At the close of a fortnight, Falconer thought it time to return to his duties in Aberdeen. The day before the steamer sailed, they found themselves, about six o'clock, in Gracechurch Street. It was a fine summer evening. The street was less crowded than earlier in the afternoon, although there was a continuous stream of waggons, omnibuses, and cabs both ways. As they stood on the curbstone, a little way north of Lombard Street, waiting to cross—
'You see, Shargar,' said Robert, 'Nature will have her way. Not all the hurry and confusion and roar can keep the shadows out. Look: wherever a space is for a moment vacant, there falls a shadow, as grotesque, as strange, as full of unutterable things as any shadow on a field of grass and daisies.'
'I remember feeling the same kind of thing in India,' returned Shargar, 'where nothing looked as if it belonged to the world I was born in, but my own shadow. In such a street as this, however, all the shadows look as if they belonged to another world, and had no business here.'
'I quite feel that,' returned Falconer. 'They come like angels from the lovely west and the pure air, to show that London cannot hurt them, for it too is within the Kingdom of God—to teach the lovers of nature, like the old orthodox Jew, St. Peter, that they must not call anything common or unclean.'
Shargar made no reply, and Robert glanced round at him. He was staring with wide eyes into, not at the crowd of vehicles that filled the street. His face was pale, and strangely like the Shargar of old days.
'What's the matter with you?' Robert asked in some bewilderment.
Receiving no answer, he followed Shargar's gaze, and saw a strange sight for London city.
In the middle of the crowd of vehicles, with an omnibus before them, and a brewer's dray behind them, came a line of three donkey-carts, heaped high with bundles and articles of gipsy-gear. The foremost was conducted by a middle-aged woman of tall, commanding aspect, and expression both cunning and fierce. She walked by the donkey's head carrying a short stick, with which she struck him now and then, but which she oftener waved over his head like the truncheon of an excited marshal on the battle-field, accompanying its movements now with loud cries to the animal, now with loud response to the chaff of the omnibus conductor, the dray driver, and the tradesmen in carts about her. She was followed by a very handsome, olive-complexioned, wild-looking young woman, with her black hair done up in a red handkerchief, who conducted her donkey more quietly. Both seemed as much at home in the roar of Gracechurch Street as if they had been crossing a wild common. A loutish-looking young man brought up the rear with the third donkey. From the bundles on the foremost cart peeped a lovely, fair-haired, English-looking child.
Robert took all this in in a moment. The same moment Shargar's spell was broken.
'Lord, it is my mither!' he cried, and darted under a horse's neck into the middle of the ruck.
He needled his way through till he reached the woman. She was swearing at a cabman whose wheel had caught the point of her donkey's shaft, and was hauling him round. Heedless of everything, Shargar threw his arms about her, crying,
'Mither! mither!'
'Nane o' yer blastit humbug!' she exclaimed, as, with a vigorous throw and a wriggle, she freed herself from his embrace and pushed him away.
The moment she had him at arm's length, however, her hand closed upon his arm, and her other hand went up to her brow. From underneath it her eyes shot up and down him from head to foot, and he could feel her hand closing and relaxing and closing again, as if she were trying to force her long nails into his flesh. He stood motionless, waiting the result of her scrutiny, utterly unconscious that he caused a congestion in the veins of London, for every vehicle within sight of the pair had stopped. Falconer said a strange silence fell upon the street, as if all the things in it had been turned into shadows.
A rough voice, which sounded as if all London must have heard it, broke the silence. It was the voice of the cabman who had been in altercation with the woman. Bursting into an insulting laugh, he used words with regard to her which it is better to leave unrecorded. The same instant Shargar freed himself from her grasp, and stood by the fore wheel of the cab.
'Get down!' he said, in a voice that was not the less impressive that it was low and hoarse.
The fellow saw what he meant, and whipped his horse. Shargar sprung on the box, and dragged him down all but headlong.
'Now,' he said, 'beg my mother's pardon.'
'Be damned if I do, &c., &c.,' said the cabman.
'Then defend yourself,' said Shargar. 'Robert.'
Falconer was watching it all, and was by his side in a moment.
'Come on, you, &c., &c.,' cried the cabman, plucking up heart and putting himself in fighting shape. He looked one of those insolent fellows whom none see discomfited more gladly than the honest men of his own class. The same moment he lay between his horse's feet.
Shargar turned to Robert, and saying only, 'There, Robert!' turned again towards the woman. The cabman rose bleeding, and, desiring no more of the same, climbed on his box, and went off, belabouring his horse, and pursued by a roar from the street, for the spectators were delighted at his punishment.
'Now, mother,' said Shargar, panting with excitement.
'What ca' they ye?' she asked, still doubtful, but as proud of being defended as if the coarse words of her assailant had had no truth in them. 'Ye canna be my lang-leggit Geordie.'
'What for no?'
'Ye're a gentleman, faith!'
'An' what for no, again?' returned Shargar, beginning to smile.
'Weel, it's weel speired. Yer father was ane ony gait—gin sae be 'at ye are as ye say.'
Moray put his head close to hers, and whispered some words that nobody heard but herself.
