Kitabı oku: «Robert Falconer», sayfa 40
CHAPTER XIX. THE WHOLE STORY
The men laid their mother’s body with those of the generations that had gone before her, beneath the long grass in their country churchyard near Rothieden—a dreary place, one accustomed to trim cemeteries and sentimental wreaths would call it—to Falconer’s mind so friendly to the forsaken dust, because it lapt it in sweet oblivion.
They returned to the dreary house, and after a simple meal such as both had used to partake of in their boyhood, they sat by the fire, Andrew in his mother’s chair, Robert in the same chair in which he had learned his Sallust and written his versions. Andrew sat for a while gazing into the fire, and Robert sat watching his face, where in the last few months a little feeble fatherhood had begun to dawn.
‘It was there, father, that grannie used to sit, every day, sometimes looking in the fire for hours, thinking about you, I know,’ Robert said at length.
Andrew stirred uneasily in his chair.
‘How do you know that?’ he asked.
‘If there was one thing I could be sure of, it was when grannie was thinking about you, father. Who wouldn’t have known it, father, when her lips were pressed together, as if she had some dreadful pain to bear, and her eyes were looking away through the fire—so far away! and I would speak to her three times before she would answer? She lived only to think about God and you, father. God and you came very close together in her mind. Since ever I can remember, almost, the thought of you was just the one thing in this house.’
Then Robert began at the beginning of his memory, and told his father all that he could remember. When he came to speak about his solitary musings in the garret, he said—and long before he reached this part, he had relapsed into his mother tongue:
‘Come and luik at the place, father. I want to see ‘t again, mysel’.’
He rose. His father yielded and followed him. Robert got a candle in the kitchen, and the two big men climbed the little narrow stair and stood in the little sky of the house, where their heads almost touched the ceiling.
‘I sat upo’ the flure there,’ said Robert, ‘an’ thoucht and thoucht what I wad du to get ye, father, and what I wad du wi’ ye whan I had gotten ye. I wad greit whiles, ‘cause ither laddies had a father an’ I had nane. An’ there’s whaur I fand mamma’s box wi’ the letter in ‘t and her ain picter: grannie gae me that ane o’ you. An’ there’s whaur I used to kneel doon an’ pray to God. An’ he’s heard my prayers, and grannie’s prayers, and here ye are wi’ me at last. Instead o’ thinkin’ aboot ye, I hae yer ain sel’. Come, father, I want to say a word o’ thanks to God, for hearin’ my prayer.’
He took the old man’s hand, led him to the bedside, and kneeled with him there.
My reader can hardly avoid thinking it was a poor sad triumph that Robert had after all. How the dreams of the boy had dwindled in settling down into the reality! He had his father, it was true, but what a father! And how little he had him!
But this was not the end; and Robert always believed that the end must be the greater in proportion to the distance it was removed, to give time for its true fulfilment. And when he prayed aloud beside his father, I doubt not that his thanksgiving and his hope were equal.
The prayer over, he took his father’s hand and led him down again to the little parlour, and they took their seats again by the fire; and Robert began again and went on with his story, not omitting the parts belonging to Mary St. John and Eric Ericson.
When he came to tell how he had encountered him in the deserted factory:
‘Luik here, father, here’s the mark o’ the cut,’ he said, parting the thick hair on the top of his head.
His father hid his face in his hands.
‘It wasna muckle o’ a blow that ye gied me, father,’ he went on, ‘but I fell against the grate, and that was what did it. And I never tellt onybody, nae even Miss St. John, wha plaistered it up, hoo I had gotten ‘t. And I didna mean to say onything aboot it; but I wantit to tell ye a queer dream, sic a queer dream it garred me dream the same nicht.’
As he told the dream, his father suddenly grew attentive, and before he had finished, looked almost scared; but he said nothing. When he came to relate his grandmother’s behaviour after having discovered that the papers relating to the factory were gone, he hid his face in his hands once more. He told him how grannie had mourned and wept over him, from the time when he heard her praying aloud as he crept through her room at night to their last talk together after Dr. Anderson’s death. He set forth, as he could, in the simplest language, the agony of her soul over her lost son. He told him then about Ericson, and Dr. Anderson, and how good they had been to him, and at last of Dr. Anderson’s request that he would do something for him in India.
‘Will ye gang wi’ me, father?’ he asked.
‘I’ll never leave ye again, Robert, my boy,’ he answered. ‘I have been a bad man, and a bad father, and now I gie mysel’ up to you to mak the best o’ me ye can. I daurna leave ye, Robert.’
