‘Tak care o’ ‘t, sir; tak care o’ ‘t. William Walker said there was a jar o’ drained hinney i’ the basket; an’ the bairns wad miss ‘t sair gin ‘t war spult.’
‘I will take good care of it,’ responded the doctor.
He delivered the basket, returned to the carriage, and told the coachman to drive home.
‘Whaur are ye takin’ me till?’ exclaimed Shargar. ‘Willie hasna payed me for the parcel.’
‘Never mind Willie. I’ll pay you,’ said the doctor.
‘But Robert wadna like me to tak siller whaur I did nae wark for ‘t,’ objected Shargar. ‘He’s some pernickety (precise)–Robert. But I’ll jist say ‘at ye garred me, doctor. Maybe that ‘ll saitisfee him. An’ faith! I’m queer aboot my left fin here.’
‘We’ll soon set it all right,’ said the doctor.
When they reached his house he led the way to his surgery, and there put the broken limb in splints. He then told Johnston to help the patient to bed.
‘I maun gang hame,’ objected Shargar. ‘What wad Robert think?’
‘I will tell him all about it,’ said the doctor.
‘Yersel, sir?’ stipulated Shargar.
‘Yes, myself.’
‘Afore nicht?’
‘Directly,’ answered the doctor, and Shargar yielded.
‘But what will Robert say?’ were his last words, as he fell asleep, appreciating, no doubt, the superiority of the bed to his usual lair upon the hearthrug.
Robert was delighted to hear how well Shargar had acquitted himself. Followed a small consultation about him; for the accident had ripened the doctor’s intentions concerning the outcast.
‘As soon as his arm is sound again, he shall go to the grammar-school,’ he said.
‘An’ the college?’ asked Robert.
‘I hope so,’ answered the doctor. ‘Do you think he will do well? He has plenty of courage, at all events, and that is a fine thing.’
‘Ow ay,’ answered Robert; ‘he’s no ill aff for smeddum (spirit)–that is, gin it be for ony ither body. He wad never lift a han’ for himsel’; an’ that’s what garred me tak till him sae muckle. He’s a fine crater. He canna gang him lane, but he’ll gang wi’ onybody–and haud up wi’ him.’
‘What do you think him fit for, then?’
Now Robert had been building castles for Shargar out of the hopes which the doctor’s friendliness had given him. Therefore he was ready with his answer.
‘Gin ye cud ensure him no bein’ made a general o’, he wad mak a gran’ sojer. Set’s face foret, and say “quick mairch,” an’ he’ll ca his bagonet throu auld Hornie. But lay nae consequences upo’ him, for he cudna stan’ unner them.’
Dr. Anderson laughed, but thought none the less, and went home to see how his patient was getting on.
CHAPTER XIV.
MYSIE’S FACE.
Meantime Ericson grew better. A space of hard, clear weather, in which everything sparkled with frost and sunshine, did him good. But not yet could he use his brain. He turned with dislike even from his friend Plato. He would sit in bed or on his chair by the fireside for hours, with his hands folded before him, and his eyelids drooping, and let his thoughts flow, for he could not think. And that these thoughts flowed not always with other than sweet sounds over the stones of question, the curves of his lip would testify to the friendly, furtive glance of the watchful Robert. None but the troubled mind knows its own consolations; and I believe the saddest life has its own presence–however it may be unrecognized as such–of the upholding Deity. Doth God care for the hairs that perish from our heads? To a mind like Ericson’s the remembered scent, the recurring vision of a flower loved in childhood, is enough to sustain anxiety with beauty, for the lovely is itself healing and hope-giving, because it is the form and presence of the true. To have such a presence is to be; and while a mind exists in any high consciousness, the intellectual trouble that springs from the desire to know its own life, to be assured of its rounded law and security, ceases, for the desire itself falls into abeyance.
But although Ericson was so weak, he was always able and ready to help Robert in any difficulty not unfrequently springing from his imperfect preparation in Greek; for while Mr. Innes was an excellent Latin scholar, his knowledge of Greek was too limited either to compel learning or inspire enthusiasm, And with the keen instinct he possessed in everything immediate between man and man, Robert would sometimes search for a difficulty in order to request its solution; for then Ericson would rouse himself to explain as few men could have explained: where a clear view was to be had of anything, Ericson either had it or knew that he had it not. Hence Robert’s progress was good; for one word from a wise helper will clear off a whole atmosphere of obstructions.
At length one day when Robert came home he found him seated at the table, with his slate, working away at the Differential Calculus. After this he recovered more rapidly, and ere another week was over began to attend one class a day. He had been so far in advance before, that though he could not expect prizes, there was no fear of his passing.
One morning, Robert, coming out from a lecture, saw Ericson in the quadrangle talking to an elderly gentleman. When they met in the afternoon Ericson told him that that was Mr. Lindsay, and that he had asked them both to spend the evening at his house. Robert would go anywhere to be with his friend.
He got out his Sunday clothes, and dressed himself with anxiety: he had visited scarcely at all, and was shy and doubtful. He then sat down to his books, till Ericson came to his door–dressed, and hence in Robert’s eyes ceremonial–a stately, graceful gentleman. Renewed awe came upon him at the sight, and renewed gratitude. There was a flush on Ericson’s cheek, and a fire in his eye. Robert had never seen him look so grand. But there was a something about him that rendered him uneasy–a look that made Ericson seem strange, as if his life lay in some far-off region.
‘I want you to take your violin with you, Robert,’ he said.
‘Hoots!’ returned Robert, ‘hoo can I do that? To tak her wi’ me the first time I gang to a strange hoose, as gin I thocht a’body wad think as muckle o’ my auld wife as I do mysel’! That wadna be mainners–wad it noo, Mr. Ericson?’
‘But I told Mr. Lindsay that you could play well. The old gentleman is fond of Scotch tunes, and you will please him if you take it.’
‘That maks a’ the differ,’ answered Robert.
‘Thank you,’ said Ericson, as Robert went towards his instrument; and, turning, would have walked from the house without any additional protection.
‘Whaur are ye gaein’ that gait, Mr. Ericson? Tak yer plaid, or ye’ll be laid up again, as sure’s ye live.’
‘I’m warm enough,’ returned Ericson.
‘That’s naething. The cauld ‘s jist lyin’ i’ the street like a verra deevil to get a grup o’ ye. Gin ye dinna pit on yer plaid, I winna tak my fiddle.’
Ericson yielded; and they set out together.
I will account for Ericson’s request about the violin.
He went to the episcopal church on Sundays, and sat where he could see Mysie–sat longing and thirsting ever till the music returned. Yet the music he never heard; he watched only its transmutation into form, never taking his eyes off Mysie’s face. Reflected thence in a metamorphosed echo, he followed all its changes. Never was one powerless to produce it more strangely responsive to its influence. She had no voice; she had never been taught the use of any instrument. A world of musical feeling was pent up in her, and music raised the suddener storms in her mobile nature, that she was unable to give that feeling utterance. The waves of her soul dashed the more wildly against their shores, inasmuch as those shores were precipitous, and yielded no outlet to the swelling waters. It was that his soul might hover like a bird of Paradise over the lovely changes of her countenance, changes more lovely and frequent than those of an English May, that Ericson persuaded Robert to take his violin.
The last of the sunlight was departing, and a large full moon was growing through the fog on the horizon. The sky was almost clear of clouds, and the air was cold and penetrating. Robert drew Eric’s plaid closer over his chest. Eric thanked him lightly, but his voice sounded eager; and it was with a long hasty stride that he went up the hill through the gathering of the light frosty mist. He stopped at the stair upon which Robert had found him that memorable night. They went up. The door had been left on the latch for their entrance. They went up more steps between rocky walls. When in after years he read the Purgatorio, as often as he came to one of its ascents, Robert saw this stair with his inward eye. At the top of the stair was the garden, still ascending, and at the top of the garden shone the glow of Mr. Lindsay’s parlour through the red-curtained window. To Robert it shone a refuge for Ericson from the night air; to Ericson it shone the casket of the richest jewel of the universe. Well might the ruddy glow stream forth to meet him! Only in glowing red could such beauty be rightly closed. With trembling hand he knocked at the door.
They were shown at once into the parlour. Mysie was putting away her book as they entered, and her back was towards them. When she turned, it seemed even to Robert as if all the light in the room came only from her eyes. But that light had been all gathered out of the novel she had just laid down. She held out her hand to Eric, and her sweet voice was yet more gentle than wont, for he had been ill. His face flushed at the tone. But although she spoke kindly, he could hardly have fancied that she showed him special favour.
Robert stood with his violin under his arm, feeling as awkward as if he had never handled anything more delicate than a pitchfork. But Mysie sat down to the table, and began to pour out the tea, and he came to himself again. Presently her father entered. His greeting was warm and mild and sleepy. He had come from poring over Spotiswood, in search of some Will o’ the wisp or other, and had grown stupid from want of success. But he revived after a cup of tea, and began to talk about northern genealogies; and Ericson did his best to listen. Robert wondered at the knowledge he displayed: he had been tutor the foregoing summer in one of the oldest and poorest, and therefore proudest families in Caithness. But all the time his host talked Ericson’s eyes hovered about Mysie, who sat gazing before her with look distraught, with wide eyes and scarce-moving eyelids, beholding something neither on sea or shore; and Mr. Lindsay would now and then correct Ericson in some egregious blunder; while Mysie would now and then start awake and ask Robert or Ericson to take another cup of tea. Before the sentence was finished, however, she would let it die away, speaking the last words mechanically, as her consciousness relapsed into dreamland. Had not Robert been with Ericson, he would have found it wearisome enough; and except things took a turn, Ericson could hardly be satisfied with the pleasure of the evening. Things did take a turn.
‘Robert has brought his fiddle,’ said Ericson, as the tea was removed.
‘I hope he will be kind enough to play something,’ said Mr. Lindsay.
‘I’ll do that,’ answered Robert, with alacrity. ‘But ye maunna expec’ ower muckle, for I’m but a prentice-han’,’ he added, as he got the instrument ready.
