Robert Falconer

‘But I verily believe from the look of the child she gives it gin.’

‘God saves the world by the new blood, the children. To take her child from her, would be to do what you could to damn her.’

‘It doesn’t look much like salvation there.’

‘You mustn’t interfere with God’s thousand years any more than his one day.’

‘Are you sure she is the mother?’ I asked.

‘Yes. I would not have left the child with her otherwise.’

‘What would you have done with it? Got it into some orphan asylum?—or the Foundling perhaps?’

‘Never,’ he answered. ‘All those societies are wretched inventions for escape from the right way. There ought not to be an orphan asylum in the kingdom.’

‘What! Would you put them all down then?’

‘God forbid. But I would, if I could, make them all useless.’

‘How could you do that?’

‘I would merely enlighten the hearts of childless people as to their privileges.’

‘Which are?’

‘To be fathers and mothers to the fatherless and motherless.’

‘I have often wondered why more of them did not adopt children. Why don’t they?’

‘For various reasons which a real love to child nature would blow to the winds—all comprised in this, that such a child would not be their own child. As if ever a child could be their own! That a child is God’s is of rather more consequence than whether it is born of this or that couple. Their hearts would surely be glad when they went into heaven to have the angels of the little ones that always behold the face of their Father coming round them, though they were not exactly their father and mother.’

‘I don’t know what the passage you refer to means.’

‘Neither do I. But it must mean something, if He said it. Are you a clergyman?’

‘No. I am only a poor teacher of mathematics and poetry, shown up the back stairs into the nurseries of great houses.’

‘A grand chance, if I may use the word.’

‘I do try to wake a little enthusiasm in the sons and daughters—without much success, I fear.’

‘Will you come and see me?’ he said.

‘With much pleasure. But, as I have given you an answer, you owe me one.’

‘I do.’

‘Have you adopted a child?’

‘No.’

‘Then you have some of your own?’

‘No.’

‘Then, excuse me, but why the warmth of your remarks on those who—’

‘I think I shall be able to satisfy you on that point, if we draw to each other. Meantime I must leave you. Could you come to-morrow evening?’

‘With pleasure.’

We arranged the hour and parted. I saw him walk into a low public-house, and went home.

At the time appointed, I rang the bell, and was led by an elderly woman up the stair, and shown into a large room on the first-floor—poorly furnished, and with many signs of bachelor-carelessness. Mr. Falconer rose from an old hair-covered sofa to meet me as I entered. I will first tell my reader something of his personal appearance.

He was considerably above six feet in height, square-shouldered, remarkably long in the arms, and his hands were uncommonly large and powerful. His head was large, and covered with dark wavy hair, lightly streaked with gray. His broad forehead projected over deep-sunk eyes, that shone like black fire. His features, especially his Roman nose, were large, and finely, though not delicately, modelled. His nostrils were remarkably large and flexile, with a tendency to slight motion: I found on further acquaintance that when he was excited, they expanded in a wild equine manner. The expression of his mouth was of tender power, crossed with humour. He kept his lips a little compressed, which gave a certain sternness to his countenance: but when this sternness dissolved in a smile, it was something enchanting. He was plainly, rather shabbily clothed. No one could have guessed at his profession or social position. He came forward and received me cordially. After a little indifferent talk, he asked me if I had any other engagement for the evening.

‘I never have any engagements,’ I answered—‘at least, of a social kind. I am burd alane. I know next to nobody.’

‘Then perhaps you would not mind going out with me for a stroll?’

‘I shall be most happy,’ I answered.

There was something about the man I found exceedingly attractive; I had very few friends; and there was besides something odd, almost romantic, in this beginning of an intercourse: I would see what would come of it.

‘Then we’ll have some supper first,’ said Mr. Falconer, and rang the bell.

While we ate our chops—

‘I dare say you think it strange,’ my host said, ‘that without the least claim on your acquaintance, I should have asked you to come and see me, Mr.—’

He stopped, smiling.

‘My name is Gordon—Archie Gordon,’ I said.

‘Well, then, Mr. Gordon, I confess I have a design upon you. But you will remember that you addressed me first.’

‘You spoke first,’ I said.

‘Did I?’

‘I did not say you spoke to me, but you spoke.—I should not have ventured to make the remark I did make, if I had not heard your voice first. What design have you on me?’

‘That will appear in due course. Now take a glass of wine, and we’ll set out.’

We soon found ourselves in Holborn, and my companion led the way towards the City. The evening was sultry and close.

‘Nothing excites me more,’ said Mr. Falconer, ‘than a walk in the twilight through a crowded street. Do you find it affect you so?’