‘Pray to God to tak care o’ ye, father. He’ll do a’thing for ye, gin ye’ll only lat him.’
‘I will, Robert.’
‘I was mysel’ dreidfu’ miserable for a while,’ Robert resumed, ‘for I cudna see or hear God at a’; but God heard me, and loot me ken that he was there an’ that a’ was richt. It was jist like whan a bairnie waukens up an’ cries oot, thinkin’ it’s its lane, an’ through the mirk comes the word o’ the mither o’ ‘t, sayin’, “I’m here, cratur: dinna greit.” And I cam to believe ‘at he wad mak you a good man at last. O father, it’s been my dream waukin’ an’ sleepin’ to hae you back to me an’ grannie, an’ mamma, an’ the Father o’ ‘s a’, an’ Jesus Christ that’s done a’thing for ‘s. An’ noo ye maun pray to God, father. Ye will pray to God to haud a grip o’ ye—willna ye, father?’
‘I will, I will, Robert. But I’ve been an awfu’ sinner. I believe I was the death o’ yer mother, laddie.’
Some closet of memory was opened; a spring of old tenderness gushed up in his heart; at some window of the past the face of his dead wife looked out: the old man broke into a great cry, and sobbed and wept bitterly. Robert said no more, but wept with him.
Henceforward the father clung to his son like a child. The heart of Falconer turned to his Father in heaven with speechless thanksgiving. The ideal of his dreams was beginning to dawn, and his life was new-born.
For a few days Robert took Andrew about to see those of his old friends who were left, and the kindness with which they all received him, moved Andrew’s heart not a little. Every one who saw him seemed to feel that he or she had a share in the redeeming duty of the son. Robert was in their eyes like a heavenly messenger, whom they were bound to aid; for here was the possessed of demons clothed and in his right mind. Therefore they overwhelmed both father and son with kindness. Especially at John Lammie’s was he received with a perfection of hospitality; as if that had been the father’s house to which he had returned from his prodigal wanderings.
The good old farmer begged that they would stay with him for a few days.
‘I hae sae mony wee things to luik efter at Rothieden, afore we gang,’ said Robert.
‘Weel, lea’ yer father here. We s’ tak guid care o’ ‘im, I promise ye.’
‘There’s only ae difficulty. I believe ye are my father’s frien’, Mr. Lammie, as ye hae been mine, and God bless ye; sae I’ll jist tell you the trowth, what for I canna lea’ him. I’m no sure eneuch yet that he could withstan’ temptation. It’s the drink ye ken. It’s months sin’ he’s tasted it; but—ye ken weel eneuch—the temptation’s awfu’. Sin’ ever I got him back, I haena tasted ae mou’fu’ o’ onything that cud be ca’d strong drink mysel’, an’ as lang ‘s he lives, not ae drap shall cross my lips—no to save my life.’
‘Robert,’ said Mr. Lammie, giving him his hand with solemnity, ‘I sweir by God that he shanna see, smell, taste, nor touch drink in this hoose. There’s but twa boatles o’ whusky, i’ the shape o’ drink, i’ the hoose; an’ gin ye say ‘at he sall bide, I’ll gang and mak them an’ the midden weel acquant.’
Andrew was pleased at the proposal. Robert too was pleased that his father should be free of him for a while. It was arranged for three days. Half-an-hour after, Robert came upon Mr. Lammie emptying the two bottles of whisky into the dunghill in the farmyard.
He returned with glad heart to Rothieden. It did not take him long to arrange his grandmother’s little affairs. He had already made up his mind about her house and furniture. He rang the bell one morning for Betty.
‘Hae ye ony siller laid up, Betty?’
‘Ay. I hae feifteen poun’ i’ the savin’s bank.’
‘An’ what do ye think o’ doin’?’
‘I’ll get a bit roomy, an’ tak in washin’.
‘Weel, I’ll tell ye what I wad like ye to do. Ye ken Mistress Elshender?’
‘Fine that. An’ a verra dacent body she is.’
‘Weel, gin ye like, ye can haud this hoose, an’ a’ ‘at’s in’t, jist as it is, till the day o’ yer deith. And ye’ll aye keep it in order, an’ the ga’le-room ready for me at ony time I may happen to come in upo’ ye in want o’ a nicht’s quarters. But I wad like ye, gin ye hae nae objections, to tak Mistress Elshender to bide wi’ ye. She’s turnin’ some frail noo, and I’m unner great obligation to her Sandy, ye ken.’
‘Ay, weel that. He learnt ye to fiddle, Robert—I hoombly beg your pardon, sir, Mister Robert.’
