CHAPTER IX. A HUMAN SOUL.

Ericson lay for several weeks, during which time Robert and Shargar were

his only nurses. They contrived, by abridging both rest and labour,

to give him constant attendance. Shargar went to bed early and got up

early, so as to let Robert have a few hours' sleep before his classes

began. Robert again slept in the evening, after Shargar came home, and

made up for the time by reading while he sat by his friend. Mrs. Fyvie's

attendance was in requisition only for the hours when he had to be at

lectures. By the greatest economy of means, consisting of what Shargar

brought in by jobbing about the quay and the coach-offices, and what

Robert had from Dr. Anderson for copying his manuscript, they contrived

to procure for Ericson all that he wanted. The shopping of the two boys,

in their utter ignorance of such delicacies as the doctor told them to

get for him, the blunders they made as to the shops at which they were

to be bought, and the consultations they held, especially about the

preparing of the prescribed nutriment, afforded them many an amusing

retrospect in after years. For the house was so full of lodgers, that

Robert begged Mrs. Fyvie to give herself no trouble in the matter. Her

conscience, however, was uneasy, and she spoke to Dr. Anderson; but he

assured her that she might trust the boys. What cooking they could not

manage, she undertook cheerfully, and refused to add anything to the

rent on Shargar's account.

Dr. Anderson watched everything, the two boys as much as his patient. He

allowed them to work on, sending only the wine that was necessary from

his own cellar. The moment the supplies should begin to fail, or

the boys to look troubled, he was ready to do more. About Robert's

perseverance he had no doubt: Shargar's faithfulness he wanted to prove.

Robert wrote to his grandmother to tell her that Shargar was with him,

working hard. Her reply was somewhat cold and offended, but was inclosed

in a parcel containing all Shargar's garments, and ended with the

assurance that as long as he did well she was ready to do what she

could.

Few English readers will like Mrs. Falconer; but her grandchild

considered her one of the noblest women ever God made; and I, from his

account, am of the same mind. Her care was fixed

To fill her odorous lamp with deeds of light,

And hope that reaps not shame.

And if one must choose between the how and the what, let me have the

what, come of the how what may. I know of a man so sensitive, that he

shuts his ears to his sister's griefs, because it spoils his digestion

to think of them.

One evening Robert was sitting by the table in Ericson's room. Dr.

Anderson had not called that day, and he did not expect to see him now,

for he had never come so late. He was quite at his ease, therefore, and

busy with two things at once, when the doctor opened the door and walked

in. I think it is possible that he came up quietly with some design

of surprising him. He found him with a stocking on one hand, a darning

needle in the other, and a Greek book open before him. Taking no

apparent notice of him, he walked up to the bedside, and Robert put

away his work. After his interview with his patient was over, the doctor

signed to him to follow him to the next room. There Shargar lay on the

rug already snoring. It was a cold night in December, but he lay in his

under-clothing, with a single blanket round him.

'Good training for a soldier,' said the doctor; 'and so was your work a

minute ago, Robert.'

'Ay,' answered Robert, colouring a little; 'I was readin' a bit o' the

Anabasis.'

The doctor smiled a far-off sly smile.

'I think it was rather the Katabasis, if one might venture to judge from

the direction of your labours.'

'Weel,' answered Robert, 'what wad ye hae me do? Wad ye hae me lat Mr.

Ericson gang wi' holes i' the heels o' 's hose, whan I can mak them a'

snod, an' learn my Greek at the same time? Hoots, doctor! dinna lauch at

me. I was doin' nae ill. A body may please themsel's--whiles surely, ohn

sinned.'

'But it's such waste of time! Why don't you buy him new ones?'

''Deed that's easier said than dune. I hae eneuch ado wi' my siller as

'tis; an' gin it warna for you, doctor, I do not ken what wad come o'

's; for ye see I hae no richt to come upo' my grannie for ither fowk.

There wad be nae en' to that.'

'But I could lend you the money to buy him some stockings.'

'An' whan wad I be able to pay ye, do ye think, doctor? In anither

warl' maybe, whaur the currency micht be sae different there wad be no

possibility o' reckonin' the rate o' exchange. Na, na.'

'But I will give you the money if you like.'

'Na, na. You hae dune eneuch already, an' mony thanks. Siller's no sae

easy come by to be wastit, as lang's a darn 'll do. Forbye, gin ye began

wi' his claes, ye wadna ken whaur to haud; for it wad jist be the new

claith upo' the auld garment: ye micht as weel new cleed him at ance.'

'And why not if I choose, Mr. Falconer?'

'Speir ye that at him, an' see what ye'll get--a luik 'at wad fess a

corbie (carrion crow) frae the lift (sky). I wadna hae ye try that. Some

fowk's poverty maun be han'let jist like a sair place, doctor. He

canna weel compleen o' a bit darnin'.--He canna tak that ill,' repeated

Robert, in a tone that showed he yet felt some anxiety on the subject;

'but new anes! I wadna like to be by whan he fand that oot. Maybe he

micht tak them frae a wuman; but frae a man body!--na, na; I maun jist

darn awa'. But I'll mak them dacent eneuch afore I hae dune wi' them. A

fiddler has fingers.'

The doctor smiled a pleased smile; but when he got into his carriage,

again he laughed heartily.

The evening deepened into night. Robert thought Ericson was asleep. But

he spoke.

'Who is that at the street door?' he said.

They were at the top of the house, and there was no window to the

street. But Ericson's senses were preternaturally acute, as is often the

case in such illnesses.

'I dinna hear onybody,' answered Robert.

'There was somebody,' returned Ericson.

From that moment he began to be restless, and was more feverish than

usual throughout the night.

Up to this time he had spoken little, was depressed with a suffering to

which he could give no name--not pain, he said--but such that he could

rouse no mental effort to meet it: his endurance was passive altogether.

This night his brain was more affected. He did not rave, but often

wandered; never spoke nonsense, but many words that would have seemed

nonsense to ordinary people: to Robert they seemed inspired. His

imagination, which was greater than any other of his fine faculties, was

so roused that he talked in verse--probably verse composed before and

now recalled. He would even pray sometimes in measured lines, and go

on murmuring petitions, till the words of the murmur became

undistinguishable, and he fell asleep. But even in his sleep he would

speak; and Robert would listen in awe; for such words, falling from

such a man, were to him as dim breaks of coloured light from the rainbow

walls of the heavenly city.

'If God were thinking me,' said Ericson, 'ah! But if he be only dreaming

me, I shall go mad.'

Ericson's outside was like his own northern clime--dark, gentle, and

clear, with gray-blue seas, and a sun that seems to shine out of the

past, and know nothing of the future. But within glowed a volcanic

angel of aspiration, fluttering his half-grown wings, and ever reaching

towards the heights whence all things are visible, and where all

passions are safe because true, that is divine. Iceland herself has her

Hecla.

Robert listened with keenest ear. A mist of great meaning hung about the

words his friend had spoken. He might speak more. For some minutes

he listened in vain, and was turning at last towards his book in

hopelessness, when he did speak yet again: Robert's ear soon detected

the rhythmic motion of his speech.

'Come in the glory of thine excellence;

Rive the dense gloom with wedges of clear light;

And let the shimmer of thy chariot wheels

Burn through the cracks of night.--So slowly, Lord,

To lift myself to thee with hands of toil,

Climbing the slippery cliff of unheard prayer!

Lift up a hand among my idle days--

One beckoning finger. I will cast aside

The clogs of earthly circumstance, and run

Up the broad highways where the countless worlds

Sit ripening in the summer of thy love.'

Breathless for fear of losing a word, Robert yet remembered that he had

seen something like these words in the papers Ericson had given him to

read on the night when his illness began. When he had fallen asleep and

silent, he searched and found the poem from which I give the following

extracts. He had not looked at the papers since that night.

A PRAYER.

O Lord, my God, how long

Shall my poor heart pant for a boundless joy?

How long, O mighty Spirit, shall I hear

The murmur of Truth's crystal waters slide

From the deep caverns of their endless being,

But my lips taste not, and the grosser air

Choke each pure inspiration of thy will?

I would be a wind,

Whose smallest atom is a viewless wing,

All busy with the pulsing life that throbs

To do thy bidding; yea, or the meanest thing

That has relation to a changeless truth

Could I but be instinct with thee--each thought

The lightning of a pure intelligence,

And every act as the loud thunder-clap

Of currents warring for a vacuum.

Lord, clothe me with thy truth as with a robe.

Purge me with sorrow. I will bend my head,

And let the nations of thy waves pass over,

Bathing me in thy consecrated strength.

And let the many-voiced and silver winds

Pass through my frame with their clear influence.

O save me--I am blind; lo! thwarting shapes

Wall up the void before, and thrusting out

Lean arms of unshaped expectation, beckon

Down to the night of all unholy thoughts.

I have seen

Unholy shapes lop off my shining thoughts,

Which I had thought nursed in thine emerald light;

And they have lent me leathern wings of fear,

Of baffled pride and harrowing distrust;

And Godhead with its crown of many stars,

Its pinnacles of flaming holiness,

And voice of leaves in the green summer-time,

Has seemed the shadowed image of a self.

Then my soul blackened; and I rose to find

And grasp my doom, and cleave the arching deeps

Of desolation.

O Lord, my soul is a forgotten well;

Clad round with its own rank luxuriance;

A fountain a kind sunbeam searches for,

Sinking the lustre of its arrowy finger

Through the long grass its own strange virtue [5]

Hath blinded up its crystal eye withal:

Make me a broad strong river coming down

With shouts from its high hills, whose rocky hearts

Throb forth the joy of their stability

In watery pulses from their inmost deeps,

And I shall be a vein upon thy world,

Circling perpetual from the parent deep.

O First and Last, O glorious all in all,

In vain my faltering human tongue would seek

To shape the vesture of the boundless thought,

Summing all causes in one burning word;

Give me the spirit's living tongue of fire,

Whose only voice is in an attitude

Of keenest tension, bent back on itself

With a strong upward force; even as thy bow

Of bended colour stands against the north,

And, in an attitude to spring to heaven,

Lays hold of the kindled hills.

Most mighty One,

Confirm and multiply my thoughts of good;

Help me to wall each sacred treasure round

With the firm battlements of special action.

Alas my holy, happy thoughts of thee

Make not perpetual nest within my soul,

But like strange birds of dazzling colours stoop

The trailing glories of their sunward speed,

For one glad moment filling my blasted boughs

With the sunshine of their wings.

Make me a forest

Of gladdest life, wherein perpetual spring

Lifts up her leafy tresses in the wind.

Lo! now I see

Thy trembling starlight sit among my pines,

And thy young moon slide down my arching boughs

With a soft sound of restless eloquence.

And I can feel a joy as when thy hosts

Of trampling winds, gathering in maddened bands,

Roar upward through the blue and flashing day

Round my still depths of uncleft solitude.

Hear me, O Lord,

When the black night draws down upon my soul,

And voices of temptation darken down

The misty wind, slamming thy starry doors,

With bitter jests. 'Thou fool!' they seem to say

'Thou hast no seed of goodness in thee; all

Thy nature hath been stung right through and through.

Thy sin hath blasted thee, and made thee old.

Thou hadst a will, but thou hast killed it--dead--

And with the fulsome garniture of life

Built out the loathsome corpse. Thou art a child

Of night and death, even lower than a worm.

Gather the skirts up of thy shadowy self,

And with what resolution thou hast left,

Fall on the damned spikes of doom.'

O take me like a child,

If thou hast made me for thyself, my God,

And lead me up thy hills. I shall not fear

So thou wilt make me pure, and beat back sin

With the terrors of thine eye.

Lord hast thou sent

Thy moons to mock us with perpetual hope?

Lighted within our breasts the love of love,

To make us ripen for despair, my God?

Oh, dost thou hold each individual soul

Strung clear upon thy flaming rods of purpose?

Or does thine inextinguishable will

Stand on the steeps of night with lifted hand,

Filling the yawning wells of monstrous space

With mixing thought--drinking up single life

As in a cup? and from the rending folds

Of glimmering purpose, the gloom do all thy navied stars

Slide through the gloom with mystic melody,

Like wishes on a brow? Oh, is my soul,

Hung like a dew-drop in thy grassy ways,

Drawn up again into the rack of change,

Even through the lustre which created it?

O mighty one, thou wilt not smite me through

With scorching wrath, because my spirit stands

Bewildered in thy circling mysteries.

Here came the passage Robert had heard him repeat, and then the

following paragraph:

Lord, thy strange mysteries come thickening down

Upon my head like snow-flakes, shutting out

The happy upper fields with chilly vapour.

