Books: Robert Falconer

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'I ain't your child,' cried the girl, passionately. 'I ain't
nobody's child.'

'You are God's child,' said Falconer, who stood looking on with his
eyes shining, but otherwise in a state of absolute composure.

'Am I? Am I? You won't forget to send for me, sir?'

'That I won't,' he answered.

She turned instantly towards the woman, and snapped her fingers in
her face.

'I don't care that for you,' she cried. 'You dare to touch me now,
and I'll bite you.'

'Come, come, Nelly, you mustn't be rude,' said Falconer.

'No, sir, I won't no more, leastways to nobody but she. It's she
makes me do all the wicked things, it is.'

She snapped her fingers in her face again, and then burst out
crying.

'She will leave you alone now, I think,' said Falconer. 'She knows
it will be quite as well for her not to cross me.'

This he said very significantly, as he turned to the door, where he
bade them a general good-night. When we reached the street, I was
too bewildered to offer any remark. Falconer was the first to
speak.

'It always comes back upon me, as if I had never known it before,
that women like some of those were of the first to understand our
Lord.'

'Some of them wouldn't have understood him any more than the
Pharisee, though.'

'I'm not so sure of that. Of course there are great differences.
There are good and bad amongst them as in every class. But one
thing is clear to me, that no indulgence of passion destroys the
spiritual nature so much as respectable selfishness.'

'I am afraid you will not get society to agree with you,' I said,
foolishly.

'I have no wish that society should agree with me; for if it did, it
would be sure to do so upon the worst of principles. It is better
that society should be cruel, than that it should call the horrible
thing a trifle: it would know nothing between.'

Through the city--though it was only when we crossed one of the main
thoroughfares that I knew where we were--we came into the region of
Bethnal Green. From house to house till it grew very late, Falconer
went, and I went with him. I will not linger on this part of our
wanderings. Where I saw only dreadful darkness, Falconer always
would see some glimmer of light. All the people into whose houses
we went knew him. They were all in the depths of poverty. Many of
them were respectable. With some of them he had long talks in
private, while I waited near. At length he said,

'I think we had better be going home, Mr. Gordon. You must be
tired.'

'I am, rather,' I answered. 'But it doesn't matter, for I have
nothing to do to-morrow.'

'We shall get a cab, I dare say, before we go far.'

'Not for me. I am not so tired, but that I would rather walk,' I
said.

'Very well,' he returned. 'Where do you live?'

I told him.

'I will take you the nearest way.'

'You know London marvellously.'

'Pretty well now,' he answered.

We were somewhere near Leather Lane about one o'clock. Suddenly we
came upon two tiny children standing on the pavement, one on each
side of the door of a public-house. They could not have been more
than two and three. They were sobbing a little--not much. The tiny
creatures stood there awfully awake in sleeping London, while even
their own playmates were far off in the fairyland of dreams.

'This is the kind of thing,' I said, 'that makes me doubt whether
there be a God in heaven.'

'That is only because he is down here,' answered Falconer, 'taking
such good care of us all that you can't see him. There is not a
gin-palace, or yet lower hell in London, in which a man or woman can
be out of God. The whole being love, there is nothing for you to set
it against and judge it by. So you are driven to fancies.'

The house was closed, but there was light above the door. We went
up to the children, and spoke to them, but all we could make out was
that mammie was in there. One of them could not speak at all.
Falconer knocked at the door. A good-natured-looking Irishwoman
opened it a little way and peeped out.

'Here are two children crying at your door, ma'am,' said Falconer.

'Och, the darlin's! they want their mother.'

'Do you know her, then?'

'True for you, and I do. She's a mighty dacent woman in her way
when the drink's out uv her, and very kind to the childher; but
oncet she smells the dhrop o' gin, her head's gone intirely. The
purty craytures have waked up, an' she not come home, and they've
run out to look after her.'

