It was late when he left his friend. As he walked through the Gallowgate, an ancient narrow street, full of low courts, some one touched him upon the arm. He looked round. It was a young woman. He turned again to walk on.
'Mr Faukner,' she said, in a trembling voice, which Robert thought he had heard before.
He stopped.
'I don't know you,' he said. 'I can't see your face. Tell me who you are.'
She returned no answer, but stood with her head aside. He could see that her hands shook.
'What do you want with me—if you won't say who you are?'
'I want to tell you something,' she said; 'but I canna speyk here. Come wi' me.'
'I won't go with you without knowing who you are or where you're going to take me.'
'Dinna ye ken me?' she said pitifully, turning a little towards the light of the gas-lamp, and looking up in his face.
'It canna be Jessie Hewson?' said Robert, his heart swelling at the sight of the pale worn countenance of the girl.
'I was Jessie Hewson ance,' she said, 'but naebody here kens me by that name but yersel'. Will ye come in? There's no a crater i' the hoose but mysel'.'
Robert turned at once. 'Go on,' he said.
She led the way up a narrow stone stair between two houses. A door high up in the gable admitted them. The boards bent so much under his weight that Robert feared the floor would fall.
'Bide ye there, sir, till I fess a licht,' she said.
This was Robert's first introduction to a phase of human life with which he became familiar afterwards.
'Mind hoo ye gang, sir,' she resumed, returning with a candle. 'There's nae flurin' there. Haud i' the middle efter me, or ye'll gang throu.'
She led him into a room, with nothing in it but a bed, a table, and a chair. On the table was a half-made shirt. In the bed lay a tiny baby, fast asleep. It had been locked up alone in the dreary garret. Robert approached to look at the child, for his heart felt very warm to poor Jessie.
'A bonnie bairnie,' he said,
'Isna he, sir? Think o' 'im comin' to me! Nobody can tell the mercy o' 't. Isna it strange that the verra sin suld bring an angel frae haven upo' the back o' 't to uphaud an' restore the sinner? Fowk thinks it's a punishment; but eh me! it's a mercifu' ane. It's a wonner he didna think shame to come to me. But he cam to beir my shame.'
Robert wondered at her words. She talked of her sin with such a meek openness! She looked her shame in the face, and acknowledged it hers. Had she been less weak and worn, perhaps she could not have spoken thus.
'But what am I aboot!' she said, checking herself. 'I didna fess ye here to speyk aboot mysel'. He's efter mair mischeef, and gin onything cud be dune to haud him frae 't—'
'Wha's efter mischeef, Jessie?' interrupted Robert.
'Lord Rothie. He's gaein' aff the nicht in Skipper Hornbeck's boat to Antwerp, I think they ca' 't, an' a bonnie young leddy wi' 'im. They war to sail wi' the first o' the munelicht.—Surely I'm nae ower late,' she added, going to the window. 'Na, the mune canna be up yet.'
'Na,' said Robert; 'I dinna think she rises muckle afore twa o'clock the nicht. But hoo ken ye? Are ye sure o' 't? It's an awfu' thing to think o'.'
'To convence ye, I maun jist tell ye the trowth. The hoose we're in hasna a gude character. We're middlin' dacent up here; but the lave o' the place is dreadfu'. Eh for the bonnie leys o' Bodyfauld! Gin ye see my father, tell him I'm nane waur than I was.'
'They think ye droont i' the Dyer's Pot, as they ca' 't.'
'There I am again!' she said—'miles awa' an' nae time to be lost!—My lord has a man they ca' Mitchell. Ower weel I ken him. There's a wuman doon the stair 'at he comes to see whiles; an' twa or three nichts ago, I heard them lauchin' thegither. Sae I hearkened. They war baith some fou, I'm thinkin'. I cudna tell ye a' 'at they said. That's a punishment noo, gin ye like—to see and hear the warst o' yer ain ill doin's. He tellt the limmer a heap o' his lord's secrets. Ay, he tellt her aboot me, an' hoo I had gane and droont mysel'. I could hear 'maist ilka word 'at he said; for ye see the flurin' here 's no verra soon', and I was jist 'at I cudna help hearkenin'. My lord's aff the nicht, as I tell ye. It's a queer gait, but a quaiet, he thinks, nae doobt. Gin onybody wad but tell her hoo mony een the baron's made sair wi' greitin'!'
'But hoo's that to be dune?' said Robert.
'I dinna ken. But I hae been watchin' to see you ever sin' syne. I hae seen ye gang by mony a time. Ye're the only man I ken 'at I could speyk till aboot it. Ye maun think what ye can do. The warst o' 't is I canna tell wha she is or whaur she bides.'
'In that case, I canna see what's to be dune.'
'Cudna ye watch them aboord, an' slip a letter intil her han'? Or ye cud gie 't to the skipper to gie her.'
'I ken the skipper weel eneuch. He's a respectable man. Gin he kent what the baron was efter, he wadna tak him on boord.'
'That wad do little guid. He wad only hae her aff some ither gait.'
'Weel,' said Robert, rising, 'I'll awa' hame, an' think aboot it as I gang.—Wad ye tak a feow shillin's frae an auld frien'?' he added with hesitation, putting his hand in his pocket.
