Robert Falconer

The gig and the cart reached the road together. One of the men who had accompanied the cart took the gig; and they were left on the road-side with Robert’s trunk and box—the latter a present from Miss Lammie.

Their places had been secured, and the guard knew where he had to take them up. Long before the coach appeared, the notes of his horn, as like the colour of his red coat as the blindest of men could imagine, came echoing from the side of the heathery, stony hill under which they stood, so that Robert turned wondering, as if the chariot of his desires had been coming over the top of Drumsnaig, to carry him into a heaven where all labour was delight. But round the corner in front came the four-in-hand red mail instead. She pulled up gallantly; the wheelers lay on their hind quarters, and the leaders parted theirs from the pole; the boxes were hoisted up; Mr. Lammie climbed, and Robert scrambled to his seat; the horn blew; the coachman spake oracularly; the horses obeyed; and away went the gorgeous symbol of sovereignty careering through the submissive region. Nor did Robert’s delight abate during the journey—certainly not when he saw the blue line of the sea in the distance, a marvel and yet a fact.

Mrs. Falconer had consulted the Misses Napier, who had many acquaintances in Aberdeen, as to a place proper for Robert, and suitable to her means. Upon this point Miss Letty, not without a certain touch of design, as may appear in the course of my story, had been able to satisfy her. In a small house of two floors and a garret, in the old town, Mr. Lammie took leave of Robert.

It was from a garret window still, but a storm-window now that Robert looked—eastward across fields and sand-hills, to the blue expanse of waters—not blue like southern seas, but slaty blue, like the eyes of northmen. It was rather dreary; the sun was shining from overhead now, casting short shadows and much heat; the dew was gone up, and the lark had come down; he was alone; the end of his journey was come, and was not anything very remarkable. His landlady interrupted his gaze to know what he would have for dinner, but he declined to use any discretion in the matter. When she left the room he did not return to the window, but sat down upon his box. His eye fell upon the other, a big wooden cube. Of its contents he knew nothing. He would amuse himself by making inquisition. It was nailed up. He borrowed a screwdriver and opened it. At the top lay a linen bag full of oatmeal; underneath that was a thick layer of oat-cake; underneath that two cheeses, a pound of butter, and six pots of jam, which ought to have tasted of roses, for it came from the old garden where the roses lived in such sweet companionship with the currant bushes; underneath that, &c.; and underneath, &c., a box which strangely recalled Shargar’s garret, and one of the closets therein. With beating heart he opened it, and lo, to his marvel, and the restoration of all the fair day, there was the violin which Dooble Sanny had left him when he forsook her for—some one or other of the queer instruments of Fra Angelico’s angels?

In a flutter of delight he sat down on his trunk again and played the most mournful of tunes. Two white pigeons, which had been talking to each other in the heat on the roof, came one on each side of the window and peeped into the room; and out between them, as he played, Robert saw the sea, and the blue sky above it. Is it any wonder that, instead of turning to the lying pages and contorted sentences of the Livy which he had already unpacked from his box, he forgot all about school, and college, and bursary, and went on playing till his landlady brought up his dinner, which he swallowed hastily that he might return to the spells of his enchantress!

CHAPTER V. THE COMPETITION

I could linger with gladness even over this part of my hero’s history. If the school work was dry it was thorough. If that academy had no sweetly shadowing trees; if it did stand within a parallelogram of low stone walls, containing a roughly-gravelled court; if all the region about suggested hot stones and sand—beyond still was the sea and the sky; and that court, morning and afternoon, was filled with the shouts of eager boys, kicking the football with mad rushings to and fro, and sometimes with wounds and faintings—fit symbol of the equally resultless ambition with which many of them would follow the game of life in the years to come. Shock-headed Highland colts, and rough Lowland steers as many of them were, out of that group, out of the roughest of them, would emerge in time a few gentlemen—not of the type of your trim, self-contained, clerical exquisite—but large-hearted, courteous gentlemen, for whom a man may thank God. And if the master was stern and hard, he was true; if the pupils feared him, they yet cared to please him; if there might be found not a few more widely-read scholars than he, it would be hard to find a better teacher.

Robert leaned to the collar and laboured, not greatly moved by ambition, but much by the hope of the bursary and the college life in the near distance. Not unfrequently he would rush into the thick of the football game, fight like a maniac for one short burst, and then retire and look on. He oftener regarded than mingled. He seldom joined his fellows after school hours, for his work lay both upon his conscience and his hopes; but if he formed no very deep friendships amongst them, at least he made no enemies, for he was not selfish, and in virtue of the Celtic blood in him was invariably courteous. His habits were in some things altogether irregular. He never went out for a walk; but sometimes, looking up from his Virgil or his Latin version, and seeing the blue expanse in the distance breaking into white under the viewless wing of the summer wind, he would fling down his dictionary or his pen, rush from his garret, and fly in a straight line, like a sea-gull weary of lake and river, down to the waste shore of the great deep. This was all that stood for the Arabian Nights of moon-blossomed marvel; all the rest was Aberdeen days of Latin and labour.

