings rise fi'om 
 
ROBBRT PALCONBR. 279 
 
 the pool, for the youth is praying the witch lady for her love, 
 and she is praying him to let go her hand. 
 
 While Ericson told the story the room still glimmered about 
 Robert as if all its light came from Mysie's face, upon which 
 the flickering firelight alone played. Mr. Lindsay sat a lit- 
 tle back from the rest, with an amused expression : legends of 
 such sort did not come within the scope of his antiquarian 
 reach, though he was ready enough to believe whatever 
 tempted his own taste, let it be as destitute of likeJihood as the 
 story of the dead hand. When Ericson ceased, Mysio gave a 
 deep .sigh, and looked full of thought, though I dare say it 
 was only feeling. Mr. Lindsay followed with an old tale of 
 the Sinclairs, of which he said Ericson's reminded him, though 
 the sole association was that the foregoing was a Caithness 
 story, and the Sinclairs are a Caithness family. As soon as 
 it was over, Mysie, who could not hide all her impatience dur- 
 ing its lingering progress, asked Robert to play again. He 
 took up his violin, and with great expression gave the air of 
 Ericson's ballad two or three times over, and then laid down 
 the instrument. He saw indeed that it was too much for 
 Mysie, affecting her more, thus presented after the story, than 
 the singing of the ballad itself Thereupon Ericson, whose 
 spirits had risen greatly at finding that he could himself secure 
 Mysie's attention, and produce the play of soul in feature 
 which he so much delighted to watch, ofiered another story ; 
 and the distant rush of the sea, borne occasionally into the 
 "grateful gloom" upon the cold sweep of a February wind, 
 mingled with one tale after another, with which he entranced 
 two of his audience, while the third listened mildly content. 
 
 It was now time to go home. Mysie gave each an equally 
 warm good-night and thanks, Mr. Lindsay accompanied them 
 to the door, and the students stepped into the moonlight. 
 Across the links the sound of the sea came with a swell. 
 
 As they went down the garden, Ericson stopped. Robert 
 thought he was looking back to the house, and went on. 
 When Ericson joined him, he was pale as death. 
 
 " What is the maitter wi' ye, Mr. Ericson?" he asked, in 
 terror. 
 
 " Look there ! " said Ericson, pointing, not to the house, but 
 to the sky. 
 
^bO ROBBRT FALCONER. 
 
 Robert looked up. Close about tbe moon were a few white 
 clouds. Upon these white clouds, right over the moon, and 
 near as the eyebrow to an eye, hung part of an opalescent 
 halo, bent into the rude, but unavoidable suggestion of an eye- 
 brow; while close around the edge of the moon, clung 
 another, a pale storm halo. To this pale iris and faint-hued 
 eyebrow the full moon itself formed the white pupil ; the 
 whole was a perfect eye of ghastly death, staring out of the 
 winter heaven. The vision may never have been before, may 
 never have been again, but this Ericson and Robert saw that 
 night. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE LAST OE THE COALS. 
 
 The next Sunday Robert went with Ericson to the Episcopal 
 chapel, and for the first time in his life heard the epic musio 
 of the organ. It was a new starting-point in his life. The 
 worshipping instrument flooded his soul with sound, and he 
 stooped beneath it as a bather on the shore stoops beneath the 
 broad wave rushing up the land. But I will not linger over 
 this portion of his history. . It is enough to say that he sought 
 the friendship of the organist, was admitted to the instrument ; 
 touched, trembled, exulted ; grew dissatisfied, fastidious, de- 
 spairing ; gathered hope and tried again, and yet again ; till at 
 last, with constantly recurring fits of self-despite, lie could 
 aot leave the grand creature alone. It became a rival even 
 to his violin. And once before the end of March, when the 
 organist was ill, and another was not to be had, he ventured 
 to occupy his place both at morning and evening service. 
 
 Dr. Anderson kept George Moray in bed for a few days, 
 after which he went about for a while with his arm in a sling. 
 But the season of bearing material burdens was over for him 
 now. Dr. Anderson had an interview with the master of the 
 grammar school ; a class was assigned to Moray, and witli a 
 delight, resting chiefly on bis social approximation to Robert, 
 which in one week elevated the whole character of his person 
 and countenance and bearing, George Moray bent himself to 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 281 
 
 the task of mental growth. Having good helpers at home, 
 and his late-developed energy turning itself entirely into the 
 new channel, he got on admirably. As there was no other 
 room to be had in Mrs. Fyvie's house, he continued for the 
 rest of the session to sleep upon the rug, for he would not hear 
 of going to another house. The doctor had advised Robert to 
 drop the nickname as much as possible ; but the first time he 
 called him Moray, Shargar threatened to cut his throat, and 
 so between the two the name remained. 
 
 I presume that by this time Dr. Anderson had made up his 
 mind to leave his money to Eobert, but thought it better to 
 say nothing about it, and let the boy mature his independence. 
 He had him often to his house. Ericson frequently accompa- 
 nied him ; and as there was a good deal of original similarity 
 between the doctor and Ericson, the latter soon felt his obliga- 
 tion no longer a burden. Shargar, likewise, though more occa- 
 sionally, made one of the party, and soon began, in his new 
 circumstances, to develop the manners of a gentleman. I 
 say develop advisedly, for Shargar had a deep humanity in 
 him, as abundantly testified by his devotion to Robert, and 
 humanity is the body of which true manners is the skin and 
 ordinary manifestation : true manners are the polish which lets 
 the internal humanity shine through, just as the polish on 
 marble reveals its veined beauty. Many talks did the elderly 
 man hold with the three youths, and his experience of life 
 taught Ericson and Robert much, especially what he told them 
 about his Brahmin friend in India. Moray, on the other 
 hand, was chiefly interested in his tales of adventure when on 
 service in the Indian army, or engaged in the field sports of 
 that region so prolific in monsters. His gypsy blood and law- 
 less childhood, spent in wandering familiarity with houseless 
 nature, rendered him more responsive to these than the others, 
 and his kindled eye and pertinent remarks raised in the doc- 
 tor's mind an early question whether a commission in India 
 might not be his best start in life. 
 
 Between Ericson and Robert, as the former recovered his 
 health, communication from the deeper strata of human need 
 became less" frequent. Ericson had to work hard to recover 
 something of his leeway ; Robert had to work hard that prizes 
 might witness for him to his grandmother and Miss St John. 
 
282 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 To the latter especially, as I think I have said befcfe, he was 
 anxious to show well, wiping out the blot, as he considered it, 
 of his all but failure in the matter of a bursary. For he 
 looked up to her as to a goddess, who just came near enough to 
 earth to be worshipped by him who dwelt upon it. 
 
 The end of the session came nigh. Ericson passed his exami- 
 nations with honor. Robert gained the first Greek and third 
 Latin prize. The evening of the last day arrived, and on the 
 morrow the students would be gone, — some to their homes of 
 comfort and idleness, others to hard labor in the fields ; some 
 to steady reading, perhaps to school again to prepare for the 
 next session, and others to be tutors all the summer months, 
 and return to the wintry city as to freedom and life. Shargar 
 was to remain at the grammar school. 
 
 That last evening Robert sat with Ericson in his room. It 
 was a cold night, — the night of the last day of March. A 
 bitter wind blew about the house, and dropped spiky hailstones 
 upon the skylight. The friends were to leave on the morrow, 
 but to leave together ; for they had already sent their boxes, 
 oiie, by the carrier to Rothieden, the other by a sailing vessel 
 to Wick, and had agreed to walk together as far as Robert's 
 home, where he was in hopes of inducing his friend to remain 
 for a few days, if he found his grandmother agreeable to the 
 plan. Shargar was asleep on the rug for the last time, and 
 Robert had brought his coal-scuttle into Ericson's room to 
 combine their scanty remains of well-saved fuel in a common 
 glow, over which they now sat. 
 
 "I wonder what my grannie '11 say to me," said Robert. 
 
 "She'll be very glad to see you, whatever she may say," 
 remarked Ericson. 
 
 "She'll say, ' Noo, be quiet,' the minute I hae shacken 
 hands wi' her," said Robert. 
 
 "Robert," returned Ericson, solemnly, " if I had a grand- 
 mother to go home to, she might box my ears if she liked — I 
 wouldn't care. You do not know what it is not to have a soul 
 belonging to you on the face of the earth. It is so cold and 
 BO lonely ! " 
 
 "But you have a cousin, haven't you?" suggested Robert. 
 
 Ericson laughed, but gcod-naturediy. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 283 
 
 •' Yes," he answered, — "a little man with a fishy smell, in a 
 blue tail-coat with brass buttons, and a red and black nightcap." 
 
 "But," Robert ventured to hint, "he might go in a kilt 
 and top-boots, like Satan in my grannie's copy o' the ' Para- 
 dise Lost,' for onything I would care." 
 
 " Yes, but he's just like his looks. The first thing he'll do 
 the next morning after I go home will be to take me into his 
 office, or shop as he calls it, and get down his books, and 
 show me how many barrels of herring I owe him, with the price 
 of each. To do him jastice, he only charges me wholesale." 
 
 "What'llhedothatfor?" 
 
 " To urge on me the necessity of diligence, and the choice 
 of a profession," answered Ericson, with a smile of mingled 
 sadness and irresolution. "He will set forth what a loss the 
 interest of the money is, even if I should pay the principal, 
 and remind me that, although he has stood my friend, his duty 
 to his own family imposes limits. And he has at least a 
 couple of thousand pounds in the country bank. I don't be- 
 lieve he would do anything for me but for the honor it will be 
 to the family to have a professional man in it. And yet my 
 father was the making of him." 
 
 " Tell me about your father. What was he? " 
 
 " A gentle-minded man, who thought much and said little. 
 He farmed the property that had been his father's own, and is 
 now leased by my fishy cousin afore mentioned." 
 
 "And your mother? " 
 
 " She died just after I was born, and my father never got 
 over it." 
 
 " And you hae no brothers or sisters ? " 
 
 " No, not one. Thank God for your grandmother, and dp 
 all you can to please her." 
 
 A silence followed, during which Robert's heart swelled 
 and heaved with devotion to Ericson ; for, notwithstanding his 
 openness, there was a certain sad coldness about him that re- 
 strained Robert from letting out all the tide of his love. The 
 silence became painful, and he broke it abruptly. 
 
 " What are you going to be, Mr. Ericson? " 
 
 " I wish you could tell me, Robert. What would you hava 
 me to be? Come now." 
 
 Robert thought for a moment. 
 
284 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Weel, ye canna be a minister, Mr. Ericson, 'cause ya 
 ■Jinna believe in God, ye know," he said, simply. 
 
 "Don't say that, Robert," Ericson returned, in a tone of 
 pain with which no displeasure was mingled. " But you are 
 right. At best I only hope in God ; I don't believe in him." 
 
 " I'm thipkin there canna be muckle diflfer atween houp an' 
 faith," said Robert. " Mony a ane 'at says they believe in 
 God has unco little houp o' onything frae 's ban', I'm thinkin'." 
 
 My reader may have observed a little change for the better 
 in Robert's speech. Dr. Anderson had urged upon him the 
 necessity of being able at last to speak English; and he had 
 been trying to modify the antique Saxon dialect they used at 
 Rothieden with the newer and more refined English. But 
 even when I knew him he would, upon occasion, especially 
 when the subject was religion or music, fall back into the 
 broadest Scotch. It was as if his heart could not issue freely 
 by any other gate than that of his grandmother tongue. 
 
 Fearful of having his last remark contradicted, — for he had 
 an instinctive desire that it should lie undisturbed where he 
 had cast it, in the field of Ericson's mind, — he hurried to another 
 question. 
 
 " What for shouldna yo be a doctor? " 
 
 " Now you'll think me a fool, Robert, if I tell you why." 
 
 " Far be it frae me to daur think sic a word, Mr. Ericson ! " 
 said Robert, devoutly. 
 
 "Well, I'll tell you, whether or not," returned Ericson. 
 " I could, I believe, amputate a living limb with considerable 
 coolness; but put a knife in a dead body I could not." 
 
 " I think I know what you mean. Then you must be a 
 lawyer." 
 
 " A lawyer ! Lord ! " said Ericson. 
 
 " Why not? " asked Robert, in some wonderment ; for ho 
 could not imagine Ericson acting from mere popular prejudice 
 or fancy. 
 
 " Just think of spending one's life in an atmosphere of 
 squabbles. It's all very well when one gets to be a judge and 
 dispenses justice; but — well, it's not for me. Icould not do 
 the best for my clients. And a lawyer has nothing to do with 
 the kingdom of heaven — only with hia clients. He 7nust be 
 a party-man. He must secure for one so often at the loss of 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 285 
 
 the rest. My duty and my conscience would always bo at 
 strife." 
 
 " Then what will you be, Mr. Ericson ? " 
 
 " To tell the truth, I would rather be a watchmaker than 
 anything else I know. I might make one watch that would go 
 right, I suppose, if I lived long enough. But n9 one would 
 take an apprentice of my age. So I suppose I must be a 
 tutor, knocked about from one house to another, patronized by 
 ex-pupils, and smiled upon as harmless by mammas and sisters 
 to the end of the chapter. And then something of a pauper's 
 burial, I suppose. Che sara saru." 
 
 Ericson had sunk into one of his worst moods. But when 
 he saw Robert looking unhappy, he changed his tone, and 
 would be — what he could not be — merry. 
 
 "But what's the use of talking about it? " he said. " Get 
 your fiddle, man, and play ' The Wind that Shakes the Barley.' " 
 
 "No, Mr. Ericson," answered Robert; " I have no heart for 
 the fiddle. I would rather have some poetry." 
 
 " Oh ! — poetry ! " returned Ericson, in a tone of contempt, 
 
 — yet not very hearty contempt. 
 
 " We're gaein' away', Mr. Ericson," said Robert; "an' the 
 Lord 'at we know naething aboot alone knows whether we'll 
 ever meet again i' this place. And sae — " 
 
 "True enough, my boy," interrupted Ericson. "I have 
 no need to trouble myself about the future. I believe that is 
 the real secret of it after all. I shall never want a profession 
 or anything else." 
 
 " What do you mean, Mr. Ericson? " asked Robert, in half- 
 defined terror. 
 
 " I mean, my boy, that I shall not live long. I know that, 
 
 — thank God ! " 
 
 " How do you know it ? " 
 
 " My father died at thirty, and my mother at six-and- 
 twenty, both of the same disease. But that's not how I know 
 it." 
 
 " How do you know it, then ? " 
 
 Ericson returned no answer. He only said : — 
 
 " Death will be better than life. One thing I don't like 
 about it though," he added, " is the coming on of unconscioua- 
 
286 ROBBRT JALCOKBB. 
 
 nesa. I cannot bear to lose my consciousness even in sleep 
 It is such a terrible thing ! " 
 
 " I suppose that's ane o' the reasons that we canna be con^ 
 tent withoot a God," responded Robert. " It's dreidfu' to 
 think even o' fa'in' asleep without some ane greater an' nearer 
 than the me watchin' ower't. But I'm jist sayin' ower again 
 what I hae read in ane o' your papers, Mr. Ericson. Jist lat 
 me luik." 
 
 Venturing more than he had ever yet ventured, Robert rose 
 and went to the cupboard where Ericson's papers lay. His 
 friend did not check him. On the contrary, he took the paperj 
 from his hand, and searched for the poem indicated. 
 
 " I'm not in the way of doing this sort of thing, Robert," 
 ke said. 
 
 " I know that," answered Robert. 
 
 A.nd Ericson read : — 
 
 " SLEEP. 
 
 " Oh, is it Death that comes 
 
 To have a foretaste of the whole ? 
 To-night the planets and the stnrs 
 Will glimmer through ray window-ban, 
 
 But will not shine upon my soul. 
 
 " For I shall lie as dead, 
 Though yet I am above the ground ; 
 
 All passionless, with scarce a breath, 
 
 With hands of rest and eyes of death, 
 I shall be carried swiftly round. 
 
 " Or if my life should break 
 The idle night with doubtful gleams, 
 
 Through mossy arches will I go, 
 
 Through arches ruinous and low, 
 And chase the true and false in dreams. 
 
 " Why should I fall asleep? 
 Wlien I am still upon my bed. 
 
 The moon will shine, the winds will riw. 
 
 And all around and through the skies 
 The light clouds travel o'er my head. 
 
 " O busy, busy things ! 
 Ye mock me with your ceaseless life ; 
 For all the hidden springs will flow. 
 And all the blades of grass will grow, 
 When I have neither peace nor strife. 
 
ROBERT FALCONBR. 287 
 
 "And all the long night through, 
 Tlie restless streams -will hurry hy ; 
 And round the lands, with endless roar. 
 The white waves fall upon the shore, 
 And bit by bit devour the drv 
 
 " Even thus, but silently, 
 Eternity, thy tide-shall flow, — 
 And side by side with every star 
 Thy long-drawn swell shall bear me far. 
 An idle boat with none to row. 
 
 " My senses fail with sleep; 
 My heart beats thick ; the night is noon ; 
 And faintly through its misty folds 
 I hear a drowsy clock that holds 
 Its converse with the waning moon. 
 
 " Oh, solemn mystery ! 
 
 That I should be so closely bound 
 With neither terror nor constraint. 
 Without a murmur of complaint, 
 And lose myself upon such ground I " 
 
 " Rubbish ! " said Ericson, as he threw down the sheets, 
 disgusted with his own work, which so often disappoints the 
 writer, especially if he is by any chance betrayed into reading 
 it aloud. 
 
 " Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson," returned Robert. " Ye 
 maunna say that. Ye hae nae richt to lauch at honest wark, 
 whether it be yer ain or ony ither body's. The poem noo — " 
 
 " Don't call it a poem," interrupted Ericson. " It's not 
 worthy of the name." 
 
 " I will ca' 't a poem," persisted Robert; " for it's a poem 
 to me, whatever it may be to you. An' hoo I know 'at it's a 
 poem is jist this : it opens my een like music to something 1 
 never saw afore." 
 
 " What is that ? " asked Ericson, not sorry to be persuaded 
 that there might after all be some merit in the productions 
 painfully despised of himself. 
 
 "Jist this: it's only whan ye dinna want to fa' asleep 'at 
 it luiks fearsome to ye. An' maybe the fear o' death comes i' 
 the same way : we're feared at it 'cause we're no a'thegither 
 ready for 't ; but when the richt time comes, it'll be as nat'ral 
 as fa'in' asleep whan we're doonricht sleepy. If thore be a 
 God we ca' oor Father in heaven, I'm no thinkin' that be wad 
 
288 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 to sae money bonny tunes pit a thought for the hinder end. I'm 
 thinkin', if there be onything in 't, hear — ye know I'm no 
 Bayin', for I dinna know — we maun just believe in him, to die 
 dacent an' happy, an' nae sic strange awful' fash aboot it as 
 some fowk wad make a religion o' expeckin'." 
 
 Ericson looked at Robert with admiration mingled with 
 something akin to merriment. 
 
 " One would think it was your grandfather holding forth, 
 Robert," he said. "How came you to think of such things 
 at your age? " 
 
 " I'm thinkin'," answered Robert, " ye warna muckle aulder 
 nor myself whan ye took to sic things, Mr. Ericson. But 
 'deed, maybe my grandfather pat them i' my heid, for I had a 
 heap ado wi' his fiddle for a while. She's deid noo." 
 
 Not understanding him, Ericson began to question, and out 
 came the story of the violius. They talked on till the last of 
 their coals was burnt out, and then they went to bed. 
 
 Shargar had undertaken to rouse them early, that they 
 might set out on their long walk with a long day before them. 
 But Robert was awake before Shargar. The all but soulless 
 light of the dreary season awoke him, and he rose and looked 
 out. Aurora, as aged now as her loved Tithonus, peered, 
 gray-haired and desolate, over the edge of the tossing sea, with 
 hardly enough of light in her dim eyes to show the broken 
 crests of the waves that rushed shorewards before the wind 
 of her rising. Such an east wind was the right breath to 
 issue from such a pale mouth of hopeless revelation as that 
 which opened with dead lips across the troubled sea on the far 
 horizon. While he gazed, the east darkened ; a cloud of hail 
 rushed against the window, and Robert retreated to his b«d. 
 But ere he had fallen asleep, Ericson was beside him;<and 
 before he was dressed, Ericson appeared again, with his fetick 
 in his hand. They left Shargar still asleep, and desceniied 
 the stairs, thinking to leave the house undisturbed. But- Mrs. 
 Fyvie was watching for them, and insisted on their taking the 
 breakfast she had prepared. They then set out on their jour- 
 ney of forty miles, with half a loaf in their pockets, and money 
 enough to get bread and cheese, and a bottle of the poorest ale 
 at the far-parteii roadside inns. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 2b9 
 
 When Shargar awoke, he wept in desolation ; then crept into 
 .Robert's bed, and fell fast asleep again. 
 
 CHAPTER XLL 
 
 A STRANGE NIGHT. 
 
 The youths had not left the city a mile behind when a thick 
 finow-storm came on. It did not last long, however, and they 
 fought their way through it into a glimpse of sun. To Robert, 
 healthy, powerful, and, except at rare times, hopeful, it added to 
 the pleasure of the journey to contend with the storm, and there 
 was a certain steely indifference about Ericson that carried him 
 through. They trudged on steadily for three hours along a good 
 turnpike road, with great black masses of cloud sweeping across 
 the sky, which now sent them a glimmer of sunlight, and now 
 a sharp shower of hail. The country was very dreary, — a 
 succession of undulations rising into bleak moorlands, and hills 
 whose heather would in autumn flush the land with glorious 
 purple, but which now looked black and cheerless, as if no sun- 
 shine could ever warm_ them. Now and then the moorland 
 would sweep down to the edge of the road, diversified with dark 
 holes, from which peats were dug, and an occasional quarry of 
 gray granite. At one moment endless pools would be shining 
 in the sunlight, and the next the hail would be dancing a mad, 
 fantastic dance all about them ; they pulled their caps over their 
 brows, bent their heads, and struggled on. 
 
 At length they reached their first stage, and, after a meal of 
 bread and cheese and an ofiered glass of whiskey, started again 
 on their journey. They did not talk much, for their force was 
 Bpent on their progress. 
 
 After some consultation whether to keep the road or take a 
 certain short cut across the moors, which would lead them into 
 it again with a saving of several miles, the sun shining out with 
 a little stronger promise than he had yet given, they resolved 
 upon the latter. But in the middle of the moorland the wind 
 and the hail came on with increased violence, and they were 
 glad to tack from one to another of the huge stones that lay 
 19 
 
290 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 about, and take a short breathing time under the lee of each ; 
 BO that -when they recovered the road, they had lost as many 
 miles in time and strength as they had saved in distance. They 
 did not give in, however, but, after another rest and a little more 
 refreshment, started again. 
 
 The evening was now growing dusk around them, and the 
 fatigue of the way was telling so severely on Ericson, that when 
 in the twilight they heard the blast of a horn behind them, and, 
 turning, saw the two flaming eyes of a well-known four-horse 
 coach come fluctuating towards them, Robert insisted on 
 their getting up and riding the rest of the way. 
 
 " But I can't afford it," said Ericson. 
 
 " But I can," said Robert. 
 
 " I don't doubt it," returned Ericson. " But I owe you too 
 much already." 
 
 " If ever we win hame, — I mean to the heart o' hame, — ye 
 can pay me there." 
 
 " There will be no need then." 
 
 " Whaur's the need than to mak' sic a wark aboot a saxpenoe 
 or twa atween this and that ? I thocht ye cared for naething 
 that time, or space, or sense could grip or measure. Mr. Eric- 
 son, ye're no half sic a philosopher as ye wad set up for. 
 — Hillo ! " 
 
 Ericson laughed a weary laugh, and as the coach stopped in 
 obedience to Robert's hail, he scrambled up behind. 
 
 The guard knew Robert, was pitiful over the condition of the 
 travellers, would have put them inside, but that there was a 
 lady there, and their clothes were wet, got out a great horse- 
 rug and wrapped Robert in it, put a spare coat of his own, about 
 an inch thick, upon Ericson,* drew out a flask, took a pull at 
 it, handed it to hia new passengers, and blew a vigorous blast 
 on his long horn, for they were approaching a desolate shed 
 where they had to change their weary horses for four fresh 
 thoroughbreds. 
 
 Away they went once more, careering through the gathering 
 darkness. It was delightful indeed to have to urge one weary 
 leg past the other no more, but to be borne along towards food, 
 fire, and bed. But their adventures were not so nearly over 
 as they imagined. Once more the hail fell furiously, — huge 
 hailstones, each made of many, half-melted and welded togethei 
 
EGBERT FALCONER. 29J 
 
 into solid lumps of ice. The coachman could scarcely liold hia 
 face to the shower, and the blows they received on their faces 
 and legs, drove the thin-skinned, high-spirited horses nearly 
 mad. At length they would face it no longer. At a turn in 
 the road, where it crossed a brook by a bridge with a low stone 
 wall, the wind met them right in the face with redoubled vethe- 
 mence ; the leaders swerved from it, and were just rising to 
 jump over the parapet, when the coachman, whose hands were 
 nearly insensible with cold, threw his leg over the reins, and 
 pulled them up. One of the leaders reared, and fell back- 
 wards ; one of the wheelers kicked vigorously ; a few moments, 
 and in spite of the guard at their heads, all was one struggling 
 mass of bodies and legs, with a broken pole in the midst. The 
 few passengers got down ; and Robert, fearing that yet worse 
 might happen, and remembering the lady, opened the door. 
 He found. her quite composed. As he helped her out — 
 
 "What is the matter? " asked the voice dearest to him in 
 the world, — the voice of Miss St. John. 
 
 He gave a cry of delight. Wrapped in the horse-cloth, Miss 
 St. John did not know him. 
 
 " What is the matter? " she repeated. 
 
 " Ow, naething, mem, — naething. Only I doobt we winna 
 get ye hame the nicht." 
 
 " Is it you, Robert ? " she said, gladly, recognizing his voice. 
 
 " Ay, it's me, and Mr. Ericson. We'll tak' care o' ye, 
 mem." 
 
 " But surely we shall get home ! " 
 
 Robert had heard the crack of the breaking pole. 
 
 '"Deed, I doobt no." 
 
 " What are we to do then? " 
 
 " Come into the shelter o' the bank here, oot o' the reach 
 o' thae horses," said Robert, taking oflF his horse-cloth and 
 wrapping her in it. 
 
 The storm hissed and smote all around them. She took 
 Robert's arm. Followed by Ericson, they left the coach and 
 the struggling horses, and withdrew to a bank that overhung 
 the road. As soon as they were out of the wind, Robert, who 
 had made up his mind, said : — 
 
 " We canna be mony yairds frae the auld hoose o' Bogbonnie. 
 We micht get throu' the nicht there weel eneuch. I'll speir aC 
 
292 EGBERT FALCONER 
 
 the gaird, the minute the horses are clear. We war 'maist 
 ower the bridge, I heard the coachman say." 
 
 " I know quite well where the old house is," said Ericson 
 " I went in the last time I walked this way." 
 
 " Was the door open ? " asked Eobert. 
 
 "I don't know," answered Ericson. "I found one of the 
 windows open in the basement." 
 
 " We'll get the len' o' ane o' the lanterns, an' gang direckly. 
 It canna be mairnor the breadth o' a rig or twafrae the burn." 
 
 " I can take you by the road," said Ericson. 
 
 "It will be very cold," said Miss St. John, already shiv- 
 ering, partly from disquietude. 
 
 " There's wood eneuch there to hand's warm for a twal- 
 month," said Robert. 
 
 He went back to the coach. By this time the horses were 
 nearly extricated. Two of them stood steaming in the lamp- 
 light, with their sides going at twenty bellows' speed. The 
 guard would not let him have one of the coach lamps, but gave 
 him a small lantern of his own. When he returned with it, he 
 found Ericson and Miss St. John talking together. 
 
 Ericson led the way, and the others followed. 
 
 " Whaur are ye gaein', gentlemen? " asked the guard, as 
 they passed the coach. 
 
 " To the auld hoose," answered Robert. 
 
 " Ye canna do better. I maun bide wi' the coch till the lave 
 gang back to Drumheid wi' the horses, an' fess anither pole. 
 Faith, it'll be weel into the mornin' or we win oot o' this. 
 Tak' care hoo ye gang. There's holes i' the auld hoose, I 
 doobt." 
 
 " We'll tak' gude care, ye may be sure. Hector," said Robert, 
 as they left the bridge. 
 
 The house to which Ericson was leading them was in the 
 midst of a field. There was just light enough to show a huge 
 mass standing in the dark, without a tree or shelter of any sort. 
 When they reached it, all that Miss St. John could distinguish 
 was a wide broken stair leading up to the door, with glimpses 
 of a large, plain, ugly, square front. The stones of the stair 
 sloped and hung in several directions ; but it was plain to a 
 glance that the place was dilapidated through extraordinary 
 neglect, rather than by the usual wear of time. In fact, it be- 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 293 
 
 longed only to the beginning of the preceding century, some- 
 where in Queen Anne's time. There was a heavy door to it, 
 but fortunately for Miss St. John, who would not quite have 
 relished getting in at the window of which Ericson had spoken, 
 it stood a little ajar. The wind roared in the gap and echoed 
 in the empty hall into which they now entered. Certainly 
 Robert was right : there was wood enough to keep them warm ; 
 for that hall, and every room into which they went, from top to 
 bottom of the huge house, was lined with pine. No paint- 
 brush had ever passed upon it. Neither was there a spot to be 
 seen upon the grain of the wood ; it was clean as the day when 
 the house was finished, only it had grown much browuBr. A 
 close gallery, with window-frames which had never been glazed, 
 at one story's height, leading across from the one side of the 
 first floor to the other, looked down into the great echoing hall, 
 which rose in the centre of the building to the height of two 
 stories ; but this was unrecognizable in the poor light of the 
 guard's lantern. All the rooms on every floor opened each into 
 the other ; — but why should I give such a minute description, 
 making my reader expect a ghost story, or at least a nocturnal 
 adventure ? I only want him to feel something of what our 
 party felt as they entered this desolate building, which, though 
 some hundred and twenty years old, bore not a single mark 
 upon the smooth floors or spotless walls to indicate that article 
 of furniture had ever stood in it, or human being ever inhabited 
 it. There was a strange and unusual horror about the place, 
 — a feeling quite different from that belonging to an ancient 
 house, however haunted it might be. It was like a body that 
 had never had a human soul in it. There was no sense of a 
 human history about it. Miss St. John's feeling of eeriness 
 rose to the height when, in wandering through the many rooms 
 in search of one where the windows were less broken, she came 
 upon one spot in the floor. It was only a hole worn down 
 through floor after floor, from top to bottom, by the drip of the 
 rains from the broken roof; it looked like the disease of the 
 desolate place, and she shuddered. 
 
 Here they must pass the night, with the wind roaring aw- 
 fully through the echoing emptiness, and every now and then 
 the hail clashing against what glass remained in the windows. 
 They found one room with the window well boarded up, for 
 
294 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 until lately some care had been taken of the place to keep it 
 from the weather. There Eobert left his companions, who 
 presently heard the sounds of tearing and breaking below, ne- 
 cessity justifying him in the appropriation of some of the wood- 
 work for their own behoof. lie tore a panel or two from the 
 walls, and, returning with them, lighted a fire on the empt_y 
 hearth, where, from the look of the stone and mortar, certainly 
 never fire had blazed before. The' wood was dry as a bone, 
 and burnt up gloriously. 
 
 Then first Robert bethought himself that they had nothing 
 to eat. He himself was full of merriment, and cared nothing 
 about eating ; for had he not Miss St. John and Ericson there ? 
 But for them something must be provided. He took his lantern 
 and went back through the storm. The hail had ceased, but 
 the wind blew tremendously. The coach stood upon the bridge 
 like a stranded vessel, its two lamps holding doubtful battle 
 with the wind, now flaring out triumphantly, now almost yield 
 ing up the ghost. Inside, the guard was snoring in defiance of 
 the pother o'er his head. 
 
 "Hector! Hector!" cried Robert. 
 
 " Ay, ay." answered Hector. " It's no time to wauken 
 yet." 
 
 "Hae ye nae basket. Hector, wi' something to eat in't, — 
 naething gaein' to Rothieden 'at a body micht say by yer leave 
 till?" 
 
 " Ow ! it's you^ is 't?" returned Hector, rousing himself. 
 "Na. De'il ane. An' if I had, I daurna gie ye 't." 
 
 " I wad mak free to steal 't, though, an' tak' my chance," 
 said Robert. "But ye say ye hae nane? " 
 
 "Nane, I tell ye. Ye winna hunger afore the mornin', 
 man." 
 
 " I'll Stan' hunger as weel 's you ony day, Hector. It's no 
 for mysel'. There's Miss St. John." 
 
 "Hoots!" said Hector^ peevishly, for he "wajited to go to 
 sleep again, "gang and mak luv till her. Nae lass '11 think 
 o' meat as lang 's ye do that. That '11 baud her ohn hungert." 
 
 The words were like blasphemy in Robert's ear. He make 
 love to Miss St. John ! He turned from the coach-door in dis- 
 •just. But there was no place he knew of where anything 
 ioiild be had, and he must return empty-handed. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 295, 
 
 The light of the fire shone through a little hole ia the boards 
 that closed the -window. His lamp had gone out, but, guided 
 by that, he found the road again, and felt his way up the stairs. 
 When he entered the room, he saw Miss St. John sitting on 
 the floor, for there was nowhere else to sit, with the guard's 
 coat under her. She had taken off her bonnet. Her back 
 leaned against the side of the chimney, and her eyes were bent 
 thoughtfully on the ground. In their shine Robert read in- 
 stinctively that Ericson had said something that had set her 
 thinking. He lay on the floor at some distance, leaning on his 
 elbow, and his eye had the flash in it that indicates one whc has 
 just ceased speaking. They had not found his absence awk- 
 ward at least. 
 
 " I hae been efter something to eat," said Robert ; " but I 
 eanna fa' in wi' Anything. We maun jist tell stories or sing 
 gangs, as fowk do in buiks, or else Miss St. John '11 think 
 lang." 
 
 They did sing songs, and they did tell stories. I will not 
 trouble my reader with more than the sketch of one which 
 Robert told, — the story of the old house wherein they sat, — a 
 house without a history, save the story of its no history. It 
 had been built for the jointure-house of a young countess, 
 whose husband was an old man. A lover to whom she had 
 turned a deaf ear had left the country, begging, ere he went, 
 her acceptance of a lovely Italian grayhound. She was weak 
 enough to receive the animal. Her husband died the same 
 year, and before the end of it the dog went mad, and bit her. 
 According to the awful custom of the time, they smothered her 
 between two feather-beds, just as the house of Bogbonnie was 
 ready to receive her furniture, and become her future dwelling. 
 No one had ever occupied it. 
 
 If Miss St. John listened to story and song without as much 
 show of feeling as Mysie Lindsay would have manifested, it was 
 not that she entered into them less deeply. It was that she 
 was more, not felt less. 
 
 Listening at her window once with Robert, Eric Ericson had 
 heard Mary St. John play ; this was their first meeting. Full 
 Bs his mind was of Mysie, he could not fail to feel the ch^-m 
 of a noble, stately womanhood that could give support, insl^ad 
 of rousing sympathy for helplessness. There was in the dig- 
 
296 ROBERT FALCONKK. 
 
 nified simplicity of Mary St. John that which made every good 
 man remember his mother ; and a good man will think this 
 grand praise, though a fast girl will take it for a doubtful com- 
 pliment. 
 
 Seeing her begin to look weary, the young men spread a 
 couch for her as best they could, made up the fire, and telling 
 her they would be in the hall below, retired, kindled another 
 fire, and sat down to wait for the morning. They held a long 
 talk. At length Robert fell asleep on the floor. 
 
 Ericson rose. One of his fits of impatient doubt was upon 
 him. In the dying embers of the fire, he strode up and down 
 the waste hall, with the storm raving around it. He was des- 
 tined to an early death ; he would leave no one of his kin to 
 mourn for him ; the girl whose fair face had possessed his im- 
 agination, would not give one sigh to his memory, wandering 
 on through the regions of fancy all the same ; and the death- 
 struggle over, he might awake in a godless void, where, having 
 no creative power in himself, he must be tossed about, a con- 
 scious yet helpless atom, to eternity. It was not annihilation 
 he feared, although he did shrink from the thought of uncon- 
 sciousness ; it was life without law that he dreaded, existence 
 without the bonds of a holy necessity, thought without faith, 
 being without God. 
 
 For all her fatigue, Miss St. John could not sleep. The 
 house quivered in the wind, which howled more and more madly 
 through its long passages and empty rooms ; and she thought 
 she heard cries in the midst of the howling. In vain she rea- 
 soned with herself; she could not rest. She rose and opened 
 the door of her room, with a vague notion of being nearer to 
 the young men. 
 
 It opened upon the narrow gallei-y, already mentioned as 
 leading from one side of the first floor to the other at mid- 
 height along the end of the hall. The fire below shone into 
 this gallery, for it was divided from the hall only by a screen 
 of crossing bars of wood, like unglazed window-frames, possibly 
 intended to hold glass. Of the relation of the passage to the 
 hall, Mary St. John knew nothing, till, approaching the light, 
 Bhi found herself looking down into the red dusk below. She 
 Btopd riveted; for in the centre of the hall, with his hands 
 
ROBBKT FALCONER. 29'> 
 
 clasped over his head like the solitary arch of a ruined Gothic 
 aisle, stood Ericson. 
 
 His agony had grown within him ; the agony of the silence 
 had brooded immovable throughout the infinite, whose sea would 
 ripple to no breath of the feeble tempest of his prayers. At 
 length it broke from him in low but sharp sounds of word^ 
 
 " God," he said, "if thou art, why dost thou not speak? 
 If I am thy handiwork — dost thou forget that which thou hast 
 made?" 
 
 He paused, motionless, then cried again : — 
 
 " There can be no God, or he would hear." 
 
 " God has heard me!" said a full-toned voice of feminine 
 tenderness somewhere in the air. Looking up, Ericson saw the 
 dim form of Mary St. John half way up the side of the lofty 
 hall. The same moment she vanished — trembling at the sound 
 of her own voice. 
 
 Thus to Ericson as to Robert had she appeared as an angel. 
 
 And was she less of a divine messenger because she had a 
 human body, whose path lay not through the air ? The storm 
 of misery folded its wings in Eric's bosom, and, at the sound 
 of her voice, there was a great calm. Nor, if we inquire into 
 the matter, shall we find that such an effect indicated anything 
 derogatory to the depth of his feelings or the strength of his 
 judgment. It is not through the judgment that a troubled 
 heart can be set at rest. It needs a revelation, a vision; a 
 something for the higher nature that breeds and infolds the in- 
 tellect, to recognize as of its own, and lay hold of by faithful 
 hope. And what fitter messenger of such hope than the har- 
 monious presence of a woman, whose form itself tells of highest 
 law, and concord, and uplifting obedience ; such a one whose 
 beauty walks the upper air of noble loveliness ; whose voice, 
 even in speech, is one of the " sphere-born harmonious sisters " ? 
 The very presence of such a being gives Unbelief the lie, deep 
 as the throat of her lying. Hjfrmony, which is beauty and 
 law, works necessary faith in the region capable of truth. It 
 needs the intervention of no reasoning. It is beheld. This 
 visible Peace, with that voice of woman's truth, said, "God 
 has heard me! '■ What better testimony could an angel have 
 brought him ? Or why should an angel's testimony weigh 
 more than such a woman's ? The mere understanding of a man 
 
298 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 lite Ericson would only have demanded of an angel proof that 
 he was an angel, proof that angels knew better than he did in 
 the matter in question, proof that they were not easy-going 
 creatures that took for granted the rumors of heaven. The 
 best that a miracle can do is to give hope; of the objects of 
 faith it can give no proof ; one spiritual testimony is worth ■» 
 thousand of them. For to gain the sole proof of which these 
 truths admit, a man must grow into harmony with them. If 
 there are no such things, he cannot become conscious of a har- 
 mony that has no existence ; he cannot thus deceive himself. 
 If there are, they must yet remain doubtful until the harmony 
 between them and his own willing nature is established. The 
 perception of this harmony is their only and incommunicable 
 proof For this process time is needful; and therefore we are 
 saved by hope. Hence it is no wonder that before another half- 
 houi; was over, Ericson was asleep by Robert's side. 
 
 They were aroused in the cold gray light of the morning by 
 the blast of Hector's horn. Miss St. John was ready in a 
 moment. The coach was waiting for them at the end of the 
 grassy road that led from the house. Hector put them all 
 inside. Before they reached Rotheiden, the events of the 
 night began to wear the doubtful aspect of a dream. No allu- 
 sion was made to what had occurred while Robert slept ; but 
 all the journey Ericson felt towards Miss St. John as Words- 
 worth felt toward the leech-gatherer, who, he says, was 
 
 -" like a man from some far region sent, 
 
 To give me human strength, by apt admonishment." 
 
 And Robert saw a certain light in her eyes which reminded 
 him of how she looked when, having repented of her moment- 
 ary hardness towards him, she was ministering to his wounded 
 head. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 HOME AGAIN. 
 
 When Robert opened the door of his grandmother's parlor, 
 he found the old lady seated at breakfast. She rose, pushed 
 
KOBEllT FALCONER. 299 
 
 back her chair, and met him in the middle of the room ; put 
 her old arms round him, offered her smooth white cheek to 
 him, and wept. Robert wondered that she did not look older ; 
 for the time he had been away seemed an age, although in 
 truth only eight months. 
 
 " Hoo are ye, laddie? " she said. " I'm richt glaid, for I 
 hae been thinkin' lang to see ye. Sit ye doon." 
 
 Betty rushed in, drying her hands on her apron. She had 
 not heard him enter. 
 
 " Eh losh ! " she cried, and put her wet apron to her eyes. 
 " Sic a man as ye're grown, Robert! A puir body like me 
 maunna be speykin' to ye noo." 
 
 "There's nae odds in me, Betty," returned Robert. 
 
 " 'Deed but there is. Ye're sax feet an' a hairy ower, Is' 
 warran'. " 
 
 " I said there was nae odds i' me, Betty," peirsisted Robert, 
 laughing. 
 
 "I kenna what may be in ye," retorted Betty; "but 
 there's an unco' odds upo' ye." 
 
 "Hand yer tongue, Betty," said her mistress. "Ye oucht 
 to ken better nor stan' jawin' wi' young men. Fess mair o 
 the creamy cakes." 
 
 " Maybe Robert wad like a drappy o' parritch." 
 
 " Onything, Betty," said Robert. "I'm atdeith's door wi' 
 hunger." 
 
 " Rin, Betty, for the cakes. An' fess a loaf o' white breid ; 
 we canna bide for the parritch." 
 
 Robert fell to his breakfast, and while he ate — somewhat 
 ravenously — he told his grandmother the adventures of the 
 night, and introduced the question whether he might not ask 
 Ericson to stay a few days with him. 
 
 'Ohy frien' o' yours, laddie," she replied, qualifying her 
 words only with the addition, "if he be a frien'. — Whaur 
 k he noo? " 
 
 "He's up at Miss Napier's." 
 
 " Hoots ! What for didna ye fess him in wi' ye ? — 
 Betty ! " ■ 
 
 " Na, na, grannie. The Napiers are frien's o' his We 
 maunna interfere wi' them. I'll gang up mysel' ance I haa 
 had my breakfast." 
 
800 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Weel, weel, laddie. Eh ! I'm blythe to see ye ! Hao 
 ye gotten ony prizes noo ? " 
 
 " Ay have I. I'm sorry they're nae baith o' them the first. 
 But I hae the first o' ane an' the third o' the ither." 
 
 " I am pleased at that, Robert. Ye'll be a man some day 
 if ye hand frae drink an' frae — frae leein'. " 
 
 " I never tellt a lie i' my life, grannie." 
 
 "Na. I dinna think 'at ever ye did. — An' what's that 
 crater Shargar aboot? " 
 
 " Ow, jist gaein' to be a crown o' glory to ye, grannie. 
 He worked like a horse till Dr. Anderson took him by the 
 ban', an' sent him to the schuil. An' he's gaein' to make 
 something o' 'im, or a' be dune. He's a fine crater, Shargar." 
 
 "He tuik a munelicht flittin' frae here," rejoined the old 
 lady, in a tone of offence. " He micht hae said gude-day to 
 me, I think." 
 
 " Ye see he was feart at ye, grannie." 
 
 "Feart at me, laddie! Wha ever was feart at me? I 
 never feart onybody i' my life." 
 
 So little did the dear old lady know that she was a terror 
 to her neighborhood ! — simply because, being a law to her- 
 self, she would therefore be a law to other people, — a conclu- 
 sion that cannot be concluded. 
 
 Mrs. Falconer's courtesy did not fail. Her grandson had 
 ceased to be a child ; her responsibility had in so far ceased ; 
 her conscience was relieved at being rid of it, and the human- 
 ity of her great heart came out to greet the youth. She 
 received Ericson with perfect hospitality, made him at home as 
 far as the stately respect she showed him would admit of his 
 being so, and confirmed in him the impression of her which 
 Robert had given him. They held many talks together ; and 
 such was the circumspection of Ericson that, not saying a word 
 he did not believe, he so said what he did believe, or so 
 avoided the points upon which they would have differed seriously, 
 that, although his theology was of course far from satisfying 
 her, she yet affirmed her conviction that the root of the matter 
 was in him. This distressed Ericson, however, for he feared 
 he must have been deceitful, if not hypocritical. 
 
 It was with some grumbling that the Napiers, especially 
 Miss Letty, parted with him to Mrs. Falconer. The hearts of 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. ?01 
 
 all three had so taken to the youth, that he found himself 
 more at home in that hostelry than anywhere else in the world. 
 Miss Letty was the only one that spoke lightly of him ; she 
 even went so far as to make good-natured game of him some- 
 times, — all because she loved him more than the others ; 
 more indeed than she cared to show, for fear of exposing "an 
 old woman's ridiculous fancy," as she called her predilection. 
 
 — "A lang-leggit," prood, landless laird," she would say, 
 with a moist glimmer in her loving eyes, " wi' the maist ridic- 
 ulous feet ye ever saw, — hardly room for the five taes atween 
 the twa ! Losh ! " 
 
 When Robert went forth into the streets, he was surprised 
 to find how friendly every one was. Even old William Mac- 
 Gregor shook him kindly by the hand, inquired after his 
 health, told him not to study too hard, informed him that he 
 had a copy of a queer old book that he would like to see, etc., 
 etc. Upon reflection Robert discovered the cause : though he 
 had scarcely gained a bursary, he had gained prizes ; and in a 
 little place like Rothieden — long may there be such places ! 
 
 — everybody with any brains at all took a share in the dis- 
 tinction he had merited. 
 
 Ericson stayed only a fe,w days. He went back to the twi- 
 light of the north, his fishy cousin, and his tutorship at Sir 
 Olaf Peterson's. Robert accompanied him ten miles on his 
 journey, and would have gone further, but that he was to play 
 on his violin before Miss St. John the next day for the first 
 time. 
 
 When he told his grandmother of the appointment he had 
 made, she only remarked, in a tone of some satisfaction : — 
 
 " Weel, she's a fine lass. Miss St. John ; and if ye tak' to 
 ane anither, ye canna do better." 
 
 But Robert's thoughts were so difierent from Mrs. Falcon- 
 er's, that he did not even suspect what she meant. He no 
 more dreamed of marrying Miss St. John than of marrying 
 his forbidden grandmother. : Yet she was no less at this period 
 the ruling influence of his life ; and if it had not been for the 
 benediction of her presence and power, this part of his history 
 too would have been torn by inward troubles. It is not good 
 that a man should batter day and night at the gate of heaven. 
 Sometimes he can do nothing else, and then nothing else ia 
 
?02 EGBERT FALCONER, 
 
 worth doing ; but the very noise of the Biege will sometimea 
 drown the still small voice that calls from the open postern. 
 There is a door wide to the jewelled wall not far from any 
 one of us, even when he least can find it. 
 
 Robert, however, notwithstanding the pedestal upon which 
 Miss St. John stood in his worshipping regard, began to be 
 aware that his feeling towards her was losing something of its 
 placid flow, and I doubt whether Miss StT. John did not now 
 and then see that in his face which made her tremble a little, 
 and doubt whether she stood on safe ground with a youth just 
 waking into manhood, — tremble a little, not for herself, but 
 for him. Her fear would have found itself more than justified, 
 if she had surprised him kissing her glove, and then replacing 
 it where he had found it, with the air of one consciously guilty 
 of presumption. 
 
 Possibly also Miss St. John may have had to confess to 
 herself that had she not had her history already, and been ten 
 years his senior, she might have found no little attraction in 
 the noble bearing and handsome face of young Falconer. The 
 rest of his features had now grown into complete harmony of 
 relation with his whilom premature and therefore portentous 
 nose ; his eyes glowed and gleamed with humanity, and hia 
 whole countenance bore self-evident witness of being a true 
 face and no mask, a revelation of his individual being, and 
 not a mere inheritance from a fine breed of fathers and 
 mothers. As it was, she could admire and love him without 
 danger of falling in love with him ; but not without fear lest 
 he should not assume the correlative position. She saw no 
 way of prevention, however, without running a risk of worse. 
 She shrunk altogether from putting • on anything ; she ab- 
 horred tact, and pretence was impracticable with Mary St. 
 John. She. resolved that if she saw any definite ground for 
 uneasiness she would return to England, and leave any im- 
 pression she might have made to wear out in her absence and 
 silence. Things did not seem to render this necessary yet. 
 
 Meantime the violin of the dead shoemaker blended its 
 wails with the rich harmonies of Mary St. John's piano, and 
 the soul of Robert went forth upon the level of the sound and 
 hovered about the beauty of his friend. Oftener than she ap- 
 
BOBEET FALCONER. SOS 
 
 proved was she drawn bj Robert's eagerness into these cov 
 sorts. 
 
 But the heart of the king is in the hands of the Ijord. 
 
 While Robert thus once more for a season stood behind the 
 cherub with the flaming sword, Ericson was teaching two stiff- 
 necked youths in a dreary house in the midst of one of the 
 moors of Caithness. One day ho had a slight attack of blood- 
 spitting, and welcomed it as a sign from what heaven there 
 might be beyond the grave. 
 
 He had not received the consolation of Miss St. John with- 
 out, although unconsciously, leavmg something in her mind 
 in return. No human being has ever been allowed to occupy 
 the position of a pure benefactor. The receiver has his turn, 
 and becomes the giver. From her talk with Ericson, and even 
 more from the influence of his sad, holy doubt, a fresh touch 
 of the actinism of the solar truth fell upon the living seed in 
 her heart, and her life burst forth afresh, began to bud in new 
 questions that needed answers, and new prayers that sought 
 them. 
 
 But she never dreamed that Robert was capable of sympa- 
 thy with such thoughts and feelings ; he was but a boy. Nor 
 in power of dealing with truth vi^as he at all on the same level 
 with her, for however poor he might have considered her theo- 
 ries, she had led a life hitherto, had passed through sorrow 
 without bitterness, had done her duty without pride, had 
 hoped without conceit of favor, had, as she believed, heard 
 the voice of God saying, " This is the way." Hence she was 
 not afraid when the mists of prejudices began to rise from 
 around her path, and reveal a country very difierent from 
 what she had fancied it. . She was soon able to perceive that 
 it was far more lovely and full of righteousness and peace than 
 she had supposed. But this anticipates ; only I shall have 
 less occasion to speak of Miss St. John by the time she has 
 come into this purer air of the uphill road. 
 
 Robert was happier than he ever could have expected to be 
 in his grandmother's house. She treated him like an honored 
 guest, let him do as he would, and go where he pleased. 
 Betty kept the gable-room in the best of order for him, and, 
 pattern of housemaids, dusted his table without disturbing hia 
 papers. For he began to have papers ; nor were they occu- 
 
804 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 pied only with the mathematics to which he was now giving 
 his chief attention, preparing, with the occasional help of Mr. 
 Innes, for his second session. 
 
 He had fits of wandering, though ; visited all the old places ; 
 spent a week or two more than oncfe at Bodyfauld ; rode Mr. 
 Lammie's half-broken filly ; revelled in the glories of the 
 summer once more ; went out to tea occasionally, or supped 
 witli the school-master ; and, except going to church on Sun- 
 day, which was a weariness to every inch of flesh upon his 
 bones, enjoyed everything. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 A GRAVE OPENED. 
 
 One thing that troubled Bobert on this his first return 
 home, was the discovery that the surroundings of his child- 
 hood had deserted him. There they were, as of yore, but 
 they seemed to have nothing to say to him, — no remem 
 brance of him. It was not that everything looked small and 
 narrow ; it was not that the streets he saw from his new :juar- 
 ters, the gable-room, were awfully still after the roar of Aber- 
 deen, and a passing cart seemed to shudder at the loneliness 
 of the noise itself made ; it was that everything seemed to be 
 conscious only of the past and care nothing for liim now. 
 The very chairs, with their inlaid backs, had an embalmed 
 look, and stood as in a dream. He could pass even the 
 walled-up door without emotion, for. all the feeling that had 
 been gathered about the knob that admitted him to Mary St. 
 John, had transferred itself to the brass bell-pull at her street- 
 door. 
 
 But one day, after standing for a while at the window, 
 looking down on the street where he had first seen the be- 
 loved form of Ericson, a certain old mood began to revive in 
 him. He had been working at quadratic equations all the 
 morning ; he had been foiled in the attempt to find the true 
 algebraic statement of a very tough question involving various 
 ratios ; and, vexed with himself, he had risen to look out, ai 
 
BOBERT FALCONER. S05 
 
 the only available Zeitvertreib. It was one of those rainy 
 days of spring which it needs a hopeful mood to distinguish 
 from autumnal ones, — dull, depressing, persistent ; there 
 might be sunshine in Mercury or Venus, — but on the earth 
 could be none, from his right hand round by India and Amer- 
 ica to his left ; and certainly there was none between, — a 
 mood to which all sensitive people are liable who have not yet 
 learned by faith in the everlasting to rule their own spirits. 
 Naturally enough his thoughts turned to the place where he 
 had suffered most, — his old room in the garret. Hitherto he 
 had shrunk from visiting it; but now he turned away from 
 the window, went up the steep stairs, with their one sharp 
 corkscrew curve, pushed the door, which clung unwillingly to 
 the floor, and entered. It was a nothing of a place, — with a 
 window that looked only to heaven. There was the empty 
 bedstead against the wall, where he had so often kneeled^ 
 sending forth vain prayers to a- deaf heaven ! Had they 
 indeed been vain prayers, and to a deaf heaven ? or had they 
 been prayers which a hearing God must answer, not according 
 to the haste of the praying child, but according to the calm 
 course of his own infinite law of love ? 
 
 Here, somehow or other, the things about him did not seem 
 so much absorbed in the past, notwithstanding those un- 
 troubled rows of papers bundled in red tape. True, they 
 looked almost awful in their lack of interest and their non-hu- 
 manity, for there is scarcely anything that absolutely loses 
 interest save the records of money ; but his mother's work-box 
 lay behind them. And, strange to say, the side of that bed 
 drew him to kneel down ; he did not yet believe that prayer 
 was in vain. If God had not answered him before, that gave 
 no certainty that he would not answer him now. It was, he 
 found, still as rational as it had ever been to hope that God 
 would answer the man that cried to him. This came, I think, 
 from the fact that God had been answering him all the time, 
 although he had not recognized his gifts as answers. Had he 
 not given him Ericson, his intercourse with whom and his fa- 
 miliarity with whose doubts had done anything but quench his 
 thirst after the higher life ? For Ericson's, like his own, were 
 true and good and reverent doubts, not merely consistent with, 
 but in a great measure springing from, devoutness and aspirar 
 20 
 
306 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 tion. Surely such doubts are far more precious in the sighl 
 of God than many beliefs ! 
 
 He kneeled and sent forth one cry after the Father, arose, 
 and turned towards the shelves, removed some of the bandies 
 of letters, and drew out his mother's little box. 
 
 There lay the miniature, still and open-eyed as he had left 
 it. There, too, lay the bit of paper, brown and dry, with the 
 hymn and the few words of sorrow written thereon. He 
 looked at the portrait, but did not open the folded paper. 
 Then first he thought whether there might not be something 
 more in the box ; what he had taken for the bottom seemed to 
 be a tray. He lifted it by two little ears of ribbon, and there, 
 underneath, lay a letter addressed to his father, in the same 
 old-fashioned handwriting as the hymn. It was sealed with 
 brown wax, full of spangles, impressed with a bush of some- 
 thing, — he could not tell whether rushes or reeds or flags. 
 Of course he dared not open it. His holy mother's words to 
 his erring father must be sacred even from the eye of their 
 son. But what other or fitter messenger than himself could 
 bear it to its destination ? It was for this that he had been 
 guided to it. 
 
 For years he had regarded the finding of his father as the 
 first duty of his manhpod ; it was as if his mother had now 
 given her sanction to the quest, with this letter to carry to 
 the husband, who, however he might have erred, was yet dear 
 to her. He replaced it in the box, but the box no more on the 
 forsaken shelf with its dreary barricade of soulless records. 
 He carried it with him, and laid it in the bottom of his box, 
 which henceforth he kept carefully locked; there lay as it 
 were the pledge of his father's salvation and his mother's re- 
 demption from an eternal grief. 
 
 He turned to his equation ; it had cleared itself up ; he 
 worked it out in fivs minutes. Betty came to tell him that 
 the dinner was ready, and he went down, peaceful and hope- 
 ful, to his grandmother. 
 
 While at home he never worked in the evenings ; it was bad 
 enough to have to do so at college. Hence nature had a 
 chance with him again. Blessings on the wintry blasts that 
 broke into the first youth of summer ! They made him fee] 
 what summer was ! Blessings on the cheerless days of rain, 
 
ROBERT PALCONKR. 807 
 
 and even of sleet and hail, that would shove the reluctant 
 year back into January ! The fair face of Spring, with her 
 tears dropping upon her quenchless smiles, peeped in sup- 
 pressed triumph from behind the growing corn and thf. budding 
 sallows on the river-bank. Nay, even when the stow came 
 once more in defiance of calendars, it was but a background 
 from which the near genesis should "stick fiery off." 
 
 In general he had a lonely walk after his lesson with Miss 
 St. John was over ; there was no one at Rothieden to whom 
 his heart and intellect both were sufficiently drawn to make a 
 close friendship possible. He had companions however : Eric- 
 son had left his papers with him. The influence of these led 
 him into yet closer sympathy with Nature and all her moods, 
 — a sympathy which, even in the stony heart of Aberdeen, he 
 not only did not lose, but never ceased to feel. Even there a 
 breath of wind would not only breathe upon him, it would 
 breathe into him ; and a sunset seen from the Strand was lovely 
 as if it had hung over rainbow seas. On his way home he 
 would often go into one of the shops where the neighbors con- 
 gregated in the evenings, and hold a little talk ; and although, 
 with Miss St. John filling his heart, his friend's poems his 
 imagination, and geometry and algebra his intellect, great was 
 the contrast between his own inner mood and the words by 
 which he kept up human relations with his townsfolk, yet in 
 after years he counted it one of the greatest blessings of a 
 lowly birth and education that he knew hearts and feelings, 
 which to understand one must have been young amongst them. 
 He would not have had a chance of knowing such as these if 
 he had been the son of Dr, Anderson and bcrn in Aberdeen. ' 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 ROBERT MEDIATES. 
 
 One lovely evening in the first of the summer Miss Bt. 
 John had dismissed him earlier than usual, and he had wan- 
 dered out for a walk. After a round of a couple of miles, he 
 returned by a fir-wood, through which went a pathway. He 
 
508 ROBERT TALCONBR. 
 
 had heard Mary St. John say that she was going to see the 
 wife of a laborer who lived at the end of this path. In the heart 
 of tlie trees it was growing very dusky ; but when ho came 
 to a spot where they stood away from each other a little space, 
 and the blue sky looked in from above, with one cloud floating 
 in it from which the rose of the sunset was fading, he seated 
 himself on a little mound of moss that had gathered over an 
 ancient stump by the footpath, and drew out his friend's 
 papers. Absorbed in his reading, he was not aware of an 
 approach till the rustle of silk startled him. He lifted up his 
 eyes, and saw Miss St. John a few yards from him on the . 
 pathway. He rose. 
 
 "It's almost too dark to read now, isn't it, Robert? " she 
 said. 
 
 "Ah ! " said Robert, "I know this writing so well that I 
 could read it by moonlight. I wish I might read some of it to 
 you. You would like it." 
 
 " May I ask whose it is, then? Poetry, too ! " 
 
 "It's Mr. Ericson's. But I'm feared he wouldna like me 
 to read it to anybody but myself And yet — " 
 
 " I don't think he would mind me," returned Miss St. 
 John. " I do know him a little. It is not as if I were quite 
 a stranger, you know. Did he tell you not ? " 
 
 " No. But then he never thought of such a thing. I don't 
 know if it's fair, for they are carelessly written, and there are 
 words and lines here and there that I am sure he would alter 
 if he cared for them." 
 
 " Then if he doesn't care for them, he won't mind my hear- 
 ing them. There ! " she said, seating herself on the stump. 
 "You sit down on the grass and read me — one at least." 
 
 " You'll remember they were never intended to be read? " 
 urged Robert, not knowing what he was doing, and so fulfill- 
 ing his destiny. 
 
 " I will be as jealous of his honor as ever you can wish,' 
 answered Miss St. John, gayly. 
 
 Robert laid himself on the grass at her feet, and read : — 
 
 " When the storm was proudest, 
 And the wind was loudest, 
 I beard the hollow carerus drinking down below, 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 309 
 
 "WTien the stars were bright, 
 And the ground was white, 
 I heard the grasses springing underneath the snow. 
 
 " Many voices spake, — 
 
 The river to the lalce. 
 The Iron-ribbed sky was talking to the sea; 
 
 And every starry spark 
 
 Made music with the dark. 
 And said how bright and beautiful everything must be." 
 
 " That line, mem," remarked Robert, " 'a only jist scrattit 
 in, as if he had no intention o' leavin' 't, an' only set it there 
 to keep room for anither. But we'll jist gang on wi' the lave 
 o' 't. I ouchtna to hae interuppit it." 
 
 " When the sun was setting, 
 
 All the clouds were getting 
 Beaatiful and silvery In the rising moon; 
 
 Beneath the leafless trees 
 
 Wrangling in the breeze, 
 I could hardly see them for the leaves of June. 
 
 " When the day had ended, 
 
 And the night descended, 
 1 heard the sound of streams that I heard not through the day, 
 
 And every peak afar. 
 
 Was ready for a star, 
 And they climbed and rolled around until the morning gray. 
 
 " Then slumber, soft and holy, 
 
 Came down upon me slowly; 
 And I went I know not whither, and I lived I know not how; 
 
 My glory had been banished, 
 
 For when I woke it vanished ; 
 But I waited on its coming, and I am waiting now." 
 
 " There 1" said Robert, ending, " can ye mak' onything o' 
 that, Miss St. John ? " 
 
 " I don't say I can in words," she answered ; "but I think 
 I could put it all into music." 
 
 "But surely ye maun hae some notion o' what it's aboot 
 afore you can do that." 
 