Before he had drawn the bow once across it, attention awoke in Mysie’s eyes; and before he had finished playing, Ericson must have had quite as much of the ‘beauty born of murmuring sound’ as was good for him. Little did Mysie think of the sky of love, alive with silent thoughts, that arched over her. The earth teems with love that is unloved. The universe itself is one sea of infinite love, from whose consort of harmonies if a stray note steal across the sense, it starts bewildered.
Robert played better than usual. His touch grew intense, and put on all its delicacy, till it was like that of the spider, which, as Pope so admirably says,
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.
And while Ericson watched its shadows, the music must have taken hold of him too; for when Robert ceased, he sang a wild ballad of the northern sea, to a tune strange as itself. It was the only time Robert ever heard him sing. Mysie’s eyes grew wider and wider as she listened. When it was over,
‘Did ye write that sang yersel’, Mr. Ericson?’ asked Robert.
‘No,’ answered Ericson. ‘An old shepherd up in our parts used to say it to me when I was a boy.’
‘Didna he sing ‘t?’ Robert questioned further.
‘No, he didn’t. But I heard an old woman crooning it to a child in a solitary cottage on the shore of Stroma, near the Swalchie whirlpool, and that was the tune she sang it to, if singing it could be called.’
‘I don’t quite understand it, Mr. Ericson,’ said Mysie. ‘What does it mean?’
‘There was once a beautiful woman lived there-away,’ began Ericson.–But I have not room to give the story as he told it, embellishing it, no doubt, as with such a mere tale was lawful enough, from his own imagination. The substance was that a young man fell in love with a beautiful witch, who let him go on loving her till he cared for nothing but her, and then began to kill him by laughing at him. For no witch can fall in love herself, however much she may like to be loved. She mocked him till he drowned himself in a pool on the seashore. Now the witch did not know that; but as she walked along the shore, looking for things, she saw his hand lying over the edge of a rocky basin. Nothing is more useful to a witch than the hand of a man, so she went to pick it up. When she found it fast to an arm, she would have chopped it off, but seeing whose it was, she would, for some reason or other best known to a witch, draw off his ring first. For it was an enchanted ring which she had given him to bewitch his love, and now she wanted both it and the hand to draw to herself the lover of a young maiden whom she hated. But the dead hand closed its fingers upon hers, and her power was powerless against the dead. And the tide came rushing up, and the dead hand held her till she was drowned. She lies with her lover to this day at the bottom of the Swalchie whirlpool; and when a storm is at hand, strange moanings rise from the pool, for the youth is praying the witch lady for her love, and she is praying him to let go her hand.
While Ericson told the story the room still glimmered about Robert as if all its light came from Mysie’s face, upon which the flickering firelight alone played. Mr. Lindsay sat a little back from the rest, with an amused expression: legends of such sort did not come within the scope of his antiquarian reach, though he was ready enough to believe whatever tempted his own taste, let it be as destitute of likelihood as the story of the dead hand. When Ericson ceased, Mysie gave a deep sigh, and looked full of thought, though I daresay it was only feeling. Mr. Lindsay followed with an old tale of the Sinclairs, of which he said Ericson’s reminded him, though the sole association was that the foregoing was a Caithness story, and the Sinclairs are a Caithness family. As soon as it was over, Mysie, who could not hide all her impatience during its lingering progress, asked Robert to play again. He took up his violin, and with great expression gave the air of Ericson’s ballad two or three times over, and then laid down the instrument. He saw indeed that it was too much for Mysie, affecting her more, thus presented after the story, than the singing of the ballad itself. Thereupon Ericson, whose spirits had risen greatly at finding that he could himself secure Mysie’s attention, and produce the play of soul in feature which he so much delighted to watch, offered another story; and the distant rush of the sea, borne occasionally into the ‘grateful gloom’ upon the cold sweep of a February wind, mingled with one tale after another, with which he entranced two of his audience, while the third listened mildly content.
The last of the tales Ericson told was as follows:–
‘One evening-twilight in spring, a young English student, who had wandered northwards as far as the outlying fragments of Scotland called the Orkney and Shetland islands, found himself on a small island of the latter group, caught in a storm of wind and hail, which had come on suddenly. It was in vain to look about for any shelter; for not only did the storm entirely obscure the landscape, but there was nothing around him save a desert moss.
‘At length, however, as he walked on for mere walking’s sake, he found himself on the verge of a cliff, and saw, over the brow of it, a few feet below him, a ledge of rock, where he might find some shelter from the blast, which blew from behind. Letting himself down by his hands, he alighted upon something that crunched beneath his tread, and found the bones of many small animals scattered about in front of a little cave in the rock, offering the refuge he sought, He went in, and sat upon a stone. The storm increased in violence, and as the darkness grew he became uneasy, for he did not relish the thought of spending the night in the cave. He had parted from his companions on the opposite side of the island, and it added to his uneasiness that they must be full of apprehension about him. At last there came a lull in the storm, and the same instant he heard a footfall, stealthy and light as that of a wild beast, upon the bones at the mouth of the cave. He started up in some fear, though the least thought might have satisfied him that there could be no very dangerous animals upon the island. Before he had time to think, however, the face of a woman appeared in the opening. Eagerly the wanderer spoke. She started at the sound of his voice. He could not see her well, because she was turned towards the darkness of the cave.
‘”Will you tell me how to find my way across the moor to Shielness?” he asked.
‘”You cannot find it to-night,” she answered, in a sweet tone, and with a smile that bewitched him, revealing the whitest of teeth.
‘”What am I to do, then?” he asked.
‘”My mother will give you shelter, but that is all she has to offer.”
‘”And that is far more than I expected a minute ago,” he replied. “I shall be most grateful.”
‘She turned in silence and left the cave. The youth followed.
‘She was barefooted, and her pretty brown feet went catlike over the sharp stones, as she led the way down a rocky path to the shore. Her garments were scanty and torn, and her hair blew tangled in the wind. She seemed about five-and-twenty, lithe and small. Her long fingers kept clutching and pulling nervously at her skirts as she went. Her face was very gray in complexion, and very worn, but delicately formed, and smooth-skinned. Her thin nostrils were tremulous as eyelids, and her lips, whose curves were faultless, had no colour to give sign of indwelling blood. What her eyes were like he could not see, for she had never lifted the delicate films of her eyelids.
‘At the foot of the cliff they came upon a little hut leaning against it, and having for its inner apartment a natural hollow within it. Smoke was spreading over the face of the rock, and the grateful odour of food gave hope to the hungry student. His guide opened the door of the cottage; he followed her in, and saw a woman bending over a fire in the middle of the floor. On the fire lay a large fish boiling. The daughter spoke a few words, and the mother turned and welcomed the stranger. She had an old and very wrinkled, but honest face, and looked troubled. She dusted the only chair in the cottage, and placed it for him by the side of the fire, opposite the one window, whence he saw a little patch of yellow sand over which the spent waves spread themselves out listlessly. Under this window was a bench, upon which the daughter threw herself in an unusual posture, resting her chin upon her hand. A moment after the youth caught the first glimpse of her blue eyes. They were fixed upon him with a strange look of greed, amounting to craving, but as if aware that they belied or betrayed her, she dropped them instantly. The moment she veiled them, her face, notwithstanding its colourless complexion, was almost beautiful.
‘When the fish was ready the old woman wiped the deal table, steadied it upon the uneven floor, and covered it with a piece of fine table-linen. She then laid the fish on a wooden platter, and invited the guest to help himself. Seeing no other provision, he pulled from his pocket a hunting-knife, and divided a portion from the fish, offering it to the mother first.
‘”Come, my lamb,” said the old woman; and the daughter approached the table. But her nostrils and mouth quivered with disgust.
‘The next moment she turned and hurried from the hut.
‘”She doesn’t like fish,” said the old woman, “and I haven’t anything else to give her.”
‘”She does not seem in good health,” he rejoined.
‘The woman answered only with a sigh, and they ate their fish with the help of a little rye-bread. As they finished their supper, the youth heard the sound as of the pattering of a dog’s feet upon the sand close to the door; but ere he had time to look out of the window, the door opened and the young woman entered. She looked better, perhaps from having just washed her face. She drew a stool to the corner of the fire opposite him. But as she sat down, to his bewilderment, and even horror, the student spied a single drop of blood on her white skin within her torn dress. The woman brought out a jar of whisky, put a rusty old kettle on the fire, and took her place in front of it. As soon as the water boiled, she proceeded to make some toddy in a wooden bowl.
‘Meantime the youth could not take his eyes off the young woman, so that at length he found himself fascinated, or rather bewitched. She kept her eyes for the most part veiled with the loveliest eyelids fringed with darkest lashes, and he gazed entranced; for the red glow of the little oil-lamp covered all the strangeness of her complexion. But as soon as he met a stolen glance out of those eyes unveiled, his soul shuddered within him. Lovely face and craving eyes alternated fascination and repulsion.
‘The mother placed the bowl in his hands. He drank sparingly, and passed it to the girl. She lifted it to her lips, and as she tasted–only tasted it–looked at him. He thought the drink must have been drugged and have affected his brain. Her hair smoothed itself back, and drew her forehead backwards with it; while the lower part of her face projected towards the bowl, revealing, ere she sipped, her dazzling teeth in strange prominence. But the same moment the vision vanished; she returned the vessel to her mother, and rising, hurried out of the cottage.
‘Then, the old woman pointed to a bed of heather in one corner with a murmured apology; and the student, wearied both with the fatigues of the day and the strangeness of the night, threw himself upon it, wrapped in his cloak. The moment he lay down, the storm began afresh, and the wind blew so keenly through the crannies of the hut, that it was only by drawing his cloak over his head that he could protect himself from its currents. Unable to sleep, he lay listening to the uproar which grew in violence, till the spray was dashing against the window. At length the door opened, and the young woman came in, made up the fire, drew the bench before it, and lay down in the same strange posture, with her chin propped on her hand and elbow, and her face turned towards the youth. He moved a little; she dropped her head, and lay on her face, with her arms crossed beneath her forehead. The mother had disappeared.
