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.
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 riseOften before me in the twilight shadeHolding a bunch of poppies, and a bladeOf springing wheat: prostrate my body liesBefore her on the turf, the while she tiesA fillet of the weed about my head;And in the gaps of sleep I seem to hearA 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, aspireTo immortality; heed not the lyreOf 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 psalmOf victory sung by creatures past thy seeing;And from far battle-fields there comes the neighingOf 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 glowOf a wild energy that mocks the flowOf 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 dayThrough 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 sparkMade 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 gettingBeautiful and silvery in the rising moon;Beneath the leafless treesWrangling 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 dayAnd every peak afar,Was ready for a star,And they climbed and rolled around until the morning gray.Then slumber soft and holyCame 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.
'Robert!' said Mary, in a tone which, had he not been so eager after his end, he might have interpreted as one of displeasure.
'Ye maun hearken till me, mem.—Whan I was oot at Bodyfauld,' he began methodically, and Mary, bewildered, gave one hasty brush to her handful of hair and again stood still: she could imagine no connection between this meeting and their late parting—'Whan I was was oot at Bodyfauld ae simmer, I grew acquant wi' a bonnie lassie there, the dochter o' Jeames Hewson, an honest cottar, wi' Shakspeare an' the Arabian Nichts upo' a skelf i' the hoose wi' 'im. I gaed in ae day whan I wasna weel; an' she jist ministert to me, as nane ever did but yersel', mem. An' she was that kin' an' mither-like to the wee bit greitin' bairnie 'at she had to tak care o' 'cause her mither was oot wi' the lave shearin'! Her face was jist like a simmer day, an' weel I likit the luik o' the lassie!—I met her again the nicht. Ye never saw sic a change. A white face, an' nothing but greitin' to come oot o' her. She ran frae me as gin I had been the de'il himsel'. An' the thocht o' you, sae bonnie an' straucht an' gran', cam ower me.'
Yielding to a masterful impulse, Robert did kneel now. As if sinner, and not mediator, he pressed the hem of her garment to his lips.
'Dinna be angry at me, Miss St. John,' he pleaded, 'but be mercifu' to the lassie. Wha's to help her that can no more luik a man i' the face, but the clear-e'ed lass that wad luik the sun himsel' oot o' the lift gin he daured to say a word against her. It's ae woman that can uphaud anither. Ye ken what I mean, an' I needna say mair.'
He rose and turned to leave the room.
Bewildered and doubtful, Miss St. John did not know what to answer, but felt that she must make some reply.
'You haven't told me where to find the girl, or what you want me to do with her.'
'I'll fin' oot whaur she bides,' he said, moving again towards the door.
'But what am I to do with her, Robert?'
'That's your pairt. Ye maun fin' oot what to do wi' her. I canna tell ye that. But gin I was you, I wad gie her a kiss to begin wi'. She's nane o' yer brazen-faced hizzies, yon. A kiss wad be the savin' o' her.'
'But you may be—. But I have nothing to go upon. She would resent my interference.'
'She's past resentin' onything. She was gaein' aboot the toon like ane o' the deid 'at hae naething to say to onybody, an' naebody onything to say to them. Gin she gangs on like that she'll no be alive lang.'
That night Jessie Hewson disappeared. A mile or two up the river under a high bank, from which the main current had receded, lay an awful, swampy place—full of reeds, except in the middle where was one round space full of dark water and mud. Near this Jessie Hewson was seen about an hour after Robert had thus pled for her with his angel.
The event made a deep impression upon Robert. The last time that he saw them, James and his wife were as cheerful as usual, and gave him a hearty welcome. Jessie was in service, and doing well, they said. The next time he opened the door of the cottage it was like the entrance to a haunted tomb. Not a smile was in the place. James's cheeriness was all gone. He was sitting at the table with his head leaning on his hand. His Bible was open before him, but he was not reading a word. His wife was moving listlessly about. They looked just as Jessie had looked that night—as if they had died long ago, but somehow or other could not get into their graves and be at rest. The child Jessie had nursed with such care was toddling about, looking rueful with loss. George had gone to America, and the whole of that family's joy had vanished from the earth.