 " Yes ; but I have some notion of what it's about, I think. 
 J ust lend it to me ; and by the time we have our next lesson, 
 you will see whether I'm not able to show you I understand 
 it. I shall take good care of it," she added, with a smile, 
 seeing Robert's reluctance to part with it. " It doesn't matter 
 my having it, you know, now that you've read it to me. I 
 want to make you do it justice. — But it's quite time I were 
 
810 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 going home. Besides. 1 really don't think you can see to read 
 any more." 
 
 " Weel, it's better no' to try, though I hae them maistlj 
 upo' my tongue ; I might blunder, and that wad blaud them 
 — Will you let me go home with you ? " he added, in pure, 
 tremulous English. 
 
 " Certainly, if you like," she answered ; and they walked 
 cowards the town. 
 
 Robert opened the fountain of his love for Ericson, and let 
 it gush like a river from a hill-side. He talked on and on 
 about him, with admiration, gratitude, devotion. And Miss 
 S'' John was glad of the veil of the twilight over her face as 
 she listened, for the boy's enthusiasm trembled through faei as 
 the wind through an ^olian harp. Poor Robert ! He did 
 not know, I say, what he was doing, and so was fulfilling his 
 sacred destiny. 
 
 "Bring your manuscripts when you come next," she said, 
 as they walked along, gently adding, "I admire your friend's 
 verses very much, and should like to hear more of them." 
 
 "I'll be sure an' do that," answered Robert, in delight that 
 he had found one to sympathize with him in his worship of 
 Ericson, and that one his other idol. 
 
 When they reached the town, Miss St. John, calling to 
 mind its natural propensity to gossip, especially on the even- 
 ing of a market-day, when the shop-keepers, their labors 
 over, would be standing in a speculative mood at their doors, 
 surrounded by groups of friends and neighbors, felt shy of 
 showing herself on the square with Robert, and proposed that 
 they should part, giving as a by-the-by reason that she had a 
 little shopping to do as she went home. Too simple to suspect 
 the real reason, but with a heart that delighted in obedience, 
 Robert bade her good-night at once, and took another way. 
 
 As he passed the door of Merson, the haberdasher's shop, 
 there stood William Macgregor, the weaver, looking at nothing 
 and doing nothing. We have seen something of him before ; 
 he was a remarkable compound of good nature and bad temper. 
 People were generally afraid of him, because he had a biting 
 satire at his command, amounting even to wit, which found 
 vent in verse, — not altogether despicable even from a literary 
 point of view. The only person he, on his part, was afraid 
 
ROBERT FATiCONER. , 811 
 
 of, was his own wife ; for upon her, from lack of apprehension, 
 his keenest irony fell, as he said, like water on a duck's back, 
 and in respect of her he had, tlierefore, no weapon of offence 
 to strike terror withal. Her dulness was her defence. He 
 liked Robert. When he saw him, he wakened up, laid bold 
 of him by the button, and drew him in. 
 
 " Come in, lad," he said, " an' tak' a pinch. I'm waiting 
 for Merson." As he spoke he took from his pocket his mull, 
 made of the end of a ram's horn, and presented it to Robert, 
 who accepted the pledge of friendship. While he was partak- 
 ing, Macgregor drew himself with some effort upon the coun- 
 ter, saying in a half-comical, half-admonitory tone : — 
 
 " Weel, and hoo's the mathematics, Robert?" 
 
 "Thrivin'," answered Robert, falling into his good-humor. 
 Weel, that's verra weel. Duv ye min', Robert, hoo, 
 whan ye was aboot the age o' aucht year aul', ye cam' to me 
 ance at my shop aboot something yer gran'mither, honest 
 woman, wantit ; an' I, by the way o' takin' my fun o' ye, said 
 to ye, ' Robert, ye hae grown desperate ; ye're a man clean ; 
 ye hae gotten the breeks on.' An' says ye, 'Ay, Mr. Mac- 
 gregor, I want naething noo but a watch an' a wife ' ? " 
 
 " I doobt I've forgotten a' aboot it, Mr. Macgregor," 
 answered Robert. " But I've made some progress, accordin' 
 to your story, for Dr. Anderson, afore I cam' hame, gae me a 
 watch. An' a fine crater it is, for it aye does its best, an' 
 sae I excuse its shortcomin's." 
 
 " There's just ae thing, an' nae anither," returned the 
 manufacturer, " that I cannot excuse in a watch. ' If a watch 
 gangs ower fest, ye fin' 't oot. If she gangs ower slow, ye fin' 
 t oot, an' ye can aye calculate upo' 't correck enuch for mait- 
 ters sublunairy, as Mr. Maccleary says. An' if a watch stops 
 a'thegither, ye ken it's failin', an' ye ken whaur it sticks, an' 
 a' 'at ye say's ' Tut, tat, de'il hae't for a watch ! ' But there's 
 ae thing that God nor man canna bide in a watch, an' that's 
 whan it stan's still for a bittock, an' syne gangs on again. 
 Ay, ay ! tic, tic, tic ! wi' a fair face and a leeing' hert. It 
 wad gar ye believe it was a' richt, and time for anither 
 tum'ler, whan it's twal o'clock, an' the kirkyaird fowk thinkin' 
 aboot risin'. Fegs, I ha-i a watch o' my father's, an' I regairdit 
 it wi' a reverence mair like a human bein' ; the second time it 
 
812 ROBERT FALCijKER. 
 
 played me that pliakie, I dang oot its inwards upo' the loupin'- 
 on-stane at the door o' the shop. But lat the watch sit; 
 whaur's the wife ? Ye canna be a man yet, wantin' the wife 
 — by yer ain statement." 
 
 " The watch cam' unsoucht, Mr. Macgregor, an' I'm 
 thinkin' sae maun the wife," answered Robert, laughing._ 
 
 " Preserve me for ane frae a wife that comes unsoucht," 
 returned the weaver. " But, my lad, there may be some 
 wives that winna come whan they are soucht. Preserve me 
 frae them too ! — Noo, maybe ye dinna ken what I mean ; 
 hut tak' ye tent what ye're aboot. Dinna ye think 'at ilka 
 bonnie lass 'at may like to baud a wark wi' ye's jist ready to 
 mairry ye aff ban' whan ye say, 'Noo, my dawtie.' — An' ae 
 word mair, Robert: Young men, especially braw lads like 
 yersel', 's unco ready to fa' in love wi' women fit to be their 
 mithers. An' sae ye see — " 
 
 He was interrupted by the entrance of a girl. She had a 
 shawl over her head, notwithstanding it was summer weather, 
 and crept in hesitatingly, as if she were not quite at one with 
 herself as to her coming purchase. Approaching a boy behind 
 the counter on the opposite side of the shop, she asked for 
 something, and he proceeded to serve her. Robert could not 
 help thinking, from the one glimpse of her face he had got 
 through the dusk, that he had seen her before. Suddenly the 
 vision of an earthen floor with a pool of brown sunlight upon 
 it, bare feet, brown hair, and soft eyes, mingled with a musk 
 odor wafted from Arabian fairyland, rose before him : it was 
 Jessie HewsQn. 
 
 " I know that lassie," he said, and moved to get down from 
 the counter on which he, too, had seated himself. 
 
 " Na, na," whispered the manufacturer, laying, like the 
 Ancient Mariner, a brown, skinny hand of restraint upon 
 Robert's arm, — " na, na, never heed her. Ye maunna speyk 
 to ilka lass 'at ye know. — Poor thing ! she's been doin' some- 
 thing wrang, to gang slinkin' aboot i' the gloamin' like a 
 bat, wi' her plaid ower her heid. Dinna fash wi' her." 
 
 " Ifonsense ! " returned Robert, with indignation. " What 
 for shouldna I speik till her ? She's a decent lassie, — a 
 dochter o' James Hewson, the cotter at Bodyfauld. I know 
 her fine " 
 
KOBBRT FALCONER. 313 
 
 He said this in a whisper; but the girl seemed to hear it, 
 for she left the shop with a perturbation which the dimaesa of 
 the late twilight could not conceal. Robert hesitated no 
 longer, but followed her, heedless of the louder expostulations 
 of Macgregor. She was speeding away down the street ; but 
 he took longer strides than she, and was almost up with her, 
 when she drew her shawl closer about her head, and increased 
 hei pace. 
 
 " Jessie ! " said Robert, in a tone of expostulation. But 
 she made no answer. Her head sunk lower on her bosom, 
 and she hurried yet faster. lie gave a long stride or two and 
 laid his hand on her shoulder. She stood still, trembling. 
 
 "Jessie, dinna ye know me, — Robert Faukner? Dinna 
 be feart at me. What's the maitter wi' ye, 'at ye winna speik 
 till a body ? Hoo's a' the fowk at hame ? " 
 
 She burst out crying, cast one look into Robert's face, and 
 fled. What a change was in that face ! The peach-color was 
 gone from her cheek ; it was pale and thin. Her eyes were 
 hollow, with dark shadows under them, the shadows of a sad 
 sunset. A foreboding of the truth arose in his heart, and the 
 tears rushed up into his eyes. The next moment the thought 
 of Mary St. John, moving gracious and strong, clothed in 
 worship and the dignity which is its own defence, appeared 
 beside that of Jessie Hewson, her bowed head shaking with 
 sobs, and her weak limbs urged to ungraceful flight. As if 
 walking in the vision of an eternal truth, he went straight to 
 Captain Forsyth's door. 
 
 " I want to speak to Miss St. John, Isie," said Robert. 
 
 " She'll be doon in a minit." 
 
 "But isna yer mistress i' the drawin'-room ? — I dinna 
 want to see her. " 
 
 "Ow, weel," said the girl, who was almost fresh from the 
 country, "jist rin up the stair, an' rap at the door o' her 
 room." 
 
 With the simplicity of a child, for what a girl told him to 
 do must be right, Robert sped up the stair, his heart going 
 like a fire-engine. He had never approached Mary's I'oom 
 from this side but instinct or something else led him straight 
 to her door. He knocked. 
 
S14 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Come in," she said, never doubting it was the maid, and 
 Robert entered. 
 
 She wa3 brushing her hair by the light of a chamber candle 
 Robert was seized with awe, and his limbs trembled. He 
 could have kneeled before her, — not to beg forgiveness, he 
 did not think of that ; but to worship, as a man may worship 
 a woman. It is only a strong, pure heart like Robert's that 
 ever can feel all the inroad of the divine mystery of woman- 
 hood But he did not kneel. He had a duty to perform. A 
 flush rose in Miss St. John's face, and sank away, leaving it 
 pale. It was not that she thought once of her own condition, with 
 her hair loose on her shoulders, but, able only to conjecture 
 what had brought him thither, she could not but regard Rob- 
 ert's presence with dismay. She stood with her ivory brush 
 in her right hand uplifted, and a great handful of hair in her 
 left. She was soon relieved, however, although, what with 
 his contemplated intercession, the dim vision of Mary's lovely 
 face between the masses of her hair, and the lavender odor 
 that filled the room, — perhaps also a faint suspicion of impro- 
 priety suflBcient to give force to the rest, : — Robert was thrown 
 back into the abyss of his mother-tongue, and out of this abyss 
 talked like a behemoth. 
 
 '• Robert ! " said Mary, in a tone which, had he not been so 
 eager after his end, he might have interpreted as one of dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 "Ye maun hearken till me, mem. — Whan I was oot at 
 Eodyfauld," he began methodically, and Mary, bewildered, 
 gave one hasty brush to her handful of hair and again stood 
 still ; she could imagine no connection between this meeting 
 and their late parting, — "whan I was oot at Bodyfauld ae 
 simmer, I grew acquaint wi' a bonnie lassie there, the dochter 
 o' Jeames Hewson, an honest cotter, wi' Shakspeare an' the 
 ' Arabian Nichts' upo' a skelf i' the hoose wi' 'im. I gaed in 
 ae day whan I wasna weel ; an' she jist ministert to mo, aa 
 nane ever did but yersel' mem. An' she was that kin' an' 
 mither-like to the wee bit greitin' bairnie 'at she had to tak' 
 care o', 'cause her mither was oot wi' the lave shearin' ! Hei 
 face was jist like a simmer. day, an' weel I likit the luik o' 
 the lassie ! — I met her again the nicht. Ye never saw sic « 
 change. A white face, an' nothing but greitin' to come oot 9 
 
KOBERT FALCONER. 815 
 
 her She ran frae me as if I had been the dei'l himsel'. -A-n' 
 the thocht o' you, sae bonnie an' straucht an' gran' cam ower 
 me." 
 
 Yielding to a masterful impulse, Robert did kneel now 
 As if sinner, and not mediator, he pressed the hem of her gar 
 ment to his lips. 
 
 " Dinaa be angry at me, Miss St. John," he pleaded, "buf 
 bo mercifu' to the lassie. Wha's to help her that can no more 
 luik a man i' the face, but the clear-e'ed lass that Tvad luik 
 the sun himsel' oot o' the lift if he daured to say a word 
 against her. It's ae woman that can uphaud anither. Ye 
 ken what I mean, an' I needna say mair." 
 
 He rose and turned to leave the room. 
 
 Bewildered and doubtful, Miss St. John did not know what 
 to answer, but felt that she must make some reply. 
 
 ' ' You haven't told me where to find the girl, or what you 
 want me to do with her." 
 
 "I'll fin' oot whaur she bides," he said, moving again 
 towards the door. 
 
 " But what am I to do with her, Robert? " 
 
 ' ' That's your pairt. Ye maun fin' oot what to do wi' her. 
 I canna tell ye that. But if I was you, I wad gie her a kisa 
 to begin wi'. i She's nane o' yer brazen-faced hizzies, yon. 
 A kiss wad be the savin' o' her." 
 
 " But you may be — But I have nothing to go upon. She 
 would resent my interference." 
 
 " She's past resentin' onything. She was gaein aboot the 
 toon like ane o' the deid. 'at hae naething to say to onybody, 
 an' naebody onything to say to them. If she gangs on like 
 that she'll not be alive lang." 
 
 That night Jessie Hewson disappeared. A mile or two up 
 the river under a high bank, from which the main current had 
 receded, lay an awful, swampy place, — full of reeds, except 
 in the middle, where was one round space full of dark water 
 and mud. Near this Jessie Hewson was seen about an hour 
 after Robert had thus plead for her with his angel. 
 
 The event made a deep impression upon Robert. The last 
 time that he saw them, James and his wife were as cheerful 
 as usual, and gave him a hearty welcome. Jessie was in ser- 
 vice and doing well, they said. The next time lie opened tha 
 
S16 KOBEBT FALCONER. 
 
 door of the cottage it was like the entrance to a haunted tomb. 
 Not a smile was in the place. James's cheeriness was all 
 gone. He was sitting at the table with his head leaning on 
 his hand. His Bible was open before him, but he was not 
 reading a word. His wife was moving listlessly about. They 
 looked just as Jessie had looked that night, — as if they had 
 died long ago, but somehow or other could not get into their 
 graves and be at rest. The child Jessie had nursed with such 
 care was toddling about, looking rueful with loss. George 
 had gone to America, and the whole of that family's joy had 
 vanished from the earth. 
 
 The subject was not resumed between Miss St. John and 
 Robert. The next time he saw her, he knew, by her pale, 
 troubled face, that she had heard the report that filled the 
 town ; and she knew by his silence that it had indeed reference 
 to the same girl of whom he had spoken to her. The music 
 would not go right that evening. Mary was distraite, and 
 Robert was troubled. It was a week or two before there came 
 a change. When the turn did come, over his being love rushed 
 up like a spring-tide from the ocean of the Infinite. 
 
 He was accompanying her piano with his violin. He made 
 blunders, and her playing was out of heart. They stopped as 
 by consent, and a moment's silence followed. All at once she 
 broke out with something Robert had never heard before. He 
 soon found that it was a fantasy upon Ericson's poem. Ever 
 through a troubled harmony ran a silver thread of melody from 
 far away. It was the caverns drinking from the tempest over- 
 head, the grasses growing under the snow, the stars making 
 music with the dark, the streams filling- the night with the 
 sounds the day had quenched, the whispering call of the dreams 
 left behind in " the fields of sleep," — in a word, the central 
 life pulsing in SBonian peace through the outer ephemeral 
 storms. At length her voice took up the theme. The silvery 
 thread became song, and through all the opposing, supporting 
 harmonies she led it to the solution of a close in which the only 
 sorrow was in the music itself, for its very life is an "endless 
 ending." She found Robert kneeling by her side. As she 
 turned from the instrument his head dropped over her knee. 
 She laid her hand on his clustering curls,, bethought herself, 
 and left the room. Robert wandered out is in a dream. At 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 817 
 
 midnight he found himself on a solitary hill-top, seated in the 
 heather, with a few tiny fir-trees about him, and the sounds of 
 a wind, ethereal as the stars overhead, flowing through their 
 branches ; he heard the sound of it, but it did not touch him. 
 
 Where was God ? 
 
 In him and his question. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 BBIOSON LOSES TO WIN. 
 
 If Mary St. .John had been an ordinary woman, and if, not- 
 withstanding, Robert had been in love with her, he would have 
 done very little in preparation for the coming session. But 
 although she now possessed him, although at times he only knew 
 himself as loving her, there was such a mountain air of calm 
 about her, such an outgoing divinity of peace, such a largely 
 moulded harmony of being, that he could not love her other- 
 wise than grandly. For her sake, weary with loving her, he 
 would yet turn to his work, and, to be worthy of her, or rather, 
 for he never dreamed of being worthy of her, to be worthy of 
 leave to love her, would forget her enough to lay hold of some 
 abstract truth of lines, angles, or symbols. A strange way of 
 being in love, reader ? You think so ? I would there were 
 more love like it ; the world would be centuries nearer its re- 
 demption if a millionth part of the love in it were of the sort. 
 All I insist, however, on my reader's believing is, that it showed, 
 in a youth like Robert", not less but more love that he could go 
 against love's sweetness, for the sake of love's greatness. Liter- 
 ally, not figuratively, Robert would kiss the place where her 
 foot had trod ; but I know that once he rose from such a kisa 
 " to trace the hyperbola by means of a string." 
 
 It had been arranged between Ericson and Robert, in Miss 
 Napier's parlor, the old lady knitting beside, that Ericson 
 should start, if possible, a week earlier than usual, and spend 
 the difference with Robert at Rothieden. But then the old 
 lady had opened her mouth and spoken. And I firmly believe, 
 though little sign of tenderness passed between them, it waa 
 
818 ROBERT FAU!ONER. 
 
 with an elder sister's feeling for Letty's admiration of the 
 ' Ian' less laird," that she said as follows ■ -- 
 
 '' Dinna ye think. Mr. Ericson, it wad be but fair to come 
 to us neist time ? Mistress Faukner, — honest lady^ an' lang hae 
 I known her, — 's no sae auld a frien' to you, Mr. Ericson, as 
 oorsel's, — nae oflFence to her, ye know. A'body canna be 
 frien's to a'body, and as lang 's anither, ye know." 
 
 " 'Deed I maun alloo. Miss Napier," interposed Robert, 
 "it's only fair. Ye see, Mr. Ericson, I cud see as muckle o' 
 ye almost, the tae way as the tither. Miss Napier mak's me 
 welcome as weel's you." 
 
 " An' lullliaak' ye welcome, Robert, as lang's ye're a gude 
 lad as ye are, and gang na efter, — nae ill way. But lat me 
 hear o' yer doin' as sae mony young gentlemen do, espeacially 
 whan they're ta'en up by their rich relations, an', public-hoose 
 as this is, I'll close the door o' 't i' yer face." 
 
 " Bless me, Miss Napier ! " said Robert, " what hae I dune 
 to set ye at ue that gait ? Faith, I dinna know what ye 
 mean." 
 
 " Nae mair do I, laddie. I hae naething against ye what- 
 ever. Only yt see auld fowk luiks aheid, an' wad fain be as 
 sure o' what's to come as o' what's gane." 
 
 "Ye maun bide for that, I doobt," said Robert. 
 
 "Laddie," retorted Miss Napier, "ye hae mair sense nor 
 ye hae ony richl till. Haud the tongue o' ye. Mr. Ericson's 
 to come here neist." 
 
 And the old lady laughed such good humor into her stock- 
 ing-sole, that the foot destined to wear it ought never to have 
 been cold while it lasted. So it was then settled ; and a week 
 before Robert was to start for Aberdeen, Ericson walked into 
 the Boar's Head. Half an hour after that, Crookit Caumill 
 was shown into the ga'le-room with the message to Mister 
 Robert that Mister Ericson was come, and wanted to see him. 
 
 Robert pitched Hutton's Mathematics on to the floor, sprang 
 to his feet, all but embraced Crookit Caumill on the spot, and 
 was deterred only by the perturbed look the man wore. Crookit 
 Caumill wa« a very human creature, and hadn't a fault but the 
 drink. Miss Napier said. And very little of what he would 
 have had if she had been as active as she was willing. 
 
ROBEKT FALCONER. 819 
 
 " What's the matter, Caumill ? " asked Robert, in consider- 
 able alarm. 
 
 ' Ow, naething, sir," returned Campbell. 
 
 " What makes ye look like that, then? " insisted Robert. 
 
 " Ow, naething. But whan Miss Letty cried doon the close 
 upo' me, she had her awpron till her een, an' I thocht some- 
 thing bude to be wrang; but I hadna the hert to speir." 
 
 Robert darted to the door, and rushed to the inn, leaving 
 Caumill describing iambi on the road behind him. 
 
 When he reached the Boar's Head there was nobody to bo 
 seen. He darted up the stair to the room where he had first 
 waited upon Ericson. 
 
 Three or four maids stood at the door. He asked no ques- 
 tion, but went in, a dreadful fear in his heart. Two of the 
 sisters and Dr. Gow stood by the bed. 
 
 Ericson lay upon it, clear-eyed and still. His cheek waa 
 flushed. The doctor looked round as Robert entered. 
 
 "Robert," he said, "you must keep your friend here quiet. 
 He's broken a blood-vessel, — walked too much, I suppose. 
 He'll be all right soon, I hope ; but we can't be too careful. 
 Keep him qaiet, that's the main thing. He mustn't speak a 
 word." 
 
 So saying, he took his leave. 
 
 Ericson held out his thin hand. Robert grasped it. Ericson's 
 lips moved as if he would speak. 
 
 " Dinna speik, Mr. Ericson," said Miss Letty, whose tears 
 were flowing unheeded down her cheeks, "dinna speik. We 
 a' know what ye mean an' what ye want wi'oot that." 
 
 Then she turned to Robert, and said in a whisper : — 
 
 " Dr. Gow wadna hae ye sent for ; but I knew weel eneuch 
 'at he wad be a' the quaieter if ye war here. Jist gie a knock 
 upo' the flure if ye want ony thing, an' I'll be wi' ye in twa 
 seconds." 
 
 The sisters went away. Robert drew a chair beside the bed, 
 and once more was nurse to his friend. The doctor had already 
 bled him at the arm ; such was the ordinary mode of treatment 
 then. 
 
 Scarcely was he seated, when Ericson spoke, — a smile 
 flickering over his worn face. 
 
 "Robert, my boy," he said. 
 
320 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Dinna speak," said Robert, in alarm ; "dinna speak. Mi 
 Ericson." 
 
 " Nonsense," returned Ericson, feebly. "They're making 
 a work about nothing. I've done as much twenty times ginco 
 I saw you last, and I'm not dead yet. But I think it's com- 
 ing." 
 
 " What's coming? " asked Robert, rising in alarm. 
 " Nothing," answered Ericson, soothingly, — " only death. 
 I should like to see Miss St. John once before I die. Do you 
 think she would come and see me if I were really dying ? " 
 
 " I'm sure she wad. But if ye speik like this. Miss Letty 
 winna lat me come near ye, no to say her. O Mr. Erie- 
 son ! if ye die, I sanna care to live." 
 
 Bethinking himself that such was not the way to keep Eric- 
 son quiet, he repressed his emotion, sat down lohind the cur- 
 tain, and was silent. Ericson fell fast asleep. Robert crept 
 from the room, and, telling Miss Letty that h .; would return 
 presently, went to Miss St. John. 
 
 " How can I go to Aberdeen -without him ? ' he thought as 
 he walked down the street. 
 
 Neither was a guide to the other ; but the questioning of 
 two may give just the needful points hj which the parallax of 
 a truth may be gained. 
 
 " Mr. Ericson's here, Miss St. John," he said, the moment 
 he was shown into her presence. 
 
 Her face flushed. Robert had never seen her look so 
 beautiful. 
 
 "He's verra ill," he added. 
 Her face grew pale — very pale. 
 
 " He asked if I thought you would go and see him — that 
 is, if he were going to die." 
 
 A 'sunset flush, but faint as on the clouds of the east, rose 
 over her pallor. 
 
 " I will go at once," she said, rising. 
 " Na, na," returned Robert, hastily. " It has to be man- 
 aged. It's no to be dune a' in a hurry. For ae thing, 
 there's Dr. Gow says he maunna speak ae word; and for 
 anither, there's Miss Letty 'ill jiat be like a watch-dog ta 
 haud a'body oot ower frea 'im. We maun bide oor time< 
 
KOBBRT FALCONER. 321 
 
 But if ye say ye'U gang, that '11 content him i' the mean 
 time. I'll tell him." 
 
 " I will go any moment," she said. " Is he very ill 7 " 
 
 " I'm afraid he is. I dooht I'll hae to gang to Aberdeen 
 withoot him." 
 
 A week after, though he was better, his going was out of 
 the question. Robert wanted to stay with him, but he would 
 not hear of it. He would follow in a week or so, he said, 
 and Robert must start fair with the rest of the semies. 
 
 But all the removal he was ever able to bear was to the 
 " red room," — the best in the house, opening, as I have already 
 mentioned, from an outside stair in the archway. They put 
 up a great screen inside the door, and there the lan'less laird 
 lay like a lord. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 SHAReAB ASPIRES. 
 
 Robert's heart was dreary when he got on the box-seat ot 
 the mail-coach at Rothieden; it was yet drearier when he 
 got down at the Royal Hotel in the street of Bon Accord; 
 and it was dreariest of all when he turned his back on 
 Ericson's, and entered his own room at Mrs. Fyvie's. 
 
 Shargar had met him at the coach. Robert had scarcely a 
 word to say to him. And Shargar felt as dreary as Robert 
 when he saw him sit down, and lay his head on the table 
 without a word. 
 
 "What's the maitter wi' ye,. Robert?" he faltered out at 
 last. "If ye dinna speyk to me, I'll cut my throat. I will, 
 faith!" 
 
 "Haud yer tongue wi' yer nonsense, Shargar. Mr. 
 Ericson's deein'." 
 
 " Lord ! " said Shargar, and said nothing more for the 
 Bpace of ten minutes. 
 
 Then he spoke again — slowly and sententiously. 
 
 " He hadna you to tak' care o' him, Robert. Whaur is 
 he?" 
 
 21 
 
822 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 "At the Boar's Heid." 
 
 " That's weel. He'll bo luikit after there." 
 
 " A body wad like to hae their ain han' in't, Shargar." 
 
 " Ay. 1 wiss we had him here a£;ain." 
 
 The ice of trouble thus brokeii, the stream of talk flowed 
 more freely. 
 
 " Hoo are ye gettin' on at the schule, man?" asked 
 Robert. 
 
 " Nae that ill," answered Shargar. " I was at the heid o' 
 my class yesterday for five meenits." 
 
 " An' hoo did ye like it? " 
 
 "Man, it was fine. I thocht I was a gentleman a' at 
 ance." 
 
 " Haud ye at it, man," said Robert, as if from the height 
 of age and experience, " and maybe ye loill be a gentleman 
 some day." 
 
 "Is't poassible, Robert? A crater like me grow intil a 
 gentleman? " said Shargar, with wide eyes. 
 
 " What for no? " returned Robert. 
 
 " Eh, man ! " said Shargar. 
 
 He stood up, sat down again, and was silent. 
 
 "For ae thing," resumed Robert, after a pause, during 
 which he had been pondering upon the possibilities of Shar- 
 gar's future, — "for ae thing, I doobt whether Dr. Anderson 
 wad hae ta'en ony fash aboot ye, if he hadna thocht ye had 
 the makin' o' a gentleman i' ye." 
 
 "Eh, man ! " said Shargar. 
 
 He stood up again, sat down again, and was finally silent. 
 
 Next day Robert went to see Dr. Anderson, and told him 
 about Ericson. The doctor shook his head, as doctors have 
 done in such cases from iBsculapius downwards. Robsrt 
 pressed no further questions. 
 
 "Will he be taken care of where he is?" asked the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Guid care o'," answered Robert. 
 
 " Has he any money, do you think ?" 
 
 " I hae nae doobt he has some, for he's been teachin' a' the 
 summer. The like o' him maun an' will work whether 
 they're fit or no." 
 
 " Well, at all events, you write, Robert, and give him th« 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 323 
 
 hint that he's not to fash himself about money, for I have 
 more than he'll, want. And you may just take the hint 
 yourself at the same time, Robert, my boy," he added in, if 
 possible, a yet kinder tone. 
 
 Robert's way of showing gratitude was the best way of all. 
 tie returned kindness with faith. 
 
 " If I be in ony want, doctor, I'll jist rin to ye at ance. 
 Aji' if I want ower muckle ye maun jist say na." 
 
 " That's a good fellow. You take things as a body means 
 them." 
 
 " But hae ye naething ye wad like me to do fqr ye this 
 session, sir? " 
 
 " No. I won't have you do anything but your own work 
 You have more to do than you had last year. Mind your 
 work ; and as often as you get tired over your books, shut 
 them up and come to me. You may bring Shargar with you 
 sometimes, but we must take care and not make too much of 
 him all at once." i 
 
 " Ay, ay, doctor. But he's a fine crater, Shargar, an' I 
 dinna think he'll be that easy to blauu. What do you think 
 he's turnin' ower i' that reid heid o' his noo ? " 
 
 " I can't tell that. But there's something to come out of 
 the red head, I do believe. What is he thinking of ? " 
 
 " Whether it be possible for him ever to be a gentleman. 
 Noo I tak' that for a good sign i' the likes o' him." 
 
 ■' No doubt of it. What did you say to him ? " 
 
 "I tellt him 'at hoo I didna think ye wad hae ta'en sae 
 muckle fash if ye hadna had some houps o' the kin' aboot 
 him." 
 
 " You said well. Tell him from me that I expect him to 
 be a gentleman. And, by the way, Robert, do try a little, as 
 I think I said to you once before, to speak English. I don't 
 mean that you should give up Scotchj you know." 
 
 " Weel, sir, I hae been tryin' ; but what am I to do whan 
 ye speyk to me as if ye war my ain father? I canna min' 
 upo' a word o' English whan ye do that." 
 
 Dr. Anderson laughed, but his eyes glittered. 
 
 Robert found Shargar busy over his Latin version. With 
 a " Weel, Shargar," he took his books and sat down. A few 
 
B24 BOBERT FALCONER. 
 
 momenta after, Sl.argar lifted his head, stared a while at 
 Robert, and then said: — 
 
 " Duv you railly think it, Robert ? " 
 
 " Think what ? What are ye haverin' at, ye gowk ? " 
 
 " DuT ye think 'at I ever could grow intil a gentleman ? " 
 
 " Dr. Anderson says he expeos 't o' ye." 
 
 " Eh, man ! " 
 
 A long pause followed, and Shargar spoke again. ■ 
 
 " Hoo am I to begin, Robert ? " 
 
 "Begin what?" 
 
 " To be a gentleman." 
 
 Robert scratched his head, like Brutus, and at length be- 
 came oracular. 
 
 " Speyk the truth," he said. 
 
 ' ' I'll do that. But what aboot — my father ? " 
 
 " Naebody '11 cast up yer father to ye. Ye need hae nae 
 fear o' that." 
 
 "My mither, than?" suggested Shargar, with hesitation. 
 
 " Ye maun hand yer face to the fac'." 
 
 " Ay, ay. But if they said onything, you know — about 
 her." 
 
 " If ony man-body says a word agen yer mither, ye maun 
 jist knock him down upo' the spot." 
 
 " But I michtna be able." 
 
 "Ye could try, ony way." 
 
 " He micht knock me down, ye know." 
 
 " Weel, gae doon than." 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 This was all the instruction Robert ever gave Shargar in 
 the duties of a gentleman. And I doubt whether Shargar 
 sought further enlightenment by direct question of any one 
 He worked harder than ever ; grew cleanly in his person, 
 even to fastidiousness ; tried to speak English ; and a wonder- 
 ful change gradually, but rapidly, passed over his outer man. 
 He grew taller and stronger, and as he grew stronger, his 
 legs grew straighter, till the defect of approximating knees, 
 the consequence of hardship, all but vanished. His hair be- 
 came darker, and the albino look less remarkable, though btill 
 he would remind one of a vegetable grown in a cellar. 
 
 Dr. Anderson thought it well that he should have anothei 
 
BOBERT FALCONBB. 825 
 
 year at the grammar school before going to college. — Robert 
 now occupied Ericson's room, and left hia own to Shargar. 
 
 Robert heard every week from Miss St. John about 
 Ericson. Her reports varied much ; but on the whole he got 
 a little better as the winter went on. She said that the good 
 women at the Boar's Head paid him every attention ; she did 
 not say that almost the only way to get him to eat was to 
 carry him delicacies which she had prepared with her own 
 hands. 
 
 She had soon overcome the jealousy with which Miss 
 Letty regarded her interest in their guest, and before many 
 days had passed she would walk into the archway and go up 
 to his room without seeing any one, except the sister whom 
 she generally found there. By what gradations their intimacy 
 grew I cannot inform my reader, for on the events lying upon 
 the boundary of my story, I have received very insufficient 
 enlightenment ; but the result it is easy to imagine- I have 
 already hinted at an early disappointment of Miss St. John. 
 She had grown greatly since, and her estimate of what she 
 had lost had altered considerably in consequence. But the 
 change was more rapid after she became acquainted with 
 Ericson. She would most likely have found the young man 
 she thought she was in love with in the days gone by a very 
 commonplace person now. The heart which she had con- 
 sidered dead to the world had, even before that stormy night 
 in the old house, begun to expostulate against its owner's 
 mistake, by asserting a fair indifference to that portion of its 
 past history. And now, to her large nature the simplicity, 
 the suffering, the patience, the imagination, the grand 
 poverty of Ericson, were irresistibly attractive. Add to this 
 that -she became his nurse, and soon saw that he was not in- ' 
 different to her ; and if she fell in love with him as only a 
 full-grown woman can love, without Ericson's lips saying 
 anything that might not by Love's jealousy be interpreted as 
 only of grateful affection, why should she not ? 
 
 And what of Marjory Lindsay ? Ericson had not forgotten 
 her. But the brightest star must grow pale as the sun draws 
 near ; and on Ericson there were two suns rising at once on 
 the low sea-shore of life whereon he had been pacing up and 
 down moodily for three-and-twenty years, listening evermora 
 
326 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 to the anprogressive rise and fall of the tidal waves, all talking 
 of the eternal, all unable to reveal it, — the sun of love and 
 the sun of death. Mysie and he had never met. She pleased 
 his imagination ; she touched his heart with her helplessness ; 
 but she gave him no welcome to the shrine of her beauty ; he 
 loved through admiration and pity. He broke no faith to her ; 
 for he had never offered her any save in looks, and she had 
 not accepted it. She was but a sickly plant grown in a hot- 
 house. On his death-bed he found a woman a hiding-place 
 from the wind, a covert from the tempest, the shadow of a 
 great rock in a weary land ! A strong she-angel with mighty 
 wings, Mary St. John came behind him as he fainted out of 
 life ; tempered the burning heat of the Sun of Death, and laid 
 him to sleep in the cool twilight of her glorious shadow. In 
 the stead of trouble about a wilful, thoughtless girl, he found re- 
 pose and protection and motherhood in a strong-hearted woman. 
 
 For Ericson's sake, Robert made some effort to preserve 
 the acquaintance of Mr. Lindsay and his .daughter. But he 
 could hardly keep up a conversation with Mr. Lindsay, and 
 Mysie showed herself utterly indifferent to him even in the 
 way of common friendship. He told her of Ericson's illness ; 
 she said she was sorry to hear it, and looked miles away. He 
 could never get within a certain atmosphere of — what shall I 
 call it ? — avertedness that surrounded her. She had always 
 lived in a dream of unrealities ; and the dream had almost de- 
 voured her life. 
 
 One evening Shargar was later than usual in coming home 
 from the walk,- or ramble rather, without which he never could 
 settle down to his work. He knocked at Robert's door. 
 
 " Whaur do ye think I've been, Ro^iert? " 
 
 " Hoo suld I know, Shargar ?" answered Robert, puzzling 
 over a problem. 
 
 "I've been haein' a glass wi' Jock Mitchel." 
 
 " Wha's Jock Mitchel ? " 
 
 " My brither Sandy's groom, as I tellt ye afore." 
 
 "Ye dinna think I can min' a' your havers, Shargar. 
 Whaur was the comin' gentleman whan ye gaed to drink wi' a 
 chield like that, wha, if my memory serves me, ye tauld ma 
 yersel' was i' the mids o' a' his maister's deevilry ? " 
 
 " Yer memory serves ye weel eneuch to be doon upo' me," 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 327 
 
 Ba'd Shargar. " But there's a bit wordy 'at they read at the 
 cathedral kirk the last Sunday 'at's stuckeu to me as if there 
 was something by ordinar' in 't." 
 
 "What's that?" asked Robert, pretending to go on with 
 his calculations all the time. 
 
 " Ow, nae muckle ; only this: 'Judge not, that ye bo 
 not judged.' — I took a lesson frae Jeck the giant-killer, wi' 
 the Welsh giant — was't Blunderbore they ca'd him? — an' 
 poored the maist o' my glass doon my breist. It wasna like 
 ink ; it wadna du my sark ony ill." 
 
 " But what made ye gang wi' 'im at a'? He wasna fit 
 company for a gentleman." 
 
 " A gentleman 's some saft if he be ony the waur o' the com- 
 pany he gangs in till. There may be rizzons, ye know. Yo 
 needna du as they du. Jock Mitchell was airin' Reid Rorie an' 
 Black G,eordie. An' says I — for I wantit to know whether i' 
 was sic a broom-bush as I used to be — says I, ' Hoo are ye, 
 Jock Mitchell?' Ah' says Jock, 'Brawly. Wha the deevil are 
 ye ? ' An' says I, ' Nae mair o' a deevil nor yersel', Jock 
 Mitchell, or Alexander, Baron Rothie, either — though maybe 
 that's no little o' ane.' — ' Preserve me ! '" cried Jock, ' it's 
 Shargar.' — 'Nae mair o' that, Jock,' says I. 'Iflbenaa 
 gentleman, or a' be dune,' — an' there I stack, for I saw I 
 was a muokle fule to lat oot onything o' the kin' to Jock. 
 And sae he seemed to think, too, for he brak oot wi' a great 
 guffaw ; an' to win ower 't I jined, an' leuch as if naething 
 was farrer aff frae my thochts than ever bein' a gentleman. 
 ' Whaur do ye pit up, Jock?' I said. 'Oot by here,' he 
 answert ; ' at Luckie Maitlan's.' — ' That's a queer place for 
 a baron to put up, Jock,' says I. ' There's rizzons,' says he, 
 an' lays his forefinger upo' the side o' 's nose, o' whilk there 
 was hardly eneuch to baud it ohn gane intil the opposit ee. 
 'We're no far frae there,' says I — aA' 'deed I can hardly 
 tell ye, Robert, what made me say sae, but I jist wantit to 
 know what that gentleman-brither o' mine was efter ; ' tak' 
 the horse hame,' says I ; 'I'll jist loup upo' Black Geordie, an' 
 we'll hae a glass thegither. I'll stan' treat.' Sae he gaa 
 me the bridle, an' I lap on. The deevil tried to get a mou» 
 fu' o' my hip, but, faith ! I was ower swack for 'im ; an' awa' 
 we rade." 
 
S28 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 "J didna know 'at ye cud ride, Shargar." 
 
 " Hoots ! I cudna help it. I waa aye takin' the horse to 
 the watter at the Boar's Heid, or the Royal Oak, or Lucky 
 Happit's, or the Aucht an' Furty. That's hoo I cam' to know 
 Jock sae weel. We war guid eneuch frien's whan I didna care 
 for leein' or sweirin', an' sic like." 
 
 " An' what on earth did ye want wi' 'im noo? " 
 
 " I tell ye I wantit to know what that ne'er-do-weel brither 
 o' mine was efter. I had seen the horses stan'in' aboot twa or 
 three times i' the gloamin' ; an' Sandy maun be aboot ill if he 
 be aboot onything." 
 
 " What can 't maitter to you, Shargar, what a man like him 
 's aboot?" 
 
 " Weel, ye see, Robert, my mither aye broucht me up to 
 know a' 'at fowk was aboot, for she said ye cud never tell whan 
 it micht turn oot to the weelfaur o' yer advantage — gran' 
 words ! — I wonner whaur she forgathert wi' them. But she 
 was a terrible wuman, my mither, an' knew a heap o' things, 
 — mair nor't was gude to know, maybe. She gaed aboot the 
 country sae muckle, an' they say the gypsies she gaed amang 
 's a dreadfu' auld fowk, an' hae the wisdom o' the Egyptians 
 'at Moses wad hae naething to do wi'." 
 
 " Whaur is she noo ? " 
 
 " I dinna know. She may turn up ony day." 
 
 "There's ae thing, though, Shargar; if ye want to be a 
 gentleman, ye mauna gang keekin' that way intil ither fowks' 
 affairs." 
 
 " Weel, I maun gie 't up. I winna say a word o' what Jock 
 Mitchell tellt me aboot Lord Sandy." 
 
 " Ow, say awa'." 
 
 " Na, na; ye wadna like to hear aboot ither fowks' affairs. 
 My mither tellt me he did verra ill efter Watterloo till a stran- 
 ger lass at Brussels. But that's neither here nor there. I 
 maun set aboot my version, or I winna get it dune the nicht." 
 
 "What is Lord Sandy after ? What did the rascal tell you ? 
 Why do you make such a mystery of it? " said Robert, author- 
 itatively, and in his best English. 
 
 " 'Deed I cudna mak' naething o' 'm. He winkit an' he 
 hinted an' he gae me to unnerstan' 'at the deevil was efter some 
 lass or ither, but wha — my lad was as dumb's the graveyard 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 329 
 
 aboot that. If I cud only win at that, maybe I cud play him 
 a plisky. But he coupit over three glasses o' whuskey, an' the 
 mair he drank the lesg he wad say. An' sae I left him." 
 
 " Well, take care what you're about, Shargar. I don't think 
 Dr. Anderson would like you to be in such company," said 
 Robert ; and Shargar departed to his own room and his ver- 
 sion. 
 
 Towards the end of the session Miss St. John's reports of 
 Ericson were worse. Yet he was very hopeful himself, and 
 thought he was getting better fast. Every relapse he regarded 
 as temporary ; and when he got a little better, thought he had 
 recovered his original position. It was some relief to Miss St. 
 John to communicate her anxiety to Robert. 
 
 After the distribution of the prizes, of which he gained three, 
 Robert went the same evening to visit Dr. Anderson, intending 
 to go home the next day. The doctor gave him five golden 
 sovereigns, — a rare sight in Scotland. Robert little thought 
 in what service he was about to spend them. 
 
 CHAPTER XL VII. 
 
 ROBERT IN ACTION. 
 
 It was late when he left his friend. As he walked through 
 the Gallowgate, an ancient, narrow street, full of low courts, 
 some one touched him upon the arm. He looked round. It 
 was a young woman. He turned again to walk on. 
 
 " Mr. Faukner," she said, in a trembling voice, which 
 Robert thought he had heard before. 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 "I don't know you," he said. "I can't see your face. 
 Tell me who you are." 
 
 She returned no answer, but stood with her head aside. He 
 could see that her hands shook. 
 
 " What do you want with me — if you won't say who you 
 are?" 
 
 "I want to tell you something," she said, "but I canna 
 Bpeyk here. Come wi' me." 
 
830 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " I won't go with you without knowing who you are, oi 
 where you're going to take me." 
 
 " Dinna ye know me? " she said, pitifully, turning a little 
 towards the light of the gas-lamp, and looking up in his face. 
 
 " It canna be Jessie Hewson ? " said Robert, his heart swell- 
 ing at the sight of the pale, worn countenance of the girl. 
 
 " I was Jessie Hewson ance," she said, "but naebody heie 
 knows me by that name but yersei'. Will ye come in? 
 There's no a crater i' the boose but mysel'." 
 
 Robert turned at once. "Goon," he said. 
 
 She led the way up a narrow stone stair between two houses. 
 A door high up in the gable admitted them. The boards bent 
 BO much under his weight that Robert feared the floor would 
 fall. 
 
 " Bide ye there, sir, till I fess a licht," she said. 
 
 This was Robert's first introduction to a phase of human life 
 with which he became familiar afterwards. 
 
 "Mind hoo ye gang, sir," she resumed, returning with a 
 candle. "There's naeflurin' there. Haud i' the middle efter 
 me, or ye' 11 gang throu'." 
 
 She led him into a room, with nothing in it but a bed, a table, 
 and a chair. On the table was a half-made shirt. In the bed 
 lay a tiny baby, fast asleep. It had been locked up alone in 
 the dreary garret. Robert approached to look at the child, for 
 his heart felt very warm to poor Jessie. 
 
 " A bonnie bairnie," he said. 
 
 "Isna he, sir? Think o' 'im comin' to me! Nobody can 
 tell the mercy o' 't. Isna it strange that the verra sin suld 
 bring an angel frae haven upo' the back o' 't to uphaud an' re- 
 store the sinner ? Fowk think it's a punishment ; but, eh me ! 
 it's a mercifu' ane. It's a wonner he didna think shame to come 
 to me. But he cam' to beir my shame." 
 
 Robert wondered at her words. She talked of her sin with 
 such a meek openness ! She looked her shame in the face, and 
 acknowledged it hers. Had she been less weak and worn, per- 
 haps she could not have spoken thus. 
 
 "But what am I aboot? " she said, checking herself. "I 
 didna fess ye here to speyk aboot mysel'. He's after mair mia* 
 cheef, and if onything cud be dune to haud him frae 't — " 
 
 " Wha's efter mischeef, Jessie? " interrupted Robert. 
 
BOEERI ITALCONES. 331 
 
 " Lord Rothie. He's gaein' aff the nicht in Skipper Horn- 
 beck's boat to Antwerp, I think they ca' 't, an' a bonnie young 
 leddy wi' 'im. They were to sail wi' the first o" the munelicht 
 — -Surely I'm nae ower late," she added, going to the window 
 '' Na, the mune canna be up yet." 
 
 " Na," said Robert; " I don't think she rises muckle afore 
 twa o'clock the nicht. But hoo know ye ? Are ye sure o' 
 't? It's an awfu' thing to think o'." 
 
 " To convence ye, I maun jist tell ye the trowth. The 
 boose we're in hasna a gude character. We're middlin' dacent 
 up here ; but the floor o' the place is dreadfu'. Eh for the 
 bonnie leys o' Bodyfauld ! If ye see my father, tell him I'm 
 nane waur than I was." 
 
 " They think ye droont i' the Dyer's Pot, as they ca' 'at." 
 
 " There I am again ! " she said ; " miles awa' an' nae time to 
 be lost ! — My lord has a man they ca' Mitchell. Ower weel 
 I know him. There's a wuman doon the stair 'at he comes to 
 see whiles ; an' twa or three nichts ago, I heard them lauchin' 
 thegither. Sae I hearkened. They war baith some drunk, I'm 
 thinkin'. I cudna tell ye a' 'at they said. That's a punish- 
 ment noo, if ye like — to see and hear the warst o' ye ain ill- 
 doin's. He tellt the limmer a heap o' his lord's secrets. Ay, 
 he tellt her aboot me, an' hoo I had gane and droont mysel'. 
 I could hear 'maist ilka word 'at he said ; for ye see the flurin' 
 here's no verra soon', and I was jist 'at I cudna help heark- 
 enin'. My lord's aff the nicht, as I tell ye. It's a queer 
 way, but a quaiet, he thinks, nae doobt. If onybody wad but 
 tell her hoo mony een the baron's made sair wi' greitin' ! " 
 
 " But hoo's that to be dune? " said Robert. 
 
 " I dinna know. But I hae been watchin' to see you ever 
 sin' syne. I hae seen ye going by mony a time. Ye're the 
 only man I know 'at I could speyk till aboot it. Ye maun 
 think what ye can do. The warst o' 't is I canna tell wha she 
 is or whaur she bides.' 
 
 " In that case, I canna see what's to be dune." 
 
 " Cudna ye watch them aboord, an' slip a letter iutil her 
 han' ? Or ye cud gie 't to the skipper to gie her." 
 
 " I know the skipper weel eneuch. He's a respectable man. 
 If he knew what the baron was efter, he wadna tak' him ofl 
 boord.'" 
 
832 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " That wad do little guid. He wad only hae her aff some 
 ither way." 
 
 "Weel," said Robert, rising, "I'll awa' hame an' think 
 aboot it as I go. Wad ye tak a feow shillin's frae an auld 
 frien'?" he added, with hesitation, putting his hand in his 
 pocket. 
 
 " Na — no a baubee," she answered. " Nobody sail say it 
 was for mysel' I broucht ye here. Come efter me, an' min' 
 whaur ye pit doon yer feet. It's no sicker." 
 
 She led him to the door. He bade her good-night. 
 
 " Tak' care ye dinna fa' gaein' doon the stair. It's maist aa 
 steep 's a wa'." 
 
 As Robert came from between the houses, he caught a 
 glimpse of a man in a groom's dress going in at the street-door 
 of that he had left. 
 
 All the natural knighthood in him was roused. But what 
 could he do ? To write was a sneaking way. He would con- 
 front the baron. The baron and the girl would both laugh at 
 him. The sole conclusion he could arrive at was to consult 
 Shargar. 
 
 He lost no time in telling him the story. 
 
 " I tauld ye he was up to some deevilry or ither," said 
 Shargar. " I can shaw ye the verra hoose he maun be gaein' 
 to take her frae." 
 
 " Ye vratch ! what for dinna ye tell me that afore ? " 
 
 " Ye wadna hear aboot ither fowks' affairs. Na, not youl 
 But some fowk has no richt to consideration. The very stones 
 they say 'ill cry oot ill secrets like brither Sandy's." 
 
 " Whase hoose is 't?" 
 
 "I dinna ken. I only saw him come oot o' 't ance, an' 
 Jock Mitchell was haudin' Black Geordie roon' the neuk. It 
 canna be far frae Mr. Lindsay's 'at you an' Mr. Ericson used 
 to go to." 
 
 " Come an' lat me see 't direckly," cried Robert, starting 
 up, with a terrible foreboding at his heart. 
 
 They were in the street in a moment. Shargar led the way 
 by a line to the top of the hill on the right, and then turning 
 to the left brought him to some houses standing well apart from 
 each other. It was a region unknown to Robert. They were 
 the backs of the houses of which Mr. Lindsay's was one. 
 
B05ERT FALCONER. 833 
 
 " This is the hoose," said Shargar. 
 
 Rohert rushed into action. He knocked at the door. Mr. 
 Lindsay's Jenny opened it. 
 
 " Is yer mistress in, Jenny ? " he asked, at once. 
 
 " Na. Ay. The maister's gane to Bors Castle." 
 
 " It's Miss Lindsay I want to see." 
 
 " She's up in her ain room wi' a sick headache." 
 
 Robert looked her hard in the face, and knew she was lying. 
 
 " I want to see her verra partic'lar," he said. 
 
 "Weel, ye canna see her," returned Jenny, angrily. 
 "I'll tell her onything ye like." 
 
 Concluding that little was to be gained by longer parley, 
 but quite uncertain whether Mysie was in the house or not, 
 Robert turned to Shargar, took him by the arm, and walked 
 away in silence. When they were beyond earshot of Jenny, 
 who stood looking after them : — 
 
 "Ye're sure that's the hoose, Shargar?" said Robert, 
 quietly. 
 
 " As sure's deith, and may be surer, for I saw him come 
 cot wi' my ain eyes." 
 
 "Weel, Shargar, it's grown something awfu' noo. It's 
 Miss Lindsay. Was there ever sic a villain as that Lord 
 Rothie, — that brither o' yours ! " 
 
 " I disoun 'im frae this verra 'oor," said Shargar, solemnly. 
 
 " Something maun be dune. We'll away to the wharf, an' 
 see what'll turn up. I wonner hoo's the tide." 
 
 " The tide's, risin'. They'll never try to run oot till it's 
 slack watter, — furbye 'at the Amphitrite, for as braid 's she is 
 and her bows modelled efter the cheeks o' a resurrection cherub 
 upo' a gravestane, draws a heap o' watter ; an' the bar they 
 say 'a worse to win ower nor usual : it's been gatherin' again." 
 As they spoke, the boys were making for the new town 
 eagerly. Just opposite where the Amphitrite lay was a pub- 
 lic house ; into that they made up their minds to go, and there 
 to write a letter, which they would give to Miss Lindsay, if 
 they could, or, if not, leave with Skipper Hoornbeck. Before 
 they reached the river, a thick rain of minute drops began to 
 fall, rendering the night still darker, so that they could scarcely 
 see the vessels from the pavement on the other side of the 
 wharf along which they were hurrying, to avoid the cables, 
 
834 KOBERT FAIiCONEK. 
 
 rings, and stone posts that made its margin dangerous ia the 
 dim light. When they came to the Smack Inn they crossed 
 right over to reach the Amphitrite. A growing fear kept 
 them silent as they approached her berth. It was empty. 
 They turned and stared at each other in dismay. 
 
 One of those amphibious animals that loiter about the bor- 
 ders of the water was seated on a stone smoking, probably for- 
 tified against the rain by the whiskey inside him. 
 
 "Whaur's the Amphitrite, Alan?" asked Shargar, for 
 Robert was dumb with disappointment and rage. 
 
 "Half doon to Stanehive by this time, I'm thinkin'," an- 
 BV?red Alan. ' ' For a brewin' tub like her, she fummles awa 
 nae ill wi' a licht win' astarn o' her. . But I'm doobtin' afore 
 she gets across the herrin'-pot her fine passengers '11 get at the 
 boddom o' their stamacks. It's like to blaw a bonnetfu', and 
 she rows awfu' in ony win'. I dinna think she cud capsize, 
 but for wamlin' she's waur nor a bairn with the grips." 
 
 In absolute helplessness, the boys had let him talk on; 
 there was nothing more to be done ; and Alan was in a talkar 
 tive mood. 
 
 "Fegs! if 't come on to blaw," he resumed, "I wadna 
 wonner if they got the skipper to set them ashore at Stane- 
 hive. I heard auld Horny say something aboot lyin' to there 
 for a bit, to take a keg or something aboord." 
 
 The boys looked at each other, bade Alan good-night, and 
 walked away. 
 
 " Hoo far 'a it to Stonehaven, Shargar? " said Robert. 
 
 " I dinna richtly know. Maybe frae twelve to fifteen miles." 
 
 Robert stood still. Shargar saw his face pale as death, and 
 contorted with the effort to control his feelings. 
 
 " Shargar," he said, "what am t to do? I vowed to Mr 
 Ericson that, if he deid, I wad luik efter that bonny lassie 
 An' noo whan he's lyin' a' but deid, I hae let her slip throu' 
 my fingers wi' clean carelessness. What am I to do ? If 1 
 cud only get to Stonehaven afore the Amphitrite ! I cud go 
 aboord wi' the keg, and if I cud do naething mair, I wad hae 
 tried to do my best. If I -do naething, my hert '11 brak wi' 
 the weicht o' my shame." 
 
 Shargar burst into a roar of laughter. Robert was on tha 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 336 
 
 point of knocking him down, but took him by the throat as a 
 milder proceeding, and shook him. 
 
 " Robert ! Robert ! " gurgled Shargar, as soon as his chok 
 ing had overcome his merriment, " ye're an awfu' Hielan'man 
 Hearken to me. I beg — g — g yer pardon. What I was 
 thinkin' o' was — " 
 
 Robert relaxed his hold. But Shargar, notwithstanding 
 the lesson Robert had given him, could hardly sp^ak yet for 
 the enjoyment of his own device. 
 
 " If we could only get rid o' Jock Mitchell ! " he crowed ; 
 and burst out again. 
 
 " He's wi' a wuman i' the Gallowgate," said Robert. 
 
 " Losh, man ! " exclaimed Shargar, and started off at full 
 speed. 
 
 He was no match for his companion, however. 
 
 " Whaur the deevil are ye rinnin' to, ye scarecrow?" 
 panted Robert, as he laid hold of his collar. 
 
 " Let me go, Robert," gasped Shargar. " Losh, man ! 
 ye' 11 be on Black Geordie in anither ten meenits, an' me 
 behind ye upo' Reid Rorie. An' faith if we binna at Stanehive 
 afore the Dutchman wi' 's boddom foremost, it'll be the faut 
 o' the horse and no o' the men." 
 
 Robert's heart gave a bound of hope. 
 
 " Hoo 'ill ye get them, Shargar ? " he asked, eagerly. 
 
 " Steal them," answered Shargar, struggling to get away 
 from the grasp still upon his collar. 
 
 " We micht be hanged for that." 
 
 " Weel, Robert, I'll tak' a' the wyte o' 't. If it hadna been 
 for you, I micht ha' been hangt by this time for ill-doin', for 
 your sake I'll be hangt for weel-doin', an' welcome. Come 
 awa'. To steal a mairch upo' brither Sandy wi' eight horse- 
 hoofs o' 's ain ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 They sped along, now running themselves out of breath, 
 now walking themselves into it again, until they reached a 
 retired hostelry between the two towns. Warning Robert not 
 to show himself, Shargar disappeared round the corner of the 
 house. 
 
 Robert grew weary, and then anxious. At length Shargar's 
 face came through the darkcess. 
 
336 BOBERT FALCONER. ' 
 
 " Robert," he whispered, " gie's yer cap. I'll be wi' ye \a 
 a moment noo." 
 
 Robert obeyed, too anxious to question him. In about three 
 minutes more Shargar reappeared, leading what seemed the 
 ghost of a black horse ; for Robert could see only his eyes, and 
 his hoofs made scarcely any noise. How he had managed it 
 with a horse of Black Geordie's temper, I do not know, but 
 some horses will let some persons do anything with them ; he 
 had drawn his own stockings over his fore feet, and tied their 
 two caps upon his hind hoofs. 
 
 "Lead him awa' quaietly up the road till I come to ye," 
 said Shargar, as he took the mufflings off the horse's feet. 
 " An' min' 'at he d6esna tak a nip o' ye. He's some ill for 
 bitin'. I'll be efter ye direckly. Rorie's saiddlet an' bridled. 
 He only wants his carpet-shune." 
 
 Robert led the horse a few hundred yards, then stopped and 
 waited. Shargar soon joined him, already mounted on Red 
 Roderick. 
 
 "Here's yer cap, Robert. It's some foul, I doobt. But I 
 cudna help it. 'Gang on, man. Up wi' ye. Maybe I wad 
 hae better keepit Geordie mysel'. But ye can ride. Ance 
 ye're on, he canna bite ye." 
 
 But Robert needed no encouragement from Shargar. In 
 his present mood he would have mounted a griflSn. He was 
 on horseback in a moment. They trotted gently .through the 
 streets and out of the town. Once over the Dee, they gave 
 their horses the rein, and off they went through the dark 
 drizzle. Before they got half way they were wet to the skin ; 
 but little did. Robert, or Shargar either, care for that. Not 
 many words passed between them. 
 
 "Hoo'll ye get the horses in again, Shargar?" asked 
 Robert. 
 
 "Afore I get them back," answered Shargar, "they'll be 
 tired eneuch to go hame o' themsel's. If we had only had the 
 luck to meet Jock ! — that wad hae been gran'." 
 
 "What for that?" 
 
 " I wad hae cawed Reid Rorie ower the head o' 'm, an' left 
 him lyin' — the coorse villain ! " 
 
 The horses never flagged till they drew up in the main street 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 837 
 
 of Stonehaven. Robert ran down to the harbor to mate in- 
 quiry, and left Shargar to put them up. 
 
 The moon had risen, but the air was so full of vapor that 
 she only succeeded in melting the darkness a little. The sea 
 rolled in front, awful in its dreariness, under just light enough 
 to show a something unlike the land. But the rain had ceased, 
 and the air was clearer. Robert asked a solitary man, with a 
 telescope in his hand, whether he was looking out for the 
 Amphitrite. The man asked him gruffly in return what he 
 knew of her. Possibly the nature of the keg to be put on 
 board had something to do with his Scotch reply. Robert told 
 him he was a friend of the captain, had missed the boat, and 
 would give any one five shillings to put him on board. The man 
 went away and returned with a companion. After some further 
 questioning and bargaining, they agreed to take him. Robert 
 loitered about the pier full of impatience. Shargar joined 
 him. 
 
 Day began to break over the waves. They gleamed with a 
 blue-gray leaden sheen. The men appeared coming along the 
 harbor, and descended by a stair into a little skiff, where a 
 barrel, or something like one, lay under a tarpaulin. Robert 
 bade Shargar good-by, and followed. They pushed off, rode 
 out into the bay, and lay on their oars waiting for the vessel. 
 The light grew apace, and Robert fancied he could distinguish 
 the two horses with one rider against the sky on the top of the 
 cliffs, moving northwards. Turning his eyes to the sea, he saw 
 the canvas of the brig, and his heart beat fast. The men bent 
 to their oars. She • drew nearer, and lay to. When they 
 reached her he caught the rope the sailors threw, was on board 
 in a moment, and went aft to the captain. The Dutchman 
 stared. In a few words Robert made him understand his object, 
 offering to pay for his passage ; but the good man would not 
 hear of it. He told him that the lady and gentleman had come 
 on board as brother and sister ; the baron was too knowing to 
 run his head into the noose of Scotch law. 
 
 "I cannot throw him over the board," said the skipper; 
 " and what am I to do ? I am afraid it is of no use. Ah ! poor 
 thing!" 
 
 By this time the vessel was under way. The wind fresh- 
 ened. Mysie had been ill ever since they left the mouth of 
 •i-i 
 
838 < ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 the river ; now she was much worse. Before another hour 
 passed, she was crying to be taken home to her papa. Still the 
 wind increased, and the vessel labored much. 
 
 Robert never felt better, and if it had not been for the cause 
 of his seafaring, would have thoroughly enjoyed it. He put 
 on some sea-going clothes of the captain's, and set himself to 
 take his share in working the brig, in which he was soon pro- 
 ficient enough to be useful. When the sun rose, they were in 
 a tossing wilderness of waves. AVith the sunrise, Robert began 
 to think he had been guilty of a great folly. For what could 
 he do ? How was he to prevent the girl from going off with 
 her lover the moment they landed? But his poor attempt 
 would verify his willingness. 
 
 The baron came on deck now and then, looking bored. He 
 had not calculated on having to nurse the girl. Had Mysie 
 been well, he could have amused himself with her, for he found 
 her ignorance interesting. As it was, he felt injured, and indeed 
 disgusted at the result of the experiment. 
 