‘Drowsiness crept over him. A movement of the bench roused him, and he fancied he saw some four-footed creature as tall as a large dog trot quietly out of the door. He was sure he felt a rush of cold wind. Gazing fixedly through the darkness, he thought he saw the eyes of the damsel encountering his, but a glow from the falling together of the remnants of the fire, revealed clearly enough that the bench was vacant. Wondering what could have made her go out in such a storm, he fell fast asleep.
‘In the middle of the night he felt a pain in his shoulder, came broad awake, and saw the gleaming eyes and grinning teeth of some animal close to his face. Its claws were in his shoulder, and its mouth was in the act of seeking his throat. Before it had fixed its fangs, however, he had its throat in one hand, and sought his knife with the other. A terrible struggle followed; but regardless of the tearing claws, he found and opened his knife. He had made one futile stab, and was drawing it for a surer, when, with a spring of the whole body, and one wildly-contorted effort, the creature twisted its neck from his hold, and with something betwixt a scream and a howl, darted from him. Again he heard the door open; again the wind blew in upon him, and it continued blowing; a sheet of spray dashed across the floor, and over his face. He sprung from his couch and bounded to the door.
‘It was a wild night–dark, but for the flash of whiteness from the waves as they broke within a few yards of the cottage; the wind was raving, and the rain pouring down the air. A gruesome sound as of mingled weeping and howling came from somewhere in the dark. He turned again into the hut and closed the door, but could find no way of securing it.
‘The lamp was nearly out, and he could not be certain whether the form of the young woman was upon the bench or not. Overcoming a strong repugnance, he approached it, and put out his hands–there was nothing there. He sat down and waited for the daylight: he dared not sleep any more.
‘When the day dawned at length, he went out yet again, and looked around. The morning was dim and gusty and gray. The wind had fallen, but the waves were tossing wildly. He wandered up and down the little strand, longing for more light.
‘At length he heard a movement in the cottage. By and by the voice of the old woman called to him from the door.
‘”You’re up early, sir. I doubt you didn’t sleep well.”
‘”Not very well,” he answered. “But where is your daughter?”
‘”She’s not awake yet,” said the mother. “I’m afraid I have but a poor breakfast for you. But you’ll take a dram and a bit of fish. It’s all I’ve got.”
‘Unwilling to hurt her, though hardly in good appetite, he sat down at the table. While they were eating the daughter came in, but turned her face away and went to the further end of the hut. When she came forward after a minute or two, the youth saw that her hair was drenched, and her face whiter than before. She looked ill and faint, and when she raised her eyes, all their fierceness had vanished, and sadness had taken its place. Her neck was now covered with a cotton handkerchief. She was modestly attentive to him, and no longer shunned his gaze. He was gradually yielding to the temptation of braving another night in the hut, and seeing what would follow, when the old woman spoke.
‘”The weather will be broken all day, sir,” she said. “You had better be going, or your friends will leave without you.”
‘Ere he could answer, he saw such a beseeching glance on the face of the girl, that he hesitated, confused. Glancing at the mother, he saw the flash of wrath in her face. She rose and approached her daughter, with her hand lifted to strike her. The young woman stooped her head with a cry. He darted round the table to interpose between them. But the mother had caught hold of her; the handkerchief had fallen from her neck; and the youth saw five blue bruises on her lovely throat–the marks of the four fingers and the thumb of a left hand. With a cry of horror he rushed from the house, but as he reached the door he turned. His hostess was lying motionless on the floor, and a huge gray wolf came bounding after him.’
An involuntary cry from Mysie interrupted the story-teller. He changed his tone at once.
‘I beg your pardon, Miss Lindsay, for telling you such a horrid tale. Do forgive me. I didn’t mean to frighten you more than a little.’
‘Only a case of lycanthropia,’ remarked Mr. Lindsay, as coolly as if that settled everything about it and lycanthropia, horror and all, at once.
‘Do tell us the rest,’ pleaded Mysie, and Ericson resumed.
‘There was no weapon at hand; and if there had been, his inborn chivalry would never have allowed him to harm a woman even under the guise of a wolf. Instinctively, he set himself firm, leaning a little forward, with half outstretched arms, and hands curved ready to clutch again at the throat upon which he had left those pitiful marks. But the creature as she sprang eluded his grasp, and just as he expected to feel her fangs, he found a woman weeping on his bosom, with her arms around his neck. The next instant, the gray wolf broke from him, and bounded howling up the cliff. Recovering himself as he best might, the youth followed, for it was the only way to the moor above, across which he must now make his way to find his companions.
‘All at once he heard the sound of a crunching of bones–not as if a creature was eating them, but as if they were ground by the teeth of rage and disappointment: looking up, he saw close above him the mouth of the little cavern in which he had taken refuge the day before. Summoning all his resolution, he passed it slowly and softly. From within came the sounds of a mingled moaning and growling.
‘Having reached the top, he ran at full speed for some distance across the moor before venturing to look behind him. When at length he did so he saw, against the sky, the girl standing on the edge of the cliff, wringing her hands. One solitary wail crossed the space between. She made no attempt to follow him, and he reached the opposite shore in safety.’
Mysie tried to laugh, but succeeded badly. Robert took his violin, and its tones had soon swept all the fear from her face, leaving in its stead a trouble that has no name–the trouble of wanting one knows not what–or how to seek it.
It was now time to go home. Mysie gave each an equally warm good-night and thanks, Mr. Lindsay accompanied them to the door, and the students stepped into the moonlight. Across the links the sound of the sea came with a swell.
As they went down the garden, Ericson stopped. Robert thought he was looking back to the house, and went on. When Ericson joined him, he was pale as death.
‘What is the maitter wi’ ye, Mr. Ericson?’ he asked in terror.
‘Look there!’ said Ericson, pointing, not to the house, but to the sky.
Robert looked up. Close about the moon were a few white clouds. Upon these white clouds, right over the moon, and near as the eyebrow to an eye, hung part of an opalescent halo, bent into the rude, but unavoidable suggestion of an eyebrow; while, close around the edge of the moon, clung another, a pale storm-halo. To this pale iris and faint-hued eyebrow the full moon itself formed the white pupil: the whole was a perfect eye of ghastly death, staring out of the winter heaven. The vision may never have been before, may never have been again, but this Ericson and Robert saw that night.
CHAPTER XV.
THE LAST OF THE COALS.
The next Sunday Robert went with Ericson to the episcopal chapel, and for the first time in his life heard the epic music of the organ. It was a new starting-point in his life. The worshipping instrument flooded his soul with sound, and he stooped beneath it as a bather on the shore stoops beneath the broad wave rushing up the land. But I will not linger over this portion of his history. It is enough to say that he sought the friendship of the organist, was admitted to the instrument; touched, trembled, exulted; grew dissatisfied, fastidious, despairing; gathered hope and tried again, and yet again; till at last, with constantly-recurring fits of self-despite, he could not leave the grand creature alone. It became a rival even to his violin. And once before the end of March, when the organist was ill, and another was not to be had, he ventured to occupy his place both at morning and evening service.
Dr. Anderson kept George Moray in bed for a few days, after which he went about for a while with his arm in a sling. But the season of bearing material burdens was over for him now. Dr. Anderson had an interview with the master of the grammar-school; a class was assigned to Moray, and with a delight, resting chiefly on his social approximation to Robert, which in one week elevated the whole character of his person and countenance and bearing, George Moray bent himself to the task of mental growth. Having good helpers at home, and his late-developed energy turning itself entirely into the new channel, he got on admirably. As there was no other room to be had in Mrs. Fyvie’s house, he continued for the rest of the session to sleep upon the rug, for he would not hear of going to another house. The doctor had advised Robert to drop the nickname as much as possible; but the first time he called him Moray, Shargar threatened to cut his throat, and so between the two the name remained.
I presume that by this time Doctor Anderson had made up his mind to leave his money to Robert, but thought it better to say nothing about it, and let the boy mature his independence. He had him often to his house. Ericson frequently accompanied him; and as there was a good deal of original similarity between the doctor and Ericson, the latter soon felt his obligation no longer a burden. Shargar likewise, though more occasionally, made one of the party, and soon began, in his new circumstances, to develop the manners of a gentleman. I say develop advisedly, for Shargar had a deep humanity in him, as abundantly testified by his devotion to Robert, and humanity is the body of which true manners is the skin and ordinary manifestation: true manners are the polish which lets the internal humanity shine through, just as the polish on marble reveals its veined beauty. Many talks did the elderly man hold with the three youths, and his experience of life taught Ericson and Robert much, especially what he told them about his Brahmin friend in India. Moray, on the other hand, was chiefly interested in his tales of adventure when on service in the Indian army, or engaged in the field sports of that region so prolific in monsters. His gipsy blood and lawless childhood, spent in wandering familiarity with houseless nature, rendered him more responsive to these than the others, and his kindled eye and pertinent remarks raised in the doctor’s mind an early question whether a commission in India might not be his best start in life.
Between Ericson and Robert, as the former recovered his health, communication from the deeper strata of human need became less frequent. Ericson had to work hard to recover something of his leeway; Robert had to work hard that prizes might witness for him to his grandmother and Miss St. John. To the latter especially, as I think I have said before, he was anxious to show well, wiping out the blot, as he considered it, of his all but failure in the matter of a bursary. For he looked up to her as to a goddess who just came near enough to the earth to be worshipped by him who dwelt upon it.
The end of the session came nigh. Ericson passed his examinations with honour. Robert gained the first Greek and third Latin prize. The evening of the last day arrived, and on the morrow the students would be gone–some to their homes of comfort and idleness, others to hard labour in the fields; some to steady reading, perhaps to school again to prepare for the next session, and others to be tutors all the summer months, and return to the wintry city as to freedom and life. Shargar was to remain at the grammar-school.