'It's ower lang syne to min' upo' that,' she said in reply, with a look of cunning consciousness ill settled upon her fine features. 'But ye can be naebody but my Geordie. Haith, man!' she went on, regarding him once more from head to foot, 'but ye're a credit to me, I maun alloo. Weel, gie me a sovereign, an' I s' never come near ye.'
Poor Shargar in his despair turned half mechanically towards Robert. He felt that it was time to interfere.
'You forget, mother,' said Shargar, turning again to her, and speaking English now, 'it was I that claimed you, and not you that claimed me.'
She seemed to have no idea of what he meant.
'Come up the road here, to oor public, an' tak a glaiss, wuman,' said Falconer. 'Dinna haud the fowk luikin' at ye.'
The temptation of a glass of something strong, and the hope of getting money out of them, caused an instant acquiescence. She said a few words to the young woman, who proceeded at once to tie her donkey's head to the tail of the other cart.
'Shaw the gait than,' said the elder, turning again to Falconer.
Shargar and he led the way to St. Paul's Churchyard, and the woman followed faithfully. The waiter stared when they entered.
'Bring a glass of whisky,' said Falconer, as he passed on to their private room. When the whisky arrived, she tossed it off, and looked as if she would like another glass.
'Yer father 'ill hae ta'en ye up, I'm thinkin', laddie?' she said, turning to her son.
'No,' answered Shargar, gloomily. 'There's the man that took me up.'
'An' wha may ye be?' she asked, turning to Falconer.
'Mr. Falconer,' said Shargar.
'No a son o' Anerew Faukner?' she asked again, with evident interest.
'The same,' answered Robert.
'Well, Geordie,' she said, turning once more to her son, 'it's like mither, like father to the twa o' ye.'
'Did you know my father?' asked Robert, eagerly.
Instead of answering him she made another remark to her son.
'He needna be ashamed o' your company, ony gait—queer kin' o' a mither 'at I am.'
'He never was ashamed of my company,' said Shargar, still gloomily.
'Ay, I kent yer father weel eneuch,' she said, now answering Robert—'mair by token 'at I saw him last nicht. He was luikin' nae that ill.'
Robert sprung from his seat, and caught her by the arm.
'Ow! ye needna gang into sic a flurry. He'll no come near ye, I s' warran'.'
'Tell me where he is,' said Robert. 'Where did you see him? I'll gie ye a' 'at I hae gin ye'll tak me till him.'
'Hooly! hooly! Wha's to gang luikin' for a thrum in a hay-sow?' returned she, coolly. 'I only said 'at I saw him.'
'But are ye sure it was him?' asked Falconer.
'Ay, sure eneuch,' she answered.
'What maks ye sae sure?'
''Cause I never was vrang yet. Set a man ance atween my twa een, an' that 'll be twa 'at kens him whan 's ain mither 's forgotten 'im.'
'Did you speak to him?'
'Maybe ay, an' maybe no. I didna come here to be hecklet afore a jury.'
'Tell me what he's like,' said Robert, agitated with eager hope.
'Gin ye dinna ken what he's like, what for suld ye tak the trouble to speir? But 'deed ye'll ken what he's like whan ye fa' in wi' him,' she added, with a vindictive laugh—vindictive because he had given her only one glass of strong drink.
With the laugh she rose, and made for the door. They rose at the same moment to detain her. Like one who knew at once to fight and flee, she turned and stunned them as with a blow.
'She's a fine yoong thing, yon sister o' yours, Geordie. She'll be worth siller by the time she's had a while at the schuil.'
The men looked at each other aghast. When they turned their eyes she had vanished. They rushed to the door, and, parting, searched in both directions. But they were soon satisfied that it was of no use. Probably she had found a back way into Paternoster Row, whence the outlets are numerous.
But now that Falconer had a ground, even thus shadowy, for hoping—I cannot say believing—that his father might be in London, he could not return to Aberdeen. Moray, who had no heart to hunt for his mother, left the next day by the steamer. Falconer took to wandering about the labyrinthine city, and in a couple of months knew more about the metropolis—the west end excepted—than most people who had lived their lives in it. The west end is no doubt a considerable exception to make, but Falconer sought only his father, and the west end was the place where he was least likely to find him. Day and night he wandered into all sorts of places: the worse they looked the more attractive he found them. It became almost a craze with him. He could not pass a dirty court or low-browed archway. He might be there. Or he might have been there. Or it was such a place as he would choose for shelter. He knew to what such a life as his must have tended.
At first he was attracted only by tall elderly men. Such a man he would sometimes follow till his following made him turn and demand his object. If there was no suspicion of Scotch in his tone, Falconer easily apologized. If there was, he made such replies as might lead to some betrayal. He could not defend the course he was adopting: it had not the shadow of probability upon its side. Still the greatest successes the world has ever beheld had been at one time the greatest improbabilities! He could not choose but go on, for as yet he could think of no other way.