The subject was not resumed between Miss St. John and Robert. The next time he saw her, he knew by her pale troubled face that she had heard the report that filled the town; and she knew by his silence that it had indeed reference to the same girl of whom he had spoken to her. The music would not go right that evening. Mary was distraite, and Robert was troubled. It was a week or two before there came a change. When the turn did come, over his being love rushed up like a spring-tide from the ocean of the Infinite.
He was accompanying her piano with his violin. He made blunders, and her playing was out of heart. They stopped as by consent, and a moment's silence followed. All at once she broke out with something Robert had never heard before. He soon found that it was a fantasy upon Ericson's poem. Ever through a troubled harmony ran a silver thread of melody from far away. It was the caverns drinking from the tempest overhead, the grasses growing under the snow, the stars making music with the dark, the streams filling the night with the sounds the day had quenched, the whispering call of the dreams left behind in 'the fields of sleep,'—in a word, the central life pulsing in aeonian peace through the outer ephemeral storms. At length her voice took up the theme. The silvery thread became song, and through all the opposing, supporting harmonies she led it to the solution of a close in which the only sorrow was in the music itself, for its very life is an 'endless ending.' She found Robert kneeling by her side. As she turned from the instrument his head drooped over her knee. She laid her hand on his clustering curls, bethought herself, and left the room. Robert wandered out as in a dream. At midnight he found himself on a solitary hill-top, seated in the heather, with a few tiny fir-trees about him, and the sounds of a wind, ethereal as the stars overhead, flowing through their branches: he heard the sound of it, but it did not touch him.
Where was God?
In him and his question.
If Mary St. John had been an ordinary woman, and if, notwithstanding, Robert had been in love with her, he would have done very little in preparation for the coming session. But although she now possessed him, although at times he only knew himself as loving her, there was such a mountain air of calm about her, such an outgoing divinity of peace, such a largely moulded harmony of being, that he could not love her otherwise than grandly. For her sake, weary with loving her, he would yet turn to his work, and, to be worthy of her, or rather, for he never dreamed of being worthy of her, to be worthy of leave to love her, would forget her enough to lay hold of some abstract truth of lines, angles, or symbols. A strange way of being in love, reader? You think so? I would there were more love like it: the world would be centuries nearer its redemption if a millionth part of the love in it were of the sort. All I insist, however, on my reader's believing is, that it showed, in a youth like Robert, not less but more love that he could go against love's sweetness for the sake of love's greatness. Literally, not figuratively, Robert would kiss the place where her foot had trod; but I know that once he rose from such a kiss 'to trace the hyperbola by means of a string.'
It had been arranged between Ericson and Robert, in Miss Napier's parlour, the old lady knitting beside, that Ericson should start, if possible, a week earlier than usual, and spend the difference with Robert at Rothieden. But then the old lady had opened her mouth and spoken. And I firmly believe, though little sign of tenderness passed between them, it was with an elder sister's feeling for Letty's admiration of the 'lan'less laird,' that she said as follows:—
'Dinna ye think, Mr. Ericson, it wad be but fair to come to us neist time? Mistress Faukner, honest lady, an' lang hae I kent her, 's no sae auld a frien' to you, Mr. Ericson, as oorsel's—nae offence to her, ye ken. A'body canna be frien's to a'body, ane as lang 's anither, ye ken.'
''Deed I maun alloo, Miss Naper,' interposed Robert, 'it's only fair. Ye see, Mr. Ericson, I cud see as muckle o' ye almost, the tae way as the tither. Miss Naper maks me welcome as weel's you.'
'An' I will mak ye welcome, Robert, as lang's ye're a gude lad, as ye are, and gang na efter—nae ill gait. But lat me hear o' yer doin' as sae mony young gentlemen do, espeacially whan they're ta'en up by their rich relations, an', public-hoose as this is, I'll close the door o' 't i' yer face.'
'Bless me, Miss Naper!' said Robert, 'what hae I dune to set ye at me that gait? Faith, I dinna ken what ye mean.'
'Nae mair do I, laddie. I hae naething against ye whatever. Only ye see auld fowk luiks aheid, an' wad fain be as sure o' what's to come as o' what's gane.'
