ROBERT FALCONER, page 56
‘We’ve cotched a pig-headed counter-jumper here, that didn’t know Jim there from a man-trap, and went by him as if he’d been a bull-dog on a long-chain. He wants to fight cocum. But we won’t trouble him. We’ll help ourselves. Shell out now.’
As he spoke he made a snatch at my watch-chain. I forgot myself and hit him. The same moment I received a blow on the head, and felt the blood running down my face. I did not quite lose my senses, though, for I remember seeing yet another man — a tall fellow, coming out of the gloom of the court. How it came into my mind, I do not know, and what I said I do not remember, but I must have mentioned Falconer’s name somehow.
The man they called Slicer, said,
‘Who’s he? Don’t know the — .’
Words followed which I cannot write.
‘What! you devil’s gossoon!’ returned an Irish voice I had not heard before. ‘You don’t know Long Bob, you gonnof!’
All that passed I heard distinctly, but I was in a half faint, I suppose, for I could no longer see.
‘Now what the devil in a dice-box do you mean?’ said Slicer, possessing himself of my watch. ‘Who is the blasted cove? — not that I care a flash of damnation.’
‘A man as ‘ll knock you down if he thinks you want it, or give you a half-a-crown if he thinks you want it — all’s one to him, only he’ll have the choosing which.’
‘What the hell’s that to me? Look spry. He mustn’t lie there all night. It’s too near the ken. Come along, you Scotch haddock.’
I was aware of a kick in the side as he spoke.
‘I tell you what it is, Slicer,’ said one whose voice I had not yet heard, ‘if so be this gentleman’s a friend of Long Bob, you just let him alone, I say.’
I opened my eyes now, and saw before me a tall rather slender man in a big loose dress-coat, to whom Slicer had turned with the words,
‘You say! Ha! ha! Well, I say — There’s my Scotch haddock! who’ll touch him?’
‘I’ll take him home,’ said the tall man, advancing towards me. I made an attempt to rise. But I grew deadly ill, fell back, and remember nothing more.
When I came to myself I was lying on a bed in a miserable place. A middle-aged woman of degraded countenance, but kindly eyes, was putting something to my mouth with a teaspoon: I knew it by the smell to be gin. But I could not yet move. They began to talk about me, and I lay and listened. Indeed, while I listened, I lost for a time all inclination to get up, I was so much interested in what I heard.
‘He’s comin’ to hisself,’ said the woman. ‘He’ll be all right by and by. I wonder what brings the likes of him into the likes of this place. It must look a kind of hell to them gentle-folks, though we manage to live and die in it.’
‘I suppose,’ said another, ‘he’s come on some of Mr. Falconer’s business.’
‘That’s why Job’s took him in charge. They say he was after somebody or other, they think. — No friend of Mr. Falconer’s would be after another for any mischief,’ said my hostess.
‘But who is this Mr. Falconer? — Is Long Bob and he both the same alias?’ asked a third.
‘Why, Bessy, ain’t you no better than that damned Slicer, who ought to ha’ been hung up to dry this many a year? But to be sure you ‘ain’t been long in our quarter. Why, every child hereabouts knows Mr. Falconer. Ask Bobby there.’
‘Who’s Mr. Falconer, Bobby?’
A child’s voice made reply,
‘A man with a long, long beard, that goes about, and sometimes grows tired and sits on a door-step. I see him once. But he ain’t Mr. Falconer, nor Long Bob neither,’ added Bobby in a mysterious tone. ‘I know who he is.’
‘What do you mean, Bobby? Who is he, then?’
The child answered very slowly and solemnly,
‘He’s Jesus Christ.’
The woman burst into a rude laugh.
‘Well,’ said Bobby in an offended tone, ‘Slicer’s own Tom says so, and Polly too. We all says so. He allus pats me on the head, and gives me a penny.’
Here Bobby began to cry, bitterly offended at the way Bessy had received his information, after considering him sufficiently important to have his opinion asked.
‘True enough,’ said his mother. ‘I see him once a-sittin’ on a door-step, lookin’ straight afore him, and worn-out like, an’ a lot o’ them childer standin’ all about him, an’ starin’ at him as mum as mice, for fear of disturbin’ of him. When I come near, he got up with a smile on his face, and give each on ’em a penny all round, and walked away. Some do say he’s a bit crazed like; but I never saw no sign o’ that; and if any one ought to know, that one’s Job’s Mary; and you may believe me when I tell you that he was here night an’ mornin’ for a week, and after that off and on, when we was all down in the cholerer. Ne’er a one of us would ha’ come through but for him.’