Neither could a man like Falconer long confine his interest to this immediate object, especially after he had, in following it, found opportunity of being useful. While he still made it his main object to find his father, that object became a centre from which radiated a thousand influences upon those who were as sheep that had no shepherd. He fell back into his old ways at Aberdeen, only with a boundless sphere to work in, and with the hope of finding his father to hearten him. He haunted the streets at night, went into all places of entertainment, often to the disgust of senses and soul, and made his way into the lowest forms of life without introduction or protection.
There was a certain stately air of the hills about him which was often mistaken for country inexperience, and men thought in consequence to make gain or game of him. But such found their mistake, and if not soon, then the more completely. Far from provoking or even meeting hostility, he soon satisfied those that persisted, that it was dangerous. In two years he became well known to the poor of a large district, especially on both sides of Shoreditch, for whose sake he made the exercise of his profession though not an object yet a ready accident.
He lived in lodgings in John Street—the same in which I found him when I came to know him. He made few acquaintances, and they were chiefly the house-surgeons of hospitals—to which he paid frequent visits.
He always carried a book in his pocket, but did not read much. On Sundays he generally went to some one of the many lonely heaths or commons of Surrey with his New Testament. When weary in London, he would go to the reading-room of the British Museum for an hour or two. He kept up a regular correspondence with Dr. Anderson.
At length he received a letter from him, which occasioned his immediate departure for Aberdeen. Until now, his friend, who was entirely satisfied with his mode of life, and supplied him freely with money, had not even expressed a wish to recall him, though he had often spoken of visiting him in London. It now appeared that, unwilling to cause him any needless anxiety, he had abstained from mentioning the fact that his health had been declining. He had got suddenly worse, and Falconer hastened to obey the summons he had sent him in consequence.
With a heavy heart he walked up to the hospitable door, recalling as he ascended the steps how he had stood there a helpless youth, in want of a few pounds to save his hopes, when this friend received him and bid him God-speed on the path he desired to follow. In a moment more he was shown into the study, and was passing through it to go to the cottage-room, when Johnston laid his hand on his arm.
'The maister's no up yet, sir,' he said, with a very solemn look. 'He's been desperate efter seein' ye, and I maun gang an' lat him ken 'at ye're here at last, for fear it suld be ower muckle for him, seein' ye a' at ance. But eh, sir!' he added, the tears gathering in his eyes, 'ye'll hardly ken 'im. He's that changed!'
Johnston left the study by the door to the cottage—Falconer had never known the doctor sleep there—and returning a moment after, invited him to enter. In the bed in the recess—the room unchanged, with its deal table, and its sanded floor—lay the form of his friend. Falconer hastened to the bedside, kneeled down, and took his hand speechless. The doctor was silent too, but a smile overspread his countenance, and revealed his inward satisfaction. Robert's heart was full, and he could only gaze on the worn face. At length he was able to speak.
'What for didna ye sen' for me?' he said. 'Ye never tellt me ye was ailin'.'
'Because you were doing good, Robert, my boy; and I who had done so little had no right to interrupt what you were doing. I wonder if God will give me another chance. I would fain do better. I don't think I could sit singing psalms to all eternity,' he added with a smile.
'Whatever good I may do afore my turn comes, I hae you to thank for 't. Eh, doctor, gin it hadna been for you!'
Robert's feelings overcame him. He resumed, brokenly,
'Ye gae me a man to believe in, whan my ain father had forsaken me, and my frien' was awa to God. Ye hae made me, doctor. Wi' meat an' drink an' learnin' an' siller, an' a'thing at ance, ye hae made me.'
'Eh, Robert!' said the dying man, half rising on his elbow, 'to think what God maks us a' to ane anither! My father did ten times for me what I hae dune for you. As I lie here thinkin' I may see him afore a week's ower, I'm jist a bairn again.'
As he spoke, the polish of his speech was gone, and the social refinement of his countenance with it. The face of his ancestors, the noble, sensitive, heart-full, but rugged, bucolic, and weather-beaten through centuries of windy ploughing, hail-stormed sheep-keeping, long-paced seed-sowing, and multiform labour, surely not less honourable in the sight of the working God than the fighting of the noble, came back in the face of the dying physician. From that hour to his death he spoke the rugged dialect of his fathers.
A day or two after this, Robert again sitting by his bedside,
'I dinna ken,' he said, 'whether it's richt—but I hae nae fear o' deith, an' yet I canna say I'm sure aboot onything. I hae seen mony a ane dee that cud hae no faith i' the Saviour; but I never saw that fear that some gude fowk wud hae ye believe maun come at the last. I wadna like to tak to ony papistry; but I never cud mak oot frae the Bible—and I read mair at it i' the jungle than maybe ye wad think—that it's a' ower wi' a body at their deith. I never heard them bring foret ony text but ane—the maist ridiculous hash 'at ever ye heard—to justifee 't.'
'I ken the text ye mean—“As the tree falleth so it shall lie,” or something like that—'at they say King Solomon wrote, though better scholars say his tree had fa'en mony a lang year afore that text saw the licht. I dinna believe sic a thocht was i' the man's heid when he wrote it. It is as ye say—ower contemptible to ca' an argument. I'll read it to ye ance mair.'
