Books: Robert Falconer

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'He thinksna muckle o' 't, though, or he wad gie mair o' 't to some
fowk. But as ye say, it's his, and gin ye hae grace to use 't
aricht, it may be made a great blessin' to yersel' and ither fowk.
But eh, laddie! tak guid tent 'at ye ride upo' the tap o' 't, an'
no lat it rise like a muckle jaw (billow) ower yer heid; for it's an
awfu' thing to be droont in riches.'

'Them 'at prays no to be led into temptation hae a chance--haena
they, grannie?'

'That hae they, Robert. And to be plain wi' ye, I haena that muckle
fear o' ye; for I hae heard the kin' o' life 'at ye hae been
leadin'. God's hearkent to my prayers for you; and gin ye gang on
as ye hae begun, my prayers, like them o' David the son o' Jesse,
are endit. Gang on, my dear lad, gang on to pluck brands frae the
burnin'. Haud oot a helpin' han' to ilka son and dauchter o' Adam
'at will tak a grip o' 't. Be a burnin' an' a shinin' licht, that
men may praise, no you, for ye're but clay i' the han's o' the
potter, but yer Father in heaven. Tak the drunkard frae his whusky,
the deboshed frae his debosh, the sweirer frae his aiths, the leear
frae his lees; and giena ony o' them ower muckle o' yer siller at
ance, for fear 'at they grow fat an' kick an' defy God and you.
That's my advice to ye, Robert.'

'And I houp I'll be able to haud gey and near till 't, grannie, for
it's o' the best. But wha tellt ye what I was aboot in Lonnon?'

'Himsel'.'

'Dr. Anderson?'

'Ay, jist himsel'. I hae had letter upo' letter frae 'im aboot you
and a' 'at ye was aboot. He keepit me acquant wi' 't a'.'

This fresh proof of his friend's affection touched Robert deeply.
He had himself written often to his grandmother, but he had never
entered into any detail of his doings, although the thought of her
was ever at hand beside the thought of his father.

'Do ye ken, grannie, what's at the hert o' my houps i' the meesery
an' degradation that I see frae mornin' to nicht, and aftener yet
frae nicht to mornin' i' the back closes and wynds o' the great
city?'

'I trust it's the glory o' God, laddie.'

'I houp that's no a'thegither wantin', grannie. For I love God wi'
a' my hert. But I doobt it's aftener the savin' o' my earthly
father nor the glory o' my heavenly ane that I'm thinkin' o'.'

Mrs. Falconer heaved a deep sigh.

'God grant ye success, Robert,' she said. 'But that canna be richt.'

'What canna be richt?'

'No to put the glory o' God first and foremost.'

'Weel, grannie; but a body canna rise to the heicht o' grace a' at
ance, nor yet in ten, or twenty year. Maybe gin I do richt, I may
be able to come to that or a' be dune. An' efter a', I'm sure I
love God mair nor my father. But I canna help thinkin' this, that
gin God heardna ae sang o' glory frae this ill-doin' earth o' his,
he wadna be nane the waur; but--'

'Hoo ken ye that?' interrupted his grandmother.

'Because he wad be as gude and great and grand as ever.'

'Ow ay.'

'But what wad come o' my father wantin' his salvation? He can waur
want that, remainin' the slave o' iniquity, than God can want his
glory. Forby, ye ken there's nae glory to God like the repentin' o'
a sinner, justifeein' God, an' sayin' till him--"Father, ye're a'
richt, an' I'm a' wrang." What greater glory can God hae nor that?'

'It's a' true 'at ye say. But still gin God cares for that same
glory, ye oucht to think o' that first, afore even the salvation o'
yer father.'

'Maybe ye're richt, grannie. An' gin it be as ye say--he's promised
to lead us into a' trowth, an' he'll lead me into that trowth. But
I'm thinkin' it's mair for oor sakes than his ain 'at he cares aboot
his glory. I dinna believe 'at he thinks aboot his glory excep' for
the sake o' the trowth an' men's herts deein' for want o' 't.'

Mrs. Falconer thought for a moment.