I made an attempt to rise. The woman came to my bedside.
‘How does the gentleman feel hisself now?’ she asked kindly.
‘Better, thank you,’ I said. ‘I am ashamed of lying like this, but I feel very queer.’
‘And it’s no wonder, when that devil Slicer give you one o’ his even down blows on the top o’ your head. Nobody knows what he carry in his sleeve that he do it with — only you’ve got off well, young man, and that I tell you, with a decent cut like that. Only don’t you go tryin’ to get up now. Don’t be in a hurry till your blood comes back like.’
I lay still again for a little. When I lifted my hand to my head, I found it was bandaged up. I tried again to rise. The woman went to the door, and called out,
‘Job, the gentleman’s feelin’ better. He’ll soon be able to move, I think. What will you do with him now?’
‘I’ll go and get a cab,’ said Job; and I heard him go down a stair.
I raised myself, and got on the floor, but found I could not stand. By the time the cab arrived, however, I was able to crawl to it. When Job came, I saw the same tall thin man in the long dress coat. His head was bound up too.
‘I am sorry to see you too have been hurt — for my sake, of course,’ I said. ‘Is it a bad blow?’
‘Oh! it ain’t over much. I got in with a smeller afore he came right down with his slogger. But I say, I hope as how you are a friend of Mr. Falconer’s, for you see we can’t afford the likes of this in this quarter for every chance that falls in Slicer’s way. Gentlemen has no business here.’
‘On the contrary, I mean to come again soon, to thank you all for being so good to me.’
‘Well, when you comes next, you’d better come with him, you know.’
‘You mean with Mr. Falconer?’
‘Yes, who else? But are you able to go now? for the sooner you’re out of this the better.’
‘Quite able. Just give me your arm.’
He offered it kindly. Taking a grateful farewell of my hostess, I put my hand in my pocket, but there was nothing there. Job led me to the mouth of the court, where a cab, evidently of a sort with the neighbourhood, was waiting for us. I got in. Job was shutting the door.
‘Come along with me, Job,’ I said. ‘I’m going straight to Mr. Falconer’s. He will like to see you, especially after your kindness to me.’
‘Well, I don’t mind if I do look arter you a little longer; for to tell the truth,’ said Job, as he opened the door, and got in beside me, ‘I don’t over and above like the look of the — horse.’
‘It’s no use trying to rob me over again,’ I said; but he gave no reply. He only shouted to the cabman to drive to John Street, telling him the number.
I can scarcely recall anything more till we reached Falconer’s chambers. Job got out and rang the bell. Mrs. Ashton came down. Her master was not come home.
‘Tell Mr. Falconer,’ I said, ‘that I’m all right, only I couldn’t make anything of it.’
‘Tell him,’ growled Job, ‘that he’s got his head broken, and won’t be out o’ bed to-morrow. That’s the way with them fine-bred ones. They lies a-bed when the likes o’ me must go out what they calls a-custamongering, broken head and all.’
‘You shall stay at home for a week if you like, Job — that is if I’ve got enough to give you a week’s earnings. I’m not sure though till I look, for I’m not a rich man any more than yourself.’
‘Rubbish!’ said Job as he got in again; ‘I was only flummuxing the old un. Bless your heart, sir, I wouldn’t stay in — not for nothink. Not for a bit of a pat on the crown, nohow. Home ain’t none so nice a place to go snoozing in — nohow. Where do you go to, gov’nor?’
I told him. When I got out, and was opening the door, leaning on his arm, I said I was very glad they hadn’t taken my keys.
‘Slicer nor Savoury Sam neither’s none the better o’ you, and I hopes you’re not much the worse for them,’ said Job, as he put into my hands my purse and watch. ‘Count it, gov’nor, and see if it’s all right. Them pusses is mannyfactered express for the convenience o’ the fakers. Take my advice, sir, and keep a yellow dump (sovereign) in yer coat-tails, a flatch yenork (half-crown) in yer waistcoat, and yer yeneps (pence) in yer breeches. You won’t lose much nohow then. Good-night, sir, and I wish you better.’
