THE GATES OF PARADISE.
Robert had his first lesson the next Saturday afternoon.Eager and undismayed by the presence of Mrs, Forsyth, good-natured and contemptuous--for had he not a protecting angel by him?--he hearkened for every word of Miss St.John, combated every fault, and undermined every awkwardness with earnest patience.Nothing delighted Robert so much as to give himself up to one greater.His mistress was thoroughly pleased, and even Mrs.Forsyth gave him two of her soft finger tips to do something or other with--Robert did not know what, and let them go.
About eight o'clock that same evening, his heart beating like a captured bird's, he crept from grannie's parlour, past the kitchen, and up the low stair to the mysterious door.He had been trying for an hour to summon up courage to rise, feeling as if his grandmother must suspect where he was going.Arrived at the barrier, twice his courage failed him; twice he turned and sped back to the parlour.Athird time he made the essay, a third time stood at the wondrous door--so long as blank as a wall to his careless eyes, now like the door of the magic Sesame that led to the treasure-cave of Ali Baba.
He laid his hand on the knob, withdrew it, thought he heard some one in the transe, rushed up the garret stair, and stood listening, hastened down, and with a sudden influx of determination opened the door, saw that the trap was raised, closed the door behind him, and standing with his head on the level of the floor, gazed into the paradise of Miss St.John's room.To have one peep into such a room was a kind of salvation to the half-starved nature of the boy.All before him was elegance, richness, mystery.Womanhood radiated from everything.A fire blazed in the chimney.A rug of long white wool lay before it.A little way off stood the piano.Ornaments sparkled and shone upon the dressing-table.The door of a wardrobe had swung a little open, and discovered the sombre shimmer of a black silk dress.Something gorgeously red, a China crape shawl, hung glowing beyond it.He dared not gaze any longer.He had already been guilty of an immodesty.He hastened to ascend, and seated himself at the piano.
Let my reader aid me for a moment with his imagination--reflecting what it was to a boy like Robert, and in Robert's misery, to open a door in his own meagre dwelling and gaze into such a room--free to him.If he will aid me so, then let him aid himself by thinking that the house of his own soul has such a door into the infinite beauty, whether he has yet found it or not.
'Just think,' Robert said to himself, 'o' me in sic a place! It's a pailace.It's a fairy pailace.And that angel o' a leddy bides here, and sleeps there! I wonner gin she ever dreams aboot onything as bonny 's hersel'!'
Then his thoughts took another turn.
'I wonner gin the room was onything like this whan my mamma sleepit in 't? I cudna hae been born in sic a gran' place.But my mamma micht hae weel lien here.'
The face of the miniature, and the sad words written below the hymn, came back upon him, and he bowed his head upon his hands.He was sitting thus when Miss St.John came behind him, and heard him murmur the one word Mamma! She laid her hand on his shoulder.He started and rose.
'I beg yer pardon, mem.I hae no business to be here, excep' to play.But I cudna help thinkin' aboot my mother; for I was born in this room, mem.Will I gang awa' again?'
He turned towards the door.
'No, no,' said Miss St.John.'I only came to see if you were here.
I cannot stop now; but to-morrow you must tell me about your mother.Sit down, and don't lose any more time.Your grandmother will miss you.And then what would come of it?'
Thus was this rough diamond of a Scotch boy, rude in speech, but full of delicate thought, gathered under the modelling influences of the finished, refined, tender, sweet-tongued, and sweet-thoughted Englishwoman, who, if she had been less of a woman, would have been repelled by his uncouthness; if she had been less of a lady, would have mistaken his commonness for vulgarity.But she was just, like the type of womankind, a virgin-mother.She saw the nobility of his nature through its homely garments, and had been, indeed, sent to carry on the work from which his mother had been too early taken away.
'There's jist ae thing mem, that vexes me a wee, an' I dinna ken what to think aboot it,' said Robert, as Miss St.John was leaving the room.'Maybe ye cud bide ae minute till I tell ye.'
'Yes, I can.What is it?'
'I'm nearhan' sure that whan I lea' the parlour, grannie 'ill think I'm awa' to my prayers; and sae she'll think better o' me nor Ideserve.An' I canna bide that.'
'What should make you suppose that she will think so?'
'Fowk kens what ane anither's aboot, ye ken, mem.'
'Then she'll know you are not at your prayers.'
'Na.For sometimes I div gang to my prayers for a whilie like, but nae for lang, for I'm nae like ane o' them 'at he wad care to hear sayin' a lang screed o' a prayer till 'im.I hae but ae thing to pray aboot.'
'And what's that, Robert?'
One of his silences had seized him.He looked confused, and turned away.
'Never mind,' said Miss St.John, anxious to relieve him, and establish a comfortable relation between them; 'you will tell me another time.'