Shall I content my soul with a weak sense

Of safety? or feed my ravenous hunger with

Sore-purged hopes, that are not hopes, but fears

Clad in white raiment?

I know not but some thin and vaporous fog,

Fed with the rank excesses of the soul,

Mocks the devouring hunger of my life

With satisfaction: lo! the noxious gas

Feeds the lank ribs of gaunt and ghastly death

With double emptiness, like a balloon,

Borne by its lightness o'er the shining lands,

A wonder and a laughter.

The creeds lie in the hollow of men's hearts

Like festering pools glassing their own corruption:

The slimy eyes stare up with dull approval,

And answer not when thy bright starry feet

Move on the watery floors.

O wilt thou hear me when I cry to thee?

I am a child lost in a mighty forest;

The air is thick with voices, and strange hands

Reach through the dusk and pluck me by the skirts.

There is a voice which sounds like words from home,

But, as I stumble on to reach it, seems

To leap from rock to rock. Oh! if it is

Willing obliquity of sense, descend,

Heal all my wanderings, take me by the hand,

And lead me homeward through the shadows.

Let me not by my wilful acts of pride

Block up the windows of thy truth, and grow

A wasted, withered thing, that stumbles on

Down to the grave with folded hands of sloth

And leaden confidence.

There was more of it, as my type indicates. Full of faults, I have given

so much to my reader, just as it stood upon Ericson's blotted papers,

the utterance of a true soul 'crying for the light.' But I give also

another of his poems, which Robert read at the same time, revealing

another of his moods when some one of the clouds of holy doubt and

questioning love which so often darkened his sky, did at length

Turn forth her silver lining on the night:

SONG.

They are blind and they are dead:

We will wake them as we go;

There are words have not been said;

There are sounds they do not know.

We will pipe and we will sing--

With the music and the spring,

Set their hearts a wondering.

They are tired of what is old:

We will give it voices new;

For the half hath not been told

Of the Beautiful and True.

Drowsy eyelids shut and sleeping!

Heavy eyes oppressed with weeping!

Flashes through the lashes leaping!

Ye that have a pleasant voice,

Hither come without delay;

Ye will never have a choice

Like to that ye have to-day:

Round the wide world we will go,

Singing through the frost and snow,

Till the daisies are in blow.

Ye that cannot pipe or sing,

Ye must also come with speed;

Ye must come and with you bring

Weighty words and weightier deed:

Helping hands and loving eyes,

These will make them truly wise--

Then will be our Paradise.

As Robert read, the sweetness of the rhythm seized upon him, and, almost

unconsciously, he read the last stanza aloud. Looking up from the paper

with a sigh of wonder and delight--there was the pale face of Ericson

gazing at him from the bed! He had risen on one arm, looking like a dead

man called to life against his will, who found the world he had left

already stranger to him than the one into which he had but peeped.

'Yes,' he murmured; 'I could say that once. It's all gone now. Our world

is but our moods.'

He fell back on his pillow. After a little, he murmured again:

'I might fool myself with faith again. So it is better not. I would

not be fooled. To believe the false and be happy is the very belly

of misery. To believe the true and be miserable, is to be true--and

miserable. If there is no God, let me know it. I will not be fooled.

I will not believe in a God that does not exist. Better be miserable

because I am, and cannot help it.--O God!'

Yet in his misery, he cried upon God.

These words came upon Robert with such a shock of sympathy, that they

destroyed his consciousness for the moment, and when he thought about

them, he almost doubted if he had heard them. He rose and approached

the bed. Ericson lay with his eyes closed, and his face contorted as by

inward pain. Robert put a spoonful of wine to his lips. He swallowed it,

opened his eyes, gazed at the boy as if he did not know him, closed them

again, and lay still.

Some people take comfort from the true eyes of a dog--and a precious

thing to the loving heart is the love of even a dumb animal. [6] What

comfort then must not such a boy as Robert have been to such a man as

Ericson! Often and often when he was lying asleep as Robert thought,

he was watching the face of his watcher. When the human soul is not yet

able to receive the vision of the God-man, God sometimes--might I not

say always?--reveals himself, or at least gives himself, in some

human being whose face, whose hands are the ministering angels of his

unacknowledged presence, to keep alive the fire of love on the altar

of the heart, until God hath provided the sacrifice--that is, until the

soul is strong enough to draw it from the concealing thicket. Here were

two, each thinking that God had forsaken him, or was not to be found

by him, and each the very love of God, commissioned to tend the other's

heart. In each was he present to the other. The one thought himself the

happiest of mortals in waiting upon his big brother, whose least smile

was joy enough for one day; the other wondered at the unconscious

goodness of the boy, and while he gazed at his ruddy-brown face,

believed in God.

For some time after Ericson was taken ill, he was too depressed and

miserable to ask how he was cared for. But by slow degrees it dawned

upon him that a heart deep and gracious, like that of a woman, watched

over him. True, Robert was uncouth, but his uncouthness was that of a

half-fledged angel. The heart of the man and the heart of the boy were

drawn close together. Long before Ericson was well he loved Robert

enough to be willing to be indebted to him, and would lie pondering--not

how to repay him, but how to return his kindness.

How much Robert's ambition to stand well in the eyes of Miss St. John

contributed to his progress I can only imagine; but certainly his

ministrations to Ericson did not interfere with his Latin and Greek. I

venture to think that they advanced them, for difficulty adds to result,

as the ramming of the powder sends the bullet the further. I have heard,

indeed, that when a carrier wants to help his horse up hill, he sets a

boy on his back.

Ericson made little direct acknowledgment to Robert: his tones, his

gestures, his looks, all thanked him; but he shrunk from words, with

the maidenly shamefacedness that belongs to true feeling. He would even

assume the authoritative, and send him away to his studies, but Robert

knew how to hold his own. The relation of elder brother and younger was

already established between them. Shargar likewise took his share in the

love and the fellowship, worshipping in that he believed.

CHAPTER X. A FATHER AND A DAUGHTER.

The presence at the street door of which Ericson's over-acute sense had

been aware on a past evening, was that of Mr. Lindsay, walking home

with bowed back and bowed head from the college library, where he was

privileged to sit after hours as long as he pleased over books too big

to be comfortably carried home to his cottage. He had called to inquire

after Ericson, whose acquaintance he had made in the library, and

cultivated until almost any Friday evening Ericson was to be found

seated by Mr. Lindsay's parlour fire.

As he entered the room that same evening, a young girl raised herself

from a low seat by the fire to meet him. There was a faint rosy flush

on her cheek, and she held a volume in her hand as she approached her

father. They did not kiss: kisses were not a legal tender in Scotland

then: possibly there has been a depreciation in the value of them since

they were.

'I've been to ask after Mr. Ericson,' said Mr. Lindsay.

'And how is he?' asked the girl.

'Very poorly indeed,' answered her father.

'I am sorry. You'll miss him, papa.'

'Yes, my dear. Tell Jenny to bring my lamp.'

'Won't you have your tea first, papa?'

'Oh yes, if it's ready.'

'The kettle has been boiling for a long time, but I wouldn't make the

tea till you came in.'

Mr. Lindsay was an hour later than usual, but Mysie was quite unaware of

that: she had been absorbed in her book, too much absorbed even to ring

for better light than the fire afforded. When her father went to put off

his long, bifurcated greatcoat, she returned to her seat by the fire,

and forgot to make the tea. It was a warm, snug room, full of dark,

old-fashioned, spider-legged furniture; low-pitched, with a bay-window,

open like an ear to the cries of the German Ocean at night, and like an

eye during the day to look out upon its wide expanse. This ear or eye

was now curtained with dark crimson, and the room, in the firelight,

with the young girl for a soul to it, affected one like an ancient book

in which he reads his own latest thought.

Mysie was nothing over the middle height--delicately-fashioned, at once

slender and round, with extremities neat as buds. Her complexion was

fair, and her face pale, except when a flush, like that of a white rose,

overspread it. Her cheek was lovelily curved, and her face rather short.

But at first one could see nothing for her eyes. They were the largest

eyes; and their motion reminded one of those of Sordello in the

Purgatorio:

E nel muover degli occhi onesta e tarda:

they seemed too large to move otherwise than with a slow turning like

that of the heavens. At first they looked black, but if one ventured

inquiry, which was as dangerous as to gaze from the battlements of

Elsinore, he found them a not very dark brown. In her face, however,

especially when flushed, they had all the effect of what Milton

describes as

Quel sereno fulgor d'amabil nero.

A wise observer would have been a little troubled in regarding her

mouth. The sadness of a morbid sensibility hovered about it--the sign

of an imagination wrought upon from the centre of self. Her lips were

neither thin nor compressed--they closed lightly, and were richly

curved; but there was a mobility almost tremulous about the upper lip

that gave sign of the possibility of such an oscillation of feeling as

might cause the whole fabric of her nature to rock dangerously.

The moment her father re-entered, she started from her stool on the rug,

and proceeded to make the tea. Her father took no notice of her neglect,

but drew a chair to the table, helped himself to a piece of oat-cake,

hastily loaded it with as much butter as it could well carry, and while

eating it forgot it and everything else in the absorption of a volume he

had brought in with him from his study, in which he was tracing out some

genealogical thread of which he fancied he had got a hold. Mysie was

very active now, and lost the expression of far-off-ness which had

hitherto characterized her countenance; till, having poured out the tea,

she too plunged at once into her novel, and, like her father, forgot

everything and everybody near her.

Mr. Lindsay was a mild, gentle man, whose face and hair seemed to have

grown gray together. He was very tall, and stooped much. He had a mouth

of much sensibility, and clear blue eyes, whose light was rarely shed

upon any one within reach except his daughter--they were so constantly

bent downwards, either on the road as he walked, or on his book as he

sat. He had been educated for the church, but had never risen above

the position of a parish school-master. He had little or no impulse to

utterance, was shy, genial, and, save in reading, indolent. Ten years

before this point of my history he had been taken up by an active lawyer

in Edinburgh, from information accidentally supplied by Mr. Lindsay

himself, as the next heir to a property to which claim was laid by the

head of a county family of wealth. Probabilities were altogether in

his favour, when he gave up the contest upon the offer of a comfortable

annuity from the disputant. To leave his schooling and his possible

estate together, and sit down comfortably by his own fireside, with the

means of buying books, and within reach of a good old library--that

of King's College by preference--was to him the sum of all that was

desirable. The income offered him was such that he had no doubt

of laying aside enough for his only child, Mysie; but both were so

ill-fitted for saving, he from looking into the past, she from looking

into--what shall I call it? I can only think of negatives--what was

neither past, present, nor future, neither material nor eternal, neither

imaginative in any true sense, nor actual in any sense, that up to

the present hour there was nothing in the bank, and only the money for

impending needs in the house. He could not be called a man of learning;

he was only a great bookworm; for his reading lay all in the nebulous

regions of history. Old family records, wherever he could lay hold upon

them, were his favourite dishes; old, musty books, that looked as if

they knew something everybody else had forgotten, made his eyes gleam,

and his white taper-fingered hand tremble with eagerness. With such

a book in his grasp he saw something ever beckoning him on, a dimly

precious discovery, a wonderful fact just the shape of some missing

fragment in the mosaic of one of his pictures of the past. To tell the

truth, however, his discoveries seldom rounded themselves into pictures,

though many fragments of the minutely dissected map would find

their places, whereupon he rejoiced like a mild giant refreshed with

soda-water. But I have already said more about him than his place

justifies; therefore, although I could gladly linger over the portrait,

I will leave it. He had taught his daughter next to nothing. Being his

child, he had the vague feeling that she inherited his wisdom, and that

what he knew she knew. So she sat reading novels, generally trashy ones,

while he knew no more of what was passing in her mind than of what the

Admirable Crichton might, at the moment, be disputing with the angels.

I would not have my reader suppose that Mysie's mind was corrupted. It

was so simple and childlike, leaning to what was pure, and looking up

to what was noble, that anything directly bad in the books she

happened--for it was all haphazard--to read, glided over her as a black

cloud may glide over a landscape, leaving it sunny as before.

I cannot therefore say, however, that she was nothing the worse. If

the darkening of the sun keep the fruits of the earth from growing,

the earth is surely the worse, though it be blackened by no deposit of

smoke. And where good things do not grow, the wild and possibly noxious

will grow more freely. There may be no harm in the yellow tanzie--there

is much beauty in the red poppy; but they are not good for food. The

result in Mysie's case would be this--not that she would call evil good

and good evil, but that she would take the beautiful for the true and

the outer shows of goodness for goodness itself--not the worst result,

but bad enough, and involving an awful amount of suffering and possibly

of defilement. He who thinks to climb the hill of happiness thus, will

find himself floundering in the blackest bog that lies at the foot of

its precipices. I say he, not she, advisedly. All will acknowledge it of

the woman: it is as true of the man, though he may get out easier. Will

he? I say, checking myself. I doubt it much. In the world's eye, yes;

but in God's? Let the question remain unanswered.