'It may be 'at ye're richt, laddie; but ye hae a way o' sayin'
things 'at 's some fearsome.'

'God's nae like a prood man to tak offence, grannie. There's
naething pleases him like the trowth, an' there's naething
displeases him like leein', particularly whan it's by way o'
uphaudin' him. He wants nae sic uphaudin'. Noo, ye say things
aboot him whiles 'at soun's to me fearsome.'

'What kin' o' things are they, laddie?' asked the old lady, with
offence glooming in the background.

'Sic like as whan ye speyk aboot him as gin he was a puir prood
bailey-like body, fu' o' his ain importance, an' ready to be doon
upo' onybody 'at didna ca' him by the name o' 's office--ay
think-thinkin' aboot 's ain glory; in place o' the quaiet, michty,
gran', self-forgettin', a'-creatin', a'-uphaudin', eternal bein',
wha took the form o' man in Christ Jesus, jist that he micht hae 't
in 's pooer to beir and be humblet for oor sakes. Eh, grannie!
think o' the face o' that man o' sorrows, that never said a hard
word till a sinfu' wuman, or a despised publican: was he thinkin'
aboot 's ain glory, think ye? An' we hae no richt to say we ken God
save in the face o' Christ Jesus. Whatever 's no like Christ is no
like God.'

'But, laddie, he cam to saitisfee God's justice by sufferin' the
punishment due to oor sins; to turn aside his wrath an' curse; to
reconcile him to us. Sae he cudna be a'thegither like God.'

'He did naething o' the kin', grannie. It's a' a lee that. He cam
to saitisfee God's justice by giein' him back his bairns; by garrin'
them see that God was just; by sendin' them greetin' hame to fa' at
his feet, an' grip his knees an' say, "Father, ye're i' the richt."
He cam to lift the weicht o' the sins that God had curst aff o' the
shoothers o' them 'at did them, by makin' them turn agen them, an'
be for God an' no for sin. And there isna a word o' reconceelin'
God till 's in a' the Testament, for there was no need o' that: it
was us that he needed to be reconcilet to him. An' sae he bore oor
sins and carried oor sorrows; for those sins comin' oot in the
multitudes--ay and in his ain disciples as weel, caused him no en'
o' grief o' mind an' pain o' body, as a'body kens. It wasna his ain
sins, for he had nane, but oors, that caused him sufferin'; and he
took them awa'--they're vainishin' even noo frae the earth, though
it doesna luik like it in Rag-fair or Petticoat-lane. An' for oor
sorrows--they jist garred him greit. His richteousness jist
annihilates oor guilt, for it's a great gulf that swallows up and
destroys 't. And sae he gae his life a ransom for us: and he is the
life o' the world. He took oor sins upo' him, for he cam into the
middle o' them an' took them up--by no sleicht o' han', by no
quibblin' o' the lawyers, aboot imputin' his richteousness to us,
and sic like, which is no to be found i' the Bible at a', though I
dinna say that there's no possible meanin' i' the phrase, but he
took them and took them awa'; and here am I, grannie, growin' oot o'
my sins in consequennce, and there are ye, grannie, growin' oot o'
yours in consequennce, an' haein' nearhan' dune wi' them a'thegither
er this time.'

'I wis that may be true, laddie. But I carena hoo ye put it,'
returned his grandmother, bewildered no doubt with this outburst,
'sae be that ye put him first an' last an' i' the mids' o' a' thing,
an' say wi' a' yer hert, "His will be dune!"'

'Wi' a' my hert, "His will be dune," grannie,' responded Robert.

'Amen, amen. And noo, laddie, duv ye think there's ony likliheid
that yer father 's still i' the body? I dream aboot him whiles sae
lifelike that I canna believe him deid. But that's a' freits
(superstitions).'

'Weel, grannie, I haena the least assurance. But I hae the mair
houp. Wad ye ken him gin ye saw him?'

'Ken him!' she cried; 'I wad ken him gin he had been no to say four,
but forty days i' the sepulchre! My ain Anerew! Hoo cud ye speir
sic a queston, laddie?'

