robert falconer-第68部分

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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　benea