'Ye maun bide for that, I doobt,' said Robert.
'Laddie,' retorted Miss Napier, 'ye hae mair sense nor ye hae ony richt till. Haud the tongue o' ye. Mr. Ericson 's to come here neist.'
And the old lady laughed such good humour into her stocking-sole, that the foot destined to wear it ought never to have been cold while it lasted. So it was then settled; and a week before Robert was to start for Aberdeen, Ericson walked into The Boar's Head. Half-an-hour after that, Crookit Caumill was shown into the ga'le-room with the message to Maister Robert that Maister Ericson was come, and wanted to see him.
Robert pitched Hutton's Mathematics into the grate, sprung to his feet, all but embraced Crookit Caumill on the spot, and was deterred only by the perturbed look the man wore. Crookit Caumill was a very human creature, and hadn't a fault but the drink, Miss Napier said. And very little of that he would have had if she had been as active as she was willing.
'What's the maitter, Caumill?' asked Robert, in considerable alarm.
'Ow, naething, sir,' returned Campbell.
'What gars ye look like that, than?' insisted Robert.
'Ow, naething. But whan Miss Letty cried doon the close upo' me, she had her awpron till her een, an' I thocht something bude to be wrang; but I hadna the hert to speir.'
Robert darted to the door, and rushed to the inn, leaving Caumill describing iambi on the road behind him.
When he reached The Boar's Head there was nobody to be seen. He darted up the stair to the room where he had first waited upon Ericson.
Three or four maids stood at the door. He asked no question, but went in, a dreadful fear at his heart. Two of the sisters and Dr. Gow stood by the bed.
Ericson lay upon it, clear-eyed, and still. His cheek was flushed. The doctor looked round as Robert entered.
'Robert,' he said, 'you must keep your friend here quiet. He's broken a blood-vessel—walked too much, I suppose. He'll be all right soon, I hope; but we can't be too careful. Keep him quiet—that's the main thing. He mustn't speak a word.'
So saying he took his leave.
Ericson held out his thin hand. Robert grasped it. Ericson's lips moved as if he would speak.
'Dinna speik, Mr. Ericson,' said Miss Letty, whose tears were flowing unheeded down her cheeks, 'dinna speik. We a' ken what ye mean an' what ye want wi'oot that.'
Then she turned to Robert, and said in a whisper,
'Dr. Gow wadna hae ye sent for; but I kent weel eneuch 'at he wad be a' the quaieter gin ye war here. Jist gie a chap upo' the flure gin ye want onything, an' I'll be wi' ye in twa seconds.'
The sisters went away. Robert drew a chair beside the bed, and once more was nurse to his friend. The doctor had already bled him at the arm: such was the ordinary mode of treatment then.
Scarcely was he seated, when Ericson spoke—a smile flickering over his worn face.
'Robert, my boy,' he said.
'Dinna speak,' said Robert, in alarm; 'dinna speak, Mr. Ericson.'
'Nonsense,' returned Ericson, feebly. 'They're making a work about nothing. I've done as much twenty times since I saw you last, and I'm not dead yet. But I think it's coming.'
'What's coming?' asked Robert, rising in alarm.
'Nothing,' answered Ericson, soothingly,—'only death.—I should like to see Miss St. John once before I die. Do you think she would come and see me if I were really dying?'
'I'm sure she wad. But gin ye speik like this, Miss Letty winna lat me come near ye, no to say her. Oh, Mr. Ericson! gin ye dee, I sanna care to live.'
Bethinking himself that such was not the way to keep Ericson quiet, he repressed his emotion, sat down behind the curtain, and was silent. Ericson fell fast asleep. Robert crept from the room, and telling Miss Letty that he would return presently, went to Miss St. John.
'How can I go to Aberdeen without him?' he thought as he walked down the street.
Neither was a guide to the other; but the questioning of two may give just the needful points by which the parallax of a truth may be gained.
'Mr. Ericson's here, Miss St. John,' he said, the moment he was shown into her presence.
Her face flushed. Robert had never seen her look so beautiful.