 On the third day the wind abated a little ; but towards night 
 it blew hard again, and it was not until they reached the 
 smooth waters of the Scheldt that Mysie made her appearance 
 on deck, looking dreadfully ill, and altogether like a miserable, 
 unhappy child. Her beauty was greatly gone, and Lord Rothie 
 did not pay her much attention. 
 
 Robert bad as yet made no attempt to communicate with her, 
 for there was scarcely a chance of her concealing a letter from 
 the baron. But as soon as they were in smooth water, he wrote 
 one, telling her in the simplest language that the baron was a 
 bad man, who had amused himself by making many women 
 fall in love with him, and then leaving them miserable ; he 
 knew one of them himself 
 
 Having finished his letter, he began to look abroad over the 
 smooth water, and the land smooth as the water. He saw tall 
 poplars, the spires of the forest, and rows of round-headed, 
 dumpy trees, like domes. And he saw that all the buildings, 
 like churches, had either spires like poplars, or low round domes 
 like those other trees. The domes gave an eastern aspect to the 
 country. The spire of Antwerp cathedral especially had the 
 poplar for its model. The pinnacles which rose from the base 
 of each successive start of its narrowing height were just the 
 
ROBERT FALCONER.- 339 
 
 clmging, upright branches of the poplar, — a lovely instance 
 of Art following Nature's suggestion . 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 ROBERT FINDS A NEW INSTRUMENT. 
 
 At length the vessel lay alongside the quay, and as Mysie 
 stepped from its side the skipper found an opportunity of giving 
 her Robert's letter. It was the poorest of chances, but Robert 
 could think of no other. She started on receiving it, but, 
 regarding the skipper's significant gestures, put it quietly away. 
 She looked anything but happy, for her illness had deprived 
 her of courage, and probably roused her conscience. R,obert 
 followed the pair, saw them enter "The Great Laborer," — 
 what could the name mean ? could it mean the Good Shepherd ? 
 — and turned away helpless, objectless indeed, for he had done 
 all that he could, and that all was of no potency. A world of 
 innocence and beauty was about to be hurled from its orbit of 
 light into the blackness of outer chaos ; he knew it, and was 
 unable to speak word or do deed that should frustrate the 
 power of a devil who so loved himself that he counted it a*n 
 honor to a girl to have him for her ruin. Her after life had 
 no significance for him, save as a trophy of his victory. Ho 
 never perceived that such victory was not yielded to him ; that 
 he gained it by putting on the garments of light ; that if his in- 
 ward form had appeared in its own ugliness, not one of the 
 women whose admiration he had secured would not have turned 
 from him as from the monster of an old tale. 
 
 Robert wandered about till he was so weary that his head 
 ached with weariness. At length he came upon the open space 
 before the cathedral, whence the poplar-spire rose aloft into a 
 blue sky flecked with white clouds. It was near sunset, and 
 he could not see the sun, but the upper half of the spire shone 
 glorious in its radiance. From the top his eye sank to the base. 
 In the base was a little door half open. Might not that be the 
 lowly narrow entrance through the shadow up to the sun-filled 
 air ? He drew near with a kind of tremor, for never before had 
 
840 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 he gazed upon visible grandeur growing out of the human soul, 
 in the majesty of everlastingness, — a tree of the Lord's plant- 
 ing. Where had been but an empty space of air and light and 
 darkness, had risen, and had stood for ages, a mighty wonder 
 awful to the eye, solid to the hand. He peeped through the 
 opening of the door ; there was the foot of a stair, — marvellous 
 as the ladder of Jacob's dream, — turning away towards the 
 unknown. He pushed the door and entered. A man appeared 
 and barred his advance. Robert put his hand in his pocket 
 and drew out some silver. The man took one piece, looked at 
 it, turned it over, put it in his pocket, and led the way up 
 the stair. Robert followed, and followed, and followed. 
 
 He came out of stone walls upon an airy platform whence the 
 spire ascended heavenwards. His conductor led upward still, 
 and he followed, winding within a spiral network of stone, 
 through which all the world looked in. Another platform, and 
 yet another spire springing from its basement. Still up they 
 went, and at length stood on a circle of stone surrounding like 
 a coronet the last base of the spire which lifted its apex un- 
 trodden. Then Robert turned and looked below. He grasped 
 the stones before him. The loneliness was awful. 
 
 There was nothing between him and the roofs of the houses, 
 four hundred feet below, but the spot where he stood. The 
 wTiole city, with its red roofs, lay under him. He stood uplifted 
 on the genius of the builder, and the town beneath him was a 
 toy. The all but featureless flat spread forty miles on every 
 side, and the roofs of the largest buildings below were as dove- 
 cots. But the space between was alive with awe, — so vast. 
 30 real ! 
 
 He turned and descended, winding through the network of 
 atone which was all between him and space. The object of 
 the architect must have been to melt away the material from 
 before the eyes of the spirit. He hung in the air in a cloud 
 of stone. As he came in his descent within the ornaments of 
 one of the basements, he found himself looking through two 
 thicknesses of stone lace on the nearing city. Down there was 
 the beast of prey and his victim ; but for the moment he was 
 above the region of sorrow. His weariness and his headache 
 had vanished utterly. With his mind tossed on its own speech- 
 less delight, he was slowly descending still, when he saw on hia 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. j, 841 
 
 left hand a door ajar. He would look what mysfery lay 
 within. A push opened it. He discovered only a little 
 chamber lined with wood. In the centre stood something, — 
 a bench-like piece of furniture, plain and worn. He advanced 
 a step ; peered over the top of it ; saw keys, white and black ; 
 saw pedals below ; it was an organ ! Two strides brought him 
 in front of it. A wooden stool, polished and hollowed with 
 centuries of use, was before it. But where was the bellows ? 
 That might be down hundreds of steps below, for he was half- 
 way only to the ground. He seated himself musingly, and 
 struck, as he thought, a dumb chord. Responded, up in the air, 
 far overhead, a mighty booming clang. Startled, almost fright- 
 ened, even as if Mary St. John had said she loved him, Robert 
 sprang from the stool, and, without knowing why, moved only 
 by the chastity of delight, flung the door to the post. It 
 banged and clicked. Almost mad with the joy of the titanic 
 instrument, he seated himself again at the keys, and plunged 
 into a tempest of clanging harmony. One hundred bells hang 
 in that temple of wonder, — an instrument for a^city, nay, for a 
 kingdom. Often had Robert dreamed that he was the galvanic 
 centre of a thunder-cloud of harmony, flashing oflF from every 
 finger the willed lightning tone ; such was the unexpected scale 
 of this instrument — so far aloft in the sunny air rang the 
 responsive notes — that his dream appeared almost realized. The 
 music, like a fountain bursting upwards, drew him up and bore 
 him aloft. From the resounding cone of bells overhead he no 
 longer heard their tones proceed, but saw level-winged forms of 
 light speeding off with a message to the nations. It was only 
 his roused fantasy ; but a sweet tone is never the less a mes- 
 senger of God; and a right harmony and sequence of such 
 tones is a little gospel. 
 
 At length he found himself following, till that moment un- 
 consciously, the chain of tunes he well remembered having 
 played on his violin the night he went first with Ericson to 
 see Mysie, ending with his strange chant about the witch lady 
 and the dead man's hand. 
 
 Ere he had finished the last, his passion had begun to fold 
 its wings, and he grew dimly aware of a beating at the door of 
 the solitary chamber in which he sat. He knew nothing of 
 the enormity of which he was guilty, — presenting unsought 
 
842 4 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 the" city' of Antwerp with a glorious fantasia. He did not 
 kdow*that only upon grand, solemn, world-wide occasions, such 
 as a king's birthday or a ball at the Hotel de Ville, was such" 
 music on the card. When he flung the door to, it had closed 
 with a spring lock, and for the last quarter of an hour three 
 gendarmes, commanded by the sacristan of the tower, had been 
 thundering thereat He waited only to finish the last .notea 
 of the wild Orcadian chant, and opened the door. He was 
 seized by the collar, dragged down the stair into the street, 
 and through a crowd of wondering faces, — poor, unconscious 
 dreamer ! it will not do to think on the house-top even, and 
 you had been dreaming very loud indeed in the church-spire, 
 — away to the bureau of the police. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 I NEED not recount the proceedings of the Belgian police ; 
 how they interrogated Robert concerning a letter from Mary 
 St. John which they found in an inner pocket; how they 
 looked doubtful over, a copy of " Horace " that lay in bis coat, 
 and put evidently a momentous question about some algebraical 
 calculations on the fly-leaf of it. Fortunately or unfortu- 
 nately — I do not know which — Robert did not understand a 
 word they said to him. He was locked up, and left to fret 
 for nearly a week ; though what he could have done had he 
 been at liberty, he knew as little as I know. At last, long 
 after it was useless to make any inquiry about Miss Lindsay, 
 he was set at liberty. He could just pay for a steerage pas- 
 sage to London, whence he wrote to Dr. Anderson for a sup- 
 ply, and was in Aberdeen a few days after. 
 
 This was Robert's first cosmopolitan experience. He con- 
 fided the whole affair to the doctor, who approved of all, saying 
 it could have been of no use, but he had done right. He 
 advised him to go home at once, for he had had letters inquir- 
 ing after him. Ericson was growing steadily worse, — in 
 fact, he feared Robert might not see him alive. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 343 
 
 If this news struck Robert to the heart, his paijl" was yef" 
 not without some poor alleviation : he need not tell Ericson 
 about Mysie, but might leave him to find out the truth when, 
 free of a dying body, he would be better able to bear it. That 
 very night he set ofiF on foot for Rothieden. There was no 
 coach from Aberdeen till eight the following morning, and 
 before that he would be there. It was a dreary journey with- 
 out Ericson. Every turn of the road reminded him of him. 
 A.nd Ericson, too, was going a lonely, unknown way. 
 
 Did ever two go together upon that way ? Might not two 
 die together, and not lose hold of each other all the time, even 
 when the sense of the clasping hands was gone, and the soul 
 had withdrawn itself from the touch ? Happy they who prefer 
 the will of God to their own even in this, and would, as the 
 best friend, have him near who can be near, — him who made 
 the fourth in the fiery furnace ! Fable or fact, reader, 1 do 
 not care. The One I mean is, and in him I hope. 
 
 Very weary was Robert when he walked into his grand- 
 mother's house. 
 
 Betty came out of the kitchen at the sound of his entrance. 
 
 "Is Mr. Ericson — ?" 
 
 " Na ; he's nae deid," she answered. " He'll maybe live a 
 day or twa, they say." 
 
 " Thank God ! " said Robert, and went to his grandmother. 
 
 "Eh, laddie ! " said Mrs. Falconer, the first greetings over, 
 "ane 'a ta'enan' anither's left ! but what for 's mair nor I can 
 faddom. There's that fine young man, Maister Ericson, at 
 deith's door ; an' here am I, an auld runklet wife, left to cry 
 upo' deith, an' he winna hear me." 
 
 "Cry upo' God, grannie an' no upo' deith," said Robert, 
 catching at the word as his grandmother herself might have 
 done. He had no such unfair habit when I knew him, and 
 always spoke to one's meaning, not one's words. But then he 
 had a wonderful gift of knowing what one's meaning was. 
 
 He did not sit down, but, tired as he was, went straight to 
 the Boar's Head. He met no one in the archway, and walked 
 up to Ericson's room. When he opened the door, he found 
 the large screen on the other, side, and, hearing a painful 
 cough, lingered behind it, for he could not control his feelings 
 sufiSciently. Then he heard a voice, — Ericson's voice ; but 
 
344 ROBERT FALCONEU. 
 
 oh, how^fefaanged ! — He had no idea that Ke ought not to 
 listen. 
 
 "Marj," the voice said, " do not look like that, /am not 
 Buffering. It is onlj my body. Your arm round me makes 
 me so strong ! Let me lay my head on your shoulder." 
 
 A brief pause followed. 
 
 "But, Eric," said Mary's voice, "there is One that lovea 
 you better than I do." 
 
 "If there is," returned Ericson, feebly, "he has sent his 
 angel to deliver me." 
 
 " But you do believe in Him, Eric? " 
 
 The voice expressed anxiety no less than love. 
 
 " I am going to see. There is no other way. When I find 
 Him, I shall believe in Ilim. I shall love Him with all my 
 heart, I know. I love the thought of Him now." 
 
 " But that's not Himself, my — darling ! " she said. 
 
 " No. But I cannot love Himself till I find Him. Perhaps 
 there is no Jesus." 
 
 " Oh, don't say that. I can't bear to hear you talk so." 
 
 " But, dear heart, if you're so sure of Him, do you think He 
 would turn me away because I don't do what I can't do? I 
 would if I could, with all my heart. If I were to say I be- 
 lieved in Him, and then didn't trust Him, I could understand 
 it. But when it's only that I'm not sure about what I never 
 saw, or had enough of proof to satisfy me of, how can He be 
 vexed at that ? You seem to me to do Him groat wrong, 
 Mary. Would you now banish me forever, if I should, when 
 my brain is wrapped in the clouds of death, forget you along 
 with everything else for a moment? " 
 
 " No, no, no. Don't talk like that, Eric, dear. There 
 may be reasons, you know." 
 
 " I know what they say well enough. But I expect Him, 
 if there is a Him, to be better even than you, my beautiful, 
 — and I don't know a fault in you, but that you believe in a 
 God jda can't trust. If I believed in a God, wouldn't I trust 
 him just? And I do hope in him. We'll see, my darling. 
 When we meet again I think you'll say I was right." 
 
 Robert stood like one turned into marble. Deep callai unto 
 deep in his soul. The waves and the blltoWs went over him. 
 
 Mary St. John answered not a word. I -think she must 
 
KOBERT PALCONER. . 346 
 
 have been conscience-stricken. Surely the Son of Man saw 
 nearly as much faith in Ericson as in her. Only she clung 
 to the word as a bond that the Lord had given her : she would 
 rather have his bond. 
 
 Ericson had another fit of coughing. Robert heard the 
 rustling of ministration. But in a moment the dying man 
 again took up the word. He seemed almost as anxious about 
 Mary's faith as she was about his. 
 
 " There's Robert," he said ; " I do believe that boy would 
 die for me, and I never did anything to deserve it. Now 
 Jesus Christ must be as good as Robert at least. I think he 
 must be a great deal better, if he's Jesus Christ at all. Now 
 Robert might be hurt if I didn't believe in him. But I've 
 never seen Jesus Christ. It's all in an old book, over which 
 the people that say they believe in it the most fight like dogs 
 and cats. I beg your pardon, my Mary ; but they do, though 
 the words are ugly." 
 
 "Ah! but if you had tried it as I've tried it, you would 
 know better, Eric." 
 
 " I think I should, dear. But it's too late now. I must 
 just go and see. There's no other way left." 
 
 The terrible cough came again. As soon as the fit was 
 over, with a grand despair in his heart, Robert went from 
 behind the screen. 
 
 Ericson was on a couch. His head lay on Mary St. John's 
 bosom. Neither saw him. 
 
 " Perhaps," said Ericson, panting with death, " a kiss in 
 heaven may be as good as being married on earth, Mary." 
 
 She saw Robert, and did not answer. Then Eric saw him. 
 He smiled ; but Mary grew very pale. 
 
 Robert came forward, stooped and kissed Ericson's forehead, 
 kneeled and kissed Mary's hand, rose and went out. 
 
 From that moment they were both dead to him. Dead, I 
 say, — not lost, not estranged, but dead, — that is, awful and 
 holy. He wept for Eric. He did not weep for Mary yet 
 But he found a time. 
 
 Ericson died two days after. 
 
 Here endeth Robert's youth. 
 
846 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 IN MEMOKIAM. 
 
 In memory of Eric Ericson, I add a chapter of sonnets 
 gathered from his papers, almost desiring that those only 
 should read them who turn to the book a second time. How 
 his papers came into my possession, will be explained after- 
 wards. 
 
 Tumultuons rushing o'er the outstretched plains ; 
 
 A wildered maze of comets and of suns ; 
 
 The blood of changeless God that ever runs 
 
 With quick diastole up the immortal veins ; 
 
 A phantom host that moves and works in chains; 
 
 A monstrous fiction, which, collapsing, stuns 
 
 The mind to stupor and amaze at once; 
 
 A tragedy which that man best explains 
 
 Who rushes blindly on his wild career 
 
 With trampling hoofs and sound of mailed war, 
 
 Who will not nurse a life to win a tear, 
 
 But is extinguished like a falling star ; — 
 
 Such will at times this life appear to me, 
 
 Until I learn to read more perfectly. 
 
 HOM. IL. V. 403. 
 
 If thou art tempted by a thought of ill, 
 Crave not too soon for victory, nor deem 
 Thou art a coward If thy safety seem 
 To spring too little from a righteous will ; 
 For there is nightmare on thee, nor until 
 Thy soul hath caught the morning's early gleam 
 Seek thou to analyze the monstrous dream 
 By painful introversion ; rather fill 
 Thine eye with forms thou knowest to be truth, 
 But see thou cherish higher hope than this, — 
 A hope hereafter that thou shalt be fit 
 Calm-eyed to face distortion, and to sit 
 Transparent among other forms of youth. 
 Who own no impulse save to God and bliss 
 
 And must I ever wake, gray dawn, to know 
 Thee standing sadly by me like a ghost? 
 I am perplexed with thee, that thou shouldst coA 
 This Earth another turning : all aglow 
 
EGBERT FALCONER. 847 
 
 Thon shouldst have reached me, with a purple show 
 Along far mouataln-tops ; and I would post 
 Over the breadth of seas though I were lost 
 In the hot phantom-chase for life, if so 
 Thou camest ever with this numbing sense 
 Of chilly distance and unlovely light; 
 Waking this gnawing soul anew to fight 
 With its perpetual load. I drive thee hence — 
 I have another mountain-range from whence 
 Bursteth a sun unutterably bright. 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 " And yet it moves I " Ah, Truth, where wert thou then , 
 
 When all for thee they racked each piteous limb? 
 
 Wert thou in heaven, and busy with thy hymn, 
 
 When those poor hands convulsed that held thy pen? 
 
 Art thou a phantom that deceivest men 
 
 To their undoing? or dost thou watch him 
 
 Pale, cold, and silent in his dungeon dim? 
 
 And wilt thou ever speak to him again ? 
 
 " It moves, It moves ! Alas, my flesh was weak ; 
 
 That was a hideous dream 1 I'll cry aloud 
 
 How the green bulk wheels sunward day by day I 
 
 Ah me ! ah me ! perchance my heart was proud 
 
 That I alone should know that word to speak ; 
 
 And now, sweet Truth, shine upon these, I pray." 
 
 If thoa wonldst live the Truth in very deed, 
 
 Thou hast thy joy, but thou hast more of pain. 
 
 Others will live in peace, and thou be fain 
 
 To bargain with despair, and in thy need 
 
 To make thy meal upon the scantiest weed. 
 
 These palaces, for thee they stand in vain ; 
 
 Thine is a ruinous hut ; and oft the rain 
 
 Shall drench thee in the midnight; yea, the speed 
 
 Of earth outstrip thee, pilgrim, while thy feet 
 
 ftfove slowly up the heights. Yet will there come 
 
 Through the time-rents about thy moving cell. 
 
 An arrow for despair, and oft the hum 
 
 Of far-off populous realms where spirits dwell. 
 
 TO • • • •- 
 
 Speak, Prophet of the Lord I We may not start 
 To find thee with us in thine ancient dress. 
 Haggard and pale from some bleak wilderness, 
 Empty of all save God and thy loud heart s 
 
B- B' 848 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Nor with like rngged message quick to dart 
 Into the hideous fiction mean and base : 
 But yet, O Prophet man, we need not less, 
 But more of earnest ; though it is thy part 
 To deal In other words, if thou wouldst smite 
 The living Mammon, seated, not as then 
 In bestial quiescence grimly dight. 
 But thrice as much an idol-god as when 
 He stared at his own feet from morn to night. 
 
 THE WATCHEB. 
 
 From out a windy cleft there comes a gaze 
 Of eyes unearthly, which go to and fro 
 Upon the people's tumult, for below 
 The nations smite each other; no amaze 
 Troubles their liqaid rolling, or affrays 
 Their deep-set contemplation ; steadily glow 
 Those ever holier eyeballs, for they grow 
 Liker unto the eyes of one that prays. 
 And if those clasped hands tremble, comes a power 
 As of the might of worlds, and they are holden 
 Blessing above us In the sunrise golden j 
 .And they will be uplifted till that hour 
 Of terrible rolling which shall rise and shake 
 This conscious nightmare from us and we wake. 
 
 THE BELOVED DISCIPLE. 
 
 One do I see and twelve ; but second there 
 
 Methinks I know thee, thou belovfid one ; 
 
 Not from thy nobler port, for there are none 
 
 More quiet-featured ; some there are who bear 
 
 Their message on their brows, while others wear 
 
 A look of large commission, nor will shun 
 
 The fiery trial, so their work Is done ; 
 
 But thou hast parted with thine eyes in prayer, — 
 
 Unearthly are they both ; and so thy lips 
 
 Seem like the porches of the spirit land ; 
 
 For thou hast laid a mighty treasure by. 
 
 Unlocked by Him in Nature, and thine eye 
 
 Burns with a vision and apocalypse 
 
 Thy own sweet soul can hardly understand. 
 
 II. 
 A Boanerges too I Upon my heart 
 It lay a heavy hour : features like thine 
 
 ' This sonnet and the preceding are both one line deflcenli. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 343 
 
 Should glow with other message than the shine 
 Of the earth-burrowing levin, and the start 
 That cleaveth horrid gulfs. Awful and swart 
 A moment stoodest thou, but less divine — 
 Brawny and clad In ruin ! — till with mine 
 Thy heart made answering signals^ and apart 
 Beamed forth thy two rapt eyeballs doubly clear, 
 And twice as strong because thou didst thy duty, 
 And, though affianced to immortal Beauty, 
 Hidest not weakly underneath her veil 
 The pest of Sin and Death which malietli pale : 
 Henceforward be thy spirit doubly dear.* 
 
 THE LILT OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 There is not any weed but hath its shower. 
 There Is not any pool but hath its star; 
 And black and muddy though the waters are, 
 We may not miss the glory of a flower, 
 And winter moons will give them magic power 
 To spin in cylinders of diamond spar ; 
 And everything hath beauty near and far, 
 And keepeth close and waiteth on its hour. 
 And I when I encounter on my road 
 A human soul that looketh black and grim. 
 Shall I more ceremonious be than God ? 
 Shall I refuse to watch one hour with him 
 Who once beside our deepest woe did bud 
 A patient watching flower about the brim ? 
 
 'Tis not the violent hands alone that bring 
 
 The curse, the ravage, and the downward doom, — 
 
 Although to these full oft the yawning tomb 
 
 Owes deadly surfeit ; but a keener sting, 
 
 A more immortal agony, will cling 
 
 To the half-fashioned sin which would assume 
 
 Fair Virtue's garb. The eye that sows the gloom 
 
 With quiet seeds of Death henceforth to spring 
 
 What time the sun of passion burning fierce 
 
 Breaks through the kindly cloud of circumstance ; 
 
 The bitter word, and the unkindly glance. 
 
 The crust and canker coming with the years, 
 
 Are liker Death than arrows, and the lance 
 
 Which through the living heart at once doth pierce. 
 
 • To these two sonnets Falconer had appended this note : " Some- 
 thing I wrote to Bricson concerning these, during my first college va- 
 cation, produced a reply, of which the following is a passage : ' On 
 writing the first I was not aware that James and John were the Sons of 
 Thunder. For a time it did indeed grieve me to think of the spiritual- 
 minded John as otherwise than a still and passionless lover of Christ.' " 
 
350 350 ROBERT FALCOSEB. 
 
 SPOKEN OP SEVERAL PHILOSOPHERS. 
 
 I pray yoa, all ye men, who put your trust 
 In moulds and systems and well-tackled gear, 
 Holding that Nature lives from year to year 
 In one continual round because she must, — 
 Set me not down, I pray you, in the dust 
 Of all these centuries, like a pot of beer, — 
 A pewter-pot disconsolately clear. 
 Which holds a potful, as is right and just. 
 I will grow clamorous, — by ;he rood, I will. 
 If thus ye u^e me like a pewter pot! 
 Good friend, thou art a toper and a sot ; 
 I will not be the lead to hold ttiy swill, 
 Nor any lead ; I will arise and spill 
 Thy silly beverage, spill it piping hot. 
 
 Nature, to him no message dost thon bear, 
 Who in thy beauty flndeth not the power 
 To gird himself more strongly for the hour 
 Of night and darkness. Oh, what colors rare 
 The woods, the valleys, and the mountains wear 
 To him who knows thy secret, and, in shower 
 And fog, and ice-cloud, hath a secret bower 
 Where he may rest until the heavens are fair I 
 Not with the rest of slumber, but the trance 
 Of onward movement steady and sereue. 
 Where oft in struggle and in contest keen 
 His eyes will opened be, and all the dance 
 Of life break on him, and a wide expanse 
 Roll upward through the void, sunny and green. 
 
 TO JUNE. 
 
 Ah, truant, thou art here again, I see 1 
 For in a season of such wretched weather 
 I thought that thou hadst left us altogether. 
 Although I could not choose but fancy thee 
 Skulking about the hill-tops, whence the glee 
 Of thy blue laughter peeped at times, or rather 
 Thy bashful awkwardness, as doubtful whether 
 Thou shouldst be seen in such a company' 
 Of ugly runaways, unshapely heaps 
 Of ruffian vapor, broken from restraint 
 Of their slim prison in the ocean deeps. 
 But yet I may not chide ; fall to thy books. 
 Fall to immediately without complaint, — 
 There they are lying, hills and vales and brooks. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 351 
 
 WEITTEN ABOUT THE LONGEST DAY. 
 
 Summer, sweet Summer, many-flngered Summer I 
 
 We hold thee very dear, as well we may : 
 
 It is the kernel of tlie year to-day — 
 
 All hail to thee 1 Thou art a welcome comer ! 
 
 If every insect were a fairy drummer, 
 
 And I a flfer that could deftly play, 
 
 We'd give the old Earth such a i oundelay 
 
 That she would cast all thought of labor from her. 
 
 Ahl what is this upou my window-pane? 
 
 Some sulky, drooping cloud comes pouting up. 
 
 Stamping its glittering feet along the plain I 
 
 Well, I will let that idle fancy drop. 
 
 Oh, how the spouts are bubbling with the rain ! 
 
 And all the earth shines like a silver cup I 
 
 ON A MIDGE. 
 
 Whence do ye come, ye creatures ? Each of yon 
 Is perfect as an angel ; wings and eyes 
 Stupendous in their beauty — gorgeous dyes 
 In feathery fields of purple and of blue ! 
 Would God I saw a moment as ye do ! 
 I would become a molecule in size, 
 Rest with you, hum with you, or slanting rise 
 Along your one dear sunbeam, could I view 
 The pearly secret which each tiny fly, — 
 Each tiny fly that hums and bobs and stirs, — 
 Hides in its little breast eternally 
 From you, ye prickly, grim philosophers. 
 With all your theories that sound so high : 
 Hark to the buzz a moment, my good sirs I 
 
 ON A WATERFALL. 
 
 Here stands a giant stone from whose far top 
 
 Comes down the sounding water. Let me gaze 
 
 Till every sense of man and human ways 
 
 Is wrecked and quenched forever, and I drop 
 
 Into the whirl of time, and without s»,op 
 
 Pass downward thus ! Again my ej es I raise 
 
 To thee, dark rock ; and through the mist and haae 
 
 My strength returns when I behold thy prop 
 
 Gleam stern and steady through the wavering wrackc 
 
 Surely thy strength is human, and like me 
 
 Thou bearest loads of thunder on thy back! 
 
 And, lo, a smile upon thy visage black — 
 
 A breezy tuft of grass which I can see 
 
 Waving serenely from a sunlit crack I 
 
352 52 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Above my head the great pine-branches tower; 
 Backwards and forwards each to the other bends, 
 Beckoning the tempest-cloud which hither wends 
 Like a slow-labored thought, heavy with power: 
 Hark to the patter of the coming shower ! 
 Let me be silent while the Almighty sends 
 His thunder- word along; but when it ends 
 I will arise and fashion from the hour 
 Words of stupendous import, fit to guard 
 High thoughts and purposes, which I may wave, 
 When the temptation cometti close and hard, 
 Like flery brands betwixt me and the grave 
 Of meaner things, — to which I am a slave. 
 If evermore I keep not watch and ward. 
 
 I do remember how, wlien very young, 
 
 I saw the great sea first, and heard it swell 
 
 As I drew nearer, cauglit within the spell 
 
 Of its vast size and its mysterious tongue. 
 
 How the floor trembled, and the dark boat swung 
 
 With a man in it, and a great wave fell 
 
 Within a stone's cast ! Words may never tell 
 
 The passion of the moment, when I flung 
 
 All childish records by, and felt arise 
 
 A thing that died no more 1 An awful power 
 
 I claimed with trembling hands and eager eyes. 
 
 Mine, mine forever, an immortal dower. — 
 
 The noise of waters soundeth to this hour. 
 
 When 1 look seaward through the quiet skies. 
 
 ON THE SOURCE OF THE ARTE. 
 
 Hear'st thou the dash of water, loud and hoarse. 
 
 With its perpetual tidings upward climb. 
 
 Struggling against the wind ? Oh, how sublime I 
 
 For not in vain fi'om its portentous source, 
 
 Thy heart, wild stream, hath yearned for its full foroo^ 
 
 But from thine ice-toothed caverns, dark as time. 
 
 At last thou issuest, dancing to the rliyme 
 
 Of thy outvolleying freedom ! Lo, thy course 
 
 Lies straight before thee as the arrow flies. 
 
 Right to the ocean-plains. Away, away 1 
 
 Thy parent waits tliee, and her sunset dyes 
 
 Are raffled for thy coming, and the gray 
 
 Of all her glittering borders flashes high 
 
 Against the glittering rocks. Oh, haste, and fly i 
 
PART III. -HIS MANHOOD. 
 
 * 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 IN THE DBSBRT. 
 
 A LIFE lay behind Robert Falconer, and a life lay before 
 him. He scood on a shoal between. 
 
 The life behind him was in its grave. He had covered it 
 over and turned away. But he knew it would rise at night. 
 
 The life before him was not yet born ; and what should issue 
 from that dull, ghastly, unrevealing fog on the horizon he did 
 not care. Thiier the tide setting eastward would carry him, 
 and his future must be born. All he cared about was to leave 
 the empty garments of his dead behind him, — the sky and the 
 fields, the houses and the gardens, which those dead had made 
 alive with their presence. Travel, motion, ever on, ever away, 
 was the sole impulse in his heart. Nor had the thought of 
 finding his father any share in his restlessness. 
 
 He told his grandmother that he was going back to Aber- 
 deen. She looked in his face with surprise, but, seeing trouble 
 there, asked no questions. As if walking in a dream, he found 
 himself at Dr. Anderson's door. 
 
 "Why, Robert," said the good man, "what has brought 
 you back ? Ah ! I see. Poor Ericson ! I am very sorry, 
 my hoy. What can I do for you? " 
 
 " I can't go on with my studies now, sir," answered Robert. 
 " I have taken a great longing for travel. Will you give me 
 a little money and let me go? " 
 
 " To be sure I will. Where do you want to go ? " 
 
 " I don't know. Perhaps as I go I shall find myself want- 
 ing to go somewhere. You're not afraid to trust me, are you, 
 sir?" 
 
 33 353 
 
354 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Not in the least, Robert. I trust you perfectly. You 
 shall do just as you please. — Have you any idea how much 
 money you will want? " 
 
 " No. Give me what you are willing I should spend ; I 
 will go by that." 
 
 " Come along to the bank then. I will give you enough to 
 start with. Write al; once when you want more. Don't be 
 too saving. Enjoy yourself as well as you can. I shall not 
 grudge it." 
 
 Robert smiled a wan smile at the idea of enjoying himself. 
 His friend saw it, but let it pass. There was no good in per- 
 euading a man, whose grief was all he had left, that he must 
 ere long part with that too. That would have been in lowest 
 deeps of sorrow to open a yet lower deep of horror. But 
 Robert would have refused, and would have been right in re- 
 fusing to believe with regard to himself what might be true in 
 regard to most men. He might rise above his grief ; he might 
 learn to contain his grief; but lose it, forget it? — never. 
 
 He went to bid Shargar farewell. As soon as he had a 
 glimpse of what his friend meant, he burst out in an agony of 
 supplication. 
 
 " Tak' me wi' ye, Robert," he cried. ' " Ye're a gentleman 
 noo. I'll be yer man. I'll put on a livery coat, an' go wi' 
 ye. I'll awa' to Dr. Anderson. He's sure to lat me go." 
 
 " No, Shargar," said Robert, " I can't have you with me. 
 I've come into trouble, Shargar, and I must fight it out 
 alone." 
 
 " Ay, ay ; I know. Puir Mr. Ericson ! " 
 
 " There's nothing the matter with Mr. Ericson. Don't ask. 
 me any questions. I've said more to you now than I've said 
 to anybody besides." 
 
 " That is guid o' you, Robert. But am I never to see ye 
 again ? " 
 
 " I don't know. Perhaps we may meet some day." 
 '^^ Perhaps is. nae muckle to say, Robert," protested 
 Shargar. 
 
 "It's more than can be said about everything, Shargar," 
 returned Robert, sadly. 
 
 " Weel, I maun jist tak' it as 't comes," said Shargar, with 
 8 despairing philosophy derived from the days when his mother 
 
ROBERT FALCONiiiR, 855 
 
 thrashed him. " But, eh ! Robert, if it had only pleased the 
 Almichty to sen' me into the warl' in a some respectable kin' 
 o' a fashion ! " 
 
 " Wi' a chance o' gaein' aboot the country like that curst 
 villain yer brither, I suppose ? " retorted Robert, rousing him- 
 self for a moment. 
 
 " Na, na," responded Shargar. "I'll stick to my ain 
 mither. She never learned me sic tricks." 
 
 " Do ye that. Ye canna compleen o' God. It's a' richt as 
 far 's ye're concerned. If he dinna mak' something o' ye yet, 
 it'll be your fault, no his, I'm thinkin'." 
 
 They walked to Dr. Anderson's together, and spent the 
 night there. In the morning Robert got on the coach for 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 I cannot, if I would, follow him on his travels. Only at 
 times, when the conversation rose in the dead of night, by 
 some Jacob's ladder of blessed ascent, into regions where the 
 heart of such a man ccAA open as in its own natural clime, 
 would a few words caase the clouds that enveloped this period 
 of his history to dispart, and grant me a peep into the phan- 
 tasm of his past. I suspect, however, that much of it left 
 upon his mind no recallable impressions. I suspect that much 
 of it looked to himself in the retrospect like a painful dream, 
 with only certain objects and occurrences standing prominent 
 enough to clear the moonlight mist enwrapping the rest. 
 
 What the precise nature of his misery was I shall not even 
 attempt to conjecture. That would be to intrude within the 
 holy place of a human heart. One thing alone I will venture 
 to affirm, — that bitterness against either of his friends, whose 
 spirits rushed together and left his outside, had no place in 
 that noble nature. His fate lay behind him, like the birth of 
 Shargar, like the death of Ericson, a decree. 
 
 I do not even know in what direction he first went. That 
 he had seen many cities and many countries was apparent from 
 glimpses of ancient streets, of mountain-marvels, of strange 
 constellations, of things in heaven and earth which no one 
 could have seen but himself, called up by the magic of hia 
 words. A silent man in company, he talked much when hia 
 hour of speech arrived. Seldom, however, did he narrate any 
 
356 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 incident save in connection with some truth of human nature, 
 or fact of the universe. 
 
 >■ I do know that the first thing he always did on reaching 
 any new place was to visit the church with the loftiest spire ; 
 but he never looked into the church itself until he had left the 
 earth behind him as far as that church would afford him the 
 possibility of ascent. Breathing the air of its highest region, 
 he found himself vaguely strengthened, yes, comforted. One 
 peculiar feeling he had, into which I could enter only upon 
 happy occasion, of the presence of God in the wind. He said 
 the wind up there on the heights of human aspiration always 
 made him long and pray. Asking him one day something 
 about his going to church so seldom, he answered thus : — 
 
 " My dear boy, it does me ten times more good to get out- 
 side the spire than to go inside the church. The spire is the 
 most essential, and consequently the most neglected, part of the 
 building. It symbolizes the aspiration without which no 
 nan's faith can hold its own. But the effort of too many of 
 her priests goes to conceal from the worshippers the fact that 
 there is such a stair, with a door to it out of the church. It 
 looks as if they feared their people would desert them for 
 heaven. But I presume it arises generally from the fact that 
 they know of such an ascent themselves only by hearsay. 
 The knowledge of God is good, but the church is better ! " 
 
 "Could it be," I ventured to suggest, "that, in order t& 
 ascend, they must put off the priests' garments ? " 
 
 " Good, my boy ! " he answered. " All are priests up 
 there, and must be clothed in fine linen, clean and white, — 
 the righteousness of saints, — not the imputed righteousness 
 of another, — that is a lying doctrine, — but their own right- 
 eousness, which God has wrought in them by Christ." 
 
 I never knew a man in wnom the inward was so constantly 
 clothed upon by the outward, whose ordinary habits were so 
 symbolic of his spiritual tastes, or whose enjoyment of the 
 sight of his eyes and the hearing of his ears was so much in- 
 formed by his highest feelings. He regnrded all human af- 
 fairs from the heights of religion, as from their church-spirea he 
 looked down on the red roofs of Antwerp, on the black roof* 
 of Cologne, on the gray roofs of Strasburg or on the brown 
 
SOBEBT FALCONER. 357 
 
 roofs of Basel, — uplifted for the time above them, not in dis- 
 sociation from them. 
 '^ On the base of the missing twin-spire at Strasburg, high 
 over the roof of the church, stands a little cottage. How 
 strange its white muslin •window-curtains look up there ! To 
 the day of his death he cherished the fancy of writing a book 
 in that cottage, with the grand city to which London looks a 
 modern mushroom, its thousand roofs with row upon row of 
 windows in them, — often five garret stories, one above the 
 other, and its thickets of multiform chimneys, the thrones and 
 procreant cradles of the storks, marvellous in history, habit, 
 and dignity, — all below him. 
 
 He was taken ill at Valence, and lay there for a fortnight, 
 oppressed with some kind of low fever. One night he awoko 
 from a refreshing sleep, but could not sleep again. It seemed 
 to him afterwards as if he had lain waiting for something. 
 Anyhow something came. As it were a faint, musical rain 
 had invaded his hearing ; but the night was , clea; , for the 
 moon iwas shining on his window-blind. The sounu came 
 nearer, and revealed itself a delicate tinkling of bells. It 
 drew nearer still and nearer, growing in sweet fulness as it 
 came, till at length a slow torrent of tinklings went past his 
 •window in the street below. It was the flow of a thousand 
 little currents of sound, a gliding of silvery threads, like tlie 
 talking of water-ripples against the side of a barge in a slow 
 canal, — all as soft as the moonlight, as exquisite as an odor, 
 each sound tenderly truncated and dull. A great multitude 
 of sheep was shifting its quarters in the night, whence and 
 whither and why he never knew. To his heart they were the 
 messengers of the Most High. For into that heart, soothed 
 H.nd attuned by their thin harmony, not on the wind that 
 fioated without breaking their lovely message, but on the rip- 
 ples of the wind that bloweth where it listeth, came the 
 words, unlocked for, their coming unheralded by any mental 
 premonition, " My peace I give unto you." The sounds died 
 s2<)wly away in the distance, fainting out of the air, even aa 
 they had grown upon it, but the words remained. 
 
 In a few moments he was fast asleep, comforted by pleasure 
 into repose ; his dreams were of gentle, self-consoling griefs ; 
 and when he awoke in the morning, " My peace I giva 
 
■858 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 ante you," waa the first thought of which he was conscious. 
 It may be that the sound of the sheep-bells made him think of 
 the shepherds that watched their flocks by night, and tley of 
 the multitude of the heavenly host, and they of the song, 
 " On earth peace," — I do not know. The important point ii 
 not how the words came, but that the words remained, — re- 
 mained until he understood them, and they became to him 
 spirit and life. 
 
 He soon recovered strength sufficiently to set out again 
 upon his travels, great part of which he performed on foot. 
 In this way he reached Avignon. Passing from one of its 
 n? 'row streets into an open place in the midst, all at once he 
 beheld towering above him, on a height that overlooked the 
 whole city and surrounding country, a great crucifix. The 
 form of the Lord of Life still hung in the face of heaven 
 and earth. He bowed his head involuntarily. No matter 
 that when he drew nearer the power of it vanished. The 
 memory of it remained, with its first impression, and it had a 
 share in what followed. « 
 
 He made his way eastward towards the Alps. As he 
 walked one day about noon over a desolate, heath-covered 
 height, reminding him not a little of the country of his child- 
 hood, the silence seized upon him. In the midst of the si- 
 lence arose the crucifix, and once more the words which had 
 often returned upon him sounded in the ears of the inner 
 hearing : " My peace I give unto you." They were words he 
 had known from the earliest memorial time. He had heard 
 them in infancy, in childhood, in boyhood, in youth ; now 
 first in manhood it flashed upon him that the Lord did really 
 mean that the peace of his soul should be the peace of their 
 souls ; that the peace wherewith his own soul was quiet, the 
 peace at the very heart of the universe, was henceforth theirs, 
 — open to them, to all the world, to enter and be still. He 
 fell upon his knees, bowed down in the birth of a great hope, 
 held up his hands towards heaven, and cried, " Lord Christ, 
 give me thy peace." 
 
 He said no more, but rose, caught up his stick, and strode 
 forward, thinking. 
 
 He had learned what the sentence meant ; what that was of 
 which it spoke he had not yet learned. The peace he had 
 
KOEERT TALCONEB. 359 
 
 once sought, the peace that lay in the smiles and tenderness 
 of a woman, had "overcome him like a summer cloud," and 
 had passed away. There was surely a deeper, a wider, a 
 grander peace for him than that, if indeed it was the same 
 peace wherewith the King of men regarded his approaching 
 end, that he had left as a heritage to his brothers. Suddenly 
 he was aware that the earth had begun to live again. The 
 hum of insects arose from the heath around him ; the odor of 
 its flowers entered his dulled sense ; the wind kissed him on 
 the forehead; the sky domed up over his head; and the clouds 
 veiled the distant mountain-tops like the smoke of incense as- 
 cending from the altars of the worshipping earth. All nature 
 began to minister to one who had begun to lift his head from 
 the baptism of fire. He had thought that Nature could never 
 more be anything to him ; and she was waiting on him like a 
 mother. The next moment he was offended with himself for re- 
 ceiving ministrations the reaction of whose loveliness might no 
 longer gather around the form of Mary St. John. Every 
 wavelet of scent, every toss of a flower's head in the breeze, 
 came with a sting in its pleasure, — for there was no woman to 
 whom they belonged. Yet he could not shut them out, for 
 God, and not woman, is the heart of the universe. Would the 
 day ever come when the loveliness of Mary St. John, felt and 
 acknowledged as never before, would be even to him a joy and a 
 thanksgiving? If ever, then because God is the heart of 
 all. 
 
 I do not think this mood, wherein all forms of beauty sped 
 to his soul as to their own needful centre, could have lasted 
 over many miles of his journey. But such delicate inward 
 revelations are none the less precious that they are evanescent. 
 Many feelings are simply too good to last, — using the phrase 
 not in the unbelieving sense in which it is generally used, ex- 
 pressing the conviction that God is a hard Father, fond of dis- 
 appointing his chilaren ; but to express the fact that intensity 
 and endurance cannot yet coexist in the human economy. But 
 the virtue of a mood depends by no means on its immediate 
 presence. Like any other experience, it may be believed in. 
 and, in the absence which leaves the mind free to contemplata 
 it, work even more good than in its presence. 
 
 At length he came in sight of the Alpine regions. Far oflF, 
 
860 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 the heads of the great mountain rose into the upper countries 
 of cloud, where the snows settled on their stony heads, and the 
 torrents ran out from beneath the frozen mass to gladden the 
 earth below with the faith of the lonely hills. The mighty 
 creatures lay like grotesque animals of a far-off titanic time, 
 whose dead bodies had been first withered into stone, then 
 worn away by the storms, and covered with shrouds and palls 
 of snow, till the outlines of their forms were gone, and only 
 rough shapes remained like those just blocked out in the 
 sculptor's marble, vaguely suggesting what the creatures had 
 been, as the corpse under the sheet of death is like a man. 
 He came amongst the valleys at their feet, with their blue- 
 green waters hurrying seawards, — from stony heights of air 
 into the mass of " the restless, wavy plain ; " with their sides 
 of rock rising in gigantic terrace after terrace up to the 
 heavens ; with their scaling pines, erect and slight, cone-head 
 aspiring above cone-head, ambitious to clothe the bare mass 
 with green, till, failing at length in their upward efforts, the 
 savage rock shot away and beyond and above them, the white 
 and blue glaciers clinging cold and cruel to their ragged sides, 
 and the dead blank of whiteness covering their final despair. 
 He drew near to the lower glaciers, to find their awful abysses 
 tremulous with liquid blue, — a blue tender and profound as if 
 fed from the reservoir of some hidden sky intenser than ours ; 
 he rejoiced over the velvety fields dotted with the toy-like 
 houses of the mountaineers ; he sat for hours listening by the 
 side of their streams ; he grew weary, felt oppressed, longed 
 for a wider outlook, and began to climb towards a mountain 
 village, of which he had heard from a traveller, to find solitude 
 and freedom in an air as lofty as if he climbed twelve of his 
 beloved cathedral spires piled up in continuous ascent. 
 
 After ascending for hours in zigzags through pine woods, 
 where the only sound was of the little streams trotting down 
 to the valley below, or the distant hush of some thin water- 
 fall, he reached a level, and came out of the woods. The 
 path now led along the edge of a precipice descending sheer to 
 the uppermost terrace of the valley he had left. The valley 
 was but a cleft in the mass of the mountain ; a little way over 
 sank its other wall, steep as a plumb-line could have made it, 
 of solid rock. On his right lay green fields of clover and 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 361 
 
 strange grasses. Ever and anon from the cleft steamed up 
 great blinding clouds of mist, which now wandered about over 
 the nation of rocks on the mountain side beyond the gulf, now 
 wrapt himself in their bewildering folds. In one moment the 
 whole creation had vanished, and there seemed scarce existence 
 enough left for more than the following footstep ; the next, a 
 mighty mountain stood in front, crowned with blinding snow, 
 an awful fact ; the lovely heavens were over his head, and the 
 green sod under his feet ; the grasshoppers chirped about him, 
 and the gorgeous butterflies flew. From regions far beyond 
 came the bells of the kine and the goats. He reached a little 
 inn, and there took up his quarters. 
 
 I am able to be a little minute in my description, because I 
 have since visited the place myself. Great heights rise around ' 
 it on all sides. It stands as between heaven and hell, sus- 
 pended between peaks and gulfs. The wind must roar aw- 
 fully there in the winter ; but the mountains stand away with 
 their avalanches, and all the summer long keep the cold oflF the 
 grassy fields. 
 
 The same evening, he was already weary. The next morn- 
 ing it rained — it rained fiercely all day. He would leave the 
 place on the morrow. In the evening it began to clear up. He 
 walked out. The sun was setting. The snow-peaks were faintly 
 tinged with rose, and the ragged masses of vapor, that hung 
 lazy and leaden-colored about the sides of the abyss, were 
 partially dyed a sulky orange-red. Then all faded into gray. 
 But as the sunlight vanished, a veil sank from the face of the 
 moon, already half-way to the zenith, and she gathered courage 
 and shone, till the mountain looked lovely as a ghost in the 
 gleam of its snow and the glimmer of its glaciers. " Ah ! " 
 thought Falconer, "such a peace at last is all a man can look 
 for, — the repose of a spectral Elysium, a world where passion 
 has died away, and only the dim ghost of its memory returns 
 to disturb with a shadowy sorrow the helpless content of its 
 undreaming years. The religion that can do but this much 
 is not a very great or very divine thing. The human heart 
 eannot invent a better, it may be, but it can imagine grander 
 results." 
 
 He did not yet know what the religion was of which lie 
 spoke. As well might a man born stone-deaf entimate the 
 
362 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 power of sweet sounds, or he who knows not a square from a 
 circle pronounce upon the study of mathematics. 
 
 The next morning rose brilliant, — an ideal summer day. 
 He would not go yet ; he would spend one dny more in the 
 placs. He opened his valise to get some lighter garments. 
 His eyes fell on a New Testament. Dr. Anderson had it put 
 there. He had never opened it yet, and n/)w he let it lie. Ita 
 time had not yet come. He went out. 
 
 Walking up the edge of the valley, he came upon a little 
 Btream whose talk he had heard for some hundred yards. 
 It flowed through a grassy hollow, with steeply sloping sides. 
 Water is the same all the world over ; but there was more than 
 water here to bring his childhood back to Falconer. For at 
 the spot where the path led him down to the burn, a little crag 
 stood out from the bank, — a gray stone, . like many he knew 
 on the stream that watered the valley of Rothieden ; on the 
 top of the stone grew a little heather ; and beside it, bending 
 towards the water, was a silver birch. He sat down on the 
 foot of the rock, shut in by the high, grassy banks from the 
 gaze of the awful mountains. The sole unrest was the run 
 of the water beside him, and it sounded so homely that he be- 
 gan to jabber Scotch to it. He forgot that this stream was 
 born in the clouds, far up where that peak rose into the air 
 behind him ; he did not know that a couple of hundred yards 
 from where he sat, it tumbled headlong into the valley below. 
 With his country's birch-tree beside him, and the rock crowned 
 with its turf of heather over his head, the quiet as of a Sabbath 
 afternoon fell upon him, — that quiet which is the one alto- 
 gether lovely thing in the Scotch Sabbath, — and once more 
 the words arose in his mind, " My peace I give unto you." 
 
 Now he fell a thinking what this peace could be. And, it 
 came into his mind, as he thought, that-Jesus had spoken in 
 another place about giving rest to those that came to him, 
 while here he spoke about " my peace." Could this wiy 
 mean a certain kind of peace that the Lord himself possessed ? 
 Perhaps it was in virtue of that peace, whatever it was, that 
 he was the Prince of Peace. Whatever peace he had must be 
 ii"^ highest and best peace, — therefore the one peace for a 
 man to seek, if indeed, as the words of the Lord seemed to 
 imply, a man was capable of possessing it. He remembered 
 f 
 
EOBBRT TALCONER. 363 
 
 the New Testament in his box, and, resolving to try whether 
 he could not make something more out of it, went back to the 
 inn quieter in heart than since he left his home. In the even- 
 ing he returned to the brook, and fell to searching the storj, 
 seeking after the peace of Jesus. 
 
 He found that the whole passage stood thus : — 
 
 " Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you ; not as 
 the world giveth give I unto you. Let not your heart be 
 troubled, neither let it be afraid." 
 
 He did not leave the place for six weeks. Every day he 
 went to the burn, as he called it, with his New Testament ; 
 every day tried yet again to make out something more of what 
 the Saviour meant. By the end of the month it had dawned 
 upon him, he hardly knew how, that the peace of Jesus (although, 
 of course, he could not know what it was like till he had it) 
 must have been a peace that came from the doing of the will of 
 his Father. From the account he gave of the discoveries he 
 then made, I venture to represent them in the driest and most 
 exact form that I can find they will admit of. When I use 
 the word discoveries, I need hardly say that I use it with ref- 
 erence to Falconer and his previous knowledge. They were 
 these : — that Jesus taught — 
 
 First, — That a man's business is to do the will of Gbd. 
 
 Second, — That God takes upon himself the care of the 
 man; 
 
 Third, — Therefore, that a man must never be afraid of any- 
 thing ; and so, 
 
 Fourth, — be left free to love God with all his heart, and his 
 neighbor as himself. 
 
 But one day, his thoughts having cleared themselves a little 
 upon these points, a new set of questions arose with sudden 
 inundation, comprised in these two : — 
 
 " How can I tell for certain that there ever was such a man? 
 How am I to be sure that such as he says is the mind of the 
 maker of these glaciers and butterflies ? " 
 
 All this time he was in the wilderness as much as Moses at 
 the back of Horeb, or St. Paul when he vanishes in Arabia ; 
 and he did nothing but read the four gospels and ponder over 
 them. Therefore it is not surprising that he should have 
 already become so familiar with the gospel story, that tho 
 
364 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 moment these questions appeared, the following words should 
 Jart to the forefront of his consciousness to meet them : — 
 
 " If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, 
 whether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself." 
 
 Here' was a word of Jesus himself, announcing the one meana 
 of arriving at a conviction of the truth or falsehood of all thai 
 he said, namely, the doing of the will of God by the man who 
 would arrive at such conviction. 
 
 The next question naturally was : What is this will of God 
 of which Jesus speaks ? Here he found himself in difiSculty. 
 The theology of his grandmother rushed in upon him, threat- 
 ening to overwhelm him with demands, as to feeling and inward 
 action, from which his soul turned with sickness and fainting. 
 That they were repulsive to him, that they appeared unreal, 
 and contradictory to the nature around him, was no proof 
 that they were not of God. But, on the other hand, that they 
 demanded what seemed to him unjust; that these demands 
 were founded on what seemed to him untruth attributed to God, 
 on ways of thinking and feeling which are certainly degrading 
 in a man, — these were reasons of the very highest nature for 
 refusing to act upon them so long as, from whatever defects it 
 might be in himself, they bore to him this aspect. He saw 
 that while they appeared to be such, even though it might turn 
 out that he mistook them, to acknowledge them would be to 
 wrong God. But this conclusion left him in no better position 
 for practice than before. 
 
 When at length he did see what the will of God was, he 
 wondered, so simple did it appear, that he had failed to discover 
 it at once. Yet not less than a fortnight had he been brooding' 
 and pondering over the question, as he wandered up and down 
 that burnside, or sat at the foot of the heather-crowned stone 
 and the silver-barked birch, when the light began to dawn upon 
 him. . It was thus : — 
 
 In trying to understand the words of Jesus by searching 
 back, as it were, for such thoughts and feelings in him as would 
 account for the words he spoke, the perception awoke that at 
 least he could not have meant by the will of God any such 
 theological utterances as those which troubled him. Next it 
 grew pllin that what he came to do was just to lead his life. 
 That he should do the work, such as recorded and much be* 
 
ROBERT PAIiCONBR. 865 
 
 sides, that the Father gave him to do, — thia was the will of 
 God concerning him. With this perception arose the convic- 
 tion that unto every man whom God had sent into the world 
 he had given a work to do in that world. He had to lead the 
 life God meant him to lead. The will of God was to be found 
 and done in the world. In seeking a true relation to the world, 
 would he find his relation to God ? 
 
 The time for action was come. 
 
 He rose up from the stone of his meditation, took his staff 
 in his hand, and went down the mountain, not knowing whither 
 he went. And these were some of his thoughts as he went : — 
 
 "If it was the will of God who made me and her, my will 
 shall not be set against his. I cannot be happy, but I will bow 
 my head, and let his waves and his billows go over me. If 
 there is such a God, he knows what a pain I bear. His will 
 be done. Jesus thought it well that his will should be done to 
 the death. Even if there be no God, it will be grand to be a 
 disciple of such a man, to do as he says, think as he thought 
 — perhaps come to feel as he felt." 
 
 My reader may wonder that one so young should have. been 
 able to think so practically — to the one point of action. But 
 he was in earnest, and what lay at the root of his character, at 
 the root of all that he did, felt, and became, was childlike sim- 
 plicity and purity of nature. If the sins of his father were 
 mercifully visited upon him, so likewise were the grace and 
 loveliness of his mother. And between the two Falconer had 
 fared well. 
 
 As he descended the mountain, the one question was — Lis 
 calling. With the faintest track to follow, with the clue of a 
 spider's thread to guide him, he would have known that his 
 business was to set out at once to find and save his father. 
 But never since the day when the hand of that father smote 
 him, and Mary St. John found him bleeding on the floor, had 
 he heard word or conjecture concerning him. If he were to 
 set out to find him now, it would be to search the earth for one 
 w ho might have vanished from it years ago. He might as well 
 search the streets of a great city for a lost jewel. When the 
 time cams for him to find his father, if such an hour was writ- 
 ten in the decrees. of — I dare not say Fate, for Falconer hated 
 the word — if such was the will of God, some sign would be 
 
S66 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 given him, — that ia, some hint which he could follow with ao- 
 tion. As he thought and thought, it became gradually plainer 
 that he must begin his obedience by getting ready for anything 
 that God might require of him. Therefore he must go on learn- 
 ing till the call came. 
 
 But he shivered at the thought of returning to Aberdeen. 
 Might he not continue his studies in Germany ? Would that 
 not be as good — possibly, from the variety of the experience, 
 better ? But how was it to be decided ? By submitting the 
 matter to the friend who made either possible. Dr. Anderson 
 had been to him as a father; he would be guided by his 
 pleasure. 
 
 He wrote, therefore, to Dr. Anderson, saying that he would 
 return at once if he wished it, but that he should greatly prefer 
 going to a German university for two years. The doctor re- 
 plied that of course ho would rather have him at home, but 
 that he was confident Robert knew best what was best for him- 
 self ; therefore he had only to settle where he thought proper, 
 and the next summer he would come and see him, for be was 
 not tied to Aberdeen any more than Bobert. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 HOME AGAIN. 
 
 Four years passed before Falconer returned to his native 
 country, during which period Dr. Anderson had visited him 
 twice, and shown himself well satisfied with his condition and 
 pursuits. The doctor had likewise visited Rothieden, and had 
 comforted the heart of the grandmother with regard to her 
 Robert. From what he learned upon this visit, he had arrived 
 at a true conjecture, I believe, as to the cause, of the great 
 change which had suddenly taken place in the youth. But he 
 never asked Robert a question leading in the direction of the 
 grief which he saw the healthy and earnest nature of the youth 
 gradually assimilating into his life. He had too much respect 
 for sorrow to approach it with curiosity. He had learned to 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 361 
 
 put oflFhis shoes when he drew nigh the burning hush of human 
 pain. 
 
 Robert had not settled at any of the universities, but had 
 moved from one to the other as he saw fit, report guiding hin. 
 to the men who spoke with authority. The time of doubt and 
 anxious questioning was far from over, but the time was long 
 gone by — if in his case it had ever been — when he could be 
 like a wave of the sea, driven of the wind and tossed. He had 
 ever one anchor of the soul, and he found that it held, — the 
 faith of Jesus (I say the faith of Jesus, not his own faith in 
 Jesus), the truth of Jesus, the life of Jesus. However his 
 intellect might be tossed on the waves of speculation and criti- 
 cism, he found that the word the Lord had spoken remained 
 steadfast; for in doing righteously, in loving mercy, in walk- 
 ing humbly, the conviction increased that Jesus knew the very 
 secret of human life. Now and then some great vision gleamed 
 across his soul of the working of all things towards a far-off 
 goal of simple obedience to a law of life, which God knew, and 
 which his Son had justified through sorrow and pain. Again 
 and again the words of the Master gave him a peep into a re- 
 gion where all was explicable, where all that was crooked might 
 be made straight, where every mountain of wrong might be 
 made low, and every valley of suffering exalted. Ever and 
 again some one of the dark perplexities of humanity began to 
 glimmer with light in its inmost depth. Nor was he without 
 those moments of communion when the creature is lifted into 
 the secret place of the Creator. 
 
 Looking back to the time when it seemed that he cried and 
 was not heard, he saw that God had been hearing, had been 
 answering all the time ; had been making him capable of re- 
 ceiving the gift for which he prayed. He saw that intellectual 
 difficulty encompassing the highest operations of harmonizing 
 truth can no more affect their reality than the dulness of chaos 
 disprove the motions of the wind of God over the face of its 
 waters. He saw that any true revelation must come out of the 
 unknown in God through the unknown in man. He saw that 
 its truths must rise in the man as powers of life, and that only 
 as that life grows and unfolds can the ever-lagging intellect 
 gain glimpses of partial outlines fading away into the infinite ; 
 that, indeed, only in material things and the laws that belong 
 
3*53 KOBERT fa:.conbe. 
 
 10 th<jm, are outlines possible, — even there, only in the picture 
 of them which the mind that analyzes them makes for itself, 
 not in the things themselves. 
 
 At the close of these four years, with his spirit calm and 
 hopeful, truth his passion, and music, which again he had 
 resumed and diligently cultivated, his pleasure, Falconer re- 
 turned to Aberdeen. He was received by Dr. Anderson as if 
 he had in truth been his own son. In the room stood a tall 
 figure, with its back towards them, pocketing its handkerchief. 
 The next moment the figure turned, and — could it be? — 
 yes, it was Shargar. Doubt lingered only until he opened his 
 mouth, and said, " Eh, Robert! " with which exclamation he 
 threw himself upon him, and after a very undignified fashion 
 began crying heartily. Tall as he was, Robert's great black 
 head towered above him, and his shoulders were like a rock 
 against which Shargar's slight figure leaned. He looked down 
 like a compassionate mastifiFupon a distressed Italian grayhound. 
 His eyes shimmered with feeling, but Robert's tears, if ho 
 ever shed any, were kept for very solemn occasions. lie was 
 more likely to weep for awful joy than for any sufibrings either 
 in himself or others. " Shargar ! " pronounced in a tone fuJl 
 of a thousand memories, was all the greeting he returned ; bu'^ 
 his great, manly hand pressed Shargar's delicate, long-fingere«H 
 one with a grasp which must have satisfied his friend that every ■ 
 thing was as it had been between them, and that their friend 
 ship from henceforth would take a new start. For with al' 
 that Robert had seen, thought, and learned, now that the bitter 
 ness of loss had gone by, the old times and the old friends wer« 
 dearer. If there was any truth ia the religion of God's will 
 1 1 in which he was a disciple, every .moment of life's historj 
 which had brought soul in contact with soul must be sacred ai 
 a voice from behind the veil. Therefore he could not now 
 rest until he had gone to see his grandmother. 
 
 "Will you come to Rothieden with me, Shargar? I beg 
 your pardon, — I oughtn't to keep up an old nickname," said 
 Robert, as they sat that evening with the doctor, over a tumbler 
 of toddy. 
 
 " If you call me anything else, I'll cut my throat, Robert, 
 as I told you before. If any one else does," he added, laughing, 
 ' I'll cut his throat." 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 3G9 
 
 " Can he go with me, doctor? " asked Kobert, turning to 
 their host. 
 
 " Certainly. He has not been to Rothieden since he tooK 
 his degree. He's an A.M. now, and has distinguished him- 
 self besides. You'll see him in his uniform soon, I hope. 
 Let's drink his health, Robert. Fill your glass." 
 
 The doctor filled his glass slowly and solemnly. He seldom 
 drank even wine ; but this was a rare occasion. He then rose, 
 and, with oqual slowness and a tremor in his voice which ren- 
 dered it impossible to imagine the presence of anything but 
 seriousness, said : — 
 
 " Robert, my son, let's drink the health of George Moray, 
 Gentleman. Stand up." 
 
 Robert rose, and in his confusion Shargar rose too, and sat 
 down again, blushing till his red hair looked yellow beside his 
 cheeks. The men repeated the words, " George Moray, Gentle- 
 man," emptied their glasses, and resumed their seats. . Shargar 
 rose trembling, and tried in vain to speak. The reason in part 
 was, that he sought to utter himself in English. 
 