That last evening Robert sat with Ericson in his room. It was a cold night–the night of the last day of March. A bitter wind blew about the house, and dropped spiky hailstones upon the skylight. The friends were to leave on the morrow, but to leave together; for they had already sent their boxes, one by the carrier to Rothieden, the other by a sailing vessel to Wick, and had agreed to walk together as far as Robert’s home, where he was in hopes of inducing his friend to remain for a few days if he found his grandmother agreeable to the plan. Shargar was asleep on the rug for the last time, and Robert had brought his coal-scuttle into Ericson’s room to combine their scanty remains of well-saved fuel in a common glow, over which they now sat.
‘I wonder what my grannie ‘ill say to me,’ said Robert.
‘She’ll be very glad to see you, whatever she may say,’ remarked Ericson.
‘She’ll say “Noo, be dooce,” the minute I hae shacken hands wi’ her,’ said Robert.
‘Robert,’ returned Ericson solemnly, ‘if I had a grandmother to go home to, she might box my ears if she liked–I wouldn’t care. You do not know what it is not to have a soul belonging to you on the face of the earth. It is so cold and so lonely!’
‘But you have a cousin, haven’t you?’ suggested Robert.
Ericson laughed, but good-naturedly.
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘a little man with a fishy smell, in a blue tail-coat with brass buttons, and a red and black nightcap.’
‘But,’ Robert ventured to hint, ‘he might go in a kilt and top-boots, like Satan in my grannie’s copy o’ the Paradise Lost, for onything I would care.’
‘Yes, but he’s just like his looks. The first thing he’ll do the next morning after I go home, will be to take me into his office, or shop, as he calls it, and get down his books, and show me how many barrels of herring I owe him, with the price of each. To do him justice, he only charges me wholesale.’
‘What’ll he do that for?’
‘To urge on me the necessity of diligence, and the choice of a profession,’ answered Ericson, with a smile of mingled sadness and irresolution. ‘He will set forth what a loss the interest of the money is, even if I should pay the principal; and remind me that although he has stood my friend, his duty to his own family imposes limits. And he has at least a couple of thousand pounds in the county bank. I don’t believe he would do anything for me but for the honour it will be to the family to have a professional man in it. And yet my father was the making of him.’
‘Tell me about your father. What was he?’
‘A gentle-minded man, who thought much and said little. He farmed the property that had been his father’s own, and is now leased by my fishy cousin afore mentioned.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She died just after I was born, and my father never got over it.’
‘And you have no brothers or sisters?’
‘No, not one. Thank God for your grandmother, and do all you can to please her.’
A silence followed, during which Robert’s heart swelled and heaved with devotion to Ericson; for notwithstanding his openness, there was a certain sad coldness about him that restrained Robert from letting out all the tide of his love. The silence became painful, and he broke it abruptly.
‘What are you going to be, Mr. Ericson?’
‘I wish you could tell me, Robert. What would you have me to be? Come now.’
Robert thought for a moment.
‘Weel, ye canna be a minister, Mr. Ericson, ’cause ye dinna believe in God, ye ken,’ he said simply.
‘Don’t say that, Robert,’ Ericson returned, in a tone of pain with which no displeasure was mingled. ‘But you are right. At best I only hope in God; I don’t believe in him.’
‘I’m thinkin’ there canna be muckle differ atween houp an’ faith,’ said Robert. ‘Mony a ane ‘at says they believe in God has unco little houp o’ onything frae ‘s han’, I’m thinkin’.’
My reader may have observed a little change for the better in Robert’s speech. Dr. Anderson had urged upon him the necessity of being able at least to speak English; and he had been trying to modify the antique Saxon dialect they used at Rothieden with the newer and more refined English. But even when I knew him, he would upon occasion, especially when the subject was religion or music, fall back into the broadest Scotch. It was as if his heart could not issue freely by any other gate than that of his grandmother tongue.
Fearful of having his last remark contradicted–for he had an instinctive desire that it should lie undisturbed where he had cast it in the field of Ericson’s mind, he hurried to another question.
‘What for shouldna ye be a doctor?’
‘Now you’ll think me a fool, Robert, if I tell you why.’
‘Far be it frae me to daur think sic a word, Mr. Ericson!’ said Robert devoutly.
‘Well, I’ll tell you, whether or not,’ returned Ericson. ‘I could, I believe, amputate a living limb with considerable coolness; but put a knife in a dead body I could not.’
‘I think I know what you mean. Then you must he a lawyer.’
‘A lawyer! O Lord!’ said Ericson.
‘Why not?’ asked Robert, in some wonderment; for he could not imagine Ericson acting from mere popular prejudice or fancy.
‘Just think of spending one’s life in an atmosphere of squabbles. It’s all very well when one gets to be a judge and dispense justice; but–well, it’s not for me. I could not do the best for my clients. And a lawyer has nothing to do with the kingdom of heaven–only with his clients. He must be a party-man. He must secure for one so often at the loss of the rest. My duty and my conscience would always be at strife.’
‘Then what will you be, Mr. Ericson?’
‘To tell the truth, I would rather be a watchmaker than anything else I know. I might make one watch that would go right, I suppose, if I lived long enough. But no one would take an apprentice of my age. So I suppose I must be a tutor, knocked about from one house to another, patronized by ex-pupils, and smiled upon as harmless by mammas and sisters to the end of the chapter. And then something of a pauper’s burial, I suppose. Che sara sara.’
Ericson had sunk into one of his worst moods. But when he saw Robert looking unhappy, he changed his tone, and would be–what he could not be–merry.
‘But what’s the use of talking about it?’ he said. ‘Get your fiddle, man, and play The Wind that shakes the Barley.’
‘No, Mr. Ericson,’ answered Robert; ‘I have no heart for the fiddle. I would rather have some poetry.’
‘Oh!–Poetry!’ returned Ericson, in a tone of contempt–yet not very hearty contempt.
‘We’re gaein’ awa’, Mr. Ericson,’ said Robert; ‘an’ the Lord ‘at we ken naething aboot alane kens whether we’ll ever meet again i’ this place. And sae–‘
‘True enough, my boy,’ interrupted Ericson. ‘I have no need to trouble myself about the future. I believe that is the real secret of it after all. I shall never want a profession or anything else.’
‘What do you mean, Mr. Ericson?’ asked Robert, in half-defined terror.
‘I mean, my boy, that I shall not live long. I know that–thank God!’
‘How do you know it?’
‘My father died at thirty, and my mother at six-and-twenty, both of the same disease. But that’s not how I know it.’
‘How do you know it then?’
Ericson returned no answer. He only said–
‘Death will be better than life. One thing I don’t like about it though,’ he added, ‘is the coming on of unconsciousness. I cannot bear to lose my consciousness even in sleep. It is such a terrible thing!’
‘I suppose that’s ane o’ the reasons that we canna be content withoot a God,’ responded Robert. ‘It’s dreidfu’ to think even o’ fa’in’ asleep withoot some ane greater an’ nearer than the me watchin’ ower ‘t. But I’m jist sayin’ ower again what I hae read in ane o’ your papers, Mr. Ericson. Jist lat me luik.’
Venturing more than he had ever yet ventured, Robert rose and went to the cupboard where Ericson’s papers lay. His friend did not check him. On the contrary, he took the papers from his hand, and searched for the poem indicated.
‘I’m not in the way of doing this sort of thing, Robert,’ he said.
‘I know that,’ answered Robert.
And Ericson read.
SLEEP.
Oh, is it Death that comes
To have a foretaste of the whole?
To-night the planets and the stars Will glimmer through my window-bars,
But will not shine upon my soul.
For I shall lie as dead,
Though yet I am above the ground;
All passionless, with scarce a breath, With hands of rest and eyes of death,
I shall be carried swiftly round.
Or if my life should break
The idle night with doubtful gleams Through mossy arches will I go,
Through arches ruinous and low,
And chase the true and false in dreams.
Why should I fall asleep?
When I am still upon my bed,
The moon will shine, the winds will rise, And all around and through the skies
The light clouds travel o’er my head.
O, busy, busy things!
Ye mock me with your ceaseless life; For all the hidden springs will flow,
And all the blades of grass will grow, When I have neither peace nor strife.
And all the long night through,
The restless streams will hurry by; And round the lands, with endless roar, The white waves fall upon the shore,
And bit by bit devour the dry.
Even thus, but silently,
Eternity, thy tide shall flow–
And side by side with every star
Thy long-drawn swell shall bear me far, An idle boat with none to row.
My senses fail with sleep;
My heart beats thick; the night is noon; And faintly through its misty folds
I hear a drowsy clock that holds
Its converse with the waning moon.
Oh, solemn mystery!
That I should be so closely bound
With neither terror nor constraint Without a murmur of complaint,
And lose myself upon such ground!
‘Rubbish!’ said Ericson, as he threw down the sheets, disgusted with his own work, which so often disappoints the writer, especially if he is by any chance betrayed into reading it aloud.
‘Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson,’ returned Robert. ‘Ye maunna say that. Ye hae nae richt to lauch at honest wark, whether it be yer ain or ony ither body’s. The poem noo–‘
‘Don’t call it a poem,’ interrupted Ericson. ‘It’s not worthy of the name.’
‘I will ca’ ‘t a poem,’ persisted Robert; ‘for it’s a poem to me, whatever it may be to you. An’ hoo I ken ‘at it’s a poem is jist this: it opens my een like music to something I never saw afore.’
‘What is that?’ asked Ericson, not sorry to be persuaded that there might after all be some merit in the productions painfully despised of himself.
‘Jist this: it’s only whan ye dinna want to fa’ asleep ‘at it luiks fearsome to ye. An’ maybe the fear o’ death comes i’ the same way: we’re feared at it ’cause we’re no a’thegither ready for ‘t; but whan the richt time comes, it’ll be as nat’ral as fa’in’ asleep whan we’re doonricht sleepy. Gin there be a God to ca’ oor Father in heaven, I’m no thinkin’ that he wad to sae mony bonny tunes pit a scraich for the hinder end. I’m thinkin’, gin there be onything in ‘t ava–ye ken I’m no sayin’, for I dinna ken–we maun jist lippen till him to dee dacent an’ bonny, an’ nae sic strange awfu’ fash aboot it as some fowk wad mak a religion o’ expeckin’.’
Ericson looked at Robert with admiration mingled with something akin to merriment.