'Na—no a baubee,' she answered. 'Nobody sall say it was for mysel' I broucht ye here. Come efter me, an' min' whaur ye pit doon yer feet. It's no sicker.'
She led him to the door. He bade her good-night.
'Tak care ye dinna fa' gaein' doon the stair. It's maist as steep 's a wa'.'
As Robert came from between the houses, he caught a glimpse of a man in a groom's dress going in at the street door of that he had left.
All the natural knighthood in him was roused. But what could he do? To write was a sneaking way. He would confront the baron. The baron and the girl would both laugh at him. The sole conclusion he could arrive at was to consult Shargar.
He lost no time in telling him the story.
'I tauld ye he was up to some deevilry or ither,' said Shargar. 'I can shaw ye the verra hoose he maun be gaein' to tak her frae.'
'Ye vratch! what for didna ye tell me that afore?'
'Ye wadna hear aboot ither fowk's affairs. Na, not you! But some fowk has no richt to consideration. The verra stanes they say 'ill cry oot ill secrets like brither Sandy's.'
'Whase hoose is 't?'
'I dinna ken. I only saw him come oot o' 't ance, an' Jock Mitchell was haudin' Black Geordie roon' the neuk. It canna be far frae Mr. Lindsay's 'at you an' Mr. Ericson used to gang till.'
'Come an' lat me see 't direckly,' cried Robert, starting up, with a terrible foreboding at his heart.
They were in the street in a moment. Shargar led the way by a country lane to the top of the hill on the right, and then turning to the left, brought him to some houses standing well apart from each other. It was a region unknown to Robert. They were the backs of the houses of which Mr. Lindsay's was one.
'This is the hoose,' said Shargar.
Robert rushed into action. He knocked at the door. Mr. Lindsay's Jenny opened it.
'Is yer mistress in, Jenny?' he asked at once.
'Na. Ay. The maister's gane to Bors Castle.'
'It's Miss Lindsay I want to see.'
'She's up in her ain room wi' a sair heid.'
Robert looked her hard in the face, and knew she was lying.
'I want to see her verra partic'lar,' he said.
'Weel, ye canna see her,' returned Jenny angrily. 'I'll tell her onything ye like.'
Concluding that little was to be gained by longer parley, but quite uncertain whether Mysie was in the house or not, Robert turned to Shargar, took him by the arm, and walked away in silence. When they were beyond earshot of Jenny, who stood looking after them,
'Ye're sure that's the hoose, Shargar?' said Robert quietly.
'As sure's deith, and maybe surer, for I saw him come oot wi' my ain een.'
'Weel, Shargar, it's grown something awfu' noo. It's Miss Lindsay. Was there iver sic a villain as that Lord Rothie—that brither o' yours!'
'I disoun 'im frae this verra 'oor,' said Shargar solemnly.
'Something maun be dune. We'll awa' to the quay, an' see what'll turn up. I wonner hoo's the tide.'
'The tide's risin'. They'll never try to win oot till it's slack watter—furbye 'at the Amphitrite, for as braid 's she is, and her bows modelled efter the cheeks o' a resurrection cherub upo' a gravestane, draws a heap o' watter: an' the bar they say 's waur to win ower nor usual: it's been gatherin' again.'
As they spoke, the boys were making for the new town, eagerly. Just opposite where the Amphitrite lay was a public-house: into that they made up their minds to go, and there to write a letter, which they would give to Miss Lindsay if they could, or, if not, leave with Skipper Hoornbeek. Before they reached the river, a thick rain of minute drops began to fall, rendering the night still darker, so that they could scarcely see the vessels from the pavement on the other side of the quay, along which they were hurrying, to avoid the cables, rings, and stone posts that made its margin dangerous in the dim light. When they came to The Smack Inn they crossed right over to reach the Amphitrite. A growing fear kept them silent as they approached her berth. It was empty. They turned and stared at each other in dismay.
One of those amphibious animals that loiter about the borders of the water was seated on a stone smoking, probably fortified against the rain by the whisky inside him.
'Whaur's the Amphitrite, Alan?' asked Shargar, for Robert was dumb with disappointment and rage.
'Half doon to Stanehive by this time, I'm thinkin',' answered Alan. 'For a brewin' tub like her, she fummles awa nae ill wi' a licht win' astarn o' her. But I'm doobtin' afore she win across the herrin-pot her fine passengers 'll win at the boddom o' their stamacks. It's like to blaw a bonnetfu', and she rows awfu' in ony win'. I dinna think she cud capsize, but for wamlin' she's waur nor a bairn with the grips.'
In absolute helplessness, the boys had let him talk on: there was nothing more to be done; and Alan was in a talkative mood.
'Fegs! gin 't come on to blaw,' he resumed, 'I wadna wonner gin they got the skipper to set them ashore at Stanehive. I heard auld Horny say something aboot lyin' to there for a bit, to tak a keg or something aboord.'
The boys looked at each other, bade Alan good-night, and walked away.
'Hoo far is 't to Stonehaven, Shargar?' said Robert.
'I dinna richtly ken. Maybe frae twal to fifteen mile.'
Robert stood still. Shargar saw his face pale as death, and contorted with the effort to control his feelings.