 " Hoots ! Hang English ! " he broke out at last. " If I be 
 a gentleman. Dr. Anderson and Robert Falconer, it's you twa 
 'at's made me ane, an' God bless ye, an' I'm yer hoomble ser- 
 vant to a' etairnity." 
 
 So saying, Shargar resumed his seat, filled his glass with 
 trembling hand, emptied it to hide his feelings, but with5ut 
 success, rose once more, and retreated to the hall for a space. 
 
 The next morning, Robert. and Shargar got on the coach and 
 went to Rothieden. Robert turned his head aside as they came 
 near the bridge and the old house of Bogbonnie. . But, ashamed 
 of his weakness, he turned again and looked at the house. 
 There it stood, all the same, — a thing for the night winds to 
 howl in, and follow each other in mad gambols through its long 
 passages and rooms, so empty from the first that not even a 
 ghost had any reason for going there, — a place almost without 
 a history, — dreary emblem of so many empty souls that have 
 hidden their talent in a napkin, and have nothing to return 
 for it when the Master calls them. Having looked this one in 
 the face, he felt stronger to meet those other places before 
 which his heart quailed yet more. He knew that Miss St. 
 J jhn had left soon after Ericson's death ; whether he was sorry 
 2i 
 
oTO ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 « 
 
 or glod that he should not see her he could not tell. lie 
 thouoht Rothieden would look like Pompeii, a city buried and 
 disinterred ; but when the coach drove into the long straggling 
 street, he found the old love revive, and although the blood 
 rushed back to his heart when Captain Forsyth's house came 
 in view, he did not turn away, but made his eyes, and through^ 
 them his heart, familiar with its desolation. He got down at 
 the corner, and leaving Shargar to go on to the Boar's Head 
 and look after the luggage, walked into his grandmother's house, 
 and straight into her little parlor. She rose with her old state- 
 liness, when she saw a stranger enter the room, and stood wait- 
 ing his address. 
 
 "Weel, grannie," said Robert, and took her in his arms. 
 
 " The Lord's name be praised ! " faltered she. " He's ower 
 guid to the likes o' me." 
 
 And she lifted up her voice and wept. 
 
 She had been informed of his coming, but she had not ex- 
 pected him till the evening ; he was much altered, and old age 
 is slow. 
 
 He had hardly placed her in her chair, when Betty came in. 
 If she had shown him respect before, it was reverence now. 
 
 " Eh, sir ! " she said, " I didna know it was you, or I wadna 
 hae come into the room without knocking at the door. I'll 
 awa' back to my kitchie." 
 
 So saying, she turned to leave the room. 
 
 " Hoots ! Betty," cried Robert, " dinna be a gowk. Gie 's 
 a grip o' yer ban'." 
 
 Btttty stood staring and irresolute, overcome at sight of the 
 manly bulk before her. 
 
 "If ye dinna behave yersel', Betty, I'll jist awa' ower to 
 Muckledrum, an' hae a drive throu' the sessions-buik." 
 
 Betty laughed for the first time at the awful threat, and, the 
 ice once broken, things returned to somewhat of their old footing. 
 
 I must not linger on these days. The next morning Robert 
 paid a visit to Bodyfauld, and found that time had there flowed 
 so gently that it had left but few wrinkles and fewer gray 
 hairs. The fields, too, had little change to show ; and the hill 
 was all the same, save that its pines had grown. His chief 
 mission was to John Hewson and his wife. When he left for 
 the continent he was not so utterly absorbed in his own griefs 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 871 
 
 as to forget Jessie. He told her story to Dr. Anderson, and 
 the good man had gone to see her the same day. 
 
 In the evening, when he knew he should find them both at 
 home, he walked into the cottage. They were seated by the 
 fire, with the same pot hanging on the same crook for their 
 supper. They rose, and asked him to sit down, but did not 
 know him. When he told them who he was, they greeted him 
 warmly, and John Hewson smiled something of the old smile, 
 but only like it, for it had no " rays proportionately delivered " 
 from his mouth over his face. 
 
 After a little indifferent chat, Robert said : — 
 
 " I .came through Aberdeen yesterday, John." 
 
 At the very mention of Aberdeen, John's head sunk. He 
 gave no answer, but sat looking in the fire. His wife rose and 
 went to the other end of the room, busying herself quietly 
 about the supper. Robert thought it best to plunge into the 
 matter at once. 
 
 " I saw Jessie last nicht," he said. 
 
 Still there was no reply. John's face had grown hard as a 
 stone face ; but Robert thought rather from the determination 
 to govern his feelings than from resentment. 
 
 " She's been doin' weel ever sin' syne," he added. 
 
 Still no word from either ; and Robert, fearing some outburst 
 of indignation ere he had said his say, now made haste. 
 
 " She's been a servant wi' Dr. Anderson for four years noo, 
 an' he's sair pleased wi' her. She's a fine woman. But her 
 bairnie's deid, an' that was a sair blow till her." 
 
 He heard a sob from the mother, but still John made no 
 sign. 
 
 "It was a bonnie bairnie as ever ye saw. It luikit in her 
 face, she says, as if it knew a' aboot it, and had only come to 
 help her throu' the warst o' 't; for it gaed hame 'maist as 
 Bune's ever she was richt able to thank God for sen'in' her sic 
 an angel to lead her to repentance." 
 
 "John," said his wife, coming behind his chair, and laying 
 her hand on his shoulder, " what for dinna ye speyk ? Ye 
 hear what Maister Faukner says. Ye dinna think a thing's 
 clean useless 'cause there may be a spot upo' 't? " she added, 
 wiping her eyes with her apron. 
 
 " A spot upo' 't ? " cried John, starting to his feet. " What 
 
872 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 ca' ye a spot ? — Wuman, dinna drive me mad to hear ye lower 
 the glory o" virginity." 
 
 " That's a' verra weel, John," interposed Robert, quietly ; 
 " but there was Ane thocht as muckle o' 't as ye do, an' wad 
 hae been ashamed to hear ye speak that way aboot yer ain 
 da'ichter." 
 
 " I dinna unnerstan' ye," returned Hewson, looking raised- 
 like at him. 
 
 " Dinna ye know, man, that amo' them 'at know the Lord 
 best whan he cam' frae haiven to luik efter his ain, — to seek 
 and to save, ye know, — amo' them 'at cam' roon aboot him to 
 hearken till 'im, was lasses 'at had gane the wrang way 
 a'thegither, — no like your bonnie Jessie, 'at fell but ance. 
 Man, ye're jist like Simon the Pharisee, 'at was sae scunnert 
 at oor Lord 'caiise he loot the wuman 'at was a sinner tak' her 
 wull o' 's feet, — the feet 'at they war gaein to tak' their wull 
 o' efter anither fashion afore lang. He wad hae shawn her 
 the door — Simon wad — like you, John ; but the Lord tuik 
 her pairt. An' lat me tell you, John — an' I winna beg 
 yer pardon for sayin' 't, for it's God's trowth — lat me tell 
 you, 'at if ye gang on that gait ye'll be sidin' wi' the Phari- 
 see, an' no wi' oor Lord. Ye may lippen to yer wife, ay, an' 
 to Jessie hersel', that knows better nor eyther o' ye, no to 
 mak' little o' virginity. Faith ! they think mair o' 't than ye 
 do, I'm thinkin', efter a' ; only it's no a thing to say muckle 
 aboot. An' it's no to stan' for a'thing, efter a'. " 
 
 Silence followed. John sat down again, and buried his face 
 in his hands. At length he murmured frombeiween them : — 
 
 " The lassie's weel ? " ' 
 
 " Ay," answered Robert; and silence followed again. 
 
 " What wad ye hae me do ? " asked John, lifting his head 
 a little. 
 
 " I wad hae ye sen' a tin' word till her. The lassie's hert's 
 jist longin' efter ye. That's a'. And that's no ower 
 muckle." 
 
 " 'Deed no," assented the mother. 
 
 John said nothing. But when his visitor rose he bade him 
 a warm good-night. 
 
 When Robert returned to Aberdeen he was the bearer of 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 373 
 
 Budh a message as made poor Jessie glad at heart. This was 
 his first experience of the sort. 
 
 When he left the cottage, he did not return to the house, 
 but threaded the little forest of pines, climbing the hill till he 
 came out on its bare crown, where nothing grew but heather 
 and blaeberries. There he threw himself down, and gazed 
 into the heavens. The sun was below the horizon ; all the 
 dazzle was gone out of the gold, and the roses were fast fading ; 
 the downy blue of the sky was trembling into stars over his 
 head ; the brown dusk was gathering in the air, and a wind 
 full of gentleness and peace came to him from the west. He 
 let his thoughts go where they would, and they went up into 
 the abyss over his head. 
 
 "Lord, come to me," he cried in his heart, "for I cannot 
 go to thee. If I were to go up and up through that awful 
 space for ages and ages, I should never find thee. Yet there 
 thou art. The tenderness of thy infinitude looks upon me 
 from those heavens. Thou art in them and in me. BecausH 
 thou thinkest, I think. I am thine, — all thine. I abandon 
 myself to thee. Fill me with thyself. When I am full of 
 thee, my griefs themselves will grow golden in thy sunlight 
 Thou boldest them and their cause, and wilt find some nobler 
 atonement between them than vile forgetfulness and the death 
 of love. Lord, let me help those that are wretched because 
 they do not know thee. Let me tell them that thou, the Life, 
 must needs sufier for and with them, that they may be partak 
 ers of thy inefiable peace. My life is hid in thine ; take me 
 in thy hand as Gideon bore the pitcher to the battle. Let me 
 be broken if need be, that thy light may shine upon the liea 
 wh'va men tell them in thy name, and which eat away their 
 hearts." 
 
 Having persuaded Shargar to remain with Mrs. Falconer 
 for a few days, and thus remove the feeling of ofience she still 
 cherished because of his " munelicht flittin', " he returned to 
 Dr. Anderson, who now unfolded his plans for him. These 
 were, that he should attend the medical classes common to the 
 two universities, and at the same time accompany him in his 
 visits to the poor. He did not at all mean, he said, to deter- 
 mine Robert's life as that of a medical man, but from what he 
 bad learned of his feelings, he was confident that a knowledge 
 
374 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 of medicine -would be invaluable to him. I think the good 
 doctor must have foreseen the kind of life which Falconer 
 would at length choose to lead, and with true and admirable 
 w^isdom sought to prepare him for it. However this may be, 
 Robert entertained the proposal gladly, went into the Bchema 
 with his whole heart, and began to widen that knowledge of 
 and sympathy with the poor which were the foundation of all 
 his influence over them. 
 
 For a time, therefore, he gave a diligent and careful attend- 
 ance upon lectures, read sufficiently, took his rounds with Dr. 
 Anderson, and performed such duties as he delegated to his 
 greater strength. Had the healing art been far less of an 
 enjoyment to him than it was, he could yet hardly have failed 
 of great progress therein ; but seeing that it accorded with his 
 best feelings, profoundest theories, and loftiest hopes, and that 
 he received it as a work given him to do, it is not surprising 
 that a certain faculty of cure, almost partaking of the instinct- 
 ive, should have been rapidly developed in him, to the wonder 
 and delight of his friend and master. 
 
 In this labor he again spent about four years, during which 
 time he gathered much knowledge of human nature, learning 
 especially to judge it from no stand-point of his own, but in 
 every individual case to take a new position whence the nature 
 and history sf the man should appear in true relation to the 
 yet uncompleted result. He who cannot feel the humanity of 
 his neighbor because he is diflFerent from himself in education, 
 habits, opinions, morals, circumstances, objects, is unfit, if 
 not unworthy, to aid him. 
 
 Within this period Shargar had gone out to India, where he 
 had distinguished himself particularly on a certain harassing 
 march. Towards the close of the four years he had leave of 
 absence, and was on his way home. About the same time 
 Robert, in consequence of a fever brought on by over-fatigue, 
 was in much need of a holiday ; and Dr. Anderson proposed 
 that he should meet Moray at Southampton. 
 
 Shargar had no expectation of seeing him, and his delight, 
 not greater on that account, broke out more wildly. No thin- 
 nest film had grown over his heart, though in all else he waa 
 considerably changed. The army had done everything that 
 was wanted for his outward show of man. The drawling walk 
 
ROBERT FALCONEU. 375 
 
 had vanished, and a firm step and soldierly stride had taken 
 its place ; his bearing was free, yet dignified ; his high descent 
 came out in the ease of his carriage and manners ; there could 
 be no doubt that at last Shargar was a gentleman. His hair 
 had changed to a kind of red chestnut. His complexion was 
 much darkened with the Indian sun. His eyes, too, were 
 darker, and no longer rolled slowly from one object to another, 
 but indicated by their quick glances a mind ready to observe 
 and as ready to resolve. His whole appearance was more than 
 prepossessing, — it was even striking. 
 
 Robert was greatly delighted with the improvement in him, 
 and far more when he found that his mind's growth had at 
 least kept pace with his body's change. It would be more 
 correct to say that it had preceded and occasioned it ; for 
 however much the army may be able to do in that way, it had 
 certainly, in Moray's case, only seconded the law of inward 
 growth working outward show. 
 
 The young men went up to London together, and great was 
 the pleasure they had in each other's society, after so long a 
 separation, in which their hearts had remained unchanged, 
 while their natures had grown both worthy and capable of 
 more honor and aflfection. They had both much to tell ; 
 for Robert was naturally open save in regard to his grief; and 
 Shargar was proud of being able to communicate with Robert 
 from a nearer level, in virtue of now knowing many things 
 that Robert could not know. They went together to a hotel 
 in St. Paul's Church-yard. 
 
 CHAPTER LIU. 
 
 A MEBE GLIMPSE. 
 
 At the close of a fortnight, Falconer thought it time to 
 return to his duties in Aberdeen. The day before the steamer 
 sailed, they found thems.elves, about six o'clock, in Grace- 
 church Street. It was a fine summer evening. The street 
 was less crowded than earlier in the afternoon, although there 
 was a continuous stream of wagons, omnibuses, and cabs both 
 
S7(5 ROBERT Falconer. 
 
 ways. As they stood on the curbstone, a little way north of 
 Lombard Street, waiting to cross — 
 
 "You see, Shargar," said Robert, "Nature will hare her 
 way. Not all the hurry and confusion and roar can keep the 
 shadows out. Look ; wherever a space is for a moment vacant, 
 there falla a shadow, as grotesque, as strange, as fall of unut- 
 terable things as any shadow on a field of grass and daisies." 
 
 " I remember feeling the same kind of thing in Lidia," 
 returned Shargar, " where nothing looked as if it belonged to 
 the world I was born in, but my own shadow. In such a 
 street as this, however, all the shadows look as if they belonged 
 to another world, and had no business here." 
 
 " I quite feel that," returned Falconer. " They come like 
 angels from the lovely west and the pure air, to show that 
 London cannot hurt them, — for it, too, is within the Kingdom 
 of God, — to teach the lovers of nature, like the old ortho- 
 dox Jew, St. Peter, that they must not call anything common 
 or unclean."' 
 
 Shargar made no reply, and Robert glanced round at him. 
 He was staring with wide eyes into, not at, the crowd of vehi- 
 cles that filled the street. His face was pale, and strangely 
 like the Shargar of old days. 
 
 " What's the matter with you ? " Robert asked, in some 
 bewilderment. 
 
 Receiving no answer, he followed Shargar's gaze, and saw 
 a strange sight for London cjty. 
 
 In the middle of the crowd of vehicles, with an omnibus 
 before them, and a brewer's dray behind them, came a line of 
 three donkey-carts, heaped high with bundles and articles of 
 gypsy gear. The foremost was conducted by a middle-aged 
 woman, of tall, commanding aspect, and expression both cun- 
 ning and fierce. She walked by the donkey's head carrying a 
 short stick, with which she struck him now and then, but 
 which she oftener waved over his head like the truncheon of 
 an excited marshal on the battle-field, accompanying its move- 
 ments now with loud cries to the animal, now with loud 
 response to the chaff of the omnibus conductor, the dray driver, 
 and the tradesmen in carts about her. She was followed by 
 a very handsome, olive-comolexioned, wild-looking young 
 woman, with her black hair done up in a red handkerchief, 
 
ROBEKT FALCONER. 877 
 
 who conducted her donkey more quietly. Botli seemed aa 
 much at home in the roar of Grace-church Street as if they had 
 been crossing a wild common. A loutish-looking young man 
 brought up the rear with the third donkey. From the bun- 
 dles on the foremost cart peeped a lovely, fair-haired, English- 
 looking child. 
 
 Robert took all this in a moment. The same moment 
 Shargar's spell was broken. 
 
 ■ "Lord, it is my mither! " he cried, and darted under a 
 horse's neck into the middle of the ruck. 
 
 He needled his way through till he reached the woman. 
 She was swearing at a cabman whose wheel had caught the 
 point of her donkey's shaft, and was hauling him round. 
 Heedless of everything, Shargar threw his arms about her, 
 crying : — 
 
 " Mither ! mither ! " 
 
 "Nane o' yer blastit humbug! " she exclaimed, as, with a 
 vigorous throw and a wriggle, she freed herself from his em- 
 brace and pushed him away. 
 
 The moment she had him at arm's length, however, her 
 hand closed upon his arm, and her other hand went up to her 
 brow. From underneath it her eyes shot up and down him 
 from head to foot, and he could feel her hand closing and relax- 
 ing and closing again, as if she were trying to force her long 
 nails into his flesh. He stood motionless, waiting the result 
 of her scrutiny, utterly unconscious that he caused a congestion 
 in the veins of London, for every vehicle within sight of the 
 pair had stopped. Falconer said a strange silence fell upon 
 the street, as if all the things in it had been turned into 
 shadows. 
 
 A rough voice, which sounded as if all London must have 
 heard it, broke the silence. It was the voice of the cabman 
 who had been in altercation with the woman. Bursting into 
 an insulting laugh, he used words with regard to her which it 
 is better to leave unrecorded. The same instant Shargar freed 
 himself from her grasp, and stood by the fore wheel of the cab 
 "Get down ! " he said, in a voice that was not the less im- 
 pressive that it was low and hoarse. 
 
 The fellow saw what he meant, and whipped his horse. 
 
878 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Shargar sprung on the box, and dragged him down all but 
 headlong. 
 
 " Now," he said, "beg my mother's pardon." 
 
 " Be hanged if I do, etc., etc.," said the cabman. 
 
 " Then defend yourself," said Shargar. " Robert." 
 
 Falconer was watching all, and was by his side in a moment. 
 
 " Come on, you, etc., etc.," cried the cabman, plucking up 
 heart and putting himself in fighting shape. He looked one 
 of those insolent fellows whom none see discomfited more 
 gladly than the honest men of his own class. The same mo- 
 ment he lay between his horse's feet. 
 
 Shargar turned to Robert, and saying only, "There, 
 Robert ! " turned again towards the woman. The cabman rose 
 bleeding, and, desiring no more of the same, climbed on his 
 box, and went off, belaboring his liorse, and pursued by a roar 
 from the street, for the spectators were delighted at his pun- 
 ishment. 
 
 " Now, mother," said Shargar, panting with excitement. 
 
 "What ca' they ye?" she asked, still doubtful, but as 
 proud of being defended as if the coarse words of her assailant 
 had had no truth in them. "Ye canna be my lang-loggit 
 Geordie." 
 
 "What for no?" 
 
 " Ye're a gentleman, faith." 
 
 "An' what for no, again ? " returned Shargar, beginning 
 to smile. 
 
 " Weel, it's weel speired, Yer father was ane, ony way, — 
 if sae be 'at ye are as ye say." 
 
 Moray put his head close to hers, and whispered some words 
 that nobody heard but herself. 
 
 " It's ower lang syne to min' upo' that," she said, in reply, 
 with a look of cunning consciousness ill settled upon her fine 
 features. " But ye can be naebody but my Geordie. Haith, 
 man ! " she went on, regarding him once more from head to 
 foot, " but ye're a credit to me, I maun alloo. Weel, gie me 
 a sovereign, an' I s' never come near ye." 
 
 Poor Shargar in his despair turned half mechanically towards 
 Robert. He felt that it was time to interfere. 
 
 " You forget, mother," said Shargar, turning again to her, 
 
ROBBKT FALCONER. 37S 
 
 and speaking English now, "it was I that claimed you, and 
 not you that claimed me." 
 
 She seemed to have no idea of what he meant. 
 
 " Come up the road here, to oor public, an' tak' a glass, 
 ffuman," said Falconer. " Dinna hand the fowk luikin' at 
 ye." 
 
 The temptation of a glass of something strong, and the hope 
 of getting money out of them, caused an instant acquiescence. 
 She said a few words to the young woman, who proceeded at 
 once to tie her donkey's head to the tail of the other cart. 
 
 " Shaw the way than," said the elder, turning again to 
 Falconer. 
 
 Shargar and he led the way to St. Paul's Church-yard, and 
 the woman followed faithfully. The waiter stared when they 
 entered. 
 
 " Bring a glass of whiskey," said Falconer, as he passed ou 
 to their private room. When the whiskey arrived, she tossed 
 /t off, and looked as if she woaid like another glass. 
 
 " Yer father 'ill hae ta'en ye up, I'm thinkin', laddie?" 
 she said, turning to her son. 
 
 "No," answered Shargar, gloomily. "There's the man 
 that took me up." 
 
 "An' wha may ye be? " she asked, turning to Falconer. 
 
 "Mr. Falconer,". said Shargar. 
 
 "No a son o' Andrew Faukner?" she as^ed again, with 
 evident interest. 
 
 "The same," answered Robert. 
 
 " Weel, Geordie," she said, turning once more to her son, 
 " it's like mither, like father to the twa o' ye." 
 
 " Did you know my father? " asked Robert, eagerly. 
 
 Instead of answering him she made another remark to her 
 Bon. 
 
 " He needna be ashamed o' your company, ony way, — 
 queer kin' o' a mither 'at I am." 
 
 "He never was ashamed of my company," said Shargar, 
 still gloomily. 
 
 "Ay, I knew yer father weel eneuch," she said, now an- 
 swering Robert, — " mair by token 'at I saw him last nicht 
 He was luikin' nae that ill." 
 
 Robert sprung from his seat, and caught her by the arm. 
 
380 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Ow ! ye needna go into sic a flurry. He^W no come near 
 ye, I a' warran'." 
 
 " Tell me where he is," said Robert. ■' Where did you see 
 him ? I'll gie ye a' 'at I hae if ye' 11 tak' me till him." 
 
 " Hooly ! hooly ! Wha's to go luikin' for a thrum in a 
 hay-sow ? " returned she, coolly. " I only said 'at I saw him." 
 
 " But are ye sure it was him ? " asked Falconer. 
 
 "Ay, sure eneuch," she answered. 
 
 " What makes ye sae sure ? " 
 
 " 'Cause I never was vrang yet. Set a man ance atween 
 my twa eyes, an' that '11 be twa 'at knows him whan 's ain 
 mither 's forgotten 'im." 
 
 " Did you speak to him? " 
 
 " Maybe ay, an' maybe no. I didna come here to be hecklet 
 afore a jury." 
 
 " Tell me what he's like," said Robert, agitated with eager 
 hope. 
 
 " Gin ye dinna know what he's like, what for suld ye tak' 
 the trouble to speir ? But 'deed ye'll know what he's like 
 whan ye fa' in wi' him," she added, with a vindictive laugh, 
 — vindictive because he had given her only one glass of strong 
 drink. 
 
 With the laugh she rose, and made for the door. They rose 
 at the same moment to detain her. Like one who knew at 
 once to fight and flee, she turned and stunned them as with a 
 blow : — 
 
 " She's a fine yoong thing, yon sister o' yours, Geordie. 
 She'll be worth siller by the time she's had a while at the 
 schuil." 
 
 The men looked at each other aghast. When they turned 
 their eyes she had vanished. They rushed to the door, and, 
 parting, searched in both directions. But they were soon sat- 
 isfied that it was of no use. Probably she had found a back 
 way into Paternoster Row, whence the outlets are numerous. 
 
Bi^BERT FALCONBB. 88i 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 THE doctor's death. 
 
 But now that Falconer had a ground, even thus shadowy, 
 for hoping — I cannot say believing — that his father might 
 be in London, he could not return to Aberdeen. Moray, who 
 had no heart to hunt for his mother, left the next day by the 
 steamer. Falconer took to wandering about the labyrinthine 
 city, and in a couple of months knew more about the metropo- 
 lis — the west end excepted — than most people who had lived 
 their lives in it. The west end is no doubt a considerable 
 exception to make, but Falconer sought only his father, and 
 the west end was the place where be was least likely to find 
 him. Day and night he wandered into all sorts of places ; the 
 worse they looked the more attractive he found them. It 
 became almost a craze with him. He could not pass a dirty 
 court or low-browed archway. He might be there. Or he 
 might have been there. Or it was such a place as he would 
 choose for shelter. He knew to what such a life as his must 
 have tended. 
 
 At first he was attracted only by tall, elderly men. Such a 
 man he would sometimes follow till his following made him 
 turn and demand his object. If there was no suspicion of 
 Scotch in his tone. Falconer easily apologized. If there was, 
 he made such replies as might lead to some betrayal. He 
 could not defend the course he was adopting ; it had not the 
 shadow of probability upon its side. Still the greatest suc- 
 cesses the world has ever beheld had been at one time the 
 greatest improbabilities. He could not choose but go on, for- 
 as yet he could think of no other way. 
 
 Neither could a man like Falconer long confine his interest 
 to this immediate object, especially after he had, in following 
 it, found opportunity of being useful. While he still made it 
 his main object to find his father, that object became a centre 
 from which radiated a thousand influences upon those who 
 were as sheep that had no shepherd. He fell back into his 
 old ways at Aberdeen, only with a boundless sphere to work 
 in, and with the hope of finding his father to hearten him. 
 
382 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 He haunted the streets at night, went into all places of enter< 
 tainment, often to the disgust of senses and soul, and made hia 
 way into the lowest forms of life without introduction or pro- 
 tection. 
 
 There was a certain stately air of the hills about him which 
 was often mistaken for country inexperience, and men thought 
 in consequence to make gain or game of him. But such found 
 their mistake, and if not soon, then the more completely. 
 Far from provoking or even meeting hostility, he soon satisfied 
 those that persisted that it was dangerous. In two years he 
 became well known to the poor of a large district, especially 
 on both sides of Shoreditch, for whose sake he made the- exer- 
 cise of his profession though not an object yet a ready acci- 
 dent. 
 
 He lived in lodgings in John Street, -^ the same in which 
 I found him when I came to know him. He made few ac- 
 quaintances, and they were chiefly the house surgeons of hos- 
 pitals, — to which he paid frequent visits. 
 
 He always carried a book in his pocket, but did not read 
 much. On Sundays he generally went to some one of the 
 many lonely heaths or commons of Surrey with his New Testa- 
 ment, when weary in London, he would go to the reading- 
 room of the British Museum for an hour or two. He kept up 
 a regular correspondence with Dr. Anderson. 
 
 At length he received a letter from him, which occasioned 
 his immediate departure for Aberdeen. Until now, his friend, 
 who was entirely satisfied with his mode of life, and supplied 
 him freely with money, had not even expressed a wish to re- 
 call him, though he had often spoken of visiting him in Lon- 
 don. It now appeared that, unwilling to cause him any need- 
 less anxiety, he had abstained from mentioning the fact that 
 his health had been declining. He had got suddenly worse, 
 and Falconer hastened to obey the summons he had sent him 
 in consequence. 
 
 With a heavy heart he walked up to the hospitable door, re- 
 calling, as he ascended the steps, how he had stood there a 
 helpless youth, in want of a few pounds to save his hopes, 
 when this friend received him and bid him God-speed on the 
 path he desired to follow. In a moment more he was shown 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 383 
 
 into the study, and was passing through it to go to the cottage* 
 
 ^j 
 
 " The maister's no up yet, sir," he said, with a very sol- 
 emn look. " lie's been desperate efter seein' ye, and I maun 
 gang an' lat him know 'at ye're here at last, for fear it suld 
 be ower muckle for him, seein' ye a' at ance. But eh, sir ! " 
 he added, the tears gathering in his eyes, "ye'U hardly know 
 'im. He's that changed ! " 
 
 Johnston left the study by the door to the cottage, — Fal- 
 coner had nf.ver known the doctor sleep there, — and, returning 
 a moment after, invited him to enter. In the bed in the re- 
 cess, — the room unchanged, with its deal table, and its sanded 
 floor, — lay the form of his friend. Falconer hastened to 
 the bedside, kneeled down, and took his hand, speechless. The 
 doctor was silent too, but a smile overspread his countenance 
 and revealed his inward satisfaction. Robert's heart was full, 
 and he could only gaze on the worn face. At length he was 
 able to speak. 
 
 "What for didna ye sen' for me?" he said. "Ye never 
 tellt me ye was ailin'." 
 
 "Because you were doing good, Robert, my boy; and I 
 who had done so little had no right to interrupt what you 
 were doing. I wonder if God will give me another chance. 
 I would fain do better. I don't think I could sit singing 
 psalms to all eternity," he added, with a smile. 
 
 " Whatever good I may do afore my turn comes, I hae you 
 to thank for 't. Eh, doctor, if it hadna been for you ! " 
 
 Robert's feelings overcame him. He resumed, brokenly : — 
 
 " Ye gae me a man to believe in, when my ain father had 
 forsaken me, and my frien' was awa' to God. Ye hae made 
 me, doctor. Wi' meat an' drink an' learnin' an' siller, an' 
 a'thing at ance, ye hae made me." 
 
 " Eh, Robert ! " said the dying man, half rising on hia 
 elbow, " to think what God makes us a' to ane anither ! My 
 father did ten times for me what I hae dune for you. As I 
 lie here thinkin' I may see him afore a week's ower, I'm jist a 
 bairn again." 
 
 As he spoke, the polish of his speech was gone, and the so- 
 cial refinement of his countenance with it. The face of hia 
 ancestors, the noble, sensitive, heart-full, but rugged, bucolic, 
 
384 ROBERT FALCONEU. 
 
 and weather-beaten, through centuries of windy ploughing, 
 hail-stormed sheep-keepin', long paced seed-sowing, and multi- 
 form labor, surely not less honorable in the sight of the work- 
 ing God than the fighting of the noble, came back in the face 
 of the dying physician. From that hour to his death he spoke 
 the rugged dialect of his fathers. 
 
 A day or two after this, Robert again sitting by his bed- 
 side : — 
 
 " I dinna know," he said, " whether it's richt, — but I hae 
 nae fear o' dei'»h, an' yet I canna say I'm sure aboot onything. 
 I hae seen mony a ane dee that cud hae no faith i' the Sa- 
 viour but I never saw that fear that some gude fowk' wud liae 
 ye believe maun come at the last. I wadna like to tak' to ony 
 papistry ; but I never cud mak' oot frae the Bible, — and I 
 read mair at it i' the jungle than maybe ye wad think, — that 
 it's a' ower wi' a body at their deith. I never heard them 
 bring foret ony text but ane, — the maist ridiculous hash 'at 
 ever ye heard, — to justifee 't." 
 
 " I ken the text ye mean. ' As the tree falleth so it shall 
 lie,' or something like that, — 'at they say King Solomon 
 wrote, though better scholars say his tree had fa'en mony a 
 lang year afore that text saw the licht. I dinna believe sic- a 
 thocht was i' the man's held when he wrote it. It is as ye 
 say, — ower contemptible to ca' an argument. I'll read it to 
 ye ance mail." 
 
 Robert got his Bible and read the following portion from 
 that wonderful book, so little understood, because it is so full 
 of wisdom, — the Book of Ecclesiastes : — 
 
 "Cast thy bread upon the waters; for thou shalt find it 
 after many days. 
 
 " Give a portion to seven, and also to eight; for thou know- 
 est not what evil shall be upon the earth. 
 
 " If the clouds be full of rain, they empty themselves upon 
 the earth ; and if the tree fall toward the south, or toward the 
 north, in the place where the tree falleth, there it shall bo. 
 
 " He that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that 
 regardeth the clouds shall not reap. 
 
 "As thou knowest not what is the way of the spirit, not 
 how the bones do grow in the womb of her that is with child, 
 even so thou krowest not the works of God who maketh all. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 385 
 
 " In the morning sow thj seed, and in the evening with- 
 hold not thine hand; for thou knowest not whether shall 
 prosper, either this or that, or whether they both shall be alike 
 good." 
 
 "Ay, ay; that's it," said Dr. Anderson. "Weel, I maun 
 say again that they're ill afif for an argument that takes that 
 for ane upo' sic a momentous subjec'. I prefer to say wi' the 
 same auld man, that I know not the works of God who maketh 
 all. But I wish I could say I believed onything for certain 
 eure. But whan I think aboot it, — wad ye believe 't ? — the 
 faith o' .my father's mair to me nor ony faith o' my ain. 
 That soonds strange. But it's this; I'm positeeve that that 
 godly great auld man knew mair aboot a' thae things — I 
 cud see 't i' the face o' 'm — nor ony ither man at ever I 
 knew. An' it's no by comparison only. I'm sure he did 
 know. There was something atween God and him. An' I 
 think he wasna likely to be wrang ; an' sae I tak' courage to 
 believe as muckle as I can, though maybe no sae muckle as I 
 fain wad." 
 
 Robert, who from experience of himself, and the observa- 
 tions he had made by the bedsides of not a few dying men and 
 women, knew well that nothing but the truth itself can carry 
 its own conviction ; that the words of our Lord are a body as 
 it were in which the spirit of our Lord dwells, or rather the 
 key to open the heart for the entrance of that spirit, turned 
 now from all argumentation to the words of Jesus. He him- 
 self had said of them, "They are spirit and they are life; " 
 and what folly to buttress life and spirit with otlier powers 
 than their own ! From that day to the last, as often and as 
 long as the dying man was able to listen to him, he read from 
 the glad news just the words of the Lord. As he read thus, 
 one fading afternoon, the doctor broke out with : — 
 
 " Eh, Robert, the patience o' Him ! He didna quench the , 
 smokin' flax. There's little fire aboot me, but surely I know 
 in my ain hert some o' the risin' smoke o' the sacrifice. Eh ! 
 sic words as they are ! An' he was gaein' doon to the grave 
 himsel', no half my ago, as peacefu', though the road wag 
 sae rouch, as if he had been gaein' hame till 's father." 
 
 " Sae he w»s," returned Robert. 
 
886 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Ay ; but here am I lyin' upo, my bed, slipping easy awa'. 
 An' there was he — " 
 
 The old man ceased. The sacred story was too sacred fo» 
 speech. Eobert sat with the New Testament open before him 
 on the bed. 
 
 "The mair the words o' Jesus come into me," the doctor 
 began again, " the surer I am o' seein' my old Brahmin frien', 
 Robert. It's true I thought his religion not only began but 
 ended inside him. It was a' booin' doon afore and an aspirin' 
 up into the bosom o' the infinite God. I dinna mean to say 
 'at he wasna honorable to them aboot him. And I never saw 
 in him muckle o' that pride to the rest that belangs to the 
 Brahmin. It was raither a stately kin'ness than that conde- 
 scension which is the vice o' Christians. But he had nae- 
 thing to do wi' them. The first comman'ment was a' he knew. 
 He loved God, — nae a God like Jesus Christ, but the God 
 he knew, — and that was a' he could. The second comman'- 
 ment, — that glorious recognition o' the divine in humanity 
 makin' 't fit and needfu' to be loved ; that claim o' God upon 
 and for his ain bairns ; that love o' the neebor as yoursel', — he 
 didna know. Still there was religion in him; and he who 
 died for the sins o' the whole world has surely been revealed 
 to him lang er' noo, an' throu' the knowledge o' him, he noo 
 dwalls in that God efter whom he aspired." 
 
 Here was the outcome of many talks which Robert and the 
 doctor had had together, as they labored amongst the poor. 
 
 "Did you never try," Robert asked, "to lat him know 
 aboot the comin' o' God to his world in Jesus Christ? " 
 
 " I couldna do muckle that way honestly, my ain faith was 
 Bae poor and sma'. But I tellt him what Christians believed. 
 I tellt him aboot the character and history o' Christ. But it 
 didna ssem to tak' muckle hauld o' him. It wasna interestin' 
 till him. Just ance whan I tellt him some things He had said 
 aboot his relation to God, sic as, ' I and my Father are one; ' 
 and aboot the relation o' a' his disciples to God and himsel', 
 — ' I in them, and thou in me, that they may be made perfect 
 in one,' he said, wi' a smile, ' The man was a good Brahmin.' " 
 
 "It's little," said Robert, "the one great commandment 
 can do without the other. It's little we can know what God 
 to love, or hoo to love him, withoot ' thy neighbor as thyself.' 
 
ROBERT FALCONBR 387 
 
 Ony ane o' tbem withoot the ither Stan's like tjie ae factor o' 
 a multiplication, or ae wing upo' a lark." 
 
 Towards the close of the week he grew much feebler. Fal- 
 coner scarcely left his room. He woke one midnight, and 
 murmured as follows, with many pauses for breath and 
 strength : — 
 
 "Robert, my time's near, I'm thinkin'; for, wakin' an' 
 sleepin', I'm a bairn again. I can hardly believe whiles 'at 
 my father hasna a grup o' my han.' A meenute ago I was 
 traivellin' throu' a terrible driftin' o' snaw — eh, boo it whustled 
 and sang ! and the cauld o' 't was stingin' ; but my father bad 
 a grup o' me, an' I jist despised it, an' was stampin' 't doon 
 wi' my wee bit feet, for I was like saven year auld or there- 
 aboots. An' syne I thooht I heard my mither singin', and 
 knew by that that the ither was a dream. I'm thinkin' a hantJe 
 'ill luik dreamy afore lang. Eh ! I wonner what the final 
 waukin' 'ill be like." 
 
 After a pause he resumed : — 
 
 " Robert, my dear boy, ye 're i' the richt way. Haud on, 
 an' lat naething turn ye aside. Man, it's a great comfort to 
 me to think that ye're my ain flesh and blude, and nae that far 
 afiF. My father an' your great-gran'father upo' the gran'- 
 mither's side war ain brithers. I wonner hoo far doon it wad 
 gang. Ye're the only ane upo' my father's side, you and yer 
 lather, if he be alive, that I hae sib to me. My will's i' the 
 bottom drawer upo' the left ban' i' my writin' table i' the lee- 
 brary : I hae left ye ilka plack 'at I possess. Only there's 
 ae thing that I want ye to do. First o' a', ye maun go on as 
 yer doin' in London for ten year mair. If deein' men hae 
 ony o' that foresicht that's been attreebuted to them in a' ages, 
 it's borne in upo' me that ye wull see yer father again. At 
 a' events, ye'll be helpin' some ill-faured sowls to a clean face 
 and a bonny. But if ye didna fa' in wi' yer father within ten 
 year, ye maun behaud a wee, an' jist pack up yer box, an' 
 go awa' ower the sea to Calcutta, an' du what I hae tell't ye 
 to do i' that wull. I bind ye by nae promise, Robert, an' I 
 winna hae nane. Things micht happen to put ye in a terrible 
 difliculty wi' a promise. I'm only tellin' ye what I wad like. 
 Especially if ye hae fund yer father, ye maun go by yer ain 
 jeedgment aboot it, for there'll be a hautle to do wi' him efter 
 
388 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 ye hae gotten. a grup o' 'im. An' noo I maun lie still, an' 
 maybe sleep again, for I hae spoken ower muckle." 
 
 Hoping that he would sleep and wake yet again, Robert sat 
 Btill. After an hour, he looked, and saw that, although hith- 
 erto much oppressed, he was now breathing like a child. There 
 was no sign save of past suffering ; his countenance was peace- 
 ful as if he had already entered into his rest. Robert with- 
 drew, and again Seated himself. And the great universe 
 became to him as a bird brooding over the breaking shell of 
 the dying man. 
 
 On either hand we behold a birth, of which, as of the moon, 
 we see but half We are outside the one, waiting for a life 
 from the unknown ; we are inside the other, watching the de- 
 parture of a spirit from the womb of the world into the un- 
 known. To the region whither he goes, the man enters newly 
 born. We forget that it is a birth, and call it a death. The 
 body he leaves behind is but the placenta by which he drew 
 his nourishment from his mother Earth. And as the child-bed 
 is watched on earth with anxious expectancy, so the couch of 
 the dying, as we call them, may be surrounded by the birth- 
 watchers of the other world, waiting like anxious servants to 
 open the door to which this world is but the wind-blown porch. 
 
 Extremes meet. As a man draws nigh to his second birth, 
 his heart looks back to his childhood. When Dr. Anderson 
 knew that he was dying, he retired into the simulacrum of 
 his father's benn end. 
 
 As Falconer sat thinking, the doctor spoke. They were 
 low, faint, murmurous sounds, for the lips were nearly at rest. 
 Wanted no more for utterance, they were going back to the 
 holy dust, which is God's yet. 
 
 "Father, father ! " he cried, quickly, in the tone and speech 
 of a Scotch laddie, "I'm gaein' doon. Haud a grup o' my 
 han'." 
 
 When Robert hurried to the bedside, he found that the last 
 breath had gone in the words. The thin right hand lay partly 
 closed, as if it had been grasping a larger hand. On the face 
 lay confidence just ruffled with apprehension ; the latter melted 
 away, and nothing remained but that awful and beautiful peac« 
 which is the farewell of the soiil to its servant. 
 
 Robert knelt and thanked God for the noble man. 
 
BOBEBT FALCONER. 3od 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 A TALK WITH GRANNIE. 
 
 Dr. Anderson's body was, according to the fine custom of 
 many of the people of Aberdeen, borne to the grave by twelve 
 stalwart men in black, with broad round bonnets on their 
 heads, the one-half relieving the other, — a privilege of the 
 company of shore-porters. Their exequies are thus freed from 
 the artificial, grotesque, and pagan horror given by obscene 
 mutes, frightful hearse, horses, and feathers. As soon as, in 
 the beautiful phrase of the Old Testament, John Anderson was 
 thus gathered to his fathers, Robert went to pay a visit to his 
 grandmother. 
 
 Dressed to a point in the same costume in which he had 
 known her from childhood, he found her little altered in ap- 
 pearance. She was one of those wbio, instead of stooping with 
 age, settle downwards ; she was still as erect as ever, though 
 shorter. Her step was feebler, and when she prayed, her 
 voice quavered more. On her face sat the same settled, almost 
 bard repose, as ever ; but her behavior was still more gentle 
 than when he had seen her last. Notwithstanding, however, 
 that time had wrought so little change in her appearance, 
 Robert felt that somehow the mist of a separation between her 
 world and his was gathering ; that she was, as it were, fading 
 from his sight and presence, like the moon towards " her in- 
 terlunar cave." Her face was gradually turning from him 
 towards the land of light. 
 
 " I hae buried my best frien' but yersel', granny," he said, 
 as he took a chair close by her side, where he used to sit when 
 he read the Bible and " Boston " to her. 
 
 "I trust he's happy. He was a quiet and a weel-behaved 
 man ; and ye hae rizzon to respec' his memory. Did he die 
 the deith of the richteous, thnik ye, laddie? " 
 
 " I do not think that, grannie. He loved God and his Sa- 
 viour." 
 
 " The Lord be praised ! " said Mrs. Falconer. " I had guid 
 houps o' 'im in 's latter days. And fowk say he's made a rich 
 man o' ye, Robert?" 
 
B90 ROBERT FALCONBK. 
 
 " He's left me ilka thing, excep' something till 's servan'a 
 
 — wha hae weel deserved it." 
 
 "Eh, Robert! but it's a terrible snare. Siller's an awfa' 
 thing. My puir Andrew never begud to go the ill gait till ha 
 began to hae ower muckle siller. But it badena lang wi' 
 'im." 
 
 " But it's no an ill thing itsel', grannie ; for God made 
 siller as weel 's ither things." 
 
 " He thinksna muckle o' 't, though, or he wad gae mair o' 
 't to some fowk. But as ye say, it's his, and if ye hae grace 
 to use 't aricht, it may be made a great blessin' to yersel' and 
 ither fowk. But eh, laddie ! tak' guid tent 'at ye ride upo' the 
 tap o' 't, an' no lat it rise like a muckle billow ower yerheid; 
 for it's an awfu' thing to be droont in riches." 
 
 '•Them 'at prays no to be led into temptation hae a chance, 
 
 — haena they, grannie ? " 
 
 " That hae they, Robert. And to be plain wi' ye, I haena 
 that muckle fear o' ye ; for I hae heard the kin' o' life 'at ye 
 hae been leadin'. God's liearkent to my prayers for you ; and 
 if ye gang on as ye hae begun, my prayers, like them o' Davidj 
 the son o' Jesse, are endit. Go on, my dear lad, go on to 
 pluck brands frae the burnin'. Haud oot a helpin' han' to 
 ilka son and dauchter o' Adam 'at will take a grip o' 't. Be a 
 burnin' an' a sbinin' licht, that men may praise, no you, for 
 ye're but clay i' the ha's o' the potter, but yer Father in 
 heaven. Tak' the drunkard frae his whuskey, the doboshed 
 frae his debosh, the sweirer frae his aiths, the leear frae his 
 lees ; and giena ony o' them ower muckle o' yer siller at ance, 
 for fear 'at they grow fat an' kick an' defy God an' you. 
 That's my advice to ye., Robert." 
 
 "And I houp I'll be able to haud gey and near till 't, 
 grannie, for it's o' the best. But wha tell't ye what I waa 
 aboot in Lonnon ? " 
 
 " Himsel'." 
 
 "Dr. Anderson?" 
 
 " Ay, jist himsel'. I hae had letter upo'^letter frae 'm 
 aboot you and a' 'at ye was aboot. He keepit me acquaint wi' 
 t a'." 
 
 This fresh proof of his friend's affection touched Robert 
 deeply. He had himself written often to his grandmother, but 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 391 
 
 lie had never entered any detail of his doings, although the 
 thought of her was ever at hand beside the thought of his 
 father. 
 
 " Do ye know, grannie, what's at the hert o' my houps i' 
 the meesery an' degradation that I see frae mornin' to nicht, 
 and aftener yet frae nicht to mornin' i' the back closes and 
 wynds o' the great city ? " 
 
 " I trust it's the glory o' God, laddie." 
 
 " I houp that's no a'thegither wantin', grannie. For I love 
 God wi' a' my hert. But I doobt it's aftener the savin' o' my 
 earthly father nor the glory o' my heavenly ane that I'm 
 thinkin' o'. 
 
 Mrs. Falconer heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 " God grant ye success, Robert," she said. " But that c&nna 
 be richt." 
 
 " What canna be richt ? " 
 
 " No to put the glory o' God first and foremost.' 
 
 " Weel, grannie ; but a body canna rise to the heicht o' grace 
 a' at ance, nor yet in ten, or twenty year. Maybe if I do richt, 
 I may be able to come to that or a' be dune. An' efter a', I'm 
 sure I love God mair nor my father. But I canna help think- 
 in' this, that if God heardna ae sang o' glory frae this ill-doin' 
 earth o' his, he wadna be nane the waur ; but — " 
 
 " Hoo know ye that? " interrupted his grandmother. 
 
 " Because he wad be as gude and great and grand as ever." 
 
 "Ow, ay." 
 
 " But what wad come o' my father, wantin' his salvation? 
 lie can waur want that, remainin' the slave o' iniquity, than 
 God can want his glory. Forby, ye know there's nae glory to 
 God like the repentin' o' a sinner, justifeein God, an' sayin' 
 till him, 'Father, ye're a' richt, an' I'm a' wrang.' What 
 greater glory can God hae nor that? " 
 
 " It's a' true 'at ye say. But still if God cares for that same 
 glory, ye ocht to think o' that first, afore even the salvation 
 o' yer father ! " 
 
 " Maybe ye're richt, grannie. An' if it be as ye say — he's 
 promised to lead us into a' trowth, an' he'll lead me into that 
 trowth. But I'm thinkin' it's mair for oor sakes than his ain 
 'at he cares aboot his glory. I dinna believe 'at he thinks aboot 
 
892 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 his glory excep' for the sake o' the trowth an' men's herts deein' 
 for want o' 't." 
 
 Mrs. Falconer thought for a moment. 
 
 " It may be 'at yer richt, laddie ; but ye hae a way o' say- 
 iii' things 'at 'a some fearsome." 
 
 "God's nae like a prood man to tak' offence, grannie. 
 There's naething pleases him like the trowth, an' there's na&- 
 thin' displeases him like leein', particularly whan it's by way 
 o' uphaudin' him. He wants nae sic uphaudin'. Noo, ye say 
 things aboot him whiles 'at soun's to me fearsome." 
 
 " What kin' o' things are they, laddie ? " asked the old lady, 
 with offence glooming in the background. 
 
 " Sic like as whan ye speyk aboot him as if he was a puir, 
 prood, bailie-like body, fu' o' his ain importance, an' ready to 
 be doon upo' onybody 'at didna ca' him by name o' 's office, 
 — aye think-thinkin' aboot's ain glory; in place o' the quaiet, 
 michty, gran', self-forgettin', a'-creatin', a'-uphaudin', eternal 
 bein', wha' took the form o' man in Christ Jesus, jist that he 
 micht hae 't in 's pooer to heir and be humblet for oor sakes. 
 Eh, grannie ! think o' the face o' that man o' sorrows, that 
 never said a hard word till a sinfu' woman, or a despised pub- 
 lican ; was he thinkin' aboot 's ain glory, think ye ? An' we 
 hae no richt to say we know God, save in the face o' Christ 
 Jesus. Whatever 's no like Christ is no like God." 
 
 "But, laddie, he cam' to satisfee God's justice by sufferin' 
 the punishment due to oor sins; 1o turn aside his wrath. an' 
 curse ; to reconcile him to us. Sae he cudna be a' thegitlier 
 like God." 
 
 "He did naething o' the kin', grannie. It's a' a lee that. 
 He cam' to satisfee God's justice by giein' him back his bairns ; 
 by garrin' them see that God was just ; by sendin' them greetin' 
 hame to fa' at his feet, an' grip his knees, an' say, ' Father, 
 ye'rc i' the richt.' He cam' to lift the weichto' the sins that 
 God had curst aff o' the shoothers o' them 'at did them, by 
 makin' them turn agen them, an' be for God an' no for sin. 
 And there isna a word o' reconceelin' God till 's in a' the Tes- 
 tament, for there was no need o' that ; it was us that needed to 
 be reconcilet to him. An' sae he bore oor sins and carried oor 
 sorrows ; for those sins comin' oot in the multitudes — ay, and 
 in his ain disciples as weel — caused him no en' o' grief o' mind 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 893 
 
 an' pain o' body, as a'bodj knows. It wasna his ain sins, for 
 he had nane, but oors, that caused him sufferin' ; and he took 
 them awa', — they're vanishin' even noo frae the earth., though 
 it doesna luik like it in Rag-fair or Petticoat-lane. An' for 
 owr sorrows, — they jist garred him greit. His richteousnesa 
 jist annihilates oor guilt, for it's a great gulf that swallows up 
 and destroys 't. And sae he gae his life a ransom for us ; and 
 he is the life o' the world. He took oor sins upo' him, for he 
 cam' into the middle o' them an' took them up, — by no sleicht 
 o' ban', by no quibblin' o' the lawyers, aboot imputin' his 
 richteousness to us, an' sic like, which is no to be found i' the 
 Bible at a', though I dinna say that there's no possible meanin' 
 i' the phrase ; but he took them, and took them awa', and here 
 am I, grannie, growin' oot o' my sins in consequence, and there 
 are ye, grannie, growin' oot o' yours in consequence, an' haein' 
 nearhan' dune wi' them a'thegitber er' this time." 
 
 " I wis' that maybe true, laddie. But I carena boo ye put 
 it," returned his grandmother, bewildered no doubt with this 
 outburst, " sae be that ye put him first an' last an' i' the raids' 
 o' a' thing, an' say wi' a' yer hert, ' His will be dune ! ' " 
 
 " Wi' a' my hert, 'His will be dune,' grannie," responded 
 Robert. 
 
 " Amen, amen ! And noo, laddie, duv ye think there's ony 
 likliheid that yer father 's still i' the body ? I dream aboot 
 him whiles sae lifelike that I canna believe him deid. But 
 that'.s a' superstitious." 
 
 " Weel, grannie, I haena the least assurance. But I hae 
 the mair houp. Wad ye know him gin ye saw him ? " 
 
 " Know him ! " she cried ; " I wad know him if had been 
 no to say four, but forty, days i' the sepulchre ! My ain 
 Andrew ! Hoo cud ye speir sic a question, laddie ? " 
 
 " He maun be sair changed, grannie. He maun be turnin' 
 auld by this time." 
 
 "Auld! Sic like 's yersel', laddie. Hoots, hoots! ye' re 
 richt. I am forgettin'. But nanetbeless wad I know him." 
 
 "I wis' I knew what he was like. I saw him ance, — 
 hardly twice ; but a' that I min' upo' wad stan' me in ill stead 
 amoo' the streets o' Lonnon." 
 
 " I doobt that," returned Mrs. Falconer, — a form of ex- 
 pression rather oddly indicating sympathetic and somewhat re. 
 
894 EOBBRT FALCONER. 
 
 gretful agreement with what has been said. " But," she went 
 on, "I can lat ye see a pictur' o' im, though I doobt it winna 
 shaw sae muckle to you as to me. He had it paintit to gie to 
 yer mother upo' their weddin'-day. Och hone ! She did the 
 like for him ; but what cam' o' that ane, I dinna know." 
 
 Mrs. Falconer went into the little closet to the old bureau, 
 and, bringing out the miniature, gave it to Robert. It was the 
 portrait of a young man, in antiquated blue coat and white 
 waistcoat, looking innocent, and, it must be confessed, dull and 
 uninteresting. It had been painted by a travelling artist, and 
 probably his skill did not reach to expression. It brought to 
 Robert's mind no faintest shadow of recollection. It did not 
 correspond in the smallest degree to what seemed his vague 
 memory, perhaps half imagination, of the tall, worn man whom 
 he had seen that Sunday. He could not have a hope that this 
 would give him the slightest aid in finding him of whom it had 
 once been a shadowy resemblance at least. 
 
 " Is 't like him, grannie? " he asked. 
 
 As if to satisfy herself once more ere she replied, she took 
 the miniature, and gazed at it for some time. Then, with a 
 deep, hopeless sigh, she answered : — 
 
 " Ay, it's like him ; but it's no himsel'. Eh, the bonny broo, 
 an' the smilin' een o' him ! — smilin' upo' a'body, an' upo' her 
 maist o' a', till he took to the drink, and worse, if worse can 
 be. It was a' siller an' company, — company 'at cudna be 
 merry ohn drunken. Verily their lauchter was like the cracjklin' 
 o' thorns aneath a pot. Het watter and whuskey was aye the 
 cry, efter their dcnner an' efter their supper, till my puir 
 Andrew tuik till the bare whuskey i' the mornin' to fill the ebb 
 o' the toddy. He wad never hae dune as he did but for the 
 whuskey. It jist drave oot a' gude and loot in a' ill." 
 
 "Wull ye lat me tak' this wi' me, grannie? " said Robert; 
 for though the portrait was useless for identification, it might 
 serve a further purpose. 
 
 " Ow, ay, tak' it. I dinna want it. I can see him weel 
 wantin' that. But I hae nae houp left 'at ye' 11 ever fa' in 
 wi' him." 
 
 " God's aye doin' unlikely things, grannie," said Robert, 
 Holemnly 
 
 "He's dune a' 'at he can for him, I doobt, already." 
 
ROBERT PALCONEB. S95 
 
 " Duv ye think 'at God cadna save a man if he liket, than, 
 grannie?" 
 
 " God can do a' thing. There's nae doobt but by the gift o' 
 his Speerit he cud save a'body.'" 
 
 "An' ye think he's no mercifu' eneuch to do 't? " 
 
 " It winna do to meddle wi' fowks' free wull. To gar fowk 
 be gude wad be nae gudeness." 
 
 •' But if God could actually create the free wull, dinna ye 
 think he cud help it to gang richt, withoot ony garrin' ? We 
 know sae little aboot it, grannie ! Hoo does his Speerit help ony- 
 body? Does he gar them 'at accep's the offer o' salvation? " 
 
 " Na, I canna think that. But he shawa them the trowtb 
 in sic a way that they jist canna bide themsel's, but maun turn 
 to him for verra peace an' rist." 
 
 " Weel, that's something as I think. An' until I'm sure 
 that a man has had the trowth shawn till him in sic a way 's 
 that, I canna alloo mysel' to think that, hooever he may hae 
 sinned, he has finally rejeckit the trowth. If I knew that a 
 man had seen the trowth as I hae seen 't whiles, and had de- 
 leeberately turned his back upo' 't and said, ' I'll nane o' 't,' 
 than I doobt I wad be maist compelled to alloo that there was 
 nae mair salvation for him, but a certain and fearfu' luikin' for 
 o' judgment and fiery indignation. But I dinna believe that 
 ever man did sae. But even than, I dinna know." 
 
 " I did a' for him that I knew hoo to do," said Mrs. Falco- 
 ner, ,reflectingly. " Nicht an' mornin' an' aften midday 
 prayin' for an' wi' him." 
 
 " Maybe ye scunnert him at it, grannie." 
 
 She gave a stifled cry of despair. 
 
 " Dinna say that, laddie, or ye'll drive me oot o' my min'. 
 God forgive me, if that be true. I deserve hell mair nor my 
 Andrew." 
 
 "But, ye see, grannie, supposin' it war sae,. that wadna be 
 laid to your' accoont, seein' ye did the best ye knew. Nor 
 wad it be forgotten to him. It would make a hantle difference 
 to his sin ; it wad be a great excuse for him. An' jist think, 
 if it be fair for ae human being to influence anither a' 'at they 
 can, — and that's nae interferin' wi' their free wull, — it's im- 
 possible to measure what God cud do wi' his Speerit winnin' at 
 them frae a' sides, and able to put sic thouchts an' sic pictures 
 
896 KOBBRT FALCONER. 
 
 into them as we canna thinlc. It wad a' be true that he tellt 
 them, and trowth can never be a meddlin' wi' the free wull." 
 
 Mrs. Falconer made no reply, but evidently went on think' 
 ing. 
 
 She was, though not a great reader, yet a good reader. 
 Any book that was devout and thoughtful she read gladly. 
 Through some one or other of this sort she must have been 
 instructed concerning free will, for I do not think such notions 
 could have formed any portion of the religious teaching she 
 had heard. Men in that part of Scotland then believed that 
 the free will of man was only exercised in rejecting, never 
 in accepting, the truth ; and that men were saved by the gift of 
 the Spirit, given to some and not to others, according to the 
 free will of God, in the exercise of which no reason apprecia- 
 ble by men, or having anything to do with their notions of 
 love or justice, had any share. In the recognition of will and 
 choice in the acceptance of the mercy of God, Mrs. Falconer 
 was then in advance of her time. And it is no wonder if her 
 notions did not all hang logically together. 
 
 '' At ony rate, grannie," resumed her grandson, " / haena 
 dune a' for him 'at I can yet ; and I'm no gaeih' to believe 
 onything that would make me remiss in my endeavor. TIoup 
 for mysel', for my father, for a'body, is what's savin' me, an' 
 garrin' me work. An' if ye tell me that I'm no workin' wi' 
 God, that God's no the best an' the greatest worker aboon a', 
 ye tak' the verra hert oot o' my breist, and I dinna believe in 
 God nae mair, an' my ban's drap doon by my sides, an' my 
 legs winna go. No," said Robert, rising, " God '11 gie me 
 my father some time, grannie ; for what man can do, wantin' a 
 father ? — Human bein' canna win at the hert o' things, canna 
 know a' the oots an' ins, a' the sides o' love, excep' ho has a 
 father amo' the lave to love; an' I hae had nane, grannie. 
 An' that God knows." 
 
 She made him no answer. She dared not say that he 
 expected too much from God. Is it likely that Jesus will say 
 ao of any man or woman when he looks for faith in the earth? 
 
 Robert went out tc see some of his old friends, and when ho 
 returned it was time for supper and worship. These were the 
 same as of old : a f late of porridge, and a wooden bowl of 
 milk for the former ; a chapter and a hymn, both read, and a 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 397 
 
 prayer from grannie, and then from Robert for the latter. 
 And so they went to bed. 
 
 But Robert could not sleep. He rose and dressed himself, 
 went up to the empty garret, looked at the stars through the 
 skylight, knelt and prayed for his father and for all men to 
 the Father of all, then softly descended the stairs, and went 
 out into the street. 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 shargae's mother. 
 
 It was a warm, still night in July ; moonless, but not dark. 
 There is no night there in the summer, — only a long ethereal 
 twilight. He walked through the sleeping town so full of 
 memories, all quiet in bis mind now, — quiet as the air that 
 ever broods over the house where a friend has dwelt. He left 
 the town behind, and walked — through the odors of grass 
 and of clover and of the yellow flowers on the old earth-walla 
 that divided the fields, — sweet scents to which the darkness is 
 friendly, and which, mingling with the smell of the earth 
 itself, reach the founts of memory sooner than even words or 
 tones — down to the brink of the river that flowed scarcely 
 murmuring through the night, itself dark and brown as the 
 night, from its far-off birthplace in the peaty hills. He 
 crossed the foot-bridge and turned into the bleach-field. Its 
 houses were desolate, for that trade too had died away. The 
 machinery stood rotting and rusting. The wheel gave no 
 answering motion to the flow of the water that glided away 
 beneath it. Tho thundering beatles were still. The huge 
 legs of the wauk-mill took no more seven-leagued strides no- 
 whither. The rubbing-boards with their thickly fluted surfaces 
 no longer frothed the soap from every side, tormenting tho 
 web of linen into a brightness to gladden the heart of the 
 housewife whose hands had spun the yarn. The terrible 
 boiler, that used to send up from its depths bubbling and boiU 
 ing spouts and peaks and ridges, lay empty and cold. Tho 
 
898 BOBEBT FALCONEB. 
 
 little house behind, where ita awful furnace used to glow, and 
 which the pungent chlorine used to fill with its fumes, stood 
 open to the wind and the rain ; he could see the slow river through 
 its unglazed window beyond. The water still wentslipping and 
 sliding through the deserted places, a power whose use had 
 departed. The canal, the delight of his childhood, was nearlj 
 choked with weeds; it went flowing over long grasses that 
 drooped into it from its edges, giving a faint gurgle once and 
 again in its flow, as if it feared to speak in the presence of the 
 stars and escaped silently into the aiver far below. The grass 
 was no longer mown like a lawn, but was long and deep and 
 thick. He climbed to the place where he had once lain and 
 listened to the sounds of the belt of fir-trees 'behind him, 
 hearing the voice of Nature that whispered God in his ears, and 
 there he threw himself down once more. All the old things, 
 the old ways, the old glories of childhood — were they gone ? 
 No. Over them all. in them all, was God still. There is no 
 past with Him. An eternal present. He filled his soul and all 
 that his soul had ever filled. His history was taken up into 
 God ; it had not vanished ; his life was hid with Christ in God. 
 To the God of the human heart nothing that has ever been a joy, 
 a grief, a passing interest, can ever cease to be what it has 
 been ; there is no fading at the breath of time, no passing away 
 of fashion, no dimming of old memories in the heart of Him 
 whose being creates time. Falconer's heart rose up to Him as 
 to his own deeper life, his indwelling deepest spirit, — above 
 and beyond him as the heavens are above and beyond the 
 earth, and yet nearer and homelier than his own most familiar 
 thought. "As the light fills the earth," thought he, "so 
 God fills what we call life. My sorrows, God, my hopes, 
 my joys, the upliftings of my life are with thee, my root, my 
 life. Thy comfortings, my perfect God, are strength indeed ! " 
 He and looked around him. While he lay, the waning, 
 
 fading moon had risen, weak and bleared and dull. She 
 brightened and brightened, until at last she lighted up the night 
 with a wan, forgetful gleam. " So should I feel," bethought, 
 " about the past on which I am now gazing, were it not that I 
 believe in the God who forgets nothing. That which has 
 been, is." His eye fell on something bright in the field 
 beyond. He would see what it was, and crossed the earthen 
 
ROBEKI FALCONER. 399 
 
 dyke. It shone like a little moon in the grass. By humor- 
 ing the reflection he reached it. It was only a cutting of 
 white iron, left by some tinker. He walked on over the field, 
 thinking of Shargar's mother. If he could but find her ! He 
 walked on and on. He had no inclination to go home. The 
 solitariness of the night, the uncanninesa of the mcon, pre- 
 vents most people from wandering far. Robert had learned 
 long ago to love the night, and to feel at home with every 
 aspect of God's world. How this peace contrasted with the 
 nights in London streets ! this grass with the dark flow of the 
 Thames ! these hills and those clouds half melted into moon- 
 light with the lanes blazing with gas ! He thought of the 
 child who, taken from London for the first time, sent home 
 the message: " Tell mother that it's dark in the country at 
 night." Then his thoughts turned again to Shargar's mother! 
 Was it not possible, being a wanderer far and wide, that she 
 might be now in Rothieden? Such people have a love for 
 their old haunts, stronger than that of orderly members of 
 society for their old homes. He turned back, and did not 
 know where he was. But the lines of the hill-tops directed 
 him. He hastened to the town, and went straight through 
 the sleeping streets of the back wynd where he had found 
 Shargar sitting on the door-step. Could he believe his eyes ? 
 A feeble light was burning in the shed. Some other poverty- 
 stricken bird of the night, however, might be there, and not 
 she who could perhaps guide him to the goal of his earthly life. 
 He drew near, and peeped in at the broken window. A heap 
 of something lay in a corner, watched only by a long-snufFed 
 candle. 
 