Robert got his Bible, and read the following portion from that wonderful book, so little understood, because it is so full of wisdom—the Book of Ecclesiastes:—
'Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days.
'Give a portion to seven, and also to eight; for thou knowest not what evil shall be upon the earth.
'If the clouds be full of rain, they empty themselves upon the earth: and if the tree fall toward the south, or toward the north, in the place where the tree falleth, there it shall be.
'He that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap.
'As thou knowest not what is the way of the spirit, nor how the bones do grow in the womb of her that is with child: even so thou knowest not the works of God who maketh all.
'In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine hand: for thou knowest not whether shall prosper, either this or that, or whether they both shall be alike good.'
'Ay, ay; that's it,' said Dr. Anderson. 'Weel, I maun say again that they're ill aff for an argument that taks that for ane upo' sic a momentous subjec'. I prefer to say, wi' the same auld man, that I know not the works of God who maketh all. But I wish I could say I believed onything for certain sure. But whan I think aboot it—wad ye believe 't? the faith o' my father's mair to me nor ony faith o' my ain. That soonds strange. But it's this: I'm positeeve that that godly great auld man kent mair aboot a' thae things—I cud see 't i' the face o' 'm—nor ony ither man 'at ever I kent. An' it's no by comparison only. I'm sure he did ken. There was something atween God and him. An' I think he wasna likely to be wrang; an' sae I tak courage to believe as muckle as I can, though maybe no sae muckle as I fain wad.'
Robert, who from experience of himself, and the observations he had made by the bedsides of not a few dying men and women, knew well that nothing but the truth itself can carry its own conviction; that the words of our Lord are a body as it were in which the spirit of our Lord dwells, or rather the key to open the heart for the entrance of that spirit, turned now from all argumentation to the words of Jesus. He himself had said of them, 'They are spirit and they are life;' and what folly to buttress life and spirit with other powers than their own! From that day to the last, as often and as long as the dying man was able to listen to him, he read from the glad news just the words of the Lord. As he read thus, one fading afternoon, the doctor broke out with,
'Eh, Robert, the patience o' him! He didna quench the smokin' flax. There's little fire aboot me, but surely I ken in my ain hert some o' the risin' smoke o' the sacrifice. Eh! sic words as they are! An' he was gaein' doon to the grave himsel', no half my age, as peacefu', though the road was sae rouch, as gin he had been gaein' hame till 's father.'
'Sae he was,' returned Robert.
'Ay; but here am I lyin' upo' my bed, slippin' easy awa. An' there was he—'
The old man ceased. The sacred story was too sacred for speech. Robert sat with the New Testament open before him on the bed.
'The mair the words o' Jesus come into me,' the doctor began again, 'the surer I am o' seein' my auld Brahmin frien', Robert. It's true I thought his religion not only began but ended inside him. It was a' a booin' doon afore and an aspirin' up into the bosom o' the infinite God. I dinna mean to say 'at he wasna honourable to them aboot him. And I never saw in him muckle o' that pride to the lave (rest) that belangs to the Brahmin. It was raither a stately kin'ness than that condescension which is the vice o' Christians. But he had naething to do wi' them. The first comman'ment was a' he kent. He loved God—nae a God like Jesus Christ, but the God he kent—and that was a' he could. The second comman'ment—that glorious recognition o' the divine in humanity makin' 't fit and needfu' to be loved, that claim o' God upon and for his ain bairns, that love o' the neebour as yer'sel—he didna ken. Still there was religion in him; and he who died for the sins o' the whole world has surely been revealed to him lang er' noo, and throu the knowledge o' him, he noo dwalls in that God efter whom he aspired.'
Here was the outcome of many talks which Robert and the doctor had had together, as they laboured amongst the poor.
'Did ye never try,' Robert asked, 'to lat him ken aboot the comin' o' God to his world in Jesus Christ?'
'I couldna do muckle that way honestly, my ain faith was sae poor and sma'. But I tellt him what Christians believed. I tellt him aboot the character and history o' Christ. But it didna seem to tak muckle hauld o' him. It wasna interesstin' till him. Just ance whan I tellt him some things he had said aboot his relation to God—sic as, “I and my Father are one,”—and aboot the relation o' a' his disciples to God and himsel'—“I in them, and thou in me, that they may be made perfect in one,” he said, wi' a smile, “The man was a good Brahmin.”
'It's little,' said Robert, 'the one great commandment can do withoot the other. It's little we can ken what God to love, or hoo to love him, withoot “thy neighbour as thyself.” Ony ane o' them withoot the ither stan's like the ae factor o' a multiplication, or ae wing upo' a laverock (lark).'
Towards the close of the week, he grew much feebler. Falconer scarcely left his room. He woke one midnight, and murmured as follows, with many pauses for breath and strength:
'Robert, my time's near, I'm thinkin'; for, wakin' an' sleepin', I'm a bairn again. I can hardly believe whiles 'at my father hasna a grup o' my han'. A meenute ago I was traivellin' throu a terrible driftin' o' snaw—eh, hoo it whustled and sang! and the cauld o' 't was stingin'; but my father had a grup o' me, an' I jist despised it, an' was stampin' 't doon wi' my wee bit feet, for I was like saven year auld or thereaboots. An' syne I thocht I heard my mither singin', and kent by that that the ither was a dream. I'm thinkin' a hantle 'ill luik dreamy afore lang. Eh! I wonner what the final waukin' 'ill be like.'
