Robert Falconer Part 70

rist.'

'Weel, that's something as I think. An' until I'm sure that a man has had the trowth shawn till him in sic a way 's that, I canna alloo mysel'

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

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

him.'

'Maybe ye scunnert him at it, grannie.'

She gave a stifled cry of despair.

'Dinna say that, laddie, or ye'll drive me oot o' my min'. G.o.d forgie me, gin that be true. I deserve h.e.l.l mair nor my Anerew.'

'But, ye see, grannie, supposin' it war sae, that wadna be laid to your acc.o.o.nt, seein' ye did the best ye kent. Nor wad it be forgotten to him.

It wad mak a hantle difference to his sin; it wad be a great excuse for him. An' jist think, gin it be fair for ae human being to influence anither a' 'at they can, and that's nae interferin' wi' their free wull--it's impossible to measure what G.o.d cud do wi' his speerit winnin'

at them frae a' sides, and able to put sic thouchts an' sic pictures into them as we canna think. It wad a' be true that he tellt them, and the trowth can never be a meddlin' wi' the free wull.'

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

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

'At ony rate, grannie,' resumed her grandson, 'I haena dune a' for him 'at I can yet; and I'm no gaein' to believe onything that wad mak me remiss in my endeavour. Houp for mysel', for my father, for a'body, is what's savin' me, an' garrin' me work. An' gin ye tell me that I'm no workin' wi' G.o.d, that G.o.d's no the best an' the greatest worker aboon a', ye tak the verra hert oot o' my breist, and I dinna believe in G.o.d nae mair, an' my han's drap doon by my sides, an' my legs winna gang.

No,' said Robert, rising, 'G.o.d 'ill gie me my father sometime, grannie; for what man can do wantin' a father? Human bein' canna win at the hert o' things, canna ken a' the oots an' ins, a' the sides o' love, excep'

he has a father amo' the lave to love; an' I hae had nane, grannie. An'

that G.o.d kens.'

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI. SHARGAR'S MOTHER.

It was a warm still night in July--moonless but not dark. There is no night there in the summer--only a long ethereal twilight. He walked through the sleeping town so full of memories, all quiet in his mind now--quiet as the air that ever broods over the house where a friend has dwelt. He left the town behind, and walked--through the odours of gra.s.s and of clover and of the yellow flowers on the old earthwalls that divided the fields--sweet scents to which the darkness is friendly, and which, mingling with the smell of the earth itself, reach the founts of memory sooner than even words or tones--down to the brink of the river that flowed scarcely murmuring through the night, itself dark and brown as the night from its far-off birthplace in the peaty hills. He crossed the footbridge and turned into the bleachfield. Its houses were desolate, for that trade too had died away. The machinery stood rotting and rusting. The wheel gave no answering motion to the flow of the water that glided away beneath it. The thundering beatles were still. The huge legs of the wauk-mill took no more seven-leagued strides nowhither. The rubbing-boards with their thickly-fluted surfaces no longer frothed the soap from every side, tormenting the web of linen into a brightness to gladden the heart of the housewife whose hands had spun the yarn.

The terrible boiler that used to send up from its depths bubbling and boiling spouts and peaks and ridges, lay empty and cold. The little house behind, where its awful furnace used to glow, and which the pungent chlorine used to fill with its fumes, stood open to the wind and the rain: he could see the slow river through its unglazed window beyond. The water still went slipping and sliding through the deserted places, a power whose use had departed. The ca.n.a.l, the delight of his childhood, was nearly choked with weeds; it went flowing over long gra.s.ses that drooped into it from its edges, giving a faint gurgle once and again in its flow, as if it feared to speak in the presence of the stars, and escaped silently into the river far below. The gra.s.s was no longer mown like a lawn, but was long and deep and thick. He climbed to the place where he had once lain and listened to the sounds of the belt of fir-trees behind him, hearing the voice of Nature that whispered G.o.d in his ears, and there he threw himself down once more. All the old things, the old ways, the old glories of childhood--were they gone? No.

Over them all, in them all, was G.o.d still. There is no past with him.

An eternal present, He filled his soul and all that his soul had ever filled. His history was taken up into G.o.d: it had not vanished: his life was hid with Christ in G.o.d. To the G.o.d of the human heart nothing that has ever been a joy, a grief, a pa.s.sing interest, can ever cease to be what it has been; there is no fading at the breath of time, no pa.s.sing away of fashion, no dimming of old memories in the heart of him whose being creates time. Falconer's heart rose up to him as to his own deeper life, his indwelling deepest spirit--above and beyond him as the heavens are above and beyond the earth, and yet nearer and homelier than his own most familiar thought. 'As the light fills the earth,' thought he, 'so G.o.d fills what we call life. My sorrows, O G.o.d, my hopes, my joys, the upliftings of my life are with thee, my root, my life. Thy comfortings, my perfect G.o.d, are strength indeed!'

He rose and looked around him. While he lay, the waning, fading moon had risen, weak and bleared and dull. She brightened and brightened until at last she lighted up the night with a wan, forgetful gleam. 'So should I feel,' he thought, 'about the past on which I am now gazing, were it not that I believe in the G.o.d who forgets nothing. That which has been, is.'

His eye fell on something bright in the field beyond. He would see what it was, and crossed the earthen d.y.k.e. It shone like a little moon in the gra.s.s. By humouring the reflection he reached it. It was only a cutting of white iron, left by some tinker. He walked on over the field, thinking of Shargar's mother. If he could but find her! He walked on and on. He had no inclination to go home. The solitariness of the night, the uncanniness of the moon, prevents most people from wandering far: Robert had learned long ago to love the night, and to feel at home with every aspect of G.o.d's world. How this peace contrasted with the nights in London streets! this gra.s.s with the dark flow of the Thames! these hills and those clouds half melted into moonlight with the lanes blazing with gas! He thought of the child who, taken from London for the first time, sent home the message: 'Tell mother that it's dark in the country at night.' Then his thoughts turned again to Shargar's mother! Was it not possible, being a wanderer far and wide, that she might be now in Rothieden? Such people have a love for their old haunts, stronger than that of orderly members of society for their old homes. He turned back, and did not know where he was. But the lines of the hill-tops directed him. He hastened to the town, and went straight through the sleeping streets to the back wynd where he had found Shargar sitting on the doorstep. Could he believe his eyes? A feeble light was burning in the shed. Some other poverty-stricken bird of the night, however, might be there, and not she who could perhaps guide him to the goal of his earthly life. He drew near, and peeped in at the broken window. A heap of something lay in a corner, watched only by a long-snuffed candle.

The heap moved, and a voice called out querulously,

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

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

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

'I'm Robert Falconer.'

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

'Yes,' he answered.

'Wha's that ahin' ye?'

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

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

'Naebody. I never tell lees.'

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

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

'It's a lee. He's an ill-faured sc.o.o.nrel no to come till 's mither an'

bid her gude-bye, an' her gaein' to h.e.l.l.'

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

'Christ! wha's that? Ow, ay! It's him 'at they preach aboot i' the kirks. Na, na. There's nae gude o' that. There's nae time to repent noo.

I doobt sic repentance as mine wadna gang for muckle wi' the likes o'

him.'

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

'The likes o' you an' me! said ye, laddie? There's no like atween you and me. He'll hae naething to say to me, but gang to h.e.l.l wi' ye for a b.i.t.c.h.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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