‘One would think it was your grandfather holding forth, Robert,’ he said. ‘How came you to think of such things at your age?’
‘I’m thinkin’,’ answered Robert, ‘ye warna muckle aulder nor mysel’ whan ye took to sic things, Mr. Ericson. But, ‘deed, maybe my luckie-daddie (grandfather) pat them i’ my heid, for I had a heap ado wi’ his fiddle for a while. She’s deid noo.’
Not understanding him, Ericson began to question, and out came the story of the violins. They talked on till the last of their coals was burnt out, and then they went to bed.
Shargar had undertaken to rouse them early, that they might set out on their long walk with a long day before them. But Robert was awake before Shargar. The all but soulless light of the dreary season awoke him, and he rose and looked out. Aurora, as aged now as her loved Tithonus, peered, gray-haired and desolate, over the edge of the tossing sea, with hardly enough of light in her dim eyes to show the broken crests of the waves that rushed shorewards before the wind of her rising. Such an east wind was the right breath to issue from such a pale mouth of hopeless revelation as that which opened with dead lips across the troubled sea on the far horizon. While he gazed, the east darkened; a cloud of hail rushed against the window; and Robert retreated to his bed. But ere he had fallen asleep, Ericson was beside him; and before he was dressed, Ericson appeared again, with his stick in his hand. They left Shargar still asleep, and descended the stairs, thinking to leave the house undisturbed. But Mrs. Fyvie was watching for them, and insisted on their taking the breakfast she had prepared. They then set out on their journey of forty miles, with half a loaf in their pockets, and money enough to get bread and cheese, and a bottle of the poorest ale, at the far-parted roadside inns.
When Shargar awoke, he wept in desolation, then crept into Robert’s bed, and fell fast asleep again.
CHAPTER XVI.
A STRANGE NIGHT.
The youths had not left the city a mile behind, when a thick snowstorm came on. It did not last long, however, and they fought their way through it into a glimpse of sun. To Robert, healthy, powerful, and except at rare times, hopeful, it added to the pleasure of the journey to contend with the storm, and there was a certain steely indifference about Ericson that carried him through. They trudged on steadily for three hours along a good turnpike road, with great black masses of cloud sweeping across the sky, which now sent them a glimmer of sunlight, and now a sharp shower of hail. The country was very dreary–a succession of undulations rising into bleak moorlands, and hills whose heather would in autumn flush the land with glorious purple, but which now looked black and cheerless, as if no sunshine could ever warm them. Now and then the moorland would sweep down to the edge of the road, diversified with dark holes from which peats were dug, and an occasional quarry of gray granite. At one moment endless pools would be shining in the sunlight, and the next the hail would be dancing a mad fantastic dance all about them: they pulled their caps over their brows, bent their heads, and struggled on.
At length they reached their first stage, and after a meal of bread and cheese and an offered glass of whisky, started again on their journey. They did not talk much, for their force was spent on their progress.
After some consultation whether to keep the road or take a certain short cut across the moors, which would lead them into it again with a saving of several miles, the sun shining out with a little stronger promise than he had yet given, they resolved upon the latter. But in the middle of the moorland the wind and the hail came on with increased violence, and they were glad to tack from one to another of the huge stones that lay about, and take a short breathing time under the lee of each; so that when they recovered the road, they had lost as many miles in time and strength as they had saved in distance. They did not give in, however, but after another rest and a little more refreshment, started again.
The evening was now growing dusk around them, and the fatigue of the day was telling so severely on Ericson, that when in the twilight they heard the blast of a horn behind them, and turning saw the two flaming eyes of a well-known four-horse coach come fluctuating towards them, Robert insisted on their getting up and riding the rest of the way.
‘But I can’t afford it,’ said Ericson.
‘But I can,’ said Robert.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ returned Ericson. ‘But I owe you too much already.’
‘Gin ever we win hame–I mean to the heart o’ hame–ye can pay me there.’
‘There will be no need then.’
‘Whaur’s the need than to mak sic a wark aboot a saxpence or twa atween this and that? I thocht ye cared for naething that time or space or sense could grip or measure. Mr. Ericson, ye’re no half sic a philosopher as ye wad set up for.–Hillo!’
Ericson laughed a weary laugh, and as the coach stopped in obedience to Robert’s hail, he scrambled up behind.
The guard knew Robert, was pitiful over the condition of the travellers, would have put them inside, but that there was a lady there, and their clothes were wet, got out a great horse-rug and wrapped Robert in it, put a spare coat of his own, about an inch thick, upon Ericson, drew out a flask, took a pull at it, handed it to his new passengers, and blew a vigorous blast on his long horn, for they were approaching a desolate shed where they had to change their weary horses for four fresh thorough-breds.
Away they went once more, careering through the gathering darkness. It was delightful indeed to have to urge one weary leg past the other no more, but be borne along towards food, fire, and bed. But their adventures were not so nearly over as they imagined. Once more the hail fell furiously–huge hailstones, each made of many, half-melted and welded together into solid lumps of ice. The coachman could scarcely hold his face to the shower, and the blows they received on their faces and legs, drove the thin-skinned, high-spirited horses nearly mad. At length they would face it no longer. At a turn in the road, where it crossed a brook by a bridge with a low stone wall, the wind met them right in the face with redoubled vehemence; the leaders swerved from it, and were just rising to jump over the parapet, when the coachman, whose hands were nearly insensible with cold, threw his leg over the reins, and pulled them up. One of the leaders reared, and fell backwards; one of the wheelers kicked vigorously; a few moments, and in spite of the guard at their heads, all was one struggling mass of bodies and legs, with a broken pole in the midst. The few passengers got down; and Robert, fearing that yet worse might happen and remembering the lady, opened the door. He found her quite composed. As he helped her out,
‘What is the matter?’ asked the voice dearest to him in the world–the voice of Miss St. John.
He gave a cry of delight. Wrapped in the horse-cloth, Miss St. John did not know him.
‘What is the matter?’ she repeated.
‘Ow, naething, mem–naething. Only I doobt we winna get ye hame the nicht.’
‘Is it you, Robert?’ she said, gladly recognizing his voice.
‘Ay, it’s me, and Mr. Ericson. We’ll tak care o’ ye, mem.’
‘But surely we shall get home!’
Robert had heard the crack of the breaking pole.
”Deed, I doobt no.’
‘What are we to do, then?’
‘Come into the lythe (shelter) o’ the bank here, oot o’ the gait o’ thae brutes o’ horses,’ said Robert, taking off his horse-cloth and wrapping her in it.
The storm hissed and smote all around them. She took Robert’s arm. Followed by Ericson, they left the coach and the struggling horses, and withdrew to a bank that overhung the road. As soon as they were out of the wind, Robert, who had made up his mind, said,
‘We canna be mony yairds frae the auld hoose o’ Bogbonnie. We micht win throu the nicht there weel eneuch. I’ll speir at the gaird, the minute the horses are clear. We war ‘maist ower the brig, I heard the coachman say.’
‘I know quite well where the old house is,’ said Ericson. ‘I went in the last time I walked this way.’
‘Was the door open?’ asked Robert.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Ericson. ‘I found one of the windows open in the basement.’
‘We’ll get the len’ o’ ane o’ the lanterns, an’ gang direckly. It canna be mair nor the breedth o’ a rig or twa frae the burn.’
‘I can take you by the road,’ said Ericson.
‘It will be very cold,’ said Miss St. John,–already shivering, partly from disquietude.
‘There’s timmer eneuch there to haud ‘s warm for a twalmonth,’ said Robert.
He went back to the coach. By this time the horses were nearly extricated. Two of them stood steaming in the lamplight, with their sides going at twenty bellows’ speed. The guard would not let him have one of the coach lamps, but gave him a small lantern of his own. When he returned with it, he found Ericson and Miss St. John talking together.
Ericson led the way, and the others followed.
‘Whaur are ye gaein’, gentlemen?’ asked the guard, as they passed the coach.
‘To the auld hoose,’ answered Robert.
‘Ye canna do better. I maun bide wi’ the coch till the lave gang back to Drumheid wi’ the horses, on’ fess anither pole. Faith, it’ll be weel into the mornin’ or we win oot o’ this. Tak care hoo ye gang. There’s holes i’ the auld hoose, I doobt.’
‘We’ll tak gude care, ye may be sure, Hector,’ said Robert, as they left the bridge.
The house to which Ericson was leading them was in the midst of a field. There was just light enough to show a huge mass standing in the dark, without a tree or shelter of any sort. When they reached it, all that Miss St. John could distinguish was a wide broken stair leading up to the door, with glimpses of a large, plain, ugly, square front. The stones of the stair sloped and hung in several directions; but it was plain to a glance that the place was dilapidated through extraordinary neglect, rather than by the usual wear of time. In fact, it belonged only to the beginning of the preceding century, somewhere in Queen Anne’s time. There was a heavy door to it, but fortunately for Miss St. John, who would not quite have relished getting in at the window of which Ericson had spoken, it stood a little ajar. The wind roared in the gap and echoed in the empty hall into which they now entered. Certainly Robert was right: there was wood enough to keep them warm; for that hall, and every room into which they went, from top to bottom of the huge house, was lined with pine. No paint-brush had ever passed upon it. Neither was there a spot to be seen upon the grain of the wood: it was clean as the day when the house was finished, only it had grown much browner. A close gallery, with window-frames which had never been glazed, at one story’s height, leading across from the one side of the first floor to the other, looked down into the great echoing hall, which rose in the centre of the building to the height of two stories; but this was unrecognizable in the poor light of the guard’s lantern. All the rooms on every floor opened each into the other;–but why should I give such a minute description, making my reader expect a ghost story, or at least a nocturnal adventure? I only want him to feel something of what our party felt as they entered this desolate building, which, though some hundred and twenty years old, bore not a single mark upon the smooth floors or spotless walls to indicate that article of furniture had ever stood in it, or human being ever inhabited it. There was a strange and unusual horror about the place–a feeling quite different from that belonging to an ancient house, however haunted it might be. It was like a body that had never had a human soul in it. There was no sense of a human history about it. Miss St. John’s feeling of eeriness rose to the height when, in wandering through the many rooms in search of one where the windows were less broken, she came upon one spot in the floor. It was only a hole worn down through floor after floor, from top to bottom, by the drip of the rains from the broken roof: it looked like the disease of the desolate place, and she shuddered.