'He's verra ill,' he added.
Her face grew pale—very pale.
'He asked if I thought you would go and see him—that is if he were going to die.'
A sunset flush, but faint as on the clouds of the east, rose over her pallor.
'I will go at once,' she said, rising.
'Na, na,' returned Robert, hastily. 'It has to be manage. It's no to be dune a' in a hurry. For ae thing, there's Dr. Gow says he maunna speak ae word; and for anither, there's Miss Letty 'ill jist be like a watch-dog to haud a'body oot ower frae 'im. We maun bide oor time. But gin ye say ye'll gang, that 'll content him i' the meantime. I'll tell him.'
'I will go any moment,' she said. 'Is he very ill?'
'I'm afraid he is. I doobt I'll hae to gang to Aberdeen withoot him.'
A week after, though he was better, his going was out of the question. Robert wanted to stay with him, but he would not hear of it. He would follow in a week or so, he said, and Robert must start fair with the rest of the semies.
But all the removal he was ever able to bear was to the 'red room,' the best in the house, opening, as I have already mentioned, from an outside stair in the archway. They put up a great screen inside the door, and there the lan'less laird lay like a lord.
Robert's heart was dreary when he got on the box-seat of the mail-coach at Rothieden—it was yet drearier when he got down at The Royal Hotel in the street of Ben Accord—and it was dreariest of all when he turned his back on Ericson's, and entered his own room at Mrs. Fyvie's.
Shargar had met him at the coach. Robert had scarcely a word to say to him. And Shargar felt as dreary as Robert when he saw him sit down, and lay his head on the table without a word.
'What's the maitter wi' ye, Robert?' he faltered out at last. 'Gin ye dinna speyk to me, I'll cut my throat. I will, faith!'
'Haud yer tongue wi' yer nonsense, Shargar. Mr. Ericson's deein'.'
'O lord!' said Shargar, and said nothing more for the space of ten minutes.
Then he spoke again—slowly and sententiously.
'He hadna you to tak care o' him, Robert. Whaur is he?'
'At The Boar's Heid.'
'That's weel. He'll be luikit efter there.'
'A body wad like to hae their ain han' in 't, Shargar.'
'Ay. I wiss we had him here again.'
The ice of trouble thus broken, the stream of talk flowed more freely.
'Hoo are ye gettin' on at the schule, man?' asked Robert.
'Nae that ill,' answered Shargar. 'I was at the heid o' my class yesterday for five meenits.'
'An' hoo did ye like it?'
'Man, it was fine. I thocht I was a gentleman a' at ance.'
'Haud ye at it, man,' said Robert, as if from the heights of age and experience, 'and maybe ye will be a gentleman some day.'
'Is 't poassible, Robert? A crater like me grow intil a gentleman?' said Shargar, with wide eyes.
'What for no?' returned Robert.
'Eh, man!' said Shargar.
He stood up, sat down again, and was silent.
'For ae thing,' resumed Robert, after a pause, during which he had been pondering upon the possibilities of Shargar's future—'for ae thing, I doobt whether Dr. Anderson wad hae ta'en ony fash aboot ye, gin he hadna thocht ye had the makin' o' a gentleman i' ye.'
'Eh, man!' said Shargar.
He stood up again, sat down again, and was finally silent.
Next day Robert went to see Dr. Anderson, and told him about Ericson. The doctor shook his head, as doctors have done in such cases from Æsculapius downwards. Robert pressed no further questions.
'Will he be taken care of where he is?' asked the doctor.
'Guid care o',' answered Robert.
'Has he any money, do you think?'
'I hae nae doobt he has some, for he's been teachin' a' the summer. The like o' him maun an' will work whether they're fit or no.'
'Well, at all events, you write, Robert, and give him the hint that he's not to fash himself about money, for I have more than he'll want. And you may just take the hint yourself at the same time, Robert, my boy,' he added in, if possible, a yet kinder tone.
Robert's way of showing gratitude was the best way of all. He returned kindness with faith.
'Gin I be in ony want, doctor, I'll jist rin to ye at ance. An' gin I want ower muckle ye maun jist say na.'