'He maun be sair changed, grannie. He maun be turnin' auld by this
time.'

'Auld! Sic like 's yersel, laddie.--Hoots, hoots! ye're richt. I
am forgettin'. But nanetheless wad I ken him.'

'I wis I kent what he was like. I saw him ance--hardly twise, but
a' that I min' upo' wad stan' me in ill stead amo' the streets o'
Lonnon.'

'I doobt that,' returned Mrs. Falconer--a form of expression rather
oddly indicating sympathetic and somewhat regretful agreement with
what has been said. 'But,' she went on, 'I can lat ye see a pictur'
o' 'im, though I doobt it winna shaw sae muckle to you as to me. He
had it paintit to gie to yer mother upo' their weddin' day. Och
hone! She did the like for him; but what cam o' that ane, I dinna
ken.'

Mrs. Falconer went into the little closet to the old bureau, and
bringing out the miniature, gave it to Robert. It was the portrait
of a young man in antiquated blue coat and white waistcoat, looking
innocent, and, it must be confessed, dull and uninteresting. It had
been painted by a travelling artist, and probably his skill did not
reach to expression. It brought to Robert's mind no faintest shadow
of recollection. It did not correspond in the smallest degree to
what seemed his vague memory, perhaps half imagination, of the tall
worn man whom he had seen that Sunday. He could not have a hope
that this would give him the slightest aid in finding him of whom it
had once been a shadowy resemblance at least.

'Is 't like him, grannie?' he asked.

As if to satisfy herself once more ere she replied, she took the
miniature, and gazed at it for some time. Then with a deep hopeless
sigh, she answered,

'Ay, it's like him; but it's no himsel'. Eh, the bonny broo, an'
the smilin' een o' him!--smilin' upon a'body, an' upo' her maist o'
a', till he took to the drink, and waur gin waur can be. It was a'
siller an' company--company 'at cudna be merry ohn drunken. Verity
their lauchter was like the cracklin' o' thorns aneath a pot. Het
watter and whusky was aye the cry efter their denner an' efter their
supper, till my puir Anerew tuik till the bare whusky i' the mornin'
to fill the ebb o' the toddy. He wad never hae dune as he did but
for the whusky. It jist drave oot a' gude and loot in a' ill.'

'Wull ye lat me tak this wi' me, grannie?' said Robert; for though
the portrait was useless for identification, it might serve a
further purpose.

'Ow, ay, tak it. I dinna want it. I can see him weel wantin' that.
But I hae nae houp left 'at ye'll ever fa' in wi' him.'

'God's aye doin' unlikly things, grannie,' said Robert, solemnly.

'He's dune a' 'at he can for him, I doobt, already.'

'Duv ye think 'at God cudna save a man gin he liket, than, grannie?'

'God can do a'thing. There's nae doobt but by the gift o' his
speerit he cud save a'body.'

'An' ye think he's no mercifu' eneuch to do 't?'

'It winna do to meddle wi' fowk's free wull. To gar fowk he gude
wad be nae gudeness.'

'But gin God could actually create the free wull, dinna ye think he
cud help it to gang richt, withoot ony garrin'? We ken sae little
aboot it, grannie! Hoo does his speerit help onybody? Does he gar
them 'at accep's the offer o' salvation?'

'Na, I canna think that. But he shaws them the trowth in sic a way
that they jist canna bide themsel's, but maun turn to him for verra
peace an' rist.'

'Weel, that's something as I think. An' until I'm sure that a man
has had the trowth shawn till him in sic a way 's that, I canna
alloo mysel' to think that hooever he may hae sinned, he has finally
rejeckit the trowth. Gin I kent that a man had seen the trowth as I
hae seen 't whiles, and had deleeberately turned his back upo' 't
and said, "I'll nane o' 't," than I doobt I wad be maist compelled
to alloo that there was nae mair salvation for him, but a certain
and fearfu' luikin' for o' judgment and fiery indignation. But I
dinna believe that ever man did sae. But even than, I dinna ken.'

