Robert Falconer

Robert was happier than he ever could have expected to be in his grandmother’s house. She treated him like an honoured guest, let him do as he would, and go where he pleased. Betty kept the gable-room in the best of order for him, and, pattern of housemaids, dusted his table without disturbing his papers. For he began to have papers; nor were they occupied only with the mathematics to which he was now giving his chief attention, preparing, with the occasional help of Mr. Innes, for his second session.

He had fits of wandering, though; visited all the old places; spent a week or two more than once at Bodyfauld; rode Mr. Lammie’s half-broke filly; revelled in the glories of the summer once more; went out to tea occasionally, or supped with the school-master; and, except going to church on Sunday, which was a weariness to every inch of flesh upon his bones, enjoyed everything.

CHAPTER XVIII. A GRAVE OPENED

One thing that troubled Robert on this his return home, was the discovery that the surroundings of his childhood had deserted him. There they were, as of yore, but they seemed to have nothing to say to him—no remembrance of him. It was not that everything looked small and narrow; it was not that the streets he saw from his new quarters, the gable-room, were awfully still after the roar of Aberdeen, and a passing cart seemed to shudder at the loneliness of the noise itself made; it was that everything seemed to be conscious only of the past and care nothing for him now. The very chairs with their inlaid backs had an embalmed look, and stood as in a dream. He could pass even the walled-up door without emotion, for all the feeling that had been gathered about the knob that admitted him to Mary St. John, had transferred itself to the brass bell-pull at her street-door.

But one day, after standing for a while at the window, looking down on the street where he had first seen the beloved form of Ericson, a certain old mood began to revive in him. He had been working at quadratic equations all the morning; he had been foiled in the attempt to find the true algebraic statement of a very tough question involving various ratios; and, vexed with himself, he had risen to look out, as the only available zeitvertreib. It was one of those rainy days of spring which it needs a hopeful mood to distinguish from autumnal ones—dull, depressing, persistent: there might be sunshine in Mercury or Venus—but on the earth could be none, from his right hand round by India and America to his left; and certainly there was none between—a mood to which all sensitive people are liable who have not yet learned by faith in the everlasting to rule their own spirits. Naturally enough his thoughts turned to the place where he had suffered most—his old room in the garret. Hitherto he had shrunk from visiting it; but now he turned away from the window, went up the steep stairs, with their one sharp corkscrew curve, pushed the door, which clung unwillingly to the floor, and entered. It was a nothing of a place—with a window that looked only to heaven. There was the empty bedstead against the wall, where he had so often kneeled, sending forth vain prayers to a deaf heaven! Had they indeed been vain prayers, and to a deaf heaven? or had they been prayers which a hearing God must answer not according to the haste of the praying child, but according to the calm course of his own infinite law of love?

Here, somehow or other, the things about him did not seem so much absorbed in the past, notwithstanding those untroubled rows of papers bundled in red tape. True, they looked almost awful in their lack of interest and their non-humanity, for there is scarcely anything that absolutely loses interest save the records of money; but his mother’s workbox lay behind them. And, strange to say, the side of that bed drew him to kneel down: he did not yet believe that prayer was in vain. If God had not answered him before, that gave no certainty that he would not answer him now. It was, he found, still as rational as it had ever been to hope that God would answer the man that cried to him. This came, I think, from the fact that God had been answering him all the time, although he had not recognized his gifts as answers. Had he not given him Ericson, his intercourse with whom and his familiarity with whose doubts had done anything but quench his thirst after the higher life? For Ericson’s, like his own, were true and good and reverent doubts, not merely consistent with but in a great measure springing from devoutness and aspiration. Surely such doubts are far more precious in the sight of God than many beliefs?

He kneeled and sent forth one cry after the Father, arose, and turned towards the shelves, removed some of the bundles of letters, and drew out his mother’s little box.

There lay the miniature, still and open-eyed as he had left it. There too lay the bit of paper, brown and dry, with the hymn and the few words of sorrow written thereon. He looked at the portrait, but did not open the folded paper. Then first he thought whether there might not be something more in the box: what he had taken for the bottom seemed to be a tray. He lifted it by two little ears of ribbon, and there, underneath, lay a letter addressed to his father, in the same old-fashioned handwriting as the hymn. It was sealed with brown wax, full of spangles, impressed with a bush of something—he could not tell whether rushes or reeds or flags. Of course he dared not open it. His holy mother’s words to his erring father must be sacred even from the eyes of their son. But what other or fitter messenger than himself could bear it to its destination? It was for this that he had been guided to it.