 The heap moved, and a voice called out querulously : — 
 " Is that you, Shargar, ye shochlin deevil ? " 
 Falconer's heart leaped. He hesitated no longer, but lifte 
 the latch and entered. He took up the candle, snufied it as 
 he best could, and approached the woman. When the light 
 fell on her face she sat up, staring wildly with eyea that 
 ihunned and sought it. 
 
 " Wha are ye that winna lat me dee in peace and quaiet' 
 Aess?" 
 
 " I'm Robert Falconer." 
 
400 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 "Come to speir efter yer ne'er-do-weel o' a father, 1 
 reckon," she said. 
 
 "Yes," he answered. 
 
 "Wha'sthatahin' ye?" 
 
 " Naebody's ahin' me," answered Robert. 
 
 " Dinna lee. Wha's that ahin' the door ? " 
 
 "Naebody. I never tell lees." 
 
 "Whaur's Shargar? What for doesna he come till 'a 
 "inither!" 
 
 " He's hynd awa' ower the seas, — a captain o' sodgers." 
 
 " It's a lee. He's an ill-faured scoonrel no to come till 'a 
 mither an' hid her gude-by, an' her gaein' to hell." 
 
 "If ye speir at Christ, he'll tak' ye oot o' the verra mou' o' 
 hell, wuman." 
 
 " Christ ! wha's that? Ow, ay ! It's him 'at they preach 
 ahoot i' the kirks. Na, na. There's nae gnde o' that. There's 
 nae time to repent noo. I doubt sic repentance as mine wadna 
 gang for muckle wi' the likes o' him." 
 
 " The likes o' him 's no to be gotten. He cam' to save the 
 likes o' you an' me." 
 
 "The likes o' you an' me! said ye, laddie? There's no 
 like atween you an' me." He'll hae naethin' to say to me, but 
 ' gang to hell wi' ye.' " 
 
 " He never said sic a word in 's life. He wad say, ' Poor 
 thing! she was ill-used. Ye maunna sin ony mair. Come, and 
 I'll help ye.' He wad say something like that. He'll save a 
 body when she wadna think it." 
 
 "An' I hae gieu my bonny bairn to the deevil wi' my ain 
 ban's ! She come to hell efter me to girn at me, an' set them 
 on me wi' their reid het taings, and curse me. Och hone ! och 
 hone ! " 
 
 "Hearken to me," said Falconer, with as much authority 
 as he could assume. But she rolled herself over again in the 
 corner, and lay groaning. 
 
 "Tell me whaur she is," said Falconer, "and I'll tak' hei 
 ooto' their grup, whaever they be." 
 
 She sat up again, and stared at him for a few moments with- 
 out speaking. 
 
 "I left her wi' a wuman waur nor mysol'," she said at 
 length. " God forgie me ! " 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 401 
 
 ■'He will forgie ye, if ye tell me whaur she is." 
 
 "Do ye think he will? Eh, Maister Faukner ! The 
 wuman bides in a coort aflf o' Clare Market. I dinna min' 
 upo' the name o' 't, though I cud go till 't wi' my een steekit. 
 Her name's Widow Walker — an auld rowdie — curse her 
 BOwl!" 
 
 " Na, na, ye maunna say that if ye want to be forgien yersel'. 
 I'll fin' her oot. An' I'm thinkin' it wanna be lang or I hae 
 a grup o' her. I'm gaein' back to Lonnon in two days or 
 threa 
 
 " Dinna go till I'm deid. Bide an' hand the devil aff o' me. 
 He has a grup o' my hert noo, rivin' at it wi' his lang nails 
 — as lang's bird's nebs." 
 
 "I'll bide wi' ye till we see what can be dune for ye. 
 What's the maitter wi' ye ? I'm a doctor noo." 
 
 There was not a chair or box or stool on which to sit down. 
 He therefore kneeled beside her. He felt her pulse, questioned 
 her, and learned that she had long been suffering from an in- 
 ternal complaint, which had within the last week grown rapidly 
 worse. He saw that there was no hope of her recovery ; but 
 while she lived he gave himself to her service as to that of a 
 living soul capable of justice and love. The night was more 
 than warm, but she had fits of shivering. He wrapped his coat 
 round her, and wiped from the poor, degraded face the damps 
 of suffering. The woman heart was alive still, for she took the 
 hand that ministered to her and kissed it with a moan. When 
 the morning came she fell asleep. He crept out and went to 
 his grandmother's, where he roused Betty, and asked her to 
 get him some peat and coals. Finding his grandmother awake, 
 he told her all, and taking the coals and the peat, carried them 
 to the hut, where he managed, with some difficulty, to light a 
 fire on the hearth ; after which he sat on the door-step, till Betty 
 appeared with two men carrying a mattress and some bedding. 
 The noise they made awoke her. 
 
 " Dinna tak' me," she cried. " I winna do 't again, an' I'm 
 deein', I tell ye I'm deein', and that '11 clear a' scores, — o' this 
 side ony way," she added. 
 
 They lifted her upon the mattress, and made her more com- 
 fortable than perhaps she had ever been in her life. But it was 
 only her illness that made her capable of prizing such comfort. 
 
402 BOBERT FALCONER. 
 
 in health, the heather on a hill-side was far more to her tasta 
 than bed and blankets. She had a wild, roving, savage nature, 
 and the wind was dearer to her than house-walls. She had 
 come of ancestors — and it was a poor little atom of truth that 
 a 80(il bred like this woman could have been born capable of 
 entertaining. But she, too, was eternal — and surely not to be 
 fised forever in a bewilderment of sin and ignorance; a wild- 
 eyed soul staring about in hell-fire for want of something it 
 could not understand and had never beheld — by the changeless 
 mandate of the God of love ! She was in less pain than during 
 the night, and lay quietly gazing at the fire. Things awful to 
 another would no doubt cross her memory without any accom- 
 panying sense of dismay ; tender things would return without 
 moving her heart ; but Falconer had a hold of her now. 
 Nothing could be done for her body except to render its death 
 as easy as might be ; but something might be done for herself. 
 He made no attempt to produce this or that condition of mind 
 in the poor creature. He never made such attempts. " How 
 can I tell the next lesson a soul is capable of learning?" he 
 would say. "The Spirit of God is the teacher. My part is 
 to tell the good news. Let that work as it ought, as it can, as 
 it will." He knew that pain is with some the only harbinger 
 that can prepare the way for the entrance of kindness ; it is 
 not understood till then. In the lulls of her pain he told her 
 about the man Christ Jesus — what he did for the poor creat- 
 ures who came to him — how kindly he spoke to them — how 
 he cured them. He told her how gentle he was with the sin- 
 ning women ; how he forgave them, and told them to do so no 
 more. He left the story without comment to work that faith 
 which alone can redeem from selfishness and bring into contact 
 with all that is living and productive of life, for to believe in 
 him is to lay hold of eternal life; he is the Life — therefore 
 the life of men. She gave him but little encouragement ; he 
 did not need it, for he believed in the Life. But her outcries 
 were no longer accompanied with that fierce and dreadful lan- 
 guage in v>hich she sought relief at first. He said to himself, 
 " What matter if I see no sign ? I am doing my part. AVho 
 can tell, when the soul is fi-ce from the distress of the body, 
 when sights and sounds have vanished from her, and sho is 
 silent in the eternal, with the terrible past behind her, and 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 403 
 
 clear to her consciousness, how the words I have spoken to her 
 may yet live and grow in her ; how the kindness God has given 
 me to show her may help her to believe in the root of aU kind- 
 ness, — in the everlasting love of her Father in heaven ! That 
 she can feel at all is as sure a sign of life as the adoration of 
 an ecstatic saint." 
 
 He had no difficulty now in getting from her what informa- 
 tion she could give him about his father. It seemed to him of 
 the greatest import, though it amounted only to this, that when 
 he was in London, he used to lodge at the house of an old 
 Scotch woman of the name of Macallister, who lived in Paradise 
 Gardens, somewhere between Bethnal Green and Spitalfields 
 Whether he had been in London lately, she did not know ; but 
 if anybody could tell him where he was, it would be Mrs. 
 Macallister. 
 
 His heart filled with gratitude and hope and the surging 
 desire for the renewal of his London labors. But he could not 
 leave the dying woman till she was beyond the, reach of his 
 comfort; he was her keeper now. And "he that believeth 
 shall not make haste." Labor without perturbation, readiness 
 without hurry, no haste, and no hesitation, was the divine law 
 of his activity. 
 
 Shargar's mother breathed her last holding his hand. They 
 were alone. He kneeled by the bed, and prayed to God, 
 saying : — 
 
 "Father, this woman is in thy hands. Take thou care of 
 her, as thou hast taken care of her hitherto. Let the light go 
 up in her soul, that she may love and trust thee, light, 
 gladness ! I thank thee that thou hast blessed me with this 
 ministration. Now lead me to my father. Thine is the king- 
 dom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen." 
 
 He rose and went to his grandmother and told her all. She 
 put her arms round his neck, and kissed him, and said : — 
 
 " God bless ye, my bonny lad ! And he will bless ye. Ho 
 will ; he will. Noo gang yer wa's, and do the wark he giea 
 ye to do. Only min', it's no you ; it's Him." 
 
 The next morning, the sweet winds of his childhood wooing 
 him to remain yet a day among their fields, he sat on the top 
 of the Aberdeen coach, on his way back to the horrors of court 
 and alley in the terrible London. 
 
404' ROBERT FALCONEKi 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 THE SILK-WBAVBK. 
 
 When he arrived he made it his first business to find '•' Widow 
 Walker." She was evidently one of the worst of her class ; 
 and could it have been accomplished without scandal, and with- 
 out interfering with the quietness upon which he believed that 
 the true effect of his labors in a large measure depended, ho 
 would not have scrupled simply to carry off the child. With 
 much diflBculty, for the woman was suspicious, he contrived to 
 see her, and was at once reminded of the child he had seen in 
 the cart on the occasion of Shargar's recognition of his mother. 
 He fancied be saw in her some resemblance to his friend Shar- 
 gar. The affair ended in his paying the woman a hundred and 
 fifty pounds to give up the girl. Within six months she had 
 drunk herself to death. He took little Nancy Kennedy home 
 with him, and gave her in charge to his house-keeper. She 
 cried a good deal at first, and wanted to go back to Mother 
 Walker ; but he had no great trouble with her after a time. She 
 began to take a share in the house-work, and at length to wait 
 upon him. Then Falconer began to see that he must cultivate 
 relations with other people in order to enlarge his means of 
 helping the poor. He nowise abandoned his conviction that 
 whatever good he sought to do or lent himself to aid must be 
 effected entirely by individual influence. He had little faith 
 in societies, regarding them chiefly as a wretched substitute, 
 just better than nothing, for that help which the neighbor is to 
 give to his neighbor. Finding how the unbelief of the best of 
 the poor is occasioned by hopelessness in privation, and the 
 Bufferings of those dear to them, he was confident that only the 
 personal comoiunion of friendship could make it possible for 
 them to believe in God. Christians must be in the world as 
 He was in the world ; and in proportion as the truth radiated 
 from them, the world would be able to believe in Him. Money 
 he saw to be worse than useless, except as a gracious outcome of 
 human feelings and brotherly love. He always insisted that the 
 Saviour healed only those on whom his humanity had laid hold ; 
 that he demanded faith of them in order to make them regard 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 405 
 
 bim, that so his personal being might enter into their hearts. 
 Healing without faith in its source would have done them harm 
 instead of good, — would have been to them a windfall, not a 
 Godsend ; at best the gift of magic, even sometimes the power 
 of Satan casting out Satan. But he must not therefore act aa 
 if he were the only one who could render this individual aid, 
 or as if men influencing the poor individually could not aid 
 «ach other in their individual labors. He soon found, I say, 
 that there were things he could not do without help, and Nancy 
 was his first perplexity. From this he was delivered in a 
 wonderful way. 
 
 One afternoon he was prowling about Spitalfields, where he 
 had made many acquaintances amongst the sili^-weavers and 
 their families. Hearing a loud voice as he passed down a stair 
 from the visit he had been paying farther up the house, he 
 |went into the room whence the sound came, for he knew a 
 little of the occupant. He was one De Fjeuri, or as the 
 neighbors called him Diffleery, in whose countenance, after 
 generations of want and debasement, the delicate lines and 
 noble cast of his ancient race were yet emergent. This man 
 had lost his wife and three children, his whole family except a 
 daughter now sick, by a slow-consuming hunger ; and he did 
 not believe there was a God that ruled in the earth. But he 
 supported his unbelief by no other argument than a hopeless, 
 bitter glance at his empty loom. At this moment hesatsilent, 
 — a rock against which the noisy waves of a combative Bible- 
 reader were breaking in rude foam. His silence and apparent 
 impassiveness angered the irreverent little worthy. To Fal- 
 coner's humor he looked a vulgar bull-terrier barking at. a 
 noble, sad-faced staghound. His foolish arguments against 
 infidelity, drawn from Paley's " Natural Theology," and tracts 
 about the inspiration of the Bible, touched the sore-hearted un- 
 belief of the man no nearer than the clangor of negro kettles 
 afiects the eclipse of the sun. Falconer stood watching his 
 opportunity. Nor was the eager disputant long in affording 
 him one. Socratio fashion, Falconer asked him a question, 
 and was answered ; followed it with another which, after a 
 little hesitation, was likewise answered ; then asked a third, 
 the ready answer to which involved such a flagrant contradic« 
 tion of the first, that the poor, sorrowful weaver burst into a 
 
406 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 laugh of delight at the discomfiture of his tormentor. After 
 some stammering, and a confused attempt to recover the line 
 of argument, the would-he partisan of Deity roared out, " The 
 fool hath said in his heart there is no God; " and with this 
 triumphant discharge of his swivel, turned and ran down the 
 stairs precipitately. 
 
 Both laughed while the sound of his footsteps lasted. Then 
 Falconer said : — 
 
 " Mr. De Fleurl, I believe in God with all my heart, and 
 soul, and strength, and mind ; though not in that poor creat- 
 ure's arguments. I don't know that your unbelief is not 
 better than his faith." 
 
 " I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Falconer. I haven't 
 laughed so for years. What right has he to come pestering 
 me?" 
 
 " None whatever. But you must forgive him, because he 
 is well-meaning, and because his conceit has made a fool of 
 him. They're not all like him. But how is your daugh- 
 ter ? " 
 
 " Very poorly, sir. She's going after the rest. A Spital- 
 fields weaver ought to be like the cats ; they don't mind how 
 many of their kittens are drowned." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. They don't like it. Only they for- 
 get it sooner than we do." 
 
 " Why do you say we, sir ? You don't know anything of 
 that sort." 
 
 "The heart knows its own bitterness, De Fleuri — and 
 finds it enough, I dare say." 
 
 The weaver was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, 
 there was a touch of tenderness in his respect. 
 
 " Will you go and See my poor Katey, sir ? " 
 
 " Would she like to see me ? " 
 
 " It does her good to see you. I never let that fellow go 
 near her. He may worry me as he pleases ; but she shall die 
 in peace. That is all I can do for her." 
 
 " Do you still persist in refusing help, — for your daughter, 
 — I don't mean for yourself? " 
 
 Not believing in God, De Fleuri would not be obliged to 
 bis fellow. Falconer had never met with a similar instance. 
 
 " I do. I won't kill her, and I won't kill myself. I am 
 
ROBBRT FALCONER. 407 
 
 not bound to accept charity. It's all right. I only want tc 
 leave the whole affair behind ; and I sincerely hope there's 
 nothing to come after. If I were God, I should be asharaed 
 of such a mess of a world." 
 
 " Well, no doubt you would have made something more to 
 your mind, -and better, too, if all you see were all there ia 
 to be seen, liut I didn't send that bore away to bore you my- 
 self. I'm going to see Katey." 
 
 " Very well, sir. I won't go up with you, for I won't in- 
 terfere with what you think proper to say to her." 
 
 "That's rather like faith somewhere!" thought Falconer. 
 " Could that man fail to believe in Jesus Christ if he only saw 
 him — anything like as he is ? " 
 
 Katey lay in a room overhead ; for, though he lacked food, 
 this man contrived to pay for a separate room for his daughter, 
 whom he treated with far more respect than many gentlemen 
 treat their wives. Falconer found her lying on a wretched 
 bed. Still it was a bed ; and many in the same house had no 
 bed to lie on. He had just come from a room overhead where 
 lived a widow with four children. All of them lay on a floor 
 whence issued at night, by many holes, awful rats. The chil- 
 dren could not sleep for horror. They did not mind the little 
 ones, they said, but when the big ones came they were awake 
 all night. 
 
 "Well, Katey, how are you? " 
 
 " No better, thank God." 
 
 She spoke as her father had taught her. Her face waa 
 worn and thin, but hardly death-like. Only extremes met in 
 it, — the hopelessness had turned through quietude into com- 
 fort. Her hopelessness affected him more than her father's. 
 But there was nothing he could do for.her. 
 
 Then came a tap at the door. 
 
 " Come in," said Falconer, involuntarily. 
 
 A lady in the dress of a Sister of Mercy entered with a 
 large basket on her arm. She started, and hesitated for a 
 moment when she saw him. He rose, thinking it better to go. 
 She advanced to the bedside. He turned at the door, and 
 Baid : — 
 
 " I won't say good-by yet, Katey, for I'm going to have a 
 
408 ROBERT FALCONBR. 
 
 chat with your father, and if you will let me, I will look in 
 again." 
 
 As he turned he saw the lady kiss her on the forehead. At 
 the sound of his voice she started again, 'eft the bedside and 
 came towards him. Whether be knew her by her face or her 
 voice first, he could not tell. 
 
 " Robert," the said, holding out her hand. 
 
 It was Mary St. John. Their hands met, joined fast, and 
 lingered, as they gazed each in the other's face. It was nearly 
 fourteen years since they had parted. The freshness of youth 
 was gone from her cheek, and the signs of middle age were 
 present on her forehead. But she was statelier, nobler, and 
 gentler than ever. Falconer looked at her calmly, with only 
 a still swelling at the heart, as if they met on the threshold of 
 heaven. All the selfishness of passion was gone, and the old 
 earlier adoration, elevated and glorified, had returned. He 
 was a boy once more in the presence of a woman-angel. She 
 did not shrink from his gaze ; she did not withdraw her hand 
 from his clasp. 
 
 " I am so glad, Robert ! " was all she said. 
 
 "So am I," he answered, quietly. "We may meet some- 
 ';imes then? " 
 
 " Yes. Perhaps we can help each other." 
 
 "You can help me," said Falconer. "I have a girl I 
 flon't know what to do with." 
 
 " Send her to me. I will take care of her." 
 
 " I will bring her. But I must come and see you first." 
 
 " That will tell you where I live," she said, giving him a 
 card. "Good-by." 
 
 " Till to-morrow," said Falconer. 
 
 " She's not like that Bible-fellow," said De Fleuri, as he 
 entered his room again. " She don't walk into your house aa 
 if it was her own." 
 
 He was leaning against his idle loom, which, like a dead 
 thing, filled the place with the mournfulness of death. Fal> 
 coner took a broken chair, the only one, and sat down. 
 
 " I am going to take a liberty with you, Mr. De Fleuri," 
 he said. 
 
 " ^fl you please, Mr. Falconer." 
 
 " I want to tell ypu the only fiiult I have to you." 
 
BOBBBT FALCOXEB. 409 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "You don't do anything for the people in the house. 
 Whether you believe in God or not, you ought to do what you 
 can for your neighbor." 
 
 He held that to help a neighbor is the strongest antidote to 
 unbelief, and an open door out of the bad air of one's own 
 tjoubles, as well. 
 
 De Fleuri laughed bitterly, and rubbed his hand up and 
 lown his empty pocket. It was a pitiable action. Falconer 
 understood it. 
 
 "There are better things than money; sympathy, for in- 
 stance. Y^ou could talk to them a little." 
 
 "I have no sympathy, sir." 
 
 "You would find you had, if you would let it out." 
 
 " I should only make them more miserable. If I believed 
 as you do, now, there might be some use." 
 
 "There's that widow with her four children in the garret. 
 The poor little things are tormented by the rats ; couldn't you 
 nail bits of wood over their holes ? " 
 
 De Fleuri laughed again. 
 
 " Where am I to get the bits of wood, except I pull down 
 some of those laths? And they wouldn't keep them out a 
 night." 
 
 " Couldn't you ask some carpenter? " 
 
 "I won't ask a favor." 
 
 " I shouldn't mind asking, now." 
 
 " That's because you don't know the bitterness of needing." 
 
 "Fortunately, however, there's no occasion for it. You 
 have no right to refuse for another what you wouldn't accept 
 for yourself. Of course I could send in a man to do it ; but 
 if you would do it, that would do her heart good. And that's 
 what most wants doing good to, — isn't it, now ? " 
 
 "I believe you're right there, sir. If it wasn't for the 
 misery of it, I shouldn't mind the hunger." 
 
 "I should like to tell you how I came to go poking my 
 nose into other people's affairs. Would you like to hear my 
 story now?" 
 
 " If you please, sir." 
 
 A little pallid curiosity seemed to rouse itself in the heart 
 of the hopeless man. So Falconer began at once to tell him 
 
410 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 How he had been brought up, describing the country and theii 
 ways of life, not excluding liis adventures with Shargar, until 
 he saw that the man was thoroughly interested. Then all at 
 once, pulling out his watch, he said : — 
 
 "But it's time I had my tea, and I haven't half done yet. 
 I am not fond of being hungry, like you, Mr. De Fleuri." 
 
 The poor fellow could only manage a very dubious smile. 
 
 " I'll tell you what," said Falconer, as if the thought had 
 only just struck him, "come home with me, and I'll give 
 you the rest of it at my own place." 
 
 "You must excuse me, sir." 
 
 "Bless my soul, the man's proud as Lucifer! He won't 
 accept a neighbor's invitation to a cup of tea, — for fear it 
 should put him under obligations, I suppose." 
 
 "It's very kind of you, sir, to put it in that way; but I 
 don't choose to be taken in. You know very well, it's not as 
 one equal asks another you ask me. It's charity." 
 
 " Do I not behave to you as an equal ? " 
 
 " But you know that don't make us equals." 
 
 " But isn't there something better than being equals? 
 Supposing, as you will have it, that we're not equals, can't we 
 be friends?" 
 
 "I hope so, sir." 
 
 "Do you think now, Mr. De Fleuri, if you weren't some- 
 thing more to me than a mere equal, I would go telling you 
 my own history ? But I forgot ; I have told you hardly any- 
 thing yet. I have to tell you how much nearer I am to your 
 level than you think. I had the design, too, of getting you to 
 help me in the main object of my life. Come, don't be a fool 
 I want you." 
 
 " I can't leave Katey," said the weaver, hesitatingly. 
 
 "Miss St. John is there still. I will ask her to stop till 
 you come back." 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, he ran up the stairs, and 
 had speedily arranged with Miss St. John. Then, taking hia 
 consent for granted, he hurried De Fleuri away with him, and 
 knowing how unfit a man of his trade was for walking, irre- 
 spective of feebleness from want, he called the first cab, and 
 H)ok him home. Here, over their tea, which he judged tho 
 flafest meal for a stomach unaccustomed to food, he told him 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 411 
 
 about liis grandmother, and about Dr. Anderson, ana how ha 
 came to give himself to the work he was at, partly for its own 
 Bake, partly in the hope of finding his father. He told him 
 his only clue to finding him ; and that he had called on Mrs. 
 Macallister twice every week for two years, but had heard 
 nothing of him. De Fleuri listened with what rose to great 
 interest before the story was finished. And one of its ends at 
 least was gained: the weaver was at home with him. The 
 poor fellow felt that such close relation to an outcast did, 
 indeed, bring Falconer nearer to his own level. 
 
 " Do you want it kept a secret, sir ? " he asked. 
 
 "I don't want it made a matter of gossip. But I do not 
 mind how many respectable people like yourself know of it." 
 
 He said this with a vague hope of assistance. 
 
 Before they parted, the unaccustomed tears had visited the 
 eyes of De Fleuri, and he had consented not only to repair 
 Mrs. Chisholm's garret-floor, but to take in hand the expendi- 
 ture of a certain sum weekly, as he should judge expedient, 
 for the people who lived in that and the neighboring houses, — 
 in no case, however, except of sickness, or actual want of 
 bread from want of work. Thus did Falconer appoint a sor- 
 row-made infidel tq be the almoner of his Christian charity, 
 knowing well that the nature of the Son of Man was in him, 
 and that to get him to do as the Son of Man did, in ever so 
 small a degree, was the readiest means of bringing his higher 
 nature to the birth. Nor did he ever repent the choice he had 
 made. 
 
 When he waited upon Miss St. John, the next day, he found 
 her in the ordhiary dress of a lady. She received him with 
 perfect confidence and kindness, but there was no reference 
 made to the past. She told him that she had belonged to a 
 sisterhood, but had left it a few days before, believing she 
 could do better without its restrictions. 
 
 " It was an act of cowardice," she said, "wearing the 
 dress yesterday. I had got used to it, and did not feel safe 
 without it; but I shall not wear it any more." 
 
 " I think you are right," said Falconer. " The nearer any 
 friendly act is associated with the individual heart, without in- 
 tervention of class or creed, the more the humanity, which ia 
 the divinity of it, will appear." 
 
412 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 He then told her about Nancy. 
 
 " I will keep her about myself for a while," said Miss St. 
 John, " till I see what can be done with her. I know 3 good 
 many people who, without being prepared, or perhaps able to 
 take any trouble, are yet ready to do a kindness when it ia 
 put in their way." 
 
 I feel more and more that I ought to make some friends," 
 said Falconer ; " for I find my means of help reach but a 
 little way. What had I better do ? I suppose I could get 
 some introductions. I hardly know how." 
 
 " That will be easily managed. I will take that in hand. 
 If you will accept invitations, you will soon know a good many 
 people, — of all sorts," she added, with a smile. 
 
 About this time Falconer, having often felt the pressure 
 of his ignorance of legal affairs, and reflected whether it would 
 not add to bis efficiency to rescue himself from it, began such a 
 course of study as would fit him for the profession of the law. 
 Gifted with splendid health, and if with a slow strength of / 
 grasping, yet with a great power of holding, he set himself toj 
 work, and regularly read for the bar. 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 ■MT OWN ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 It was after this that my own acquaintance with Fal- 
 coner commenced. I had just come out of one of the theatres 
 in the neighborhood of the Strand, unable to endure any 
 longer the dreary combination of false magnanimity and real 
 meanness, imported from Paris in the shape of a melodrama, 
 for the delectation of the London public. I had turned north- 
 wards, and was walking up one of the streets near Covent 
 Garden, when my attention was attracted to a woman who 
 came out of a gin-shop, carrying a baby. She went to the 
 kennel, and bent her bead over, ill with the poisonous stuff 
 she had been drinking. And while the woman stood in 
 this degrading posture, the poor, white, wasted baby, was look- 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 413 
 
 ing over her shoulder with the smile of a seraph, perfectly un« 
 conscious of the hell around her. 
 
 " Children will see things as God sees them," murmured a 
 voice beside me. 
 
 I turned and saw a tall man, with whose form I had already 
 become a little familiar, although I knew nothing of him, 
 standing almost at my elbow, with his eyes fixed on the woman 
 and the child, and a strange smile of tenderness about his 
 month, as if he were blessing the little creature in his heart. 
 
 He, too, saw the wonder-of the show, typical of so much in 
 the world, indeed of the world itself, — the seemingly vile up- 
 holding and ministering to the life of the pure, the gracious, 
 the fearless. Aware from his tone more than from his pro- 
 nunciation tliat he was a fellow-countryman, I ventured to 
 speak to him, and in a home dialect. 
 
 " It"s a wonnerfu' sicht. It's the cake o' Ezekiel ower 
 again." 
 
 He looked at me sharply, thought a moment, and said : — 
 
 " You were going my way when you stopped. I will walk 
 with you, if you will." 
 
 " But what's to be done about it? " I said. 
 
 "About what?" he returned. 
 
 " About the child there," I answered. 
 
 " Oh ! she is its mother," he replied, walking on. 
 
 " What difference does that make ? " I said. 
 
 " All the difference in the world. If God has given her 
 that child, what right have you or I to interfere? " 
 
 " But I verily believe, from the look of the child, she gives 
 it gin." 
 
 " God saves the world by the new blood, the children. To 
 take her child from her would be to do what you could to 
 damn her." 
 
 "It doesn't look much like salvation there." 
 
 "You mustn't interfere with God's thousand years any 
 more than his one day." 
 
 " Are you sure she is the mother? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes. I would not have left the child with her otherwise." 
 
 "What would you have done with it? Got it into some 
 orphan asylum ? — or the Foundling perhaps ? " 
 
 "Never," he answered. "All those societies are wretched 
 
♦14 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 inTentions for escape from the right way. There ought not to 
 be an orphan asylum in the kingdom." 
 
 "What ! Would you put them, all down then ? " 
 " God forbid. But I would, if I could, make them all 
 useless." 
 
 " IIow could you do that? " 
 
 " I would merdy enlighten the hearts of childless people aa 
 to their privileges." 
 
 "Which are?" 
 
 "To be fathers and mothers to the fatherless and mother- 
 less." 
 
 "I have often wondered why more of them did not adopt 
 children. Why don't they ? " 
 
 " For various reasons, which a real love to child nature would 
 blow to the winds, — all comprised in this, that such a child 
 would not be their own child. As if ever a child could bo 
 their own ! That a child is God's is of rather more conse- 
 quence than whether it is born of this or that couple. Their 
 hearts would surely be glad when they went into heaven to 
 have the angels of the little ones that always beheld the face 
 of their Father coming round them, though they were not 
 exactly their father and mother." 
 
 " I don't know what the passage you refer to means." 
 
 " Neither do I. But it must mean something, if He said it. 
 Are you a clergyman ? " 
 
 " No. I am only a poor teacher of mathematics and poetry, 
 shown up the back stairs into the nurseries of great houses." 
 
 " A grand chance, if I may use the word." 
 
 "I do try to wake a little enthusiasm in the sons and 
 daughters, — without much success, I fear." 
 
 " Will you come and see me ? " he said, 
 
 " With much pleasure. But as I have given you an 
 answer, you owe me one." 
 
 "I do." 
 
 " Have you adopted a child? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Then you have some of your own? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Then, excuse me, but why the warmth of your remarks on 
 those who — " 
 
ROBERT PALCONER. 415 
 
 " I think I shall be able to satisfy you on that point, if we 
 draw to each other. Meantime I must leave you. Could you 
 come to-morrow evening? " 
 
 " With pleasure." 
 
 We arranged the hour and parted. I saw him walk into a 
 low public house, and went home. 
 
 At the time appointed, I rang the bell, and was led by an 
 elderly woman up the stair, and shown into a large room on 
 the first floor, — poorly furnished, and with many signs of 
 bachelor-carelessness. Mr. Falconer rose from an old hair- 
 covered sofa to meet me as I entered. I will first tell my 
 reader something of his personal appearance. 
 
 He was considerably above six feet in height, square-shoul- 
 dered, remarkably long in the arms, and his hands were un- 
 commonly large and powerful. His head was large, and cov- 
 ered with dark, wavy hair, lightly streaked with gray. Hia 
 broad forehead projected over deep-sunken eyes, that shone like 
 black fire. His features, especially his Roman nose, were 
 large, and finely, though not delicately modelled. His nostrils 
 were remarkably large and flexile, with a tendency to slight 
 . motion. I found on further acquaintance that when he was 
 excited, they expanded in a wild, equine manner. The ex- 
 pression of his mouth was of tender power, crossed with humor. 
 He kept his lips a little compressed, which gave a certain 
 sternness to his countenance ; but, when this sternness dis- 
 solved in a smile, it was something enchanting. He was 
 plainly, rather shabbily, clothed. No one could have guessed 
 at his profession or social position. He came forward and re- 
 ceived me cordially. After a little indifferent talk, he asked 
 me if I had any other engagement for the evening. 
 
 " I never have any engagements," I answered, — " at least, 
 of a social kind. I am burd alane. I know next to nae- 
 body." 
 
 "Then perhaps you would not mind going out with me for 
 a stroll?" 
 
 '■' I shall be most happy," I answered. 
 
 There was something about the man I found exceedingly 
 attractive. I had very few friends ; and there was besides some- 
 thing odd, almost romantic, in this beginning of an intercourse ; 
 I would see what would come of it. 
 
416 ROBERT FALCONER 
 
 " Then we'll have some supper first," said Mr. Falconer, 
 
 and rang the bell. 
 
 While we ate our chops, — 
 
 "I dare say you think it strange," my host said, "that 
 without the least claim on your acquaintance, I should havA 
 asked you to come and see me, Mr. — " 
 
 He stopped, smiling. 
 
 " My name is Gordon, — Archie Gordon," I said. 
 
 "Well, then, Mr. Gordon, I confess I have a design upon 
 you. But you remember that you addressed me first." 
 
 " You spohe first," I said. 
 
 "Did I?" 
 
 " I did not say you spoke to me, but you spoke. — I should 
 not have ventured to make the remark I did make, if I had not 
 heard your voice first. What design have you on me? " 
 
 " That will appear in due course. Now take a glass of 
 wine, and we'll set out." 
 
 We soon found ourselves in Holborn, and my companion led 
 the way towards the city. The evening was sultry and close. 
 
 " Nothing excites me more," said Mr. Falconer, " than a 
 walk in the twilight through a crowded street. Do you find 
 it affect you so?" 
 
 " I cannot speak as strongly as you do," I replied. " But 
 I perfectly understand what you mean. Why is it, do you 
 think?" 
 
 "Partly, I fancy, because it is like the primordial chaos, a 
 concentrated tumult of undetermined possibilities. The germs 
 of infinite adventure and result are floating around you like a 
 snow-storm. You do not know what may arise in a moment 
 and color all your future. Out of this mass may suddenly 
 start something marvellous, or, it may be, something you have 
 been looking for for years." 
 
 The same moment, a fierce flash of lightning, like a blue 
 Bword-blad a thousand times shattered, quivered and palpi- 
 tated about us, leaving a thick darkness on the sense. I heard 
 my companion give a suppressed cry, and saw him run up 
 against a heavy drayman who was on the edge of the path, 
 guiding his horses with his long whip. He begged the man's 
 pardon, put his hand to his head, and murmured, "I shall 
 know him now." I was afraid for a moment that the light- 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 41T 
 
 ning had struck him, but he assured me there was uotuing 
 amiss. He looked a little excited and confused, however. 
 
 I should have forgotten the incident, had he not told me 
 afterwards, — when I had come to know hiin intimately, — that 
 •in the moment of that lightning flasii, he had had a strange 
 experience : he had seen the form of his father, as he had seen 
 him that Sunday afternoon, in the midst of the surrounding 
 light. He was as certain of the truth of the presentation as 
 if a gradual revival of memory had brought with it the clear 
 conviction of its own accuracy. His explanation of the phe- 
 nomenon was, that, in some cases, all that prevents a vivid con- 
 ception from assuming objectivity is the self-assertion of external 
 objects. The gradual approach of darkness cannot surprise 
 and isolate the phantasm ; but the suddenness of the lightning- 
 could and did, obliterating everything without, and leaving 
 that over which it had no power standing alone, and there&re 
 visible. 
 
 "But," I ventured to ask, "whence the minutenrta of 
 detail, surpassing, you say, all that your memory cocild 
 supply?" 
 
 "That I think was a quickening of the memory by the 
 realism of the presentation. Excited by the vision, it, caught 
 at its own past, as it were, and suddenly recalled that (vhicli it 
 had forgotten. In the rapidity of all pure mental action, thia 
 at once took its part in the apparent objectivity." 
 
 To return to the narrative of my first evening in Falconer's 
 company. 
 
 It was strange how insensible the street population was to 
 the grandeur of the storm. Vf bile the thunder was billowing 
 and bellowing over and around us, — 
 
 " A hundred pins for one ha'penny," bawled a man from 
 the gutter, with the importance of a Cagliostro. 
 
 " Evening Star ! Telegrauwff!" roared an ear-splitting 
 urchin in my very face. 1 gave him a shove off the pavement. 
 
 "Ah! don't do that," said Falconer. " It only widens the 
 crack between him and his fellows, — not much, but a little." 
 
 " You are right," I said. " I won't do it again.'' 
 
 The storm kept on intermittently, but the streets -viere rather 
 more crowded than usual, notwithstanding. 
 
 "Look at that man in the woollen jacket," said Falconer. 
 
418 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 ' ' What a beautiful outline of face ! There must be something 
 noble in that man." 
 
 " I did not see him," I answered ; " I was taken up with a 
 woman's face, like that of a beautiful corpse. Its eyes were 
 bright. There was gin in its brain." 
 
 The streets swarmed with human faces gleaming past. It 
 was a night of ghosts. 
 
 There stood a man who had lost one arm, earnestly pump- 
 ing bilge-music out of an accordeon with the other, holding it 
 to his body with the stump. There was a woman, pale with 
 hunger and gin, three match-boxes in one extended hand, and 
 the other holding a baby to her breast. As we looked, the 
 poor baby let go its hold, turned its little head, and smiled a 
 wan, shrivelled, old-fashioned smile in our faces. 
 
 " Another happy baby, you see, Mr. Gordon," said Falconer. 
 ' ' A child, fresh from God, finds its heaven where no one else 
 would. " The devil could drive woman out of Paradise ; but the 
 devil himself cannot drive Paradise out of a woman." 
 
 " What can be done for them ? " I said, and at the moment, 
 my eye fell upon a row of little children, from two to five years 
 of age, seated upon the curbstone. 
 
 They were chattering fast, and apparently carrying on some 
 game, as happy as if they had been in the fields. 
 
 " AVouldn't you like to take all those little grubby things, 
 and put them in a great tub and wash them clean ? " I said. 
 
 " They'd fight like spiders," rejoined Falconer. 
 
 "They're not fighting now." 
 
 " Then don't make them. It would be all useless. The 
 probability is that you would only change the forms of tha 
 various evils, and possibly for worse. You would buy all that 
 man's glue-lizards, and that man's three-foot rules, and that 
 man's dog-collars and chains, at three times their value, that 
 they might get more drink than usual, and do nothing at all 
 for their living to-morrow. — What a happy London you would 
 make if you were Sultan Haroun ! " he added, laughing. 
 "You would put an end to poverty altogether, would you 
 not?" 
 
 I did not reply at once. 
 
 "But I beg your pardon," he resumed; " I am very 
 rude" 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 419 
 
 " Not at all." I returned. " I was only thinking how to 
 answer you. They would be no worse after all than those 
 who inherit property and lead idle lives." 
 
 " True ; but they would be no better. Would you be con- 
 tent that your quondam poor should be no better off than the 
 rich ? What would be gained thereby ? Is there no truth in 
 the words ' Blessed are the poor ' ? A deeper truth than 
 most Christians dare to see. — Did you ever observe that there 
 is not 3ne word about the vices of the poor in the Bi ble — 
 from beginning to end ? " 
 
 " But they have their vices." 
 
 " Indubitably. I am only stating a fact. The Bible is full 
 enough of the vices of the rich. I make no comment." 
 
 " But don't you care for their sufferings ? " 
 
 " They are of secondary importance quite. But if you had 
 been as much amongst them as I, perhaps you would be of my 
 opinion, that the poor are not, cannot possibly feel so wretched 
 as they seem to us. They live in a climate, as it were, which 
 is their own, by natural law comply with it, and find it not 
 altogether unfriendly. . The Laplander will prefer hia waaies 
 to the rich fields of England, not merely from ignorance, but 
 for the sake of certain blessings, amongst which he has been 
 born and brought up. The blessedness of life depends far 
 more on its interest than upon its comfort. The need of 
 exertion and the doubt of success- render life much more in- 
 teresting to the poor than it is to those who, unblest with anx- 
 iety for the bread that perisheth, waste their poor heart« 
 about rank and reputation." 
 
 " I thought such anxiety was represented as an evil in tho 
 New Testament." 
 
 " Yes. But it is a still greater evil to lose it in any other 
 way than by faith in God. You would remove the anxiety by 
 destroying its cause ; God would remove it by lifting them 
 above it, teaching them to trust in him, and thus making 
 them partakers of the divine nature. Poverty is a blessing 
 when it makes a man look up." 
 
 " But you cannot say it does so always." 
 
 " I cannot determine w.ehn, where, and how much ; but I 
 am sure it does. And I am confident that to freo those hearts 
 from it by any deed of yours would be to do theii. Ihe greatest 
 
420 BOBERt FALCONBR. 
 
 injury you could. Probably their want of foresight would 
 prove the natural remedy, speedily reducing them to their 
 former condition, — not, however, without serious loss." 
 
 "But will not thi? theory prove at last an anaesthetic rather 
 than an anodyne ? I mean that although you may adopt it 
 at first for refuge from the misery the sight of their condition 
 occasions you, there is surely a danger of its rendering you 
 at last indifferent to it." 
 
 " Am I indifferent? But you do not know me yet. Pardon 
 my egotism. There may be such danger. Every truth has 
 its own danger or shadow. Assuredly I would have no lesa 
 labor spent upon them. But there can be no true labor done, 
 save in as far as we are fellow-laborers with God. We must 
 work with him, not against him. Every one who works with- 
 out believing that God is doing the best, the absolute good for 
 them, is, must be, more or less, thwarting God. He would 
 take the poor out of God's hands. For others, as for ourselves, 
 we must trust him. If we could thoroughly understand any- 
 thing, that would be enough to prove it undivine ; and that 
 which is but one step beyond our understanding must be in 
 some of its relations as mysterious as if it were a hundred. 
 But through all this darkness about the poor, at least I can see 
 wonderful veins and fields of light, and with the help of this 
 partial vision I trust for the rest. The only and the greatest 
 thing man is capable of is Trust in God." 
 
 " What, then, is a man to do for the poor? How is he to 
 ffork with God ? " I asked. 
 
 " He must be a man amongst them, — a man breathing the 
 ir of a higher life, and therefore in all natural ways fulfilling 
 liis endless human relations to them. Whatever you do for 
 tUem, let your own being, that is you in relation to them, be 
 the background, that so you may be a link between them and 
 God, or rather, I should say, between them and the knowledge 
 of God." 
 
 While Falconer spoke, his face grew grander and grander, 
 till at last it absolutely shone. I felt that I walked with a 
 man whose face was his genius. 
 
 " Of one thing I am pretty sure," he resumed, " that the 
 same recipe Goethe gave for the enjoyment of life applies 
 equalliy to all work : ' Do the thing that lies next you.' That 
 
ROBKBT I'ALCONBR. 421 
 
 in all our business. Hurried results are worse than none. 
 We must force nothing, but be partakers of the divine patience. 
 How long it took to make the cradle ! and we fret that the 
 baby Humanity is not reading Euclid and Plato, even that it 
 is not understanding the Gospel of St. John ! If there is one 
 thing evident in the world's history, it is that God hasteneth 
 Hot. All haste implies weakness. Time is as cheap as space 
 and matter. What they call the church militant is only at 
 drill yet, and a good many of the ofiScers, too, not out of the 
 awkward squad. I am sure I, for a private, am not. In the 
 drill a man has to conquer himself, and move with the rest by 
 individual attention to his own duty ; to what mighty battle- 
 fields the recruit may yet be led, he does not know. Mean- 
 time he has nearly enough to do with liis goose-step, while 
 there is plenty of single combat, skirmish, and light-cavalry 
 work generally, to get him ready for whatever is to follow. I 
 beg your pardon : I am preaching." 
 
 "Eloquently," I answered. 
 
 Of some of the places into which Falconer led me that night 
 I will attempt no description, — places blazing with lights and 
 mirrors, crowded with dancers, billowing with music, close 
 and hot, and full of the saddest of all sights, the uninteresting 
 faces of commonplace women. 
 
 " There is a passion," I said, as we came out of one of these 
 dreadful places, " that lingers about the heart like the odor of 
 violets, like a glimmering twilight on the borders of moonrise, 
 and there is a passion that wraps itself in the vapors of 
 patchouli and coffins, and streams from the eyes like gas-light 
 from a tavern. And yet the line is ill to draw between them. 
 It is very dreadful. These are women." 
 
 "They are in God's hands," answered Falconer. "He 
 hasn't done with them yet. Shall it take less time to make a 
 woman than to make a world ? Is not the woman the greater ? , 
 She may have her ages of chaos, her centuries of crawling' 
 slime, yet rise a woman at last." 
 
 "How much alike all those women were!" 
 
 " A family likeness, alas ! which always strikes you first ! " 
 
 " Some of them looked quite modest." 
 
 " There are great difierences. I do not know anything 
 more touching than to see how a woman will sometimes wrap 
 
122 ROBERT FALCOVKB. 
 
 around her the last remnants cf a soiled and ragged modesty, 
 It has moved me almost to tears to see such a one hanging 
 Her head in shame during the singing of a detestable song. 
 That poor thing's shame was precious in the eyes of the Mas- 
 ter, surely." 
 
 " Could nothing be done for her ? " 
 
 " I contrived to let her know where she would find a friend 
 if she wanted to be good ; that is all you can do in such cases. 
 If the horrors of their life do not drive them out at such an 
 open door, you can do nothing else, I fear — for the time." 
 
 " Where are you going now, may I ask? " 
 
 "Into the city — on business," he added, with a smile. 
 
 " There will be nobody there so late." 
 
 " Nobody ! One would think you were the beadle of a city 
 church, Mr. Gordon." 
 
 We came into a very narrow, dirty street. I do not know 
 ■where it is. A slatternly woman advanced from an open door, 
 and said : — 
 - " Mr. Falconer." 
 
 He looked at her for a moment. 
 
 " Why, Sarah, have you come to this already ? " he said. 
 
 "Never mind me, sir. It's no more than you, told me to 
 expect. You knowed him better than I did. Leastways I'm 
 an honest woman." 
 
 " Stick to that, Sarah; and be good-tempered." 
 
 " I'll have a try anyhow, sir. But there's a poor cretur 
 a-dyin' upstairs ; and I'm afeard it'll go hard with her, for she 
 throwed a Bible out o' window this very morning, sir." 
 
 " Would she like to see me ? I'm afraid not." 
 
 " She's got Lily white, what's a sort of a reader, readin' that 
 same Bible to her now." 
 
 "There can be no great harm in just looking in," he said, 
 turning to me. 
 
 " I shall be happy to follow you, — anywhere," I returned. 
 
 "She's awful ill, sir; cholerer or summat," said Sarah, as 
 she led the way up the creaking stair. 
 
 We half entered the room softly. Two or three women sat 
 by the chimney, and another by a low bed, covered with a 
 torn patchwork counterpane, spelling out a chapter in the 
 Bible. We paused for a moment, to hear what she was read- 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 423 
 
 ing. Had the book been opened by chance, or by design ? It 
 was the story of David and Bathsheba. Moans came from the 
 bed, but the-candle in a bottle, by which the woman was read- 
 ing, was so placed that we could not see the sufl'erer. 
 
 We stood still, and did not interrupt the reading. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed a coarse voice, from the side of 
 the chimney; "the saint you sec was no better than some of 
 the rest of us ! " 
 
 " I think he was a good deal worse, just then," said Fal- 
 coner, stepping forward. 
 
 "Gracious! there's Mr. Falconer," said another woman, 
 rising, and speaking in a flattering tone. 
 
 "Then," remarked the former speaker, "there's a chance 
 for old Moll and me yet. King David was a saint, wasn't he? 
 Ha! ha!" 
 
 " Yes, and you might be one, too, if you were as sorry for 
 your faults as he was for his." 
 
 " Sorry, indeed ! I'll be hanged if I be sorry. What have 
 I to be sorry for ? Where's the harm in turning an honest 
 penny ? I ha' took no man's wife, nor murdered himself neither. 
 There's yer saints ! He was a rum un. Ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Falconer approached her, bent down and whispered something 
 no one could hear but herself. She gave a smothered cry, and 
 was sjlent. 
 
 " Give me the book," he said, turning towards the bed. " I'll 
 read you something better than that. I'll read about some one 
 that never did anything wrong." 
 
 "I don't believe there never was no sich a man," said the 
 previous reader, as she handed him the book, grudgingly. 
 
 "Not Jesus Christ, himself?" said Falconer. 
 
 " Oh ! I didn't know as you meant him." 
 
 " Of course I meant him. There never was another." 
 
 "I have heard tell — p'raps it was yourself, sir — as how 
 he didn't come down upon us over hard, after all, bless him ! ' 
 
 Falconer sai down on the side of the bed, and read the story 
 of Simon the Pharisee, and the woman that was a sinner. 
 When he ceased, the silence that followed was broken by a sob 
 from somewhere in the room. The sick woman stopped her 
 moaning, and said • — 
 
424 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 "Turn down the leaf there, please, sir. Lily white will 
 read it to me when you're gone." 
 
 The some one sobbed again. It was a young^'slender girl, 
 with a face disfigured by the small-pox, and, save for the tear- 
 ful look it wore, poor and expressionless. Falconer said some- 
 thing gentle to her. 
 
 " Will he ever come again ? " she sobbed. 
 
 "Who?" asked Falconer. 
 
 "Him, — Jesus Christ. I've heard tell, I think, that he 
 was to come again some day." 
 
 "Why do you ask?" 
 
 "Because — " she said, with a fresh burst of tears, which 
 rendered the words that followed unintelligible. But she re- 
 covered herself in a few moments, and, as if finishing her sen- 
 tence, put her hand up to her poor, thin, colorless hair, and 
 said : — 
 
 " My hair aint long enough to wipe his feet." 
 
 " Do you know what he would say to you, my girl? " Fal- 
 coner asked. 
 
 " No. What would he say to me ? He would speak to me, 
 would he?" 
 
 " He would say, ' Thy sins are forgiven thee.' ". 
 
 " Would he, though ? Would he? " she cried, starting up. 
 " Take me to him — take me to him. Oh! I forgot. He's 
 dead. But he will come again, won't he? He was crucified 
 four times, you know, and he must ha' come four times for 
 that. Would they crucify him again, sir ? " 
 
 "No, they wouldn't crucify him now, — in England at 
 least. They would only laugh at him, shake their heads at 
 what he told them, as much as to say it wasn't true, and sneer 
 and mock at him in some of the newspapers." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! I've been very wicked." 
 
 " But you won't be so any more." 
 
 "No, no, no. I won't, I won't, I won't." 
 
 She talked hurriedly, almost wildly. The coarse old woman 
 tapped her forehead with her finger. Falconer took the girl'l 
 hand. 
 
 " What is your name ? " he said. 
 
 "Nell." 
 
 "What more?" 
 
ROBEKT FALCONER. 425 
 
 " Nothing more." 
 
 " Well, Nelly," said Falconer. 
 
 " How kind of you to call me Nelly ! " interrupted the poor 
 girl. " They always calls me Nell, just." 
 
 "Nelly," repeated Falconer, "I will send a lady here to- 
 morrow to take you away with her, if you like, and tell you 
 how you must do to find Jesus. People always find him that 
 want to find him." 
 
 The elderly woman with the rough voice, who had not 
 spoken since he whispered to her, now interposed with a kind 
 of cowed fierceness. 
 
 " Don't go putting humbug into my child's head, now, Mr. 
 Falconer, — 'ticing her away from her home. Everybody 
 knows my Nell's been an idiot since ever she was born. Poor 
 child ! " 
 
 "I aint your child," cried the girl, passionately. "I aint 
 nobody's child." 
 
 " You are God's child," said Falconer, who stood looking on 
 with his eyes shining, but otherwise in a state of absolute 
 composure. 
 
 " Am I? Am I? You won't forget to send for me, sir ? " 
 
 " That I won't," he answered. 
 
 She turned instantly towards the woman, and snapped her 
 fingers in her face. 
 
 " I don't care that for you," she cried. " You dare to touch 
 me now, and I'll bite you." 
 
 " Come, come, Nelly, you mustn't be rude," said Falconer. 
 
 " No, sir, I won't no more, leastways to nobody but she. 
 It's she makes me do all the wicked things, it is." 
 
 She snapped her fingers in her face again, and then burst out 
 crying. 
 
 " She will leave you alone now, I think," said Falconer. 
 " She knows it will be quite as well for her not to cross me." 
 
 This he said very significantly, as he turned to the door, 
 where he bade them a general good-night. When we reached 
 the street, I was too bewildered to offer any remark. Falconer 
 was the first to speak. 
 
 '■ It always comes back upon me, as if I had never known it 
 before, that women like some of those were of the first to un- 
 derstand our Lord." 
 
426 KOBKET FALCONER. 
 
 " Some of them wouldn't have understood him any mor« 
 than the Pharisee, though." 
 
 " I'm not so sure of that. Of course there are great differ- 
 ences. There are good and bad amongst them as in every 
 class. But one thing is clear to me, that no indulgence of 
 passion destroys the spiritual nature so much as respectable 
 selfishness." 
 
 "I am afraid you will not get society to agree with you," I 
 said foolishly. 
 
 " I have no wish that society should agree with me; for if 
 it did, it would be sure to do so upon the worst of principles. 
 It is better that society should be cruel than that it should call 
 the horrible thing a trifle; it would know nothing between." 
 
 Through the city, — though it was only when we crossed one 
 of the main thoroughfares that I knew where we were, — we 
 came into the region of Bethnal Green. From house to house, 
 till it grew very late. Falconer went, and I went with him. I 
 will not linger on this part of our wanderings. Where I saw 
 only dreadful darkness, Falconer always would see some glimmer 
 of light. All the people into whose houses we went knew him. 
 They were all in the depths of poverty. Many of them were 
 respectable. With some of them he had long talks in private, 
 while I waited near. At length he said : — 
 
 " I think we had better be going home, Mr. Gordon. You 
 must be tired." 
 
 "I am, rather," I answered. "But it doesn't matter, for 
 I have nothing to do to-morrow." 
 
 " We shall get a cab, I dare say, before we go far." 
 
 "Not for me. I am not so tired but that I would rather 
 walk," I said. 
 
 " Very well," he returned. " Where do you live ? " 
 
 I told him. 
 
 "I will take you the nearest way." 
 
 "You know London marvellously." 
 
 " Pretty well now," he answered. 
 
 Wo were somewhere near Leather Lane about one o'clock. 
 Suddenly we came upon two tiny children, standing on the 
 pavement, one on each side of the door of a public house. 
 They could not have been more than two and three. They were 
 Bobbing a little, — not much. The tiny creatures stood there 
 
ROBERX FALCONER. 427 
 
 awfully awake in sleeping London, while eren their own play- 
 mates were far off in the fairyland of dreams. 
 
 " This is the kind of thing," I said, " that makes me doubi 
 whether there be a God in heaven." 
 
 " That is only because he is down here," aaswered Falconer, 
 " taking such good care of us all, that you can't see him. There 
 is not a gin-palace, or yet lower hell, in London, in which a 
 man or woman can be out of God. The whole being love, there 
 is nothing for you to set it against and judge it by- So you 
 are driven to fancies." 
 
 The house was closed, but there was light above the door. 
 We went up to the children and spoke tcr them, but all we 
 could make out was that mammie was in there. One of them 
 could not speak at all. Falconer knocked at the door. A good- 
 natured-looking Irish woman opened it a little way and peeped 
 out. 
 
 "Here are two children crying at your door, ma'am," said 
 Falconer. 
 
 " Och, the dar^in's ! they want their mother." 
 
 " Do you know her then ? " 
 
 "True for you, and I do. She's a mighty dacent woman 
 in her way when the drink's out uv her, and very kind to the 
 childher ; but oncet she smells the dhrop o' gin, her head's 
 gone intirely. The purty craytures have waked up, an' she 
 not come home, and they've run out to look after her." 
 
 Falconer stood a moment as if thinking what would be best. 
 The shriek of a woman rang through the night. 
 
 " There she is ! " said the Irish woman. " For God's sake 
 don't let her get a hould o' the darlints. She's ravin' mad. 
 I seen her try to kill them oncet." 
 
 The shrieks came nearer and nearer, and after a few 
 moments the woman appeared in the moonlight, tossing her 
 arms over her head, and screaming with a despair for which 
 she yet sought a defiant expression. Her head was uncovered, 
 and her hair*flying in tangles ; her sleeves were torn, and her 
 gaunt arms looked awful in the moonlight. She stood in the 
 middle of the street, crying again and again, with shrill laugh- 
 ter between, " Nobody cares fofflbe, and I care for nobody ! 
 Ha! ha! ha!" «, 
 
428 ROBERT FALGONBR. 
 
 " Mammie ! mammie ! " cried the elder of the children, and 
 ran towards her. 
 
 The woman heard, and rushed like a fury towards the child. 
 Falconer, too, ran, and caught up the child. The woman gave 
 a howl and rushed towards the other. I caught up that one. 
 With a last shriek, she dashed her head against the wall of 
 the public house, dropped on the pavement, and lay still. 
 
 Falconer set the child down, lifted the wasted form in hia 
 arms, and carried it into the house. The face was blue aa 
 that of a strangled corpse. She was dead. 
 
 " Was she a married woman ? " Falconer asked. 
 
 " It's myse'lf caH't tell you, sir," the Irish woman answered. 
 " I never saw anybody with her." 
 
 " Do you know where she lived ? " 
 
 "No, sir. Somewhere not far off, though. The children 
 will know." 
 
 Bat they stood staring at their mother, and we could get 
 nothing out of them. They would not move from the corpse. 
 
 "I think we may appropriate this treasure-trove," said 
 Falconer, turning at last to me ; and, as he spoke, he took the 
 eldest in his arms. Then, turning to the woman, he gave her 
 a card, saying, " If any inquiry is made about them, there is 
 my address. — Will you take the other, Mr. Gordon? " 
 
 I obeyed. The children cried no more. After traversing 
 a few streets, we found a cab and drove to a house in Queen 
 Square, Bloomsbury. 
 
 Falconer got out at the door of a large house, and rung the 
 bell ; then got the children out, and dismissed the cab. There 
 we stood, in the middle of the night, in a silent, empty square, 
 each with a child in his arms. In a few minutes we heard 
 the bolts being withdrawn. The door opened, and a tall, 
 graceful form, wrapped in a dressing-gown, appeared. 
 
 " I have brought you two babies, Miss St. John ! " said Fal- 
 coner. " Can you take them ? " 
 
 " To be sure I can," she answered, and turned to lead the 
 way. " Bring them in." 
 
 We followed her into a little back room. She put down her 
 candle, and went straight to the cupboard, whence she brought 
 a sponge cake, from which she cut a large piece for each of 
 the children. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 429 
 
 •' What a mercy they are, Robert, — those little gates in tha 
 bee ! Red Lane leads direct to the heart," she said, smiling 
 as if she rejoiced in the idea of taming the little wild angelets 
 
 " Don't you stop. You are tired enough, I am sure. I wil 
 wake my maid, and we'll get them washed and put to bed ai 
 once." 
 
 Sbe was closing the door, when Falconer turned. 
 
 "0 Miss St. John," he said, "I was forgetting. Could 
 you go down to No. 13 in Soap Lane, — you know it, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes. Quite well." 
 
 " Ask for a girl called Nell, — a plain, pock-marked young 
 girl, — and take her away with you." 
 
 "When shall I go?" 
 
 " To-morrow morning. But I shall be in. Don't go till 
 you s«e me. Good-night." 
 
 We took our leave without more ado. 
 
 " What a lady-like woman to be the matron of an asylum ! " 
 
 Falconer gave a little laugh. 
 
 " That is no asylum. It is a private house." 
 
 "And the lady?" 
 
 "Is a lady of private. means," he answered, who prefers 
 Bloomsbury to Belgravia, because it is easier to Jo noble work 
 in it. Her heaven is on the confines of hell." 
 
 " What will she do with those children? " 
 
 " Kiss them and wash them and put them to bed." 
 
 "And after that?" 
 
 " Give them bread and milk in the morning." 
 
 "And after that?" 
 
 " Oh ! there's time enough. We'll see. There's only one 
 thing she won't do." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " Turn them out again." 
 
 A pause followed, I cogitating. 
 
 " Are you a society, then?" I asked at length. 
 
 " No. At least we don't use the word. And certainly no 
 other society would acknowledge us." 
 
 " What are you then ?" 
 
430 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 "Why should we be anything, so long as we do our 
 work ?" 
 
 "Don't you think there is some affectation in refusing » 
 Dame? " 
 
 " Yes, if the name belongs to you. Not otherwise." 
 
 " Do you lay claim to no epithet of any sort?" 
 
 " We are a church, if you like. There ! " 
 
 " Who is your clergyman ? " 
 
 "Nobody." 
 
 " Where do you meet? " 
 
 "Nowhere." 
 
 " What are your rules, then?" 
 
 " We have none." 
 
 " What makes you a church? " 
 
 "Divine Service." 
 
 " What do you mean by that?" 
 