Falconer stood a moment as if thinking what would be best. The
shriek of a woman rang through the night.

'There she is!' said the Irishwoman. 'For God's sake don't let her
get a hould o' the darlints. She's ravin' mad. I seen her try to
kill them oncet.'

The shrieks came nearer and nearer, and after a few moments the
woman appeared in the moonlight, tossing her arms over her head, and
screaming with a despair for which she yet sought a defiant
expression. Her head was uncovered, and her hair flying in tangles;
her sleeves were torn, and her gaunt arms looked awful in the
moonlight. She stood in the middle of the street, crying again and
again, with shrill laughter between, 'Nobody cares for me, and I
care for nobody! Ha! ha! ha!'

'Mammie! mammie!' cried the elder of the children, and ran towards
her.

The woman heard, and rushed like a fury towards the child. Falconer
too ran, and caught up the child. The woman gave a howl and rushed
towards the other. I caught up that one. With a last shriek, she
dashed her head against the wall of the public-house, dropped on the
pavement, and lay still.

Falconer set the child down, lifted the wasted form in his arms, and
carried it into the house. The face was blue as that of a strangled
corpse. She was dead.

'Was she a married woman?' Falconer asked.

'It's myself can't tell you sir,' the Irishwoman answered. 'I never
saw any boy with her.'

'Do you know where she lived?'

'No, sir. Somewhere not far off, though. The children will know.'

But they stood staring at their mother, and we could get nothing out
of them. They would not move from the corpse.

'I think we may appropriate this treasure-trove,' said Falconer,
turning at last to me; and as he spoke, he took the eldest in his
arms. Then, turning to the woman, he gave her a card, saying, 'If
any inquiry is made about them, there is my address.--Will you take
the other, Mr. Gordon?'

I obeyed. The children cried no more. After traversing a few
streets, we found a cab, and drove to a house in Queen Square,
Bloomsbury.

Falconer got out at the door of a large house, and rung the bell;
then got the children out, and dismissed the cab. There we stood in
the middle of the night, in a silent, empty square, each with a
child in his arms. In a few minutes we heard the bolts being
withdrawn. The door opened, and a tall graceful form wrapped in a
dressing-gown, appeared.

'I have brought you two babies, Miss St. John,' said Falconer. 'Can
you take them?'

'To be sure I can,' she answered, and turned to lead the way. 'Bring
them in.'

We followed her into a little back room. She put down her candle,
and went straight to the cupboard, whence she brought a sponge-cake,
from which she cut a large piece for each of the children.

'What a mercy they are, Robert,--those little gates in the face!
Red Lane leads direct to the heart,' she said, smiling, as if she
rejoiced in the idea of taming the little wild angelets. 'Don't you
stop. You are tired enough, I am sure. I will wake my maid, and
we'll get them washed and put to bed at once.'

She was closing the door, when Falconer turned.

'Oh! Miss St. John,' he said, 'I was forgetting. Could you go down
to No. 13 in Soap Lane--you know it, don't you?'

'Yes. Quite well.'

'Ask for a girl called Nell--a plain, pock-marked young girl--and
take her away with you.'

'When shall I go?'

'To-morrow morning. But I shall be in. Don't go till you see me.
Good-night.'

We took our leave without more ado.

'What a lady-like woman to be the matron of an asylum!' I said.

Falconer gave a little laugh.

'That is no asylum. It is a private house.'

'And the lady?'

'Is a lady of private means,' he answered, 'who prefers Bloomsbury
to Belgravia, because it is easier to do noble work in it. Her
heaven is on the confines of hell.'

'What will she do with those children?'

'Kiss them and wash them and put them to bed.'

'And after that?'

'Give them bread and milk in the morning.'

'And after that?'

'Oh! there's time enough. We'll see. There's only one thing she
won't do.'

'What is that?'

'Turn them out again.'

A pause followed, I cogitating.

'Are you a society, then?' I asked at length.

