robert falconer-第137章

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in　the　glass。　　And　before　you　get　this　I　shall　be　all　gone　to　dust；

either　knowing　nothing　about　you；　or　trying　to　praise　God；　and

always　forgetting　where　I　am　in　my　psalm；　longing　so　for　you　to

come。　　I　am　afraid　I　love　you　too　much　to　be　fit　to　go　to　heaven。

Then；　perhaps；　God　will　send　me　to　the　other　place；　all　for　love　of

you；　Andrew。　　And　I　do　believe　I　should　like　that　better。　　But　I

don't　think　he　will；　if　he　is　anything　like　the　man　I　saw　in　my

dream。　　But　I　am　growing　so　faint　that　I　can　hardly　write。　　I　never

felt　like　this　before。　　But　that　dream　has　given　me　strength　to　die；

because　I　hope　you　will　come　too。　　Oh；　my　dear　Andrew；　do；　do　repent

and　turn　to　God；　and　he　will　forgive　you。　　Believe　in　Jesus；　and　he

will　save　you；　and　bring　me　to　you　across　the　deep　place。　　But　I

must　make　haste。　　I　can　hardly　see。　　And　I　must　not　leave　this

letter　open　for　anybody　but　you　to　read　after　I　am　dead。　　Good…bye；

Andrew。　　I　love　you　all　the　same。　　I　am；　my　dearest　Husband；　your

affectionate　Wife；



'H。　FALCONER。'



Then　followed　the　date。　　It　was　within　a　week　of　her　death。　　The

letter　was　feebly　written；　every　stroke　seeming　more　feeble　by　the

contrasted　strength　of　the　words。　　When　Falconer　read　it　afterwards；

in　the　midst　of　the　emotions　it　arousedthe　strange　lovely　feelings

of　such　a　bond　between　him　and　a　beautiful　ghost；　far　away　somewhere

in　God's　universe；　who　had　carried　him　in　her　lost　body；　and　nursed

him　at　her　breastsin　the　midst　of　it　all；　he　could　not　help

wondering；　he　told　me；　to　find　the　forms　and　words　so　like　what　he

would　have　written　himself。　　It　seemed　so　long　ago　when　that　faded；

discoloured　paper；　with　the　gilt　edges；　and　the　pale　brown　ink；　and

folded　in　the　large　sheet；　and　sealed　with　the　curious　wax；　must

have　been　written；　and　here　were　its　words　so　fresh；　so　new！　not

withered　like　the　rose…leaves　that　scented　the　paper　from　the

work…box　where　he　had　found　it；　but　as　fresh　as　if　just　shaken　from

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　yo