robert falconer- 第110部分

the　rose…trees　of　the　heart's　garden。　　It　was　no　wonder　that　Andrew

Falconer　should　be　sitting　with　his　head　in　his　hands　when　Robert

looked　in　on　him；　for　he　had　read　this　letter。



When　Robert　saw　how　he　sat；　he　withdrew；　and　took　his　violin　again；

and　played　all　the　tunes　of　the　old　country　he　could　think　of；

recalling　Dooble　Sandy's　workshop；　that　he　might　recall　the　music　he

had　learnt　there。



No　one　who　understands　the　bit　and　bridle　of　the　association　of

ideas；　as　it　is　called　in　the　skeleton　language　of　mental

philosophy；　wherewith　the　Father…God　holds　fast　the　souls　of　his

childrento　the　very　last　that　we　see　of　them；　at　least；　and

doubtless　to　endless　ages　beyondwill　sneer　at　Falconer's　notion　of

making　God's　violin　a　ministering　spirit　in　the　process　of

conversion。　　There　is　a　well…authenticated　story　of　a　convict's

having　been　greatly　reformed　for　a　time；　by　going；　in　one　of　the

colonies；　into　a　church；　where　the　matting　along　the　aisle　was　of

the　same　pattern　as　that　in　the　church　to　which　he　had　gone　when　a

boywith　his　mother；　I　suppose。　　It　was　not　the　matting　that　so　far

converted　him：　it　was　not　to　the　music　of　his　violin　that　Falconer

looked　for　aid；　but　to　the　memories　of　childhood；　the　mysteries　of

the　kingdom　of　innocence　which　that　could　recallthose　memories

which



　　　　　Are　yet　the　fountain　light　of　all　our　day；

　　　　　Are　yet　a　master　light　of　all　our　seeing。



For　an　hour　he　did　not　venture　to　go　near　him。　　When　he　entered　the

room　he　found　him　sitting　in　the　same　place；　no　longer　weeping；　but

gazing　into　the　fire　with　a　sad　countenance；　the　expression　of　which

showed　Falconer　at　once　that　the　soul　had　come　out　of　its　cave　of

obscuration；　and　drawn　nearer　to　the　surface　of　life。　　He　had　not

seen　him　look　so　much　like　one　'clothed；　and　in　his　right　mind；'