'No. At least we don't use the word. And certainly no other society
would acknowledge us.'

'What are you, then?'

'Why should we be anything, so long as we do our work?'

'Don't you think there is some affectation in refusing a name?'

'Yes, if the name belongs to you? Not otherwise.'

'Do you lay claim to no epithet of any sort?'

'We are a church, if you like. There!'

'Who is your clergyman?'

'Nobody.'

'Where do you meet?'

'Nowhere.'

'What are your rules, then?'

'We have none.'

'What makes you a church?'

'Divine Service.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'The sort of thing you have seen to-night.'

'What is your creed?'

'Christ Jesus.'

'But what do you believe about him?'

'What we can. We count any belief in him--the smallest--better than
any belief about him--the greatest--or about anything else besides.
But we exclude no one.'

'How do you manage without?'

'By admitting no one.'

'I cannot understand you.'

'Well, then: we are an undefined company of people, who have grown
into human relations with each other naturally, through one
attractive force--love for human beings, regarding them as human
beings only in virtue of the divine in them.'

'But you must have some rules,' I insisted.

'None whatever. They would cause us only trouble. We have nothing
to take us from our work. Those that are most in earnest, draw most
together; those that are on the outskirts have only to do nothing,
and they are free of us. But we do sometimes ask people to help
us--not with money.'

'But who are the we?'

'Why you, if you will do anything, and I and Miss St. John and
twenty others--and a great many more I don't know, for every one is
a centre to others. It is our work that binds us together.'

'Then when that stops you drop to pieces.'

'Yes, thank God. We shall then die. There will be no corporate
body--which means a bodied body, or an unsouled body, left behind to
simulate life, and corrupt, and work no end of disease. We go to
ashes at once, and leave no corpse for a ghoul to inhabit and make a
vampire of. When our spirit is dead, our body is vanished.'

'Then you won't last long.'

'Then we oughtn't to last long.'

'But the work of the world could not go on so.'

'We are not the life of the world. God is. And when we fail, he
can and will send out more and better labourers into his
harvest-field. It is a divine accident by which we are thus
associated.'

'But surely the church must be otherwise constituted.'

'My dear sir, you forget: I said we were a church, not the church.'

'Do you belong to the Church of England?'

'Yes, some of us. Why should we not? In as much as she has
faithfully preserved the holy records and traditions, our
obligations to her are infinite. And to leave her would be to
quarrel, and start a thousand vermiculate questions, as Lord Bacon
calls them, for which life is too serious in my eyes. I have no
time for that.'

'Then you count the Church of England the Church?' 'Of England, yes;
of the universe, no: that is constituted just like ours, with the
living working Lord for the heart of it.'

'Will you take me for a member?'

'No.'

'Will you not, if--?'

'You may make yourself one if you will. I will not speak a word to
gain you. I have shown you work. Do something, and you are of
Christ's Church.'

We were almost at the door of my lodging, and I was getting very
weary in body, and indeed in mind, though I hope not in heart.
Before we separated, I ventured to say,

'Will you tell me why you invited me to come and see you? Forgive
my presumption, but you seemed to seek acquaintance with me,
although you did make me address you first.'

He laughed gently, and answered in the words of the ancient
mariner:--

'The moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me:
To him my tale I teach.'

Without another word, he shook hands with me, and left me. Weary as
I was, I stood in the street until I could hear his footsteps no
longer.

CHAPTER IX.

THE BROTHERS.

One day, as Falconer sat at a late breakfast, Shargar burst into his
room. Falconer had not even known that he was coming home, for he
had outstripped the letter he had sent. He had his arm in a sling,
which accounted for his leave.

'Shargar!' cried Falconer, starting up in delight.

'Major Shargar, if you please. Give me all my honours, Robert,'
said Moray, presenting his left hand.

'I congratulate you, my boy. Well, this is delightful! But you are
wounded.'