‘But I must give you something for plaster,’ I said. ‘You’ll take a yellow dump, at least?’
‘We’ll talk about that another day,’ said Job; and with a second still heartier good-night, he left me. I managed to crawl up to my room, and fell on my bed once more fainting. But I soon recovered sufficiently to undress and get into it. I was feverish all night and next day, but towards evening begun to recover.
I kept expecting Falconer to come and inquire after me; but he never came. Nor did he appear the next day or the next, and I began to be very uneasy about him. The fourth day I sent for a cab, and drove to John Street. He was at home, but Mrs. Ashton, instead of showing me into his room, led me into her kitchen, and left me there.
A minute after, Falconer came to me. The instant I saw him I understood it all. I read it in his face: he had found his father.
CHAPTER XII. ANDREW AT LAST.
Having at length persuaded the woman to go with him, Falconer made her take his arm, and led her off the bridge. In Parliament Street he was looking about for a cab as they walked on, when a man he did not know, stopped, touched his hat, and addressed him.
‘I’m thinkin’, sir, ye’ll be sair wantit at hame the nicht. It wad be better to gang at ance, an’ lat the puir fowk luik efter themsels for ae nicht.’
‘I’m sorry I dinna ken ye, man. Do ye ken me?’
‘Fine that, Mr. Falconer. There’s mony ane kens you and praises God.’
‘God be praised!’ returned Falconer. ‘Why am I wanted at home?’
‘‘Deed I wad raither not say, sir. — Hey!’
This last exclamation was addressed to a cab just disappearing down King Street from Whitehall. The driver heard, turned, and in a moment more was by their side.
‘Ye had better gang into her an’ awa’ hame, and lea’ the poor lassie to me. I’ll tak guid care o’ her.’
She clung to Falconer’s arm. The man opened the door of the cab. Falconer put her in, told the driver to go to Queen Square, and if he could not make haste, to stop the first cab that could, got in himself, thanked his unknown friend, who did not seem quite satisfied, and drove off.
Happily Miss St. John was at home, and there was no delay. Neither was any explanation of more than six words necessary. He jumped again into the cab and drove home. Fortunately for his mood, though in fact it mattered little for any result, the horse was fresh, and both able and willing.
When he entered John Street, he came to observe before reaching his own door that a good many men were about in little quiet groups — some twenty or so, here and there. When he let himself in with his pass-key, there were two men in the entry. Without stopping to speak, he ran up to his own chambers. When he got into his sitting-room, there stood De Fleuri, who simply waved his hand towards the old sofa. On it lay an elderly man, with his eyes half open, and a look almost of idiocy upon his pale, puffed face, which was damp and shining. His breathing was laboured, but there was no further sign of suffering. He lay perfectly still. Falconer saw at once that he was under the influence of some narcotic, probably opium; and the same moment the all but conviction darted into his mind that Andrew Falconer, his grandmother’s son, lay there before him. That he was his own father he had no feeling yet. He turned to De Fleuri.
‘Thank you, friend,’ he said. ‘I shall find time to thank you.’
‘Are we right?’ asked De Fleuri.
‘I don’t know. I think so,’ answered Falconer; and without another word the man withdrew.
His first mood was very strange. It seemed as if all the romance had suddenly deserted his life, and it lay bare and hopeless. He felt nothing. No tears rose to the brim of their bottomless wells — the only wells that have no bottom, for they go into the depths of the infinite soul. He sat down in his chair, stunned as to the heart and all the finer chords of his nature. The man on the horsehair sofa lay breathing — that was all. The gray hair about the pale ill-shaven face glimmered like a cloud before him. What should he do or say when he awaked? How approach this far-estranged soul? How ever send the cry of father into that fog-filled world? Could he ever have climbed on those knees and kissed those lips, in the far-off days when the sun and the wind of that northern atmosphere made his childhood blessed beyond dreams? The actual — that is the present phase of the ever-changing — looked the ideal in the face; and the mirror that held them both, shook and quivered at the discord of the faces reflected. A kind of moral cold seemed to radiate from the object before him, and chill him to the very bones. This could not long be endured. He fled from the actual to the source of all the ideal — to that Saviour who, the infinite mediator, mediates between all hopes and all positions; between the most debased actual and the loftiest ideal; between the little scoffer of St. Giles’s and his angel that ever beholds the face of the Father in heaven. He fell on his knees, and spoke to God, saying that he had made this man; that the mark of his fingers was on the man’s soul somewhere. He prayed to the making Spirit to bring the man to his right mind, to give him once more the heart of a child, to begin him yet again at the beginning. Then at last, all the evil he had done and suffered would but swell his gratitude to Him who had delivered him from himself and his own deeds. Having breathed this out before the God of his life, Falconer rose, strengthened to meet the honourable debased soul when it should at length look forth from the dull smeared windows of those ill-used eyes.
