For years he had regarded the finding of his father as the first duty of his manhood: it was as if his mother had now given her sanction to the quest, with this letter to carry to the husband who, however he might have erred, was yet dear to her. He replaced it in the box, but the box no more on the forsaken shelf with its dreary barricade of soulless records. He carried it with him, and laid it in the bottom of his box, which henceforth he kept carefully locked: there lay as it were the pledge of his father’s salvation, and his mother’s redemption from an eternal grief.

  He turned to his equation: it had cleared itself up; he worked it out in five minutes. Betty came to tell him that the dinner was ready, and he went down, peaceful and hopeful, to his grandmother.

  While at home he never worked in the evenings: it was bad enough to have to do so at college. Hence nature had a chance with him again. Blessings on the wintry blasts that broke into the first youth of Summer! They made him feel what summer was! Blessings on the cheerless days of rain, and even of sleet and hail, that would shove the reluctant year back into January. The fair face of Spring, with her tears dropping upon her quenchless smiles, peeped in suppressed triumph from behind the growing corn and the budding sallows on the river-bank. Nay, even when the snow came once more in defiance of calendars, it was but a background from which the near genesis should ‘stick fiery off.’

  In general he had a lonely walk after his lesson with Miss St. John was over: there was no one at Rothieden to whom his heart and intellect both were sufficiently drawn to make a close friendship possible. He had companions, however: Ericson had left his papers with him. The influence of these led him into yet closer sympathy with Nature and all her moods; a sympathy which, even in the stony heart of London, he not only did not lose but never ceased to feel. Even there a breath of wind would not only breathe upon him, it would breathe into him; and a sunset seen from the Strand was lovely as if it had hung over rainbow seas. On his way home he would often go into one of the shops where the neighbours congregated in the evenings, and hold a little talk; and although, with Miss St. John filling his heart, his friend’s poems his imagination, and geometry and algebra his intellect, great was the contrast between his own inner mood and the words by which he kept up human relations with his townsfolk, yet in after years he counted it one of the greatest blessings of a lowly birth and education that he knew hearts and feelings which to understand one must have been young amongst them. He would not have had a chance of knowing such as these if he had been the son of Dr. Anderson and born in Aberdeen.

  CHAPTER XIX. ROBERT MEDIATES.

  One lovely evening in the first of the summer Miss St. John had dismissed him earlier than usual, and he had wandered out for a walk. After a round of a couple of miles, he returned by a fir-wood, through which went a pathway. He had heard Mary St. John say that she was going to see the wife of a labourer who lived at the end of this path. In the heart of the trees it was growing very dusky; but when he came to a spot where they stood away from each other a little space, and the blue sky looked in from above with one cloud floating in it from which the rose of the sunset was fading, he seated himself on a little mound of moss that had gathered over an ancient stump by the footpath, and drew out his friend’s papers. Absorbed in his reading, he was not aware of an approach till the rustle of silk startled him. He lifted up his eyes, and saw Miss St. John a few yards from him on the pathway. He rose.

  ‘It’s almost too dark to read now, isn’t it, Robert?’ she said.

  ‘Ah!’ said. Robert, ‘I know this writing so well that I could read it by moonlight. I wish I might read some of it to you. You would like it.’

  ‘May I ask whose it is, then? Poetry, too!’

  ‘It’s Mr. Ericson’s. But I’m feared he wouldna like me to read it to anybody but myself. And yet—’

  ‘I don’t think he would mind me,’ returned Miss St. John. ‘I do know him a little. It is not as if I were quite a stranger, you know. Did he tell you not?’

  ‘No. But then he never thought of such a thing. I don’t know if it’s fair, for they are carelessly written, and there are words and lines here and there that I am sure he would alter if he cared for them ae hair.’

  ‘Then if he doesn’t care for them, he won’t mind my hearing them. There!’ she said, seating herself on the stump. ‘You sit down on the grass and read me — one at least.’

  ‘You’ll remember they were never intended to be read?’ urged Robert, not knowing what he was doing, and so fulfilling his destiny.

  ‘I will be as jealous of his honour as ever you can wish,’ answered Miss St. John gaily.