Here they must pass the night, with the wind roaring awfully through the echoing emptiness, and every now and then the hail clashing against what glass remained in the windows. They found one room with the window well boarded up, for until lately some care had been taken of the place to keep it from the weather. There Robert left his companions, who presently heard the sounds of tearing and breaking below, necessity justifying him in the appropriation of some of the wood-work for their own behoof. He tore a panel or two from the walls, and returning with them, lighted a fire on the empty hearth, where, from the look of the stone and mortar, certainly never fire had blazed before. The wood was dry as a bone, and burnt up gloriously.
Then first Robert bethought himself that they had nothing to eat. He himself was full of merriment, and cared nothing about eating; for had he not Miss St. John and Ericson there? but for them something must be provided. He took his lantern and went back through the storm. The hail had ceased, but the wind blew tremendously. The coach stood upon the bridge like a stranded vessel, its two lamps holding doubtful battle with the wind, now flaring out triumphantly, now almost yielding up the ghost. Inside, the guard was snoring in defiance of the pother o’er his head.
‘Hector! Hector!’ cried Robert.
‘Ay, ay,’ answered Hector. ‘It’s no time to wauken yet.’
‘Hae ye nae basket, Hector, wi’ something to eat in ‘t–naething gaein’ to Rothieden ‘at a body micht say by yer leave till?’
‘Ow! it’s you, is ‘t?’ returned Hector, rousing himself. ‘Na. Deil ane. An’ gin I had, I daurna gie ye ‘t.’
‘I wad mak free to steal ‘t, though, an’ tak my chance,’ said Robert. ‘But ye say ye hae nane?’
‘Nane, I tell ye. Ye winna hunger afore the mornin’, man.’
‘I’ll stan’ hunger as weel ‘s you ony day, Hector. It’s no for mysel’. There’s Miss St. John.’
‘Hoots!’ said Hector, peevishly, for he wanted to go to sleep again, ‘gang and mak luve till her. Nae lass ‘ll think o’ meat as lang ‘s ye do that. That ‘ll haud her ohn hungert.’
The words were like blasphemy in Robert’s ear. He make love to Miss St. John! He turned from the coach-door in disgust. But there was no place he knew of where anything could be had, and he must return empty-handed.
The light of the fire shone through a little hole in the boards that closed the window. His lamp had gone out, but, guided by that, he found the road again, and felt his way up the stairs. When he entered the room he saw Miss St. John sitting on the floor, for there was nowhere else to sit, with the guard’s coat under her. She had taken off her bonnet. Her back leaned against the side of the chimney, and her eyes were bent thoughtfully on the ground. In their shine Robert read instinctively that Ericson had said something that had set her thinking. He lay on the floor at some distance, leaning on his elbow, and his eye had the flash in it that indicates one who has just ceased speaking. They had not found his absence awkward at least.
‘I hae been efter something to eat,’ said Robert; ‘but I canna fa’ in wi’ onything. We maun jist tell stories or sing sangs, as fowk do in buiks, or else Miss St. John ‘ill think lang.’
They did sing songs, and they did tell stories. I will not trouble my reader with more than the sketch of one which Robert told–the story of the old house wherein they sat–a house without a history, save the story of its no history. It had been built for the jointure-house of a young countess, whose husband was an old man. A lover to whom she had turned a deaf ear had left the country, begging ere he went her acceptance of a lovely Italian grayhound. She was weak enough to receive the animal. Her husband died the same year, and before the end of it the dog went mad, and bit her. According to the awful custom of the time they smothered her between two feather-beds, just as the house of Bogbonnie was ready to receive her furniture, and become her future dwelling. No one had ever occupied it.
If Miss St. John listened to story and song without as much show of feeling as Mysie Lindsay would have manifested, it was not that she entered into them less deeply. It was that she was more, not felt less.
Listening at her window once with Robert, Eric Ericson had heard Mary St. John play: this was their first meeting. Full as his mind was of Mysie, he could not fail to feel the charm of a noble, stately womanhood that could give support, instead of rousing sympathy for helplessness. There was in the dignified simplicity of Mary St. John that which made every good man remember his mother; and a good man will think this grand praise, though a fast girl will take it for a doubtful compliment.
Seeing her begin to look weary, the young men spread a couch for her as best they could, made up the fire, and telling her they would be in the hall below, retired, kindled another fire, and sat down to wait for the morning. They held a long talk. At length Robert fell asleep on the floor.
Ericson rose. One of his fits of impatient doubt was upon him. In the dying embers of the fire he strode up and down the waste hall, with the storm raving around it. He was destined to an early death; he would leave no one of his kin to mourn for him; the girl whose fair face had possessed his imagination, would not give one sigh to his memory, wandering on through the regions of fancy all the same; and the death-struggle over, he might awake in a godless void, where, having no creative power in himself, he must be tossed about, a conscious yet helpless atom, to eternity. It was not annihilation he feared, although he did shrink from the thought of unconsciousness; it was life without law that he dreaded, existence without the bonds of a holy necessity, thought without faith, being without God.
For all her fatigue Miss St. John could not sleep. The house quivered in the wind which howled more and more madly through its long passages and empty rooms; and she thought she heard cries in the midst of the howling. In vain she reasoned with herself: she could not rest. She rose and opened the door of her room, with a vague notion of being nearer to the young men.
It opened upon the narrow gallery, already mentioned as leading from one side of the first floor to the other at mid-height along the end of the hall. The fire below shone into this gallery, for it was divided from the hall only by a screen of crossing bars of wood, like unglazed window-frames, possibly intended to hold glass. Of the relation of the passage to the hall Mary St. John knew nothing, till, approaching the light, she found herself looking down into the red dusk below. She stood riveted; for in the centre of the hall, with his hands clasped over his head like the solitary arch of a ruined Gothic aisle, stood Ericson.
His agony had grown within him–the agony of the silence that brooded immovable throughout the infinite, whose sea would ripple to no breath of the feeble tempest of his prayers. At length it broke from him in low but sharp sounds of words.
‘O God,’ he said, ‘if thou art, why dost thou not speak? If I am thy handiwork–dost thou forget that which thou hast made?’
He paused, motionless, then cried again:
‘There can be no God, or he would hear.’
‘God has heard me!’ said a full-toned voice of feminine tenderness somewhere in the air. Looking up, Ericson saw the dim form of Mary St. John half-way up the side of the lofty hall. The same moment she vanished–trembling at the sound of her own voice.
Thus to Ericson as to Robert had she appeared as an angel.
And was she less of a divine messenger because she had a human body, whose path lay not through the air? The storm of misery folded its wings in Eric’s bosom, and, at the sound of her voice, there was a great calm. Nor if we inquire into the matter shall we find that such an effect indicated anything derogatory to the depth of his feelings or the strength of his judgment. It is not through the judgment that a troubled heart can be set at rest. It needs a revelation, a vision; a something for the higher nature that breeds and infolds the intellect, to recognize as of its own, and lay hold of by faithful hope. And what fitter messenger of such hope than the harmonious presence of a woman, whose form itself tells of highest law, and concord, and uplifting obedience; such a one whose beauty walks the upper air of noble loveliness; whose voice, even in speech, is one of the ‘sphere-born harmonious sisters? The very presence of such a being gives Unbelief the lie, deep as the throat of her lying. Harmony, which is beauty and law, works necessary faith in the region capable of truth. It needs the intervention of no reasoning. It is beheld. This visible Peace, with that voice of woman’s truth, said, ‘God has heard me!’ What better testimony could an angel have brought him? Or why should an angel’s testimony weigh more than such a woman’s? The mere understanding of a man like Ericson would only have demanded of an angel proof that he was an angel, proof that angels knew better than he did in the matter in question, proof that they were not easy-going creatures that took for granted the rumours of heaven. The best that a miracle can do is to give hope; of the objects of faith it can give no proof; one spiritual testimony is worth a thousand of them. For to gain the sole proof of which these truths admit, a man must grow into harmony with them. If there are no such things he cannot become conscious of a harmony that has no existence; he cannot thus deceive himself; if there are, they must yet remain doubtful until the harmony between them and his own willing nature is established. The perception of this harmony is their only and incommunicable proof. For this process time is needful; and therefore we are saved by hope. Hence it is no wonder that before another half-hour was over, Ericson was asleep by Robert’s side.
They were aroused in the cold gray light of the morning by the blast of Hector’s horn. Miss St. John was ready in a moment. The coach was waiting for them at the end of the grassy road that led from the house. Hector put them all inside. Before they reached Rothieden the events of the night began to wear the doubtful aspect of a dream. No allusion was made to what had occurred while Robert slept; but all the journey Ericson felt towards Miss St. John as Wordsworth felt towards the leech-gatherer, who, he says, was
like a man from some far region sent, To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.
And Robert saw a certain light in her eyes which reminded him of how she looked when, having repented of her momentary hardness towards him, she was ministering to his wounded head.
CHAPTER XVII.
HOME AGAIN.
When Robert opened the door of his grandmother’s parlour, he found the old lady seated at breakfast. She rose, pushed back her chair, and met him in the middle of the room; put her old arms round him, offered her smooth white cheek to him, and wept. Robert wondered that she did not look older; for the time he had been away seemed an age, although in truth only eight months.
‘Hoo are ye, laddie?’ she said. ‘I’m richt glaid, for I hae been thinkin’ lang to see ye. Sit ye doon.’
Betty rushed in, drying her hands on her apron. She had not heard him enter.
‘Eh losh!’ she cried, and put her wet apron to her eyes. ‘Sic a man as ye’re grown, Robert! A puir body like me maunna be speykin to ye noo.’
‘There’s nae odds in me, Betty,’ returned Robert.
”Deed but there is. Ye’re sax feet an’ a hairy ower, I s’ warran’.’