'Bullet--broken--that's all. It's nearly right again. I'll tell
you about it by and by. I am too full of something else to talk
about trifles of that sort. I want you to help me.'

He then rushed into the announcement that he had fallen desperately
in love with a lady who had come on board with her maid at Malta,
where she had been spending the winter. She was not very young,
about his own age, but very beautiful, and of enchanting address.
How she could have remained so long unmarried he could not think.
It could not be but that she had had many offers. She was an
heiress, too, but that Shargar felt to be a disadvantage for him.
All the progress he could yet boast of was that his attentions had
not been, so far as he could judge, disagreeable to her. Robert
thought even less of the latter fact than Shargar himself, for he
did not believe there were many women to whom Shargar's attentions
would be disagreeable: they must always be simple and manly. What
was more to the point, she had given him her address in London, and
he was going to call upon her the next day. She was on a visit to
Lady Janet Gordon, an elderly spinster, who lived in Park-street.

'Are you quite sure she's not an adventuress, Shargar?'

'It's o' no mainner o' use to tell ye what I'm sure or no sure o',
Robert, in sic a case. But I'll manage, somehoo, 'at ye sall see
her yersel', an' syne I'll speir back yer ain queston at ye.'

'Weel, hae ye tauld her a' aboot yersel'?'

'No!' answered Shargar, growing suddenly pale. 'I never thocht aboot
that. But I had no richt, for a' that passed, to intrude mysel'
upo' her to that extent.'

'Weel, I reckon ye're richt. Yer wounds an' yer medals ought to
weigh weel against a' that. There's this comfort in 't, that gin
she bena richt weel worthy o' ye, auld frien', she winna tak ye.'

Shargar did not seem to see the comfort of it. He was depressed for
the remainder of the day. In the morning he was in wild spirits
again. Just before he started, however, he said, with an expression
of tremulous anxiety,

'Oucht I to tell her a' at ance--already--aboot--aboot my mither?'

'I dinna say that. Maybe it wad be equally fair to her and to
yersel' to lat her ken ye a bit better afore ye do that.--We'll
think that ower.--Whan ye gang doon the stair, ye'll see a bit
brougham at the door waitin' for ye. Gie the coachman ony orders ye
like. He's your servant as lang 's ye're in London. Commit yer way
to the Lord, my boy.'

Though Shargar did not say much, he felt strengthened by Robert's
truth to meet his fate with something of composure. But it was not
to be decided that day. Therein lay some comfort.

He returned in high spirits still. He had been graciously received
both by Miss Hamilton and her hostess--a kind-hearted old lady, who
spoke Scotch with the pure tone of a gentlewoman, he said--a treat
not to be had once in a twelvemonth. She had asked him to go to
dinner in the evening, and to bring his friend with him. Robert,
however, begged him to make his excuse, as he had an engagement
in--a very different sort of place.

When Shargar returned, Robert had not come in. He was too excited
to go to bed, and waited for him. It was two o'clock before he came
home. Shargar told him there was to be a large party at Lady
Patterdale's the next evening but one, and Lady Janet had promised
to procure him an invitation.

The next morning Robert went to see Mary St. John, and asked if she
knew anything of Lady Patterdale, and whether she could get him an
invitation. Miss St. John did not know her, but she thought she
could manage it for him. He told her all about Shargar, for whose
sake he wished to see Miss Hamilton before consenting to be
introduced to her. Miss St. John set out at once, and Falconer
received a card the next day. When the evening came, he allowed
Shargar to set out alone in his brougham, and followed an hour later
in a hansom.

When he reached the house, the rooms were tolerably filled, and as
several parties had arrived just before him, he managed to enter
without being announced. After a little while he caught sight of
Shargar. He stood alone, almost in a corner, with a strange, rather
raised expression in his eyes. Falconer could not see the object to
which they were directed. Certainly, their look was not that of
love. He made his way up to him and laid his hand on his arm.
Shargar betrayed no little astonishment when he saw him.