  Robert laid himself on the grass at her feet, and read: —

  MY TWO GENIUSES.

  One is a slow and melancholy maid:

  I know not if she cometh from the skies,

  Or from the sleepy gulfs, but she will rise

  Often before me in the twilight shade

  Holding a bunch of poppies, and a blade

  Of springing wheat: prostrate my body lies

  Before her on the turf, the while she ties

  A fillet of the weed about my head;

  And in the gaps of sleep I seem to hear

  A gentle rustle like the stir of corn,

  And words like odours thronging to my ear:

  ‘Lie still, beloved, still until the morn;

  Lie still with me upon this rolling sphere,

  Still till the judgment — thou art faint and worn.’

  The other meets me in the public throng:

  Her hair streams backward from her loose attire;

  She hath a trumpet and an eye of fire;

  She points me downward steadily and long —

  ‘There is thy grave — arise, my son, be strong!

  Hands are upon thy crown; awake, aspire

  To immortality; heed not the lyre

  Of the enchantress, nor her poppy-song;

  But in the stillness of the summer calm,

  Tremble for what is godlike in thy being.

  Listen awhile, and thou shalt hear the psalm

  Of victory sung by creatures past thy seeing;

  And from far battle-fields there comes the neighing

  Of dreadful onset, though the air is balm.’

  Maid with the poppies, must I let thee go?

  Alas! I may not; thou art likewise dear;

  I am but human, and thou hast a tear,

  When she hath nought but splendour, and the glow

  Of a wild energy that mocks the flow

  Of the poor sympathies which keep us here.

  Lay past thy poppies, and come twice as near,

  And I will teach thee, and thou too shalt grow;

  And thou shalt walk with me in open day

  Through the rough thoroughfares with quiet grace;

  And the wild-visaged maid shall lead the way,

  Timing her footsteps to a gentler pace,

  As her great orbs turn ever on thy face,

  Drinking in draughts of loving help alway.

  Miss St. John did not speak.

  ‘War ye able to follow him?’ asked Robert.

  ‘Quite, I assure you,’ she answered, with a tremulousness in her voice which delighted Robert as evidence of his friend’s success.

  ‘But they’re nae a’ so easy to follow, I can tell ye, mem. Just hearken to this,’ he said, with some excitement.

  When the storm was proudest,

  And the wind was loudest,

  I heard the hollow caverns drinking down below;

  When the stars were bright,

  And the ground was white,

  I heard the grasses springing underneath the snow.

  Many voices spake —

  The river to the lake,

  The iron-ribbed sky was talking to the sea;

  And every starry spark

  Made music with the dark,

  And said how bright and beautiful everything must be.

  ‘That line, mem,’ remarked Robert, ‘‘s only jist scrattit in, as gin he had no intention o’ leavin’ ‘t, an’ only set it there to keep room for anither. But we’ll jist gang on wi’ the lave o’ ‘t. I ouchtna to hae interruppit it.’

  When the sun was setting,

  All the clouds were getting

  Beautiful and silvery in the rising moon;

  Beneath the leafless trees

  Wrangling in the breeze,

  I could hardly see them for the leaves of June.

  When the day had ended,

  And the night descended,

  I heard the sound of streams that I heard not through the day

  And every peak afar,

  Was ready for a star,

  And they climbed and rolled around until the morning gray.

  Then slumber soft and holy

  Came down upon me slowly;

  And I went I know not whither, and I lived I know not how;

  My glory had been banished,

  For when I woke it vanished,

  But I waited on it’s coming, and I am waiting now.

  ‘There!’ said Robert, ending, ‘can ye mak onything o’ that, Miss St. John?’

  ‘I don’t say I can in words,’ she answered; ‘but I think I could put it all into music.’

  ‘But surely ye maun hae some notion o’ what it’s aboot afore you can do that.’

  ‘Yes; but I have some notion of what it’s about, I think. Just lend it to me; and by the time we have our next lesson, you will see whether I’m not able to show you I understand it. I shall take good care of it,’ she added, with a smile, seeing Robert’s reluctance to part with it. ‘It doesn’t matter my having it, you know, now that you’ve read it to me, I want to make you do it justice. — But it’s quite time I were going home. Besides, I really don’t think you can see to read any more.’