When he had eaten his toast, and drunk his tea, apparently without any

enjoyment, Mr. Lindsay rose with his book in his hand, and withdrew to

his study.

He had not long left the room when Mysie was startled by a loud knock

at the back door, which opened on a lane, leading along the top of the

hill. But she had almost forgotten it again, when the door of the room

opened, and a gentleman entered without any announcement--for Jenny

had never heard of the custom. When she saw him, Mysie started from her

seat, and stood in visible embarrassment. The colour went and came on

her lovely face, and her eyelids grew very heavy. She had never seen the

visitor before: whether he had ever seen her before, I cannot certainly

say. She felt herself trembling in his presence, while he advanced

with perfect composure. He was a man no longer young, but in the full

strength and show of manhood--the Baron of Rothie. Since the time of my

first description of him, he had grown a moustache, which improved his

countenance greatly, by concealing his upper lip with its tusky curves.

On a girl like Mysie, with an imagination so cultivated, and with no

opportunity of comparing its fancies with reality, such a man would make

an instant impression.

'I beg your pardon, Miss--Lindsay, I presume?--for intruding upon you so

abruptly. I expected to see your father--not one of the graces.'

She blushed all the colour of her blood now. The baron was quite

enough like the hero of whom she had just been reading to admit of her

imagination jumbling the two. Her book fell. He lifted it and laid it

on the table. She could not speak even to thank him. Poor Mysie was

scarcely more than sixteen.

'May I wait here till your father is informed of my visit?' he asked.

Her only answer was to drop again upon her low stool.

Now Jenny had left it to Mysie to acquaint her father with the fact of

the baron's presence; but before she had time to think of the necessity

of doing something, he had managed to draw her into conversation. He

was as great a hypocrite as ever walked the earth, although he flattered

himself that he was none, because he never pretended to cultivate

that which he despised--namely, religion. But he was a hypocrite

nevertheless; for the falser he knew himself, the more honour he judged

it to persuade women of his truth.

It is unnecessary to record the slight, graceful, marrowless talk into

which he drew Mysie, and by which he both bewildered and bewitched her.

But at length she rose, admonished by her inborn divinity, to seek her

father. As she passed him, the baron took her hand and kissed it. She

might well tremble. Even such contact was terrible. Why? Because there

was no love in it. When the sense of beauty which God had given him

that he might worship, awoke in Lord Rothie, he did not worship, but

devoured, that he might, as he thought, possess! The poison of asps was

under those lips. His kiss was as a kiss from the grave's mouth, for his

throat was an open sepulchre. This was all in the past, reader. Baron

Rothie was a foam-flake of the court of the Prince Regent. There are no

such men now-a-days! It is a shame to speak of such, and therefore they

are not! Decency has gone so far to abolish virtue. Would to God that a

writer could be decent and honest! St. Paul counted it a shame to speak

of some things, and yet he did speak of them--because those to whom he

spoke did them.

Lord Rothie had, in five minutes, so deeply interested Mr. Lindsay in

a question of genealogy, that he begged his lordship to call again in a

few days, when he hoped to have some result of research to communicate.

One of the antiquarian's weaknesses, cause and result both of his

favourite pursuits, was an excessive reverence for rank. Had its claims

been founded on mediated revelation, he could not have honoured it more.

Hence when he communicated to his daughter the name of their visitor,

it was 'with bated breath and whispering humbleness,' which deepened

greatly the impression made upon her by the presence and conversation of

the baron. Mysie was in danger.

Shargar was late that evening, for he had a job that detained him. As he

handed over his money to Robert, he said,

'I saw Black Geordie the nicht again, stan'in' at a back door, an' Jock

Mitchell, upo' Reid Rorie, haudin' him.'

'Wha's Jock Mitchell?' asked Robert.

'My brither Sandy's ill-faured groom,' answered Shargar. 'Whatever

mischeef Sandy's up till, Jock comes in i' the heid or tail o' 't.'

'I wonner what he's up till noo.'

'Faith! nae guid. But I aye like waur to meet Sandy by himsel' upo' that

reekit deevil o' his. Man, it's awfu' whan Black Geordie turns the white

o' 's ee, an' the white o' 's teeth upo' ye. It's a' the white 'at there

is about 'im.'

'Wasna yer brither i' the airmy, Shargar?'

'Ow, 'deed ay. They tell me he was at Watterloo. He's a cornel, or

something like that.'

'Wha tellt ye a' that?'

'My mither whiles,' answered Shargar.

CHAPTER XI. ROBERT'S VOW.

Ericson was recovering slowly. He could sit up in bed the greater part

of the day, and talk about getting out of it. He was able to give Robert

an occasional help with his Greek, and to listen with pleasure to his

violin. The night-watching grew less needful, and Ericson would have

dispensed with it willingly, but Robert would not yet consent.

But Ericson had seasons of great depression, during which he could not

away with music, or listen to the words of the New Testament. During one

of these Robert had begun to read a chapter to him, in the faint hope

that he might draw some comfort from it.

'Shut the book,' he said. 'If it were the word of God to men, it would

have brought its own proof with it.'

'Are ye sure it hasna?' asked Robert.

'No,' answered Ericson. 'But why should a fellow that would give his

life--that's not much, but it's all I've got--to believe in God, not be

able? Only I confess that God in the New Testament wouldn't satisfy

me. There's no help. I must just die, and go and see.--She'll be left

without anybody. 'What does it matter? She would not mind a word I

said. And the God they talk about will just let her take her own way. He

always does.'

He had closed his eyes and forgotten that Robert heard him. He opened

them now, and fixed them on him with an expression that seemed to ask,

'Have I been saying anything I ought not?'

Robert knelt by the bedside, and said, slowly, with strongly repressed

emotion,

'Mr. Ericson, I sweir by God, gin there be ane, that gin ye dee, I'll

tak up what ye lea' ahin' ye. Gin there be onybody ye want luikit

efter, I'll luik efter her. I'll do what I can for her to the best o' my

abeelity, sae help me God--aye savin' what I maun do for my ain father,

gin he be in life, to fess (bring) him back to the richt gait, gin there

be a richt gait. Sae ye can think aboot whether there's onything ye wad

like to lippen till me.'

A something grew in Ericson's eyes as Robert spoke. Before he had

finished, they beamed on the boy.

'I think there must be a God somewhere after all,' he said, half

soliloquizing. 'I should be sorry you hadn't a God, Robert. Why should

I wish it for your sake? How could I want one for myself if there never

was one? If a God had nothing to do with my making, why should I feel

that nobody but God can set things right? Ah! but he must be such a God

as I could imagine--altogether, absolutely true and good. If we came

out of nothing, we could not invent the idea of a God--could we, Robert?

Nothing would be our God. If we come from God, nothing is more natural,

nothing so natural, as to want him, and when we haven't got him, to try

to find him.--What if he should be in us after all, and working in us

this way? just this very way of crying out after him?'

'Mr. Ericson,' cried Robert, 'dinna say ony mair 'at ye dinna believe in

God. Ye duv believe in 'im--mair, I'm thinkin', nor onybody 'at I ken,

'cep', maybe, my grannie--only hers is a some queer kin' o' a God to

believe in. I dinna think I cud ever manage to believe in him mysel'.'

Ericson sighed and was silent. Robert remained kneeling by his bedside,

happier, clearer-headed, and more hopeful than he had ever been. What if

all was right at the heart of things--right, even as a man, if he could

understand, would say was right; right, so that a man who understood in

part could believe it to be ten times more right than he did understand!

Vaguely, dimly, yet joyfully, Robert saw something like this in the

possibility of things. His heart was full, and the tears filled his

eyes. Ericson spoke again.

'I have felt like that often for a few moments,' he said; 'but

always something would come and blow it away. I remember one spring

morning--but if you will bring me that bundle of papers, I will show you

what, if I can find it, will let you understand--'

Robert rose, went to the cupboard, and brought the pile of loose leaves.

Ericson turned them over, and, Robert was glad to see, now and then

sorted them a little. At length he drew out a sheet, carelessly written,

carelessly corrected, and hard to read.

'It is not finished, or likely to be,' he said, as he put the paper in

Robert's hand.

'Won't you read it to me yourself, Mr. Ericson?' suggested Robert.

'I would sooner put it in the fire,' he answered--'it's fate, anyhow. I

don't know why I haven't burnt them all long ago. Rubbish, and diseased

rubbish! Read it yourself, or leave it.'

Eagerly Robert took it, and read. The following was the best he could

make of it:

Oh that a wind would call

From the depths of the leafless wood!

Oh that a voice would fall

On the ear of my solitude!

Far away is the sea,

With its sound and its spirit-tone:

Over it white clouds flee,

But I am alone, alone.

Straight and steady and tall

The trees stand on their feet;

Fast by the old stone wall

The moss grows green and sweet;

But my heart is full of fears,

For the sun shines far away;

And they look in my face through tears,

And the light of a dying day.

My heart was glad last night,

As I pressed it with my palm;

Its throb was airy and light

As it sang some spirit-psalm;

But it died away in my breast

As I wandered forth to-day--

As a bird sat dead on its nest,

While others sang on the spray.

O weary heart of mine,

Is there ever a truth for thee?

Will ever a sun outshine

But the sun that shines on me?

Away, away through the air

The clouds and the leaves are blown;

And my heart hath need of prayer,

For it sitteth alone, alone.

And Robert looked with sad reverence at Ericson,--nor ever thought that

there was one who, in the face of the fact, and in recognition of it,

had dared say, 'Not a sparrow shall fall on the ground without your

Father.' The sparrow does fall--but he who sees it is yet the Father.

And we know only the fall, and not the sparrow.

CHAPTER XII. THE GRANITE CHURCH.

The next day was Sunday. Robert sat, after breakfast, by his friend's

bed.

'You haven't been to church for a long time, Robert: wouldn't you like

to go to-day?' said Ericson.

'I dinna want to lea' you, Mr. Ericson; I can bide wi' ye a' day the

day, an' that's better nor goin' to a' the kirks in Aberdeen.'

'I should like you to go to-day, though; and see if, after all, there

may not be a message for us. If the church be the house of God, as they

call it, there should be, now and then at least, some sign of a pillar

of fire about it, some indication of the presence of God whose house

it is. I wish you would go and see. I haven't been to church for a long

time, except to the college-chapel, and I never saw anything more than a

fog there.'

'Michtna the fog be the torn-edge like, o' the cloody pillar?' suggested

Robert.

'Very likely,' assented Ericson; 'for, whatever truth there may be in

Christianity, I'm pretty sure the mass of our clergy have never got

beyond Judaism. They hang on about the skirts of that cloud for ever.'

'Ye see, they think as lang 's they see the fog, they hae a grup o'

something. But they canna get a grup o' the glory that excelleth, for

it's not to luik at, but to lat ye see a' thing.'

Ericson regarded him with some surprise. Robert hastened to be honest.

'It's no that I ken onything aboot it, Mr. Ericson. I was only

bletherin' (talking nonsense)--rizzonin' frae the twa symbols o' the

cloud an' the fire--kennin' nothing aboot the thing itsel'. I'll awa' to

the kirk, an' see what it's like. Will I gie ye a buik afore I gang?'

'No, thank you. I'll just lie quiet till you come back--if I can.'

Robert instructed Shargar to watch for the slightest sound from the

sick-room, and went to church.

As he approached the granite cathedral, the only one in the world, I

presume, its stern solidity, so like the country and its men, laid hold

of his imagination for the first time. No doubt the necessity imposed

by the unyielding material had its share, and that a large one, in the

character of the building: whence else that simplest of west windows,

seven lofty, narrow slits of light, parted by granite shafts of equal

width, filling the space between the corner buttresses of the nave, and

reaching from door to roof? whence else the absence of tracery in the

windows--except the severely gracious curves into which the mullions

divide?--But this cause could not have determined those towers, so

strong that they might have borne their granite weight soaring aloft,

yet content with the depth of their foundation, and aspiring not. The

whole aspect of the building is an outcome, an absolute blossom of the

northern nature.

There is but the nave of the church remaining. About 1680, more than

a century after the Reformation, the great tower fell, destroying the

choir, chancel, and transept, which have never been rebuilt. May the

reviving faith of the nation in its own history, and God at the heart of

it, lead to the restoration of this grand old monument of the belief

of their fathers. Deformed as the interior then was with galleries, and

with Gavin Dunbar's flat ceiling, an awe fell upon Robert as he entered

it. When in after years he looked down from between the pillars of the

gallery, that creeps round the church through the thickness of the wall,

like an artery, and recalled the service of this Sunday morning, he felt

more strongly than ever that such a faith had not reared that cathedral.

