robert falconer-第144章

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before　they　returned　to　London。　　The　winter　then　had　set　in　with

unusual　severity。　　But　it　seemed　to　bring　only　health　to　the　two

men。　　When　I　saw　Andrew　next；　there　was　certainly　a　marked　change

upon　him。　　Light　had　banished　the　haziness　from　his　eye；　and　his

step　was　a　good　deal　firmer。　　I　can　hardly　speak　of　more　than　the

physical　improvement；　for　I　saw　very　little　of　him　now。　　Still　I　did

think　I　could　perceive　more　of　judgment　in　his　face；　as　if　he

sometimes　weighed　things　in　his　mind。　　But　it　was　plain　that　Robert

continued　very　careful　not　to　let　him　a　moment　out　of　his　knowledge。

He　busied　him　with　the　various　sights　of　London；　for　Andrew；

although　he　knew　all　its　miseries　well；　had　never　yet　been　inside

Westminster　Abbey。　　If　he　could　only　trust　him　enough　to　get　him

something　to　do！　　But　what　was　he　fit　for？　　To　try　him；　he　proposed

once　that　he　should　write　some　account　of　what　he　had　seen　and

learned　in　his　wanderings；　but　the　evident　distress　with　which　he

shrunk　from　the　proposal　was　grateful　to　the　eyes　and　heart　of　his

son。



It　was　almost　the　end　of　the　year　when　a　letter　arrived　from　John

Lammie；　informing　Robert　that　his　grandmother　had　caught　a　violent

cold；　and　that；　although　the　special　symptoms　had　disappeared；　it

was　evident　her　strength　was　sinking　fast；　and　that　she　would　not

recover。



He　read　the　letter　to　his　father。



'We　must　go　and　see　her；　Robert；　my　boy；'　said　Andrew。



It　was　the　first　time　that　he　had　shown　the　smallest　desire　to　visit

her。　　Falconer　rose　with　glad　heart；　and　proceeded　at　once　to　make

arrangements　for　their　journey。



It　was　a　cold；　powdery　afternoon　in　January；　with　the　snow　thick　on

the　ground；　save　where　the　little　winds　had　blown　the　crown　of　the

street　bare　before　Mrs。　Falconer's　house。　　A　post…chaise　with　four

horses　swept　wearily　round　the　corner；　and　pulled　up　at　her　door。

Betty　opened　it；　and　revealed　an　old　withered　face　very　sorrowful；

and　yet　expectant。　　Falconer's　feelings　I　dare　not；　Andrew's　I

cannot　attempt　to　describe；　as　they　stepped　from　the　chaise　and

entered。　　Betty　led　the　way　without　a　word　into　the　little　parlour。

Robert　went　next；　with　long　quiet　strides；　and　Andrew　followed　with

gray；　bowed　head。　　Grannie　was　not　in　her　chair。　　The　doors　which

during　the　day　concealed　the　bed　in　which　she　slept；　were　open；　and

there　lay　the　aged　woman　with　her　eyes　closed。　　The　room　was　as　it

had　always　been；　only　there　seemed　a　filmy　shadow　in　it　that　had　not

been　there　before。



'She's　deein'；　sir；'　whispered　Betty。　'Ay　is　she。　　Och　hone！'



Robert　took　his　father's　hand；　and　led　him　towards　the　bed。　　They

drew　nigh　softly；　and　bent　over　the　withered；　but　not　even　yet　very

wrinkled　face。　　The　smooth；　white；　soft　hands　lay　on　the　sheet；

which　was　folded　back　over　her　bosom。　　She　was　asleep；　or　rather；

she　slumbered。



But　the　soul　of　the　child　began　to　grow　in　the　withered　heart　of　the

old　man　as　he　regarded　his　older　mother；　and　as　it　grew　it　forced

the　tears　to　his　eyes；　and　the　words　to　his　lips。



'Mother！'　he　said；　and　her　eyelids　rose　at　once。　　He　stooped　to　kiss

her；　with　the　tears　rolling　down　his　face。　　The　light　of　heaven

broke　and　flashed　from　her　aged　countenance。　　She　lifted　her　weak

hands；　took　his　head；　and　held　it　to　her　bosom。



'Eh！　the　bonnie　gray　heid！'　she　said；　and　burst　into　a　passion　of

weeping。　　She　had　kept　some　tears　for　the　last。　　Now　she　would　spend

all　that　her　griefs　had　left　her。　　But　there　came　a　pause　in　her

sobs；　though　not　in　her　weeping；　and　then　she　spoke。



'I　kent　it　a'　the　time；　O　Lord。　I　kent　it　a'　the　time。　　He's　come

hame。　　My　Anerew；　my　Anerew！　　I'm　as　happy　's　a　bairn。　　O　Lord！　　O

Lord！'