  ‘Weel, it’s better no to try, though I hae them maistly upo’ my tongue: I might blunder, and that wad blaud them. — Will you let me go home with you?’ he added, in pure tremulous English.

  ‘Certainly, if you like,’ she answered; and they walked towards the town.

  Robert opened the fountain of his love for Ericson, and let it gush like a river from a hillside. He talked on and on about him, with admiration, gratitude, devotion. And Miss St. John was glad of the veil of the twilight over her face as she listened, for the boy’s enthusiasm trembled through her as the wind through an Æolian harp. Poor Robert! He did not know, I say, what he was doing, and so was fulfilling his sacred destiny.

  ‘Bring your manuscripts when you come next,’ she said, as they walked along — gently adding, ‘I admire your friend’s verses very much, and should like to hear more of them.’

  ‘I’ll be sure an’ do that,’ answered Robert, in delight that he had found one to sympathize with him in his worship of Ericson, and that one his other idol.

  When they reached the town, Miss St. John, calling to mind its natural propensity to gossip, especially on the evening of a market-day, when the shopkeepers, their labours over, would be standing in a speculative mood at their doors, surrounded by groups of friends and neighbours, felt shy of showing herself on the square with Robert, and proposed that they should part, giving as a by-the-bye reason that she had a little shopping to do as she went home. Too simple to suspect the real reason, but with a heart that delighted in obedience, Robert bade her good-night at once, and took another way.

  As he passed the door of Merson the haberdasher’s shop, there stood William MacGregor, the weaver, looking at nothing and doing nothing. We have seen something of him before: he was a remarkable compound of good nature and bad temper. People were generally afraid of him, because he had a biting satire at his command, amounting even to wit, which found vent in verse — not altogether despicable even from a literary point of view. The only person he, on his part, was afraid of, was his own wife; for upon her, from lack of apprehension, his keenest irony fell, as he said, like water on a duck’s back, and in respect of her he had, therefore, no weapon of offence to strike terror withal. Her dulness was her defence. He liked Robert. When he saw him, he wakened up, laid hold of him by the button, and drew him in.

  ‘Come in, lad,’ he said, ‘an’ tak a pinch. I’m waitin’ for Merson.’ As he spoke he took from his pocket his mull, made of the end of a ram’s horn, and presented it to Robert, who accepted the pledge of friendship. While he was partaking, MacGregor drew himself with some effort upon the counter, saying in a half-comical, half-admonitory tone,

  ‘Weel, and hoo’s the mathematics, Robert?’

  ‘Thrivin’,’ answered Robert, falling into his humour.

  ‘Weel, that’s verra weel. Duv ye min’, Robert, hoo, whan ye was aboot the age o’ aucht year aul’, ye cam to me ance at my shop aboot something yer gran’mither, honest woman, wantit, an’ I, by way o’ takin’ my fun o’ ye, said to ye, “Robert, ye hae grown desperate; ye’re a man clean; ye hae gotten the breeks on.” An’ says ye, “Ay, Mr. MacGregor, I want naething noo but a watch an’ a wife”?’

  ‘I doobt I’ve forgotten a’ aboot it, Mr. MacGregor,’ answered Robert. ‘But I’ve made some progress, accordin’ to your story, for Dr. Anderson, afore I cam hame, gae me a watch. An’ a fine crater it is, for it aye does its best, an’ sae I excuse its shortcomin’s.’

