robert falconer-第112章

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'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　seasa　captain　o'　sodgers。'



'It's　a　lee。　　He's　an　ill…faured　scoonrel　no　to　come　till　's　mither

an'　bid　her　gude…bye；　an'　her　gaein'　to　hell。'



'Gin　ye　speir　at　Christ；　he'll　tak　ye　oot　o'　the　verra　mou'　o'　hell；

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　hell　wi'

ye　for　a　bitch。'



'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　hell　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

assume。　　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。　'God

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　Walkeran

auld　rowdiedamn　her　sowl！'



'Na；　na；　ye　maunna　say　that　gin　ye　want　to　be　forgien　yersel'。　　I'll

fin'　her　oot。　　An'　I'm　thinkin'　it　winna　be　lang　or　I　hae　a　grup　o'

her。　　I'm　gaein'　back　to　Lonnon　in　twa　days　or　three。'



'Dinna　gang　till　I'm　deid。　　Bide　an'　haud　the　deevil　aff　o'　me。　　He

has　a　grup　o'　my　hert　noo；　rivin'　at　it　wi'　his　lang　nailsas　lang

's　birds'　nebs。'



'I'll　bide　wi'　ye　till　we　see　what　can　be　dune　for　ye。　　What's　the

maitter　wi'　ye？　　I'm　a　doctor　noo。'