After a pause he resumed,
'Robert, my dear boy, ye're i' the richt gait. Haud on an' lat naething turn ye aside. Man, it's a great comfort to me to think that ye're my ain flesh and blude, an' nae that far aff. My father an' your great-gran'father upo' the gran'mither's side war ain brithers. I wonner hoo far doon it wad gang. Ye're the only ane upo' my father's side, you and yer father, gin he be alive, that I hae sib to me. My will's i' the bottom drawer upo' the left han' i' my writin' table i' the leebrary:—I hae left ye ilka plack 'at I possess. Only there's ae thing that I want ye to do. First o' a', ye maun gang on as yer doin' in London for ten year mair. Gin deein' men hae ony o' that foresicht that's been attreebuted to them in a' ages, it's borne in upo' me that ye wull see yer father again. At a' events, ye'll be helpin' some ill-faured sowls to a clean face and a bonny. But gin ye dinna fa' in wi' yer father within ten year, ye maun behaud a wee, an' jist pack up yer box, an' gang awa' ower the sea to Calcutta, an' du what I hae tellt ye to do i' that wull. I bind ye by nae promise, Robert, an' I winna hae nane. Things micht happen to put ye in a terrible difficulty wi' a promise. I'm only tellin' ye what I wad like. Especially gin ye hae fund yer father, ye maun gang by yer ain jeedgment aboot it, for there 'll be a hantle to do wi' him efter ye hae gotten a grup o' 'im. An' noo, I maun lie still, an' maybe sleep again, for I hae spoken ower muckle.'
Hoping that he would sleep and wake yet again, Robert sat still. After an hour, he looked, and saw that, although hitherto much oppressed, he was now breathing like a child. There was no sign save of past suffering: his countenance was peaceful as if he had already entered into his rest. Robert withdrew, and again seated himself. And the great universe became to him as a bird brooding over the breaking shell of the dying man.
On either hand we behold a birth, of which, as of the moon, we see but half. We are outside the one, waiting for a life from the unknown; we are inside the other, watching the departure of a spirit from the womb of the world into the unknown. To the region whither he goes, the man enters newly born. We forget that it is a birth, and call it a death. The body he leaves behind is but the placenta by which he drew his nourishment from his mother Earth. And as the child-bed is watched on earth with anxious expectancy, so the couch of the dying, as we call them, may be surrounded by the birth-watchers of the other world, waiting like anxious servants to open the door to which this world is but the wind-blown porch.
Extremes meet. As a man draws nigh to his second birth, his heart looks back to his childhood. When Dr. Anderson knew that he was dying, he retired into the simulacrum of his father's benn end.
As Falconer sat thinking, the doctor spoke. They were low, faint, murmurous sounds, for the lips were nearly at rest. Wanted no more for utterance, they were going back to the holy dust, which is God's yet.
'Father, father!' he cried quickly, in the tone and speech of a Scotch laddie, 'I'm gaein' doon. Haud a grup o' my han'.'
When Robert hurried to the bedside, he found that the last breath had gone in the words. The thin right hand lay partly closed, as if it had been grasping a larger hand. On the face lay confidence just ruffled with apprehension: the latter melted away, and nothing remained but that awful and beautiful peace which is the farewell of the soul to its servant.
Robert knelt and thanked God for the noble man.
Dr. Anderson's body was, according to the fine custom of many of the people of Aberdeen, borne to the grave by twelve stalwart men in black, with broad round bonnets on their heads, the one-half relieving the other—a privilege of the company of shore-porters. Their exequies are thus freed from the artificial, grotesque, and pagan horror given by obscene mutes, frightful hearse, horses, and feathers. As soon as, in the beautiful phrase of the Old Testament, John Anderson was thus gathered to his fathers, Robert went to pay a visit to his grandmother.
Dressed to a point in the same costume in which he had known her from childhood, he found her little altered in appearance. She was one of those who instead of stooping with age, settle downwards: she was still as erect as ever, though shorter. Her step was feebler, and when she prayed, her voice quavered more. On her face sat the same settled, almost hard repose, as ever; but her behaviour was still more gentle than when he had seen her last. Notwithstanding, however, that time had wrought so little change in her appearance, Robert felt that somehow the mist of a separation between her world and his was gathering; that she was, as it were, fading from his sight and presence, like the moon towards 'her interlunar cave.' Her face was gradually turning from him towards the land of light.
'I hae buried my best frien' but yersel', grannie,' he said, as he took a chair close by her side, where he used to sit when he read the Bible and Boston to her.
'I trust he's happy. He was a douce and a weel-behaved man; and ye hae rizzon to respec' his memory. Did he dee the deith o' the richteous, think ye, laddie?'
'I do think that, grannie. He loved God and his Saviour.'