‘Nae offence, Betty, I assure ye. Ye hae been aye gude to me, and I thank ye hertily.’
Betty could not stand this. Her apron went up to her eyes.
‘Eh, sir,’ she sobbed, ‘ye was aye a gude lad.’
‘Excep’ whan I spak o’ Muckledrum, Betty.’
She laughed and sobbed together.
‘Weel, ye’ll tak Mistress Elshender in, winna ye?’
‘I’ll do that, sir. And I’ll try to do my best wi’ her.’
‘She can help ye, ye ken, wi’ yer washin’, an’ sic like.’
‘She’s a hard-workin’ wuman, sir. She wad do that weel.’
‘And whan ye’re in ony want o’ siller, jist write to me. An’ gin onything suld happen to me, ye ken, write to Mr. Gordon, a frien’ o’ mine. There’s his address in Lonnon.’
‘Eh, sir, but ye are kin’. God bless ye for a’.’
She could bear no more, and left the room crying.
Everything settled at Rothieden, he returned to Bodyfauld. The most welcome greeting he had ever received in his life, lay in the shine of his father’s eyes when he entered the room where he sat with Miss Lammie. The next day they left for London.
CHAPTER XX. THE VANISHING
They came to see me the very evening of their arrival. As to Andrew’s progress there could be no longer any doubt. All that was necessary for conviction on the point was to have seen him before and to see him now. The very grasp of his hand was changed. But not yet would Robert leave him alone.
It will naturally occur to my reader that his goodness was not much yet. It was not. It may have been greater than we could be sure of, though. But if any one object that such a conversion, even if it were perfected, was poor, inasmuch as the man’s free will was intromitted with, I answer: ‘The development of the free will was the one object. Hitherto it was not free.’ I ask the man who says so: ‘Where would your free will have been if at some period of your life you could have had everything you wanted?’ If he says it is nobler in a man to do with less help, I answer, ‘Andrew was not noble: was he therefore to be forsaken? The prodigal was not left without the help of the swine and their husks, at once to keep him alive and disgust him with the life. Is the less help a man has from God the better?’ According to you, the grandest thing of all would be for a man sunk in the absolute abysses of sensuality all at once to resolve to be pure as the empyrean, and be so, without help from God or man. But is the thing possible? As well might a hyena say: I will be a man, and become one. That would be to create. Andrew must be kept from the evil long enough to let him at least see the good, before he was let alone. But when would we be let alone? For a man to be fit to be let alone, is for a man not to need God, but to be able to live without him. Our hearts cry out, ‘To have God is to live. We want God. Without him no life of ours is worth living. We are not then even human, for that is but the lower form of the divine. We are immortal, eternal: fill us, O Father, with thyself. Then only all is well.’ More: I heartily believe, though I cannot understand the boundaries of will and inspiration, that what God will do for us at last is infinitely beyond any greatness we could gain, even if we could will ourselves from the lowest we could be, into the highest we can imagine. It is essential divine life we want; and there is grand truth, however incomplete or perverted, in the aspiration of the Brahmin. He is wrong, but he wants something right. If the man had the power in his pollution to will himself into the right without God, the fact that he was in that pollution with such power, must damn him there for ever. And if God must help ere a man can be saved, can the help of man go too far towards the same end? Let God solve the mystery—for he made it. One thing is sure: We are his, and he will do his part, which is no part but the all in all. If man could do what in his wildest self-worship he can imagine, the grand result would be that he would be his own God, which is the Hell of Hells.
For some time I had to give Falconer what aid I could in being with his father while he arranged matters in prospect of their voyage to India. Sometimes he took him with him when he went amongst his people, as he called the poor he visited. Sometimes, when he wanted to go alone, I had to take him to Miss St. John, who would play and sing as I had never heard any one play or sing before. Andrew on such occasions carried his flute with him, and the result of the two was something exquisite. How Miss St. John did lay herself out to please the old man! And pleased he was. I think her kindness did more than anything else to make him feel like a gentleman again. And in his condition that was much.
At length Falconer would sometimes leave him with Miss St. John, till he or I should go for him: he knew she could keep him safe. He knew that she would keep him if necessary.
One evening when I went to see Falconer, I found him alone. It was one of these occasions.
‘I am very glad you have come, Gordon,’ he said. ‘I was wanting to see you. I have got things nearly ready now. Next month, or at latest, the one after, we shall sail; and I have some business with you which had better be arranged at once. No one knows what is going to happen. The man who believes the least in chance knows as little as the man who believes in it the most. My will is in the hands of Dobson. I have left you everything.’