 "The sort of thing you have seen to-night." 
 
 " What is your creed? " 
 
 " Christ Jesus." 
 
 " But what do you believe about him . 
 
 " What we can. We count any belief in Him — the small- 
 est — better than any belief about Him — the greatest — or 
 about anything else besides. But we exclude none." 
 
 " How do you manage without '! " 
 
 " By admitting none." 
 
 " I cannot understand you." 
 
 " Well, then, we are an undefined company of people, who 
 have grown into human relations with each other naturally, 
 through one attractive force, — love for human beings, regard- 
 ing them as human beings only in virtue of the divine in 
 them." 
 
 " But you must have some rules," I insisted. 
 
 "None whatever. They would cause us only trouble. 
 We have nothing to take us from our work. Those that are 
 most in earnest draw most together ; those that are on the out- 
 skirts have only to do nothing, and they are free of us. But 
 we do sometimes ask people to help us — not with money." 
 
 " But who are the we? " 
 
 "Why, you, if you will do anything, and I and Miss St. 
 Tohn, and twenty others, — and a great many more I don't 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 431 
 
 know, for every one is a centre to others. It is our work that 
 binds us together." 
 
 " Then when that stops you drop to pieces." 
 
 " Yes, thank God. We shall then die. There will be no 
 corporate body — which means a bodied body, or an unsouled 
 body — left behind to simulate life, and corrupt, and work no 
 end of disease. We go to ashes at once, and leave no corpse 
 for a ghoul to inhabit and make a vampire of. When our 
 spirit is dead, our body is vanished." 
 
 " Then you won't last long." 
 
 " Then we oughtn't to last long." 
 
 " But the work of the world could not go on so." 
 
 " We are not the life of the world. God is. And when 
 we fail, he can and will send out more and better laborers into 
 his harvest-field. It is a divine accident by which we are 
 thus associated." 
 
 " But surely the church must be otherwise constituted." 
 
 "My dear sir, you forget; I said we were a church, not 
 (he church." 
 
 " Do you belong to the Church of England ? " 
 
 "Yes, some of us. Why should we not? Inasmuch as 
 she has faithfully preserved the holy records and traditions, 
 our obligations to her are infinite. And to leave her would be 
 to quarrel, and start a thousand venniculate questions, as 
 Lord Byron calls them, for which life is too serious, in my 
 eyes. I have no time for that." 
 
 "Then you count the Church of England the Church? " 
 
 " Of England, yes; of the universe, no: that is constituted 
 just like ours, with the living, working Lord for the heart of 
 it." 
 
 " Will you take me for a member ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Will you not, if—?" 
 
 "You may make yourself one if . you will. I will not 
 speak a word to gain you. I have shown you work. Do 
 something, and you are of Christ's Church." 
 
 We were almost at the door of my lodging, and I was get- 
 ting very weary in body, and indeed in mind, though 1 hope 
 not in heart. Before we separated, I ventured to say : — 
 
 " Will you tell me why you invited me to come and see 
 
432 ROBERT FAICONKR 
 
 you? Forgive my presumption, but you seemed to seek 
 acquaintance with me, although you did make me address you 
 first." 
 
 He laughed gently, and answered in the words of the an- 
 cient mariner : — 
 
 * " The moment that his face I see, 
 
 I know the man that must hear me 
 To him my tale I teach." 
 
 Without another word, he shook hands with me, and left 
 me. Weary as I was, I stood in the street until I could hear 
 his footsteps no longer. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 One day, as Falconer sat at a late breakfast, Shargar burst 
 into his room. Falconer had not even known that he was 
 coming home, for he had outstripped the letter he had sent. 
 He had bis arm in a sling, which accounted for his leave. 
 
 " Shargar ! " cried Falconer, starting up in delight. 
 
 "Major Shargar, if you please. Give me all my honors, 
 Robert," said Moray, presenting his left hand. 
 
 " I congratulate you, my boy. Well, this is delightful ! 
 But you are wounded." 
 
 "Bullet — broken, — that's all. It's nearly right again. 
 I'll tell you about it by and by. I am too full of something 
 else to talk about trifles of that sort. I want you to help 
 me." 
 
 He then rushed into the announcement that he had fallen 
 desperately in love with a lady who had come on board with 
 her maid at Malta, where she had been spending the winter. 
 She was not very young, about his own age, but very beauti- 
 ful, and of enchanting address. How she could have remained 
 so long urynarried he could not think. It could not be but 
 that she had had many offers. She was an heiress, too ; but 
 that Shargar felt to be a disadvantage for him. All the pros;- 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 43b 
 
 ress he could yet boast of was that his attentions had not been, 
 60 far as he could judge, disagreeable to her. Robert thought 
 even less of the latter fact than Shargar himself, for he did 
 not believe there were many women to whom Shargar's atten- 
 tions would be disagreeable ; they must always be simple and 
 manly. What was more to the point, she had given him her 
 address in London, and he was going to call upon her the next 
 day. She was on a visit to Lady Janet Gordon, an elderly 
 spinster, who lived in Park Street. 
 
 " Are you quite sure she's not an adventuress, Shargar?" 
 
 "It 's o' no mainner o' use to tell ye what I'm sure or no 
 sure o', Robert, in sic a case. But I'll manage, somehoo, 'at 
 ye s'all see her yersel', an' syne I'll speir bacli yer ain ques- 
 tion at ye." 
 
 " Weel, hae ye tauld her a' aboot yersel' ? " 
 
 " No ! " answered Shargar, growing suddenly pale. " I 
 never thocht aboot that. But I had no richt, for a' that 
 passed, to intrude mysel' upo' her to that extent." 
 
 " Weel, I reckon ye're richt. Yer wounds an' yer medals 
 ought to weigh weel against a' that. There's this comfort in 
 't that if she bena richt weel worthy o' ye, auld frien', she 
 winna tak' ye." 
 
 Shargar did not seem to see the comfort of it. He was de- 
 pressed for the remainder of the day. In the morning he was 
 in wild spirits again. Just before he started, however, he 
 said, with an expression of tremulous anxiety : — 
 
 " Oucht I to tell her a' at ance — aJready — aboot — aboot 
 my mither? " 
 
 " I dinna say that. Maybe it wad be equally fair to her 
 and to yersel' to lat her know ye a bit better afore ye do that. 
 We'll think that ower. When ye go doon the stair, ye'll see 
 a bit brougham at the door waitin' for ye. Gie the coachman 
 ony orders ye like. He's your servant as lang 's ye're in 
 London. Commit yer way to the Lord, my boy." 
 
 Though Shargar did not say much, he felt strengthened by 
 Robert's truth to meet his fate with something of composure. 
 But it was not to be decided that day. Therein lay some 
 comfort. 
 
 He returned in high spirits still. He had been graciously 
 received both by Miss Hamilton and her hostess, — a kind- 
 
434 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 hearted old lady, who spoke Scotch with the pure to>>e of a 
 gentlewoman, he said, — a treat not to be had once in a 
 twelvemonth. She had asked him to go to dinner in the 
 evening, and to bring his friend with him. Robert, however, 
 begged him to make his excuse, as he had an engagement iu 
 — a very different sort of place. 
 
 When Shargar returned, Robert had not come in. He was 
 too excited to go to bed, and waited for him. It was two 
 o'clock before he came home. Shargar told him there was to 
 be a large party at Lady Patterdale's the next evening but 
 one, and Lady Janet bad promised to procure him an invita- 
 tion. 
 
 The next morning Robert went to see Mary St. John, and 
 asked if she knew anything of Lady Patterdale, and whether 
 she could get him an invitation. Miss St. John did not know 
 her, but she thought she could manage it for him. He told 
 her all about Shargar, for whose sake he wished to see Miss- 
 Hamilton before consenting to be introduced to her. Miss St. 
 John set out at once, and Falconer received a card the next 
 day. When the evening came, he allowed Shargar to set out 
 alone in his brougham, and followed an hour later in a han- 
 som. 
 
 When he reached the house, the rooms were tolerably filled, 
 and, as several parties had arrived just before him, he managed 
 to enter without being announced. After a little while he 
 caught sight of Shargar. He stood alone, almost in a corner, 
 with a strange, rather raised expression in his eyes. Falconer 
 could not see the object to which they were directed. Cer- 
 tainly, their look was not that of love. He made his way up 
 to him and laid his hand on his arm. Shargar betrayed no 
 little astonishment when he saw him. 
 
 " You here, Robert ! " he said. 
 
 " Yes, I'm here. Have you seen her yet? Is she here?" 
 
 " Wh a do ye think 's speakin' till her this verra minute? 
 Look there ! " Shargar said, in a low voice, suppressed yet 
 more to hide his excitement. 
 
 Following his directions, Robert saw, amidst a little group 
 of gentlemen surrounding a seated lady, of whose face he 
 could not get a peep, a handsome elderly man, who looked 
 more fashionable than his years justified, and whose countO' 
 
ROBERT FALCONER, 435 
 
 nance had an expression -which he felt repulsive. He thought 
 he had seen him before, but Shargar gave him no time to come 
 to a conclusion of himself. 
 
 "It's my brither Sandy, as sure's deith !" he said; "and 
 ha's been hangin' aboot her ever sin' she came in. But I 
 dinna think she likes him a'thegither by the leuk o' her." 
 
 " What for dinna ye go up till her yersel', man? I wadna 
 Stan' that if 'twas me." 
 
 " I'm feared 'at he'll know me. He's terrible gleg. A' the 
 Morays are gleg, and yon marquis has an ee like a hawk." 
 
 "What does 't maitter? Ye hae dune naething to be 
 ashamed o', like him." 
 
 " Ay ; but it's this. I wadna hae her hear the trowth aboct 
 me frae that boar's mou' o' his first. I wad hae her hear 't 
 frae my ain, an' syne she canna think I meant to take her in.'' 
 
 At this moment there was a movement in the group. 
 Shargar, receiving no reply, looked round at Robert. It was 
 now Shargar's turn to be surprised at his expression. 
 
 " Are ye seein' a vraith, Robert? " he said. " What gara 
 ye leuk like that, man ? " 
 
 "Oh! " answered Robert, recovering himself, "I thought 
 I saw some one I knew. But I'm not sure. I'll tell you 
 afterwards. We've been talking too earnestly. People are 
 beginning to look at us." 
 
 So saying, he moved away towards the group of which the 
 marquis still formed one. As he drew near he saw a piano 
 behind Miss Hamilton. A sudden impulse seized him, and he 
 yielded to it. He made his way to the piano, and, seating 
 himself, began to play very softly, — so softly that the sounds 
 could scarcely be heard beyond the immediate neighborhood of 
 the instrument. There was no change on the storm of talk 
 that filled the room. But in a few minutes a face white as a 
 shroud was turned round upon him from the group in front, 
 like the moon dawning out of a cloud. He stopped at once, 
 saying to himself, "I was right; " "and, rising, mingled again 
 with the crowd. ^ A few minutes after, he saw Shargar lead- 
 ing Miss Hamilton out of the room, and Lady Janet following. 
 He did not intend to wait his return, but got near the door, 
 that he might slip out when he should re-enter. Efut Shargar 
 did not return. For, the moment she reached the fresh air. 
 
436 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Miss Hamilton was so much better, that Lady Jaaet, whose 
 heart was as young towards young people as if she had never 
 had the unfortunate love affair tradition assigned her, asked 
 him to see them home, and he followed them into her carriage. 
 Falconer left a few minutes after, anxious for quiet, that he 
 might make up his mind as to what he ought to do. Before 
 he had walked home, he had resolved on the next step. But 
 not wishing to see Shargar yet, and at the same time wanting 
 to have a night's rest, he went home only to change his 
 clothes, and betook himself to a hotel in Covent Garden. 
 
 He was at Lady Janet's door by ten o'clock the next morn- 
 ing, and sent in his card to Miss Hamilton. He was shown 
 into the drawing-room, where she came to him. 
 
 "May I presume on old acquaintance? " he asked, holding 
 out his hand. 
 
 She looked in his face quietly, took his hand, pressed it 
 warmly, and said : — 
 
 " No one has so good a right, Mr. Falconer. Do sit 
 down." 
 
 He placed a chair for her, and obeyed. 
 
 After a moment's silence on both sides, — 
 
 "Are you aware, Miss — ?''" he said, and hesitated. 
 
 '■'Miss Hamilton," she said, with a smile ''I was Miss 
 Lindsay when you knew me so many years ago. I will explain 
 presently." 
 
 Then with an air of expectation she awaited the finish of his 
 sentence. 
 
 " Are you aware. Miss Hamilton, that I am Major Moray's 
 oldest friend ? " 
 
 " 1 am quite aware of it, and delighted to know it. He 
 told me so last night." 
 
 Somewhat dismayed at this answer. Falconer resumed : — 
 
 " Did Major Moray likewise communicate with you coiicern- 
 ing his own history ? " 
 
 "He did. He told me all." 
 
 Falconer was again silent for some moments. 
 
 " Shall I be presuming too far if I venture to conclude that 
 my friend will not continue his visits ? " 
 
 'On the contrary," she answered, with tiie same delioskta 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 437 
 
 blush that in old times used to overspread the lovely whiteness 
 of her face, "I expect him within half an hour." 
 
 ' Then there is no time to be lost," thought Falconer. 
 
 "Without presuming to express any opinion of my own," 
 he said, quietly, " a social code, far less severe than that which 
 prevails in England, would take for granted that an impassabla 
 barrier existed between Major Moray and Miss Hamilton." 
 
 " Do not* suppose, Mr. Falconer, that I could not meet 
 Major Moray's honesty with equal openness on my side." 
 
 Falconer, for the first time almost in his life, was incapable 
 of speech from bewilderment. But Miss Hamilton did not in 
 the least enjoy his perplexity, and made haste to rescue both 
 him and herself. With a blush that was now deep as any 
 rose, she resumed : — 
 
 " But I owe you equal frankness, Mr. Falconer. There ia 
 no barrier between Major Moray and myself but the foolish — 
 no, wicked — indiscretion of an otherwise innocent and ignorant 
 girl. Listen, Mr. Falconer ; under the necessity of the cir- 
 cumstances you will not misjudge me if I compel myself to 
 speak calmly. This, I trust, will be my final penance. I 
 thought Lord Rothie was going to marry me. To do him 
 justice, he never said so. Make what excuse for my folly you 
 can. I was lost in a mist of vain imaginations. I had had no 
 mother to teach me anything ; Mr. Falconer, and my father 
 iiever suspected the necessity of teaching me anything. I was 
 very ill on the passage to Antwerp, and when I began to 
 recover a little, I found myself beginning to doubt both my 
 own conduct and his lordship's intentions. Possibly the fact 
 that he was not quite so kind to me in my illness as I had ex- 
 pected, and that I felt hurt in consequence, aided the doubt. 
 Then the thought of my father returning, and finding that I 
 hud left him, came and burned in my heart like fire. But 
 what was I to do ? I had never been out of Aberdeen hetore. 
 I did not know even a word of French. I was altogethei in 
 Lord Rothie's power. I thought I loved him ; but it was not 
 much of love that sea-sickness could get the better of. With 
 a heart full of despair I went on shore. The captain slipped 
 a note into my hand. I put it in my pocket, but pulled it out 
 with my handkerchief in the street. Lord Rothie picked it 
 up. I begged him to give it me, but he read it, and then tore 
 
438 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 it in pieces. I entered the hotel, as wretched as girl could 
 well be. I began to dislike him. But during dinner he was 
 BO kind and attentive that I tried to persuade myself that my 
 fears were fanciful. After dinner he took me out. On the 
 stairs we met a lady whose speech was Scotch. Her maid 
 called her Lady Janet. She looked kindly at me as I passed. 
 I thought she could read my face. I remembered afterwards 
 that Lord Rothie turned his head away when we met her. 
 We went into the cathedral. We were standing under that 
 curious dome, and I was looking up at its strange lights, when 
 down came a rain of bell-notes on the roof over my head, 
 Before the first tune was over, I seemed to expect the second, 
 and then the third, without thinking how I could know what 
 was coming; but when they ended with the ballad of the 
 ' Witch Lady,' and I lifted up my head and saw that I was 
 not by my father's fireside, but in Antwerp Cathedral, with 
 Lord Rothie, despair filled me with a half-insane resolution. 
 Happily Lord Rothie was at some little distance, talking to a 
 priest about one of Rubens' pictures. I slipped unseen behind 
 the nearest pillar, and then flew from the church. How I got 
 to the hotel I do not know, but I did reach it. ' Lady Janet,' 
 was all I could say. The waiter knew the name, and led me 
 to her room. I threw myself on my knees, and begged her to 
 save me. She assured me no one should touch me. I gasped 
 ' Lord Rothie,' and fainted. When I came to myself — but I 
 need not tell you all the particulars. Lady Janet did take 
 care of me. Till last night I never saw Lord Rothie again. 
 I did not acknowledge him ; but he persisted in talking to me, 
 behave as I would, and I saw well enough that he knew me." 
 
 Falconer took her hand and kissed it. 
 
 "Thank God," he said. " That spire was indeed the haunt 
 of angels, as I fancied while I played upon those bells." 
 
 " 1 knew it was you, — that is, I was sure of it when I came 
 to think about it f but at the time I took it for a direct message 
 from heaven, which nobody heard but myself." 
 
 "It was such none the less that I was sent to deliver it," 
 said Falconer. " I had little thought, during my imprisonment 
 because of it, that the end of my journey was already accom- 
 plished." 
 
 Mysie put her band in his. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 439 
 
 "You have saved me, Mr. Falconer." 
 
 "For Ericson's sake, who was dying and could not," re- 
 turned Falconer. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mysie, her large eyes opening with wonder. 
 ' It was evident she had had no suspicion of his attachment to 
 her. 
 
 " But," said Falconer, " there was another in it, without 
 whom I could have done nothing." 
 
 "Who was that?" 
 
 " George Moray." 
 
 " Did hg, know me then ? " 
 
 " No. Fortunately not. YoU would not have looked at 
 him then. It was all done fpr love of me. He is the truest 
 fellow in the world, and altogether worthy of you, Miss Ham- 
 ilton. I will tell you the whole story some day, lest he should 
 not do himself justice." 
 
 " Ah, that reminds me. Hamilton sounds strange in your 
 voice. You suspected me of having changed my name to hide 
 my history? " 
 
 It was so, and Falconer's silence acknowledged the fact. 
 
 "Lady Janet brought me home, and told my father all. 
 When he died, a few years after, she took me to live with her, 
 and never rested till she had brought me acquainted with Sir 
 John Hamilton, in favor of whom my father had renounced 
 his claim to some disputed estates. Sir John had lost his only 
 son, and he had no daughter. He was a kind-hearted old man, 
 rather like my own father. He took to me, as they say, and 
 made me change my name to his, leaving me the property that 
 might have been my father's, on condition that whoever I mar- 
 ried should take the same name. I don't think your friend 
 will mind making the exchange," said Mysie, in conclusion, as 
 the door opened and Shargar came in. 
 
 " Robert, ye're everywhere ! " he exclaimed, as he entered. 
 Then, stopping to ask no questions, "Ye see I'm to hae a 
 name o' my ain efter a'," he said, with a face which looked 
 even handsome in the light of his gladness. 
 
 Robert shook hands with him, and wished him joy heartily. 
 
 " Wha wad hae thocht it, Shargar," he added, " that day 
 'at ye pat bonnets for hose upo' Black Geordie's huves?" 
 
 The butler announced the Marquis of Boarshead, Mysie'a 
 
440 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 eyes flashed. She rose from her seat, and advanced to meet 
 the marquis, who entered behind the servant. He bowed and 
 held out his hand. Mysie retreated one step, and stood. 
 
 "Your lordship has no right to force yourself upon me. 
 You must have seen that I had no wish to renew the acquaint- 
 ance I was unhappy enough to form — now, thank God, many 
 years ago." 
 
 " Forgive me, Miss Hamilton. One word in private," said 
 the marquis. 
 
 " Not a word," returned Mysie. 
 
 " Before these gentlemen, then, whom I have not the honor 
 of knowing, I offer you my hand." 
 
 ' ' To accept that offer would be to wrong myself even more 
 than your lordship has done." 
 
 She went back to where Moray was standing, and stood 
 beside him The evil spirit in the marquis looked out at its 
 windows. 
 
 " You are aware, madam," he said, " that your reputation 
 is in the hand I offer you ? " 
 
 " The worse for it, my lord," returned Mysie, with a scorn- 
 ful smile. " But your lordship's brother will protect it." 
 
 " My brother ! " said the marquis. " What do you mean ? 
 I have no brother ! " 
 
 " Ye hae mair brithers than ye ken o'. Lord Sandy, and I'm 
 ane o' them," said Shargar. 
 
 " You are either a liar or a bastard, then," said the mar- 
 quis, who had not been brought up in a school of which either 
 self-restraint or respect for women were prominent charac- 
 teristics. 
 
 Falconer forgot himself for a moment, and made a stride 
 forward. 
 
 '■ Dinna hit him, Robert," cried Shargar. "He ance gae 
 me a shillin,' an' it helpit, as ye know, to baud me alive to 
 face him this day. — No liar, my lord, but a bastard, thank 
 heaven." Then, with a laugh, he instantly added, " If I had 
 been ain brither to you, my lord, God only knows what a rascal 
 I micht hae been." 
 
 " By Heaven, you shall answer for your insolence," said the 
 marquis, and, lifting his riding-whip from the table where he 
 had laid it, he approached his brother. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 44] 
 
 Mysie rang the bell. 
 
 "Haudyer han', Sandy," cried Shargar. "I hae faced 
 mair fearsome foes than you. But I hae some faimily-feelin', 
 though ye hae nane ; I wadna willin'ly strike my britber." 
 
 As he spoke, he retreated a little. The marquis came on 
 with raised whip. But Falconer stepped between, laid one of 
 his great hands on the marquis's chest, and flung him to the 
 other end of the room, where he fell over an ottoman. The 
 same moment the servant entered. 
 
 " Ask your mistress to oblige me by coming to the drawing- 
 room," said Mysie. 
 
 The marquis had risen, but had not recovered his presence 
 of mind when Lady Janet entered. She looked inquiringly 
 from one to the other. 
 
 "Please, Lady Janet, will you ask the Marquis of Boars- 
 head to leave the house? " said Mysie. 
 
 " With all my hert," answered Lady Janet ; " and the mair 
 that he's a kin' o' a cousin o' my ain. Gang yer wa's, Sandy. 
 Ye 're no fit company for decent fowk ; an' that ye wad know 
 yersel', if ye had ony idea left o' what decency means." 
 
 Without heeding her, the marquis went up to Falconer. 
 
 " Your card, sir." 
 
 Lady Janet followed him. 
 
 " Deed ye s' get nae cairds here," she said, pushing him 
 aside. 
 
 " So you allow your friends to insult me in your own house 
 as they please. Cousin Janet? " said the marquis, who probably 
 felt her opposition the most formidable of all. 
 
 " 'Deed they canna say wair o' ye nor I think. Gang awa', 
 an' repent. Consider yer gray hairs, man." 
 
 This was the severest blow he had yet received. He left 
 the room, " swearing at large." 
 
 Falconer followed him ; but what came of it nobody ever 
 heard. 
 
 Major and Miss Hamilton were married within three months, 
 and went out to India together, taking Nancy Kennedy with 
 them. 
 
442 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 A NEOPHYTE. 
 
 Before many months had passed, without the slightest ap- 
 proach to any formal recognition, I found myself one of the 
 church of labor of which Falconer was clearly the bishop. 
 As he is the subject, or rather object, of my book, I will now 
 record a fact which may serve to set forth his views more 
 clearly. I gained a knowledge of some of the circumstances, 
 not merely from the friendly confidences of Miss St. John and 
 Falconer, but from being a kind of a Scotch cousin of Lady 
 Janet Gordon, whom I had taken an opportunity of acquaint- 
 ing with the relation. She was old-fashioned enough to 
 acknowledge it even with some eagerness. The ancient clan-feel- 
 ing is good in this, that it opens a channel whose very exist- 
 ence is a justification for the flow of simply human feelings 
 along all possible levels of social position. And I would there 
 were more of it. Only something better is coming instead of 
 it, — a recognition of the infinite brotherhood in Christ. All 
 other relations, all attempts by churches, by associations, by 
 secret societies, — of freemasons and others, — are good merely 
 as they tend to destroy themselves in the wider truth ; as they 
 teach men to be dissatisfied with their limitations. But I wander ; 
 for I mentioned Lady Janet now, mergly to account for some of 
 the information I possess concerning Lady Georgina Betterton. 
 
 I met her once at my so-called cousin's, whom she patronized 
 as a dear old thing. To my mind, she was worth twenty of 
 her, though she was wrinkled and Scottishly sententious. " A 
 sweet old bat" was another epithet of Lady Georgina's. But 
 she came to see her, notwithstanding, and did not refuse to 
 share in her nice little dinners, and, least of all, when Falconer 
 was of the party, who had been so much taken with Lady 
 Janet's behavior to the Marquis of Boarshead, just recorded, 
 that he positively cultivated her acquaintance thereafter. 
 
 Lady Georgina was of an old family, — an aged family, in- 
 deed ; so old, in fact, that some envious people professed to think 
 it decrepit with age. This, however, may well be questioned 
 if any argument bearing on the point may be drawn from the 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 443 
 
 person of Lady Georgina. She was at least as tall as Mary St. 
 John, and very handsome — only with somewhat masculino 
 features and expression. She had very sloping shoulders and 
 a long neck, which took its finest curves when she was talking 
 to inferiors : condescension was her forte. Of the admiration 
 of the men, she had more than enough, although either they 
 were afraid to go farther, or she was hard to please. 
 
 She had never contemplated anything admirable long enough 
 to comprehend it ; she had never looked, up to man or woman 
 with anything like reverence ; she saw too quickly and too 
 keenly into the foibles of all who came near her to care to look 
 farther for their virtues. If she had ever been humbled, and 
 thence taught to look up, she might by this time have been a 
 grand woman, worthy of a great man's worship. She patron- 
 ized Miss St. John, considerably to her amusement, and noth- 
 ing to her indignation. Of course she could not undei-stand 
 her. She had a vague notion of how she spent her time ; and, 
 believing a certain amount of fanaticism essential to religion, 
 wondered how so sensible and ladylike a person as Miss St. 
 John could go in for it. 
 
 Meeting Falconer at Lady Janet's, she was taken with him. 
 Possibly she recognized in him a strength that would have 
 made him her master, if he had cared for such a distinction ; 
 but nothing she could say attracted more than a passing atten- 
 tion on his part. Falconer was out of her sphere, and her 
 influences were powerless to reach him. 
 
 At length she began to have a glimmering of the relation of 
 labor between Miss St. John and him, and applied to the former 
 for some enlightenment. But Miss St. John was far from ex- 
 plicit, for she had no desire for such assistance as Lady Geor- 
 gina's. What motives next led her to seek the interview I am 
 now about to record, I cannot satisfactorily explain, but I will 
 hazard a conjecture or two, although I doubt if she understood 
 them thoroughly herself. 
 
 She was, if not hlasee, at least ennuyee, and begun to miss 
 excitement, and feel blindly about her for something to make 
 life interesting. She was gifted with far more capacity than 
 had ever been exercised, and was of a large enough nature to 
 have grown sooner weary of trifles than most women of her 
 class. She might have been an artist, but she drew like a 
 
444 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 young lady ; she might have been a prophetess, and Byron wag 
 her greatest poet. It is no wonder that she wanted something 
 she had not got. 
 
 Since she had been foiled in her attempt on Miss St. John, 
 which she attributed to jealousy, she had, in quite another 
 circle, heard strange, wonderful, even romantic stories about 
 Falconer and his doings among the poor. A new world seemed 
 to open before her longing gaze, — a world, or a calenture, a 
 mirage? for would she cross the " wandering fields of barren 
 foam," to reach the green grass that did wave on the far shore ? 
 the dewless desert, to reach the fair water that did lie leagues 
 beyond its pictured sweetness? But I think, mingled with 
 whatever motives she may have had, there must have been some 
 desire to be a nobler, that is a more useful, woman than she had 
 been. 
 
 She had not any superabundance of feminine delicacy, though 
 she had plenty of good-breeding, and she trusted to her position 
 in society to cover the eccentricity of her present undertaking. 
 
 One morning after breakfast she called upon Falconer ; and 
 accustomed to visits from all sorts of people, Mrs. Ashton 
 showed her into his sitting-room without even asking her name. 
 She found him at his piano, apologized in her fashionable drawl 
 for interrupting his music, and accepted his offer of a chair 
 without a shade of embarrassment. Falconer seated himself 
 and sat waiting. 
 
 " I fear the step I have taken will appear strange to you, 
 Mr. Falconer. Indeed it appears strange to myself. I am 
 afraid it may appear stranger still." 
 
 "It is easy for me to leave all judgment in the matter to 
 
 yourself, Miss , I beg your pardon ; I know wc have met ; 
 
 but for the moment I cannot recall your name." 
 
 " Lady Georgina Betterton," drawled the visitor, carelessly, 
 hiding whatever annoyance she may have felt. 
 
 Falconer bowed. Lady Georgina resumed : — 
 
 " Of course it only affects myself; and I am willing to take 
 the risk, notwithstanding the natural desire to stand well in 
 the opinion of any one with whom even my boldness could ven- 
 ture such a step." 
 
 A smile, intended to be playful, covered the retreat of th« 
 
ROBERT FALCONER, 445 
 
 Bentence. Falconer bowed again. Lady Georgina had yet 
 again to resume : — 
 
 " From the little I have seen, and the much I have heard of 
 you, — excuse me, Mr. Falconer, — I cannot help thinking 
 that you know more of the secret of life than other people, — 
 if indeed it has any secret." 
 
 "Life certainly is no burden to me," returned Falconer. 
 " If that implies the possession of any secret which is not com- 
 mon property, I fear it also involves a natural doubt whether 
 such secret be communicable." 
 
 " Of course I mean only some secret everybody ought to 
 know." 
 
 "I do not misunderstand you." 
 
 "I want to live. You know the world, Mr. Falconer. 1 
 need not tell you what kind of life a girl like myself leads. 
 I am not old, but the gilding is worn oif. Life looks bare, 
 ugly, uninteresting. I ask you to tell me whether there ia 
 any reality in it or not ; whether its past glow was only gilt ; 
 whether the best that can be done is to get through with it as 
 fast as possible ? " 
 
 " Surely your ladyship must know some persons whose very 
 countenances prove that they have found a reality at the heart 
 of life." 
 
 " Yes. But none whose judgment I could trust. I cannot 
 tell how soon they may find reason to change their minds on 
 the subject. Their satisfaction may only be that they have 
 not tried to rub the varnish oflF the gilding so much as I, and 
 therefore the gilding itself still shines a little in their eyes." 
 
 "If it be only gilding, it is better it should be rubbed oflF." 
 
 "But I am unwilling to think it is. lam not willing to 
 sign a bond of farewell to hope. Life seemed good once. It 
 is bad enough that it seems such no longer, without consenting 
 that it must and shall be so. Allow me to add, for my own 
 sake, that I speak from the bitterness of no chagrin. I have 
 had all I ever cared — or condescended to wish for. I never 
 had anything worth the name of a disappointment in my life." 
 
 "I cannot congratulate you upon that," said Falconer, 
 seriously. "But if there be a truth or a heart in life, assur- 
 ance of the fact can only spring from harmony with that truth. 
 It is not to be known save by absolute contact with it ; and the 
 
446 ROBERT FALCONBB. 
 
 sole guide in the direction of it must be duty. I can imagine 
 no other possible conductor. We must do before we can 
 know." 
 
 " Yes, yes," replied Lady Georgina, hastily, in a tone that 
 implied, "Of course, of course; we know all about that." 
 But aware at once, with the fine instinct belonging to her men- 
 tal organization, that she was thus shutting the door against all 
 further communication, she added instantly, " But what is 
 one's duty? There is the question." 
 
 " The thing that lies next you, of course. You are, and 
 must remain, the sole judge of that. Another cannot help 
 you." 
 
 " But that is just what I do not know." 
 
 I interrupted Lady Georgina to remark, — for I, too, have 
 been a pupil of Falconer, — that I believe she must have sus- 
 pected what her duty was, but would not look firmly at her 
 own suspicicion. She added : — 
 
 " I want direction." 
 
 But the same moment she proceeded to indicate the direction 
 in which she wanted to be directed ; for she went on : — 
 
 "You know that nowadays there are so many modes in 
 which to employ one's time and money that one does not know 
 which to choose. The lower strata of society, you know, Mr. 
 Falconer — so many channels ! I want the advice of a man 
 of experience, as to the best investment, if I may use the ex- 
 pression ; I do not mean of money only, but of time as well." 
 
 " I am not fitted to give advice in such a matter." 
 
 " Mr. Falconer ! " 
 
 "I assure you I am not. I subscribe to no society myself — 
 not one." 
 
 " Excuse me, but I can hardly believe the rumo>s I hear of 
 you — people will talk, you know — are all inventions. 
 They say you are forever burrowing amongst the poor. Ex- 
 cuse the phrase." 
 
 " I excuse or accept it, whichever you please. Whatever I 
 do, I am my own steward." 
 
 "Then you are just the person to help me ! I have a for- 
 tune, not very limited, at my own disposal ; a gentleman, whc 
 is his own steward, would find his labors merely facilitated b^ 
 administering fjr another as well — such labors, I mean." 
 
KOBERT FALCONER. 447 
 
 " I must beg to be excused, Lady Georgina. I am account- 
 able only for my Own, and of that I have quite as much as I 
 can properly manage. It is far more difficult to use money 
 for others than to spend it for yourself." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Lady G-eorgina, thoughtfully, and cast an in- 
 voluntary glance round the untidy room, with its horse-hair 
 furniture, its ragged array of books on the wall, its side-table 
 littered with pamphlets he never read, with pipes he smoked by 
 chance turns. He saw the glance and understood it. 
 
 " I am accustomed," he said, " to be in such sad places for 
 human beings to live in, that I sometimes think even this 
 dingy old room an absolute palace of comfort. — But," he 
 added, checking himself, as it were, " I do not see in the least 
 how your proposal would facilitate an answer to your ques- 
 tion." 
 
 "You seem hardly inclined to do me justice," said Lady 
 Georgina, with, for the first time, a perceptible, though slight 
 shadow crossing the disc of her resolution. "I only meant 
 it," she went on, " as a step towards a further proposal 
 which I think you will allow looks at least in the directiou 
 you have been indicating." 
 
 She paused. 
 
 " May I beg of you to state the proposal? " said Falconer. 
 
 But Lady Georgina was apparently in some little difficulty 
 as to the proper form in which to express her object. At last 
 it appeared in the cloak of a question. 
 
 " Do you require no assistance in your eflforts for the eleva- 
 tion of the lower classes ? " she asked. 
 
 " I don't make any such efforts," said Falconer. 
 
 Some of my lady-readers will probably be remarking to them- 
 selves, " How disagreeable of him ! I can't endure the man." 
 If they knew bow Falconer had to beware of the forwardness 
 and annoyance of well-meaning women, they would not dislike 
 him so much. But Falconer could be indifferent to much dis- 
 like, and therein I know some men that envy him. 
 
 When he saw, however, that Lady Georgina was trying to 
 swallow a lump in her throat, he hastened to add: — 
 
 " I have only relations with individuals — none witlj 
 classes." 
 
 Lady Georgina gathered her failing courage. 
 
448 EOBEKT FALCONER. 
 
 " Then there is the more hope for me," she said. " Surel;^ 
 there are things a woman might be useful in that a man can- 
 not do so well — especially if she would do as she was told, 
 Mr. Falconer?" 
 
 He looked at her, inquiring of her whole person what numen 
 abode in the fane. She misunderstood the look. 
 
 " I could dress very dififerently, you know. I will be a sis- 
 ter of charity, if you like." 
 
 "And wear a uniform? — as if the god of another world 
 wanted to make proselytes or traitors in this ! No, Lady 
 Georgina, it was not of a dress so easily altered that I was 
 thinking ; it was of the habit, the dress of mind, of thought, 
 of feeling. When you laid aside your beautiful dress, coald 
 you avoid putting on the garment of condescension, the most 
 unchristian virtue attributed to deity or saint ? Could you — 
 I must be plain with you, Lady Georgina, for this has nothing 
 to do with the forms of so-called society — could your temper 
 endure the mortifications of low opposition and misrepresenta- 
 tion of motive and end, which, avoid intrusion as you might, 
 would yet force themselves on your perception ? Could you 
 be rudely, impudently, thwarted by the very persons for whom 
 you were spending your strength and means, and show no 
 resentment? Could you make allowances for them as for 
 your own brothers and sisters, your own children? " 
 
 Lady Georgina was silent. 
 
 "I shall seem to glorify myself, but at that risk I must 
 put the reality before you. — Could you endure the ugliness 
 both moral and physical which you must meet at every turn ? 
 Could you look upon loathsomeness, not merely without turn- 
 ing away in disgust, and thus wounding the very heart you 
 would heal, but without losing your belief in the Fatherhood 
 of God, by losing your faith in the actual blood-relationship 
 to yourself of these wretched beings ? Could you believe in 
 the immortal essence hidden under all this garbage, — God at 
 the root of it all ? How would the delicate senses you proba- 
 bly inherit receive the intrusions from which they could not 
 protect themselves ? Would you be in no danger of finding per- 
 sonal refuge in the horrid fancy that these are but the slimy 
 borders of humanity where it slides into, and is one with 
 bestiality ? I could show you one fearful, baboonlike woman, 
 
ROBF.RT FALCONER. 44i 
 
 whoae very face makes my nerves shudder : could you believe 
 that woman might one day become beautiful as yourself, and 
 therefore minister to her ? Would you not be tempted, foi 
 the sake of your own comfort, if not for the pride of your own 
 humanity, to believe that, like untimely blossoms, these must 
 fall from off the boughs of the tree of life, and come to noth- 
 ing at all ? — a theory that may do for the preacher, but will 
 not do for the worker ; him it would paralyze ; — or, still 
 worse, infinitely worse, that they were doomed, from their 
 birth, to endless ages of a damnation, filthy as that in which 
 you now found them, and must probably leave them ? If you 
 could come to this, you had better withhold your hand ; for no 
 desire for the betterment of the masses, as they are stupidly 
 called, can make up for a lack of faith in the individual. If 
 you cannot hope for them in your heart, your hands cannot 
 reach them to do them good. They will only hurt them." 
 
 Lady Georgina was still silent. Falconer's eloquence had 
 perhaps made her ashamed. 
 
 " I want you to sit down and count the cost, before you do 
 any mischief by beginning what you are unfit for. Last week 
 I was compelled more than once to leave the house where my 
 duty led me, and to sit down upon a stone in the street, so ill 
 that I was in danger of being led away as intoxicated, only 
 the policeman happened to know me. Twice I went back to 
 the room I had left, crowded with human animals, and one of 
 them at least dying. It was all I could do, and I have toler- 
 able nerve and tolerable experience." 
 
 A mist was gathering over Lady Georgina's eyes. She 
 confessed it afterwards to Miss St. John. And through the 
 mist he looked larger than human. 
 
 " And then the time you must spend before you can lay 
 hold upon them at all, that is with the personal relation which 
 alone is of any real influence ! Our Saviour himself had to be 
 thirty years in the world before he had footing enough in it to 
 justify him in beginning to teach publicly ; he had been lay- 
 ing the needful foundations all the time. Not under any cir- 
 cumstances could I consent to make use of you before you 
 had brought yourself into genuine relations with some of them 
 first." 
 
 " Do you count societies, then, of do use whatever ? " Lady 
 
450 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Georgina asked, more to break the awkwardness of her pro- 
 longed silence than for any other reason. 
 
 "In as far as any of the persons they employ fulfil the con- 
 ditions of which I have spoken, they are useful, — that is, just 
 in as far as they come into genuine human relations with those 
 whom they would help. In as far as their servants are inca- 
 pable of this, the societies are hurtful. The chief good which 
 societies might effect would be the procuring of simple justice 
 for the poor. That is what they need at the hands of the 
 nation, and what they do not receive. But though few can 
 have the knowledge of the poor I have, many could do some- 
 thing, if they would only set about it simply, and not be too 
 anxious to convert them ; if they would only be their frieuds 
 after a common-sense fashion. I know, say a hundred 
 wretched men and women far better than a man in general 
 knows him with whom he claims an ordinary intimacy. I 
 know many more by sight whose names in the natural course 
 of events I shall probably know soon. I know many of their 
 relations to each other, and they talk about each other to me 
 as if I were one of themselves, which I hope in God I am. I 
 have been amongst them a good many years now, and shall 
 probably spend my life amongst them. When I went first, I 
 was repeatedly robbed ; now I should hardly fear to carry 
 another man's property. Two years ago I had my purse 
 taken ; but next morning it was returned, I do not know by 
 whom ; in fact it was put into my pocket again, — every coin, 
 as far as I could judge, as it left me. I seldom pretend to 
 teach them, — only now and then drop a word of advice. But 
 possibly, before I die, I may speak to them in public. At 
 present I avoid all attempt at organization of any sort, and, as 
 fer as I see, am likely of all things to avoid it. What I want 
 \ls first to be their friend, and then to be at length recognized 
 as such. It is only in rare cases that I seek the acquaintance 
 of any of them ; I let it come naturally. I bide my time. 
 Almost never, do I offer assistance. I wait till they ask it, 
 and then often refuse the sort they want. The worst thing 
 vou can do for them is to attempt to save them from the nat- 
 ural consequences of wrong ; you may sometimes help them 
 out of them. But it is right to do many things for them Avhen 
 you know them, which it would not be right to do for thera 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 451 
 
 until you know them. I am amongst them ; they know me ; 
 their chjldren know me ; and something is always occurring 
 that makes this or that one come to me. Once I have a foot- 
 ing, I seldom lose it. So you see, in this my labor I am con- 
 tent to do the thing that lies next me. I wait events. You 
 have had no training, no blundering, to fit you for such work. 
 There are many other modes of being useful ; but none in 
 which I could undertake to direct you. I am not in the habit 
 of talking so much about my ways ; but that is of no conse- 
 quence. I think I am right in doing so in this instance." 
 
 " I cannot misunderstand you," faltered Lady Georgina. 
 
 Falconer was silent. Without looking up from the floor on 
 which her eyes had rested all the time he spoke. Lady Georgina 
 said, at last : — 
 
 "Then what is my next duty ? What is the thing that lies 
 nearest to me? " 
 
 "That, I repeat, belongs to your e'very-day history. No 
 one can answer that question but yourself. Your next duty 
 is just to determine what your next duty is. — Is there noth- 
 ing you neglect? Is there nothing you know you ought not 
 to do ? — You would know your duty, if you thought in 
 earnest about it, and were not ambitious of great things." 
 
 " Ah, then," responded Lady Georgina, with an abandoning 
 sigh, " I suppose it is something very commonplace, which 
 will make life more dreary than ever. That cannot help me." 
 
 " It will, if it be as dreary as reading the newspapers to an 
 old deaf aunt. It will soon lead you to something more. 
 Your duty will begin to comfort you at once, but will at length 
 open the unknown fountain of life in your heart." 
 
 Lady Georgina lifted up her head in despair, looked at Fal- 
 coner through eyes full of tears, and said, vehemently : — 
 
 " Mr. Falconer, you can have no conception how wretched 
 a life like mine is ! And the futility of everything is embit- 
 tered by tlie consciousness that it is from no superiority to such 
 things that I do not care for them." 
 
 " It is from superiority to such things that you do not care 
 for them. You were not made for such things. They cannot 
 fill your heart. It has whole regions with which they have 
 no relation." 
 
452 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " The very thought of music makes me feel ill. I used to 
 be passionately fond of it." 
 
 " I presume you got so far in it that you asked, ' Is there 
 nothing more ? ' Concluding there was nothing more, and yet 
 needing more, you turned from it with disappointment." 
 
 " It is the same," she went on, hurriedly, " with painting, 
 modelling, reading, — whatever I have tried. I am sick of 
 them all. They do nothing for me." 
 
 " How can you enjoy music. Lady Georgina, if you are not 
 in harmony with the heart and source of music ? " 
 
 " How do you mean ? " 
 
 " Until the human heart knows the divine heart, it must 
 sigh and complain like a petulant child, who flings his toys 
 from him because his mother is not at home. When hia 
 mother comes back to him he finds his toys are good still. 
 When we find Him in our own hearts, we shall find Him in 
 everything, and music will be deep enough then. Lady Geor- 
 gina. It is this that the Brahmin and the Platonist seek ; it 
 is this that the mystic and the anchorite sigh for ; towards this 
 the teaching of the greatest of men would lead us. Lord Bacon 
 himself says, ' Nothing can fill, much less extend, the soul of 
 man, but God, and the contemplation of God. It is Life you 
 want. If you will look in your New Testament, and find out 
 all that our Lord says about Life, you will find the only cure 
 for your malady. I know what such talk looks like; but, 
 depend upon it, what I am talking about is something very 
 different from what you fancy it. Anyhow, to this you must 
 come, one day or other." 
 
 " But how am I to gain this indescribable good, which so 
 many seek, and so few find ? " 
 
 " Those are not my words," said Falconer, emphatically. 
 " I should have said, — ' which so few yet seek ; but so many 
 shall at length find.' " 
 
 " Do not quarrel with my foolish words, but tell me how I 
 am to find it ; for I suppose there must be something in what 
 80 many good people assert." 
 
 " You thought I could give you help ? " 
 
 " Yes. That is why I came to you." 
 
 " Just so. I cannot give you help. Go and ask it of On* 
 who can." 
 
BOBEBT FALOONEB. 453 
 
 " Speak more plainly." 
 
 " Well, then : if there be a God, he must hear you if you 
 call to him. If there be a father, he will listen to his child. 
 He will teach you everything." 
 
 " But I don't know what I want." 
 
 "He does: ask him to tell you what you want. It all 
 comes back to the old story : ' If ye then being evil, know how 
 to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your 
 heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him ! ' 
 But I wish you would read your New Testament, — the Gos- 
 pels, I mean ; you are not in the least fit to understand the 
 Epistles yet. Read the story of our Saviour as if you had 
 never read it before. He at least was a man who seemed to 
 have that secret of life, after the knowledge of which your heart 
 is longing." 
 
 Lady Georgina rose. Her eyes were again full of tears. 
 Falconer, too, was moved. She held out her hand to him, and 
 without another word left the room. She never came there 
 again. 
 
 Her manner towards Falconer was thereafter much altered 
 People said she was in love with him. If she was, it did her no 
 harm. Her whole character certainly was changed. She 
 sought the friendship of Miss St. John, who came at length to 
 like her so much, that she took her with her in some of her 
 walks among the poor. By degrees she began to do something 
 herself after a quiet, modest fashion. But within a few years, 
 probably while so engaged, she caught a fever from which she 
 did not recover. It was not till after her death that Falconer 
 told any one of the interview he had had with her. And by 
 that time I had the honor of being very intimate with him. 
 When she knew that she was dying, she sent for him. Mary 
 St. John was with her. She left them together. When be 
 came out, he was weeping. 
 
454 BOBEBT 7AL00NBK. 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 THE SUICIDE, 
 
 Falconer lived on and labored on in London. Wherevei 
 he found a man fitted for the work, he placed him in such 
 oflSce as De Fleuri already occupied. At the same time he 
 ■went more into society, and gained the friendship of many in- 
 fluential people. Besides the use he made of this to carry out 
 plans for individual rescue, it enabled him to bestir himself 
 for the first and chief good which' he believed it was in the 
 power of the government to eifect for the class amongst which 
 he labored. As I have shown, he did not believe in any posi- 
 tive good being efiected save through individual contact; 
 through faith, in a word, — faith in the human helper, — which 
 might become a stepping-stone through the chaotic misery 
 towards faith in the Lord and in his Father. All that associ- 
 ation could do, as such, was only, in his judgment, to remove 
 obstructions from the way of individual growth and education 
 ■ — to put better conditions within reach ; first of all, to pro- 
 vide that the people should be able, if they would, to live 
 decently. He had no notion of domestic inspection, or of offer- 
 ing prizes for cleanliness and order. He knew that misery 
 and wretchedness are the right and best condition of those 
 who live so that misery and wretchedness are the natural con- 
 sequences of their life. But there ought always to he the 
 possibility of emerging from these ; and as things were, over 
 the whole country, for many who would if they could, it was 
 impossible to breathe the fresh air, to be clean, to live like 
 human beings. And he saw this difficulty ever on the increase, 
 through the rapacity of the holders of small house-property, 
 and the utter wickedness of railway companies, who pulled 
 down every house that stood in their way, and did nothing to 
 provide room for those who were thus ejected, — most prob- 
 ably from a wretched place, but only to be driven into a more 
 wretched still. To provide suitable dwellings for the poor he 
 considered the most pressing of all necessary reforms. Hia 
 own fortune was not sufficient for doing much in this way, but 
 he set about doing what he could by purchasing houses in 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 45rj 
 
 which the poor lived, and putting them into the hands of per- 
 sons whom he could trust, and who were immediately respon- 
 sible to him for their proceedings ; they had to make them fit 
 for human abodes, and let them to those who desired better 
 accommodation, giving the preference to those already tenants, 
 so long as they paid their reasonable rent, which he con- 
 sidered far more necessary for them to do than for him to have 
 done. 
 
 One day he met by appointment the owner of a small block, 
 of which he contemplated the purchase. They were in a dread- 
 fully dilapidated condition, a shame that belonged more to the 
 owner than the inhabitants. The man wanted to sell the 
 houses, or at least was willing to sell them, but put an exor 
 bitant price upon them. Falconer expostulated. 
 
 " I know the whole of the rent these houses could bring you 
 in," he said, "without making any deduction for vacancies 
 and defalcations. What you ask is twice as much as they 
 would fetch if the fall rent were certain." 
 
 The poor wretch looked up at him with the leer of a ghoul. 
 He was dressed like a broken-down clergyman, in rusty black, 
 with a neck-cloth of whitey-brown. 
 
 "I admit it," he said, in good English, and a rather edu- 
 cated tone. "Your arguments are indisputable. I confess 
 besides that so far short does the yield come of the amount on 
 paper, that it would pay me to give them away. But it's the 
 funerals, sir, that make it worth my while. I'm an under- 
 taker, as you may judge from my costume. I count back- 
 rent in the burying. People may cheat their landlord, but 
 they can't cheat the undertaker. They must be buried. 
 That's the one indispensable, — aint it, sir ? " 
 
 Falconer had let him run on that he might have the meas- 
 ure of him. Now he was prepared with his reply. 
 
 " You've told me your profession," he said ; "I'll tell you 
 mine. I am a lawyer. If you don't let me have those houses 
 for five hundred, which is the full market value, I'll prosecute 
 you. It'll take a good penny from the profits of your coflSns 
 to put those houses in a state to satisfy the inspector." 
 
 The wretched creature was struck dumb. Falconer re- 
 sumed : — 
 
 "You're the sort of man that ought to be kept to youi 
 
456 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 pound of filthy flesh. I know what I say ; and I'll do it 
 The law costs me nothing. You won't find it so." 
 
 The undertaker sold the houses, and no longer in that 
 quarter killed the people he wanted to bury. 
 
 I give this as a specimen of the kind of thing Falconer did. 
 But he took none of the business part in his own hands, on the 
 same principle on which Paul the Apostle said it was unmeet 
 for him to leave the preaching of the word in order to serve 
 tables, — not that the thing was beneath him, but that it was 
 not his work so long as he could be doing more important 
 service still. 
 
 De Fleuri was one of his chief supports. The whole nature 
 of the man mellowed under the sun of Falconer, and over the 
 work that Falconer gave him to do. His daughter recovered, 
 and devoted herself to the same labor that had rescued her. 
 Miss St. John was her superior. By degrees, without any 
 laws or regulations, a little company was gathered, not of 
 ladies and gentlemen, but of men and women, who aided each 
 other, and without once meeting as a whole, labored not the 
 less as one body in the work of the Lord, bound in one by 
 bonds that had nothing to do with cobweb committee meetings 
 or public dinners, chairmen or wine-flushed subscriptions. 
 They worked like the leaven of which the Lord spoke. 
 
 But De Fleuri, like almost every one in the community, I 
 believe, had his own private schemes subserving the general 
 good. He knew the best men of his own class and his own 
 trade, and with them his superior intellectual gifts gave him 
 influence. To them he told the story of Falconer's behavior 
 to him, of Falconer's own need, and of his hungry-hearted 
 search. An enthusiasm of help seized upon the men. To aid 
 your superior is such a rousing gladness ! — Was anything of 
 this in St. Paul's mind when he spoke of our being fellow- 
 workers with God ? I only put the question. — Each one of 
 these had his own trustworthy acquaintances, or neighbors 
 rather, — for like finds out like all the world through, as well 
 as over, — and to them he told the story of Falconer and his 
 father, so that in all that region of London it became known 
 that the man who loved the poor was himself needy, andJooked 
 to the poor for their help. Without them he could not be made 
 perfect. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 457 
 
 Some of my readers may be inclined to say that it was dis- 
 honorable in Falconer to have occasioned the publishing of hia 
 father's disgrace. Such may recall to their minds that con- 
 cealment is no law of the universe ; that, on the contrary, the 
 Lord of the Universe said once, " There is nothing covered 
 that shall not be revealed." Was the disgrace of Andrew 
 Falconer greater because a thousand men knew it, instead of 
 forty, who could not help knowing it ? Hope lies in light and 
 knowledge. Andrew would be none the worse that honest 
 ttien knew of his vice ; they would be the first to honor him if 
 he should overcome it. If he would not — the disgrace was 
 just, and would fall upon his son only in sorrow, not in dis- 
 honor. The grace of God — the making of humanity by his 
 beautiful hand — no, heart — is such, that disgrace clings to 
 no man after repentance, any more than the feet defiled with 
 the mud of the world come yet defiled from the bath. Even 
 the things that proceed out of the man, and do terribly defile 
 him, can be cast off like the pollution of the leper by a grace 
 that goes deeper than they ; and the man who says, " I have 
 sinned : I will sin no more," is even by the voice of his 
 brothers crowned as a conqueror, and by their hearts loved as 
 one who has suffered and overcome. Blessing on the God- 
 born human heart ! Let the hounds of God, not of Satan, 
 loose upon sin ; — God only can rule the dogs of the devil ; — 
 let them hunt it to the earth ; let them drag forth the demo- 
 niac to the feet of the Man who loved the people while he let 
 the devil take their swine ; and do not talk about disgrace from 
 a thing being known, when the disgrace is that the thing 
 should exist. 
 
 One night I was returning home from some poor attempts 
 of my own. I had now been a pupil of Falconer for a consid- 
 erable time, but, having my own livelihood to make, I could 
 not do so much as I would. 
 
 It was late, nearly twelve o'clock, as I passed through the 
 region of Seven Dials. Here and there stood three or four 
 brutal-looking men, and now and then a squalid woman with 
 a starving baby in her arms, in the light of the gin-shops. 
 The babies were the saddest to see, — nursery -plants already 
 in training for the places these men and women now held, then 
 to fill a pauper's grave, or perhaps a perpetual cell : say 
 
458 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 rather, for the awful spaces of silence, where the railway di- 
 rector can no longer be guilty of a worse sin than house- 
 breaking, and his miserable brother will have no need of the 
 shelter of which he deprived him. Now and then a flaunting 
 woman wavered past, — a nightshade, as our old dramatists 
 would have called her. I could hardly keep down an evil dis- 
 gust that would have conquered my pity, when a scanty white 
 dress would stop beneath a lamp, and the gay, dirty bonnet 
 turning round, reveal a painted face, from which shone lii,*.le 
 more than an animal intelligence, not brightened by the gii. 
 she had been drinking. Vague noises of strife and of drunken 
 wrath flitted around me as I passed an alley, or an opening 
 door let out its evil secret. Once I thought I heard the dull 
 thud of a blow on the head. The noisome vapors were fit for 
 any of Swedenborg's hells. There were few sounds ; but the 
 very quiet seemed infernal. The night was hot and sultry. 
 A skinned cat, possibly still alive, fell on the street before me. 
 Under one of the gas-lamps lay something long : it was a tress 
 of. dark hair, torn perhaps from some woman's head ; she had 
 beautiful hair at least. Once I heard the cry of murder, bat 
 where, in that chaos of humanity, right or left, before or be- 
 hind me, I could not even guess. Home to such regions, 
 from gorgeous stage-scenery and dresses, from splendid, mir- 
 ror-beladen casinos, from singing-halls, and places of private 
 and prolonged revelry, trail the daughters of men at all hours 
 from midnight till morning. Next day they drink hell-fire 
 that they may forget. Sleep brings an hour or two of obliv- 
 ion, hardly of peace ; but they must wake, worn and miserable, 
 and the waking brings no hope ; their only known help lies in 
 the gin-shop. What can be done with them? But the se 
 crets God keeps must be as good as those he tells. 
 
 But no sights of the night ever afiected me so much as 
 walking through this same St. Giles's on a summer Sunday 
 morning, when church-goers were in church. Oh ! the faces 
 that creep out into the sunshine then, and haunt their doors ! 
 Some of them but skins drawn over skulls, living death's- 
 heads, grotesque in their hideousness. 
 
 I was not very far from Falconer's abode. My mind was op« 
 pressed with sad thoughts and a sense of helplessness. I be« 
 gaa to wonder what Falconer might at that moment be about 
 
BOBERT I'ALCONBR. 459 
 
 I had not seen him for a long time, a whole fortnight. Up 
 might be at home ; I would go and see, and if there were light 
 in his windows I would ring his bell. 
 
 I went. There was light in his windows. He opened the 
 door himself, and welcomed me. I went up with him, and we 
 began to talk. I told him of my sad thoughts, and my feel- 
 ings of helplessness. 
 
 " He that believeth shall not make haste," he said. 
 " There is plenty of time. You must not imagine that the 
 result depends on you, or that a single human soul can be 
 lost because you may fail. The question, as far as you are 
 concerned, is, whether you are to be honored in having a hand 
 in the work that God is doing, and will do, whether you help 
 him or not. Some will be honored ; shall it be me ? A.nd 
 "this honor gained excludes no one; there is work, as there is 
 bread in his house, enough and to spare. It shows no faith in 
 God to make frantic efforts or frantic lamentations. Besides, 
 we ought to teach ourselves to see, as much as we may, the 
 good that is in the condition of the poor." 
 
 " Teach me to see that, then," I said. " Show me some- 
 thing." 
 
 " The best thing is their kindness to each other. There is 
 an absolute divinity in their self-denial for those who are 
 poorer than themselves. I know one man and woman, married 
 people, who pawned their very furniture and wearing apparel 
 to procure cod-liver oil for a girl dying in consumption. She 
 was not even a relative, only an acquaintance of former years^ 
 They had found her destitute, and taken her to their own poor 
 home. There are fathers and mothers who will work hard all 
 the morning, and when dinner-time comes ' don't want any,' 
 that there may be enough for their children, — or half enough, 
 more likely. Children will take the bread out of their owd 
 moaths to put in that of their sick brother, or to stick in tha 
 fist of baby crying for a crust — giving only a queer little, 
 helpless grin, half of hungry sympathy, half of pleasure, as 
 they see it disappear. The marvel to me is that the children 
 turn out so well as they do ; but that applies to the children 
 in all ranks of life. Have you ever watched a group of pwi 
 children, half a dozen of them with babies in their arms ? " 
 
460 ROBERT FALOoNER. 
 
 " I have, a little, and have seen such a strange mixture of 
 carelessness and devotion." 
 
 " Yes. I was once stopped in the street by a child of ten, 
 ■with face absolutely swollen with weeping, asking me to go and 
 see baby, who was very ill. She had dropped him four times 
 that morning, but had no idea that could have done him any 
 harm. The carelessness is ignorance. Their form of it is not 
 half so shocking as that of the mother who will tremble at 
 the slightest sign of suffering in her child, but will hear him 
 lie against his brother without the smallest discomfort. Ah ! 
 we shall all find, I fear, some day, that we have differed from 
 each other, where we have done best, only in mode, — perhaps 
 not even in degree. A grinding tradesman takes advantage 
 of the over supply of labor to get his work done at starvation 
 prices. I owe him love, and have never thought of paying my 
 debt except in boundless indignation." 
 
 " I wish I had your faith and courage, Mr. Falconer," I 
 said. 
 
 " You are in a fair way of having far more," he returned. 
 " You are not so old as I am, by a long way. But I fear you 
 are getting out of spirits. Is to-morrow a hard day with 
 you ? " 
 
 " I have next to nothing to do to-morrow." 
 
 "Then will you come to me in the evening? We will go 
 out together." 
 
 Of course I was only too glad to accept the proposal. 
 
 It was a blowing, moon-lit night. The gas-lights flickered 
 and wavered in the gusts of wind. It was cold, very cold for 
 the season. Even Falconer buttoned his coat over his chest. 
 He got a few paces in advance of me sometimes, when I saw 
 him towering black and tall and somewhat gaunt, like a w^alk' 
 ing shadow. The wind increased in violence. It was a north- 
 easter, laden with dust, and a sense of frozen Siberian steppes. 
 We had to stoop and head it at the corners of streets. Not 
 many people were out, and those who were seemed to bo hur- 
 rying home. A few little provision-shops, and a few inferior 
 butchers' stalls were still open. Their great jets of gas, 
 which looked as if they must poison the meat, were flaming 
 fierce and horizontal, roaring like fiery flags, and anon dying 
 into a blue hiss. Discordant singing, more like the howling 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 46i 
 
 of wild beasts, came from the corner houses, which blazed like 
 the gates of hell. Their doors were ever on the swing, and 
 the hot odors of death pushed out, and the cold blast of life 
 rushed in. We paused a little before one of them ; over the 
 door, upon the sign, was in very deed the name Death. There 
 were ragged women within who took their half-dead babies 
 from their bare, cold, cheerless bosoms, and gave them of the 
 poison of which they themselves drank renewed despair in the 
 name of comfort. They say that most of the gin consumed in 
 London is drunk by women. And the little clay-colored 
 baby-faces made a grimace or two, and sank to sleep on the 
 thin tawny breasts of the mothers, who, having gathered cour- 
 age from the essence of despair, faced the scowling night once 
 more, and with bare necks and hopeless hearts went — whither? 
 Where do they all go when the gin-hells close their yawning 
 jaws ? Where do they lie down at night ? They vanish like 
 unlawfully risen corpses in the graves of cellars and garrets, 
 in the charnel-vaults of pestiferously crowded lodging-houses, 
 in the prisons of police-stations, under dry arches, within 
 hoardings ; or they make vain attempts to rest the night out 
 upon door-steps or curb-stones. All their life long man denies 
 them the one right in the soil which yet is so much theirs, 
 that, once that life is over, he can no longer deny it, — the 
 right of room to lie down. Space itself is not allowed to be 
 theirs by any right of existence ; the voice of the night-guar- 
 dian commanding them to move on is as the howling of a 
 death-hound hunting them out of the air into their graves. 
 