'Shargar,' he said, 'what am I to do? I vowed to Mr. Ericson that, gin he deid, I wad luik efter that bonny lassie. An' noo whan he's lyin' a' but deid, I hae latten her slip throu' my fingers wi' clean carelessness. What am I to do? Gin I cud only win to Stonehaven afore the Amphitrite! I cud gang aboord wi' the keg, and gin I cud do naething mair, I wad hae tried to do my best. Gin I do naething, my hert 'll brak wi' the weicht o' my shame.'
Shargar burst into a roar of laughter. Robert was on the point of knocking him down, but took him by the throat as a milder proceeding, and shook him.
'Robert! Robert!' gurgled Shargar, as soon as his choking had overcome his merriment, 'ye're an awfu' Hielan'man. Hearken to me. I beg—g—g yer pardon. What I was thinkin' o' was—'
Robert relaxed his hold. But Shargar, notwithstanding the lesson Robert had given him, could hardly speak yet for the enjoyment of his own device.
'Gin we could only get rid o' Jock Mitchell!—' he crowed; and burst out again.
'He's wi' a wuman i' the Gallowgate,' said Robert.
'Losh, man!' exclaimed Shargar, and started off at full speed.
He was no match for his companion, however.
'Whaur the deevil are ye rinnin' till, ye wirrycow (scarecrow)?' panted Robert, as he laid hold of his collar.
'Lat me gang, Robert,' gasped Shargar. 'Losh, man! ye'll be on Black Geordie in anither ten meenits, an' me ahin' ye upo' Reid Rorie. An' faith gin we binna at Stanehive afore the Dutchman wi' 's boddom foremost, it'll be the faut o' the horse and no o' the men.'
Robert's heart gave a bound of hope.
'Hoo 'ill ye get them, Shargar?' he asked eagerly.
'Steal them,' answered Shargar, struggling to get away from the grasp still upon his collar.
'We micht be hanged for that.'
'Weel, Robert, I'll tak a' the wyte o' 't. Gin it hadna been for you, I micht ha' been hangt by this time for ill doin': for your sake I'll be hangt for weel doin', an' welcome. Come awa'. To steal a mairch upo' brither Sandy wi' aucht (eight) horse-huves o' 's ain! Ha! ha! ha!'
They sped along, now running themselves out of breath, now walking themselves into it again, until they reached a retired hostelry between the two towns. Warning Robert not to show himself, Shargar disappeared round the corner of the house.
Robert grew weary, and then anxious. At length Shargar's face came through the darkness.
'Robert,' he whispered, 'gie 's yer bonnet. I'll be wi' ye in a moment noo.'
Robert obeyed, too anxious to question him. In about three minutes more Shargar reappeared, leading what seemed the ghost of a black horse; for Robert could see only his eyes, and his hoofs made scarcely any noise. How he had managed it with a horse of Black Geordie's temper, I do not know, but some horses will let some persons do anything with them: he had drawn his own stockings over his fore feet, and tied their two caps upon his hind hoofs.
'Lead him awa' quaietly up the road till I come to ye,' said Shargar, as he took the mufflings off the horse's feet. 'An' min' 'at he doesna tak a nip o' ye. He's some ill for bitin'. I'll be efter ye direckly. Rorie's saiddlet an' bridled. He only wants his carpet-shune.'
Robert led the horse a few hundred yards, then stopped and waited. Shargar soon joined him, already mounted on Red Roderick.
'Here's yer bonnet, Robert. It's some foul, I doobt. But I cudna help it. Gang on, man. Up wi' ye. Maybe I wad hae better keepit Geordie mysel'. But ye can ride. Ance ye're on, he canna bite ye.'
But Robert needed no encouragement from Shargar. In his present mood he would have mounted a griffin. He was on horseback in a moment. They trotted gently through the streets, and out of the town. Once over the Dee, they gave their horses the rein, and off they went through the dark drizzle. Before they got half-way they were wet to the skin; but little did Robert, or Shargar either, care for that. Not many words passed between them.
'Hoo 'ill ye get the horse (plural) in again, Shargar?' asked Robert.
'Afore I get them back,' answered Shargar, 'they'll be tired eneuch to gang hame o' themsel's. Gin we had only had the luck to meet Jock!—that wad hae been gran'.'
'What for that?'
'I wad hae cawed Reid Rorie ower the heid o' 'm, an' left him lyin'—the coorse villain!'
The horses never flagged till they drew up in the main street of Stonehaven. Robert ran down to the harbour to make inquiry, and left Shargar to put them up.
The moon had risen, but the air was so full of vapour that she only succeeded in melting the darkness a little. The sea rolled in front, awful in its dreariness, under just light enough to show a something unlike the land. But the rain had ceased, and the air was clearer. Robert asked a solitary man, with a telescope in his hand, whether he was looking out for the Amphitrite. The man asked him gruffly in return what he knew of her. Possibly the nature of the keg to be put on board had something to do with his Scotch reply. Robert told him he was a friend of the captain, had missed the boat, and would give any one five shillings to put him on board. The man went away and returned with a companion. After some further questioning and bargaining, they agreed to take him. Robert loitered about the pier full of impatience. Shargar joined him.