I was dumb.
‘Have you any objection?’ he said, a little anxiously.
‘Am I able to fulfil the conditions?’ I faltered.
‘I have burdened you with no conditions,’ he returned. ‘I don’t believe in conditions. I know your heart and mind now. I trust you perfectly.’
‘I am unworthy of it.’
‘That is for me to judge.’
‘Will you have no trustees?’
‘Not one.’
‘What do you want me to do with your property?’
‘You know well enough. Keep it going the right way.’
‘I will always think what you would like.’
‘No; do not. Think what is right; and where there is no right or wrong plain in itself, then think what is best. You may see good reason to change some of my plans. You may be wrong; but you must do what you see right—not what I see or might see right.’
‘But there is no need to talk so seriously about it,’ I said. ‘You will manage it yourself for many years yet. Make me your steward, if you like, during your absence: I will not object to that.’
‘You do not object to the other, I hope?’
‘No.’
‘Then so let it be. The other, of course. I have, being a lawyer myself, taken good care not to trust myself only with the arranging of these matters. I think you will find them all right.’
‘But supposing you should not return—you have compelled me to make the supposition—’
‘Of course. Go on.’
‘What am I to do with the money in the prospect of following you?’
‘Ah! that is the one point on which I want a word, although I do not think it is necessary. I want to entail the property.’
‘How?’
‘By word of mouth,’ he answered, laughing. ‘You must look out for a right man, as I have done, get him to know your ways and ideas, and if you find him worthy—that is a grand wide word—our Lord gave it to his disciples—leave it all to him in the same way I have left it to you, trusting to the spirit of truth that is in him, the spirit of God. You can copy my will—as far as it will apply, for you may have, one way or another, lost the half of it by that time. But, by word of mouth, you must make the same condition with him as I have made with you—that is, with regard to his leaving it, and the conditions on which he leaves it, adding the words, “that it may descend thus in perpetuum.” And he must do the same.’
He broke into a quiet laugh. I knew well enough what he meant. But he added:
‘That means, of course, for as long as there is any.’
‘Are you sure you are doing right, Falconer?’ I said.
‘Quite. It is better to endow one man, who will work as the Father works, than a hundred charities. But it is time I went to fetch my father. Will you go with me?’
This was all that passed between us on the subject, save that, on our way, he told me to move to his rooms, and occupy them until he returned.
‘My papers,’ he added, ‘I commit to your discretion.’
On our way back from Queen Square, he joked and talked merrily. Andrew joined in. Robert showed himself delighted with every attempt at gaiety or wit that Andrew made. When we reached the house, something that had occurred on the way made him turn to Martin Chuzzlewit, and he read Mrs. Gamp’s best to our great enjoyment.
I went down with the two to Southampton, to see them on board the steamer. I staid with them there until she sailed. It was a lovely morning in the end of April, when at last I bade them farewell on the quarter-deck. My heart was full. I took his hand and kissed it. He put his arms round me, and laid his cheek to mine. I was strong to bear the parting.
The great iron steamer went down in the middle of the Atlantic, and I have not yet seen my friend again.
CHAPTER XXI. IN EXPECTATIONE
I had left my lodging and gone to occupy Falconer’s till his return. There, on a side-table among other papers, I found the following verses. The manuscript was much scored and interlined, but more than decipherable, for he always wrote plainly. I copied them out fair, and here they are for the reader that loves him.
Twilight is near, and the day grows old;
The spiders of care are weaving their net;
All night ‘twill be blowing and rainy and cold;
I cower at his door from the wind and wet.
He sent me out the world to see,
Drest for the road in a garment new;
It is clotted with clay, and worn beggarly—
The porter will hardly let me through!
I bring in my hand a few dusty ears—
Once I thought them a tribute meet!
I bring in my heart a few unshed tears:
Which is my harvest—the pain or the wheat?
A broken man, at the door of his hall
I listen, and hear it go merry within;
The sounds are of birthday-festival!
Hark to the trumpet! the violin!
I know the bench where the shadowed folk
Sit ‘neath the music-loft—there none upbraids!
They will make me room who bear the same yoke,
Dear publicans, sinners, and foolish maids!
An ear has been hearing my heart forlorn!
A step comes soft through the dancing-din!
Oh Love eternal! oh woman-born!
Son of my Father to take me in!
One moment, low at our Father’s feet
Loving I lie in a self-lost trance;
Then walk away to the sinners’ seat,
With them, at midnight, to rise and dance!