The service was like the church only as a dead body is like a man. There

was no fervour in it, no aspiration. The great central tower was gone.

That morning prayers and sermon were philosophically dull, and

respectable as any after-dinner speech. Nor could it well be otherwise:

one of the favourite sayings of its minister was, that a clergyman is

nothing but a moral policeman. As such, however, he more resembled one

of Dogberry's watch. He could not even preach hell with any vigour; for

as a gentleman he recoiled from the vulgarity of the doctrine, yielding

only a few feeble words on the subject as a sop to the Cerberus that

watches over the dues of the Bible--quite unaware that his notion of the

doctrine had been drawn from the Æneid, and not from the Bible.

'Well, have you got anything, Robert?' asked Ericson, as he entered his

room.

'Nothing,' answered Robert.

'What was the sermon about?'

'It was all to prove that God is a benevolent being.'

'Not a devil, that is,' answered Ericson. 'Small consolation that.'

'Sma' eneuch,' responded Robert. 'I cudna help thinkin' I kent mony

a tyke (dog) that God had made wi' mair o' what I wad ca' the divine

natur' in him nor a' that Dr. Soulis made oot to be in God himsel'. He

had no ill intentions wi' us--it amuntit to that. He wasna ill-willy,

as the bairns say. But the doctor had some sair wark, I thoucht, to mak

that oot, seein' we war a' the children o' wrath, accordin' to him, born

in sin, and inheritin' the guilt o' Adam's first trespass. I dinna think

Dr. Soulis cud say that God had dune the best he cud for 's. But he

never tried to say onything like that. He jist made oot that he was a

verra respectable kin' o' a God, though maybe no a'thing we micht wuss.

We oucht to be thankfu' that he gae's a wee blink o' a chance o' no

bein' brunt to a' eternity, wi' nae chance ava. I dinna say that he said

that, but that's what it a' seemed to me to come till. He said a hantle

aboot the care o' Providence, but a' the gude that he did seemed to me

to be but a haudin' aff o' something ill that he had made as weel. Ye

wad hae thocht the deevil had made the warl', and syne God had pitten us

intil 't, and jist gied a bit wag o' 's han' whiles to haud the deevil

aff o' 's whan he was like to destroy the breed a'thegither. For

the grace that he spak aboot, that was less nor the nature an' the

providence. I cud see unco little o' grace intil 't.'

Here Ericson broke in--fearful, apparently, lest his boyfriend should be

actually about to deny the God in whom he did not himself believe.

'Robert,' he said solemnly, 'one thing is certain: if there be a God at

all, he is not like that. If there be a God at all, we shall know him by

his perfection--his grand perfect truth, fairness, love--a love to make

life an absolute good--not a mere accommodation of difficulties, not a

mere preponderance of the balance on the side of well-being. Love only

could have been able to create. But they don't seem jealous for the

glory of God, those men. They don't mind a speck, or even a blot, here

and there upon him. The world doesn't make them miserable. They can get

over the misery of their fellow-men without being troubled about them,

or about the God that could let such things be. [7] They represent a God

who does wonderfully well, on the whole, after a middling fashion. I

want a God who loves perfectly. He may kill; he may torture even; but if

it be for love's sake, Lord, here am I. Do with me as thou wilt.'

Had Ericson forgotten that he had no proof of such a God? The next

moment the intellectual demon was awake.

'But what's the good of it all?' he said. 'I don't even know that there

is anything outside of me.'

'Ye ken that I'm here, Mr. Ericson,' suggested Robert.

'I know nothing of the sort. You may be another phantom--only clearer.'

'Ye speik to me as gin ye thocht me somebody.'

'So does the man to his phantoms, and you call him mad. It is but a

yielding to the pressure of constant suggestion. I do not know--I cannot

know if there is anything outside of me.'

'But gin there warna, there wad be naebody for ye to love, Mr. Ericson.'

'Of course not.'

'Nor naebody to love you, Mr. Ericson.'

'Of course not.'

'Syne ye wad be yer ain God, Mr. Ericson.'

'Yes. That would follow.'

'I canna imagine a waur hell--closed in amo' naething--wi' naething a'

aboot ye, luikin' something a' the time--kennin' 'at it's a' a lee, and

nae able to win clear o' 't.'

'It is hell, my boy, or anything worse you can call it.'

'What for suld ye believe that, than, Mr. Ericson? I wadna believe sic

an ill thing as that. I dinna think I cud believe 't, gin ye war to pruv

't to me.'

'I don't believe it. Nobody could prove that either, even if it were so.

I am only miserable that I can't prove the contrary.'

'Suppose there war a God, Mr. Ericson, do ye think ye bude (behoved) to

be able to pruv that? Do ye think God cud stan' to be pruved as gin he

war something sma' eneuch to be turned roon' and roon', and luikit at

upo' ilka side? Gin there war a God, wadna it jist be sae--that we cudna

prove him to be, I mean?'

'Perhaps. That is something. I have often thought of that. But then you

can't prove anything about it.'

'I canna help thinkin' o' what Mr. Innes said to me ance. I was but

a laddie, but I never forgot it. I plaguit him sair wi' wantin' to

unnerstan' ilka thing afore I wad gang on wi' my questons (sums). Says

he, ae day, “Robert, my man, gin ye will aye unnerstan' afore ye du as

ye're tellt, ye'll never unnerstan' onything. But gin ye du the thing I

tell ye, ye'll be i' the mids o' 't afore ye ken 'at ye're gaein' intil

't.” I jist thocht I wad try him. It was at lang division that I boglet

maist. Weel, I gaed on, and I cud du the thing weel eneuch, ohn made

ae mistak. And aye I thocht the maister was wrang, for I never kent

the rizzon o' a' that beginnin' at the wrang en', an' takin' doon an'

substrackin', an' a' that. Ye wad hardly believe me, Mr. Ericson: it was

only this verra day, as I was sittin' i' the kirk--it was a lang

psalm they war singin'--that ane wi' the foxes i' the tail o' 't--lang

division came into my heid again; and first aye bit glimmerin' o' licht

cam in, and syne anither, an' afore the psalm was dune I saw throu' the

haill process o' 't. But ye see, gin I hadna dune as I was tauld, and

learnt a' aboot hoo it was dune aforehan', I wad hae had naething to

gang rizzonin' aboot, an' wad hae fun' oot naething.'

'That's good, Robert. But when a man is dying for food, he can't wait.'

'He micht try to get up and luik, though. He needna bide in 's bed till

somebody comes an' sweirs till him 'at he saw a haddie (haddock) i' the

press.'

'I have been looking, Robert--for years.'

'Maybe, like me, only for the rizzon o' 't, Mr. Ericson--gin ye'll

forgie my impidence.'

'But what's to be done in this case, Robert? Where's the work that you

can do in order to understand? Where's your long division, man?'

'Ye're ayont me noo. I canna tell that, Mr. Ericson. It canna be gaein'

to the kirk, surely. Maybe it micht be sayin' yer prayers and readin'

yer Bible.'

Ericson did not reply, and the conversation dropped. Is it strange that

neither of these disciples should have thought of turning to the story

of Jesus, finding some word that he had spoken, and beginning to do that

as a first step towards a knowledge of the doctrine that Jesus was the

incarnate God, come to visit his people--a very unlikely thing to

man's wisdom, yet an idea that has notwithstanding ascended above man's

horizon, and shown itself the grandest idea in his firmament?

In the evening Ericson asked again for his papers, from which he handed

Robert the following poem:--

WORDS IN THE NIGHT.

I woke at midnight, and my heart,

My beating heart said this to me:

Thou seest the moon how calm and bright

The world is fair by day and night,

But what is that to thee?

One touch to me--down dips the light

Over the land and sea.

All is mine, all is my own!

Toss the purple fountain high!

The breast of man is a vat of stone;

I am alive, I, only I!

One little touch and all is dark;

The winter with its sparkling moons

The spring with all her violets,

The crimson dawns and rich sunsets,

The autumn's yellowing noons.

I only toss my purple jets,

And thou art one that swoons

Upon a night of gust and roar,

Shipwrecked among the waves, and seems

Across the purple hills to roam;

Sweet odours touch him from the foam,

And downward sinking still he dreams

He walks the clover field at home,

And hears the rattling teams.

All is mine; all is my own!

Toss the purple fountain high!

The breast of man is a vat of stone;

I am alive, I, only I!

Thou hast beheld a throated fountain spout

Full in the air, and in the downward spray

A hovering Iris span the marble tank,

Which as the wind came, ever rose and sank

Violet and red; so my continual play

Makes beauty for the Gods with many a prank

Of human excellence, while they,

Weary of all the noon, in shadows sweet

Supine and heavy-eyed rest in the boundless heat:

Let the world's fountain play!

Beauty is pleasant in the eyes of Jove;

Betwixt the wavering shadows where he lies

He marks the dancing column with his eyes

Celestial, and amid his inmost grove

Upgathers all his limbs, serenely blest,

Lulled by the mellow noise of the great world's unrest.

One heart beats in all nature, differing

But in the work it works; its doubts and clamours

Are but the waste and brunt of instruments

Wherewith a work is done; or as the hammers

On forge Cyclopean plied beneath the rents

Of lowest Etna, conquering into shape

The hard and scattered ore:

Choose thou narcotics, and the dizzy grape

Outworking passion, lest with horrid crash

Thy life go from thee in a night of pain.

So tutoring thy vision, shall the flash

Of dove white-breasted be to thee no more

Than a white stone heavy upon the plain.

Hark the cock crows loud!

And without, all ghastly and ill,

Like a man uplift in his shroud,

The white white morn is propped on the hill;

And adown from the eaves, pointed and chill,

The icicles 'gin to glitter;

And the birds with a warble short and shrill,

Pass by the chamber-window still--

With a quick uneasy twitter.

Let me pump warm blood, for the cold is bitter;

And wearily, wearily, one by one,

Men awake with the weary sun.

Life is a phantom shut in thee;

I am the master and keep the key;

So let me toss thee the days of old,

Crimson and orange and green and gold;

So let me fill thee yet again

With a rush of dreams from my spout amain;

For all is mine; all is my own;

Toss the purple fountain high!

The breast of man is a vat of stone;

And I am alive, I, only I.

Robert having read, sat and wept in silence. Ericson saw him, and said

tenderly,

'Robert, my boy, I'm not always so bad as that. Read this one--though

I never feel like it now. Perhaps it may come again some day, though. I

may once more deceive myself and be happy.'

'Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson. That's waur than despair. That's flat

unbelief. Ye no more ken that ye're deceivin' yersel' than ye ken that

ye're no doin' 't.'

Ericson did not reply; and Robert read the following sonnet aloud,

feeling his way delicately through its mazes:--

Lie down upon the ground, thou hopeless one!

Press thy face in the grass, and do not speak.

Dost feel the green globe whirl? Seven times a week

Climbeth she out of darkness to the sun,

Which is her god; seven times she doth not shun

Awful eclipse, laying her patient cheek

Upon a pillow ghost-beset with shriek

Of voices utterless which rave and run

Through all the star-penumbra, craving light

And tidings of the dawn from East and West.

Calmly she sleepeth, and her sleep is blest

With heavenly visions, and the joy of Night

Treading aloft with moons. Nor hath she fright

Though cloudy tempests beat upon her breast.

Ericson turned his face to the wall, and Robert withdrew to his own

chamber.

CHAPTER XIII. SHARGAR'S ARM.

Not many weeks passed before Shargar knew Aberdeen better than most

Aberdonians. From the Pier-head to the Rubislaw Road, he knew, if not

every court, yet every thoroughfare and short cut. And Aberdeen began

to know him. He was very soon recognized as trustworthy, and had pretty

nearly as much to do as he could manage. Shargar, therefore, was all

over the city like a cracker, and could have told at almost any hour

where Dr. Anderson was to be found--generally in the lower parts of

it, for the good man visited much among the poor; giving them almost

exclusively the benefit of his large experience. Shargar delighted in

keeping an eye upon the doctor, carefully avoiding to show himself.

One day as he was hurrying through the Green (a non virendo) on a

mission from the Rothieden carrier, he came upon the doctor's chariot

standing in one of the narrowest streets, and, as usual, paused to

contemplate the equipage and get a peep of the owner. The morning

was very sharp. There was no snow, but a cold fog, like vaporized

hoar-frost, filled the air. It was weather in which the East Indian

could not venture out on foot, else he could have reached the place by

a stair from Union Street far sooner than he could drive thither. His

horses apparently liked the cold as little as himself. They had been

moving about restlessly for some time before the doctor made his

appearance. The moment he got in and shut the door, one of them reared,

while the other began to haul on his traces, eager for a gallop.