before。　　He　knew　well　that　nothing　could　be　built　upon　this；　that

this　very　emotion　did　but　expose　him　the　more　to　the　besetting　sin；

that　in　this　mood　he　would　drink；　even　if　he　knew　that　he　would　in

consequence　be　in　danger　of　murdering　the　wife　whose　letter　had　made

him　weep。　　But　it　was　progress；　notwithstanding。　　He　looked　up　at

Robert　as　he　entered；　and　then　dropped　his　eyes　again。　　He　regarded

him　perhaps　as　a　presence　doubtful　whether　of　angel　or　devil；　even

as　the　demoniacs　regarded　the　Lord　of　Life　who　had　come　to　set　them

free。　　Bewildered　he　must　have　been　to　find　himself；　towards　the

close　of　a　long　life　of　debauchery；　wickedness；　and　the　growing

pains　of　hell；　caught　in　a　net　of　old　times；　old　feelings；　old

truths。



Now　Robert　had　carefully　avoided　every　indication　that　might

disclose　him　to　be　a　Scotchman　even；　nor　was　there　the　least　sign　of

suspicion　in　Andrew's　manner。　　The　only　solution　of　the　mystery　that

could　have　presented　itself　to　him　was；　that　his　friends　were　at　the

root　of　itprobably　his　son；　of　whom　he　knew　absolutely　nothing。

His　mother　could　not　be　alive　still。　　Of　his　wife's　relatives　there

had　never　been　one　who　would　have　taken　any　trouble　about　him　after

her　death；　hardly　even　before　it。　　John　Lammie　was　the　only　person；

except　Dr。　Anderson；　whose　friendship　he　could　suppose　capable　of

this　development。　　The　latter　was　the　more　likely　person。　　But　he

would　be　too　much　for　him　yet；　he　was　not　going　to　be　treated　like　a

child；　he　said　to　himself；　as　often　as　the　devil　got　uppermost。



My　reader　must　understand　that　Andrew　had　never　been　a　man　of

resolution。　　He　had　been　wilful　and　headstrong；　and　these　qualities；

in　children　especially；　are　often　mistaken　for　resolution；　and

generally　go　under　the　name　of　strength　of　will。　　There　never　was　a

greater　mistake。　　The　mistake；　indeed；　is　only　excusable　from　the

fact　that　extremes　meet；　and　that　this　disposition　is　so　opposite　to

the　other；　that　it　looks　to　the　careless　eye　most　like　it。　　He　never

resisted　his　own　impulses；　or　the　enticements　of　evil　companions。

Kept　within　certain　bounds　at　home；　after　he　had　begun　to　go　wrong；

by　the　weight　of　opinion；　he　rushed　into　all　excesses　when　abroad

upon　business；　till　at　length　the　vessel　of　his　fortune　went　to

pieces；　and　he　was　a　waif　on　the　waters　of　the　world。　　But　in

feeling　he　had　never　been　vulgar；　however　much　so　in　action。　　There

was　a　feeble　good　in　him　that　had　in　part　been　protected　by　its　very

feebleness。　　He　could　not　sin　so　much　against　it　as　if　it　had　been

strong。　　For　many　years　he　had　fits　of　shame；　and　of　grief　without

repentance；　for　repentance　is　the　active；　the　divine　partthe

turning　again；　but　taking　more　steadily　both　to　strong　drink　and

opium；　he　was　at　the　time　when　De　Fleuri　found　him　only　the　dull

ghost　of　Andrew　Falconer　walking　in　a　dream　of　its　lost　carcass。









CHAPTER　XV。



FATHER　AND　SON。



Once　more　Falconer　retired；　but　not　to　take　his　violin。　　He　could

play　no　more。　　Hope　and　love　were　swelling　within　him。　　He　could　not

rest。　　Was　it　a　sign　from　heaven　that　the　hour　for　speech　had

arrived？　　He　paced　up　and　down　the　room。　　He　kneeled　and　prayed　for

guidance　and　help。　　Something　within　urged　him　to　try　the　rusted

lock　of　his　father's　heart。　　Without　any　formed　resolution；　without

any　conscious　volition；　he　found　himself　again　in　his　room。　　There

the　old　man　still　sat；　with　his　back　to　the　door；　and　his　gaze　fixed

on　the　fire；　which　had　sunk　low　in　the　grate。　　Robert　went　round　in

front　of　him；　kneeled　on　the　rug　before　him；　and　said　the　one　word；



'Father！'



Andrew　started　violently；　raised　his　hand；　which　trembled　as　with　a

palsy；　to　his　head；　and　stared　wildly　at　Robert。　　But　he　did　not

speak。　　Robert　repeated　the　one　great　word。　　Then　Andrew　spoke；　and

said　in　a　trembling；　hardly　audible　voice；



'Are　you　my　son？my　boy　Robert；　sir？'



'I　am。　　I　am。　　Oh；　father；　I　have　longed　for　you　by　day；　and　dreamed

about　you　by　night；　ever　since　I　saw　that　other　boys　had　fathers；

and　I　had　none。　　Years　and　years　of　my　lifeI　hardly　know　how

manyhave　been　spent　in　searching　for　you。　　And　now　I　have　found

you！'



The　great　tall　man；　in　the　prime　of　life　and　strength；　laid　his　big

head　down　on　the　old　man's　knee；　as　if　he　had　been　a　little　child。

His　father　said　nothing；　but　laid　his　hand　on　the　head。　　For　some

moments　the　two　remained　thus；　motionless　and　silent。　　Andrew　was

the　first　to　speak。　　And　his　words　were　the　voice　of　the　spirit　that

striveth　with　man。



'What　am　I　to　do；　Robert？'



No　other　words；　not　even　those　of　passionate　sorrow；　or　overflowing

affection；　could　have　been　half　so　precious　in　the　ears　of　Robert。

When　a　man　once　asks　what　he　is　to　do；　there　is　hope　for　him。

Robert　answered　instantly；



'You　must　come　home　to　your　mother。'