For years he had regarded the finding of his father as the first duty of his manhood: it was as if his mother had now given her sanction to the quest, with this letter to carry to the husband who, however he might have erred, was yet dear to her. He replaced it in the box, but the box no more on the forsaken shelf with its dreary barricade of soulless records. He carried it with him, and laid it in the bottom of his box, which henceforth he kept carefully locked: there lay as it were the pledge of his father’s salvation, and his mother’s redemption from an eternal grief.

He turned to his equation: it had cleared itself up; he worked it out in five minutes. Betty came to tell him that the dinner was ready, and he went down, peaceful and hopeful, to his grandmother.

While at home he never worked in the evenings: it was bad enough to have to do so at college. Hence nature had a chance with him again. Blessings on the wintry blasts that broke into the first youth of Summer! They made him feel what summer was! Blessings on the cheerless days of rain, and even of sleet and hail, that would shove the reluctant year back into January. The fair face of Spring, with her tears dropping upon her quenchless smiles, peeped in suppressed triumph from behind the growing corn and the budding sallows on the river-bank. Nay, even when the snow came once more in defiance of calendars, it was but a background from which the near genesis should ‘stick fiery off.’

In general he had a lonely walk after his lesson with Miss St. John was over: there was no one at Rothieden to whom his heart and intellect both were sufficiently drawn to make a close friendship possible. He had companions, however: Ericson had left his papers with him. The influence of these led him into yet closer sympathy with Nature and all her moods; a sympathy which, even in the stony heart of London, he not only did not lose but never ceased to feel. Even there a breath of wind would not only breathe upon him, it would breathe into him; and a sunset seen from the Strand was lovely as if it had hung over rainbow seas. On his way home he would often go into one of the shops where the neighbours congregated in the evenings, and hold a little talk; and although, with Miss St. John filling his heart, his friend’s poems his imagination, and geometry and algebra his intellect, great was the contrast between his own inner mood and the words by which he kept up human relations with his townsfolk, yet in after years he counted it one of the greatest blessings of a lowly birth and education that he knew hearts and feelings which to understand one must have been young amongst them. He would not have had a chance of knowing such as these if he had been the son of Dr. Anderson and born in Aberdeen.

CHAPTER XIX. ROBERT MEDIATES

One lovely evening in the first of the summer Miss St. John had dismissed him earlier than usual, and he had wandered out for a walk. After a round of a couple of miles, he returned by a fir-wood, through which went a pathway. He had heard Mary St. John say that she was going to see the wife of a labourer who lived at the end of this path. In the heart of the trees it was growing very dusky; but when he came to a spot where they stood away from each other a little space, and the blue sky looked in from above with one cloud floating in it from which the rose of the sunset was fading, he seated himself on a little mound of moss that had gathered over an ancient stump by the footpath, and drew out his friend’s papers. Absorbed in his reading, he was not aware of an approach till the rustle of silk startled him. He lifted up his eyes, and saw Miss St. John a few yards from him on the pathway. He rose.

‘It’s almost too dark to read now, isn’t it, Robert?’ she said.

‘Ah!’ said. Robert, ‘I know this writing so well that I could read it by moonlight. I wish I might read some of it to you. You would like it.’

‘May I ask whose it is, then? Poetry, too!’

‘It’s Mr. Ericson’s. But I’m feared he wouldna like me to read it to anybody but myself. And yet—’

‘I don’t think he would mind me,’ returned Miss St. John. ‘I do know him a little. It is not as if I were quite a stranger, you know. Did he tell you not?’

‘No. But then he never thought of such a thing. I don’t know if it’s fair, for they are carelessly written, and there are words and lines here and there that I am sure he would alter if he cared for them ae hair.’

‘Then if he doesn’t care for them, he won’t mind my hearing them. There!’ she said, seating herself on the stump. ‘You sit down on the grass and read me—one at least.’

‘You’ll remember they were never intended to be read?’ urged Robert, not knowing what he was doing, and so fulfilling his destiny.

‘I will be as jealous of his honour as ever you can wish,’ answered Miss St. John gaily.