 In St. James's we came upon a group around the gates of a 
 great house. Visitors were coming and going, and it was a 
 show to be had for nothing by those who had nothing to pay. 
 Oh ! the children, with clothes too ragged to hold pockets for 
 their chilled hands, that stared at the childless duchess de- 
 scending from her lordly carriage ! Oh ! the wan faces, once 
 lovely as theirs, it may be, that gazed meagre and pinched 
 and hungry on the young maidens in rose-color and blue, 
 tripping lightly through the avenue of their eager eyes, — not 
 yet too envious of unattainable felicity to gaze with admiring 
 sympathy on those who seemed to them the angels, the god- 
 desses of their kind. " God ! " I thought, but dared not 
 speak, "and thou couldst make all these girls so lovely! 
 
462 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Thou couldst give them all the gracious garments of rose a ad 
 blue and white if thou wouldst ! Why should these not he 
 like those ? They are hungry even, and wan and torn. 
 These, too, are thy children. There is wealth enough in thy 
 mines and in thy green fields, room enough in thy starry 
 spaces, God!" But a voice — the echo of Falconer's 
 teaching — awoke in my heart. — "Because I would have 
 these more blessed than those, and those more blessed with 
 them, for they are all my children." 
 
 By the Mall we came -into Whitehall, and so to Westmin- 
 ster Bridge. Falconer had changed his mind, and would cross 
 at once. The present bridge was not then finished, and the 
 old bridge alongside of it was still in use for pedestrians. We 
 went upon it to reach the other side. Its centre rose high 
 above the other, for the line of the new bridge ran like a chord 
 across the arc of the old. Through chance gaps in the board- 
 ing between, we looked down on the new portion, which was as 
 yet used by carriages alone. The moon bad, throughout the 
 evening, alternately shone in brilliance from amidst a lake of 
 blue sky, and been overwhelmed in billowy heaps of wind-tor- 
 mented clouds. As we stood on the apex of the bridge, look- 
 ing at the night, the dark river, and the mass of human effort 
 about us, the clouds gathered and closed and tumbled upon 
 her in crowded layers. The wind iiowled through the arches 
 beneath, swept along the boarded fences, and whistled in their 
 holes. The gaslights blew hither and thither, and were per- 
 plexed to live at all. 
 
 Wo were standing at a spot where some shorter pieces had 
 been used in the boarding ; and, although I could not see over 
 them, Falconer, whose head rose more than half a foot above 
 mine, was looking on the other bridge below. Suddenly he 
 grasped the top with his great hands, and his huge frame was 
 over it in an instant. I was on the top of the boarding the 
 same moment, and saw him prostrate some twelve feet below. 
 He was up the next instant, and running with huge paces 
 diagonally towards the Surrey side. lie had seen the figure of 
 a woman come flying along from the Westminster side, without 
 bonnet or shawl. When she came under the spot where we 
 ; stood, she had turned across at an obtuse angle towards the 
 other side of the bridge, and Falconer, convinced that she meant 
 
ROBERT FALCONER, 463 
 
 to throw herself into the river, went over as I have related. 
 She had all but scrambled over the fence, — for there was no 
 parapet yet, — by the help of the great beam that ran along to 
 support it, when he caught her by her garments. So poor and 
 thin were those garments, that if she bad not been poor and 
 thin too, she would have dropped from them into the darkness 
 below. He took her in his arms, lifted her down upon the 
 bridge, and stood as if protecting her from a pursuing death. 
 I had managed to find an easier mode of descent, and now 
 stood a little way from them. 
 
 "Poor girl! poor girl!" he said, as if 'to himself; " waa 
 this the only way left ? " 
 
 Then he spoke tenderly to her. What he said J ^^onld not 
 hear, — I only heard the tone. 
 
 "0 sir! " she cried, in piteous entreaty, "do let me go. 
 Why should a wretched creature like me be forced to live ? 
 It's no good to you, sir. Do let me go." 
 
 " Come here," he said, drawing her close to the fence. 
 "' Stand up again on the beam. Look down." 
 
 She obeyed, in a kind of mechanical way. But as he talked, 
 and she kept looking down on the dark mystery beneath, flowing 
 past with every now and then a dull, vengeful glitter, — continu- 
 ous, forceful, slow, — he felt her shudder in his still clasping arm. 
 
 "Look," he said, " how it crawls along, — black and slimy ! 
 now silent and yet how fierce ! Is that a nice place to go to 
 down there ? Would there be any rest there, do you think, 
 tumbled about among filth and creeping things, and slugs that 
 feed on the dead ; among drowned women like yourself drift- 
 ing by, and murdered men, and strangled babies ? Is that the 
 door by which you would like to go out of the world ? " 
 
 "It's no worse," she faltered, — "not so bad as what I 
 should leave behind." 
 
 " If this were the only way out of it, I would not keep you 
 from it. I would say, ' Poor thing ! there is no help ; she 
 must go.' But there is another way." 
 
 " There is no other way, sir, — if you knew all," she said. 
 
 "Tell me, then." 
 
 •' I cannot. I dare not. Please, — I would rather go.'' 
 
 iShe looked, from the mere glimpses I could get of her, 
 somewhere about five and twenty, making due allowance foi 
 
464 ROBEKT FALCONER. 
 
 the wear of Buffering so evident even in those glimpses. 1 
 think she might have been beautiful if the waste of her historj 
 could have been restored. That she had had at least some ad- 
 vantages of education was evident from both her tone and her 
 speech. But oh, the wild eyes, and the tortured lips, drawn 
 'back from the teeth with an agony of hopelessness, as she 
 struggled anew, perhaps mistrusting them, to escape from the 
 great arms that held her ! 
 
 "But the river cannot drown you,^'' Falconer said. " It 
 can only stop your breath It cannot stop your thinking. You 
 will go on thinking, thinking, all the same. Drowning peo- 
 ple remember in a moment all their past lives. All their evil 
 deeds come up before them, as if they were doing them all over 
 again. So they plunge back into the past and all its misery. 
 While their bodies are drowning, their souls are coming more 
 and more awake." 
 
 " That is dreadful," she murmured, with her great eyes fixed 
 on his, and growing steadier in their regard. She had ceased 
 to struggle, so he had slackened his hold on her, and she was 
 leaning back against the fence. 
 
 " And then," he went on, " what if, instead of closing your 
 eyes, as you expected, and going to sleep, and forgetting every- 
 thing, you should find them come open all at once, in the midst 
 of a multitude of eyes, all round about you, all looking at you, 
 all thinking about you, all judging you ? What if you should 
 hear, not a tumult of voices and noises, from which you could 
 hope to hide, but a solemn company talking about you, — every 
 word clear and plain, piercing your heart with what you could 
 not deny, — and you standing naked and shivering in the midst 
 of them?" 
 
 " It is too dreadful," she cried, making a movement as if 
 the very horror of the idea had a fascination to draw her 
 towards the realization of it. " But," she added, yielding to- 
 Palconer's renewed grasp, " they wouldn't be so hard upon me 
 there. They would not be so cruel as men are here." 
 
 " Surely not. But all men are not cruel. I am not cruel," 
 he added, forgetting himself for a moment, and caressing with 
 his huge hand the wild, pale face that glimmered upon him aa 
 it were out of the infinite night, — all but swallowed up in it. 
 
KOBERT FALCONER. 4G'5 
 
 She drew herself back, and Falconer, instantly removing his 
 hand, said : — 
 
 " Look in my face, child, and see whether you cannot trust 
 me." 
 
 As he uttered the words, he took off his hat, and stood bare- 
 headed in the moon, which now broke out clear from the clouds. 
 She did look at him. His hair blew about his face. He 
 turned it towards the wind and the moon, and away from her, 
 that she might be undisturbed in her scrutiny. But how she 
 judged of him, I cannot tell ; for the next moment he called out, 
 in a tone of repressed excitement : — 
 
 " Gordon, Gordon, look there, — above your head, on the 
 other bridge." 
 
 I looked and saw a gray head peering over the same gap 
 through which Falconer had looked a few minutes before. I 
 knew something of his personal quest by this time, and con- 
 cluded at once that he thought it was, or might be, his father. 
 
 " I cannot leave the poor thing, — I dare not," he said. 
 
 I understood him and darted off at full speed for the Surrey 
 end of the bridge. What made me choose that end, I do not 
 know ; but I was right. 
 
 I had some reason to fear that I might be stopped when I 
 reached it, as I had no business to be upon the new bridge. I 
 therefore managed, where the upper bridge sank again towards 
 a level with the lower, to scramble back upon it: As I did so, 
 the tall, gray-headed man passed me with an uncertain step. 1 
 did not see his face. I followed him a few yards behind. He 
 seemed to hear and dislike the sound of my footsteps, for he 
 quickened his pace. I let him increase the distance between 
 us, but followed him still. He turned down the river. I fol- 
 lowed. He began to double. I doubled after him. Not a 
 turn could he get before me. He crossed all the main roads 
 leading to the bridges till he came to the last, — when he turned 
 toward London Bridge. At the other end, he went down the 
 stairs into Thames Street, and held eastward still. It was not 
 diflEcult to keep up with him, for his stride, though long, was 
 slow. He never looked round, and I never saw his face ; but 
 I could not help fancying that his back and his gait, and his 
 carriage, were very like Falconer's. 
 
 We Tuere now in a quarter of which I knew nothing, but as 
 SO 
 
466 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 far as I can guess from after knowledge, it was one of the worst 
 districts in London, lying to the east of Spital Square. It was 
 late, and there were not many people about. 
 
 As I passed a court, I was accosted thus : — 
 
 " Aint you got a glass of ale for a poor cove, gov'nor ? " 
 
 " T have no coppers," I said, hastily. " I am in a hurry 
 besides," I added, as I walked on. 
 
 " Come, come," he said, getting up with me in a moment, 
 " that aint a civil answer to give a cove after his lush, that 
 aint got a blessed mag." 
 
 As he spoke he laid his hand rather heavily on my arm. He 
 was a lumpy-looking individual, like a groom who had been 
 discharged for stealing his horse's provender, and had not quite 
 worn out the clothes he had brought with him. From the 
 opposite side, at the same moment, another man appeared, low 
 in stature, pale, and marked with the small-pox. 
 
 He advanced upon me at right angles. I shook off the hand 
 of the first, and I confess would have taken to my heels, for 
 more reasons than one, but, almost before I was clear of him, 
 the other came against me, and shoved me into one of the low- 
 browed entries which abounded. 
 
 I was so eager to follow my chase that I acted foolishly 
 throughout. I ought to have emptied my pockets at once ; 
 but I was unwilling to lose a watch which was an old family 
 piece, and of value besides. 
 
 " Come, come ! I don't carry a barrel of ale in my pocket," I 
 said, thinking to keep them in good-humor. I know better 
 now. Some of these roughs will take all you have in the most 
 good-humored way in the world, bandying chaff with you all 
 the time. I had got amongst another set, however. 
 
 " Leastways you've got as good," said a third, approaching 
 from the court, as villanous-looking a fellow as I have ever 
 seen. 
 
 " This is hardly the right way to ask for it," I said, look- 
 ing out for a chance of bolting, but putting my hand in my 
 pocket at the same time. I confess again I acted very stupidly 
 throughout the whole affair, but it was my first experience. 
 
 "It's a way we've got down here, anyhow," said the third, 
 with a brutal laugh. " Look out, Savory Sam," he ad led to 
 one of them. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 467 
 
 "Now I don't want to hurt you," struck in the first, com- 
 ing nearer, " but if you gives tongue, I'll make cold meat of 
 you, and gouge your pockets at my leisure, before ever a blue- 
 skin can turn the corner." 
 
 Two or three more came sidling up with their hands in their 
 pockets. 
 
 "What have you got there, Slicer? " said one of them, ad- 
 dressing the third, who looked like a ticket-of-leave man. 
 
 " We've cotched a pig-headed counter-jumper here, that 
 didn't know Jim there from a man-trap, and went by him as 
 if he'd been a bull-dog on a long chain. He wants to fight 
 cecum. But we won't trouble him. We'll help ourselves. 
 Shell out now." 
 
 As he spoke he made a snatch at my watch-chain. 1 for- 
 got myself and hit him. The same moment I received a blow 
 on the head, and felt the blood running down my face. I did 
 not quite lose my senses, though, for I rememfer seeing yet 
 another man — a tall fellow — coming out of the gloom of the 
 court. How it came into my mind 1 do not know, and what 
 I said I do not remember, but I must have mentioned Falcon- 
 er's name somehow. 
 
 The man they called Slicer, said : — 
 
 " Who's he ? Don't know the — " 
 
 Words followed which I cannot write. 
 
 " What ! you devil's gossoon ! " returned an Irish voice 1 
 had not heard before. " You don't know Long Bob, you gon- 
 nof !" 
 
 All that passed I heard distinctly, but I was in a half faint, 
 I suppose, for I could no longer see. 
 
 " Now what the devil in a dice-box do you mean?" said 
 Slicer, possessing himself of my watch. " Who is the blasted 
 cove? — not that I care a flash of damnation." 
 
 "A man as' 11 knock you down if he thinks you want it, or 
 give you a half-crown if he thinks you want it, — all's one to 
 him, only he'll have the choosing which." 
 
 "What the hell's that to me? Look spry. He mustn't 
 lie there all night. It's too near the ken. Come along, you 
 Scotch haddock." 
 
 I was aware of a kick in the side as he spoke. 
 
 " I tell you what it is, Slicer," said one whose voice I had 
 
468 ROBEET FALCONER. 
 
 not yet heard, " if so be this gentleman's a friend of Long Bob, 
 you' just let him alone, /say." 
 
 I opened my eye now, and saw before me a tall, rather slen- 
 der man, in a big, loose dress-coat, to whom Slicer had turned 
 with the words : ^ — 
 
 " You say ! Ha ! ha ! Well, /say — There's my Scotch 
 haddock ! who'll toucn him ? " 
 
 " I'll take him home," said the tall man, advancing towards 
 me. I made an attempt to rise. But I grew deadly ill, fell 
 back, and remember nothing more. 
 
 When I came to myself I was lying on a bed in a miserable 
 place. A middle-aged woman, of degraded countenance but 
 kindly eyes, was putting something to my mouth with a tea- 
 spoon, I knew it by the smell to be gin. But I could not ydi 
 move. They began to talk about me, and I lay and listened. 
 Indeed, while I listened, I lost for a time all inclination to gat 
 up, I was so much interested in what I heard. 
 
 " He's comin' to hisself," said the woman. " He'll be all 
 right by and by. I wonder what brings the likes of him into 
 the likes of this place. It must look a kind of hell to them 
 gentle folks, though we manage to live and die in it." 
 
 "I suppose," said another, "he's come on some of Mr. 
 Falconer's business." 
 
 " That's why Job's took him in charge. They say ho was 
 after somebody or other, they think. — No friend of lilr. Fal- 
 coner's would be after another for any mischief," eaid my 
 hostess. 
 
 ' " But who is this Mr. Falconer ? — Is Long Bob and he 
 both the same alias ? " asked a third. 
 
 " Why, Bessy, aint you no better than that cursed Slicer, 
 who ought to ha' been hung up to dry this many a year 7 
 But to be sure you aint been long in our quarter. Why, 
 every child hereabouts knows Mr. Falconer. Ask Bobby 
 there." 
 
 " Who's Mr. Falconer, Bobby ? " 
 
 A child's voice made reply : -r- 
 
 " A man with a long, long beard, that goes about, and some* 
 times grows tired and sits on a door-step. I see him once. 
 But he aint Mr. Falconer, nor Long Bob neiiiisr," added 
 Bobby, in a mysterious tone. " I know who he lo." 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 469 
 
 " "What do you mean, Bobby ? Who is he then 7 " 
 
 The child answered very slowly and solemnly : — 
 
 "He's Jesus Christ." 
 
 The woman burst into a rude laugh. 
 
 " Well," said Bobby, in an offended tone, " Slicer's own 
 Tom says so, and Polly too. We all say so. He alius pats 
 me on the head, and gives me a penny." 
 
 Here Bobby began to cry, bitterly offended at the way 
 Bessy had received his information, after considering him suffi- 
 ciently important to have his opinion asked. 
 
 " True enough," said his mother. "I see him once a-sittin' 
 on a door-step, lookin' straight afcre him, and worn-out like, 
 an' a lot o' them childer standin' all about him, an' starin' at 
 him as mum as mice, for fear of disturbin' of him. When I 
 come near, he got up with a smile on his face, an' give each 
 on 'em a penny all round, and walked away. Some do say 
 he's a bit crazed like ; but I never saw no sign o' that ; and 
 if any one ought to know, that one's Job's Mary ; and you 
 may believe me when I tell you that he was here night an' 
 mornin' for a week, and after that off and on, when we was all 
 down in the cholerer. Ne'er a one of us would ha' come 
 through but for him." 
 
 I made an attempt to rise. The woman came to my bed- 
 side. 
 
 "How does the gentleman feel hisself, now?" she asked, 
 kindly. 
 
 " Better, thank you," I said. " I am ashamed of lying 
 like this, but I feel very queer." 
 
 "And it's no wonder, when that devil Slicer give you ont 
 o' his even-down blows on the top o' your head. Nobody 
 knows what he carry in his sleeve that he do it with — only 
 you've got off well, young man, and that / tell you, with a 
 decent cut like that. Only don't you go tryin' to get up now. 
 Don't be in a hurry till your blood comes back like." 
 
 I lay still again for a little. When I lifted my hand to 
 my head, I found it was bandaged up. I tried again to rise. 
 The woman went to the door, and called out : — ■ 
 
 " Job, the gentleman's feelin' better. He'll soon be able 
 to move, I think. What will you do with him now ? " 
 
470 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 '-'I'll go and get a cab," said Job; and I heard him go 
 down a stair. 
 
 I raised myself and got on the floor, but found I could not 
 stand. By the time the cab arrived, however, I was able to 
 crawl to it. When Job came, I saw the same tall, thin man 
 in the long dress-coat. His head was bound up too. 
 
 "I'm sorry to see you, too, have been hurt, — for my sake, 
 of course," I said. " Is it a bad blow ? " 
 
 " Oh ! it aint over much. I got in with a smeller afore he 
 came right down with his slogger. But I say, I hope as how 
 you are a friend of Mr. Falconer's, for you see we can't afford 
 the likes of this in this quarter for every chance that falls in 
 Slicer's way. Gentlemen has no business here." 
 
 " On the contrary, I mean to come again soon, to thank you 
 all for being so good to me." 
 
 " Well, when you comes next, you'd better come with him, 
 you know." 
 
 " You mean with Mr. Falconer ? " 
 
 "Yes, who else? But are you able to go now? for tho 
 sooner you're out of this the better." 
 
 " Quite able. Just give me your arm." 
 
 He offered it kindly. Taking a grateful farewell of my 
 hostess, I put my hand in my pocket, but there was nothing 
 there. Job led me to the mouth of the court, where a cab, 
 evidently of a sort with the neighborhood, was waiting for us. 
 I got in. Job was shutting the door. 
 
 " Come along with me. Job," I said. " I'm going straight 
 to Mr. Falconer's. He will like to see you, especially after 
 your kindness to me." 
 
 " Well, I don't mind if I do look arter you a little longer; 
 for, to tell the truth," said Job. as he opened the door, and got 
 in beside me, " I don't over and above like the look of the — 
 horse." 
 
 " It's no use trying to rob me over again," I said ; but he 
 gave no reply. He only shouted to the cabman to drive to 
 John Street, telling him the number. 
 
 I can scarcely recall anything more till we reached Falcon- 
 er's chambers. Job got out and rang the bell. Mrs. Ashton 
 came down. Her master was not come home. 
 
ROBERT EAliOONBR. 471 
 
 "Tell Mr. Falconer," I said, "that I'm all right, only I 
 couldn't make anything of it." 
 
 " Tell him,'-" growled Job, " that he's got his head broken, 
 and won"t be out o' bed to-morrow. That's the way with them 
 fine-bred ones. They lies a-bed when the likes o' me must 
 go out what they calls a custamoneering, broken head and 
 all." 
 
 " You shall stay at home for a week if you like, Job, — 
 that is if I've got enough to give you a week's earnings. I'm 
 not sure though, till I look, for I'm not a rich man any more 
 than yourself" 
 
 " Rubbish ! " said Job, as he got in again; "I was only 
 flummuxing the old un. Bless your heart, sir, I wouldn't 
 stay in, — not for nothink. Not for a bit of a pat on the 
 crown, nohow. Home aint none so nice a place to go snoozing; 
 in, — nohow. Where do you go to, guv' nor ? " 
 
 I told him. When I got out, and was opening the door, 
 leaning on his arm, I said 1 was very glad they hadn't taken 
 my keys. 
 
 " Slicer nor Savory Sam neither's none the better o' you, 
 and I hopes you're not much the worse for them," said Job, 
 as he put into my hands my purse and watch. " Count it, 
 guv'nor, and see if it's all right. Them pusses is manyfac- 
 tered express for the convenience o' the fakers. Take my 
 advice, sir, and keep a yellow sovereign in yer coat-tails, a 
 flatch half-crown in yer waistcoat, and yer pence in yer 
 breeches. You won't lose much nohow then. Good-night, 
 sir, and I wish you better." 
 
 " But I must give you something for plaster," I said. 
 " You'll take a yellow sovereign, at least? " 
 
 " We'll talk about that another day," said Job ; and with a 
 second still heartier good-night he left me. I managed to 
 crawl up to my room, and fell on my bed once more fainting. 
 But I soon recovered sufficiently to undress and get into it. 
 I was feverish all night and next day, but towards evening 
 began to recover. 
 
 I kept expecting Falconer to come and inquire after me ; 
 but he never came. Nor did he appear the next day or the 
 next, and I began to be very uneasy about him. The fourth 
 day I sent for a cab, and drove to John Street. He was at 
 
KOBERT FALCONER. 
 
 home, but Mrs. Ashton, instead of showing me into his ro<v«. 
 'od me into her kitchen, and left me there. 
 
 A minute after, Falconer came to me. The instant I saw 
 him I understood it all. I read it in his face. He had found 
 his father. 
 
 CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 ANDREW AT LAST. 
 
 Having at length persuaded the woman to go with him, 
 Falconer made her take his arm, and led her off the bridge. 
 In Parliament Street he was looking about for a cab as they 
 walked on, when a man he did not know, stopped, touched his 
 hat, and addressed him. 
 
 "I'm thinkin', sir, ye'll be sair wantit at hame the nicht. 
 It wad' be better to gang at ance, an' lat the puir fowk' luik 
 efter themsels for ae nicht." 
 
 " I am sorry I dinna ken ye, man. Do ye ken me ? " 
 
 " Fine that, Mr. Falconer. There's money ane knows you 
 and praises God." 
 
 "God be praised!" returned Falconer. "Why am I 
 wanted at home? " 
 
 " 'Deed I wad raither not say, sir. — Hey ! " 
 
 This last exclamation was addressed to a cab just disappear- 
 ing down King Street from Whitehall. The driver heard, 
 turned, and in a moment more was by their side. 
 
 " Ye had better go into her an' awa' hame, and lea' the 
 poor lassie to me. I'll take guid care o' her." 
 
 She clung to Falconer's arm. The man opened the door 
 of the cab. Falconer put her in, told the driver to go to 
 Queen Square, and if he could not make haste, to stop the first 
 cab that could, got in himself, thanked his unknown friend, 
 who did not seem quite satisfied, and drove off. 
 
 Happily Miss St. John was at home, and there was no 
 delay. Neither was any explanation of more than six words 
 necessary. He jumped again into the cab and drove home. 
 Fortunately for his mood, though in fact it mattered little for 
 any result the horse was fresh, ai.d both able and wiring. 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 478 
 
 When he entered John Street, be came to observe before 
 leaching his own door that a good many men were about in 
 little, quiet groups, — some twenty or so, here and there. 
 When he let himself in with his pass-key, there were two men 
 in the entry. Without stopping to speak, he ran up to his 
 own chambers. When he got into his sitting-room, there 
 stood De Fleuri, who simply waved his hand towards the old 
 Bofa. On it lay an elderly man, with his eyes half open, and 
 a look almost of idiocy upon his pale, puffed face, which was 
 damp and shining. His breathing was labored, but there 
 was no further sign of suffering. He lay perfectly still. Fal- 
 coner saw at once that he was under the influence of some nar- 
 cotic, probably opium ; and the same moment the all but con- 
 viction darted into his mind that Andrew Falconer, his grand- 
 mother's son, lay there before him. That he was his own 
 father he had no feeling yet. He turned to De Fleuri. 
 
 "Thank you, friend," he said. "I shall find time to 
 thank you." 
 
 " Are we right ? " asked De Fleuri. 
 
 "I don't know. I think so," answered Falconer; and 
 without another word the man withdrew. 
 
 His first mood was very strange. It seemed as if all the 
 romance had suddenly deserted his life, and it lay bare and 
 hopeless. He felt nothing. No tears rose to the brim of 
 their bottomless wells, — the only wells that have no bottom, 
 for they go into the depths of the infinite soul. He sat down 
 in his chair, stunned as to the heart and all the finer chords of 
 his nature. The man on the horsehair sofa lay breathing — 
 that was all. The gray hair about the pale, ill-shaven face 
 glimmered like a cloud before him. What should he do or 
 say when he awaked ? How approach the far-estranged soul ? 
 How ever send the cry oi father into that fog-filled world? 
 Could he ever have climbed on those knees and kissed those 
 lips, in the far-off days when the sun and the wind of that 
 northern atmosphere made his childhood blessed beyond 
 dreams ? The actual — that is the present phase of the ever- 
 changing — looked the ideal in the face ; and the mirror that 
 held them both shook and quivered at the discord of the faces 
 reflected. A kind of moral cold seemed to radiate from the 
 object before him, and chill him to the very bones. This 
 
474 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 could not long be endured. He fled from the actual to the 
 source of all the ideal, — to that Saviour who, the infinite 
 mediator, mediates between all hopes and all positions; 
 between the most debased actual and the loftiest ideal ; between 
 the little scoffer of St. Giles's and his angel that ever beholds 
 the face of the Father in heaven. He fell on his knees, and 
 epoke to God, saying that he had made this man ; that the 
 mark of his fingers was on the man's soul somewhere. Ho 
 prayed to the making Spirit to bring the man to his right 
 mind, to give him once more the heart of a child, to begin 
 him yet again at the beginning. Then, at last, all the evil he 
 had done and suffered would but swell his gratitude to Him 
 who had delivered him from himself and his own deeds. Hav- 
 ing breathed this out before the God of his life. Falconer rose, 
 Btrengthened to meet the honorable, debased soul when it 
 should at length look forth from the dull, smeared windows of 
 those ill-used eyes. 
 
 He felt his pulse. There was no danger from the narcotic. 
 The coma would pass away. Meantime he would get him to 
 bed. When he began to undress him a new reverence arose 
 which overcame all disgust at the state in which he found him. 
 
 At length one sad little fact about his dress, revealing the 
 poverty-stricken attempt of a man to preserve the shadow of 
 decency, called back the waters of the far-ebbed ocean of his 
 feelings. At the prick of a pin the heart's blood will flow : 
 at the sight of — a pin it was — Robert burst into tears, and 
 wept like a child ; the deadly cold was banished from his heart, 
 and he not only loved, but knew that he loved — felt the love 
 that was there. Everything then about the worn body and 
 shabby garments of the man smote upon the heart of his son, 
 and through his very poverty he was sacred in his eyes. The 
 human heart awakened the filial, — reversing thus the ordinary 
 process of Nature, who by means of the filial, when her plana 
 are unbroken, awakes the human ; and he reproached himself 
 bitterly for his hardness, as he now judged his late mental 
 condition, — unfairly, I think. He soon had him safe in bed, 
 unconscious of the helping hands that had been busy about 
 him in his heedless sleep ; unconscious of the radiant planet 
 of love that had been folding him round in its atmosphere of 
 affection. 
 
BOBERT PALCONBH, 475 
 
 But while he thus ministered, a new question arose in liis 
 teind — to meet with its own new, God-given answer. What 
 if this should not be the man after all ? — if this love had 
 been spent in mistake, and did not belong to him at all? The 
 answer was, that he was a man. The love Robert had given 
 he could not, would not. withdraw. The man who had been 
 for a moment as his father he could not cease to regard with 
 devotijn. At least he was a man with a divine soul. He 
 might at least be somebody's father. Where love had found 
 a moment's rest for the sole of its foot, there it must build its 
 nest. 
 
 When he had got him safe in bed, he sat down beside him 
 to think what he would do next. This sleep gave him very 
 needful leisure to think. He could determine nothing, — not 
 even how to find out if he was indeed his father. If he 
 approached the subject without guile, the man might be fear- 
 ful and cunning; might have reasons for being so, and for 
 striving to conceal the truth. But this was the first thing to 
 make sure of, because, if it was he, all the hold he had upon 
 him lay in his . knowing it for certain. He could not think. 
 He had had little sleep the night before. He must not sleep 
 this night. He dragged his bath into his sitting-room, and 
 refreshed his faculties with plenty of cold water, then lighted 
 bis pipe and went on thinking, — not without prayer to that 
 Power whose candle is the understanding of man. All at 
 once he saw how to begin. He went again into the chamber, 
 and looked at the man, and handled him, and knew by his art 
 that a waking of some sort was nigh. Then he went to a 
 corner of his sitting-room, and from beneath the table drew 
 out a long box, and from the box lifted Dooble Sandy's auld 
 wife, tuned the somewhat neglected strings, and laid the in- 
 Btrument on the table. 
 
 When, keeping constant watch over the sleeping man, he 
 judged at length that his soul had come near enough to the 
 surface of the ocean of sleep to communicate with the outer 
 world through that bubble his body, which had floated upon 
 its waves all the night unconscious, he put his chair just out- 
 side the chamber-door, which opened from his sitting-roora, 
 and began to play gently, softly, far away. For a while he 
 extemporized only, thinking of Rothieden, and the grand 
 
470 &OBERT FALCONER. 
 
 mother, and the bleach-greon, and the hills, and the waste old 
 factory, and his mother's portrait and letters. As he dreamed 
 on, his dream got louder, and, he hoped, was waking a more 
 and more vivid dream in the mind of the sleeper. " For who 
 can tell," thought Falconer, "what mysterious sympathies of 
 blood and childhood's experience there may be between me and 
 that man? — such, it may be, that my utterance on the violin 
 will wake in his soul the very visions of which my soul is full 
 while I play, each with its own nebulous atmosphere of dream- 
 light around it." For music wakes its own feeling, and feel- 
 ing wakes thought, or rather, when perfected, blossoms into 
 thought, thought radiant of music as those lilies that shine 
 phosphorescent in the July nights. He played more and 
 more forcefully, growing in hope. But he had been led astray 
 in some measure by the fulness of his expectation. Strange 
 to tell, doctor as he was, he had forgotten one important fac- 
 tor in his calculation : how the man would awake from his arti- 
 ficial sleep. He had not reckoned of how the limbeck of his 
 brain would be left discolored with vile deposit, when the 
 fumes of the narcotic should have settled and given uo its cen- 
 tral spaces to the faintness of desertion. 
 
 Robert was very keen of hearing. Indeed he possessed all 
 his senses keener than any other man I have known. He heard 
 him toss on his bed. Then he broke into a growl, and damned 
 the miauling, which, he said, the strings could never have 
 learned anywhere but in a cat's belly. But Robert was used 
 to bad language ; and there are some bad things, which seeing 
 that there they are, it is of the greatest consequence to get 
 used to. It gave Eim, no doubt, a pang of disappointment to 
 hear such an echo to his music from the soul which he had 
 hoped especially fitted to respond in harmonious unison with 
 the wail of his violin. But not for even this moment did he 
 lose his presence of mind. He instantly moderated the tone 
 of the instrument, and gradually drew the sound away once 
 more into the distance of hearing. But he did not therefore 
 let it die. Through various changes it floated in the thin ether 
 of the soul, changes delicate as when the wind leaves the harp 
 of the reeds by a river's brink, and falls a-ringing at the heather 
 bells, or playing with the dry, silvery pods of honesty that hang 
 n the poor man's garden, till at length it drew nearer once 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 47^ 
 
 more, bearing on its wings the wail of red Flodden, the 
 " Flowers of the Forest." Listening through the melody for 
 sounds of a far different kind, Robert was aware that those 
 sounds had ceased ; the growling was still ; he heard no 
 more turnings to and fro. How it was operating he could not 
 tell, further than that there must bo some measure of soothing 
 in its influence. He ceased quite, and listened again. For a 
 few moments there was no sound. Then he heard the half- 
 articulate murmuring of one whose organs have been all but 
 overcome by the beneficent paralysis ®f sleep, but whose feeble 
 will would compel them to utterance. He was nearly asleep, 
 again. Was it a fact, or a fancy of Robert's eager heart? 
 Did the man really say : — 
 
 "Play that again, father. It's bonnie, that! I aye likit 
 the ' Flooers o' the Forest.' Play awa'. I hae had a fricht- 
 Bome dream. I thocht I was i' the ill place. I doobt I'm no 
 weel. But yer fiddle aye did me gude. Play awa', father ! " 
 
 All the night through, till the dawn of the gray morning, 
 Falconer watched the sleeping man, all but certain that he was 
 indeed his father. Eternities of thought passed through his 
 mind as he watched, this time by the couch, as he hoped, of a 
 ncAv birth. He was about to see what could be done by one 
 man, strengthened by all the aids that love and devotion could 
 give, for the redemption of his fellow. As through the dark- 
 ness of the night, and a sluggish fog to aid it, the light of a 
 pure heaven made its slow, irresistible way, his hope grew tliat 
 athwart the fog of an evil life, the darkness that might be felt, 
 the light of the • Spirit of God would yet penetrate the heart 
 of the sinner, and shake the wickedness out of it. Deeper and 
 yet deeper grew his compassion and his sympathy, in prospect 
 of the tortures the man must go through, before the will that he 
 had sunk into a deeper sleep than any into which opium could 
 sink his bodily being would shake off its deathly lethargy, and 
 arise, torn with struggling pain, to behold the light of a new 
 spiritual morning. All that he could do he was prepared to 
 do, regardless of entreaty, regardless of torture, anger, and 
 hate, with the inexorable justice of love, the law that will not. 
 must not, dares not yield, — strong with an awful tenderness, 
 a wisdom that cannot be turned aside, to redeem the lost soul 
 of his father. And he strengthened his heart for the conflict 
 
478 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 by saying that if he would do thus for his father, what would 
 not God do for his child ? Had He not proved already, if there 
 was any truth in the grand story of the world's redemption 
 through that obedience unto the death, that His devotion was 
 entire, and would leave nothing undone that could be done to 
 lift this sheep out of the pit into whose darkness and filth he 
 had fallen out of the sweet Sabbath of the universe? 
 
 He removed all his clothes, searched the pockets, found in 
 them one poor shilling and a few coppers, a black cutty pipe, a 
 box of snufi", a screw of pigtail, a knife with a buckhorn handle 
 and one broken blade, and a pawn-ticket for a keyed flute, on 
 the proceeds of which he was now sleeping, — a sleep how 
 dearly purchased, when he might have had it free, as the gift 
 of God's gentle darkness ! Then he destroyed the garments, 
 committing them to the fire as the hoped farewell to the state 
 of which they were the symbols and signs. 
 
 He found himself perplexed, however, by the absence of some 
 of the usual symptoms of the habit of opium, and concluded 
 that his poor father was in the habit of using stimulants as well 
 as narcotics, and that the action of the one interfered with the 
 action of tl/.e other. 
 
 He called his house-keeper. She did not know whom her 
 master supposed his guest to be, and regarded him only as one 
 of the many objects of his kindness. He told her to get some 
 tea ready, aa the patient would most likely wake with a head- 
 ache. He instructed her to wait upon him as a matter of 
 course, and lexplain nothing. He had resolved to pass Ur the 
 doctor, as indeed he was ; and he told her that if he should be 
 at all troublesome, he would be with her at once. She must 
 keep the room dark. He would have his own breakfast now ; 
 and, if the patient remained quiet, would sleep on the sofa. 
 
 He woke murmuring, and evidently sufiered from headache 
 and nausea. Mrs. Ashton took him some tea. He refused 
 it with an oath, — more of discomfort than of ill-nature, — and 
 was too unwell to show any curiosity about the person who had 
 offered it. Probably he was accustomed to so many changes 
 of abode, and to so many bewilderments of the brain, that ha 
 did not care to inquire where he was or who waited upon him. 
 But happily for the heart's desire of Falconer, the debauchery 
 of his father had at length reached one of many crises. Ha 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 479 
 
 had (aught cold before De FJeuri and liis comra'.les found him. 
 He was now ill, — feverish and oppressed. Through the whole 
 of the following week thej nursed and waited upon him with- 
 out his asking a single question as to where he was or who they 
 were ; during all which time Falconer saw no one but "i)e 
 Fleuri and the many poor fellows who called to inquire after 
 him and the result of their supposed success. He never left 
 the house, but either watched by the bedside, or waited in the 
 next room. Often would the patient get out of bed, driven by 
 the longing for drink or for opium, gnawing him through all 
 the hallucinations of delirium ; but he was weak, and therefore 
 manageable. If in any lucid moments he thought where he 
 was, he no doubt supposed that he was in a hospital, and prob- 
 ably had sense enough to understand that it was of no use to 
 attempt to get his own way there. He was soon much worn, 
 and his limbs trembled greatly. It was absolutely necessary 
 to give him stimulants, or he would have died, but Robert re- 
 duced them gradually as he recovered strength. 
 
 But there was an infinite work to be done beyond even curing 
 him of his evil habits. To keep him from strong drink and 
 opium, even till the craving after them was gone, would be but 
 the capturing of the merest outwork of the enemy's castle. He 
 must be made such that, even if the longing should return with 
 tenfold force, and all the means for its gratification should lie 
 within the reach of his outstretched hand, he would not touch 
 th352 God only was able to do that for him. He would do 
 all that he knew how to do, and God would not fail of his part. 
 I or this he had raised him up ; to this he had called him ; for 
 this work he had educated him, made him a physician, given 
 him money, time, the love and aid of his fellows, and, beyond 
 all, a rich energy of hope and faith in his heart, emboldening 
 bim to attempt whatever his hand found to do. 
 
480 KOBBKT FALCONER. 
 
 CHAPTER LXm. 
 
 ANDREW REBELS. 
 
 As Andrew Falconer grew better, the longing of his mind 
 after former excitement and former oblivion roused and kept 
 alive the longing of his body, until at length his thoughts dwelt 
 upon nothing but his diseased cravings. His whole imagination, 
 naturally not a feeble one, was concentrated on the delights in 
 store for him as soon as he was well enough to be his own mas^ 
 ter, as he phrased it, once more. He soon began to see that, 
 i{ he was in a hospital, it must be a private one, and at last, 
 irresolute as he was, both from character and illness, made up 
 his mind to demand his liberty. He sat by his bedroom firo 
 one afternoon, for he needed much artificial warmtli. Tho 
 shades of evening were thickening the air. He had just had 
 one of his frequent meals, and was gazing, as he often did, into 
 the glowing coals. Robert had come in, and after a little talk 
 was sitting silent at the opposite corner of the chimney-piece. 
 
 "Doctor," said Andrew, seizing the opportunity, "you've 
 been very kind to me, and I don't know how to thank you, 
 but it is time I was going. I am quite well now. Would you 
 kindly order the nurse to bring me my clothes to-morrow 
 morning, and I will go." 
 
 This he said with the quavering voice of one who speaks 
 because he. has made up his mind to speak. A certain some- 
 thing, I believe a vague, molluscous form of conscience, made 
 him wriggle and shift uneasily upon his chair as he spoke. 
 
 " No, no," said Robert, " you are not fit to go. Make your- 
 self comfortable, my dear sir. There is no reason why you 
 should go." 
 
 " There is something I don't understand about it. I want 
 to go." 
 
 " It would rum my character as a professional man to let a 
 patient in your condition leave the house. The weather is 
 unfavorable. I cannot — I must not consent." 
 
 " Where am I? I don't understand it. I want to under- 
 sUnl it." 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 481 
 
 " Your friends wish you to remain wLere you are for the 
 
 present." 
 
 " I have no friends." 
 
 " You have one, at least, who puts his house here at your 
 •ervice." 
 
 " There 's something about it I don't like. Do you suppose 
 I am incapable of taking care of myself? " 
 
 " I do, indeed," answered his son, with firmness. 
 
 " Then you are quite mistaken," said Andrew, angrily. 
 " I am quite well enough to go, and have a right to judge for 
 myself. It is very kind of you, but I am in a free country, I 
 believe." 
 
 " No doubt. All honest men are free in this country. 
 But — " 
 
 He saw that his father winced, and said no more. Andrew 
 resumed, after a pause in which he had been rousing his feeble, 
 drink-exhausted anger : — 
 
 " I tell you I will not be treated like a child. I demand 
 my clothes and my liberty." 
 
 " Do you know where you were found that night you were 
 brought here ? " 
 
 "No. What has that to do with it? I was ill. You 
 know that as well as I." 
 
 " You are ill now, because you were lying then on the wet 
 ground under a railway-arch, — utterly incapable from the 
 effects of opium, or drink, or both. You would have been 
 taken to the police-station, and would probably have, been dead 
 long before now, if you had not been brought here." 
 
 He was silent for some time. Then he broke out ; — 
 
 " I tell you I will go. I do not choose to live on charity. 
 I will not. I demand my clothes." 
 
 " I tell you it is of no use. When you are well enough to 
 go out, you shall go out, but not now." 
 
 " Where am I ? Who are you ? " 
 
 He looked at Robert with a keen, furtive glance, in whicH 
 were mingled bewilderment and suspicion. 
 
 " I am your best friend at present." 
 
 He started up, — fiercely and yet feebly, for a thought ol 
 terror had crossed him. 
 
 " You do not mean I am in a mad-house ' " 
 31 
 
482 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Robert made no reply. He left him to suppose what he 
 pleased. Andrew took it for granted that he was in a private 
 asylum, sank back in his chair, and from that moment was 
 quiet as a lamb. But it was easy to see that he was constantly 
 contriving how to escape. This mental occupation, however, 
 was excellent for his recovery ; and Robert dropped no hint of 
 his suspicion. Nor were many precautions necessary in conse- 
 quence ; for he never left the house without having De Fleuri 
 there, who was a man of determination, nerve, and, now that 
 he ate and drank, of considerable strength. 
 
 As he grew better, the stimulants given him in the form of 
 medicine at length ceased. In their place Robert substituted 
 other restoratives, which prevented him from missing the 
 stimulants so much, and at length got his system into a 
 tolerably healthy condition, though at his age, and after so 
 long indulgence, it could hardly be expected ever to recover its 
 tone. 
 
 He did all he could to provide him with healthy amusement 
 — played backgammon, draughts, and cribbage with him, 
 brought him Sir Walter's and other novels to read, and often 
 played on his violin, to which he listened with great delight. 
 At times of depression, which of course were frequent, the 
 " Flowers of the Forest" made the old man weep. Falconer 
 put yet more soul into the sounds than he had ever put into 
 them before. He tried to make the old man talk of his child- 
 hood, asking him about the place of his birth, the kind of 
 country, how he had been brought up, his family, and many 
 questions of the sort. His answers were vague, and often con- 
 tradictory. Indeed, the moment the subject was approacjied, 
 he looked suspicious and cunning. He said his name was John 
 Mackinnon ; and Robert, although his belief was strengthened 
 by a hundred little circumstances, had as yet received no proof 
 that he was Andrew Falconer. Remembering the pawn-ticket, 
 and finding that he could play on the flute, he brought him a 
 beautiful instrument, — in fact a silver one, — the sight of which 
 made the old man's eyes sparkle. • He put it to his lips with trem- 
 bling hands, blew a note or two, burst into the tears of weakness, 
 and laid it down. But he soon took it up again, and evidently 
 found both pleasure in the tones and sadness in the memories 
 they awakened. At length Robert brought a tailor, and had 
 
BOBSRT FALCONER. 483 
 
 him dressed like a gentleman, — a change which pleased him 
 much. The next step was to take him out eyerj day for a 
 drive, upon which his health began to improve more rapidly. 
 He. ate better, grew more lively, and began to tell tales of hia 
 adventures, of the truth of which Robert was not always cer- 
 tain, but never showed any doubt. He knew only too well 
 that the use of opium is especially destructive to the conscience. 
 Some of his stories he believed more readily than others, from 
 the fact that he suddenly stopped in them, as if they were lead- 
 ing him into regions of confession which must be avoided, re- 
 suming with matter that did not well connect itself with what 
 had gone before. At length he took him out walking, and he 
 comported himself with perfect propriety. 
 
 But, one day as they were going along a quiet street, Robert 
 met an acquaintance and stopped to speak with him. After a 
 few moments' chat he turned, and found that his father, whom 
 he had supposed to be standing beside him, had vanished. A 
 glance at the other side of the street showed the probable 
 refuge, — a public house. Eilled but not overwhelmed with 
 dismay, although he knew that months might be lost in this 
 one moment, Robert darted in. He was there, with a glass of • 
 whiskey in his hand, trembling now more from eagerness than 
 weakness. He struck it from his hold. But he had already 
 swallowed one glass, and he turned in a rage. He was a tall 
 and naturally powerful man, — almost as strongly built as hia 
 son, with long arms like his, which were dangerous even yet 
 in such a moment of factitious strength and real excitement. 
 Robert could not lift his arm even to defend himself from his father, 
 although, had he judged it necessary, I believe he would not, 
 in the cause of his redemption, have hesitated to knock him 
 down, as he had often served others whom he would rather a 
 thousand times have borne on his shoulders. He received his 
 father's blow on the cheek. For one moment it made him dizzy, 
 for it was well delivered. But when the barkeeper jumped 
 across the counter and approached with his fists doubled, that 
 was another matter. He measured his length on the floor, and 
 Falconer seized his father, who was making for the street, and, 
 notwithstanding his struggles and fierce efforts to strike again 
 held him secure, and himself scatheless, and bore him oat of 
 the house. 
 
484 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 'i crowd gathers in a moment in London, speeding to a fraj' 
 as the vultures to carrion. On the heels of the population of" 
 the iieighhoring mews came two policemen, and at the same 
 moment out came the barman to the assistance of Andrew. 
 But Falconer was as well known to the police as if he had a 
 ticket-of-leave, and a good deal better. 
 
 " Call a four-wheeled cab," he said to one of them. "I'm 
 all right." 
 
 The man started at once. Falconer turned to the other. 
 
 " Tell that man in the apron," he said, "that I'll make 
 him all due reparation. But he oughtn't to be in such a hurrj 
 to meddle. He gave me no time but to strike hard." 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered the policeman, obediently. The crowd 
 thought he must be a great man amongst the detectives ; but 
 the barkeeper vowed he would " summons " him for the 
 assault. 
 
 " You may, if you like," said Falconer. " When I think 
 of it, you shall do so. You know where I live?" he said, 
 'turning to the policeman. 
 
 " No, sir, I don't. I only know you well enough." 
 • " Put your hand in my coat-pocket, then, and you'll find a 
 card-case. The other. There ! Help yourself." 
 
 He said this with his arms around Andrew's, who had ceased 
 to cry out when he saw the police. 
 
 " Do you want to give this gentleman in charge, sir? " 
 
 "No. It's a little private affair of my own, this." 
 
 " Hadn't you better let him go, sir, and we'll find him for 
 you when you want him ? " 
 
 " No. He may give me in charge if he likes. Or if you 
 should want him, you will find him at my house." 
 
 Then pinioning his prisoner still more tightly in his arms, 
 he leaned forward and whispered in his ear : — 
 
 " Will you go home quietly, or give me in charge ? There 
 ia no other way, Andrew Falconer." 
 
 lie ceased struggling. Through all the flush of the contest 
 
 his face grew pale. His arms dropped by his side. Robert 
 
 let him go, and he stood there without offering to move. The 
 
 , 3ab came up ; the policeman got out ; Andrew stepped in of lua 
 
 own accord, and Robert followed. 
 
 " You see it's all right," he said. " Here, give the barman 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 485 
 
 a sovereign. If he wanta more, let me know. He deaerTcd all 
 he got, but I was wrong. John Street." 
 
 His father did not speak a word, or ask a question all the 
 way home. Evidently he thought it safer to be silent. But 
 the drink he had taken, though not enough to intoxicate him, 
 was more than enough to bring back the old longing with 
 redoubled force. He paced about the room the rest of the day, 
 like a wild beast in a cage, and in the middle of the night got 
 up and dressed, and would have crept through the room in 
 which Robert lay, in the hope of getting out. But Robert 
 slept too anxiously for that. The captive did not make the 
 slightest noise, but his very presence was enough to wake his 
 son. He started at a bound from hig couch, and his father 
 retxeated in dismay to his chamber. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV. 
 
 THE BKOWN LETTER. 
 
 At length the time arrived when Robert would make a 
 further attempt, although with a fear and trembling, to quiet 
 which he had to seek the higher aid. His father had recov- 
 ered his attempt to rush anew upon destruction. He was 
 gentler and more thoughtful, and would again sit for an hour 
 at a time gazing into the fire. From the expression of his 
 countenance upon such occasions, Robert hoped that his visions 
 were not of the evil days, but of those of its innocence. 
 
 One evening when he was in one of these moods — he had 
 just had his tea, the gas was lighted, and he was sitting as I 
 have described — Robert began to play in the next room, hop- 
 ing that the music would sink into his heart, and do something 
 to prepare the way for what was to follow. Just as he had 
 played over the " Flowers of the Forest " for the third time, 
 his house-keeper entered the room, and, receiving permission 
 from her master, went through into Andrew's chamber, and 
 presented a packet, which she said, and said truly, for she was 
 not in the secret, had been left for him. He received it with 
 evident surprise, mingled with some consternation, lookc^j^t 
 
486 ROBERT FALCONER, 
 
 the address, looked at the seal, laid it on the table, and gazed 
 again with troubled looks into the fire. He had had no cor- 
 respondence for many years. Falconer had peeped in when 
 the woman entered, but the moment she retired he could watch 
 him no longer. He went on playing a slow, lingering volun- 
 tary, such as the wind plays, of an amber autumn evening, on 
 the seolian harp of its pines. He played so gently that he 
 must hear if his father should speak. 
 
 For what seemed hours, though it was but half an hour, he 
 went on playing. At length he heard a stifled sob. He rose, 
 and peeped again into the room. The gray head was bowed 
 between the hands, and the gaunt frame was shaken with sobs. 
 On the table lay the portraits of himself and his wife ; and the 
 faded brown letter, so many years folded in silence and dark- 
 ness, lay open beside them. He had known the seal, with the 
 bush of rushes and the Gaelic motto. He had gently torn the 
 paper from around it, and had read the letter from the grave, 
 — no, from the land beyond, the land of light, where human 
 love is glorified. Not then did Falconer read the sacred words 
 of his mother; but afterwards his father put them into his 
 hands. I will give them as nearly as I can remember them, 
 for the letter is not in my possession. 
 
 ' ' My beloved Andrew, I can hardly write, for I am at the 
 point of death. I love you still — love you as dearly as before 
 you left me. Will you ever see this ? I will try to send it 
 you. I will leave it behind me, that it may come into your 
 hands when and how it may please God. You may be an old 
 man before you read these words, and may have almost for- 
 gotten your young wife. Oh ! if I could take your head on 
 my bosom where it used to lie, and, without saying a word, 
 think all that I am thinking into your heart ! my love, 
 my love ! will you have had enough of the world and its ways 
 by the time this reaches you ? Or will you be dead, like me, 
 when this is found, and the eyes of your son only, my darling 
 little Robett, read the words? Andrew, Andrew! my 
 heart is bleeding, not altogether for myself, not altogether for 
 you, but both for you and for me. Shall I never, never be 
 able to let out the sea of my love that swells till my heart ia 
 like to break with its longing after you, my own Andrew ? 
 Shall I never, never see you again ? That is the terrible 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 487 
 
 lli-«ught, — the only thought almost that makes me shrink 
 from dying. If I should go to sleep, as some think, and not 
 even dream about you, as I dream and weep evei-y night now ! 
 If I should only wake in the crowd of the resurrection, and 
 not know where to find you ! Andrew, I feel as if I 
 should lose my reason when I think that you may be on the 
 left hand of the Judge, and I can no longer say my love, be- 
 cause you do not, cannot any dore love God. I will tell you 
 the dream I had about you last night, which I think was what 
 makes me write this letter. I was standing in a great crowd 
 of people, and I saw the empty graves about us on every side. 
 We were waiting for the great white throne to appear in the 
 clouds. And as soon as I knew that, I cried, ' Andrew, 
 Andrew ! ' for I could not help it. And the people did not 
 heed me ; and I cried out and ran about everywhere, looking 
 for you. At last I came to a great gulf. When I looked 
 down into it, I could see nothing but a blue deep, like the blue 
 of the sky, under my feet. It was not so wide but that I 
 could see across it, but it was, oh ! so terribly deep. All at 
 once, as I stood trembling on the very edge, I saw you on the 
 other side, looking towards me, and stretching out your arms 
 as if you wanted me. You were old and much changed, but 
 I knew you at once, and I gave a cry that I thought all the 
 universe must have heard. You heard me. I could see that. 
 And I was in a terrible agony to get to you. But there was 
 no way, for if I fell into the gulf I should go down forever, 
 it was so deep. Something made me look away, and I saw a 
 man coming quietly along the same side of the gulf, on the 
 edge, towards me. And when he came nearer to me, I saw 
 that he was dressed in a gown down to his feet, and that his 
 feet were bare and had a hole in each of them. So I knew 
 who it was, Andrew. And I fell down and kissed his feet, 
 and lifted up my hands, and looked into his face — oh, such a 
 face ! And I tried to pray. But all I could say was, ' 
 Lord, Andrew, Andrew ! ' Then he smiled, and said, ' Daugh- 
 ter, be of good cheer. Do you want to go to him ? ' And I 
 said, 'Yes, Lord.' Then he said, 'And so do I. Come." 
 And he took my hand and led me over the edge of the prec- 
 ipice , and I was not afraid, and I did not sink, but walked 
 upon the air to go to you. But when I got to you, it was too 
 
488 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 much to bear ; and when I thouglit I had you in my arms at 
 last, I awoke, crying as I never cried before, not even when I 
 found that you had left me to die without you. Andrew, 
 what if the dream should come true ! But if it should not 
 come true ! I dare not think of that, Andrew. I couldnH 
 be happy in heaven without you. It may be very wicked, but 
 I do not feel as if it were, and I can't help it if it is. But, 
 dear husband, come to me again. Come back, like the prodi- 
 gal in the New Testament. God will forgive you everything. 
 Don't touch drink again, my dear love. I know it was the 
 drink that made you do as you did. You could never have 
 done it. It was the drink that drove you to do it. You didn't 
 know what you were doing. And then you were ashamed, and 
 thought I would be angry, and could not bear to come back to 
 me. Ah, if you were to come in at the door, as I write, you 
 would see whether or not I was proud to have my Andrew again. 
 But I would not be nice for you to look at now. You used to 
 think me pretty — you said beautiful — so long ago. But I 
 am so thin now, and my face so white, that I almost frighten 
 myself when I look in the glass. And before you get this I 
 shall be all gone to dust, either knowing nothing about you, 
 or trying to praise God, and always forgetting where I am in 
 my psalm, longing so for you to come. I am afraid I love you 
 too much to be fit to go to heaven. Then, perhaps, God will 
 Bend me to the other place, all for love of you, Andrew. And 
 I do believe I should like that better. But I don't think he 
 will, if he is anything like the man I saw in my dream. But 
 I am growing so faint that I can hardly write. I never felt 
 like this before. But that dream has given me strength to die, 
 because I hope you will come too. my dear Andrew, do, 
 do repent and turn to God, and he will forgive you ! Believe 
 in Jesus, and he will save you, and bring me to you across tlie 
 deep place. But I must make haste. I can hardly see. And 
 I must not leave this letter open for anybody but you to read 
 after 1 am dead. Good-by, Andrew. I love you all the 
 same. I am, my dea/-est husband, your affectionate wife, 
 
 "H. Falconer." 
 
 Then followed the date. It was within a week of her death. 
 The letter was feebly written, every stroke seeming more feeblu 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 489 
 
 by the contrasted strength of the words. When Falconer read 
 it stfterwards, in the midst of the emotions it aroused, — the 
 strange, lovely feelings of such a bond between him and a 
 beautiful ghost, far away somewhere in God's universe, who 
 had carried him in her lost body, and nursed him at her breasts, 
 — in the midst of it all, he could not help wondering, he 
 told me, to find the forms and words so like what he would 
 have written himself It seemed so long ago when that faded, 
 discolored paper, with the gilt edges, and the pale brown ink, 
 and folded in the large sheet, and sealed with the curious wax, 
 must have been written ; and here were its words so fresh, so 
 new ! — not withered like the rose-leaves that scented the paper 
 from the work-box where he had found it, but as fresh as if 
 just shaken from the rose-trees of the heart's garden. It was 
 no wonder that Andrew Falconer should be sitting with his 
 head in his hands when Robert looked in on him, for he had 
 read this letter. 
 
 When Robert saw how he sat, he withdrew, and took his 
 violin again, and played all the tunes of the old country he 
 30uld think of, recalling Dooble Sandy's workshop, that he 
 alight recall the music he had learned there. 
 
 No one who understands the bit and bridle of the associatioE 
 of ideas, as it is called in the skeleton language of mental 
 philosophy, wherewith the Father-God holds fast the souls of 
 his children, — to the very last that we see of them, at least, 
 •and doubtless to endless ages beyond, — will sneer at Fal- 
 coner's notion of making God's violin a ministering spirit in 
 the process of conversion. There is a well-authenticated story 
 of a convict's having been greatly reformed for a time, by 
 going, in one of the colonies, into a church, where the matting 
 along the aisle was of the same pattern as that in (he church 
 to which he had gone when a boy, — with his mother, I sup- 
 pose. It was not the matting that so far converted him ; it 
 was not to the music of his violin that Falconer looked for aid, 
 but to the memories of childhood, the mysteries of the kingdom 
 of innocence which that could recall, — those memories which 
 
 '• Are yet the fountain light of all ou-r day, 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing." 
 
 For an hour he did not venture to go near him. When ho 
 
4110 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 entered the room he found him sitting in the same place, no 
 longer weeping, but gazing into the fire with a sad counte- 
 nance, the expresssion of which showed Falconer at once that 
 the soul had come out of its cave of obscuration, and drawn 
 nearer to the surface of life. He had not seen him look so 
 much like one " clothed, and in his right mind," before. He 
 knew well that nothing could be built upon this ; that this 
 very emotion did but expose him the more to the besetting 
 sin ; that in this mood he would drink, even if he knew that 
 he would in consequence be in danger of murdering the wife 
 whose letter had made him weep. But it was progress, not- 
 withstanding. -He looked up at Robert as he entered, and 
 then dropped his eyes again. He regarded him perhaps as a 
 presence doubtful whether of angel or devil, even as the de- 
 moniacs regarded the Lord of Life who had come to set them 
 free. Bewildered he must have been to find himself, towards 
 the close of a long life of debauchery, wickedness, and the 
 growing pains of hell, caught in a net of old times, old feel- 
 ings, old truths. 
 
 Now Robert had carefully avoided every indication that 
 might disclose him to be a Scotchman even, nor was there the 
 least sign of suspicion in Andrew's manner. The only solu- 
 tion of the mystery that could have presented itself to him 
 was, that his friends were at the root of it, — probably his son, 
 of whom he knew absolutely nothing. His mother could not 
 be alive still. Of his wife's relatives there had never been 
 one who would have taken any trouble about him after her 
 death, hardly even before it. John Lammie was the only 
 person, except Dr. Anderson, whose friendship he could sup- 
 pose capable of this development. The latter was the more 
 likely person. But he would be too much for him yet ; he 
 was not going to be treated like a child, he said to himself, as 
 often as the devil got uppermost. 
 
 My reader must understand that Andrew had never been a 
 man of resolution. He had been wilful and headstrong ; and 
 these qualities, in children especially, are often mistaken for 
 resolution, and generally go under the name of strength of 
 will. There never was a greater mistake. The mistake, 
 indeed, is only excusable frora the fact that extremes meet, 
 and that this disposition is so opposite to the other that 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 491 
 
 it looka to the careless eye most like it. He never resisted 
 his own impulses, or the enticements of evil companions. 
 Kept within certain bounds at home, after he had begun to go 
 wrong, by the weight of opinion, he rushed into all excesses 
 when abroad upon business, till at length the vessel of his for- 
 tune went to pieces, and he was a waif on the waters of the 
 world. But in feeling he had never been- vulgar, however 
 much so in action. There was a feeble good in him that had 
 in part been protected by its very feebleness. He could not 
 sin so much against it as if it had been strong. For many 
 years he had fits of shame, and of grief without repentance; 
 for repentance is the active, the divine part, — the turning 
 again ; but taking more steadily both to strong drink and 
 opium, he was at the time when De Fleuri found him only the 
 dull ghost of Andrew Falconer walking in a dream of its lost 
 carcass. 
 
 CHAPTER LXV. 
 
 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 Once more Falconer retired, but not to take his violin. 
 He fcould play no more. Hope and love were swelling within 
 him. He could not rest. Was it a sign from heaven that the 
 hour for speech had arrived? He paced up and down the 
 >"Oom. H'j kneeled and prayed for guidance and help. , Some- 
 thing with in urged him to try the rusted lock of his father's 
 heart. Without any formed resolution, without any conscious 
 volition, he found himself again in his room. There the old 
 man still sat, with his back to the door, and his gaze fixed on 
 the fire, which had sunk low in the grate. Robert went round 
 in front of him, kneeled on the rug before him, and said the 
 one word, 
 
 " Father ! " 
 
 Andrew started violently, raised his hand, which trembled 
 as with a palsy, to his head, and stared wildly at Robert. 
 But he did not speak. Robert repeated the one great word. 
 Then Andrew spoke, and said in a trembling, hardly auiiibl* 
 voice : — 
 
492 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Are you my son ? — my boy Robert, sir ? " 
 
 " I am. I am. father, I have longed for you by day, 
 and dreamed about you by night, ever since I saw that othei 
 boys had fathers, and I had none. Years and years of my 
 life, — I hardly know how many, — have been spent in 
 searching for you. And now I have found you ! " 
 
 The great, tall man, "in the prime of life and strength, laid 
 his big head down on the old man's knee, as if he had been a 
 little child. His father said nothing, but laid his hand on the 
 head. For some moments the two remained thus, motionless 
 and silent. Andrew was the first to speak. And his words 
 were the voice of the spirit that striveth with man. 
 
 " What am I to do, Robert? " 
 
 No other words, not even those of passionate sorrow, or 
 overflowing afiection, could have been half so precious in the 
 ears of Robert. When a man once asks what he is to do, there 
 is hope for him. Robert answered instantly : — 
 
 " You must come home to your mother." 
 
 " My mother ! " Andrew exclaimed. " You don't mean to 
 Bay she's alive? " 
 
 "I heard from her yesterday, — in her own hand too." 
 said Robert. 
 
 " I daren't. I daren't," murmured Andrew. 
 
 " You must, father," returned Robert. " It is a long way, 
 but I will make the journey easy for you. She knows I have 
 found you. She is waiting and longing for you. She has 
 hardly thought of anything but you ever since she lost you. 
 She is only waiting to see you, and then she will go home, she 
 says. I wrote to her and said, ' Grannie, I have found your 
 Andrew.' And she wrote back to me and said, ' God be 
 praised ! I shall die in peace.' " 
 
 A silence followed. 
 