'The Lord be praised!' said Mrs. Falconer. 'I had guid houps o' 'im in 's latter days. And fowk says he's made a rich man o' ye, Robert?'
'He's left me ilka thing, excep' something till 's servan's—wha hae weel deserved it.'
'Eh, Robert! but it's a terrible snare. Siller 's an awfu' thing. My puir Anerew never begud to gang the ill gait, till he began to hae ower muckle siller. But it badena lang wi' 'im.'
'But it's no an ill thing itsel', grannie; for God made siller as weel 's ither things.'
'He thinksna muckle o' 't, though, or he wad gie mair o' 't to some fowk. But as ye say, it's his, and gin ye hae grace to use 't aricht, it may be made a great blessin' to yersel' and ither fowk. But eh, laddie! tak guid tent 'at ye ride upo' the tap o' 't, an' no lat it rise like a muckle jaw (billow) ower yer heid; for it's an awfu' thing to be droont in riches.'
'Them 'at prays no to be led into temptation hae a chance—haena they, grannie?'
'That hae they, Robert. And to be plain wi' ye, I haena that muckle fear o' ye; for I hae heard the kin' o' life 'at ye hae been leadin'. God's hearkent to my prayers for you; and gin ye gang on as ye hae begun, my prayers, like them o' David the son o' Jesse, are endit. Gang on, my dear lad, gang on to pluck brands frae the burnin'. Haud oot a helpin' han' to ilka son and dauchter o' Adam 'at will tak a grip o' 't. Be a burnin' an' a shinin' licht, that men may praise, no you, for ye're but clay i' the han's o' the potter, but yer Father in heaven. Tak the drunkard frae his whusky, the deboshed frae his debosh, the sweirer frae his aiths, the leear frae his lees; and giena ony o' them ower muckle o' yer siller at ance, for fear 'at they grow fat an' kick an' defy God and you. That's my advice to ye, Robert.'
'And I houp I'll be able to haud gey and near till 't, grannie, for it's o' the best. But wha tellt ye what I was aboot in Lonnon?'
'Himsel'.'
'Dr. Anderson?'
'Ay, jist himsel'. I hae had letter upo' letter frae 'im aboot you and a' 'at ye was aboot. He keepit me acquant wi' 't a'.'
This fresh proof of his friend's affection touched Robert deeply. He had himself written often to his grandmother, but he had never entered into any detail of his doings, although the thought of her was ever at hand beside the thought of his father.
'Do ye ken, grannie, what's at the hert o' my houps i' the meesery an' degradation that I see frae mornin' to nicht, and aftener yet frae nicht to mornin' i' the back closes and wynds o' the great city?'
'I trust it's the glory o' God, laddie.'
'I houp that's no a'thegither wantin', grannie. For I love God wi' a' my hert. But I doobt it's aftener the savin' o' my earthly father nor the glory o' my heavenly ane that I'm thinkin' o'.'
Mrs. Falconer heaved a deep sigh.
'God grant ye success, Robert,' she said. 'But that canna be richt.'
'What canna be richt?'
'No to put the glory o' God first and foremost.'
'Weel, grannie; but a body canna rise to the heicht o' grace a' at ance, nor yet in ten, or twenty year. Maybe gin I do richt, I may be able to come to that or a' be dune. An' efter a', I'm sure I love God mair nor my father. But I canna help thinkin' this, that gin God heardna ae sang o' glory frae this ill-doin' earth o' his, he wadna be nane the waur; but—'
'Hoo ken ye that?' interrupted his grandmother.
'Because he wad be as gude and great and grand as ever.'
'Ow ay.'
'But what wad come o' my father wantin' his salvation? He can waur want that, remainin' the slave o' iniquity, than God can want his glory. Forby, ye ken there's nae glory to God like the repentin' o' a sinner, justifeein' God, an' sayin' till him—“Father, ye're a' richt, an' I'm a' wrang.” What greater glory can God hae nor that?'
'It's a' true 'at ye say. But still gin God cares for that same glory, ye oucht to think o' that first, afore even the salvation o' yer father.'
'Maybe ye're richt, grannie. An' gin it be as ye say—he's promised to lead us into a' trowth, an' he'll lead me into that trowth. But I'm thinkin' it's mair for oor sakes than his ain 'at he cares aboot his glory. I dinna believe 'at he thinks aboot his glory excep' for the sake o' the trowth an' men's herts deein' for want o' 't.'
Mrs. Falconer thought for a moment.
'It may be 'at ye're richt, laddie; but ye hae a way o' sayin' things 'at 's some fearsome.'
'God's nae like a prood man to tak offence, grannie. There's naething pleases him like the trowth, an' there's naething displeases him like leein', particularly whan it's by way o' uphaudin' him. He wants nae sic uphaudin'. Noo, ye say things aboot him whiles 'at soun's to me fearsome.'
'What kin' o' things are they, laddie?' asked the old lady, with offence glooming in the background.