He felt his pulse. There was no danger from the narcotic. The coma would pass away. Meantime he would get him to bed. When he began to undress him a new reverence arose which overcame all disgust at the state in which he found him. At length one sad little fact about his dress, revealing the poverty-stricken attempt of a man to preserve the shadow of decency, called back the waters of the far-ebbed ocean of his feelings. At the prick of a pin the heart’s blood will flow: at the sight of — a pin it was — Robert burst into tears, and wept like a child; the deadly cold was banished from his heart, and he not only loved, but knew that he loved — felt the love that was there. Everything then about the worn body and shabby garments of the man smote upon the heart of his son, and through his very poverty he was sacred in his eyes. The human heart awakened the filial — reversing thus the ordinary process of Nature, who by means of the filial, when her plans are unbroken, awakes the human; and he reproached himself bitterly for his hardness, as he now judged his late mental condition — unfairly, I think. He soon had him safe in bed, unconscious of the helping hands that had been busy about him in his heedless sleep; unconscious of the radiant planet of love that had been folding him round in its atmosphere of affection.
But while he thus ministered, a new question arose in his mind — to meet with its own new, God-given answer. What if this should not be the man after all? — if this love had been spent in mistake, and did not belong to him at all? The answer was, that he was a man. The love Robert had given he could not, would not withdraw. The man who had been for a moment as his father he could not cease to regard with devotion. At least he was a man with a divine soul. He might at least be somebody’s father. Where love had found a moment’s rest for the sole of its foot, there it must build its nest.
When he had got him safe in bed, he sat down beside him to think what he would do next. This sleep gave him very needful leisure to think. He could determine nothing — not even how to find out if he was indeed his father. If he approached the subject without guile, the man might be fearful and cunning — might have reasons for being so, and for striving to conceal the truth. But this was the first thing to make sure of, because, if it was he, all the hold he had upon him lay in his knowing it for certain. He could not think. He had had little sleep the night before. He must not sleep this night. He dragged his bath into his sitting-room, and refreshed his faculties with plenty of cold water, then lighted his pipe and went on thinking — not without prayer to that Power whose candle is the understanding of man. All at once he saw how to begin. He went again into the chamber, and looked at the man, and handled him, and knew by his art that a waking of some sort was nigh. Then he went to a corner of his sitting-room, and from beneath the table drew out a long box, and from the box lifted Dooble Sandy’s auld wife, tuned the somewhat neglected strings, and laid the instrument on the table.
When, keeping constant watch over the sleeping man, he judged at length that his soul had come near enough to the surface of the ocean of sleep to communicate with the outer world through that bubble his body, which had floated upon its waves all the night unconscious, he put his chair just outside the chamber door, which opened from his sitting-room, and began to play gently, softly, far away. For a while he extemporized only, thinking of Rothieden, and the grandmother, and the bleach-green, and the hills, and the waste old factory, and his mother’s portrait and letters. As he dreamed on, his dream got louder, and, he hoped, was waking a more and more vivid dream in the mind of the sleeper. ‘For who can tell,’ thought Falconer, ‘what mysterious sympathies of blood and childhood’s experience there may be between me and that man? — such, it may be, that my utterance on the violin will wake in his soul the very visions of which my soul is full while I play, each with its own nebulous atmosphere of dream-light around it.’ For music wakes its own feeling, and feeling wakes thought, or rather, when perfected, blossoms into thought, thought radiant of music as those lilies that shine phosphorescent in the July nights. He played more and more forcefully, growing in hope. But he had been led astray in some measure by the fulness of his expectation. Strange to tell, doctor as he was, he had forgotten one important factor in his calculation: how the man would awake from his artificial sleep. He had not reckoned of how the limbeck of his brain would be left discoloured with vile deposit, when the fumes of the narcotic should have settled and given up its central spaces to the faintness of desertion.