'I did a' for him that I kent hoo to do,' said Mrs. Falconer,
reflectingly. 'Nicht an' mornin' an' aften midday prayin' for an'
wi' him.'

'Maybe ye scunnert him at it, grannie.'

She gave a stifled cry of despair.

'Dinna say that, laddie, or ye'll drive me oot o' my min'. God
forgie me, gin that be true. I deserve hell mair nor my Anerew.'

'But, ye see, grannie, supposin' it war sae, that wadna be laid to
your accoont, seein' ye did the best ye kent. Nor wad it be
forgotten to him. It wad mak a hantle difference to his sin; it wad
be a great excuse for him. An' jist think, gin it be fair for ae
human being to influence anither a' 'at they can, and that's nae
interferin' wi' their free wull--it's impossible to measure what God
cud do wi' his speerit winnin' at them frae a' sides, and able to
put sic thouchts an' sic pictures into them as we canna think. It
wad a' be true that he tellt them, and the trowth can never be a
meddlin' wi' the free wull.'

Mrs. Falconer made no reply, but evidently went on thinking.

She was, though not a great reader, yet a good reader. Any book
that was devout and thoughtful she read gladly. Through some one or
other of this sort she must have been instructed concerning free
will, for I do not think such notions could have formed any portion
of the religious teaching she had heard. Men in that part of
Scotland then believed that the free will of man was only exercised
in rejecting--never in accepting the truth; and that men were saved
by the gift of the Spirit, given to some and not to others,
according to the free will of God, in the exercise of which no
reason appreciable by men, or having anything to do with their
notions of love or justice, had any share. In the recognition of
will and choice in the acceptance of the mercy of God, Mrs. Falconer
was then in advance of her time. And it is no wonder if her notions
did not all hang logically together.

'At ony rate, grannie,' resumed her grandson, 'I haena dune a' for
him 'at I can yet; and I'm no gaein' to believe onything that wad
mak me remiss in my endeavour. Houp for mysel', for my father, for
a'body, is what's savin' me, an' garrin' me work. An' gin ye tell
me that I'm no workin' wi' God, that God's no the best an' the
greatest worker aboon a', ye tak the verra hert oot o' my breist,
and I dinna believe in God nae mair, an' my han's drap doon by my
sides, an' my legs winna gang. No,' said Robert, rising, 'God 'ill
gie me my father sometime, grannie; for what man can do wantin' a
father? Human bein' canna win at the hert o' things, canna ken a'
the oots an' ins, a' the sides o' love, excep' he has a father amo'
the lave to love; an' I hae had nane, grannie. An' that God kens.'

She made him no answer. She dared not say that he expected too much
from God. Is it likely that Jesus will say so of any man or woman
when he looks for faith in the earth?

Robert went out to see some of his old friends, and when he returned
it was time for supper and worship. These were the same as of old:
a plate of porridge, and a wooden bowl of milk for the former; a
chapter and a hymn, both read, and a prayer from grannie, and then
from Robert for the latter. And so they went to bed.

But Robert could not sleep. He rose and dressed himself, went up to
the empty garret, looked at the stars through the skylight, knelt
and prayed for his father and for all men to the Father of all, then
softly descended the stairs, and went out into the street.

CHAPTER VI.

SHARGAR'S MOTHER.