Day began to break over the waves. They gleamed with a blue-gray leaden sheen. The men appeared coming along the harbour, and descended by a stair into a little skiff, where a barrel, or something like one, lay under a tarpaulin. Robert bade Shargar good-bye, and followed. They pushed off, rowed out into the bay, and lay on their oars waiting for the vessel. The light grew apace, and Robert fancied he could distinguish the two horses with one rider against the sky on the top of the cliffs, moving northwards. Turning his eyes to the sea, he saw the canvas of the brig, and his heart beat fast. The men bent to their oars. She drew nearer, and lay to. When they reached her he caught the rope the sailors threw, was on board in a moment, and went aft to the captain. The Dutchman stared. In a few words Robert made him understand his object, offering to pay for his passage, but the good man would not hear of it. He told him that the lady and gentleman had come on board as brother and sister: the baron was too knowing to run his head into the noose of Scotch law.
'I cannot throw him over the board,' said the skipper; 'and what am I to do? I am afraid it is of no use. Ah! poor thing!'
By this time the vessel was under way. The wind freshened. Mysie had been ill ever since they left the mouth of the river: now she was much worse. Before another hour passed, she was crying to be taken home to her papa. Still the wind increased, and the vessel laboured much.
Robert never felt better, and if it had not been for the cause of his sea-faring, would have thoroughly enjoyed it. He put on some sea-going clothes of the captain's, and set himself to take his share in working the brig, in which he was soon proficient enough to be useful. When the sun rose, they were in a tossing wilderness of waves. With the sunrise, Robert began to think he had been guilty of a great folly. For what could he do? How was he to prevent the girl from going off with her lover the moment they landed? But his poor attempt would verify his willingness.
The baron came on deck now and then, looking bored. He had not calculated on having to nurse the girl. Had Mysie been well, he could have amused himself with her, for he found her ignorance interesting. As it was, he felt injured, and indeed disgusted at the result of the experiment.
On the third day the wind abated a little; but towards night it blew hard again, and it was not until they reached the smooth waters of the Scheldt that Mysie made her appearance on deck, looking dreadfully ill, and altogether like a miserable, unhappy child. Her beauty was greatly gone, and Lord Rothie did not pay her much attention.
Robert had as yet made no attempt to communicate with her, for there was scarcely a chance of her concealing a letter from the baron. But as soon as they were in smooth water, he wrote one, telling her in the simplest language that the baron was a bad man, who had amused himself by making many women fall in love with him, and then leaving them miserable: he knew one of them himself.
Having finished his letter, he began to look abroad over the smooth water, and the land smooth as the water. He saw tall poplars, the spires of the forest, and rows of round-headed dumpy trees, like domes. And he saw that all the buildings like churches, had either spires like poplars, or low round domes like those other trees. The domes gave an eastern aspect to the country. The spire of Antwerp cathedral especially had the poplar for its model. The pinnacles which rose from the base of each successive start of its narrowing height were just the clinging, upright branches of the poplar—a lovely instance of Art following Nature's suggestion.
At length the vessel lay alongside the quay, and as Mysie stepped from its side the skipper found an opportunity of giving her Robert's letter. It was the poorest of chances, but Robert could think of no other. She started on receiving it, but regarding the skipper's significant gestures put it quietly away. She looked anything but happy, for her illness had deprived her of courage, and probably roused her conscience. Robert followed the pair, saw them enter The Great Labourer—what could the name mean? could it mean The Good Shepherd?—and turned away helpless, objectless indeed, for he had done all that he could, and that all was of no potency. A world of innocence and beauty was about to be hurled from its orbit of light into the blackness of outer chaos; he knew it, and was unable to speak word or do deed that should frustrate the power of a devil who so loved himself that he counted it an honour to a girl to have him for her ruin. Her after life had no significance for him, save as a trophy of his victory. He never perceived that such victory was not yielded to him; that he gained it by putting on the garments of light; that if his inward form had appeared in its own ugliness, not one of the women whose admiration he had secured would not have turned from him as from the monster of an old tale.
Robert wandered about till he was so weary that his head ached with weariness. At length he came upon the open space before the cathedral, whence the poplar-spire rose aloft into a blue sky flecked with white clouds. It was near sunset, and he could not see the sun, but the upper half of the spire shone glorious in its radiance. From the top his eye sank to the base. In the base was a little door half open. Might not that be the lowly narrow entrance through the shadow up to the sun-filled air? He drew near with a kind of tremor, for never before had he gazed upon visible grandeur growing out of the human soul, in the majesty of everlastingness—a tree of the Lord's planting. Where had been but an empty space of air and light and darkness, had risen, and had stood for ages, a mighty wonder awful to the eye, solid to the hand. He peeped through the opening of the door: there was the foot of a stair—marvellous as the ladder of Jacob's dream—turning away towards the unknown. He pushed the door and entered. A man appeared and barred his advance. Robert put his hand in his pocket and drew out some silver. The man took one piece—looked at it—turned it over—put it in his pocket, and led the way up the stair. Robert followed and followed and followed.
He came out of stone walls upon an airy platform whence the spire ascended heavenwards. His conductor led upward still, and he followed, winding within a spiral network of stone, through which all the world looked in. Another platform, and yet another spire springing from its basement. Still up they went, and at length stood on a circle of stone surrounding like a coronet the last base of the spire which lifted its apex untrodden. Then Robert turned and looked below. He grasped the stones before him. The loneliness was awful.