'That's a good fellow. You take things as a body means them.'
'But hae ye naething ye wad like me to do for ye this session, sir?'
'No. I won't have you do anything but your own work. You have more to do than you had last year. Mind your work; and as often as you get tired over your books, shut them up and come to me. You may bring Shargar with you sometimes, but we must take care and not make too much of him all at once.'
'Ay, ay, doctor. But he's a fine crater, Shargar, an' I dinna think he'll be that easy to blaud. What do you think he's turnin' ower i' that reid heid o' his noo?'
'I can't tell that. But there's something to come out of the red head, I do believe. What is he thinking of?'
'Whether it be possible for him ever to be a gentleman. Noo I tak that for a good sign i' the likes o' him.'
'No doubt of it. What did you say to him?'
'I tellt him 'at hoo I didna think ye wad hae ta'en sae muckle fash gin ye hadna had some houps o' the kin' aboot him.'
'You said well. Tell him from me that I expect him to be a gentleman. And by the way, Robert, do try a little, as I think I said to you once before, to speak English. I don't mean that you should give up Scotch, you know.'
'Weel, sir, I hae been tryin'; but what am I to do whan ye speyk to me as gin ye war my ain father? I canna min' upo' a word o' English whan ye do that.'
Dr. Anderson laughed, but his eyes glittered.
Robert found Shargar busy over his Latin version. With a 'Weel, Shargar,' he took his books and sat down. A few moments after, Shargar lifted his head, stared a while at Robert, and then said,
'Duv you railly think it, Robert?'
'Think what? What are ye haverin' at, ye gowk?'
'Duv ye think 'at I ever could grow intil a gentleman?'
'Dr. Anderson says he expecs 't o' ye.'
'Eh, man!'
A long pause followed, and Shargar spoke again.
'Hoo am I to begin, Robert?'
'Begin what?'
'To be a gentleman.'
Robert scratched his head, like Brutus, and at length became oracular.
'Speyk the truth,' he said.
'I'll do that. But what aboot—my father?'
'Naebody 'ill cast up yer father to ye. Ye need hae nae fear o' that.'
'My mither, than?' suggested Shargar, with hesitation.
'Ye maun haud yer face to the fac'.'
'Ay, ay. But gin they said onything, ye ken—aboot her.'
'Gin ony man-body says a word agen yer mither, ye maun jist knock him doon upo' the spot.'
'But I michtna be able.'
'Ye could try, ony gait.'
'He micht knock me down, ye ken.'
'Weel, gae doon than.'
'Ay.'
This was all the instruction Robert ever gave Shargar in the duties of a gentleman. And I doubt whether Shargar sought further enlightenment by direct question of any one. He worked harder than ever; grew cleanly in his person, even to fastidiousness; tried to speak English; and a wonderful change gradually, but rapidly, passed over his outer man. He grew taller and stronger, and as he grew stronger, his legs grew straighter, till the defect of approximating knees, the consequence of hardship, all but vanished. His hair became darker, and the albino look less remarkable, though still he would remind one of a vegetable grown in a cellar.
Dr. Anderson thought it well that he should have another year at the grammar-school before going to college.—Robert now occupied Ericson's room, and left his own to Shargar.
Robert heard every week from Miss St. John about Ericson. Her reports varied much; but on the whole he got a little better as the winter went on. She said that the good women at The Boar's Head paid him every attention: she did not say that almost the only way to get him to eat was to carry him delicacies which she had prepared with her own hands.
She had soon overcome the jealousy with which Miss Letty regarded her interest in their guest, and before many days had passed she would walk into the archway and go up to his room without seeing any one, except the sister whom she generally found there. By what gradations their intimacy grew I cannot inform my reader, for on the events lying upon the boundary of my story, I have received very insufficient enlightenment; but the result it is easy to imagine. I have already hinted at an early disappointment of Miss St. John. She had grown greatly since, and her estimate of what she had lost had altered considerably in consequence. But the change was more rapid after she became acquainted with Ericson. She would most likely have found the young man she thought she was in love with in the days gone by a very commonplace person now. The heart which she had considered dead to the world had, even before that stormy night in the old house, begun to expostulate against its owner's mistake, by asserting a fair indifference to that portion of its past history. And now, to her large nature the simplicity, the suffering, the patience, the imagination, the grand poverty of Ericson, were irresistibly attractive. Add to this that she became his nurse, and soon saw that he was not indifferent to her—and if she fell in love with him as only a full-grown woman can love, without Ericson's lips saying anything that might not by Love's jealousy be interpreted as only of grateful affection, why should she not?
