robert falconer- 第69部分

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　onesdull；　depressing；　persistent：　there

might　be　sunshine　in　Mercury　or　Venusbut　on　the　earth　could　be

none；　from　his　right　hand　round　by　India　and　America　to　his　left；

and　certainly　there　was　none　betweena　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　mosthis　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

placewith　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

somethinghe　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　meone　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　judgmentthou　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　s