Something about the chain gave way, the pole swerved round under the

rearing horse, and great confusion and danger would have ensued, had

not Shargar rushed from his coign of vantage, sprung at the bit of the

rearing horse, and dragged him off the pole, over which he was just

casting his near leg. As soon as his feet touched the ground he too

pulled, and away went the chariot and down went Shargar. But in a moment

more several men had laid hold of the horses' heads, and stopped them.

'Oh Lord!' cried Shargar, as he rose with his arm dangling by his side,

'what will Donal' Joss say? I'm like to swarf (faint). Haud awa' frae

that basket, ye wuddyfous (withy-fowls, gallows-birds),' he cried,

darting towards the hamper he had left in the entry of a court, round

which a few ragged urchins had gathered; but just as he reached it he

staggered and fell. Nor did he know anything more till he found the

carriage stopping with himself and the hamper inside it.

As soon as the coachman had got his harness put to rights, the doctor

had driven back to see how the lad had fared, for he had felt the

carriage go over something. They had found him lying beside his hamper,

had secured both, and as a preliminary measure were proceeding to

deliver the latter.

'Whaur am I? whaur the deevil am I?' cried Shargar, jumping up and

falling back again.

'Don't you know me, Moray?' said the doctor, for he felt shy of calling

the poor boy by his nickname: he had no right to do so.

'Na, I dinna ken ye. Lat me awa'.--I beg yer pardon, doctor: I thocht ye

was ane o' thae wuddyfous rinnin' awa' wi' Donal' Joss's basket. Eh

me! sic a stoun' i' my airm! But naebody ca's me Moray. They a' ca'

me Shargar. What richt hae I to be ca'd Moray?' added the poor boy,

feeling, I almost believe for the first time, the stain upon his birth.

Yet he had as good a right before God to be called Moray as any other

son of that worthy sire, the Baron of Rothie included. Possibly the

trumpet-blowing angels did call him Moray, or some better name.

'The coachman will deliver your parcel, Moray,' said the doctor, this

time repeating the name with emphasis.

'Deil a bit o' 't!' cried Shargar. 'He daurna lea' his box wi' thae

deevils o' horses. What gars he keep sic horses, doctor? They'll play

some mischeef some day.'

'Indeed, they've played enough already, my poor boy. They've broken your

arm.'

'Never min' that. That's no muckle. Ye're welcome, doctor, to my twa

airms for what ye hae dune for Robert an' that lang-leggit frien' o'

his--the Lord forgie me--Mr. Ericson. But ye maun jist pay him what I

canna mak for a day or twa, till 't jines again--to haud them gaein', ye

ken.--It winna be muckle to you, doctor,' added Shargar, beseechingly.

'Trust me for that, Moray,' returned Dr. Anderson. 'I owe you a good

deal more than that. My brains might have been out by this time.'

'The Lord be praised!' said Shargar, making about his first profession

of Christianity. 'Robert 'ill think something o' me noo.'

During this conversation the coachman sat expecting some one to appear

from the shop, and longing to pitch into the 'camstary' horse, but not

daring to lift his whip beyond its natural angle. No one came. All at

once Shargar knew where he was.

'Guid be here! we're at Donal's door! Guid day to ye, doctor; an' I'm

muckle obleeged to ye. Maybe, gin ye war comin' oor gait, the morn, or

the neist day, to see Maister Ericson, ye wad tie up my airm, for it

gangs wallopin' aboot, an' that canna be guid for the stickin' o' 't

thegither again.'

'My poor boy! you don't think I'm going to leave you here, do you?' said

the doctor, proceeding to open the carriage-door.

'But whaur's the hamper?' said Shargar, looking about him in dismay.

'The coachman has got it on the box,' answered the doctor.

'Eh! that'll never do. Gin thae rampaugin' brutes war to tak a start

again, what wad come o' the bit basket? I maun get it doon direckly.'

'Sit still. I will get it down, and deliver it myself.' As he spoke the

doctor got out.

'Tak care o' 't, sir; tak care o' 't. William Walker said there was a

jar o' drained hinney i' the basket; an' the bairns wad miss 't sair gin

't war spult.'

'I will take good care of it,' responded the doctor.

He delivered the basket, returned to the carriage, and told the coachman

to drive home.

'Whaur are ye takin' me till?' exclaimed Shargar. 'Willie hasna payed me

for the parcel.'

'Never mind Willie. I'll pay you,' said the doctor.

'But Robert wadna like me to tak siller whaur I did nae wark for 't,'

objected Shargar. 'He's some pernickety (precise)--Robert. But I'll jist

say 'at ye garred me, doctor. Maybe that 'll saitisfee him. An' faith!

I'm queer aboot my left fin here.'

'We'll soon set it all right,' said the doctor.

When they reached his house he led the way to his surgery, and there put

the broken limb in splints. He then told Johnston to help the patient to

bed.

'I maun gang hame,' objected Shargar. 'What wad Robert think?'

'I will tell him all about it,' said the doctor.

'Yersel, sir?' stipulated Shargar.

'Yes, myself.'

'Afore nicht?'

'Directly,' answered the doctor, and Shargar yielded.

'But what will Robert say?' were his last words, as he fell asleep,

appreciating, no doubt, the superiority of the bed to his usual lair

upon the hearthrug.

Robert was delighted to hear how well Shargar had acquitted himself.

Followed a small consultation about him; for the accident had ripened

the doctor's intentions concerning the outcast.

'As soon as his arm is sound again, he shall go to the grammar-school,'

he said.

'An' the college?' asked Robert.

'I hope so,' answered the doctor. 'Do you think he will do well? He has

plenty of courage, at all events, and that is a fine thing.'

'Ow ay,' answered Robert; 'he's no ill aff for smeddum (spirit)--that

is, gin it be for ony ither body. He wad never lift a han' for himsel';

an' that's what garred me tak till him sae muckle. He's a fine crater.

He canna gang him lane, but he'll gang wi' onybody--and haud up wi'

him.'

'What do you think him fit for, then?'

Now Robert had been building castles for Shargar out of the hopes which

the doctor's friendliness had given him. Therefore he was ready with his

answer.

'Gin ye cud ensure him no bein' made a general o', he wad mak a gran'

sojer. Set's face foret, and say “quick mairch,” an' he'll ca his

bagonet throu auld Hornie. But lay nae consequences upo' him, for he

cudna stan' unner them.'

Dr. Anderson laughed, but thought none the less, and went home to see

how his patient was getting on.

CHAPTER XIV. MYSIE'S FACE.

Meantime Ericson grew better. A space of hard, clear weather, in which

everything sparkled with frost and sunshine, did him good. But not yet

could he use his brain. He turned with dislike even from his friend

Plato. He would sit in bed or on his chair by the fireside for hours,

with his hands folded before him, and his eyelids drooping, and let his

thoughts flow, for he could not think. And that these thoughts flowed

not always with other than sweet sounds over the stones of question, the

curves of his lip would testify to the friendly, furtive glance of the

watchful Robert. None but the troubled mind knows its own consolations;

and I believe the saddest life has its own presence--however it may

be unrecognized as such--of the upholding Deity. Doth God care for

the hairs that perish from our heads? To a mind like Ericson's the

remembered scent, the recurring vision of a flower loved in childhood,

is enough to sustain anxiety with beauty, for the lovely is itself

healing and hope-giving, because it is the form and presence of the

true. To have such a presence is to be; and while a mind exists in

any high consciousness, the intellectual trouble that springs from

the desire to know its own life, to be assured of its rounded law and

security, ceases, for the desire itself falls into abeyance.

But although Ericson was so weak, he was always able and ready to help

Robert in any difficulty not unfrequently springing from his imperfect

preparation in Greek; for while Mr. Innes was an excellent Latin

scholar, his knowledge of Greek was too limited either to compel

learning or inspire enthusiasm. And with the keen instinct he possessed

in everything immediate between man and man, Robert would sometimes

search for a difficulty in order to request its solution; for then

Ericson would rouse himself to explain as few men could have explained:

where a clear view was to be had of anything, Ericson either had it or

knew that he had it not. Hence Robert's progress was good; for one word

from a wise helper will clear off a whole atmosphere of obstructions.

At length one day when Robert came home he found him seated at the

table, with his slate, working away at the Differential Calculus. After

this he recovered more rapidly, and ere another week was over began

to attend one class a day. He had been so far in advance before, that

though he could not expect prizes, there was no fear of his passing.

One morning, Robert, coming out from a lecture, saw Ericson in the

quadrangle talking to an elderly gentleman. When they met in the

afternoon Ericson told him that that was Mr. Lindsay, and that he had

asked them both to spend the evening at his house. Robert would go

anywhere to be with his friend.

He got out his Sunday clothes, and dressed himself with anxiety: he had

visited scarcely at all, and was shy and doubtful. He then sat down to

his books, till Ericson came to his door--dressed, and hence in Robert's

eyes ceremonial--a stately, graceful gentleman. Renewed awe came upon

him at the sight, and renewed gratitude. There was a flush on Ericson's

cheek, and a fire in his eye. Robert had never seen him look so grand.

But there was a something about him that rendered him uneasy--a look

that made Ericson seem strange, as if his life lay in some far-off

region.

'I want you to take your violin with you, Robert,' he said.

'Hoots!' returned Robert, 'hoo can I do that? To tak her wi' me the

first time I gang to a strange hoose, as gin I thocht a'body wad think

as muckle o' my auld wife as I do mysel'! That wadna be mainners--wad it

noo, Mr. Ericson?'

'But I told Mr. Lindsay that you could play well. The old gentleman is

fond of Scotch tunes, and you will please him if you take it.'

'That maks a' the differ,' answered Robert.

'Thank you,' said Ericson, as Robert went towards his instrument;

and, turning, would have walked from the house without any additional

protection.

'Whaur are ye gaein' that gait, Mr. Ericson? Tak yer plaid, or ye'll be

laid up again, as sure's ye live.'

'I'm warm enough,' returned Ericson.

'That's naething. The cauld 's jist lyin' i' the street like a verra

deevil to get a grup o' ye. Gin ye dinna pit on yer plaid, I winna tak

my fiddle.'

Ericson yielded; and they set out together.

I will account for Ericson's request about the violin.

He went to the episcopal church on Sundays, and sat where he could see

Mysie--sat longing and thirsting ever till the music returned. Yet the

music he never heard; he watched only its transmutation into form, never

taking his eyes off Mysie's face. Reflected thence in a metamorphosed

echo, he followed all its changes. Never was one powerless to produce

it more strangely responsive to its influence. She had no voice; she had

never been taught the use of any instrument. A world of musical feeling

was pent up in her, and music raised the suddener storms in her mobile

nature, that she was unable to give that feeling utterance. The waves of

her soul dashed the more wildly against their shores, inasmuch as those

shores were precipitous, and yielded no outlet to the swelling waters.

It was that his soul might hover like a bird of Paradise over the lovely

changes of her countenance, changes more lovely and frequent than those

of an English May, that Ericson persuaded Robert to take his violin.

The last of the sunlight was departing, and a large full moon was

growing through the fog on the horizon. The sky was almost clear of

clouds, and the air was cold and penetrating. Robert drew Eric's plaid

closer over his chest. Eric thanked him lightly, but his voice sounded

eager; and it was with a long hasty stride that he went up the hill

through the gathering of the light frosty mist. He stopped at the stair

upon which Robert had found him that memorable night. They went up. The

door had been left on the latch for their entrance. They went up more

steps between rocky walls. When in after years he read the Purgatorio,

as often as he came to one of its ascents, Robert saw this stair with

his inward eye. At the top of the stair was the garden, still ascending,

and at the top of the garden shone the glow of Mr. Lindsay's parlour

through the red-curtained window. To Robert it shone a refuge for

Ericson from the night air; to Ericson it shone the casket of the

richest jewel of the universe. Well might the ruddy glow stream forth to

meet him! Only in glowing red could such beauty be rightly closed. With

trembling hand he knocked at the door.

They were shown at once into the parlour. Mysie was putting away her

book as they entered, and her back was towards them. When she turned, it

seemed even to Robert as if all the light in the room came only from her

eyes. But that light had been all gathered out of the novel she had just

laid down. She held out her hand to Eric, and her sweet voice was yet

more gentle than wont, for he had been ill. His face flushed at the

tone. But although she spoke kindly, he could hardly have fancied that

she showed him special favour.