There was nothing between him and the roofs of the houses, four hundred feet below, but the spot where he stood. The whole city, with its red roofs, lay under him. He stood uplifted on the genius of the builder, and the town beneath him was a toy. The all but featureless flat spread forty miles on every side, and the roofs of the largest buildings below were as dovecots. But the space between was alive with awe—so vast, so real!
He turned and descended, winding through the network of stone which was all between him and space. The object of the architect must have been to melt away the material from before the eyes of the spirit. He hung in the air in a cloud of stone. As he came in his descent within the ornaments of one of the basements, he found himself looking through two thicknesses of stone lace on the nearing city. Down there was the beast of prey and his victim; but for the moment he was above the region of sorrow. His weariness and his headache had vanished utterly. With his mind tossed on its own speechless delight, he was slowly descending still, when he saw on his left hand a door ajar. He would look what mystery lay within. A push opened it. He discovered only a little chamber lined with wood. In the centre stood something—a bench-like piece of furniture, plain and worn. He advanced a step; peered over the top of it; saw keys, white and black; saw pedals below: it was an organ! Two strides brought him in front of it. A wooden stool, polished and hollowed with centuries of use, was before it. But where was the bellows? That might be down hundreds of steps below, for he was half-way only to the ground. He seated himself musingly, and struck, as he thought, a dumb chord. Responded, up in the air, far overhead, a mighty booming clang. Startled, almost frightened, even as if Mary St. John had said she loved him, Robert sprung from the stool, and, without knowing why, moved only by the chastity of delight, flung the door to the post. It banged and clicked. Almost mad with the joy of the titanic instrument, he seated himself again at the keys, and plunged into a tempest of clanging harmony. One hundred bells hang in that tower of wonder, an instrument for a city, nay, for a kingdom. Often had Robert dreamed that he was the galvanic centre of a thunder-cloud of harmony, flashing off from every finger the willed lightning tone: such was the unexpected scale of this instrument—so far aloft in the sunny air rang the responsive notes, that his dream appeared almost realized. The music, like a fountain bursting upwards, drew him up and bore him aloft. From the resounding cone of bells overhead he no longer heard their tones proceed, but saw level-winged forms of light speeding off with a message to the nations. It was only his roused phantasy; but a sweet tone is nevertheless a messenger of God; and a right harmony and sequence of such tones is a little gospel.
At length he found himself following, till that moment unconsciously, the chain of tunes he well remembered having played on his violin the night he went first with Ericson to see Mysie, ending with his strange chant about the witch lady and the dead man's hand.
Ere he had finished the last, his passion had begun to fold its wings, and he grew dimly aware of a beating at the door of the solitary chamber in which he sat. He knew nothing of the enormity of which he was guilty—presenting unsought the city of Antwerp with a glorious phantasia. He did not know that only upon grand, solemn, world-wide occasions, such as a king's birthday or a ball at the Hôtel de Ville, was such music on the card. When he flung the door to, it had closed with a spring lock, and for the last quarter of an hour three gens-d'arme, commanded by the sacristan of the tower, had been thundering thereat. He waited only to finish the last notes of the wild Orcadian chant, and opened the door. He was seized by the collar, dragged down the stair into the street, and through a crowd of wondering faces—poor unconscious dreamer! it will not do to think on the house-top even, and you had been dreaming very loud indeed in the church spire—away to the bureau of the police.
I need not recount the proceedings of the Belgian police; how they interrogated Robert concerning a letter from Mary St. John which they found in an inner pocket; how they looked doubtful over a copy of Horace that lay in his coat, and put evidently a momentous question about some algebraical calculations on the fly-leaf of it. Fortunately or unfortunately—I do not know which—Robert did not understand a word they said to him. He was locked up, and left to fret for nearly a week; though what he could have done had he been at liberty, he knew as little as I know. At last, long after it was useless to make any inquiry about Miss Lindsay, he was set at liberty. He could just pay for a steerage passage to London, whence he wrote to Dr. Anderson for a supply, and was in Aberdeen a few days after.
This was Robert's first cosmopolitan experience. He confided the whole affair to the doctor, who approved of all, saying it could have been of no use, but he had done right. He advised him to go home at once, for he had had letters inquiring after him. Ericson was growing steadily worse—in fact, he feared Robert might not see him alive.
If this news struck Robert to the heart, his pain was yet not without some poor alleviation:—he need not tell Ericson about Mysie, but might leave him to find out the truth when, free of a dying body, he would be better able to bear it. That very night he set off on foot for Rothieden. There was no coach from Aberdeen till eight the following morning, and before that he would be there.
It was a dreary journey without Ericson. Every turn of the road reminded him of him. And Ericson too was going a lonely unknown way.
Did ever two go together upon that way? Might not two die together and not lose hold of each other all the time, even when the sense of the clasping hands was gone, and the soul had withdrawn itself from the touch? Happy they who prefer the will of God to their own even in this, and would, as the best friend, have him near who can be near—him who made the fourth in the fiery furnace! Fable or fact, reader, I do not care. The One I mean is, and in him I hope.
Very weary was Robert when he walked into his grandmother's house.
Betty came out of the kitchen at the sound of his entrance.