And　she　burst　again　into　sobs；　and　entered　paradise　in　radiant

weeping。



Her　hands　sank　away　from　his　head；　and　when　her　son　gazed　in　her

face　he　saw　that　she　was　dead。　　She　had　never　looked　at　Robert。



The　two　men　turned　towards　each　other。　　Robert　put　out　his　arms。

His　father　laid　his　head　on　his　bosom；　and　went　on　weeping。　　Robert

held　him　to　his　heart。



When　shall　a　man　dare　to　say　that　God　has　done　all　he　can？









CHAPTER　XIX。



THE　WHOLE　STORY。



The　men　laid　their　mother's　body　with　those　of　the　generations　that

had　gone　before　her；　beneath　the　long　grass　in　their　country

churchyard　near　Rothiedena　dreary　place；　one　accustomed　to　trim

cemeteries　and　sentimental　wreaths　would　call　itto　Falconer's　mind

so　friendly　to　the　forsaken　dust；　because　it　lapt　it　in　sweet

oblivion。



They　returned　to　the　dreary　house；　and　after　a　simple　meal　such　as

both　had　used　to　partake　of　in　their　boyhood；　they　sat　by　the　fire；

Andrew　in　his　mother's　chair；　Robert　in　the　same　chair　in　which　he

had　learned　his　Sallust　and　written　his　versions。　　Andrew　sat　for　a

while　gazing　into　the　fire；　and　Robert　sat　watching　his　face；　where

in　the　last　few　months　a　little　feeble　fatherhood　had　begun　to　dawn。



'It　was　there；　father；　that　grannie　used　to　sit；　every　day；

sometimes　looking　in　the　fire　for　hours；　thinking　about　you；　I

know；'　Robert　said　at　length。



Andrew　stirred　uneasily　in　his　chair。



'How　do　you　know　that？'　he　asked。



'If　there　was　one　thing　I　could　be　sure　of；　it　was　when　grannie　was

thinking　about　you；　father。　　Who　wouldn't　have　known　it；　father；

when　her　lips　were　pressed　together；　as　if　she　had　some　dreadful

pain　to　bear；　and　her　eyes　were　looking　away　through　the　fireso

far　away！　and　I　would　speak　to　her　three　times　before　she　would

answer？　　She　lived　only　to　think　about　God　and　you；　father。　　God　and

you　came　very　close　together　in　her　mind。　　Since　ever　I　can

remember；　almost；　the　thought　of　you　was　just　the　one　thing　in　this

house。'



Then　Robert　began　at　the　beginning　of　his　memory；　and　told　his

father　all　that　he　could　remember。　　When　he　came　to　speak　about　his

solitary　musings　in　the　garret；　he　saidand　long　before　he　reached

this　part；　he　had　relapsed　into　his　mother　tongue：



'Come　and　luik　at　the　place；　father。　　I　want　to　see　't　again；

mysel'。'



He　rose。　　His　father　yielded　and　followed　him。　　Robert　got　a　candle

in　the　kitchen；　and　the　two　big　men　climbed　the　little　narrow　stair

and　stood　in　the　little　sky　of　the　house；　where　their　heads　almost

touched　the　ceiling。



'I　sat　upo'　the　flure　there；'　said　Robert；　'an'　thoucht　and　thoucht

what　I　wad　du　to　get　ye；　father；　and　what　I　wad　du　wi'　ye　whan　I　had

gotten　ye。　　I　wad　greit　whiles；　'cause　ither　laddies　had　a　father

an'　I　had　nane。　　An'　there's　whaur　I　fand　mamma's　box　wi'　the　letter

in　't　and　her　ain　picter：　grannie　gae　me　that　ane　o'　you。　　An'

there's　whaur　I　used　to　kneel　doon　an'　pray　to　God。　An'　he's　heard

my　prayers；　and　grannie's　prayers；　and　here　ye　are　wi'　me　at　last。

Instead　o'　thinkin'　aboot　ye；　I　hae　yer　ain　sel'。　　Come；　father；　I

want　to　say　a　word　o'　thanks　to　God；　for　hearin'　my　prayer。'



He　took　the　old　man's　hand；　led　him　to　the　bedside；　and　kneeled　with

him　there。



My　reader　can　hardly　avoid　thinking　it　was　a　poor　sad　triumph　that

Robert　had　after　all。　　How　the　dreams　of　the　boy　had　dwindled　in

settling　down　into　the　reality！　　He　had　his　father；　it　was　true；　but

what　a　father！　　And　how　little　he　had　him！



But　this　was　not　the　end；　and　Robert　always　believed　that　the　end

must　be　the　greater　in　proportion　to　the　distance　it　was　removed；　to

give　time　for　its　true　fulfilment。　　And　when　he　prayed　aloud　beside

his　father；　I　doubt　not　that　his　thanksgiving　and　his　hope　were

equal。



The　prayer　over；　he　took　his　father's　hand　and　led　him　down　again　to

the　little　parlour；　and　they　took　their　seats　again　by　the　fire；　and

Robert　began　again　and　went　on　with　his　story；　not　omitting　the

parts　belonging　to　Mary　St。　John　and　Eric　Ericson。



When　he　came　to　tell　how　he　had　encountered　him　in　the　deserted

factory：



'Luik　here；　father；　here's　the　mark　o'　the　cut；'　he　said；　parting

the　thick　hair　on　the　top　of　his