George MacDonald - Robert Falconer

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.

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 of its truth. Older than Andrew, he had been a great friend of his father, and likewise of some of Mrs. Falconer’s own family. Therefore he was received with a kindly welcome. But there was a cloud on his brow which in a moment revealed that his errand was not a pleasant one.

‘I haena seen ye for a lang time, Mr. Lammie. Gae butt the hoose, lads. Or I’m thinkin’ it maun be schule-time. Sit ye doon, Mr. Lammie, and lat’s hear yer news.’

‘I cam frae Aberdeen last nicht, Mistress Faukner,’ he began.

‘Ye haena been hame sin’ syne?’ she rejoined.

‘Na. I sleepit at The Boar’s Heid.’

‘What for did ye that? What gart ye be at that expense, whan ye kent I had a bed i’ the ga’le-room?’

‘Weel, ye see, they’re auld frien’s o’ mine, and I like to gang to them whan I’m i’ the gait o’ ‘t.’

‘Weel, they’re a fine faimily, the Miss Napers. And, I wat, sin’ they maun sell drink, they du ‘t wi’ discretion. That’s weel kent.’

Possibly Mr. Lammie, remembering what then occurred, may have thought the discretion a little in excess of the drink, but he had other matters to occupy him now. For a few moments both were silent.

‘There’s been some ill news, they tell me, Mrs. Faukner,’ he said at length, when the silence had grown painful.

‘Humph!’ returned the old lady, her face becoming stony with the effort to suppress all emotion. ‘Nae aboot Anerew?’

‘’Deed is ‘t, mem. An’ ill news, I’m sorry to say.’

‘Is he ta’en?’

‘Ay is he—by a jyler that winna tyne the grup.’

‘He’s no deid, John Lammie? Dinna say ‘t.’

‘I maun say ‘t, Mrs. Faukner. I had it frae Dr. Anderson, yer ain cousin. He hintit at it afore, but his last letter leaves nae room to doobt upo’ the subjeck. I’m unco sorry to be the beirer o’ sic ill news, Mrs. Faukner, but I had nae chice.’

‘Ohone! Ohone! the day o’ grace is by at last! My puir Anerew!’ exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, and sat dumb thereafter.

Mr. Lammie tried to comfort her with some of the usual comfortless commonplaces. She neither wept nor replied, but sat with stony face staring into her lap, till, seeing that she was as one that heareth not, he rose and left her alone with her grief. A few minutes after he was gone, she rang the bell, and told Betty in her usual voice to send Robert to her.

‘He’s gane to the schule, mem.’

‘Rin efter him, an’ tell him to come hame.’

When Robert appeared, wondering what his grandmother could want with him, she said:

‘Close the door, Robert. I canna lat ye gang to the schule the day. We maun lea’ him oot noo.’

‘Lea’ wha oot, grannie?’

‘Him, him—Anerew. Yer father, laddie. I think my hert ‘ll brak.’

‘Lea’ him oot o’ what, grannie? I dinna unnerstan’ ye.’

‘Lea’ him oot o’ oor prayers, laddie, and I canna bide it.’

‘What for that?’

‘He’s deid.’

‘Are ye sure?’

‘Ay, ower sure—ower sure, laddie.’

‘Weel, I dinna believe ‘t.’

‘What for that?’

‘’Cause I winna believe ‘t. I’m no bund to believe ‘t, am I?’

‘What’s the gude o’ that? What for no believe ‘t? Dr. Anderson’s sent hame word o’ ‘t to John Lammie. Och hone! och hone!’

‘I tell ye I winna believe ‘t, grannie, ‘cep’ God himsel’ tells me. As lang ‘s I dinna believe ‘at he’s deid, I can keep him i’ my prayers. I’m no gaein’ to lea’ him oot, I tell ye, grannie.’

‘Weel, laddie, I canna argue wi’ ye. I hae nae hert til ‘t. I doobt I maun greit! Come awa’.’

She took him by the hand and rose, then let him go again, saying,

‘Sneck the door, laddie.’

Robert bolted the door, and his grandmother again taking his hand, led him to the usual corner. There they knelt down together, and the old woman’s prayer was one great and bitter cry for submission to the divine will. She rose a little strengthened, if not comforted, saying,

‘Ye maun pray yer lane, laddie. But oh be a guid lad, for ye’re a’ that I hae left; and gin ye gang wrang tu, ye’ll bring doon my gray hairs wi’ sorrow to the grave. They’re gray eneuch, and they’re near eneuch to the grave, but gin ye turn oot weel, I’ll maybe haud up my heid a bit yet. But O Anerew! my son! my son! Would God I had died for thee!’