'You here, Robert!' he said.

'Yes, I'm here. Have you seen her yet? Is she here?'

'Wha do ye think 's speakin' till her this verra minute? Look
there!' Shargar said in a low voice, suppressed yet more to hide
his excitement.

Following his directions, Robert saw, amidst a little group of
gentlemen surrounding a seated lady, of whose face he could not get
a peep, a handsome elderly man, who looked more fashionable than his
years justified, and whose countenance had an expression which he
felt repulsive. He thought he had seen him before, but Shargar gave
him no time to come to a conclusion of himself.

'It's my brither Sandy, as sure 's deith!' he said; 'and he's been
hingin' aboot her ever sin' she cam in. But I dinna think she likes
him a'thegither by the leuk o' her.'

'What for dinna ye gang up till her yersel', man? I wadna stan'
that gin 'twas me.'

'I'm feared 'at he ken me. He's terrible gleg. A' the Morays are
gleg, and yon marquis has an ee like a hawk.'

'What does 't maitter? Ye hae dune naething to be ashamed o' like
him.'

'Ay; but it's this. I wadna hae her hear the trowth aboot me frae
that boar's mou' o' his first. I wad hae her hear 't frae my ain,
an' syne she canna think I meant to tak her in.'

At this moment there was a movement in the group. Shargar,
receiving no reply, looked round at Robert. It was now Shargar's
turn to be surprised at his expression.

'Are ye seein' a vraith, Robert?' he said. 'What gars ye leuk like
that, man?'

'Oh!' answered Robert, recovering himself, 'I thought I saw some one
I knew. But I'm not sure. I'll tell you afterwards. We've been
talking too earnestly. People are beginning to look at us.'

So saying, he moved away towards the group of which the marquis
still formed one. As he drew near he saw a piano behind Miss
Hamilton. A sudden impulse seized him, and he yielded to it. He
made his way to the piano, and seating himself, began to play very
softly--so softly that the sounds could scarcely be heard beyond the
immediate neighbourhood of the instrument. There was no change on
the storm of talk that filled the room. But in a few minutes a face
white as a shroud was turned round upon him from the group in front,
like the moon dawning out of a cloud. He stopped at once, saying to
himself, 'I was right;' and rising, mingled again with the crowd. A
few minutes after, he saw Shargar leading Miss Hamilton out of the
room, and Lady Janet following. He did not intend to wait his
return, but got near the door, that he might slip out when he should
re-enter. But Shargar did not return. For, the moment she reached
the fresh air, Miss Hamilton was so much better that Lady Janet,
whose heart was as young towards young people as if she had never
had the unfortunate love affair tradition assigned her, asked him to
see them home, and he followed them into her carriage. Falconer
left a few minutes after, anxious for quiet that he might make up
his mind as to what he ought to do. Before he had walked home, he
had resolved on the next step. But not wishing to see Shargar yet,
and at the same time wanting to have a night's rest, he went home
only to change his clothes, and betook himself to a hotel in Covent
Garden.

He was at Lady Janet's door by ten o'clock the next morning, and
sent in his card to Miss Hamilton. He was shown into the
drawing-room, where she came to him.

'May I presume on old acquaintance?' he asked, holding out his hand.

She looked in his face quietly, took his hand, pressed it warmly,
and said,

'No one has so good a right, Mr. Falconer. Do sit down.'

He placed a chair for her, and obeyed.

After a moment's silence on both sides:

'Are you aware, Miss--?' he said and hesitated.

'Miss Hamilton,' she said with a smile. 'I was Miss Lindsay when you
knew me so many years ago. I will explain presently.'

Then with an air of expectation she awaited the finish of his
sentence.

'Are you aware, Miss Hamilton, that I am Major Moray's oldest
friend?'

'I am quite aware of it, and delighted to know it. He told me so
last night.'