'Sic like as whan ye speyk aboot him as gin he was a puir prood bailey-like body, fu' o' his ain importance, an' ready to be doon upo' onybody 'at didna ca' him by the name o' 's office—ay think-thinkin' aboot 's ain glory; in place o' the quaiet, michty, gran', self-forgettin', a'-creatin', a'-uphaudin', eternal bein', wha took the form o' man in Christ Jesus, jist that he micht hae 't in 's pooer to beir and be humblet for oor sakes. Eh, grannie! think o' the face o' that man o' sorrows, that never said a hard word till a sinfu' wuman, or a despised publican: was he thinkin' aboot 's ain glory, think ye? An' we hae no richt to say we ken God save in the face o' Christ Jesus. Whatever 's no like Christ is no like God.'
'But, laddie, he cam to saitisfee God's justice by sufferin' the punishment due to oor sins; to turn aside his wrath an' curse; to reconcile him to us. Sae he cudna be a'thegither like God.'
'He did naething o' the kin', grannie. It's a' a lee that. He cam to saitisfee God's justice by giein' him back his bairns; by garrin' them see that God was just; by sendin' them greetin' hame to fa' at his feet, an' grip his knees an' say, “Father, ye're i' the richt.” He cam to lift the weicht o' the sins that God had curst aff o' the shoothers o' them 'at did them, by makin' them turn agen them, an' be for God an' no for sin. And there isna a word o' reconceelin' God till 's in a' the Testament, for there was no need o' that: it was us that he needed to be reconcilet to him. An' sae he bore oor sins and carried oor sorrows; for those sins comin' oot in the multitudes—ay and in his ain disciples as weel, caused him no en' o' grief o' mind an' pain o' body, as a'body kens. It wasna his ain sins, for he had nane, but oors, that caused him sufferin'; and he took them awa'—they're vainishin' even noo frae the earth, though it doesna luik like it in Rag-fair or Petticoat-lane. An' for oor sorrows—they jist garred him greit. His richteousness jist annihilates oor guilt, for it's a great gulf that swallows up and destroys 't. And sae he gae his life a ransom for us: and he is the life o' the world. He took oor sins upo' him, for he cam into the middle o' them an' took them up—by no sleicht o' han', by no quibblin' o' the lawyers, aboot imputin' his richteousness to us, and sic like, which is no to be found i' the Bible at a', though I dinna say that there's no possible meanin' i' the phrase, but he took them and took them awa'; and here am I, grannie, growin' oot o' my sins in consequennce, and there are ye, grannie, growin' oot o' yours in consequennce, an' haein' nearhan' dune wi' them a'thegither er this time.'
'I wis that may be true, laddie. But I carena hoo ye put it,' returned his grandmother, bewildered no doubt with this outburst, 'sae be that ye put him first an' last an' i' the mids' o' a' thing, an' say wi' a' yer hert, “His will be dune!”'
'Wi' a' my hert, “His will be dune,” grannie,' responded Robert.
'Amen, amen. And noo, laddie, duv ye think there's ony likliheid that yer father 's still i' the body? I dream aboot him whiles sae lifelike that I canna believe him deid. But that's a' freits (superstitions).'
'Weel, grannie, I haena the least assurance. But I hae the mair houp. Wad ye ken him gin ye saw him?'
'Ken him!' she cried; 'I wad ken him gin he had been no to say four, but forty days i' the sepulchre! My ain Anerew! Hoo cud ye speir sic a queston, laddie?'
'He maun be sair changed, grannie. He maun be turnin' auld by this time.'
'Auld! Sic like 's yersel, laddie.—Hoots, hoots! ye're richt. I am forgettin'. But nanetheless wad I ken him.'
'I wis I kent what he was like. I saw him ance—hardly twise, but a' that I min' upo' wad stan' me in ill stead amo' the streets o' Lonnon.'
'I doobt that,' returned Mrs. Falconer—a form of expression rather oddly indicating sympathetic and somewhat regretful agreement with what has been said. 'But,' she went on, 'I can lat ye see a pictur' o' 'im, though I doobt it winna shaw sae muckle to you as to me. He had it paintit to gie to yer mother upo' their weddin' day. Och hone! She did the like for him; but what cam o' that ane, I dinna ken.'
Mrs. Falconer went into the little closet to the old bureau, and bringing out the miniature, gave it to Robert. It was the portrait of a young man in antiquated blue coat and white waistcoat, looking innocent, and, it must be confessed, dull and uninteresting. It had been painted by a travelling artist, and probably his skill did not reach to expression. It brought to Robert's mind no faintest shadow of recollection. It did not correspond in the smallest degree to what seemed his vague memory, perhaps half imagination, of the tall worn man whom he had seen that Sunday. He could not have a hope that this would give him the slightest aid in finding him of whom it had once been a shadowy resemblance at least.
'Is 't like him, grannie?' he asked.
As if to satisfy herself once more ere she replied, she took the miniature, and gazed at it for some time. Then with a deep hopeless sigh, she answered,
'Ay, it's like him; but it's no himsel'. Eh, the bonny broo, an' the smilin' een o' him!—smilin' upon a'body, an' upo' her maist o' a', till he took to the drink, and waur gin waur can be. It was a' siller an' company—company 'at cudna be merry ohn drunken. Verity their lauchter was like the cracklin' o' thorns aneath a pot. Het watter and whusky was aye the cry efter their denner an' efter their supper, till my puir Anerew tuik till the bare whusky i' the mornin' to fill the ebb o' the toddy. He wad never hae dune as he did but for the whusky. It jist drave oot a' gude and loot in a' ill.'