It was a warm still night in July--moonless but not dark. There is
no night there in the summer--only a long ethereal twilight. He
walked through the sleeping town so full of memories, all quiet in
his mind now--quiet as the air that ever broods over the house where
a friend has dwelt. He left the town behind, and walked--through
the odours of grass and of clover and of the yellow flowers on the
old earthwalls that divided the fields--sweet scents to which the
darkness is friendly, and which, mingling with the smell of the
earth itself, reach the founts of memory sooner than even words or
tones--down to the brink of the river that flowed scarcely murmuring
through the night, itself dark and brown as the night from its
far-off birthplace in the peaty hills. He crossed the footbridge
and turned into the bleachfield. Its houses were desolate, for that
trade too had died away. The machinery stood rotting and rusting.
The wheel gave no answering motion to the flow of the water that
glided away beneath it. The thundering beatles were still. The
huge legs of the wauk-mill took no more seven-leagued strides
nowhither. The rubbing-boards with their thickly-fluted surfaces no
longer frothed the soap from every side, tormenting the web of linen
into a brightness to gladden the heart of the housewife whose hands
had spun the yarn. The terrible boiler that used to send up from
its depths bubbling and boiling spouts and peaks and ridges, lay
empty and cold. The little house behind, where its awful furnace
used to glow, and which the pungent chlorine used to fill with its
fumes, stood open to the wind and the rain: he could see the slow
river through its unglazed window beyond. The water still went
slipping and sliding through the deserted places, a power whose use
had departed. The canal, the delight of his childhood, was nearly
choked with weeds; it went flowing over long grasses that drooped
into it from its edges, giving a faint gurgle once and again in its
flow, as if it feared to speak in the presence of the stars, and
escaped silently into the river far below. The grass was no longer
mown like a lawn, but was long and deep and thick. He climbed to
the place where he had once lain and listened to the sounds of the
belt of fir-trees behind him, hearing the voice of Nature that
whispered God in his ears, and there he threw himself down once
more. All the old things, the old ways, the old glories of
childhood--were they gone? No. Over them all, in them all, was God
still. There is no past with him. An eternal present, He filled
his soul and all that his soul had ever filled. His history was
taken up into God: it had not vanished: his life was hid with Christ
in God. To the God of the human heart nothing that has ever been a
joy, a grief, a passing interest, can ever cease to be what it has
been; there is no fading at the breath of time, no passing away of
fashion, no dimming of old memories in the heart of him whose being
creates time. Falconer's heart rose up to him as to his own deeper
life, his indwelling deepest spirit--above and beyond him as the
heavens are above and beyond the earth, and yet nearer and homelier
than his own most familiar thought. 'As the light fills the earth,'
thought he, 'so God fills what we call life. My sorrows, O God, my
hopes, my joys, the upliftings of my life are with thee, my root, my
life. Thy comfortings, my perfect God, are strength indeed!'

He rose and looked around him. While he lay, the waning, fading
moon had risen, weak and bleared and dull. She brightened and
brightened until at last she lighted up the night with a wan,
forgetful gleam. 'So should I feel,' he thought, 'about the past on
which I am now gazing, were it not that I believe in the God who
forgets nothing. That which has been, is.' His eye fell on
something bright in the field beyond. He would see what it was, and
crossed the earthen dyke. It shone like a little moon in the grass.
By humouring the reflection he reached it. It was only a cutting
of white iron, left by some tinker. He walked on over the field,
thinking of Shargar's mother. If he could but find her! He walked
on and on. He had no inclination to go home. The solitariness of
the night, the uncanniness of the moon, prevents most people from
wandering far: Robert had learned long ago to love the night, and to
feel at home with every aspect of God's world. How this peace
contrasted with the nights in London streets! this grass with the
dark flow of the Thames! these hills and those clouds half melted
into moonlight with the lanes blazing with gas! He thought of the
child who, taken from London for the first time, sent home the
message: 'Tell mother that it's dark in the country at night.' Then
his thoughts turned again to Shargar's mother! Was it not possible,
being a wanderer far and wide, that she might be now in Rothieden?
Such people have a love for their old haunts, stronger than that of
orderly members of society for their old homes. He turned back, and
did not know where he was. But the lines of the hill-tops directed
him. He hastened to the town, and went straight through the
sleeping streets to the back wynd where he had found Shargar sitting
on the doorstep. Could he believe his eyes? A feeble light was
burning in the shed. Some other poverty-stricken bird of the night,
however, might be there, and not she who could perhaps guide him to
the goal of his earthly life. He drew near, and peeped in at the
broken window. A heap of something lay in a corner, watched only by
a long-snuffed candle.

The heap moved, and a voice called out querulously,

'Is that you, Shargar, ye shochlin deevil?'

Falconer's heart leaped. He hesitated no longer, but lifted the
latch and entered. He took up the candle, snuffed it as he best
could, and approached the woman. When the light fell on her face
she sat up, staring wildly with eyes that shunned and sought it.