And what of Marjory Lindsay? Ericson had not forgotten her. But the brightest star must grow pale as the sun draws near; and on Ericson there were two suns rising at once on the low sea-shore of life whereon he had been pacing up and down moodily for three-and-twenty years, listening evermore to the unprogressive rise and fall of the tidal waves, all talking of the eternal, all unable to reveal it—the sun of love and the sun of death. Mysie and he had never met. She pleased his imagination; she touched his heart with her helplessness; but she gave him no welcome to the shrine of her beauty: he loved through admiration and pity. He broke no faith to her; for he had never offered her any save in looks, and she had not accepted it. She was but a sickly plant grown in a hot-house. On his death-bed he found a woman a hiding-place from the wind, a covert from the tempest, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land! A strong she-angel with mighty wings, Mary St. John came behind him as he fainted out of life, tempered the burning heat of the Sun of Death, and laid him to sleep in the cool twilight of her glorious shadow. In the stead of trouble about a wilful, thoughtless girl, he found repose and protection and motherhood in a great-hearted woman.
For Ericson's sake, Robert made some effort to preserve the acquaintance of Mr. Lindsay and his daughter. But he could hardly keep up a conversation with Mr. Lindsay, and Mysie showed herself utterly indifferent to him even in the way of common friendship. He told her of Ericson's illness: she said she was sorry to hear it, and looked miles away. He could never get within a certain atmosphere of—what shall I call it? avertedness that surrounded her. She had always lived in a dream of unrealities; and the dream had almost devoured her life.
One evening Shargar was later than usual in coming home from the walk, or ramble rather, without which he never could settle down to his work. He knocked at Robert's door.
'Whaur do ye think I've been, Robert?'
'Hoo suld I ken, Shargar?' answered Robert, puzzling over a problem.
'I've been haein' a glaiss wi' Jock Mitchell.'
'Wha's Jock Mitchell?'
'My brither Sandy's groom, as I tellt ye afore.'
'Ye dinna think I can min' a' your havers, Shargar. Whaur was the comin' gentleman whan ye gaed to drink wi' a chield like that, wha, gin my memory serves me, ye tauld me yersel' was i' the mids o' a' his maister's deevilry?'
'Yer memory serves ye weel eneuch to be doon upo' me,' said Shargar. 'But there's a bit wordy 'at they read at the cathedral kirk the last Sunday 'at's stucken to me as gin there was something by ordinar' in 't.'
'What's that?' asked Robert, pretending to go on with his calculations all the time.
'Ow, nae muckle; only this: “Judge not, that ye be not judged.”—I took a lesson frae Jeck the giant-killer, wi' the Welsh giant—was 't Blunderbore they ca'd him?—an' poored the maist o' my glaiss doon my breist. It wasna like ink; it wadna du my sark ony ill.'
'But what garred ye gang wi' 'im at a'? He wasna fit company for a gentleman.'