'Is Mr. Ericson—?'
'Na; he's nae deid,' she answered. 'He'll maybe live a day or twa, they say.'
'Thank God!' said Robert, and went to his grandmother.
'Eh, laddie!' said Mrs. Falconer, the first greetings over, 'ane 's ta'en an' anither 's left! but what for 's mair nor I can faddom. There's that fine young man, Maister Ericson, at deith's door; an' here am I, an auld runklet wife, left to cry upo' deith, an' he winna hear me.'
'Cry upo' God, grannie, an' no upo' deith,' said Robert, catching at the word as his grandmother herself might have done. He had no such unfair habit when I knew him, and always spoke to one's meaning, not one's words. But then he had a wonderful gift of knowing what one's meaning was.
He did not sit down, but, tired as he was, went straight to The Boar's Head. He met no one in the archway, and walked up to Ericson's room. When he opened the door, he found the large screen on the other side, and hearing a painful cough, lingered behind it, for he could not control his feelings sufficiently. Then he heard a voice—Ericson's voice; but oh, how changed!—He had no idea that he ought not to listen.
'Mary,' the voice said, 'do not look like that. I am not suffering. It is only my body. Your arm round me makes me so strong! Let me lay my head on your shoulder.'
A brief pause followed.
'But, Eric,' said Mary's voice, 'there is one that loves you better than I do.'
'If there is,' returned Ericson, feebly, 'he has sent his angel to deliver me.'
'But you do believe in him, Eric?'
The voice expressed anxiety no less than love.
'I am going to see. There is no other way. When I find him, I shall believe in him. I shall love him with all my heart, I know. I love the thought of him now.'
'But that's not himself, my—darling!' she said.
'No. But I cannot love himself till I find him. Perhaps there is no Jesus.'
'Oh, don't say that. I can't bear to hear you talk so,'
'But, dear heart, if you're so sure of him, do you think he would turn me away because I don't do what I can't do? I would if I could with all my heart. If I were to say I believed in him, and then didn't trust him, I could understand it. But when it's only that I'm not sure about what I never saw, or had enough of proof to satisfy me of, how can he be vexed at that? You seem to me to do him great wrong, Mary. Would you now banish me for ever, if I should, when my brain is wrapped in the clouds of death, forget you along with everything else for a moment?'
'No, no, no. Don't talk like that, Eric, dear. There may be reasons, you know.'
'I know what they say well enough. But I expect Him, if there is a Him, to be better even than you, my beautiful—and I don't know a fault in you, but that you believe in a God you can't trust. If I believed in a God, wouldn't I trust him just? And I do hope in him. We'll see, my darling. When we meet again I think you'll say I was right.'
Robert stood like one turned into marble. Deep called unto deep in his soul. The waves and the billows went over him.
Mary St. John answered not a word. I think she must have been conscience-stricken. Surely the Son of Man saw nearly as much faith in Ericson as in her. Only she clung to the word as a bond that the Lord had given her: she would rather have his bond.
Ericson had another fit of coughing. Robert heard the rustling of ministration. But in a moment the dying man again took up the word. He seemed almost as anxious about Mary's faith as she was about his.
'There's Robert,' he said: 'I do believe that boy would die for me, and I never did anything to deserve it. Now Jesus Christ must be as good as Robert at least. I think he must be a great deal better, if he's Jesus Christ at all. Now Robert might be hurt if I didn't believe in him. But I've never seen Jesus Christ. It's all in an old book, over which the people that say they believe in it the most, fight like dogs and cats. I beg your pardon, my Mary; but they do, though the words are ugly.'
'Ah! but if you had tried it as I've tried it, you would know better, Eric.'
'I think I should, dear. But it's too late now. I must just go and see. There's no other way left.'
The terrible cough came again. As soon as the fit was over, with a grand despair in his heart, Robert went from behind the screen.
Ericson was on a couch. His head lay on Mary St. John's bosom. Neither saw him.
'Perhaps,' said Ericson, panting with death, 'a kiss in heaven may be as good as being married on earth, Mary.'
She saw Robert and did not answer. Then Eric saw him. He smiled; but Mary grew very pale.
Robert came forward, stooped and kissed Ericson's forehead, kneeled and kissed Mary's hand, rose and went out.
From that moment they were both dead to him. Dead, I say—not lost, not estranged, but dead—that is, awful and holy. He wept for Eric. He did not weep for Mary yet. But he found a time.
Ericson died two days after.
Here endeth Robert's youth.
In memory of Eric Ericson, I add a chapter of sonnets gathered from his papers, almost desiring that those only should read them who turn to the book a second time. How his papers came into my possession, will be explained afterwards.