Robert stood with his violin under his arm, feeling as awkward as if he

had never handled anything more delicate than a pitchfork. But Mysie sat

down to the table, and began to pour out the tea, and he came to himself

again. Presently her father entered. His greeting was warm and mild and

sleepy. He had come from poring over Spotiswood, in search of some Will

o' the wisp or other, and had grown stupid from want of success. But

he revived after a cup of tea, and began to talk about northern

genealogies; and Ericson did his best to listen. Robert wondered at the

knowledge he displayed: he had been tutor the foregoing summer in one

of the oldest and poorest, and therefore proudest families in Caithness.

But all the time his host talked Ericson's eyes hovered about Mysie,

who sat gazing before her with look distraught, with wide eyes and

scarce-moving eyelids, beholding something neither on sea or shore;

and Mr. Lindsay would now and then correct Ericson in some egregious

blunder; while Mysie would now and then start awake and ask Robert or

Ericson to take another cup of tea. Before the sentence was

finished, however, she would let it die away, speaking the last words

mechanically, as her consciousness relapsed into dreamland. Had not

Robert been with Ericson, he would have found it wearisome enough; and

except things took a turn, Ericson could hardly be satisfied with the

pleasure of the evening. Things did take a turn.

'Robert has brought his fiddle,' said Ericson, as the tea was removed.

'I hope he will be kind enough to play something,' said Mr. Lindsay.

'I'll do that,' answered Robert, with alacrity. 'But ye maunna expec'

ower muckle, for I'm but a prentice-han',' he added, as he got the

instrument ready.

Before he had drawn the bow once across it, attention awoke in Mysie's

eyes; and before he had finished playing, Ericson must have had quite as

much of the 'beauty born of murmuring sound' as was good for him. Little

did Mysie think of the sky of love, alive with silent thoughts, that

arched over her. The earth teems with love that is unloved. The universe

itself is one sea of infinite love, from whose consort of harmonies if a

stray note steal across the sense, it starts bewildered.

Robert played better than usual. His touch grew intense, and put on all

its delicacy, till it was like that of the spider, which, as Pope so

admirably says,

Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.

And while Ericson watched its shadows, the music must have taken hold of

him too; for when Robert ceased, he sang a wild ballad of the northern

sea, to a tune strange as itself. It was the only time Robert ever heard

him sing. Mysie's eyes grew wider and wider as she listened. When it was

over,

'Did ye write that sang yersel', Mr. Ericson?' asked Robert.

'No,' answered Ericson. 'An old shepherd up in our parts used to say it

to me when I was a boy.'

'Didna he sing 't?' Robert questioned further.

'No, he didn't. But I heard an old woman crooning it to a child in a

solitary cottage on the shore of Stroma, near the Swalchie whirlpool,

and that was the tune she sang it to, if singing it could be called.'

'I don't quite understand it, Mr. Ericson,' said Mysie. 'What does it

mean?'

'There was once a beautiful woman lived there-away,' began Ericson.--But

I have not room to give the story as he told it, embellishing it,

no doubt, as with such a mere tale was lawful enough, from his own

imagination. The substance was that a young man fell in love with a

beautiful witch, who let him go on loving her till he cared for nothing

but her, and then began to kill him by laughing at him. For no witch can

fall in love herself, however much she may like to be loved. She mocked

him till he drowned himself in a pool on the seashore. Now the witch did

not know that; but as she walked along the shore, looking for things,

she saw his hand lying over the edge of a rocky basin. Nothing is more

useful to a witch than the hand of a man, so she went to pick it up.

When she found it fast to an arm, she would have chopped it off, but

seeing whose it was, she would, for some reason or other best known to

a witch, draw off his ring first. For it was an enchanted ring which she

had given him to bewitch his love, and now she wanted both it and the

hand to draw to herself the lover of a young maiden whom she hated. But

the dead hand closed its fingers upon hers, and her power was powerless

against the dead. And the tide came rushing up, and the dead hand held

her till she was drowned. She lies with her lover to this day at the

bottom of the Swalchie whirlpool; and when a storm is at hand, strange

moanings rise from the pool, for the youth is praying the witch lady for

her love, and she is praying him to let go her hand.

While Ericson told the story the room still glimmered about Robert as

if all its light came from Mysie's face, upon which the flickering

firelight alone played. Mr. Lindsay sat a little back from the rest,

with an amused expression: legends of such sort did not come within the

scope of his antiquarian reach, though he was ready enough to believe

whatever tempted his own taste, let it be as destitute of likelihood as

the story of the dead hand. When Ericson ceased, Mysie gave a deep sigh,

and looked full of thought, though I daresay it was only feeling. Mr.

Lindsay followed with an old tale of the Sinclairs, of which he said

Ericson's reminded him, though the sole association was that the

foregoing was a Caithness story, and the Sinclairs are a Caithness

family. As soon as it was over, Mysie, who could not hide all her

impatience during its lingering progress, asked Robert to play again. He

took up his violin, and with great expression gave the air of Ericson's

ballad two or three times over, and then laid down the instrument. He

saw indeed that it was too much for Mysie, affecting her more, thus

presented after the story, than the singing of the ballad itself.

Thereupon Ericson, whose spirits had risen greatly at finding that he

could himself secure Mysie's attention, and produce the play of soul in

feature which he so much delighted to watch, offered another story;

and the distant rush of the sea, borne occasionally into the 'grateful

gloom' upon the cold sweep of a February wind, mingled with one tale

after another, with which he entranced two of his audience, while the

third listened mildly content.

The last of the tales Ericson told was as follows:--

'One evening-twilight in spring, a young English student, who had

wandered northwards as far as the outlying fragments of Scotland called

the Orkney and Shetland islands, found himself on a small island of

the latter group, caught in a storm of wind and hail, which had come on

suddenly. It was in vain to look about for any shelter; for not only did

the storm entirely obscure the landscape, but there was nothing around

him save a desert moss.

'At length, however, as he walked on for mere walking's sake, he found

himself on the verge of a cliff, and saw, over the brow of it, a few

feet below him, a ledge of rock, where he might find some shelter from

the blast, which blew from behind. Letting himself down by his hands, he

alighted upon something that crunched beneath his tread, and found the

bones of many small animals scattered about in front of a little cave

in the rock, offering the refuge he sought, He went in, and sat upon

a stone. The storm increased in violence, and as the darkness grew he

became uneasy, for he did not relish the thought of spending the night

in the cave. He had parted from his companions on the opposite side of

the island, and it added to his uneasiness that they must be full of

apprehension about him. At last there came a lull in the storm, and the

same instant he heard a footfall, stealthy and light as that of a wild

beast, upon the bones at the mouth of the cave. He started up in some

fear, though the least thought might have satisfied him that there could

be no very dangerous animals upon the island. Before he had time to

think, however, the face of a woman appeared in the opening. Eagerly the

wanderer spoke. She started at the sound of his voice. He could not see

her well, because she was turned towards the darkness of the cave.

'“Will you tell me how to find my way across the moor to Shielness?” he

asked.

'“You cannot find it to-night,” she answered, in a sweet tone, and with

a smile that bewitched him, revealing the whitest of teeth.

'“What am I to do, then?” he asked.

'“My mother will give you shelter, but that is all she has to offer.”

'“And that is far more than I expected a minute ago,” he replied. “I

shall be most grateful.”

'She turned in silence and left the cave. The youth followed.

'She was barefooted, and her pretty brown feet went catlike over the

sharp stones, as she led the way down a rocky path to the shore. Her

garments were scanty and torn, and her hair blew tangled in the wind.

She seemed about five-and-twenty, lithe and small. Her long fingers kept

clutching and pulling nervously at her skirts as she went. Her face

was very gray in complexion, and very worn, but delicately formed, and

smooth-skinned. Her thin nostrils were tremulous as eyelids, and

her lips, whose curves were faultless, had no colour to give sign of

indwelling blood. What her eyes were like he could not see, for she had

never lifted the delicate films of her eyelids.

'At the foot of the cliff they came upon a little hut leaning against

it, and having for its inner apartment a natural hollow within it. Smoke

was spreading over the face of the rock, and the grateful odour of

food gave hope to the hungry student. His guide opened the door of the

cottage; he followed her in, and saw a woman bending over a fire in the

middle of the floor. On the fire lay a large fish boiling. The daughter

spoke a few words, and the mother turned and welcomed the stranger. She

had an old and very wrinkled, but honest face, and looked troubled. She

dusted the only chair in the cottage, and placed it for him by the side

of the fire, opposite the one window, whence he saw a little patch of

yellow sand over which the spent waves spread themselves out listlessly.

Under this window was a bench, upon which the daughter threw herself in

an unusual posture, resting her chin upon her hand. A moment after the

youth caught the first glimpse of her blue eyes. They were fixed upon

him with a strange look of greed, amounting to craving, but as if aware

that they belied or betrayed her, she dropped them instantly. The moment

she veiled them, her face, notwithstanding its colourless complexion,

was almost beautiful.

'When the fish was ready the old woman wiped the deal table, steadied it

upon the uneven floor, and covered it with a piece of fine table-linen.

She then laid the fish on a wooden platter, and invited the guest to

help himself. Seeing no other provision, he pulled from his pocket a

hunting-knife, and divided a portion from the fish, offering it to the

mother first.

'“Come, my lamb,” said the old woman; and the daughter approached the

table. But her nostrils and mouth quivered with disgust.

'The next moment she turned and hurried from the hut.

'“She doesn't like fish,” said the old woman, “and I haven't anything

else to give her.”

'“She does not seem in good health,” he rejoined.

'The woman answered only with a sigh, and they ate their fish with the

help of a little rye-bread. As they finished their supper, the youth

heard the sound as of the pattering of a dog's feet upon the sand close

to the door; but ere he had time to look out of the window, the door

opened and the young woman entered. She looked better, perhaps from

having just washed her face. She drew a stool to the corner of the fire

opposite him. But as she sat down, to his bewilderment, and even horror,

the student spied a single drop of blood on her white skin within her

torn dress. The woman brought out a jar of whisky, put a rusty old

kettle on the fire, and took her place in front of it. As soon as the

water boiled, she proceeded to make some toddy in a wooden bowl.

'Meantime the youth could not take his eyes off the young woman, so that

at length he found himself fascinated, or rather bewitched. She kept her

eyes for the most part veiled with the loveliest eyelids fringed with

darkest lashes, and he gazed entranced; for the red glow of the little

oil-lamp covered all the strangeness of her complexion. But as soon as

he met a stolen glance out of those eyes unveiled, his soul shuddered

within him. Lovely face and craving eyes alternated fascination and

repulsion.

'The mother placed the bowl in his hands. He drank sparingly, and passed

it to the girl. She lifted it to her lips, and as she tasted--only

tasted it--looked at him. He thought the drink must have been drugged

and have affected his brain. Her hair smoothed itself back, and drew her

forehead backwards with it; while the lower part of her face projected

towards the bowl, revealing, ere she sipped, her dazzling teeth in

strange prominence. But the same moment the vision vanished; she

returned the vessel to her mother, and rising, hurried out of the

cottage.

'Then, the old woman pointed to a bed of heather in one corner with a

murmured apology; and the student, wearied both with the fatigues of the

day and the strangeness of the night, threw himself upon it, wrapped in

his cloak. The moment he lay down, the storm began afresh, and the wind

blew so keenly through the crannies of the hut, that it was only by

drawing his cloak over his head that he could protect himself from its

currents. Unable to sleep, he lay listening to the uproar which grew in

violence, till the spray was dashing against the window. At length the

door opened, and the young woman came in, made up the fire, drew the

bench before it, and lay down in the same strange posture, with her chin

propped on her hand and elbow, and her face turned towards the youth. He

moved a little; she dropped her head, and lay on her face, with her arms

crossed beneath her forehead. The mother had disappeared.

'Drowsiness crept over him. A movement of the bench roused him, and he

fancied he saw some four-footed creature as tall as a large dog trot

quietly out of the door. He was sure he felt a rush of cold wind. Gazing

fixedly through the darkness, he thought he saw the eyes of the damsel

encountering his, but a glow from the falling together of the remnants

of the fire, revealed clearly enough that the bench was vacant.

Wondering what could have made her go out in such a storm, he fell fast

asleep.

'In the middle of the night he felt a pain in his shoulder, came broad

awake, and saw the gleaming eyes and grinning teeth of some animal close

to his face. Its claws were in his shoulder, and its mouth was in the

act of seeking his throat. Before it had fixed its fangs, however,

he had its throat in one hand, and sought his knife with the other.