Robert laid himself on the grass at her feet, and read:—

MY TWO GENIUSES     One is a slow and melancholy maid:     I know not if she cometh from the skies,     Or from the sleepy gulfs, but she will rise     Often before me in the twilight shade     Holding a bunch of poppies, and a blade     Of springing wheat: prostrate my body lies     Before her on the turf, the while she ties     A fillet of the weed about my head;     And in the gaps of sleep I seem to hear     A gentle rustle like the stir of corn,     And words like odours thronging to my ear:     ‘Lie still, beloved, still until the morn;     Lie still with me upon this rolling sphere,     Still till the judgment—thou art faint and worn.’     The other meets me in the public throng:     Her hair streams backward from her loose attire;     She hath a trumpet and an eye of fire;     She points me downward steadily and long—     ‘There is thy grave—arise, my son, be strong!     Hands are upon thy crown; awake, aspire     To immortality; heed not the lyre     Of the enchantress, nor her poppy-song;     But in the stillness of the summer calm,     Tremble for what is godlike in thy being.     Listen awhile, and thou shalt hear the psalm     Of victory sung by creatures past thy seeing;     And from far battle-fields there comes the neighing     Of dreadful onset, though the air is balm.’     Maid with the poppies, must I let thee go?     Alas!  I may not; thou art likewise dear;     I am but human, and thou hast a tear,     When she hath nought but splendour, and the glow     Of a wild energy that mocks the flow     Of the poor sympathies which keep us here.     Lay past thy poppies, and come twice as near,     And I will teach thee, and thou too shalt grow;     And thou shalt walk with me in open day     Through the rough thoroughfares with quiet grace;     And the wild-visaged maid shall lead the way,     Timing her footsteps to a gentler pace,     As her great orbs turn ever on thy face,     Drinking in draughts of loving help alway.

Miss St. John did not speak.

‘War ye able to follow him?’ asked Robert.

‘Quite, I assure you,’ she answered, with a tremulousness in her voice which delighted Robert as evidence of his friend’s success.

‘But they’re nae a’ so easy to follow, I can tell ye, mem. Just hearken to this,’ he said, with some excitement.

          When the storm was proudest,          And the wind was loudest,     I heard the hollow caverns drinking down below;          When the stars were bright,          And the ground was white,     I heard the grasses springing underneath the snow.          Many voices spake—          The river to the lake,     The iron-ribbed sky was talking to the sea;          And every starry spark          Made music with the dark,     And said how bright and beautiful everything must be.

‘That line, mem,’ remarked Robert, ‘’s only jist scrattit in, as gin he had no intention o’ leavin’ ‘t, an’ only set it there to keep room for anither. But we’ll jist gang on wi’ the lave o’ ‘t. I ouchtna to hae interruppit it.’

          When the sun was setting,          All the clouds were getting     Beautiful and silvery in the rising moon;          Beneath the leafless trees          Wrangling in the breeze,     I could hardly see them for the leaves of June.          When the day had ended,          And the night descended,     I heard the sound of streams that I heard not through the day          And every peak afar,          Was ready for a star,     And they climbed and rolled around until the morning gray.          Then slumber soft and holy          Came down upon me slowly;     And I went I know not whither, and I lived I know not how;          My glory had been banished,          For when I woke it vanished,     But I waited on it’s coming, and I am waiting now.

‘There!’ said Robert, ending, ‘can ye mak onything o’ that, Miss St. John?’

‘I don’t say I can in words,’ she answered; ‘but I think I could put it all into music.’

‘But surely ye maun hae some notion o’ what it’s aboot afore you can do that.’

‘Yes; but I have some notion of what it’s about, I think. Just lend it to me; and by the time we have our next lesson, you will see whether I’m not able to show you I understand it. I shall take good care of it,’ she added, with a smile, seeing Robert’s reluctance to part with it. ‘It doesn’t matter my having it, you know, now that you’ve read it to me, I want to make you do it justice.—But it’s quite time I were going home. Besides, I really don’t think you can see to read any more.’

‘Weel, it’s better no to try, though I hae them maistly upo’ my tongue: I might blunder, and that wad blaud them.—Will you let me go home with you?’ he added, in pure tremulous English.

‘Certainly, if you like,’ she answered; and they walked towards the town.

Robert opened the fountain of his love for Ericson, and let it gush like a river from a hillside. He talked on and on about him, with admiration, gratitude, devotion. And Miss St. John was glad of the veil of the twilight over her face as she listened, for the boy’s enthusiasm trembled through her as the wind through an Æolian harp. Poor Robert! He did not know, I say, what he was doing, and so was fulfilling his sacred destiny.

‘Bring your manuscripts when you come next,’ she said, as they walked along—gently adding, ‘I admire your friend’s verses very much, and should like to hear more of them.’

