Robert Falconer. George MacDonald
hear her speyk English, that was sweet to the ear; for the braid Scotch she kent as little o’ as I do o’ the Erse. It was hert’s care aboot him that shortent her days. And a’ that’ll be laid upo’ him. He’ll hae ‘t a’ to beir an’ accoont for. Och hone! Och hone! Eh! Robert, my man, be a guid lad, an’ serve the Lord wi’ a’ yer hert, an’ sowl, an’ stren’th, an’ min’; for gin ye gang wrang, yer ain father ‘ll hae to beir naebody kens hoo muckle o’ the wyte o’ ‘t, for he’s dune naething to bring ye up i’ the way ye suld gang, an’ haud ye oot o’ the ill gait. For the sake o’ yer puir father, haud ye to the richt road. It may spare him a pang or twa i’ the ill place. Eh, gin the Lord wad only tak me, and lat him gang!’
Involuntarily and unconsciously the mother’s love was adopting the hope which she had denounced in her grandson. And Robert saw it, but he was never the man when I knew him to push a victory. He said nothing. Only a tear or two at the memory of the wayworn man, his recollection of whose visit I have already recorded, rolled down his cheeks. He was at such a distance from him!—such an impassable gulf yawned between them!—that was the grief! Not the gulf of death, nor the gulf that divides hell from heaven, but the gulf of abjuration by the good because of his evil ways. His grandmother, herself weeping fast and silently, with scarce altered countenance, took her neatly-folded handkerchief from her pocket, and wiped her grandson’s fresh cheeks, then wiped her own withered face; and from that moment Robert knew that he loved her.
Then followed the Sabbath-evening prayer that she always offered with the boy, whichever he was, who kept her company. They knelt down together, side by side, in a certain corner of the room, the same, I doubt not, in which she knelt at her private devotions, before going to bed. There she uttered a long extempore prayer, rapid in speech, full of divinity and Scripture-phrases, but not the less earnest and simple, for it flowed from a heart of faith. Then Robert had to pray after her, loud in her ear, that she might hear him thoroughly, so that he often felt as if he were praying to her, and not to God at all.
She had begun to teach him to pray so early that the custom reached beyond the confines of his memory. At first he had had to repeat the words after her; but soon she made him construct his own utterances, now and then giving him a suggestion in the form of a petition when he seemed likely to break down, or putting a phrase into what she considered more suitable language. But all such assistance she had given up long ago.
On the present occasion, after she had ended her petitions with those for Jews and pagans, and especially for the ‘Pop’ o’ Rom’,’ in whom with a rare liberality she took the kindest interest, always praying God to give him a good wife, though she knew perfectly well the marriage-creed of the priesthood, for her faith in the hearer of prayer scorned every theory but that in which she had herself been born and bred, she turned to Robert with the usual ‘Noo, Robert!’ and Robert began. But after he had gone on for some time with the ordinary phrases, he turned all at once into a new track, and instead of praying in general terms for ‘those that would not walk in the right way,’ said,
‘O Lord! save my father,’ and there paused.
‘If it be thy will,’ suggested his grandmother.
But Robert continued silent. His grandmother repeated the subjunctive clause.
‘I’m tryin’, grandmother,’ said Robert, ‘but I canna say ‘t. I daurna say an if aboot it. It wad be like giein’ in till ‘s damnation. We maun hae him saved, grannie!’
‘Laddie! laddie! haud yer tongue!’ said Mrs. Falconer, in a tone of distressed awe. ‘O Lord, forgie ‘im. He’s young and disna ken better yet. He canna unnerstan’ thy ways, nor, for that maitter, can I preten’ to unnerstan’ them mysel’. But thoo art a’ licht, and in thee is no darkness at all. And thy licht comes into oor blin’ een, and mak’s them blinner yet. But, O Lord, gin it wad please thee to hear oor prayer…eh! hoo we wad praise thee! And my Andrew wad praise thee mair nor ninety and nine o’ them ‘at need nae repentance.’
A long pause followed. And then the only words that would come were: ‘For Christ’s sake. Amen.’
When she said that God was light, instead of concluding therefrom that he could not do the deeds of darkness, she was driven, from a faith in the teaching of Jonathan Edwards as implicit as that of ‘any lay papist of Loretto,’ to doubt whether the deeds of darkness were not after all deeds of light, or at least to conclude that their character depended not on their own nature, but on who did them.
They rose from their knees, and Mrs. Falconer sat down by her fire, with her feet on her little wooden stool, and began, as was her wont in that household twilight, ere the lamp was lighted, to review her past life, and follow her lost son through all conditions and circumstances to her imaginable. And when the world to come arose before her, clad in all the glories which her fancy, chilled by education and years, could supply, it was but to vanish in the gloom of the remembrance of him with whom she dared not hope to share its blessedness. This at least was how Falconer afterwards interpreted the sudden changes from gladness to gloom which he saw at such times on her countenance.
But while such a small portion of the universe of thought was enlightened by the glowworm lamp of the theories she had been taught, she was not limited for light to that feeble source. While she walked on her way, the moon, unseen herself behind the clouds, was illuminating the whole landscape so gently and evenly, that the glowworm being the only visible point of radiance, to it she attributed all the light. But she felt bound to go on believing as she had been taught; for sometimes the most original mind has the strongest sense of law upon it, and will, in default of a better, obey a beggarly one—only till the higher law that swallows it up manifests itself. Obedience was as essential an element of her creed as of that of any purest-minded monk; neither being sufficiently impressed with this: that, while obedience is the law of the kingdom, it is of considerable importance that that which is obeyed should be in very truth the will of God. It is one thing, and a good thing, to do for God’s sake that which is not his will: it is another thing, and altogether a better thing—how much better, no words can tell—to do for God’s sake that which is his will. Mrs. Falconer’s submission and obedience led her to accept as the will of God, lest she should be guilty of opposition to him, that which it was anything but giving him honour to accept as such. Therefore her love to God was too like the love of the slave or the dog; too little like the love of the child, with whose obedience the Father cannot be satisfied until he cares for his reason as the highest form of his will. True, the child who most faithfully desires to know the inward will or reason of the Father, will be the most ready to obey without it; only for this obedience it is essential that the apparent command at least be such as he can suppose attributable to the Father. Of his own self he is bound to judge what is right, as the Lord said. Had Abraham doubted whether it was in any case right to slay his son, he would have been justified in doubting whether God really required it of him, and would have been bound to delay action until the arrival of more light. True, the will of God can never be other than good; but I doubt if any man can ever be sure that a thing is the will of God, save by seeing into its nature and character, and beholding its goodness. Whatever God does must be right, but are we sure that we know what he does? That which men say he does may be very wrong indeed.
This burden she in her turn laid upon Robert—not unkindly, but as needful for his training towards well-being. Her way with him was shaped after that which she recognized as God’s way with her. ‘Speir nae questons, but gang an’ du as ye’re tellt.’ And it was anything but a bad lesson for the boy. It was one of the best he could have had—that of authority. It is a grand thing to obey without asking questions, so long as there is nothing evil in what is commanded. Only grannie concealed her reasons without reason; and God makes no secrets. Hence she seemed more stern and less sympathetic than she really was.
She sat with her feet on the little wooden stool, and Robert sat beside her staring into the fire, till they heard the outer door open, and Shargar and Betty come in from church.
CHAPTER XIII. ROBERT’S MOTHER
Early on the following morning, while Mrs. Falconer, Robert, and Shargar were at breakfast, Mr. Lammie came. He had delayed communicating the intelligence he had received till he should be more certain