'My　mother！'　　Andrew　exclaimed。　'You　don't　mean　to　say　she's　alive？'



'I　heard　from　her　yesterdayin　her　own　hand；　too；'　said　Robert。



'I　daren't。　　I　daren't；'　murmured　Andrew。



'You　must；　father；'　returned　Robert。　'It　is　a　long　way；　but　I　will

make　the　journey　easy　for　you。　　She　knows　I　have　found　you。　　She　is

waiting　and　longing　for　you。　　She　has　hardly　thought　of　anything　but

you　ever　since　she　lost　you。　　She　is　only　waiting　to　see　you；　and

then　she　will　go　home；　she　says。　　I　wrote　to　her　and　said；　〃Grannie；

I　have　found　your　Andrew。〃　　And　she　wrote　back　to　me　and　said；　〃God

be　praised。　　I　shall　die　in　peace。〃'



A　silence　followed。



'Will　she　forgive　me？'　said　Andrew。



'She　loves　you　more　than　her　own　soul；'　answered　Robert。　'She　loves

you　as　much　as　I　do。　　She　loves　you　as　God　loves　you。'



'God　can't　love　me；'　said　Andrews；　feebly。　'He　would　never　have　left

me　if　he　had　loved　me。'



'He　has　never　left　you　from　the　very　first。　　You　would　not　take　his

way；　father；　and　he　just　let　you　try　your　own。　　But　long　before　that

he　had　begun　to　get　me　ready　to　go　after　you。　　He　put　such　love　to

you　in　my　heart；　and　gave　me　such　teaching　and　such　training；　that　I

have　found　you　at　last。　　And　now　I　have　found　you；　I　will　hold　you。

You　cannot　escapeyou　will　not　want　to　escape　any　more；　father？'



Andrew　made　no　reply　to　this　appeal。　　It　sounded　like　imprisonment

for　life；　I　suppose。　　But　thought　was　moving　in　him。　　After　a　long

pause；　during　which　the　son's　heart　was　hungering　for　a　word　whereon

to　hang　a　further　hope；　the　old　man　spoke　again；　muttering　as　if　he

were　only　speaking　his　thoughts　unconsciously。



'Where's　the　use？　　There's　no　forgiveness　for　me。　　My　mother　is

going　to　heaven。　　I　must　go　to　hell。　　No。　It's　no　good。　　Better

leave　it　as　it　is。　　I　daren't　see　her。　　It　would　kill　me　to　see

her。'



'It　will　kill　her　not　to　see　you；　and　that　will　be　one　sin　more　on

your　conscience；　father。'



Andrew　got　up　and　walked　about　the　room。　　And　Robert　only　then　arose

from　his　knees。



'And　there's　my　mother；'　he　said。



Andrew　did　not　reply；　but　Robert　saw　when　he　turned　next　towards　the

light；　that　the　sweat　was　standing　in　beads　on　his　forehead。



'Father；'　he　said；　going　up　to　him。



The　old　man　stopped　in　his　walk；　turned；　and　faced　his　son。



'Father；'　repeated　Robert；　'you've　go　to　repent；　and　God　won't　let

you　off；　and　you　needn't　think　it。　　You'll　have　to　repent　some　day。'



'In　hell；　Robert；'　said　Andrew；　looking　him　full　in　the　eyes；　as　he

had　never　looked　at　him　before。　　It　seemed　as　if　even　so　much

acknowledgment　of　the　truth　had　already　made　him　bolder　and

honester。



'Yes。　Either　on　earth　or　in　hell。　　Would　it　not　be　better　on　earth？'



'But　it　will　be　no　use　in　hell；'　he　murmured。



In　those　few　words　lay　the　germ　of　the　preference　for　hell　of　poor

souls；　enfeebled　by　wickedness。　　They　will　not　have　to　do　anything

thereonly　to　moan　and　cry　and　suffer　for　ever；　they　think。　　It　is

effort；　the　out…going　of　the　living　will　that　they　dread。　　The

sorrow；　the　remorse　of　repentance；　they　do　not　so　much　regard：　it　is

the　action　it　involves；　it　is　the　having　to　turn；　be　different；　and

do　differently；　that　th