Tumultuous rushing o'er the outstretched plains;A wildered maze of comets and of suns;The blood of changeless God that ever runsWith quick diastole up the immortal veins;A phantom host that moves and works in chains;A monstrous fiction which, collapsing, stunsThe mind to stupor and amaze at once;A tragedy which that man best explainsWho rushes blindly on his wild careerWith trampling hoofs and sound of mailed war,Who will not nurse a life to win a tear,But is extinguished like a falling star:—Such will at times this life appear to me,Until I learn to read more perfectly.HOM. IL. v. 403.If thou art tempted by a thought of ill,Crave not too soon for victory, nor deemThou art a coward if thy safety seemTo spring too little from a righteous will:For there is nightmare on thee, nor untilThy soul hath caught the morning's early gleamSeek thou to analyze the monstrous dreamBy painful introversion; rather fillThine eye with forms thou knowest to be truth:But see thou cherish higher hope than this;A hope hereafter that thou shalt be fitCalm-eyed to face distortion, and to sitTransparent among other forms of youthWho own no impulse save to God and bliss.And must I ever wake, gray dawn, to knowThee standing sadly by me like a ghost?I am perplexed with thee, that thou shouldst costThis Earth another turning: all aglowThou shouldst have reached me, with a purple showAlong far-mountain tops: and I would postOver the breadth of seas though I were lostIn the hot phantom-chase for life, if soThou camest ever with this numbing senseOf chilly distance and unlovely light;Waking this gnawing soul anew to fightWith its perpetual load: I drive thee hence—I have another mountain-range from whenceBursteh a sun unutterably bright.GALILEO.'And yet it moves!' Ah, Truth, where wert thou then,When all for thee they racked each piteous limb?Wert though in Heaven, and busy with thy hymn,When those poor hands convulsed that held thy pen?Art thou a phantom that deceivest menTo their undoing? or dost thou watch himPale, cold, and silent in his dungeon dim?And wilt thou ever speak to him again?'It moves, it moves! Alas, my flesh was weak;That was a hideous dream! I'll cry aloudHow the green bulk wheels sunward day by day!Ah me! ah me! perchance my heart was proudThat I alone should know that word to speak;And now, sweet Truth, shine upon these, I pray.'If thou wouldst live the Truth in very deed,Thou hast thy joy, but thou hast more of pain.Others will live in peace, and thou be fainTo bargain with despair, and in thy needTo make thy meal upon the scantiest weed.These palaces, for thee they stand in vain;Thine is a ruinous hut; and oft the rainShall drench thee in the midnight; yea the speedOf earth outstrip thee pilgrim, while thy feetMove slowly up the heights. Yet will there comeThrough the time-rents about thy moving cell,An arrow for despair, and oft the humOf far-off populous realms where spirits dwell.TO * * * *Speak, Prophet of the Lord! We may not startTo find thee with us in thine ancient dress,Haggard and pale from some bleak wilderness,Empty of all save God and thy loud heart:Nor with like rugged message quick to dartInto the hideous fiction mean and base:But yet, O prophet man, we need not less,But more of earnest; though it is thy partTo deal in other words, if thou wouldst smiteThe living Mammon, seated, not as thenIn bestial quiescence grimly dight,But thrice as much an idol-god as whenHe stared at his own feet from morn to night.8THE WATCHER.From out a windy cleft there comes a gazeOf eyes unearthly which go to and froUpon the people's tumult, for belowThe nations smite each other: no amazeTroubles their liquid rolling, or affraysTheir deep-set contemplation: steadily glowThose ever holier eye-balls, for they growLiker unto the eyes of one that prays.And if those clasped hands tremble, comes a powerAs of the might of worlds, and they are holdenBlessing above us in the sunrise golden;And they will be uplifted till that hourOf terrible rolling which shall rise and shakeThis conscious nightmare from us and we wake.THE BELOVED DISCIPLE.IOne do I see and twelve; but second thereMethinks I know thee, thou beloved one;Not from thy nobler port, for there are noneMore quiet-featured; some there are who bearTheir message on their brows, while others wearA look of large commission, nor will shunThe fiery trial, so their work is done:But thou hast parted with thine eyes in prayer—Unearthly are they both; and so thy lipsSeem like the porches of the spirit land;For thou hast laid a mighty treasure by,Unlocked by Him in Nature, and thine eyeBurns with a vision and apocalypseThy own sweet soul can hardly understand.IIA Boanerges too! Upon my heartIt lay a heavy hour: features like thineShould glow with other message than the shineOf the earth-burrowing levin, and the startThat cleaveth horrid gulfs. Awful and swartA moment stoodest thou, but less divine—Brawny and clad in ruin!—till with mineThy heart made answering signals, and apartBeamed forth thy two rapt eye-balls doubly clear,And twice as strong because thou didst thy duty,And though affianced to immortal Beauty,Hiddest not weakly underneath her veilThe pest of Sin and Death which maketh pale:Henceforward be thy spirit doubly dear.9THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.There is not any weed but hath its shower,There is not any pool but hath its star;And black and muddy though the waters are,We may not miss the glory of a flower,And winter moons will give them magic powerTo spin in cylinders of diamond spar;And everything hath beauty near and far,And keepeth close and waiteth on its hour.And I when I encounter on my roadA human soul that looketh black and grim,Shall I more ceremonious be than God?Shall I refuse to watch one hour with himWho once beside our deepest woe did budA patient watching flower about the brim.'Tis not the violent hands alone that bringThe curse, the