‘I’ll be sure an’ do that,’ answered Robert, in delight that he had found one to sympathize with him in his worship of Ericson, and that one his other idol.

When they reached the town, Miss St. John, calling to mind its natural propensity to gossip, especially on the evening of a market-day, when the shopkeepers, their labours over, would be standing in a speculative mood at their doors, surrounded by groups of friends and neighbours, felt shy of showing herself on the square with Robert, and proposed that they should part, giving as a by-the-bye reason that she had a little shopping to do as she went home. Too simple to suspect the real reason, but with a heart that delighted in obedience, Robert bade her good-night at once, and took another way.

As he passed the door of Merson the haberdasher’s shop, there stood William MacGregor, the weaver, looking at nothing and doing nothing. We have seen something of him before: he was a remarkable compound of good nature and bad temper. People were generally afraid of him, because he had a biting satire at his command, amounting even to wit, which found vent in verse—not altogether despicable even from a literary point of view. The only person he, on his part, was afraid of, was his own wife; for upon her, from lack of apprehension, his keenest irony fell, as he said, like water on a duck’s back, and in respect of her he had, therefore, no weapon of offence to strike terror withal. Her dulness was her defence. He liked Robert. When he saw him, he wakened up, laid hold of him by the button, and drew him in.

‘Come in, lad,’ he said, ‘an’ tak a pinch. I’m waitin’ for Merson.’ As he spoke he took from his pocket his mull, made of the end of a ram’s horn, and presented it to Robert, who accepted the pledge of friendship. While he was partaking, MacGregor drew himself with some effort upon the counter, saying in a half-comical, half-admonitory tone,

‘Weel, and hoo’s the mathematics, Robert?’

‘Thrivin’,’ answered Robert, falling into his humour.

‘Weel, that’s verra weel. Duv ye min’, Robert, hoo, whan ye was aboot the age o’ aucht year aul’, ye cam to me ance at my shop aboot something yer gran’mither, honest woman, wantit, an’ I, by way o’ takin’ my fun o’ ye, said to ye, “Robert, ye hae grown desperate; ye’re a man clean; ye hae gotten the breeks on.” An’ says ye, “Ay, Mr. MacGregor, I want naething noo but a watch an’ a wife”?’

‘I doobt I’ve forgotten a’ aboot it, Mr. MacGregor,’ answered Robert. ‘But I’ve made some progress, accordin’ to your story, for Dr. Anderson, afore I cam hame, gae me a watch. An’ a fine crater it is, for it aye does its best, an’ sae I excuse its shortcomin’s.’

‘There’s just ae thing, an’ nae anither,’ returned the manufacturer, ‘that I cannot excuse in a watch. Gin a watch gangs ower fest, ye fin’ ‘t oot. Gin she gangs ower slow, ye fin’ ‘t oot, an’ ye can aye calculate upo’ ‘t correck eneuch for maitters sublunairy, as Mr. Maccleary says. An’ gin a watch stops a’thegither, ye ken it’s failin’, an’ ye ken whaur it sticks, an’ a’ ‘at ye say ‘s “Tut, tut, de’il hae ‘t for a watch!” But there’s ae thing that God nor man canna bide in a watch, an’ that’s whan it stan’s still for a bittock, an’ syne gangs on again. Ay, ay! tic, tic, tic! wi’ a fair face and a leein’ hert. It wad gar ye believe it was a’ richt, and time for anither tum’ler, whan it’s twal o’clock, an’ the kirkyaird fowk thinkin’ aboot risin’. Fegs, I had a watch o’ my father’s, an’ I regairdit it wi’ a reverence mair like a human bein’: the second time it played me that pliskie, I dang oot its guts upo’ the loupin’-on-stane at the door o’ the chop. But lat the watch sit: whaur’s the wife? Ye canna be a man yet wantin’ the wife—by yer ain statement.’

‘The watch cam unsoucht, Mr. MacGregor, an’ I’m thinkin’ sae maun the wife,’ answered Robert, laughing.

