Books: Robert Falconer

G >> George MacDonald >> Robert Falconer

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46

Where was God?

In him and his question.

CHAPTER XX.

ERICSON LOSES TO WIN.

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.

CHAPTER XXI.

SHARGAR ASPIRES.

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.

CHAPTER XXII.

ROBERT IN ACTION.

It was late when he left his friend. As he walked through the
Gallowgate, an ancient narrow street, full of low courts, some one
touched him upon the arm. He looked round. It was a young woman.
He turned again to walk on.

'Mr Faukner,' she said, in a trembling voice, which Robert thought
he had heard before.

He stopped.

'I don't know you,' he said. 'I can't see your face. Tell me who
you are.'

She returned no answer, but stood with her head aside. He could see
that her hands shook.

'What do you want with me--if you won't say who you are?'

'I want to tell you something,' she said; 'but I canna speyk here.
Come wi' me.'

'I won't go with you without knowing who you are or where you're
going to take me.'