'Wull ye lat me tak this wi' me, grannie?' said Robert; for though the portrait was useless for identification, it might serve a further purpose.
'Ow, ay, tak it. I dinna want it. I can see him weel wantin' that. But I hae nae houp left 'at ye'll ever fa' in wi' him.'
'God's aye doin' unlikly things, grannie,' said Robert, solemnly.
'He's dune a' 'at he can for him, I doobt, already.'
'Duv ye think 'at God cudna save a man gin he liket, than, grannie?'
'God can do a'thing. There's nae doobt but by the gift o' his speerit he cud save a'body.'
'An' ye think he's no mercifu' eneuch to do 't?'
'It winna do to meddle wi' fowk's free wull. To gar fowk be gude wad be nae gudeness.'
'But gin God could actually create the free wull, dinna ye think he cud help it to gang richt, withoot ony garrin'? We ken sae little aboot it, grannie! Hoo does his speerit help onybody? Does he gar them 'at accep's the offer o' salvation?'
'Na, I canna think that. But he shaws them the trowth in sic a way that they jist canna bide themsel's, but maun turn to him for verra peace an' rist.'
'Weel, that's something as I think. An' until I'm sure that a man has had the trowth shawn till him in sic a way 's that, I canna alloo mysel' to think that hooever he may hae sinned, he has finally rejeckit the trowth. Gin I kent that a man had seen the trowth as I hae seen 't whiles, and had deleeberately turned his back upo' 't and said, “I'll nane o' 't,” than I doobt I wad be maist compelled to alloo that there was nae mair salvation for him, but a certain and fearfu' luikin' for o' judgment and fiery indignation. But I dinna believe that ever man did sae. But even than, I dinna ken.'
'I did a' for him that I kent hoo to do,' said Mrs. Falconer, reflectingly. 'Nicht an' mornin' an' aften midday prayin' for an' wi' him.'
'Maybe ye scunnert him at it, grannie.'
She gave a stifled cry of despair.
'Dinna say that, laddie, or ye'll drive me oot o' my min'. God forgie me, gin that be true. I deserve hell mair nor my Anerew.'
'But, ye see, grannie, supposin' it war sae, that wadna be laid to your accoont, seein' ye did the best ye kent. Nor wad it be forgotten to him. It wad mak a hantle difference to his sin; it wad be a great excuse for him. An' jist think, gin it be fair for ae human being to influence anither a' 'at they can, and that's nae interferin' wi' their free wull—it's impossible to measure what God cud do wi' his speerit winnin' at them frae a' sides, and able to put sic thouchts an' sic pictures into them as we canna think. It wad a' be true that he tellt them, and the trowth can never be a meddlin' wi' the free wull.'
Mrs. Falconer made no reply, but evidently went on thinking.
She was, though not a great reader, yet a good reader. Any book that was devout and thoughtful she read gladly. Through some one or other of this sort she must have been instructed concerning free will, for I do not think such notions could have formed any portion of the religious teaching she had heard. Men in that part of Scotland then believed that the free will of man was only exercised in rejecting—never in accepting the truth; and that men were saved by the gift of the Spirit, given to some and not to others, according to the free will of God, in the exercise of which no reason appreciable by men, or having anything to do with their notions of love or justice, had any share. In the recognition of will and choice in the acceptance of the mercy of God, Mrs. Falconer was then in advance of her time. And it is no wonder if her notions did not all hang logically together.
'At ony rate, grannie,' resumed her grandson, 'I haena dune a' for him 'at I can yet; and I'm no gaein' to believe onything that wad mak me remiss in my endeavour. Houp for mysel', for my father, for a'body, is what's savin' me, an' garrin' me work. An' gin ye tell me that I'm no workin' wi' God, that God's no the best an' the greatest worker aboon a', ye tak the verra hert oot o' my breist, and I dinna believe in God nae mair, an' my han's drap doon by my sides, an' my legs winna gang. No,' said Robert, rising, 'God 'ill gie me my father sometime, grannie; for what man can do wantin' a father? Human bein' canna win at the hert o' things, canna ken a' the oots an' ins, a' the sides o' love, excep' he has a father amo' the lave to love; an' I hae had nane, grannie. An' that God kens.'
She made him no answer. She dared not say that he expected too much from God. Is it likely that Jesus will say so of any man or woman when he looks for faith in the earth?
Robert went out to see some of his old friends, and when he returned it was time for supper and worship. These were the same as of old: a plate of porridge, and a wooden bowl of milk for the former; a chapter and a hymn, both read, and a prayer from grannie, and then from Robert for the latter. And so they went to bed.
But Robert could not sleep. He rose and dressed himself, went up to the empty garret, looked at the stars through the skylight, knelt and prayed for his father and for all men to the Father of all, then softly descended the stairs, and went out into the street.