'A gentleman 's some saft gin he be ony the waur o' the company he gangs in till. There may be rizzons, ye ken. Ye needna du as they du. Jock Mitchell was airin' Reid Rorie an' Black Geordie. An' says I—for I wantit to ken whether I was sic a breme-buss (broom-bush) as I used to be—says I, “Hoo are ye, Jock Mitchell?” An' says Jock, “Brawly. Wha the deevil are ye?” An' says I, “Nae mair o' a deevil nor yersel', Jock Mitchell, or Alexander, Baron Rothie, either—though maybe that's no little o' ane.” “Preserve me!” cried Jock, “it's Shargar.”—“Nae mair o' that, Jock,” says I. “Gin I bena a gentleman, or a' be dune,”—an' there I stack, for I saw I was a muckle fule to lat oot onything o' the kin' to Jock. And sae he seemed to think, too, for he brak oot wi' a great guffaw; an' to win ower 't, I jined, an' leuch as gin naething was farrer aff frae my thochts than ever bein' a gentleman. “Whaur do ye pit up, Jock?” I said. “Oot by here,” he answert, “at Luckie Maitlan's.”—“That's a queer place for a baron to put up, Jock,” says I. “There's rizzons,” says he, an' lays his forefinger upo' the side o' 's nose, o' whilk there was hardly eneuch to haud it ohn gane intil the opposit ee. “We're no far frae there,” says I—an' deed I can hardly tell ye, Robert, what garred me say sae, but I jist wantit to ken what that gentleman-brither o' mine was efter; “tak the horse hame,” says I—“I'll jist loup upo' Black Geordie—an' we'll hae a glaiss thegither. I'll stan' treat.” Sae he gae me the bridle, an' I lap on. The deevil tried to get a moufu' o' my hip, but, faith! I was ower swack for 'im; an' awa we rade.'
'I didna ken 'at ye cud ride, Shargar.'
'Hoots! I cudna help it. I was aye takin' the horse to the watter at The Boar's Heid, or The Royal Oak, or Lucky Happit's, or The Aucht an' Furty. That's hoo I cam to ken Jock sae weel. We war guid eneuch frien's whan I didna care for leein' or sweirin', an' sic like.'
'And what on earth did ye want wi' 'im noo?'
'I tell ye I wantit to ken what that ne'er-do-weel brither o' mine was efter. I had seen the horses stan'in' aboot twa or three times i' the gloamin'; an' Sandy maun be aboot ill gin he be aboot onything.'
'What can 't maitter to you, Shargar, what a man like him 's aboot?'
'Weel, ye see, Robert, my mither aye broucht me up to ken a' 'at fowk was aboot, for she said ye cud never tell whan it micht turn oot to the weelfaur o' yer advantage—gran' words!—I wonner whaur she forgathert wi' them. But she was a terrible wuman, my mither, an' kent a heap o' things—mair nor 'twas gude to ken, maybe. She gaed aboot the country sae muckle, an' they say the gipsies she gaed amang 's a dreadfu' auld fowk, an' hae the wisdom o' the Egyptians 'at Moses wad hae naething to do wi'.'
'Whaur is she noo?'
'I dinna ken. She may turn up ony day.'
'There's ae thing, though, Shargar: gin ye want to be a gentleman, ye maunna gang keekin' that gate intil ither fowk's affairs.'
'Weel, I maun gie 't up. I winna say a word o' what Jock Mitchell tellt me aboot Lord Sandy.'
'Ow, say awa'.'
'Na, na; ye wadna like to hear aboot ither fowk's affairs. My mither tellt me he did verra ill efter Watterloo till a fremt (stranger) lass at Brussels. But that's neither here nor there. I maun set aboot my version, or I winna get it dune the nicht.'
'What is Lord Sandy after? What did the rascal tell you? Why do you make such a mystery of it?' said Robert, authoritatively, and in his best English.
''Deed I cudna mak naething o' 'm. He winkit an' he mintit (hinted) an' he gae me to unnerstan' 'at the deevil was efter some lass or ither, but wha—my lad was as dumb 's the graveyard about that. Gin I cud only win at that, maybe I cud play him a plisky. But he coupit ower three glasses o' whusky, an' the mair he drank the less he wad say. An' sae I left him.'
'Well, take care what you're about, Shargar. I don't think Dr. Anderson would like you to be in such company,' said Robert; and Shargar departed to his own room and his version.
Towards the end of the session Miss St. John's reports of Ericson were worse. Yet he was very hopeful himself, and thought he was getting better fast. Every relapse he regarded as temporary; and when he got a little better, thought he had recovered his original position. It was some relief to Miss St. John to communicate her anxiety to Robert.
After the distribution of the prizes, of which he gained three, Robert went the same evening to visit Dr. Anderson, intending to go home the next day. The doctor gave him five golden sovereigns—a rare sight in Scotland. Robert little thought in what service he was about to spend them.