‘Preserve me for ane frae a wife that comes unsoucht,’ returned the weaver. ‘But, my lad, there may be some wives that winna come whan they are soucht. Preserve me frae them too!—Noo, maybe ye dinna ken what I mean—but tak ye tent what ye’re aboot. Dinna ye think ‘at ilka bonnie lass ‘at may like to haud a wark wi’ ye ‘s jist ready to mairry ye aff han’ whan ye say, “Noo, my dawtie.”—An’ ae word mair, Robert: Young men, especially braw lads like yersel’, ‘s unco ready to fa’ in love wi’ women fit to be their mithers. An’ sae ye see—’

He was interrupted by the entrance of a girl. She had a shawl over her head, notwithstanding it was summer weather, and crept in hesitatingly, as if she were not quite at one with herself as to her coming purchase. Approaching a boy behind the counter on the opposite side of the shop, she asked for something, and he proceeded to serve her. Robert could not help thinking, from the one glimpse of her face he had got through the dusk, that he had seen her before. Suddenly the vision of an earthen floor with a pool of brown sunlight upon it, bare feet, brown hair, and soft eyes, mingled with a musk odour wafted from Arabian fairyland, rose before him: it was Jessie Hewson.

‘I ken that lassie,’ he said, and moved to get down from the counter on which he too had seated himself.

‘Na, na,’ whispered the manufacturer, laying, like the Ancient Mariner, a brown skinny hand of restraint upon Robert’s arm—‘na, na, never heed her. Ye maunna speyk to ilka lass ‘at ye ken.—Poor thing! she’s been doin’ something wrang, to gang slinkin’ aboot i’ the gloamin’ like a baukie (bat), wi’ her plaid ower her heid. Dinna fash wi’ her.’

‘Nonsense!’ returned Robert, with indignation. ‘What for shouldna I speik till her? She’s a decent lassie—a dochter o’ James Hewson, the cottar at Bodyfauld. I ken her fine.’

He said this in a whisper; but the girl seemed to hear it, for she left the shop with a perturbation which the dimness of the late twilight could not conceal. Robert hesitated no longer, but followed her, heedless of the louder expostulations of MacGregor. She was speeding away down the street, but he took longer strides than she, and was almost up with her, when she drew her shawl closer about her head, and increased her pace.

‘Jessie!’ said Robert, in a tone of expostulation. But she made no answer. Her head sunk lower on her bosom, and she hurried yet faster. He gave a long stride or two and laid his hand on her shoulder. She stood still, trembling.

‘Jessie, dinna ye ken me—Robert Faukner? Dinna be feart at me. What’s the maitter wi’ ye, ‘at ye winna speik till a body? Hoo’s a’ the fowk at hame?’

She burst out crying, cast one look into Robert’s face, and fled. What a change was in that face? The peach-colour was gone from her cheek; it was pale and thin. Her eyes were hollow, with dark shadows under them, the shadows of a sad sunset. A foreboding of the truth arose in his heart, and the tears rushed up into his eyes. The next moment the eidolon of Mary St. John, moving gracious and strong, clothed in worship and the dignity which is its own defence, appeared beside that of Jessie Hewson, her bowed head shaken with sobs, and her weak limbs urged to ungraceful flight. As if walking in the vision of an eternal truth, he went straight to Captain Forsyth’s door.

‘I want to speak to Miss St. John, Isie,’ said Robert.

‘She’ll be doon in a minit.’

‘But isna yer mistress i’ the drawin’-room?—I dinna want to see her.’

‘Ow, weel,’ said the girl, who was almost fresh from the country, ‘jist rin up the stair, an’ chap at the door o’ her room.’

With the simplicity of a child, for what a girl told him to do must be right, Robert sped up the stair, his heart going like a fire-engine. He had never approached Mary’s room from this side, but instinct or something else led him straight to her door. He knocked.

‘Come in,’ she said, never doubting it was the maid, and Robert entered.

She was brushing her hair by the light of a chamber candle. Robert was seized with awe, and his limbs trembled. He could have kneeled before her—not to beg forgiveness, he did not think of that—but to worship, as a man may worship a woman. It is only a strong, pure heart like Robert’s that ever can feel all the inroad of the divine mystery of womanhood. But he did not kneel. He had a duty to perform. A flush rose in Miss St. John’s face, and sank away, leaving it pale. It was not that she thought once of her own condition, with her hair loose on her shoulders, but, able only to conjecture what had brought him thither, she could not but regard Robert’s presence with dismay. She stood with her ivory brush in her right hand uplifted, and a great handful of hair in her left. She was soon relieved, however, although what with his contemplated intercession, the dim vision of Mary’s lovely face between the masses of her hair, and the lavender odour that filled the room—perhaps also a faint suspicion of impropriety sufficient to give force to the rest—Robert was thrown back into the abyss of his mother-tongue, and out of this abyss talked like a Behemoth.