ravage, and the downward doomAlthough to these full oft the yawning tombOwes deadly surfeit; but a keener sting,A more immortal agony, will clingTo the half-fashioned sin which would assumeFair Virtue's garb. The eye that sows the gloomWith quiet seeds of Death henceforth to springWhat time the sun of passion burning fierceBreaks through the kindly cloud of circumstance;The bitter word, and the unkindly glance,The crust and canker coming with the years,Are liker Death than arrows, and the lanceWhich through the living heart at once doth pierce.SPOKEN OF SEVERAL PHILOSOPHERS.I pray you, all ye men, who put your trustIn moulds and systems and well-tackled gear,Holding that Nature lives from year to yearIn one continual round because she must—Set me not down, I pray you, in the dustOf all these centuries, like a pot of beer,A pewter-pot disconsolately clear,Which holds a potful, as is right and just.I will grow clamorous—by the rood, I will,If thus ye use me like a pewter pot.Good friend, thou art a toper and a sot—I will not be the lead to hold thy swill,Nor any lead: I will arise and spillThy silly beverage, spill it piping hot.Nature, to him no message dost thou bear,Who in thy beauty findeth not the powerTo gird himself more strongly for the hourOf night and darkness. Oh, what colours rareThe woods, the valleys, and the mountains wearTo him who knows thy secret, and in showerAnd fog, and ice-cloud, hath a secret bowerWhere he may rest until the heavens are fair!Not with the rest of slumber, but the tranceOf onward movement steady and serene,Where oft in struggle and in contest keenHis eyes will opened be, and all the danceOf life break on him, and a wide expanseRoll upward through the void, sunny and green.TO JUNE.Ah, truant, thou art here again, I see!For in a season of such wretched weatherI thought that thou hadst left us altogether,Although I could not choose but fancy theeSkulking about the hill-tops, whence the gleeOf thy blue laughter peeped at times, or ratherThy bashful awkwardness, as doubtful whetherThou shouldst be seen in such a companyOf ugly runaways, unshapely heapsOf ruffian vapour, broken from restraintOf their slim prison in the ocean deeps.But yet I may not, chide: fall to thy books,Fall to immediately without complaint—There they are lying, hills and vales and brooks.WRITTEN ABOUT THE LONGEST DAY.Summer, sweet Summer, many-fingered Summer!We hold thee very dear, as well we may:It is the kernel of the year to-day—All hail to thee! Thou art a welcome corner!If every insect were a fairy drummer,And I a fifer that could deftly play,We'd give the old Earth such a roundelayThat she would cast all thought of labour from herAh! what is this upon my window-pane?Some sulky drooping cloud comes pouting up,Stamping its glittering feet along the plain!Well, I will let that idle fancy drop.Oh, how the spouts are bubbling with the rain!And all the earth shines like a silver cup!ON A MIDGE.Whence do ye come, ye creature? Each of youIs perfect as an angel; wings and eyesStupendous in their beauty—gorgeous dyesIn feathery fields of purple and of blue!Would God I saw a moment as ye do!I would become a molecule in size,Rest with you, hum with you, or slanting riseAlong your one dear sunbeam, could I viewThe pearly secret which each tiny fly,Each tiny fly that hums and bobs and stirs,Hides in its little breast eternallyFrom you, ye prickly grim philosophers,With all your theories that sound so high:Hark to the buzz a moment, my good sirs!ON A WATERFALL.Here stands a giant stone from whose far topComes down the sounding water. Let me gazeTill every sense of man and human waysIs wrecked and quenched for ever, and I dropInto the whirl of time, and without stopPass downward thus! Again my eyes I raiseTo thee, dark rock; and through the mist and hazeMy strength returns when I behold thy propGleam stern and steady through the wavering wrackSurely thy strength is human, and like meThou bearest loads of thunder on thy back!And, lo, a smile upon thy visage black—A breezy tuft of grass which I can seeWaving serenely from a sunlit crack!Above my head the great pine-branches towerBackwards and forwards each to the other bends,Beckoning the tempest-cloud which hither wendsLike a slow-laboured thought, heavy with power;Hark to the patter of the coming shower!Let me be silent while the Almighty sendsHis thunder-word along; but when it endsI will arise and fashion from the hourWords of stupendous import, fit to guardHigh thoughts and purposes, which I may wave,When the temptation cometh close and hard,Like fiery brands betwixt me and the graveOf meaner things—to which I am a slaveIf evermore I keep not watch and ward.I do remember how when very young,I saw the great sea first, and heard its swellAs I drew nearer, caught within the spellOf its vast size and its mysterious tongue.How the floor trembled, and the dark boat swungWith a man in it, and a great wave fellWithin a stone's cast! Words may never tellThe passion of the moment, when I flungAll childish records by, and felt ariseA thing that died no more! An awful powerI claimed with trembling hands and eager eyes,Mine, mine for ever, an immortal dower.—The noise of waters soundeth to this hour,When I look seaward through the quiet skies.ON THE SOURCE OF THE ARVE.Hear'st thou the dash of water loud and hoarseWith its perpetual tidings upward climb,Struggling against the wind? Oh, how sublime!For not in vain from its portentous source,Thy heart, wild stream, hath yearned for its full force,But from thine ice-toothed caverns dark as timeAt last thou issuest, dancing to the rhymeOf thy outvolleying freedom! Lo, thy courseLies straight before thee as the arrow flies,Right to the ocean-plains. Away, away!Thy parent waits thee, and her sunset dyesAre ruffled for thy coming, and the grayOf all her glittering borders flashes highAgainst the glittering rocks: oh, haste, and fly!