There　was　not　a　chair　or　box　or　stool　on　which　to　sit　down。　　He

therefore　kneeled　beside　her。　　He　felt　her　pulse；　questioned　her；

and　learned　that　she　had　long　been　suffering　from　an　internal

complaint；　which　had　within　the　last　week　grown　rapidly　worse。　　He

saw　that　there　was　no　hope　of　her　recovery；　but　while　she　lived　he

gave　himself　to　her　service　as　to　that　of　a　living　soul　capable　of

justice　and　love。　　The　night　was　more　than　warm；　but　she　had　fits　of

shivering。　　He　wrapped　his　coat　round　her；　and　wiped　from　the　poor

degraded　face　the　damps　of　suffering。　　The　woman…heart　was　alive

still；　for　she　took　the　hand　that　ministered　to　her　and　kissed　it

with　a　moan。　　When　the　morning　came　she　fell　asleep。　　He　crept　out

and　went　to　his　grandmother's；　where　he　roused　Betty；　and　asked　her

to　get　him　some　peat　and　coals。　　Finding　his　grandmother　awake；　he

told　her　all；　and　taking　the　coals　and　the　peat；　carried　them　to　the

hut；　where　he　managed；　with　some　difficulty；　to　light　a　fire　on　the

hearth；　after　which　he　sat　on　the　doorstep　till　Betty　appeared　with

two　men　carrying　a　mattress　and　some　bedding。　　The　noise　they　made

awoke　her。



'Dinna　tak　me；'　she　cried。　'I　winna　do　't　again；　an'　I'm　deein'；　I

tell　ye　I'm　deein'；　and　that'll　clear　a'　scoreso'　this　side　ony

gait；'　she　added。



They　lifted　her　upon　the　mattress；　and　made　her　more　comfortable

than　perhaps　she　had　ever　been　in　her　life。　　But　it　was　only　her

illness　that　made　her　capable　of　prizing　such　comfort。　　In　health；

the　heather　on　a　hill…side　was　far　more　to　her　taste　than　bed　and

blankets。　　She　had　a　wild；　roving；　savage　nature；　and　the　wind　was

dearer　to　her　than　house…walls。　　She　had　come　of　ancestorsand　it

was　a　poor　little　atom　of　truth　that　a　soul　bred　like　this　woman

could　have　been　born　capable　of　entertaining。　　But　she　too　was

eternaland　surely　not　to　be　fixed　for　ever　in　a　bewilderment　of

sin　and　ignorancea　wild…eyed　soul　staring　about　in　hell…fire　for

want　of　something　it　could　not　understand　and　had　never　beheldby

the　changeless　mandate　of　the　God　of　love！　　She　was　in　less　pain

than　during　the　night；　and　lay　quietly　gazing　at　the　fire。　　Things

awful　to　another　would　no　doubt　cross　her　memory　without　any

accompanying　sense　of　dismay；　tender　things　would　return　without

moving　her　heart；　but　Falconer　had　a　hold　of　her　now。　　Nothing　could

be　done　for　her　body　except　to　render　its　death　as　easy　as　might　be；

but　something　might　be　done　for　herself。　　He　made　no　attempt　to

produce　this　or　that　condition　of　mind　in　the　poor　creature。　　He

never　made　such　attempts。　'How　can　I　tell　the　next　lesson　a　soul　is

capable　of　learning？'　he　would　say。　'The　Spirit　of　God　is　the

teacher。　　My　part　is　to　tell　the　good　news。　　Let　that　work　as　it

ought；　as　it　can；　as　it　will。'　　He　knew　that　pain　is　with　some　the

only　harbinger　that　can　prepare　the　way　for　the　entrance　of

kindness：　it　is　not　understood　till　then。　　In　the　lulls　of　her　pain

he　told　her　about　the　man　Christ　Jesuswhat　he　did　for　the　poor

creatures　who　came　to　himhow　kindly　he　spoke　to　themhow　he　cured

them。　　He　told　her　how　gentle　he　was　with　the　sinning　women；　how　he

forgave　them　and　told　them　to　do　so　no　more。　　He　left　the　story

without　comment　to　work　that　faith　which　alone　can　redeem　from

selfishness　and　bring　into　contact　with　all　that　is　living　and

productive　of　life；　for　to　believe　in　him　is　to　lay　hold　of　eternal

life：　he　is　the　Lifetherefore　the　life　of　men。　　She　gave　him　but

little　encouragement：　he　did　not　need　it；　for　he　believed　in　the

Life。　But　her　outcries　were　no　longer　accompanied　with　that　fierce

and　dreadful　language　in　which　she　sought　relief　at　first。　　He　said

to　himself；　'What　matter　if　I　see　no　sign？　　I　am　doing　my　part。　　Who

can　tell；　when　the　soul　is　free　from　the　distress　of　the　body；　when

sights　and　sounds　have　vanished　from　her；　and　she　is　silent　in　the

eternal；　with　the　terrible　past　behind　her；　and　clear　to　her

consciousness；　how　the　words　I　have　spoken　to　her　may　yet　live　and

grow　in　her；　how　the　kindness　God　has　given　me　to　show　her　may　help

her　to　believe　in　the　root　of　all　kindness；　in　the　everlasting　love

of　her　Father　in　heaven？　　That　she　can　feel　at　all　is　as　sure　a　sign

of　life　as　the　adoration　of　an　ecstatic　saint。'



He　had　no　difficulty　now　in　getting　from　her　what　information　she

could　give　him　about　his　father。　　It　seemed　to　him　of　the　greatest

import；　though　it　amounted　only　to　this；　that　when　he　was　in　London；

he　used　to　lodge　at　the　house　of　an　old　Scotchwoman　of　the　name　of

Macallister；　who　lived　in　Paradise　Gardens；　somewhere　between

Bethnal　Green　and　Spitalfields。　　Whether　he　had　been　in　London

lately；　she　did　not　know；　but　if　anybody　could　tell　him　where　he

was；　it　would　be　Mrs。　Macallister。



His　heart　filled　with　gratitude　and　hope　and　the　surging　desire　for

the　renewal　of　his　London　labours。　　But　he　could　not　leave　the　dying

woman　till　she　was　beyond　the　reach　of　his　comfort：　he　was　her

keeper　now。　　And　'he　that　believeth　shall　not　make　haste。'　　Labour

without　perturbation；　readiness　without　hurry；　no　haste；　and　no

hesitation；　was　the　divine　law　of　his　activity。



Shargar's　mother　breathed　her　last　holding　his　hand。　　They　were

alone。　　He　kneeled　by　the　bed；　and　prayed　to　God；　saying；



'Father；　this　woman　is　in　thy　hands。　　Take　th