 " Will she forgive me? " said Andrew. 
 
 " She loves you more than her own soul," answered Robert. 
 " She loves you as much as I do. She loves you as much aa 
 God loves you." 
 
 "God can't love me," said Andrew, feebly. " He would 
 never have left me if he had loved me." 
 
 " He has never left you from the very first. You would 
 not take his way, father, and he just let you try your owa 
 
BOBBRT FALCONER. 493 
 
 But long before that he had begun to get me ready to go after 
 you. He had put such love to you in my heart, and gave me 
 Buch teaching and such training, that. I have found you aV 
 last. And now I have found you, 1 will hold you. You 
 cannot escape, — you will not want to escape any more, 
 father?" 
 
 Andrew made no reply to this appeal. It sounded like im- 
 prisonment for life, I suppose. But thought was moving in 
 him. After a long pause, during which the son's heart waa 
 hungering for a word whereon to hang a further hope, the old 
 man spoke again, muttering as if he were only speaking hia 
 thoughts unconsciously. 
 
 " Where's the use? There's no forgiveness for me. My 
 mother is going to heaven. I must go to hell. No. It's no 
 good. Better leave it as it is. I daren't see her. It would 
 kill me to see her." 
 
 " It will kill her not to see you ; and that will be one sin 
 more on your conscience, father." 
 
 Andrew got up and walked about the roofn. And Robert 
 only then arose from his knees. 
 
 " And there's my mother," he said. 
 
 Andrew did not reply ; but Robert saw when he turned next 
 towards the light, that the sweat was standing in beads on hia 
 forehead. 
 
 " Father," he said, going up to him. 
 
 The old man stopped in his walk,, turned, and faced his 
 son 
 
 "Farther," repeated Robert, "you've got to repent; and 
 God won't let you off; and you needn't think it. You'll have 
 to repent some day." 
 
 " In hell, Robert," said Andrew, looking him full in the 
 eyes, as he had never looked at him before. It seemed as if 
 even so much acknowledgment of the truth had already made 
 him bolder and honester. 
 
 " Yes. Either on earth or in hell. Would it not be better 
 on earth? " 
 
 " But it will be no use in hell," he murmured. 
 
 In those few words lay the germ of the preference for hell 
 of poor souls, enfeebled by wickedness. They will not have tq 
 do anytMng there, — only to moan and cry and suffer forever, 
 
494 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 they think. It is eflFort, the outgoing of the living will that 
 they dread. The sorrow, the remorse of repentance, they do 
 not so much regard; it is the action it involves; it is the 
 having to turn, be different, and do differently, that they shrink 
 from ; and they have been taught to believe that this will not 
 be required of them there — in that awful refuge of the will- 
 less. I do not say they think thus ; I only say their dim, 
 vague, feeble feelings are such as, if they grew into thought, 
 would take this form. But tell them that the fire of God 
 without and within them will compel them to bethink them- 
 selves ; that the vision of an open door beyond the smoke and 
 the flames will ever urge them to call up the ice-bound will, 
 that it may obey ; that the torturing spirit of God in them will 
 keep their consciences awake, not to remind them of what they 
 ought to have done, but to tell them what they must do now, 
 and hell will no longer fascinate them. Tell them that there is 
 no refuge from the compelling Love of God, save that Love 
 itself, — that He is in hell too, and that if they make their 
 bed in hell they shall not escape him, and then, perhaps, they 
 will have some true presentiment of the " worm that dieth not 
 and the fire that is not quenched." 
 
 "Father, it will be of use in hell," said Kobert. "Gsd 
 will give you no rest even there. You will have to repent 
 some day, I do believe, — if not now under the sunshine of 
 heaven, then in the torture of the awful world where there is 
 no light but that of the conscience. Would it not be better 
 and easier to repent now, with your wife waiting for you in 
 heaven, and your mother waiting for you on earth ? " 
 
 Will it be credible to my reader — that Andrew inter- 
 rupted his son with the words : — 
 
 " Robert, it is dreadful to hear you talk like that. Why, 
 you don't believe in the Bible ! " 
 
 His words will be startling to one who has never heard the 
 lips of a hoary old sinner drivel out religion. To me they are 
 not so startling" as the words of Christian women and bishops 
 of the Church of England, when they say that the doctrine of 
 the everlasting happiness of the righteous stands or falls witli 
 the doctrine of the hopeless damnation of the wicked. Can it 
 be that to such the word is everything, the spirit nothing? 
 No, It is only that the devil is playing a very wicked prank, 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 495 
 
 not with them, but in them ; they are pluming themselves on 
 being selfish after a godly sort. 
 
 "I do believe the Bible, father," returned Kobert, ''and 
 have ordered my life by it. If I had not believed the Bible, I 
 fear I should never have looked for you. But I won't dispute 
 about it. I only say I believe that you will be compelled to 
 repent some day, and that now is the best time. Then, you 
 will not only have to repent, but to repent that you did not 
 repent now. And I tell you, father, that you shall go to my 
 grandmother." 
 
 CHAPTER LXVI. 
 
 CHANGE •OF SCENE. 
 
 But. various reasons combined to induce Falconer to post- 
 pone yet for a period their journey to the North. Not merely 
 did his father require an unremitting watchfulness, which it 
 would be difficult to keep up in his native place amongst old 
 friends and acquaintances, but his health was more broken than 
 he had at first supposed, and change of air and scene without 
 excitement was most desirable. He was anxious too that the 
 change his mother must see in him should be as little as pos- 
 sible attributable to other causes than those that years bring 
 ■with them. To this was added that his own health had begun 
 to suffer from the watching and anxiety he had gone through ; 
 and for his father's sake, as well as for the labor which yet 
 lay before him, he would keep that as sound as he might. He 
 wrote to his grandmother and explained the matter. She 
 begged him to do as he thought best, for she was so happy that 
 she did not care if she should never see Andrew in this world ; 
 it was enough to die in the hope of meeting him in the other. 
 But she had no reason to fear that death was at hand; for, 
 although much more frail, she felt as well as ever. 
 
 By this time Falconer had introduced me to his father. I 
 found him in some things very like his son ; in others, very 
 different. His manners were more polished ; his pleasure in 
 pleasing much greater ; his humanity had blossomed too easily, 
 
4;)G ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 and then run to seed. Alas, to no seed that could bear fruit ! 
 There was a weak expression about his mouth, — a wavering 
 interrogation. It was so different from the firmly closed por- 
 tals whence issued the golden speech of his son ! He had a sly, 
 sidelong look at times, whether of doubt or cunning, I could 
 not always determine. His eyes, unlike his son's, were of a 
 light blue, and hazy both in texture and expression. His hands 
 were long-fingered and tremulous. He gave your hand a sharp 
 squeeze, and the same instant abandoned it with indifference. 
 I soon began to discover in him a tendency to patronize any 
 one who showed him a particle of respect as distinguished from 
 commonplace civility. But under all outward appearances it 
 seemed to me that there was a change going on ; at least, being 
 very willing to believe it, I found nothing to render belief im- 
 possible. 
 
 He was very fond of the flute his son had given him, and on 
 that sweetest and most expressionless of instruments he played 
 exquisitely. 
 
 One evening when I called to see them. Falconer said : — 
 
 " We are going out of town for a few weeks, Gordon ; will 
 you go with us ? " 
 
 " I am afraid I can't." 
 
 " Why? You have no teaching at present, and your writ- 
 ing you can do aa well in the country as in town." 
 
 " That is true ; but still I don't see how I can. I am too 
 poor, for one thing." 
 
 " Between you and me that is nonsense." 
 
 " Well, I withdraw that," I said. " But there is so much 
 to be done, especially as you will be away, and Miss St. John 
 is at the Lakes." 
 
 " That is all very true; but you need a change. I have 
 seen for some weeks that you are failing. Mind, it is our best 
 work that He wants, not the dregs of our exhaustion. I hope 
 you are not of the mind of our friend Mr. Watts, the curate 
 of St. Gregory's." 
 
 " I thought you had a high opinion of Mr. Watts," I re- 
 turned. 
 
 " So I have. I hope it is not necessary to agree with a 
 man in everything before we can have a high opinion of him." 
 
ROBERT I'ALCONEE. 
 
 45)7 
 
 '' Of course not. But what is it you hope I am not of hia 
 opinion in? " 
 
 "He seems ambitious of killing himself with work, — of 
 wearing himself out in the service of his Master, — and as 
 quickly as possible. A good deal of that kind of thing is a- 
 mere holding of the axe to the grindstone, not a lifting of it up 
 against thick trees. Only he won't be convinced till it comes 
 to the helve. I met him the other day ; he was looking as 
 white as his surplice. I took upon me to read him a lecture 
 on the holiness of holidays. ' I can't leave my poor,' he said. 
 ' Do you think God can't do without you ? ' I asked. ' Is he 
 BO weak that he cannot spare the help of a weary man ? Bat 
 I think he must prefer quality to quantity, and for healthy 
 work you must be healthy yourself. How can you be the 
 visible sign of the Christ-present amongst men, if you inhabit 
 • an exhausted, irritable brain ? Go to God's infirmary and rest 
 a while. Bring back health from the country to those that 
 cannot go to it. If on the way it be transmuted into spiritual 
 forms, so much the better. A little more of God will make up 
 for a good deal less of you.' " 
 
 " What did he say to that ? " 
 
 " He said our Lord died doing the will of hia Father. I 
 told him, ' Yes, when his time was come, not sooner. Be- 
 sides, he often avoided both speech and action.' — 'Yes.' ho 
 answered, ' but he could tell when, and we cannot.' — ' There- 
 fore,' I rejoined, 'yon ought to accept your exhaustion as & 
 token that your absence will be the best thing for your people. 
 If there were no God, then perhaps you ought to work till you 
 drop down dead, — I don't know.' 
 
 "Is he gone yet? " 
 
 " No. He won't go. I couldn't persuade him." 
 
 " "When do you go ? " 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 "I shall be ready, if you really mean it." 
 
 " That's an if worthy only of a courtier. There may be 
 much virtue in an if, as Touchstone says, for the taking up of 
 a quarrel ; but that if is bad enough to breed one," said Fal- 
 coner, laughing. " Be at the Paddington Station at noon to- 
 morrow. To tell the whole truth, I want you to help me with 
 my father." 
 
 33 
 
49S ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 This last was said at the door, as he showed me out. 
 
 In the afternoon we were nearing Bristol. It was a lovely 
 day in October. Andrew had been enjoying himself; but it 
 was evidently rather the pleasure of travelling in a first-class 
 carriage like a gentleman, than any delight in the beauty of, 
 heaven and earth. The country was in the rich sombre dresa 
 of decay. 
 
 "Is it not remarkable," said my friend to me, " that the 
 older I grow, I find autumn afiecting me the more like spring ? " 
 
 "I am thankful to say," interposed Andrew, with a smile 
 in which was mingled a shade of superiority, " that no change 
 of the seasons ever affects me." 
 
 " Are you sure you are right in being thankful for that, 
 father ? " asked his son. 
 
 His father gazed at him for a moment, seemed to bethink 
 himself after some feeble fashion or other, and rejoined : — 
 
 " Well, I must confess I did feel a touch of the rheumatism 
 this morning." 
 
 How I pitied Falconer ! Would he ever see of the travail 
 of his soul in this man ? But he only smiled a deep, sweet 
 smile, and seemed to be thinking divine things in that great 
 head of his. 
 
 At Bristol we went on board a small steamer and at night 
 were landed at a little village on the coast of North Devon. 
 The hotel to which we went was on the steep bank of a tu- 
 multuous little river, which tumbled past its foundation of rock, 
 like a troop of watery horses galloping by with ever-dissolving 
 limbs. The elder Falconer retired almost as soon as we had 
 had supper. My friend and I lighted our pipes, and sat by the 
 open window, for, although the autumn was so far advanced, the 
 air here was very mild. For some time we only listened to the 
 sound of the waters. 
 
 "There are three things," said Falconer, at last, taking his 
 pipe out of his mouth with a smile, " that give a peculiarly 
 perfect feeling of abandonment : the laughter of a child ; a snake 
 lying across a fallen branch ; and the rush of a stream like 
 this beneath us, whose only thought is to get to the sea." 
 
 We did not talk mucli that night, however, but went soon to 
 bed. None of us slept well. We agreed in the morning that 
 the noise of the stream had been too much for us all, and that 
 
BOBERT FALCONER. 499 
 
 the place felt close and torpid. Andrew complained that the 
 ceaseless sound wearied him, and Robert that he felt the aim- 
 less endlessness of it more than was good for him. I confess it 
 irritated me like an anodyne unable to soothe. We were 
 clear] j all in want of something different. The air between 
 the hills- clung to them, hot and moveless. We would climb 
 those hills, and breathe the air that flitted about over their 
 craggy tops. 
 
 As soon as we had breakfasted, we set out. It was soon 
 evident that Andrew could not ascend the steep road. We 
 returned and got a carriage. When we reached the top, it 
 was like a resurrection, like a dawning of hope out of despair. 
 The cool, friendly wind blew on our faces, and breathed 
 strength into our frames. Before us lay the ocean, the visible 
 type of the invisible, and the vessels with their white sails moved 
 about over it like the thoughts of men feebly searching the un- 
 known. Even Andrew Falconer spread out his arms to the 
 wind, and breathed deep, filling his great chest full. 
 
 " I feel like a boy again," he said. 
 
 His son strode to his side, and laid his arm over his shoulders. 
 
 "So do I, father," he returned; " but it is because I have 
 got you." 
 
 The old man turned and looked at him with a tenderness I 
 had never seen on his face before. As soon as I saw that, I 
 no longer doubted that he could be saved. 
 
 We found rooms in a farm-house on the topmost height. 
 
 " These are poor little hills. Falconer." I said. " Yet they 
 help one like mountains." 
 
 " The whole question is," he returned, " whether they are 
 high enough to lift you out of the dirt. Here we are in the 
 airs of heaven, — that is all we need." 
 
 " They make me think how often, amongst the country peo^ 
 pie of Scotland, I have wondered at the clay-feet upon which a 
 golden head of wisdom stood ! What poor needs, what humble 
 aims, what a narrow basement generally, was sufficient to 
 support the statues of pure-eyed Faith and white-handed 
 Hope." 
 
 "Yes," said Falconer; "he who is faithful over a few 
 things is a lord of cities. It does not matter whether you 
 
500 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 preach in Westminster Abbey, or teach a ragged class, so yo» 
 be faithful. The faithfulness is all." 
 
 After an early dinner we went out for a walk, but we did 
 not go far before we sat down upon the grass. Falconer laid 
 himself at full length and gazed upwards. 
 
 " When I look like this into the blue sky," he said, after a 
 moment's silence, " it seems so deep, so peaceful, so full of a 
 mysterious tenderness, that I could lie for centuries and wait 
 for the dawning of the face of God out of the awful loving- 
 kindness." 
 
 I had never heard Falconer talk of his own present feelings 
 in this manner ; but glancing at the face of his father, with a 
 sense of his unfitness to hear such a lofty utterance, I saw at 
 once that it was for his sake that he had thus spoken. The 
 old man had thrown himself back too, and was gazing into 
 the sky, puzzling himself, I could see, to comprehend what 
 his son could mean. I fear he concluded, for the time, that 
 Robert was not gifted with the amount of common-sense be- 
 longing of right to the Falconer family, and that much relig- 
 ion had made him a dreamer. Still, I thought I could see 
 a kind of awe pass like a spiritual shadow across his face as he 
 gazed into the blue gulfs over him. No one can detect the 
 first beginnings of any life, and those of spiritual emotion 
 must more than any lie beyond our knowledge ; there is infi- 
 nite room for hope. Falconer said no more. We betook our- 
 selves early within doors, and he read King Lear to us, ex- 
 pounding the spiritual history of the poor old king after a 
 fashion I had never conceived, — showing us how the said his- 
 tory was all compressed, as far as human eye could see of it, 
 into the few months that elapsed between his abdication and his 
 death ; how in that short time he had to learn everything that 
 he ought to have been learning all his life; and how, because 
 he had put it ofi" so long, the lessons that had then to be given 
 him were awfully severe. 
 
 I thought what a change it was for the old man to lift his 
 head into the air of thought and life, out of the sloughs of 
 misery in which he had been wallowing for years. 
 
BOBBRT FALCONER. 501 
 
 CHAPTER LXVII. 
 
 IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 The next morning Falconer, who knew the country, took 
 »8 out for a drive. We passed through lanes and gates out 
 upon an open moor, where he stopped the carriage, and led ua 
 a few yards on one side. Suddenly, hundreds of feet below 
 Qs, down what seemed an almost precipitous descent, we saw 
 the wood-embosomed, stream-trodden valley we had left the 
 day before. Enough had been cleft and scooped seawards out 
 of the lofty table-land to give room for a few little conical hills 
 with curious peaks of bare rock. At the bases of these hills 
 flowed noisily two or three streams, which joined in one, and 
 trotted out to sea over rocks and stones. The hills and the 
 sides of the great cleft were half of them green with grass, 
 and half of them robed in the autumnal foliage of thick woods. 
 By the streams and in the woods nestled pretty houses ; and 
 away at the mouth of the valley and the stream lay the village. 
 All around, on our level, stretched farm and moorland. 
 
 When Andrew Falconer stood so unexpectedly on the verge 
 of the steep descent, he trembled and started back with fright. 
 His son made him sit down a little way off, where yet we could 
 see into the valley. The sun was hot, the air clear and mild, 
 and the sea broke its blue floor into innumerable sparkles of 
 radiance. We sat for a while in silence. 
 
 "Are you sure," I said, in the hope of setting my friend 
 talking, "that there is no horrid pool down there? no half- 
 trampled thicket, with broken pottery and shreds of tin lying 
 about ? no dead carcass, or dirty cottage, with miserable wife 
 and greedy children ? When I was a child, I knew a lovely 
 place that I could not half enjoy, because, although hidden 
 from my view, an ugly stagnation, half mud, half water, lay 
 in a certain spot below me. When I had to pass it, I used -to 
 creep by with a kind of dull terror, mingled with hopeless 
 disgust, and I have never got over the feeling." 
 
 " You remind me much of a friend of mine of whom I have 
 spoken to you before," said Falconer, — " Eric Ericson. I have 
 shown you many of his verses, but I don't think I ever showed 
 
502 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 you one little poem containing an expression of the same Sow- 
 ing. I think I can repeat it : — 
 
 " ' Some men there are who cannot spare 
 A single tear until they feel 
 The last cold pressure, and the heel 
 Is stamped upon the outmost layer. 
 
 " ' And, waking, some will sigh to think 
 
 The clouds have borrowed winter's wing, -' 
 Sad winter, when the grasses spring 
 No more about the fountain's brink. 
 
 " 'And some would call me coward- fool: 
 I lay a claim to better blood ; 
 But yet a heap of idle mud 
 Hath power to make me sorrowful.' " 
 
 I Silt thinking over the verses, for I found the feeling a little 
 difficult to follow, although the last stanza was plain enough. 
 Falconer resumed. 
 
 "I think this is as likely as any place," he said, "to be 
 free of such physical blots. For the moral I cannot say. 
 But I have learned, I hope, not to be too fastidious, — I mean 
 so as to be unjust to the whole because of the part. The im- 
 pression made by a whole is just as true as the result of an 
 analysis, and is greater and more valuable in every respect. If 
 we rejoice in the beauty of the whole, the other is sufficiently 
 forgotten. For moral ugliness, it ceases to distress in propor- 
 tion as we labor to remove it, and regard it in its true relations 
 to all that surrounds it. There is an old legend, which 'i_dare 
 say you know. The Saviour and his disciples were walking 
 along the way, when they came upon a dead dog. The dis- 
 ciples did not conceal their disgust. The Saviour said, 
 • How white its teeth are ! ' "^ 
 
 "That is very beautiful," I rejoined. "Thank God for 
 that. It is true, whether invented or not. But," I added, 
 i' it does not quite answer to the question about which we 
 have been talking. The Lord got rid of the pain of the ugli- 
 ness by finding the beautiful in it." 
 
 " It does correspond, however, I think, in principle," re- 
 turned Falconer; "only it goes much farther, making the 
 exceptional beauty hallow the general ugliness, — which is the 
 true way ; for beauty is life, and therefore infinitely deeper 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 503 
 
 and more powerful than ugliness, which is death. ' A dram 
 of sweet,' says Spencer, ' is worth a pound of sour.' " 
 
 It was so delightful to hear him talk — for what he said 
 was not only far finer than my record of it, but the whole 
 man spoke as well as his mouth — that I sought to start him 
 again 
 
 " I wish," I said, " that I could see things as you do, — iu 
 great masses of harmonious unity. I am only able to see a 
 truth sparkling here and there, and to' try to lay hold of it. 
 When I aim at more, I am like Noah's dove, without a place 
 to rest the sole of my foot." 
 
 " That is the only way to begin. Leave the large vision 
 to Itself, and look well after your sparkles. You will find 
 them grow and gather and unite, until you are afloat on a sea 
 of radiance — with cloud shadows, no doubt." 
 
 " And yet," I resumed, " I never seem to have room." 
 
 " That is just why." 
 
 " But I feel that I cannot find it. I know that if I fly to 
 that bounding cape on the far horizon there, I shall only find 
 a place — a place to want another in. There is no fortunate 
 island out on that sea." 
 
 " I fancy," said Falconer, " that until a man loves space, 
 he will never be at peace in a place. At least so I have found 
 it. I am content if you but give me room. All space to me 
 throbs with being and life ; and the loveliest spot on the earth 
 seems but the compression of space till the meaning shines out 
 of it, as the fire flies out of the air when you drive it close 
 to(»ether. To seek place after place for freedom is a constant 
 effort to flee from space, and a vain one, for you are ever 
 haunted by the need of it, and therefore when you seek most 
 to escape it, fancy that you love it and want it." • 
 
 " You are getting too mystical for me now," I said. " 1 
 am not able to follow you." 
 
 " I fear I was on the point of losing myself. At all events 
 I can go no further now. And indeed I fear I have been but 
 skirting the Limbo of Vanities." 
 
 He rose, for we copld both see that this talk was not in the 
 least interesting to our companion. We got again into the 
 sarriage, which, by Falconer's orders, was turned and dilven 
 
504 ROBERT FALCOJTER. 
 
 in the opposite direction, still at no great distance from tha 
 lotty edge of the heights that rose above the shore. 
 
 We came at length to a lane bounded with stone walls, 
 every stone of which had its moss and every chink its fern. 
 The lane grew more and more grassy; the walls vanished; 
 and the track faded away into a narrow winding valley, formed 
 by the many meeting curves of opposing hills. They were 
 green to the top with sheep-grass, and spotted here and there 
 with patches of fern, great stones, and tall, withered foxgloves. 
 The air was sweet and healthful, and Andrew evidently 
 enjoyed it because it reminded him again of his boyhood. 
 The only sound we heard was the tinkle of a few tender sheep- 
 bells, and now and then the tremulous bleating of a sheep. 
 With a gentle winding, the valley led us into a more open 
 portion of itself, where fre old man paused with a look of 
 astonished pleasure. 
 
 Before us, seaward, rose a rampart against the sky, like the 
 turreted and embattled wall of a huge eastern city, built of 
 loose stones piled high, and divided by great peaky rocks. In 
 the centre rose above them all one solitary, curiously shaped 
 mass, one of the oddest peaks of the Himmalays in miniature. 
 From its top on the further side was a sheer descent to the 
 waters far below the level of the valley from which it imme- 
 diately rose. It was altogether a strange, freaky, fantastic 
 place, not without its grandeur. It looked like the remains 
 of a frolic of the Titans, or rather as if reared-by the boys and 
 girls, while their fathers and mothers " lay stretched out huge 
 in length," and in breadth too, upon the slopes around, and 
 laughed thunderously at the sportive invention of their sons 
 and daughters. Falconer helped his father up to the edge of 
 the rampart, that he might look over. Again he started back, 
 "afraid of that which was high," for the lowly valley was yet 
 at a great height above the diminished waves. On the out- 
 side of the rampart ran a narrow path whence the green hill- 
 side went down steep to the sea. The gulls were screaming 
 far below us ; we could see the little flying streaks of white. 
 Beyond was the great ocean. A murmyrous sound came up 
 from its shore. 
 
 We descended and seated ourselves on the short, springy 
 grass of a little mound at the loot of one of the hills, where it 
 
ROBEKT FALCONBB. 505 
 
 «ank slowly, like the dying gush of a wave, into the hollowest 
 centre of the little vale. 
 
 "Everything tends to the cone-shape here," said Falconer, 
 — "the oddest and at the same time most wonderful of math- 
 ematical figures." 
 
 "Is it not strange," I said, "that oddity and wonder 
 should come so near?" 
 
 "They often do in the human world as well," returned he. 
 " Therefore it is not strange that Shelley should have been so 
 fond of this place. It is told of him that repeated sketches of 
 the spot were found on the covers of his letters, I know noth- ; 
 ing more like Shelley's poetry than this valley, — wildly fan- ,' 
 tastic and yet beautiful, — as if a huge genius were playing at, 
 grandeur, and producing little models of great things. But 
 there is one grand thing I want to show you a little furtheij 
 on." 
 
 We rose, and walked out of the valley on the other side, 
 along the lofty coast. When we reached a certain point, Fal- 
 coner stood and requested us to look as far as we could, along 
 the cliffs to the face of the last of them. 
 
 " What do you see? " he asked. 
 
 "A perpendicular rock, going right down into the blue 
 waters," I answered. 
 
 "Look at it; what is th« outline of it like? Whose face is 
 it?" 
 
 " Shakespeare's, by all that is grand ! " I cried. 
 
 " So it is," said Andrew. 
 
 " Eight. Now I'll tell you what I would do. If I were 
 very rich, and tiiere were no poor people in the country, I 
 would give a commission to some great sculptor to attack that 
 rock and work out its suggestion. Then, if I had any money 
 left, we should find one for Bacon, and one for Chaucer, and 
 one for Milton ; and, as we are about it, we may fancy as many 
 more as we like ; so that from the bounding rocks of our 
 island, the memorial faces of our great brothers should look 
 abroad over the seas into the infinite sky beyond." 
 
 "Well now," said the elder, '"I think it is grander as it 
 is." 
 
 "You are quite right, father," said Robert. "And m 
 
506 ROBERT rALCONBH. 
 
 with many of our fancies for perfecting God's mighty sketches, 
 which he only can finish." 
 
 Again we seated ourselves, and looked out over the waves. 
 
 " I have never yet heard," I said, " how you managed with 
 that poor girl that wanted to drown herself, — on Westmin- 
 ster Bridge, I mean, — that night, you remember." 
 
 " Miss St. John has got her in her own house at present. 
 She has given her those two children we picked up at the door 
 of the public house to take care of. Poor little darlings! they 
 are bringing back the life in her heart already. There is act- 
 ually a little color in her cheek, — the dawn, I trust, of the 
 eternal life. That is Miss St. John's way. As often as she 
 gets hold of a poor, hopeless woman, she gives her a mother- 
 less child. It is wonderful what the childless woman and 
 motherless child do for each other." 
 
 " I was much amused the other day with the lecture one 
 of the police magistrates gave a poor creature who was brought 
 before him for attempting to drown herself He did give her 
 a sovereign out of the poor-box though." 
 
 " Well, that might just tide her over the shoal of self-de- 
 struction," said Falconer. "But I cannot help doubting 
 whether any one has a right to prevent a suicide from carrying 
 out his purpose, who is not prepared to do a good deal more 
 for him than that. What would you think of the man who 
 snatched the loaf from a hungry thief, threw it back into the 
 bakers cart, and walked away to his club-dinner? Harsh 
 words of rebuke, and the thread of severe punishment upon a 
 second attempt, — what are they to the wretch weary of life ? 
 To some of them the kindest punishment would be to hang 
 them for it. It is something else than punishment that they 
 need. If the comfortable alderman had but ' a feeling of their 
 afflictions,' felt in himself for a moment how miserable he must 
 be, what a waste of despair must be in his heart, before he 
 would do it himself, before the awful river would appear to 
 him a refuge from the upper air, he would change his tone. I 
 fear he regards suicide chiefly as a burglarious entrance into 
 the premises of the respectable firm of Venison, Port, & Co." 
 
 "But you mustn't be too hard upon him. Falconer; for if 
 bis god is his belly, how can he regard suicide as other than 
 the most awful sacrilege? " 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 50T 
 
 " Of course not. His well-fed divinity gives him one great 
 oommandment : ' Thou shalt love thyself with all thy heart. 
 The great breach is to hurt thyself, — worst of all to send 
 thyself away from the land of luncheons and dinners, to the 
 country of thought and vision.' But, alas ! he does not re- 
 flect on the fact that the good Belial does not feed all his vota- 
 ries ; that he has his elect ; that the altar of his inner-table too 
 often smokes with no sacrifice of which his poor meagre priests 
 may partake. They must uphold the Divinity which has been 
 good to them, and not suffer his worship to fall into disre 
 pute." 
 
 " Eeally, Robert," said his father, " I am afraid to think 
 what you will come to. You will end in denying there is a 
 God at all. You don't believe in hell, and now you justify 
 suicide. Really — I must say — to say the least of it — I 
 have not been accustomed to hear such things." 
 
 The poor old man looked feebly righteous at his wicked son. 
 I verily believe he was concerned for his eternal fate. Fal- 
 coner gave a pleased glance at me, and for a mocaent said 
 nothing. Then he began, with a kind of logical composure : — 
 
 " In the first place, father, I do not believe in such a God 
 as some people say they believe in. Their God is but an idol 
 of the heathen, modified with a few Christian qualities. For 
 hell, I don't believe there is any escape from it but by leaving 
 hellish things behind. For suicide, I do not believe it is 
 wicked because it hurts yourself, but I do believe it is very 
 wicked. I only want to put it on ij;s own right footing." 
 
 " And pray what do you consider its right footing? " 
 
 " My dear father, I recognize no duty as owing to a man's 
 self. There is and can be no such thing. I am and can be 
 under no obligation to myself. The whole thing is a fiction, 
 and of evil invention. It comes from the upper circles of the 
 hell of selfishness. Or perhaps it may with some be merely 
 a form of metaphysical mistake ; but an untruth it is. Then 
 for the duty we .do owe to other people ; how can we expect the 
 men or women who have found life to end, as it seems to them, 
 in a dunghill of misery, — how can we expect such to under- 
 stand any obligation to live for the sake of the general others, 
 to no individual of whom, possibly, do they bear an endurable 
 relation? What remains? — The grandest, noblest duty, from 
 
508 AOBBRT FALCONER. 
 
 which all other duty springs, — the duty to the possible God. 
 Mind I say possible God, for I judge it first of vaj duties 
 towards my neighbor to regard his duty from his position, not 
 from mine." 
 
 " But," said I, " how would you bring that duty to bear on 
 the mind of a suicide ? " 
 
 " I think some of the tempted could understand it, though 
 I fear not one of those could who judge them hardly, and talk 
 senteritiously of the wrong done to a society which has done 
 next to nothing for him, by the poor, starved, refused, hus- 
 band-tortured wretch perhaps, who hurries at last to the might 
 of the filthy flowing river which, the one thread of hope in the 
 web of despair, crawls through the city of death. What 
 should I say to him ? I should say : ' God liveth ; thou art 
 not thine own, but his. Bear thy hunger, thy horror, in his 
 name. I in his name will help thee out of them, as I may. 
 To go before he calleth thee is to say "Thou forgettest," 
 unto him who numbereth the hairs of thy head. Stand out in 
 the cold and the sleet and the hail of this world, son of man, 
 till thy Father open the door and call thee. Yea, even if 
 thou knowest him not, stand and wait, lest there should be, 
 after all, such a loving and tender one, who for the sake of a 
 good with which thou wilt be all-content, and without which 
 thou never couldst be content, permits thee there to stand -^ 
 for a time — long to his sympathizing as well as to thy suffer- 
 ing heart.' " 
 
 Here Falconer paused, and when he spoke again it was from 
 the ordinary level of conversation. Indeed, I fancied that he 
 was a little uncomfortable at the excitement into which his 
 feelings had borne him. 
 
 " Not many of them could understand this, I dare say; but 
 I think most of them could feel it without understanding it. 
 Certainly the ' belly with good capon lined ' will neither under- 
 stand nor feel it. Suicide is a sin against God, I repeat, not a 
 crime over which human laws have any hold. In regard to 
 such, man has a duty alone, — that, namely, of making it 
 possible for every man to live. And where the dread of death 
 is not sufficient to deter, what can the threat of punishment do ? 
 Or what great thing is gained if it should succeed ? What 
 ftgonies a man must have gone through, in whom neither the 
 
ROBERT FALOONBS. 509 
 
 horror of falling into such a river, nor of the knife in the flesh 
 instinct with life, can extinguish the vague longing to wrap up 
 his weariness in an endless sleep ! " 
 
 "Bat," I remarked, "you would, I fear, encourage the 
 trade in suicide. Your kindness would be terribly abused. 
 What would you do with the pretended suicides?" 
 
 " Whip them for trifling with and trading upon the feelings 
 of their kind." 
 
 *' Then you would drive them to suicide in earnest." 
 
 " Then they might be worth something, which they were not 
 before." 
 
 "We are a great deal too humane for that nowadays, I 
 fear. We don't like hurting people." 
 
 " No. We are infested with a philanthropy which is the off- 
 spring of our mammon-worship. But surely our tender mercies 
 are cruel. We don't like to hang people, however unfit they 
 may be to live amongst their fellows. A weakling pity will 
 petition for the life of the worst murderer, — but for what? 
 To keep him alive in a confinement as like their notion of hell 
 as they dare to make it, namely, a place whence all the sweet 
 visitings of the grace of God are withdrawn, and the man has 
 not a chance, so to speak, of growing better. In this hell of 
 theirs they will even pamper his beastly body." 
 
 " They have the chaplain to visit them." 
 
 " I pity the chaplain, cut off in his labors from all the aids 
 which Grod's world alone can give for the teaching of these 
 men. Human beings have not the right to inflict such cruel 
 punishment upon their fellow-man. It springs from a cowardly 
 shrinking from responsibility, and from mistrust of the mercy 
 of God ; — perhaps, first of all, from an overvaluing of the mere 
 life of the body. Hanging is tenderness itself to such a pun- 
 ishment." • 
 
 " I think you are hardly fair, though, Falconer. It is the 
 fear of sending them to hell that prevents them from hanging 
 them." 
 
 " Yes. You are right, I dare say. They are not of David's 
 mind who would rather fall in the hands of God than of men. 
 They think their hell is not so hard as his, and may be better 
 for them. But I must not, as you say,. forget that they do be- 
 
510 BOBERT FALCONER. 
 
 lieye their everlasting fate hangs upon their hands, for if God 
 once gets his hold of them by death they are lost forever.' 
 
 " But the chaplain may awake them to a sense of their sins." 
 
 " I do not think it is likely that talk will do what the dis- 
 cipline of life has not done. It seems to me, on the contrary, 
 that the clergyman has no commission to rouse people to a 
 sense of their sins. That is not his work. He is far more 
 liksly to harden them by any attempt in that direction. Every 
 man does feel his sins, though he often does not know it. To 
 turn his attention away from what he does feel, by trying t» 
 rouse in him feelings which are impossible to him in his pres 
 ent condition, is to do hiip a great wrong. The clergyman has 
 the message of salvation, not of sin, to give. Whatever oppres- 
 sion is on a man, whatever trouble, whatever conscious some- 
 thing that comes between him and the blessedness of life, is his 
 sin ; for whatever is not of faith is sin ; and from all this He 
 came to save us. Salvation alone can rouse in us a sense of 
 our sinfulness. One must have got on a good way before he 
 can be sorry for his sins. There is no condition of sorrow laid 
 down asnecessary to forgiveness. Repentance does not mean 
 sorrow ; it means turning away from the sins. Every mun can 
 do that, more or less. And that every man must do. The 
 sorrow will come afterwards, all in good time. Jesus offers to 
 take us out of our own hands into his, if we will only obey 
 him." 
 
 The eyes of the old man were fixed' on his son as he spoke. 
 He did seem to be thinking. I could almost fancy that a glim- 
 mer of something like hope shone in his eyes. 
 
 It was time to go home, and we were nearly silent all the 
 way. 
 
 The next morning was so wet that we could not go out, and 
 had to amuse ourselves as we best might in-doors. But Fal- 
 coner's resources never failed. He gave us this day story after 
 story about the poor people he had known. I could see that 
 his object was often to get some truth into his father's mind 
 without exposing it to rejection by addressing it directly to 
 himself; and few subjects could be more fitted for affording 
 such opportunity than his experiences among the poor. 
 
 The afternoon was still rainy and misty. In the evening I 
 sought to lead the conversation towards the gospel-stoiy ; anc 
 
ROBRRT FALCONER. 51i 
 
 then Falconer talked as I never heard him talk before. No 
 little circumstance in the narratives appeared to have escaped 
 Eim. He had thought about everything, as it seemed to me. 
 He had looked under the surface everywhere, and found truth 
 — mines of it — under all the upper soil of the story. The 
 deeper ho dug, the richer seemed the ore. This was combined 
 with the most pictorial apprehension of every outward event, 
 which he treated as if it had been described to him by the lips 
 of an eye-witness. The whole thing lived in his words and 
 thoughts. 
 
 " When anything looks strange, you must look the deeper," 
 he would say. 
 
 At the close of one of our fits of talk, he rose and went to 
 the window. 
 
 " Come here," he said, after looking for a moment. 
 
 AH day a dropping cloud had filled the space below, so that 
 the hills on the opposite side of the valley were hidden, and 
 the whole of the sea, near as it was. But when we went to 
 the window we found that a great change had silently taken place. 
 The mist continued to veil the sky, and it clung to the tops of 
 the hills ; but, like the rising curtain of a stage, it had rolled 
 halfway up from their bases, revealing a great part of the sea 
 and shore, and half of a cliff on the opposite side of the valley; 
 this, in itself of a deep red, was now smitten by the rays of the 
 setting sun, and glowed over the waters a splendor of carmine. 
 As we gazed, the vaporous curtain sank upon the shore, and 
 the sun sank under the waves, and the sad gray evening 
 closed in the weeping night, and clouds and darkness swathed 
 the weary earth. For doubtless the earth needs its night as 
 well as the creatures that live thereon. 
 
 In the morning the rain had ceased, but the clouds remained. 
 But they were high in the heavens now, and, like a departing 
 sorrow, revealed the outline and form which had appeared 
 before as an enveloping vapor of universal and shapeless evil. 
 The mist was now far enough off to be seen and thought about. 
 It was clouds now, — no longer mist and rain. And I thought 
 how at length the evils of the world would float away, and we 
 should see what it was that made it so hard for us to believe 
 and be at peace. 
 
 In the afternoon the sky had partially cleared, but clouds hid 
 
512 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 the sun aa he sank towards the west. We walked- out. A 
 cold autumnal wind blew, not only from the twilight of the 
 dying day, but from the twilight of the dying season. A sor- 
 rowful, hopeless wind it seemed, full of the odors of dead leaves 
 — those memories of green woods, and of damp earth — the 
 bare graves of the flowers. Would the summer ever come 
 again ? 
 
 We were pacing in silence along a terraced walk which over- 
 hung the shore far below. More here than from the hill-top 
 we seemed to look immediately into space, not even a parapet 
 intervening betwixt us and the ocean. The sound of a mourn- 
 ful lyric, never yet sung, was in my brain ; it drew nearer to 
 my mental grasp ; but ere it alighted its wings were gone, and 
 it fell dead on my consciousness. Its meaning was this: 
 "Welcome, Requiem of Nature. Let me share in thy Re-, 
 quiescat. Blow, wind of mournful memories. Let us moan'; 
 together. No one taketh from us the joy of our sorrow. We 
 may mourn as we will." 
 
 But while I brooded thus, behold a wonder ! The mass 
 about the sinking sun broke up, and drifted away in cloudy 
 bergs, as if scattered on the diverging currents of solar radi- 
 ance that burst from the gates of the west, and streamed east 
 and north and south over the heavens and over the sea. To 
 the north these masses built a cloudy bridge across the sky 
 from horizon to horizon, and beneath it shone the rosy-sailed 
 ships floating stately through their triumphal arch up the 
 channel to their home. Other clouds floated stately too in the 
 upper sea over our heads, with dense forms, thinning into va- 
 porous edges. Some were of a dull, angry red ; some of as ex- 
 quisite a primrose hue as ever the flower itself bore on its 
 bosom ; and betwixt their edges beamed out the sweetest, purest, 
 most melting, most transparent'blue, — the heavenly blue which 
 is the symbol of the spirit, as red is of the heart. I think I 
 never saw a blue to satisfy me before. Some of these clouds 
 threw shadows of many-shaded purple upon the green sea; and 
 from one of the shadows, so dark and so far out upon the gloom- 
 ing horizon that it looked like an island, arose, as from a pier, 
 a wondrous structure of dim, fairy colors, a multitude of rain- 
 bow-ends, side by side, that would have spanned the heavens 
 with a gorgeous arch, but failed from the very grandeur of the 
 
ROBERT FAICONBR. 613 
 
 idea, and grew up only a few degrees against the clouded west. 
 I stood rapt. The two Falconers were at some distance before 
 me, walking arm in arm. They stood and gazed likewise. It 
 ■was as if God had said to the heavens and the earth, and the 
 chord of the seven colors, " Comfort ye, comfort ye my people." 
 And I said to my soul : " Let the tempest rave in the world ; 
 let sorrow wail like a sea-bird in the midst thereof; and let thy 
 heart respond to her shivering cry ; but the vault of heaven 
 incloses the tempest and the shrieking bird and the echoing 
 heart ; and the sun of God's countenance can with one glance 
 from above change the wildest winter day into a summer even- 
 ing compact of poet's dreams." 
 
 My companions were walking up over the hill. I could see 
 that Falconer was earnestly speaking in his father's ear. 
 The old man's head was bent towards the earth. I kept away. 
 They made a turn from home. I still followed at a distance. 
 The evening began to grow dark. The autumn wind met ua 
 again, colder, stronger, yet more laden with the odors of death 
 and the frosts of the coming winter. But it no longer blew 
 as from the charnel-house of the past ; it blew from the stars 
 through the chinks of the unopened door on the other side of 
 the sepulchre. It was a wind of the worlds, not a wind of the 
 leaves. It told of the march of the spheres, and the rest of 
 the throne of God. We were going on into the universe, — 
 home to the house of our Father. Mighty adventure ! Sacred 
 repose ! And as I followed the pair, one great star throbbed 
 and radiated over my head. 
 
 CHAPTER LXVIII. 
 
 THREE GBNBEATIONS. 
 
 The next week I went back to my work, leaving the father 
 and son alone together. Before I left, I could see plainly 
 enough that the bonds were being drawn closer between them. 
 A whole month passed before they returned to London. The 
 winter then had set in with unusual severity. But it seemed 
 to bring only health to the two men. When I saw Andrew 
 
 33 
 
514 ROBKRT FALCONER. 
 
 next, there was certainly a marked change upon him. Light 
 had banished the haziness from his eye, and his step was a 
 good deal firmer. I can hardly speak of more than the phys- 
 ical improvement, for I saw very little of him now. Still I 
 did think I could perceive more of judgment in his face, as if 
 he sometimes weighed things in his mind. But it was plain 
 that Robert continued very careful not to let him a moment 
 out of his knowledge. He busied him with the various sights 
 of London, for Andrew, although he knew all its miseries 
 well, had never yet been inside Westminster Abbey. If iie 
 could only trust him enough to get him something to do ! But 
 what was he fit for ? To try him, he proposed once that he 
 should write some account of what he had seen and learned in 
 his wanderings ; but the evident distress with which he shrunk 
 from the proposal was grateful to the eyes and heart of his 
 son. 
 
 It was almost the end of the year when a letter arrived from 
 John Lammie, informing Robert that his grandmother had 
 caught a violent cold, and that, although the special symptoms 
 had disappeared, it was evident her strength was sinking fast, 
 md that she would not recover. 
 
 He read the letter to his father. 
 
 " We must go and see her, Robert, my boy," said Andrew. 
 
 It was the first time that he had shown the smallest desire 
 to visit her. Falconer rose with glad heart, and proceeded at 
 once to make arrangements for their journey. 
 
 It was a cold, powdery afternoon in January, with the snow 
 thick on the ground, save where the little winds had blown the 
 crown of the street bare before Mrs. Falconer's house. A 
 post-chaise with four horses swept wearily round the corner, 
 and pulled up at her door. Betty opened it, and revealed an- 
 old, withered face, very sorrowful, and yet expectant. Falcon- 
 er's feeling I dare not, Andrew's I cannot, attempt to describe, 
 as they stepped from the chaise and entered. Betty led the 
 way without a word into the little parlor. Robert went next, 
 with long, quiet strides, and Andrew followed with gray, 
 bowed head. Grannie was not in her chair. The doors which 
 during the day concealed the bed in which she slept, were open, 
 vind there Tay the aged woman with her eyes closed. The 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 515 
 
 room was as it had always been, only there seemed a filmy 
 shadow in it that had not been there before. 
 
 "She's deein', sir," whispered Betty. "Ay is she. Och 
 hone! " 
 
 Robert took his father's hand, and led him towards the bed. 
 They drew nigh softly, and bent over the withered, but not 
 even yet very wrinkled face. The smooth, white, soft hands 
 lay on the sheet, which was folded back over her bosom. She 
 was asleep, or, rather, she slumbered.- 
 
 But the soul of the child began to grow in the withered heart 
 of the old man as he regarded his older mother, and as it grew 
 it forced the tears to his eyes, and the word to his lips. 
 
 "Mother!" he said, and her eyelids rose at once. He 
 stooped to kiss her, with the tears rolling down his face. The 
 light of heaven broke and flashed from her aged countenance. 
 She lifted her weak hands, took his head, and held it to her 
 bosom. 
 
 "Eh! the bonnie gray held!" she said, and burst into a 
 -passion of weeping. She had kept some tears "^for the last. 
 Now she would spend all that her griefs had left her. But 
 there came a pause in her sobs, though not in her weeping, 
 and then she spoke : — 
 
 "I knew it a' the time, Lord. I knew it a' the time. 
 He's come hame. My Andrew, my Andrew ! I'm as happy's 
 a bairn. O Lord ! Lord ! " 
 
 And she burst again into sobs, and entered Paradise in ra- 
 diant weeping. 
 
 Her hands sank away from his head, and when her sod 
 gazed in her face he saw that she was dead. She had never 
 looked at Robert. 
 
 The two men turned towards each other. Robert put out 
 his arms. His father laid his head on his bosom, and went on 
 weeping. Robert held him to his heart. 
 
 When shall a man dare to say that God has done all ba 
 can? 
 
016 KOBBRT FALCONER. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIX, 
 
 THE WHOLE STORY. 
 
 The men laid their mother's body with those of the gener»< 
 tions that had gone before her, beneath the long grass in their 
 country church-yard near Rothieden, — a dreary place, one 
 accustomed to trim cemeteries and sentimental wreaths would 
 call it — to Falconer's mind so friendly to the forsaken dust, 
 because it lapped it in sweet oblivion. 
 
 They returned to the dreary house, and after a simple meal 
 such as both had used to partake of in their boyhood, they sat 
 by the fire, Andrew in his mother's chair, Robert in the same 
 chair in which he had learned his Sallust and written his ver- 
 sions. Andrew sat for a while gazing into the fire, and Robert 
 sat watching his face, where in the last few months a little 
 feeble fatherhood had begun to dawn. 
 
 ' ' It was there, father, that grannie used to sit, every day, 
 sometimes looking in the fire for hours, thinking about you, I 
 know," Robert said at length. 
 
 Andrew stirred uneasily in his chair. 
 
 " How do you know that ? " he asked. 
 
 "If there was one thing I could be sure of, it was when 
 grannie was thinking about you, father. Who wouldn't have 
 known it, father, when her lips were pressed together, as if 
 she had some dreadful pain to bear, and her eyes were looking 
 away through the' fire — so far away ! and I would speak to 
 her three times before she would answer? She lived only to 
 think about God and you, father. God and you came very 
 close together in her mind. Since ever I can remember, 
 almost, the thought of you was just the one thing in this 
 house." 
 
 Then Robert began at the beginning of his memory, and 
 told his father all that he could remember. When he came to 
 speak about his solitary musings in the garret, he said, — and 
 long before he reached this part, he had relapsed into his moth- 
 er tongue : — 
 
 " Come and luik at the place, father. I want to see 't 
 again, mysel'." 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 517 
 
 lie rose. His father yielded and followed him. Robert 
 got a candle in the kitchen, and the two big men climbed the 
 little narrow stair and stood in the little sky of the house, 
 where their heads almost touched the ceiling. 
 
 " I sat upo' the flure there," said Robert, "an' thocht and 
 thocht what I wud du to get ye, father, and what I wad du 
 wi' ye whan I had gotten ye. I wad greit whiles, 'cause ither 
 laddies had a father an' I had nane. An' there's whaur I fand 
 mamma's box wid the letter in 't and her ain picter ; grannie 
 gae me that ane o' you. An' there's whaur I used to kneel 
 doon an' pray to God. An' he's heard my prayers, and gran- 
 nie's prayers, and here ye are wi' me at last. Instead o' 
 thinkin' aboot ye, I hae yer ain' sel'. Come, father, I want 
 to say a word o' thanks to God for hearin' my prayer." 
 
 He took the old man's hand, led him to the bedside, and 
 kneeled with him there. 
 
 My reader can hardly avoid thinking it was a poor, sad tri- 
 umph that Robert had after all. How the dreams of the boy 
 had dwindled in settling down into the reality ! He had his 
 father, it was true — but what a father ! And how little he 
 had him ! 
 
 But this was not the end ; and Robert always believed that 
 the end must be the greater in proportion to the ■distance it 
 was removed, to give time for its true fulfilment. And when' 
 he prayed aloud beside his father, I doubt not that his thanks- 
 giving and his hope were equal. 
 
 'She prayer over, he took his father's hand and led him 
 down again to the little parlor, and they took their seats again 
 by the fire ; and Robert began again and went on with his 
 story, not omitting the parts belonging to Mary St. John and 
 Eric Ericson. 
 
 When he came to tell how he had encountered him in the 
 deserted factory : — 
 
 " Luik here, father, here's the mark o' the cnt," he said, 
 parting the thick hair on the top of *his head. 
 
 His father hid his face in his hands. 
 
 " It wasna muokle o' a blow that ye gied me, father," he 
 went on, "but I fell against the grate, and that was what did 
 it. And I never tellt onybody, nae even Miss St. John, wha 
 plastered it up, hoo I had gotten 't. And I didna mean tc 
 
91b ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 say onything aboot it ; but I wantit to tell you a queer dream, 
 sic a queer dream it garred me dream the same nicht." 
 
 As he told the dream, his father suddenly grew attentive, 
 and, before he had finished, looked almost scared ; but he said 
 nothing. When he came to relate his grandmother's behavior 
 after having discovered that the papers relating to the factory 
 were gone, he hid his face in his hands once more. He told 
 him how grannie had mourned and wept over him, from the 
 time when he heard her praying aloud as he crept through her 
 room at night to their last talk together after Dr. Anderson's 
 death. He set forth, as he could, in the simplest language, 
 the agony of her soul over her lost son. He told him then 
 about Ericson and Dr. Anderson, and how good they had been 
 to him, and at last of Dr. Anderson's request that he would do 
 something for him in India. 
 
 " Will ye gang wi' me, father?" he asked. 
 
 "I'll never leave ye again, Robert, my boy," he answered. 
 ' ' I have been a bad man, and a bad father, and now I gie 
 mysel' up to you to make the best o' me ye can. I daurna 
 leave ye, Robert." 
 
 " Pray to God to tak' care o' ye, father. He'll do a' thing 
 for ye, if ye'll only lat him." 
 
 " I will, Robert." 
 
 "I was mysel' dreadfu' miserable for a while," Robert 
 resumed, " for I cudna see or hear God at a' ; but God heard 
 me, and loot me ken that he was there an' that a' was richt. 
 It was jist like whan a bairnie waukens up an' cries, oot, 
 thinkin' it 's lane, an' through the mirk comes the word o' 
 the mither o' 't, sayin', ' I'm hear, cratur ; dinna greit.' An' 
 I cam' to believe 'at he wad mak' you a good man at last. 
 father, it's been my dream waukin' an' sleepin' to hae you 
 back to me an' grannie, an' mamma, an' the Father o' 's a', 
 an' Jesus Christ that's done a' thir.g for 's. An' noo ye maun 
 pray to God, father. Ye will pray to God to baud a grip o' 
 yo, — willna ye, father ?'" 
 
 "I will, I will, Robert. But I've been an awfu' sinner. 
 I believe I was the death o' yer mother, laddie." 
 
 Some fount of memory was opened ; some tide of old tender- 
 ness gushed up in his heart; at some window of the past the 
 face of his dead wife looked in; the old man broke into a great 
 
BOBBRT FALCONER. 519 
 
 cry, and sobbed and wept bitterly. Robert said no more, but 
 wept with him. 
 
 Henceforward the father clung to his son like a child. The 
 heart of Falconer turned to his Father in heaven with speech- 
 less thanksgiving. The ideal of his dreams was beginning to 
 dawn, and his life was new-born. 
 
 It did not take Robert long to arrange his grandmother's 
 little aifairs. He had already made up his mind about her 
 house and furniture. He rang the bell one morning for Betty. 
 
 " Hae ye ony siller laid up, Betty ? " 
 
 "Ay. I hae feifteen poun' i' the savin's' bank." 
 
 " An' what do you think o' doin' ? " 
 
 "I'll get a bit roomy, an' tak' in washin'." 
 
 " Weel, I'll tell ye what I wad like ye to do. Ye know 
 Mistress Elshender ? " 
 
 " Fine that. , An' a verra dacent body she is." 
 
 " Weel, if ye like ye can baud this hoose, an' a' 'at's in 't, 
 jist as it is, till the day o' yer deith. And ye'U aye keep it in 
 order, an' the ga'le room ready for me at ony time I may hap- 
 pen to come in upo' ye in want o' a nicht's quarters. But 
 I wad like ye, if hae nae objections, to take Mistress Elshen- 
 der to bide wi' ye. She's turnin' some frail noo, and I'm 
 unner great obligation to her Sandy, ye know." 
 
 "Ay, weel that. He learnt ye to fiddle, Robert — I 
 hoombly beg your pardon, sir, Mister Robert." 
 
 " Nae offence, Betty, I assure ye. Ye hae been aye gnde 
 to me, and I thank ye hertily." 
 
 Betty could not stand this. Her apron went up to her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Eh, sir," she sobbed, " ye was aye a gude lad." 
 
 " Excep' when I spak' o' Muckledrum, Betty." 
 
 She laughed and sobbed together. 
 
 " Weel, ye'll tak' Mistress Elshender in, winna ye ? " 
 
 " I'll do that, sir. And I'll try to do my best wi' her." 
 
 "She can help ye, ye know, wi' yer washin', an' sic like." 
 
 " She's a hard-workin' wuman, sir. She wad do that 
 weel." 
 
 " And whan ye're in ony want o' siller, jist write to me. 
 An' if onything suld happen to me, ye know, write to Mr. 
 Gordon, a frien' o' mine. There's his address in Lonnop '' 
 
520 
 
 ROBERT FALCONBR. 
 
 " Eh, sir, but ye are kin'. God bless you for a'." 
 She could bear no more, and left the room crying. 
 Everything settled at Rothieden, he returned to Bodyfauld. 
 The most welcome greeting he had ever received in his lift 
 lay in the shine of his father's «yes when he entered the room 
 where he sat with Miss Lammie. The next day they left for 
 London. 
 
 CHAPTER LXX. 
 
 THE VANISHING. 
 
 Thbt came to see me the very evening of their arrival. As 
 to Andrew's progress there could be no longer any doubt. All 
 that was necessary for conviction on the point was to have seen 
 him before, and to see him now. The very grasp of his hand 
 was changed. But not yet would Robert leave him alone. 
 
 It will naturally occur to my reader that liis goodness was 
 not much yet. It was not. It may have been greater than 
 we could be sure of, though. But if any one object that such 
 a conversion, even if it were perfected, was poor, inasmuch as 
 the man's free will was intromitted with, I answer, "The 
 development of the free will was the one object. Hitherto it 
 was not free." I ask the man who says so, " Where would 
 your free will have been if at some period of your life you could 
 have had everything you wanted?" If he says it is nobler 
 in a man to do with less help, I answer, "Andrew was not 
 noble ; was he therefore to be forsaken ? The prodigal was 
 not left without the help of the swine and their husks, at once 
 to keep him alive- and disgust him with the life. Is the less 
 help a man has from God the better?" According to you, 
 the grandest thing of all would be for a man sunk in the ab- 
 solute abysses of sensuality all at once to resolve to be pure as 
 the empyrean, and be so, without help from God or man. But 
 is the thing possible? As well might a hyaena say I will be 
 a man, and become one. That would bo to create. Andrew 
 must be kept from the evil long enough to let him at least see 
 
ROBERT FALCONER. 6il 
 
 the good, before Le was let alone. But when would wp be let 
 alone ? For a man to be fit to be let alone is for a man not to 
 need God, but to be able to live without him. Our hearts cry 
 out, '" To have God is to live. "We want God. Without him 
 no life of ours is worth living. We are not then even human, 
 for that is but the lower form of the divine. We are immortal, 
 eternal ; fill us, Father, with thyself Then only all is well." 
 More: I heartily believe, though I cannot understand the 
 boundaries of will and inspiration, that what God will do for 
 us at last is infinitely beyond any greatness we could gain, 
 even if we could will ourselves from the lowest we could be 
 into the highest we can imagine. It is essential divine life 
 we want ; and there is grand truth, however incomplete or per- 
 verted, in the aspiration of the Brahmin. He is wrong, but 
 he wants something right. If the man had the power in his 
 pollution to will himself into the right withont God, the fact 
 that he was in that pollution with such power must damn 
 him there forever. And if God must help ere a man can be 
 saved, can the help of man go too far towards the same end ? 
 Let God solve the mystery — for he made it. One thing 
 is sure : We are his, and he will do his part, which is no part 
 but the all in all. If man could do what in his wildest self- 
 worship he can imagine, the grand result would be that he 
 would be his own God, which is the Hell of hells. 
 
 For some time I had to give Falconer what aid I could in 
 being with his fatJier while he arranged matters in prospect of 
 their voyage to India. Sometimes he took him with him when 
 he went amongst his people, as he called the poor he visited. 
 Sometimes, when he wanted to go alone, I bad to take him to 
 Miss St. John, who would play and sing as I had never heard 
 any one play or sing before. Andrew on such occasions 
 cari'ied his flute with him, and the result of the two was some- 
 thing exquisite. How Miss St. John did lay herself out to 
 please the old man ! And pleased he was. I think her 
 kindness did more than anything else to make him feel like a 
 gentleman again. And in his condition that was much. 
 
 At length Falconer would sometimes leave him witli Miss 
 St. John, till he or I should go for him ; he knew she could 
 keep him safe. He knew that she would keep him if necea- 
 sary. 
 
5l2 ROBERT FALOONIB. 
 
 One evening when I went to see Falconer, I found bin 
 alone. It was one of these occasions. 
 
 " I am very glad you have come, Gordon, " he said. "I 
 was wanting to see you. I have got things nearly ready now. 
 Next month, or at latest, the one after, we shall sail : and I 
 hare some business with you which had better be arranged at 
 once. No one knows what is going to happen. The man who 
 believes the least in chance knows as little as the man who be- 
 lieves in it the most. My will is in the hands of Dobson. I 
 have left you evefy thing." 
 
 I was dumb. 
 
 " Have you any objection? " he said, a little anxiously. 
 
 " Am I able to fulfil the conditions? " I faltered. 
 
 '* I have burdened you with no conditions," he returned. 
 " I don't believe in conditions. I know your heart and itind 
 now. I trust you perfectly." 
 
 " I am unworthy of it." 
 
 " That is for me to judge." 
 
 " Will you have no trustees? '' 
 
 " Not one." 
 
 " What do you want me to do with your property ? " 
 
 " You know well enough. Keep it going the right way." 
 
 " I will always think what you would like." 
 
 " No ; do not. Think what is right; and where there is no 
 right or wrong plain in itself, then think what is best. You 
 may see good reason to change some of my plans. You may 
 be wrong ; but you must do what you see right — not what I 
 see or might see right." 
 
 " But there is no need to talk so seriously about it," 1 
 said. "You will manage it yourself for many years yet. 
 Make me your steward, if you like, during your absence : I 
 will not object to that." 
 
 " You do not object to the other, I hope ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Then so let it be. The other, of course. I have, being 
 a lawyer myself, taken good care not to trust myself only with 
 the arranging of these matters. I think you will find them 
 all right." 
 
 " But supposing you should not return, — yoU have oom- 
 polled me to make the supposition — " 
 
SOBEKT FALCONEB. 523 
 
 " Of course. Go on." 
 
 " What am I to do with the money in the prospect of fol- 
 lowing you?" 
 
 " Ah ! that is the one point on which I want a word, al- 
 though I do not think it is necessary. I want to entail the 
 property." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " By word of mouth," he answered, laughing. " You must 
 look out for a right man, as I have done, get him to know 
 your ways and ideas, and if you find him worthy, — that is a 
 grand, wide word; our Lord gave it to his disciples, — leave 
 it all to him in the same way I have left it to you, trusting to 
 the spirit of truth that is in him, the spirit of God. You can 
 copy my will — as far as it will apply, for you may have, one 
 way or another, lost the half of it by that time. But, by 
 word of mouth you must make the same condition with him as 
 I have made with you, — that is, with regard to his leaving it, 
 and the conditions on which he leaves it, adding the words, ' that 
 it may descend thus in perpetuum.' And he must do the 
 same." 
 
 He broke into a quiet laugh. I knew well enough what h« 
 meant. But he added : — 
 
 " That means, of course, for as long as there is any." 
 
 " Are you sure you are doing right. Falconer ? " I said. 
 
 " Quite. It is better to endow one man, who will work as 
 the Father works, than a hundred charities. But it is time I 
 went to fetch my father. Will you go with me ? " 
 
 This was all that passed between us on the subject, save 
 that, on our way, he told me to move to his rooms, and occupy 
 them until he returned. 
 
 " My papers," he added, " I commit to your discretion.' 
 
 On our way back from Queen Square, he joked and talked 
 merrily. Andrew joined in. Robert showed himself delighted 
 with every attempt at gayety or wit that Andrew made. 
 When we reached the house, something that had occurred 
 on the way made him turn to Martin Chuzzlewit, and he read 
 Mrs. Gamp's best to our great enjoyment. 
 
 I went down with the two to Southampton, to see tliem on 
 board the steamer. I stayed with them there until she sailed. 
 It was a lovely morning in the end of April, when at last I 
 
524 EOBBKT FALCONEE. 
 
 bade them farewell on the quarter-deck. My heart was full, 
 I took his hand and kissed it. He put his arms round me, 
 and laid his cheek to mine. I was strong to bear the part- 
 ing. 
 
 The great iron steamer went down in the middle of the At 
 iautic, and I hare not yet seen my friend again.