‘I said there was nae odds i’ me, Betty,’ persisted Robert, laughing.
‘I kenna what may be in ye,’ retorted Betty; ‘but there’s an unco’ odds upo’ ye.’
‘Haud yer tongue, Betty,’ said her mistress. ‘Ye oucht to ken better nor stan’ jawin’ wi’ young men. Fess mair o’ the creamy cakes.’
‘Maybe Robert wad like a drappy o’ parritch.’
‘Onything, Betty,’ said Robert. ‘I’m at deith’s door wi’ hunger.’
‘Rin, Betty, for the cakes. An’ fess a loaf o’ white breid; we canna bide for the parritch.’
Robert fell to his breakfast, and while he ate–somewhat ravenously–he told his grandmother the adventures of the night, and introduced the question whether he might not ask Ericson to stay a few days with him.
‘Ony frien’ o’ yours, laddie,’ she replied, qualifying her words only with the addition–‘gin he be a frien’.–Whaur is he noo?’
‘He’s up at Miss Naper’s.’
‘Hoots! What for didna ye fess him in wi’ ye?–Betty!’
‘Na, na, grannie. The Napers are frien’s o’ his. We maunna interfere wi’ them. I’ll gang up mysel’ ance I hae had my brakfast.’
‘Weel, weel, laddie. Eh! I’m blythe to see ye! Hae ye gotten ony prizes noo?’
‘Ay have I. I’m sorry they’re nae baith o’ them the first. But I hae the first o’ ane an’ the third o’ the ither.’
‘I am pleased at that, Robert. Ye’ll be a man some day gin ye haud frae drink an’ frae–frae leein’.’
‘I never tellt a lee i’ my life, grannie.’
‘Na. I dinna think ‘at ever ye did.–An’ what’s that crater Shargar aboot?’
‘Ow, jist gaein’ to be a croon o’ glory to ye, grannie. He vroucht like a horse till Dr. Anderson took him by the han’, an’ sent him to the schuil. An’ he’s gaein’ to mak something o’ ‘im, or a’ be dune. He’s a fine crater, Shargar.’
‘He tuik a munelicht flittin’ frae here,’ rejoined the old lady, in a tone of offence. ‘He micht hae said gude day to me, I think.’
‘Ye see he was feart at ye, grannie.’
‘Feart at me, laddie! Wha ever was feart at me? I never feart onybody i’ my life.’
So little did the dear old lady know that she was a terror to her neighbourhood!–simply because, being a law to herself, she would therefore be a law to other people,–a conclusion that cannot be concluded.
Mrs. Falconer’s courtesy did not fail. Her grandson had ceased to be a child; her responsibility had in so far ceased; her conscience was relieved at being rid of it; and the humanity of her great heart came out to greet the youth. She received Ericson with perfect hospitality, made him at home as far as the stately respect she showed him would admit of his being so, and confirmed in him the impression of her which Robert had given him. They held many talks together; and such was the circumspection of Ericson that, not saying a word he did not believe, he so said what he did believe, or so avoided the points upon which they would have differed seriously, that although his theology was of course far from satisfying her, she yet affirmed her conviction that the root of the matter was in him. This distressed Ericson, however, for he feared he must have been deceitful, if not hypocritical.
It was with some grumbling that the Napiers, especially Miss Letty, parted with him to Mrs. Falconer. The hearts of all three had so taken to the youth, that he found himself more at home in that hostelry than anywhere else in the world. Miss Letty was the only one that spoke lightly of him–she even went so far as to make good-natured game of him sometimes–all because she loved him more than the others–more indeed than she cared to show, for fear of exposing ‘an old woman’s ridiculous fancy,’ as she called her predilection.–‘A lang-leggit, prood, landless laird,’ she would say, with a moist glimmer in her loving eyes, ‘wi’ the maist ridiculous feet ye ever saw–hardly room for the five taes atween the twa! Losh!’
When Robert went forth into the streets, he was surprised to find how friendly every one was. Even old William MacGregor shook him kindly by the hand, inquired after his health, told him not to study too hard, informed him that he had a copy of a queer old book that he would like to see, &c., &c. Upon reflection Robert discovered the cause: though he had scarcely gained a bursary, he had gained prizes; and in a little place like Rothieden–long may there be such places!–everybody with any brains at all took a share in the distinction he had merited.
Ericson stayed only a few days. He went back to the twilight of the north, his fishy cousin, and his tutorship at Sir Olaf Petersen’s. Robert accompanied him ten miles on his journey, and would have gone further, but that he was to play on his violin before Miss St. John the next day for the first time.
When he told his grandmother of the appointment he had made, she only remarked, in a tone of some satisfaction,
‘Weel, she’s a fine lass, Miss St. John; and gin ye tak to ane anither, ye canna do better.’
But Robert’s thoughts were so different from Mrs. Falconer’s that he did not even suspect what she meant. He no more dreamed of marrying Miss St. John than of marrying his forbidden grandmother. Yet she was no loss at this period the ruling influence of his life; and if it had not been for the benediction of her presence and power, this part of his history too would have been torn by inward troubles. It is not good that a man should batter day and night at the gate of heaven. Sometimes he can do nothing else, and then nothing else is worth doing; but the very noise of the siege will sometimes drown the still small voice that calls from the open postern. There is a door wide to the jewelled wall not far from any one of us, even when he least can find it.
Robert, however, notwithstanding the pedestal upon which Miss St. John stood in his worshipping regard, began to be aware that his feeling towards her was losing something of its placid flow, and I doubt whether Miss St. John did not now and then see that in his face which made her tremble a little, and doubt whether she stood on safe ground with a youth just waking into manhood–tremble a little, not for herself, but for him. Her fear would have found itself more than justified, if she had surprised him kissing her glove, and then replacing it where he had found it, with the air of one consciously guilty of presumption.
Possibly also Miss St. John may have had to confess to herself that had she not had her history already, and been ten years his senior, she might have found no little attraction in the noble bearing and handsome face of young Falconer. The rest of his features had now grown into complete harmony of relation with his whilom premature and therefore portentous nose; his eyes glowed and gleamed with humanity, and his whole countenance bore self-evident witness of being a true face and no mask, a revelation of his individual being, and not a mere inheritance from a fine breed of fathers and mothers. As it was, she could admire and love him without danger of falling in love with him; but not without fear lest he should not assume the correlative position. She saw no way of prevention, however, without running a risk of worse. She shrunk altogether from putting on anything; she abhorred tact, and pretence was impracticable with Mary St. John. She resolved that if she saw any definite ground for uneasiness she would return to England, and leave any impression she might have made to wear out in her absence and silence. Things did not seem to render this necessary yet.
Meantime the violin of the dead shoemaker blended its wails with the rich harmonies of Mary St. John’s piano, and the soul of Robert went forth upon the level of the sound and hovered about the beauty of his friend. Oftener than she approved was she drawn by Robert’s eagerness into these consorts.
But the heart of the king is in the hands of the Lord.
While Robert thus once more for a season stood behind the cherub with the flaming sword, Ericson was teaching two stiff-necked youths in a dreary house in the midst of one of the moors of Caithness. One day he had a slight attack of blood-spitting, and welcomed it as a sign from what heaven there might be beyond the grave.
He had not received the consolation of Miss St. John without, although unconsciously, leaving something in her mind in return. No human being has ever been allowed to occupy the position of a pure benefactor. The receiver has his turn, and becomes the giver. From her talk with Ericson, and even more from the influence of his sad holy doubt, a fresh touch of the actinism of the solar truth fell upon the living seed in her heart, and her life burst forth afresh, began to bud in new questions that needed answers, and new prayers that sought them.
But she never dreamed that Robert was capable of sympathy with such thoughts and feelings: he was but a boy. Nor in power of dealing with truth was he at all on the same level with her, for however poor he might have considered her theories, she had led a life hitherto, had passed through sorrow without bitterness, had done her duty without pride, had hoped without conceit of favour, had, as she believed, heard the voice of God saying, ‘This is the way.’ Hence she was not afraid when the mists of prejudice began to rise from around her path, and reveal a country very different from what she had fancied it. She was soon able to perceive that it was far more lovely and full of righteousness and peace than she had supposed. But this anticipates; only I shall have less occasion to speak of Miss St. John by the time she has come into this purer air of the uphill road.
Robert was happier than he ever could have expected to be in his grandmother’s house. She treated him like an honoured guest, let him do as he would, and go where he pleased. Betty kept the gable-room in the best of order for him, and, pattern of housemaids, dusted his table without disturbing his papers. For he began to have papers; nor were they occupied only with the mathematics to which he was now giving his chief attention, preparing, with the occasional help of Mr. Innes, for his second session.
He had fits of wandering, though; visited all the old places; spent a week or two more than once at Bodyfauld; rode Mr. Lammie’s half-broke filly; revelled in the glories of the summer once more; went out to tea occasionally, or supped with the school-master; and, except going to church on Sunday, which was a weariness to every inch of flesh upon his bones, enjoyed everything.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A GRAVE OPENED.
One thing that troubled Robert on this his return home, was the discovery that the surroundings of his childhood had deserted him. There they were, as of yore, but they seemed to have nothing to say to him–no remembrance of him. It was not that everything looked small and narrow; it was not that the streets he saw from his new quarters, the gable-room, were awfully still after the roar of Aberdeen, and a passing cart seemed to shudder at the loneliness of the noise itself made; it was that everything seemed to be conscious only of the past and care nothing for him now. The very chairs with their inlaid backs had an embalmed look, and stood as in a dream. He could pass even the walled-up door without emotion, for all the feeling that had been gathered about the knob that admitted him to Mary St. John, had transferred itself to the brass bell-pull at her street-door.