A terrible struggle followed; but regardless of the tearing claws, he

found and opened his knife. He had made one futile stab, and was

drawing it for a surer, when, with a spring of the whole body, and one

wildly-contorted effort, the creature twisted its neck from his hold,

and with something betwixt a scream and a howl, darted from him.

Again he heard the door open; again the wind blew in upon him, and it

continued blowing; a sheet of spray dashed across the floor, and over

his face. He sprung from his couch and bounded to the door.

'It was a wild night--dark, but for the flash of whiteness from the

waves as they broke within a few yards of the cottage; the wind was

raving, and the rain pouring down the air. A gruesome sound as of

mingled weeping and howling came from somewhere in the dark. He turned

again into the hut and closed the door, but could find no way of

securing it.

'The lamp was nearly out, and he could not be certain whether the

form of the young woman was upon the bench or not. Overcoming a strong

repugnance, he approached it, and put out his hands--there was nothing

there. He sat down and waited for the daylight: he dared not sleep any

more.

'When the day dawned at length, he went out yet again, and looked

around. The morning was dim and gusty and gray. The wind had fallen,

but the waves were tossing wildly. He wandered up and down the little

strand, longing for more light.

'At length he heard a movement in the cottage. By and by the voice of

the old woman called to him from the door.

'“You're up early, sir. I doubt you didn't sleep well.”

'“Not very well,” he answered. “But where is your daughter?”

'“She's not awake yet,” said the mother. “I'm afraid I have but a poor

breakfast for you. But you'll take a dram and a bit of fish. It's all

I've got.”

'Unwilling to hurt her, though hardly in good appetite, he sat down at

the table. While they were eating the daughter came in, but turned her

face away and went to the further end of the hut. When she came forward

after a minute or two, the youth saw that her hair was drenched, and her

face whiter than before. She looked ill and faint, and when she raised

her eyes, all their fierceness had vanished, and sadness had taken its

place. Her neck was now covered with a cotton handkerchief. She was

modestly attentive to him, and no longer shunned his gaze. He was

gradually yielding to the temptation of braving another night in the

hut, and seeing what would follow, when the old woman spoke.

'“The weather will be broken all day, sir,” she said. “You had better be

going, or your friends will leave without you.”

'Ere he could answer, he saw such a beseeching glance on the face of the

girl, that he hesitated, confused. Glancing at the mother, he saw the

flash of wrath in her face. She rose and approached her daughter, with

her hand lifted to strike her. The young woman stooped her head with a

cry. He darted round the table to interpose between them. But the mother

had caught hold of her; the handkerchief had fallen from her neck; and

the youth saw five blue bruises on her lovely throat--the marks of

the four fingers and the thumb of a left hand. With a cry of horror he

rushed from the house, but as he reached the door he turned. His hostess

was lying motionless on the floor, and a huge gray wolf came bounding

after him.'

An involuntary cry from Mysie interrupted the story-teller. He changed

his tone at once.

'I beg your pardon, Miss Lindsay, for telling you such a horrid tale. Do

forgive me. I didn't mean to frighten you more than a little.'

'Only a case of lycanthropia,' remarked Mr. Lindsay, as coolly as if

that settled everything about it and lycanthropia, horror and all, at

once.

'Do tell us the rest,' pleaded Mysie, and Ericson resumed.

'There was no weapon at hand; and if there had been, his inborn chivalry

would never have allowed him to harm a woman even under the guise of a

wolf. Instinctively, he set himself firm, leaning a little forward, with

half outstretched arms, and hands curved ready to clutch again at the

throat upon which he had left those pitiful marks. But the creature as

she sprang eluded his grasp, and just as he expected to feel her fangs,

he found a woman weeping on his bosom, with her arms around his neck.

The next instant, the gray wolf broke from him, and bounded howling up

the cliff. Recovering himself as he best might, the youth followed, for

it was the only way to the moor above, across which he must now make his

way to find his companions.

'All at once he heard the sound of a crunching of bones--not as if a

creature was eating them, but as if they were ground by the teeth of

rage and disappointment: looking up, he saw close above him the mouth of

the little cavern in which he had taken refuge the day before. Summoning

all his resolution, he passed it slowly and softly. From within came the

sounds of a mingled moaning and growling.

'Having reached the top, he ran at full speed for some distance across

the moor before venturing to look behind him. When at length he did so

he saw, against the sky, the girl standing on the edge of the cliff,

wringing her hands. One solitary wail crossed the space between. She

made no attempt to follow him, and he reached the opposite shore in

safety.'

Mysie tried to laugh, but succeeded badly. Robert took his violin, and

its tones had soon swept all the fear from her face, leaving in its

stead a trouble that has no name--the trouble of wanting one knows not

what--or how to seek it.

It was now time to go home. Mysie gave each an equally warm good-night

and thanks, Mr. Lindsay accompanied them to the door, and the students

stepped into the moonlight. Across the links the sound of the sea came

with a swell.

As they went down the garden, Ericson stopped. Robert thought he was

looking back to the house, and went on. When Ericson joined him, he was

pale as death.

'What is the maitter wi' ye, Mr. Ericson?' he asked in terror.

'Look there!' said Ericson, pointing, not to the house, but to the sky.

Robert looked up. Close about the moon were a few white clouds. Upon

these white clouds, right over the moon, and near as the eyebrow to

an eye, hung part of an opalescent halo, bent into the rude, but

unavoidable suggestion of an eyebrow; while, close around the edge

of the moon, clung another, a pale storm-halo. To this pale iris and

faint-hued eyebrow the full moon itself formed the white pupil: the

whole was a perfect eye of ghastly death, staring out of the winter

heaven. The vision may never have been before, may never have been

again, but this Ericson and Robert saw that night.

CHAPTER XV. THE LAST OF THE COALS.

The next Sunday Robert went with Ericson to the episcopal chapel, and

for the first time in his life heard the epic music of the organ. It was

a new starting-point in his life. The worshipping instrument flooded

his soul with sound, and he stooped beneath it as a bather on the shore

stoops beneath the broad wave rushing up the land. But I will not linger

over this portion of his history. It is enough to say that he sought

the friendship of the organist, was admitted to the instrument; touched,

trembled, exulted; grew dissatisfied, fastidious, despairing;

gathered hope and tried again, and yet again; till at last, with

constantly-recurring fits of self-despite, he could not leave the grand

creature alone. It became a rival even to his violin. And once before

the end of March, when the organist was ill, and another was not to

be had, he ventured to occupy his place both at morning and evening

service.

Dr. Anderson kept George Moray in bed for a few days, after which

he went about for a while with his arm in a sling. But the season of

bearing material burdens was over for him now. Dr. Anderson had an

interview with the master of the grammar-school; a class was assigned to

Moray, and with a delight, resting chiefly on his social approximation

to Robert, which in one week elevated the whole character of his person

and countenance and bearing, George Moray bent himself to the task

of mental growth. Having good helpers at home, and his late-developed

energy turning itself entirely into the new channel, he got on

admirably. As there was no other room to be had in Mrs. Fyvie's house,

he continued for the rest of the session to sleep upon the rug, for he

would not hear of going to another house. The doctor had advised Robert

to drop the nickname as much as possible; but the first time he called

him Moray, Shargar threatened to cut his throat, and so between the two

the name remained.

I presume that by this time Doctor Anderson had made up his mind to

leave his money to Robert, but thought it better to say nothing about

it, and let the boy mature his independence. He had him often to his

house. Ericson frequently accompanied him; and as there was a good deal

of original similarity between the doctor and Ericson, the latter soon

felt his obligation no longer a burden. Shargar likewise, though

more occasionally, made one of the party, and soon began, in his new

circumstances, to develop the manners of a gentleman. I say develop

advisedly, for Shargar had a deep humanity in him, as abundantly

testified by his devotion to Robert, and humanity is the body of which

true manners is the skin and ordinary manifestation: true manners are

the polish which lets the internal humanity shine through, just as the

polish on marble reveals its veined beauty. Many talks did the elderly

man hold with the three youths, and his experience of life taught

Ericson and Robert much, especially what he told them about his Brahmin

friend in India. Moray, on the other hand, was chiefly interested in his

tales of adventure when on service in the Indian army, or engaged in the

field sports of that region so prolific in monsters. His gipsy blood and

lawless childhood, spent in wandering familiarity with houseless nature,

rendered him more responsive to these than the others, and his kindled

eye and pertinent remarks raised in the doctor's mind an early question

whether a commission in India might not be his best start in life.

Between Ericson and Robert, as the former recovered his health,

communication from the deeper strata of human need became less frequent.

Ericson had to work hard to recover something of his leeway; Robert had

to work hard that prizes might witness for him to his grandmother and

Miss St. John. To the latter especially, as I think I have said before,

he was anxious to show well, wiping out the blot, as he considered it,

of his all but failure in the matter of a bursary. For he looked up

to her as to a goddess who just came near enough to the earth to be

worshipped by him who dwelt upon it.

The end of the session came nigh. Ericson passed his examinations with

honour. Robert gained the first Greek and third Latin prize. The

evening of the last day arrived, and on the morrow the students would be

gone--some to their homes of comfort and idleness, others to hard

labour in the fields; some to steady reading, perhaps to school again

to prepare for the next session, and others to be tutors all the summer

months, and return to the wintry city as to freedom and life. Shargar

was to remain at the grammar-school.

That last evening Robert sat with Ericson in his room. It was a cold

night--the night of the last day of March. A bitter wind blew about the

house, and dropped spiky hailstones upon the skylight. The friends were

to leave on the morrow, but to leave together; for they had already sent

their boxes, one by the carrier to Rothieden, the other by a sailing

vessel to Wick, and had agreed to walk together as far as Robert's home,

where he was in hopes of inducing his friend to remain for a few days

if he found his grandmother agreeable to the plan. Shargar was asleep on

the rug for the last time, and Robert had brought his coal-scuttle into

Ericson's room to combine their scanty remains of well-saved fuel in a

common glow, over which they now sat.

'I wonder what my grannie 'ill say to me,' said Robert.

'She'll be very glad to see you, whatever she may say,' remarked

Ericson.

'She'll say “Noo, be dooce,” the minute I hae shacken hands wi' her,'

said Robert.

'Robert,' returned Ericson solemnly, 'if I had a grandmother to go home

to, she might box my ears if she liked--I wouldn't care. You do not know

what it is not to have a soul belonging to you on the face of the earth.

It is so cold and so lonely!'

'But you have a cousin, haven't you?' suggested Robert.

Ericson laughed, but good-naturedly.

'Yes,' he answered, 'a little man with a fishy smell, in a blue

tail-coat with brass buttons, and a red and black nightcap.'

'But,' Robert ventured to hint, 'he might go in a kilt and top-boots,

like Satan in my grannie's copy o' the Paradise Lost, for onything I

would care.'

'Yes, but he's just like his looks. The first thing he'll do the next

morning after I go home, will be to take me into his office, or shop,

as he calls it, and get down his books, and show me how many barrels of

herring I owe him, with the price of each. To do him justice, he only

charges me wholesale.'

'What'll he do that for?'

'To urge on me the necessity of diligence, and the choice of a

profession,' answered Ericson, with a smile of mingled sadness and

irresolution. 'He will set forth what a loss the interest of the money

is, even if I should pay the principal; and remind me that although he

has stood my friend, his duty to his own family imposes limits. And he

has at least a couple of thousand pounds in the county bank. I don't

believe he would do anything for me but for the honour it will be to

the family to have a professional man in it. And yet my father was the

making of him.'

'Tell me about your father. What was he?'

'A gentle-minded man, who thought much and said little. He farmed the

property that had been his father's own, and is now leased by my fishy

cousin afore mentioned.'

'And your mother?'

'She died just after I was born, and my father never got over it.'

'And you have no brothers or sisters?'

'No, not one. Thank God for your grandmother, and do all you can to

please her.'

A silence followed, during which Robert's heart swelled and heaved

with devotion to Ericson; for notwithstanding his openness, there was a

certain sad coldness about him that restrained Robert from letting out

all the tide of his love. The silence became painful, and he broke it

abruptly.

'What are you going to be, Mr. Ericson?'

'I wish you could tell me, Robert. What would you have me to be? Come

now.'

Robert thought for a moment.

'Weel, ye canna be a minister, Mr. Ericson, 'cause ye dinna believe in

God, ye ken,' he said simply.

'Don't say that, Robert,' Ericson returned, in a tone of pain with which

no displeasure was mingled. 'But you are right. At best I only hope in

God; I don't believe in him.'

'I'm thinkin' there canna be muckle differ atween houp an' faith,' said

Robert. 'Mony a ane 'at says they believe in God has unco little houp o'

onything frae 's han', I'm thinkin'.'

