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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.
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