'Wha are ye that winna lat me dee in peace and quaietness?'

'I'm Robert Falconer.'

'Come to speir efter yer ne'er-do-weel o' a father, I reckon,' she
said.

'Yes,' he answered.

'Wha's that ahin' ye?'

'Naebody's ahin' me,' answered Robert.

'Dinna lee. Wha's that ahin' the door?'

'Naebody. I never tell lees.'

'Whaur's Shargar? What for doesna he come till 's mither?'

'He's hynd awa' ower the seas--a captain o' sodgers.'

'It's a lee. He's an ill-faured scoonrel no to come till 's mither
an' bid her gude-bye, an' her gaein' to hell.'

'Gin ye speir at Christ, he'll tak ye oot o' the verra mou' o' hell,
wuman.'

'Christ! wha's that? Ow, ay! It's him 'at they preach aboot i' the
kirks. Na, na. There's nae gude o' that. There's nae time to
repent noo. I doobt sic repentance as mine wadna gang for muckle
wi' the likes o' him.'

'The likes o' him 's no to be gotten. He cam to save the likes o'
you an' me.'

'The likes o' you an' me! said ye, laddie? There's no like atween
you and me. He'll hae naething to say to me, but gang to hell wi'
ye for a bitch.'

'He never said sic a word in 's life. He wad say, "Poor thing! she
was ill-used. Ye maunna sin ony mair. Come, and I'll help ye." He
wad say something like that. He'll save a body whan she wadna think
it.'

'An' I hae gien my bonnie bairn to the deevil wi' my ain han's!
She'll come to hell efter me to girn at me, an' set them on me wi'
their reid het taings, and curse me. Och hone! och hone!'

'Hearken to me,' said Falconer, with as much authority as he could
assume. But she rolled herself over again in the corner, and lay
groaning.

'Tell me whaur she is,' said Falconer, 'and I'll tak her oot o'
their grup, whaever they be.'

She sat up again, and stared at him for a few moments without
speaking.

'I left her wi' a wuman waur nor mysel',' she said at length. 'God
forgie me.'

'He will forgie ye, gin ye tell me whaur she is.'

'Do ye think he will? Eh, Maister Faukner! The wuman bides in a
coort off o' Clare Market. I dinna min' upo' the name o' 't, though
I cud gang till 't wi' my een steekit. Her name's Widow Walker--an
auld rowdie--damn her sowl!'

'Na, na, ye maunna say that gin ye want to be forgien yersel'. I'll
fin' her oot. An' I'm thinkin' it winna be lang or I hae a grup o'
her. I'm gaein' back to Lonnon in twa days or three.'

'Dinna gang till I'm deid. Bide an' haud the deevil aff o' me. He
has a grup o' my hert noo, rivin' at it wi' his lang nails--as lang
's birds' nebs.'

'I'll bide wi' ye till we see what can be dune for ye. What's the
maitter wi' ye? I'm a doctor noo.'

There was not a chair or box or stool on which to sit down. He
therefore kneeled beside her. He felt her pulse, questioned her,
and learned that she had long been suffering from an internal
complaint, which had within the last week grown rapidly worse. He
saw that there was no hope of her recovery, but while she lived he
gave himself to her service as to that of a living soul capable of
justice and love. The night was more than warm, but she had fits of
shivering. He wrapped his coat round her, and wiped from the poor
degraded face the damps of suffering. The woman-heart was alive
still, for she took the hand that ministered to her and kissed it
with a moan. When the morning came she fell asleep. He crept out
and went to his grandmother's, where he roused Betty, and asked her
to get him some peat and coals. Finding his grandmother awake, he
told her all, and taking the coals and the peat, carried them to the
hut, where he managed, with some difficulty, to light a fire on the
hearth; after which he sat on the doorstep till Betty appeared with
two men carrying a mattress and some bedding. The noise they made
awoke her.

'Dinna tak me,' she cried. 'I winna do 't again, an' I'm deein', I
tell ye I'm deein', and that'll clear a' scores--o' this side ony
gait,' she added.