  ‘There’s just ae thing, an’ nae anither,’ returned the manufacturer, ‘that I cannot excuse in a watch. Gin a watch gangs ower fest, ye fin’ ‘t oot. Gin she gangs ower slow, ye fin’ ‘t oot, an’ ye can aye calculate upo’ ‘t correck eneuch for maitters sublunairy, as Mr. Maccleary says. An’ gin a watch stops a’thegither, ye ken it’s failin’, an’ ye ken whaur it sticks, an’ a’ ‘at ye say ‘s “Tut, tut, de’il hae ‘t for a watch!” But there’s ae thing that God nor man canna bide in a watch, an’ that’s whan it stan’s still for a bittock, an’ syne gangs on again. Ay, ay! tic, tic, tic! wi’ a fair face and a leein’ hert. It wad gar ye believe it was a’ richt, and time for anither tum’ler, whan it’s twal o’clock, an’ the kirkyaird fowk thinkin’ aboot risin’. Fegs, I had a watch o’ my father’s, an’ I regairdit it wi’ a reverence mair like a human bein’: the second time it played me that pliskie, I dang oot its guts upo’ the loupin’-on-stane at the door o’ the chop. But lat the watch sit: whaur’s the wife? Ye canna be a man yet wantin’ the wife — by yer ain statement.’

  ‘The watch cam unsoucht, Mr. MacGregor, an’ I’m thinkin’ sae maun the wife,’ answered Robert, laughing.

  ‘Preserve me for ane frae a wife that comes unsoucht,’ returned the weaver. ‘But, my lad, there may be some wives that winna come whan they are soucht. Preserve me frae them too! — Noo, maybe ye dinna ken what I mean — but tak ye tent what ye’re aboot. Dinna ye think ‘at ilka bonnie lass ‘at may like to haud a wark wi’ ye ‘s jist ready to mairry ye aff han’ whan ye say, “Noo, my dawtie.” — An’ ae word mair, Robert: Young men, especially braw lads like yersel’, ‘s unco ready to fa’ in love wi’ women fit to be their mithers. An’ sae ye see—’

  He was interrupted by the entrance of a girl. She had a shawl over her head, notwithstanding it was summer weather, and crept in hesitatingly, as if she were not quite at one with herself as to her coming purchase. Approaching a boy behind the counter on the opposite side of the shop, she asked for something, and he proceeded to serve her. Robert could not help thinking, from the one glimpse of her face he had got through the dusk, that he had seen her before. Suddenly the vision of an earthen floor with a pool of brown sunlight upon it, bare feet, brown hair, and soft eyes, mingled with a musk odour wafted from Arabian fairyland, rose before him: it was Jessie Hewson.

  ‘I ken that lassie,’ he said, and moved to get down from the counter on which he too had seated himself.

  ‘Na, na,’ whispered the manufacturer, laying, like the Ancient Mariner, a brown skinny hand of restraint upon Robert’s arm— ‘na, na, never heed her. Ye maunna speyk to ilka lass ‘at ye ken. — Poor thing! she’s been doin’ something wrang, to gang slinkin’ aboot i’ the gloamin’ like a baukie (bat), wi’ her plaid ower her heid. Dinna fash wi’ her.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ returned Robert, with indignation. ‘What for shouldna I speik till her? She’s a decent lassie — a dochter o’ James Hewson, the cottar at Bodyfauld. I ken her fine.’

  He said this in a whisper; but the girl seemed to hear it, for she left the shop with a perturbation which the dimness of the late twilight could not conceal. Robert hesitated no longer, but followed her, heedless of the louder expostulations of MacGregor. She was speeding away down the street, but he took longer strides than she, and was almost up with her, when she drew her shawl closer about her head, and increased her pace.

  ‘Jessie!’ said Robert, in a tone of expostulation. But she made no answer. Her head sunk lower on her bosom, and she hurried yet faster. He gave a long stride or two and laid his hand on her shoulder. She stood still, trembling.

  ‘Jessie, dinna ye ken me — Robert Faukner? Dinna be feart at me. What’s the maitter wi’ ye, ‘at ye winna speik till a body? Hoo’s a’ the fowk at hame?’

  She burst out crying, cast one look into Robert’s face, and fled. What a change was in that face? The peach-colour was gone from her cheek; it was pale and thin. Her eyes were hollow, with dark shadows under them, the shadows of a sad sunset. A foreboding of the truth arose in his heart, and the tears rushed up into his eyes. The next moment the eidolon of Mary St. John, moving gracious and strong, clothed in worship and the dignity which is its own defence, appeared beside that of Jessie Hewson, her bowed head shaken with sobs, and her weak limbs urged to ungraceful flight. As if walking in the vision of an eternal truth, he went straight to Captain Forsyth’s door.