My reader may have observed a little change for the better in Robert's

speech. Dr. Anderson had urged upon him the necessity of being able at

least to speak English; and he had been trying to modify the antique

Saxon dialect they used at Rothieden with the newer and more refined

English. But even when I knew him, he would upon occasion, especially

when the subject was religion or music, fall back into the broadest

Scotch. It was as if his heart could not issue freely by any other gate

than that of his grandmother tongue.

Fearful of having his last remark contradicted--for he had an

instinctive desire that it should lie undisturbed where he had cast it

in the field of Ericson's mind, he hurried to another question.

'What for shouldna ye be a doctor?'

'Now you'll think me a fool, Robert, if I tell you why.'

'Far be it frae me to daur think sic a word, Mr. Ericson!' said Robert

devoutly.

'Well, I'll tell you, whether or not,' returned Ericson. 'I could, I

believe, amputate a living limb with considerable coolness; but put a

knife in a dead body I could not.'

'I think I know what you mean. Then you must be a lawyer.'

'A lawyer! O Lord!' said Ericson.

'Why not?' asked Robert, in some wonderment; for he could not imagine

Ericson acting from mere popular prejudice or fancy.

'Just think of spending one's life in an atmosphere of squabbles.

It's all very well when one gets to be a judge and dispense justice;

but--well, it's not for me. I could not do the best for my clients. And

a lawyer has nothing to do with the kingdom of heaven--only with his

clients. He must be a party-man. He must secure for one so often at the

loss of the rest. My duty and my conscience would always be at strife.'

'Then what will you be, Mr. Ericson?'

'To tell the truth, I would rather be a watchmaker than anything else I

know. I might make one watch that would go right, I suppose, if I lived

long enough. But no one would take an apprentice of my age. So I suppose

I must be a tutor, knocked about from one house to another, patronized

by ex-pupils, and smiled upon as harmless by mammas and sisters to the

end of the chapter. And then something of a pauper's burial, I suppose.

Che sara sara.'

Ericson had sunk into one of his worst moods. But when he saw Robert

looking unhappy, he changed his tone, and would be--what he could not

be--merry.

'But what's the use of talking about it?' he said. 'Get your fiddle,

man, and play The Wind that Shakes the Barley.'

'No, Mr. Ericson,' answered Robert; 'I have no heart for the fiddle. I

would rather have some poetry.'

'Oh!--Poetry!' returned Ericson, in a tone of contempt--yet not very

hearty contempt.

'We're gaein' awa', Mr. Ericson,' said Robert; 'an' the Lord 'at we ken

naething aboot alane kens whether we'll ever meet again i' this place.

And sae--'

'True enough, my boy,' interrupted Ericson. 'I have no need to trouble

myself about the future. I believe that is the real secret of it after

all. I shall never want a profession or anything else.'

'What do you mean, Mr. Ericson?' asked Robert, in half-defined terror.

'I mean, my boy, that I shall not live long. I know that--thank God!'

'How do you know it?'

'My father died at thirty, and my mother at six-and-twenty, both of the

same disease. But that's not how I know it.'

'How do you know it then?'

Ericson returned no answer. He only said--

'Death will be better than life. One thing I don't like about it

though,' he added, 'is the coming on of unconsciousness. I cannot bear

to lose my consciousness even in sleep. It is such a terrible thing!'

'I suppose that's ane o' the reasons that we canna be content withoot

a God,' responded Robert. 'It's dreidfu' to think even o' fa'in' asleep

withoot some ane greater an' nearer than the me watchin' ower 't. But

I'm jist sayin' ower again what I hae read in ane o' your papers, Mr.

Ericson. Jist lat me luik.'

Venturing more than he had ever yet ventured, Robert rose and went to

the cupboard where Ericson's papers lay. His friend did not check him.

On the contrary, he took the papers from his hand, and searched for the

poem indicated.

'I'm not in the way of doing this sort of thing, Robert,' he said.

'I know that,' answered Robert.

And Ericson read.

SLEEP.

Oh, is it Death that comes

To have a foretaste of the whole?

To-night the planets and the stars

Will glimmer through my window-bars,

But will not shine upon my soul.

For I shall lie as dead,

Though yet I am above the ground;

All passionless, with scarce a breath,

With hands of rest and eyes of death,

I shall be carried swiftly round.

Or if my life should break

The idle night with doubtful gleams

Through mossy arches will I go,

Through arches ruinous and low,

And chase the true and false in dreams.

Why should I fall asleep?

When I am still upon my bed,

The moon will shine, the winds will rise,

And all around and through the skies

The light clouds travel o'er my head.

O, busy, busy things!

Ye mock me with your ceaseless life;

For all the hidden springs will flow,

And all the blades of grass will grow,

When I have neither peace nor strife.

And all the long night through,

The restless streams will hurry by;

And round the lands, with endless roar,

The white waves fall upon the shore,

And bit by bit devour the dry.

Even thus, but silently,

Eternity, thy tide shall flow--

And side by side with every star

Thy long-drawn swell shall bear me far,

An idle boat with none to row.

My senses fail with sleep;

My heart beats thick; the night is noon;

And faintly through its misty folds

I hear a drowsy clock that holds

Its converse with the waning moon.

Oh, solemn mystery!

That I should be so closely bound

With neither terror nor constraint

Without a murmur of complaint,

And lose myself upon such ground!

'Rubbish!' said Ericson, as he threw down the sheets, disgusted with his

own work, which so often disappoints the writer, especially if he is by

any chance betrayed into reading it aloud.

'Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson,' returned Robert. 'Ye maunna say that.

Ye hae nae richt to lauch at honest wark, whether it be yer ain or ony

ither body's. The poem noo--'

'Don't call it a poem,' interrupted Ericson. 'It's not worthy of the

name.'

'I will ca' 't a poem,' persisted Robert; 'for it's a poem to me,

whatever it may be to you. An' hoo I ken 'at it's a poem is jist this:

it opens my een like music to something I never saw afore.'

'What is that?' asked Ericson, not sorry to be persuaded that there

might after all be some merit in the productions painfully despised of

himself.

'Jist this: it's only whan ye dinna want to fa' asleep 'at it luiks

fearsome to ye. An' maybe the fear o' death comes i' the same way: we're

feared at it 'cause we're no a'thegither ready for 't; but whan the

richt time comes, it'll be as nat'ral as fa'in' asleep whan we're

doonricht sleepy. Gin there be a God to ca' oor Father in heaven, I'm

no thinkin' that he wad to sae mony bonny tunes pit a scraich for the

hinder end. I'm thinkin', gin there be onything in 't ava--ye ken I'm no

sayin', for I dinna ken--we maun jist lippen till him to dee dacent an'

bonny, an' nae sic strange awfu' fash aboot it as some fowk wad mak a

religion o' expeckin'.'

Ericson looked at Robert with admiration mingled with something akin to

merriment.

'One would think it was your grandfather holding forth, Robert,' he

said. 'How came you to think of such things at your age?'

'I'm thinkin',' answered Robert, 'ye warna muckle aulder nor mysel' whan

ye took to sic things, Mr. Ericson. But, 'deed, maybe my luckie-daddie

(grandfather) pat them i' my heid, for I had a heap ado wi' his fiddle

for a while. She's deid noo.'

Not understanding him, Ericson began to question, and out came the story

of the violins. They talked on till the last of their coals was burnt

out, and then they went to bed.

Shargar had undertaken to rouse them early, that they might set out on

their long walk with a long day before them. But Robert was awake before

Shargar. The all but soulless light of the dreary season awoke him,

and he rose and looked out. Aurora, as aged now as her loved Tithonus,

peered, gray-haired and desolate, over the edge of the tossing sea, with

hardly enough of light in her dim eyes to show the broken crests of the

waves that rushed shorewards before the wind of her rising. Such an east

wind was the right breath to issue from such a pale mouth of hopeless

revelation as that which opened with dead lips across the troubled sea

on the far horizon. While he gazed, the east darkened; a cloud of hail

rushed against the window; and Robert retreated to his bed. But ere he

had fallen asleep, Ericson was beside him; and before he was dressed,

Ericson appeared again, with his stick in his hand. They left Shargar

still asleep, and descended the stairs, thinking to leave the house

undisturbed. But Mrs. Fyvie was watching for them, and insisted on

their taking the breakfast she had prepared. They then set out on their

journey of forty miles, with half a loaf in their pockets, and money

enough to get bread and cheese, and a bottle of the poorest ale, at the

far-parted roadside inns.

When Shargar awoke, he wept in desolation, then crept into Robert's bed,

and fell fast asleep again.

CHAPTER XVI. A STRANGE NIGHT.

The youths had not left the city a mile behind, when a thick snowstorm

came on. It did not last long, however, and they fought their way

through it into a glimpse of sun. To Robert, healthy, powerful, and

except at rare times, hopeful, it added to the pleasure of the journey

to contend with the storm, and there was a certain steely indifference

about Ericson that carried him through. They trudged on steadily for

three hours along a good turnpike road, with great black masses of cloud

sweeping across the sky, which now sent them a glimmer of sunlight, and

now a sharp shower of hail. The country was very dreary--a succession of

undulations rising into bleak moorlands, and hills whose heather would

in autumn flush the land with glorious purple, but which now looked

black and cheerless, as if no sunshine could ever warm them. Now and

then the moorland would sweep down to the edge of the road, diversified

with dark holes from which peats were dug, and an occasional quarry

of gray granite. At one moment endless pools would be shining in the

sunlight, and the next the hail would be dancing a mad fantastic dance

all about them: they pulled their caps over their brows, bent their

heads, and struggled on.

At length they reached their first stage, and after a meal of bread and

cheese and an offered glass of whisky, started again on their journey.

They did not talk much, for their force was spent on their progress.

After some consultation whether to keep the road or take a certain short

cut across the moors, which would lead them into it again with a saving

of several miles, the sun shining out with a little stronger promise

than he had yet given, they resolved upon the latter. But in the middle

of the moorland the wind and the hail came on with increased violence,

and they were glad to tack from one to another of the huge stones that

lay about, and take a short breathing time under the lee of each; so

that when they recovered the road, they had lost as many miles in

time and strength as they had saved in distance. They did not give in,

however, but after another rest and a little more refreshment, started

again.

The evening was now growing dusk around them, and the fatigue of the day

was telling so severely on Ericson, that when in the twilight they heard

the blast of a horn behind them, and turning saw the two flaming eyes

of a well-known four-horse coach come fluctuating towards them, Robert

insisted on their getting up and riding the rest of the way.

'But I can't afford it,' said Ericson.

'But I can,' said Robert.

'I don't doubt it,' returned Ericson. 'But I owe you too much already.'

'Gin ever we win hame--I mean to the heart o' hame--ye can pay me

there.'

'There will be no need then.'

'Whaur's the need than to mak sic a wark aboot a saxpence or twa atween

this and that? I thocht ye cared for naething that time or space

or sense could grip or measure. Mr. Ericson, ye're no half sic a

philosopher as ye wad set up for.--Hillo!'

Ericson laughed a weary laugh, and as the coach stopped in obedience to

Robert's hail, he scrambled up behind.

The guard knew Robert, was pitiful over the condition of the travellers,

would have put them inside, but that there was a lady there, and their

clothes were wet, got out a great horse-rug and wrapped Robert in it,

put a spare coat of his own, about an inch thick, upon Ericson, drew out

a flask, took a pull at it, handed it to his new passengers, and blew

a vigorous blast on his long horn, for they were approaching a desolate

shed where they had to change their weary horses for four fresh

thorough-breds.

Away they went once more, careering through the gathering darkness. It

was delightful indeed to have to urge one weary leg past the other

no more, but be borne along towards food, fire, and bed. But their

adventures were not so nearly over as they imagined. Once more the hail

fell furiously--huge hailstones, each made of many, half-melted and

welded together into solid lumps of ice. The coachman could scarcely

hold his face to the shower, and the blows they received on their faces

and legs, drove the thin-skinned, high-spirited horses nearly mad. At

length they would face it no longer. At a turn in the road, where it

crossed a brook by a bridge with a low stone wall, the wind met them

right in the face with redoubled vehemence; the leaders swerved from it,

and were just rising to jump over the parapet, when the coachman, whose

hands were nearly insensible with cold, threw his leg over the reins,

and pulled them up. One of the leaders reared, and fell backwards; one

of the wheelers kicked vigorously; a few moments, and in spite of the

guard at their heads, all was one struggling mass of bodies and legs,

with a broken pole in the midst. The few passengers got down; and

Robert, fearing that yet worse might happen and remembering the lady,

opened the door. He found her quite composed. As he helped her out,

'What is the matter?' asked the voice dearest to him in the world--the

voice of Miss St. John.