But one day, after standing for a while at the window, looking down on the street where he had first seen the beloved form of Ericson, a certain old mood began to revive in him. He had been working at quadratic equations all the morning; he had been foiled in the attempt to find the true algebraic statement of a very tough question involving various ratios; and, vexed with himself, he had risen to look out, as the only available zeitvertreib. It was one of those rainy days of spring which it needs a hopeful mood to distinguish from autumnal ones–dull, depressing, persistent: there might be sunshine in Mercury or Venus–but on the earth could be none, from his right hand round by India and America to his left; and certainly there was none between–a mood to which all sensitive people are liable who have not yet learned by faith in the everlasting to rule their own spirits. Naturally enough his thoughts turned to the place where he had suffered most–his old room in the garret. Hitherto he had shrunk from visiting it; but now he turned away from the window, went up the steep stairs, with their one sharp corkscrew curve, pushed the door, which clung unwillingly to the floor, and entered. It was a nothing of a place–with a window that looked only to heaven. There was the empty bedstead against the wall, where he had so often kneeled, sending forth vain prayers to a deaf heaven! Had they indeed been vain prayers, and to a deaf heaven? or had they been prayers which a hearing God must answer not according to the haste of the praying child, but according to the calm course of his own infinite law of love?
Here, somehow or other, the things about him did not seem so much absorbed in the past, notwithstanding those untroubled rows of papers bundled in red tape. True, they looked almost awful in their lack of interest and their non-humanity, for there is scarcely anything that absolutely loses interest save the records of money; but his mother’s workbox lay behind them. And, strange to say, the side of that bed drew him to kneel down: he did not yet believe that prayer was in vain. If God had not answered him before, that gave no certainty that he would not answer him now. It was, he found, still as rational as it had ever been to hope that God would answer the man that cried to him. This came, I think, from the fact that God had been answering him all the time, although he had not recognized his gifts as answers. Had he not given him Ericson, his intercourse with whom and his familiarity with whose doubts had done anything but quench his thirst after the higher life? For Ericson’s, like his own, were true and good and reverent doubts, not merely consistent with but in a great measure springing from devoutness and aspiration. Surely such doubts are far more precious in the sight of God than many beliefs?
He kneeled and sent forth one cry after the Father, arose, and turned towards the shelves, removed some of the bundles of letters, and drew out his mother’s little box.
There lay the miniature, still and open-eyed as he had left it. There too lay the bit of paper, brown and dry, with the hymn and the few words of sorrow written thereon. He looked at the portrait, but did not open the folded paper. Then first he thought whether there might not be something more in the box: what he had taken for the bottom seemed to be a tray. He lifted it by two little ears of ribbon, and there, underneath, lay a letter addressed to his father, in the same old-fashioned handwriting as the hymn. It was sealed with brown wax, full of spangles, impressed with a bush of something–he could not tell whether rushes or reeds or flags. Of course he dared not open it. His holy mother’s words to his erring father must be sacred even from the eyes of their son. But what other or fitter messenger than himself could bear it to its destination? It was for this that he had been guided to it.
For years he had regarded the finding of his father as the first duty of his manhood: it was as if his mother had now given her sanction to the quest, with this letter to carry to the husband who, however he might have erred, was yet dear to her. He replaced it in the box, but the box no more on the forsaken shelf with its dreary barricade of soulless records. He carried it with him, and laid it in the bottom of his box, which henceforth he kept carefully locked: there lay as it were the pledge of his father’s salvation, and his mother’s redemption from an eternal grief.
He turned to his equation: it had cleared itself up; he worked it out in five minutes. Betty came to tell him that the dinner was ready, and he went down, peaceful and hopeful, to his grandmother.
While at home he never worked in the evenings: it was bad enough to have to do so at college. Hence nature had a chance with him again. Blessings on the wintry blasts that broke into the first youth of Summer! They made him feel what summer was! Blessings on the cheerless days of rain, and even of sleet and hail, that would shove the reluctant year back into January. The fair face of Spring, with her tears dropping upon her quenchless smiles, peeped in suppressed triumph from behind the growing corn and the budding sallows on the river-bank. Nay, even when the snow came once more in defiance of calendars, it was but a background from which the near genesis should ‘stick fiery off.’
In general he had a lonely walk after his lesson with Miss St. John was over: there was no one at Rothieden to whom his heart and intellect both were sufficiently drawn to make a close friendship possible. He had companions, however: Ericson had left his papers with him. The influence of these led him into yet closer sympathy with Nature and all her moods; a sympathy which, even in the stony heart of London, he not only did not lose but never ceased to feel. Even there a breath of wind would not only breathe upon him, it would breathe into him; and a sunset seen from the Strand was lovely as if it had hung over rainbow seas. On his way home he would often go into one of the shops where the neighbours congregated in the evenings, and hold a little talk; and although, with Miss St. John filling his heart, his friend’s poems his imagination, and geometry and algebra his intellect, great was the contrast between his own inner mood and the words by which he kept up human relations with his townsfolk, yet in after years he counted it one of the greatest blessings of a lowly birth and education that he knew hearts and feelings which to understand one must have been young amongst them. He would not have had a chance of knowing such as these if he had been the son of Dr. Anderson and born in Aberdeen.
CHAPTER XIX.
ROBERT MEDIATES.
One lovely evening in the first of the summer Miss St. John had dismissed him earlier than usual, and he had wandered out for a walk. After a round of a couple of miles, he returned by a fir-wood, through which went a pathway. He had heard Mary St. John say that she was going to see the wife of a labourer who lived at the end of this path. In the heart of the trees it was growing very dusky; but when he came to a spot where they stood away from each other a little space, and the blue sky looked in from above with one cloud floating in it from which the rose of the sunset was fading, he seated himself on a little mound of moss that had gathered over an ancient stump by the footpath, and drew out his friend’s papers. Absorbed in his reading, he was not aware of an approach till the rustle of silk startled him. He lifted up his eyes, and saw Miss St. John a few yards from him on the pathway. He rose.
‘It’s almost too dark to read now, isn’t it, Robert?’ she said.
‘Ah!’ said. Robert, ‘I know this writing so well that I could read it by moonlight. I wish I might read some of it to you. You would like it.’
‘May I ask whose it is, then? Poetry, too!’
‘It’s Mr. Ericson’s. But I’m feared he wouldna like me to read it to anybody but myself. And yet–‘
‘I don’t think he would mind me,’ returned Miss St. John. ‘I do know him a little. It is not as if I were quite a stranger, you know. Did he tell you not?’
‘No. But then he never thought of such a thing. I don’t know if it’s fair, for they are carelessly written, and there are words and lines here and there that I am sure he would alter if he cared for them ae hair.’
‘Then if he doesn’t care for them, he won’t mind my hearing them. There!’ she said, seating herself on the stump. ‘You sit down on the grass and read me–one at least.’
‘You’ll remember they were never intended to be read?’ urged Robert, not knowing what he was doing, and so fulfilling his destiny.
‘I will be as jealous of his honour as ever you can wish,’ answered Miss St. John gaily.
Robert laid himself on the grass at her feet, and read:–
MY TWO GENIUSES.
One is a slow and melancholy maid:
I know not if she cometh from the skies, Or from the sleepy gulfs, but she will rise Often before me in the twilight shade
Holding a bunch of poppies, and a blade Of springing wheat: prostrate my body lies Before her on the turf, the while she ties A fillet of the weed about my head;
And in the gaps of sleep I seem to hear A gentle rustle like the stir of corn,
And words like odours thronging to my ear: ‘Lie still, beloved, still until the morn; Lie still with me upon this rolling sphere, Still till the judgment–thou art faint and worn.’
The other meets me in the public throng: Her hair streams backward from her loose attire; She hath a trumpet and an eye of fire;
She points me downward steadily and long– ‘There is thy grave–arise, my son, be strong! Hands are upon thy crown; awake, aspire
To immortality; heed not the lyre
Of the enchantress, nor her poppy-song; But in the stillness of the summer calm, Tremble for what is godlike in thy being. Listen awhile, and thou shalt hear the psalm Of victory sung by creatures past thy seeing; And from far battle-fields there comes the neighing Of dreadful onset, though the air is balm.’
Maid with the poppies, must I let thee go? Alas! I may not; thou art likewise dear; I am but human, and thou hast a tear,
When she hath nought but splendour, and the glow Of a wild energy that mocks the flow
Of the poor sympathies which keep us here. Lay past thy poppies, and come twice as near, And I will teach thee, and thou too shalt grow; And thou shalt walk with me in open day
Through the rough thoroughfares with quiet grace; And the wild-visaged maid shall lead the way, Timing her footsteps to a gentler pace,
As her great orbs turn ever on thy face, Drinking in draughts of loving help alway.
Miss St. John did not speak.
‘War ye able to follow him?’ asked Robert.
‘Quite, I assure you,’ she answered, with a tremulousness in her voice which delighted Robert as evidence of his friend’s success.
‘But they’re nae a’ so easy to follow, I can tell ye, mem. Just hearken to this,’ he said, with some excitement.
When the storm was proudest,
And the wind was loudest,
I heard the hollow caverns drinking down below; When the stars were bright,
And the ground was white,
I heard the grasses springing underneath the snow.
Many voices spake–
The river to the lake,
The iron-ribbed sky was talking to the sea; And every starry spark
Made music with the dark,
And said how bright and beautiful everything must be.
‘That line, mem,’ remarked Robert, ”s only jist scrattit in, as gin he had no intention o’ leavin’ ‘t, an’ only set it there to keep room for anither. But we’ll jist gang on wi’ the lave o’ ‘t. I ouchtna to hae interruppit it.’
When the sun was setting,
All the clouds were getting
Beautiful and silvery in the rising moon; Beneath the leafless trees
Wrangling in the breeze,
I could hardly see them for the leaves of June.
When the day had ended,
And the night descended,
I heard the sound of streams that I heard not through the day And every peak afar,
Was ready for a star,
And they climbed and rolled around until the morning gray.
Then slumber soft and holy
Came down upon me slowly;
And I went I know not whither, and I lived I know not how; My glory had been banished,
For when I woke it vanished,
But I waited on it’s coming, and I am waiting now.
‘There!’ said Robert, ending, ‘can ye mak onything o’ that, Miss St. John?’
‘I don’t say I can in words,’ she answered; ‘but I think I could put it all into music.’
‘But surely ye maun hae some notion o’ what it’s aboot afore you can