Somewhat dismayed at this answer, Falconer resumed,

'Did Major Moray likewise communicate with you concerning his own
history?'

'He did. He told me all.'

Falconer was again silent for some moments.

'Shall I be presuming too far if I venture to conclude that my
friend will not continue his visits?'

'On the contrary,' she answered, with the same delicate blush that
in old times used to overspread the lovely whiteness of her face, 'I
expect him within half-an-hour.'

'Then there is no time to be lost,' thought Falconer.

'Without presuming to express any opinion of my own,' he said
quietly, 'a social code far less severe than that which prevails in
England, would take for granted that an impassable barrier existed
between Major Moray and Miss Hamilton.'

'Do not suppose, Mr. Falconer, that I could not meet Major Moray's
honesty with equal openness on my side.'

Falconer, for the first time almost in his life, was incapable of
speech from bewilderment. But Miss Hamilton did not in the least
enjoy his perplexity, and made haste to rescue both him and herself.
With a blush that was now deep as any rose, she resumed,

'But I owe you equal frankness, Mr. Falconer. There is no barrier
between Major Moray and myself but the foolish--no,
wicked--indiscretion of an otherwise innocent and ignorant girl.
Listen, Mr. Falconer: under the necessity of the circumstances you
will not misjudge me if I compel myself to speak calmly. This, I
trust, will be my final penance. I thought Lord Rothie was going to
marry me. To do him justice, he never said so. Make what excuse
for my folly you can. I was lost in a mist of vain imaginations. I
had had no mother to teach me anything, Mr. Falconer, and my father
never suspected the necessity of teaching me anything. I was very
ill on the passage to Antwerp, and when I began to recover a little,
I found myself beginning to doubt both my own conduct and his
lordship's intentions. Possibly the fact that he was not quite so
kind to me in my illness as I had expected, and that I felt hurt in
consequence, aided the doubt. Then the thought of my father
returning and finding that I had left him, came and burned in my
heart like fire. But what was I to do? I had never been out of
Aberdeen before. I did not know even a word of French. I was
altogether in Lord Rothie's power. I thought I loved him, but it
was not much of love that sea-sickness could get the better of.
With a heart full of despair I went on shore. The captain slipped
a note into my hand. I put it in my pocket, but pulled it out with
my handkerchief in the street. Lord Rothie picked it up. I begged
him to give it me, but he read it, and then tore it in pieces. I
entered the hotel, as wretched as girl could well be. I began to
dislike him. But during dinner he was so kind and attentive that I
tried to persuade myself that my fears were fanciful. After dinner
he took me out. On the stairs we met a lady whose speech was
Scotch. Her maid called her Lady Janet. She looked kindly at me as
I passed. I thought she could read my face. I remembered
afterwards that Lord Rothie turned his head away when we met her.
We went into the cathedral. We were standing under that curious
dome, and I was looking up at its strange lights, when down came a
rain of bell-notes on the roof over my head. Before the first tune
was over, I seemed to expect the second, and then the third, without
thinking how I could know what was coming; but when they ended with
the ballad of the Witch Lady, and I lifted up my head and saw that I
was not by my father's fireside, but in Antwerp Cathedral with Lord
Rothie, despair filled me with a half-insane resolution. Happily
Lord Rothie was at some little distance talking to a priest about
one of Rubens's pictures. I slipped unseen behind the nearest
pillar, and then flew from the church. How I got to the hotel I do
not know, but I did reach it. 'Lady Janet,' was all I could say.
The waiter knew the name, and led me to her room. I threw myself
on my knees, and begged her to save me. She assured me no one
should touch me. I gasped 'Lord Rothie,' and fainted. When I came
to myself--but I need not tell you all the particulars. Lady Janet
did take care of me. Till last night I never saw Lord Rothie again.
I did not acknowledge him, but he persisted in talking to me,
behave as I would, and I saw well enough that he knew me.'