Slowly the hours went, and yet the dreaded, hoped-for day came quickly. The quadrangle of the stone-crowned college grew more awful in its silence and emptiness every time Robert passed it; and the professors’ houses looked like the sentry-boxes of the angels of learning, soon to come forth and judge the feeble mortals who dared present a claim to their recognition. October faded softly by, with its keen fresh mornings, and cold memorial green-horizoned evenings, whose stars fell like the stray blossoms of a more heavenly world, from some ghostly wind of space that had caught them up on its awful shoreless sweep. November came, ‘chill and drear,’ with its heartless, hopeless nothingness; but as if to mock the poor competitors, rose, after three days of Scotch mist, in a lovely ‘halcyon day’ of ‘St. Martin’s summer,’ through whose long shadows anxious young faces gathered in the quadrangle, or under the arcade, each with his Ainsworth’s Dictionary, the sole book allowed, under his arm. But when the sacrist appeared and unlocked the public school, and the black-gowned professors walked into the room, and the door was left open for the candidates to follow, then indeed a great awe fell upon the assembly, and the lads crept into their seats as if to a trial for life before a bench of the incorruptible. They took their places; a portion of Robertson’s History of Scotland was given them to turn into Latin; and soon there was nothing to be heard in the assembly but the turning of the leaves of dictionaries, and the scratching of pens constructing the first rough copy of the Latinized theme.

It was done. Four weary hours, nearly five, one or two of which passed like minutes, the others as if each minute had been an hour, went by, and Robert, in a kind of desperation, after a final reading of the Latin, gave in his paper, and left the room. When he got home, he asked his landlady to get him some tea. Till it was ready he would take his violin. But even the violin had grown dull, and would not speak freely. He returned to the torture—took out his first copy, and went over it once more. Horror of horrors! a maxie!—that is a maximus error. Mary Queen of Scots had been left so far behind in the beginning of the paper, that she forgot the rights of her sex in the middle of it, and in the accusative of a future participle passive—I do not know if more modern grammarians have a different name for the growth—had submitted to be dum, and her rightful dam was henceforth and for ever debarred.

He rose, rushed out of the house, down through the garden, across two fields and a wide road, across the links, and so to the moaning lip of the sea—for it was moaning that night. From the last bulwark of the sandhills he dropped upon the wet sands, and there he paced up and down—how long, God only, who was watching him, knew—with the low limitless form of the murmuring lip lying out and out into the sinking sky like the life that lay low and hopeless before him, for the want at most of twenty pounds a year (that was the highest bursary then) to lift him into a region of possible well-being. Suddenly a strange phenomenon appeared within him. The subject hitherto became the object to a new birth of consciousness. He began to look at himself. ‘There’s a sair bit in there,’ he said, as if his own bosom had been that of another mortal. ‘What’s to be dune wi’ ‘t? I doobt it maun bide it. Weel, the crater had better bide it quaietly, and no cry oot. Lie doon, an’ haud yer tongue. Soror tua haud meretrix est, ye brute!’ He burst out laughing, after a doubtful and ululant fashion, I dare say; but he went home, took up his auld wife, and played ‘Tullochgorum’ some fifty times over, with extemporized variations.

The next day he had to translate a passage from Tacitus; after executing which somewhat heartlessly, he did not open a Latin book for a whole week. The very sight of one was disgusting to him. He wandered about the New Town, along Union Street, and up and down the stairs that led to the lower parts, haunted the quay, watched the vessels, learned their forms, their parts and capacities, made friends with a certain Dutch captain whom he heard playing the violin in his cabin, and on the whole, notwithstanding the wretched prospect before him, contrived to spend the week with considerable enjoyment. Nor does an occasional episode of lounging hurt a life with any true claims to the epic form.

The day of decision at length arrived. Again the black-robed powers assembled, and again the hoping, fearing lads—some of them not lads, men, and mere boys—gathered to hear their fate. Name after name was called out;—a twenty pound bursary to the first, one of seventeen to the next, three or four of fifteen and fourteen, and so on, for about twenty, and still no Robert Falconer. At last, lagging wearily in the rear, he heard his name, went up listlessly, and was awarded five pounds. He crept home, wrote to his grandmother, and awaited her reply. It was not long in coming; for although the carrier was generally the medium of communication, Miss Letty had contrived to send the answer by coach. It was to the effect that his grandmother was sorry that he had not been more successful, but that Mr. Innes thought it would be quite worth while to try again, and he must therefore come home for another year.

This was mortifying enough, though not so bad as it might have been. Robert began to pack his box. But before he had finished it he shut the lid and sat upon it. To meet Miss St. John thus disgraced, was more than he could bear. If he remained, he had a chance of winning prizes at the end of the session, and that would more than repair his honour. The five pound bursars were privileged in paying half fees; and if he could only get some teaching, he could manage. But who would employ a bejan when a magistrand might be had for next to nothing? Besides, who would recommend him? The thought of Dr. Anderson flashed into his mind, and he rushed from the house without even knowing where he lived.

CHAPTER VI. DR. ANDERSON AGAIN

At the Post-office he procured the desired information at once. Dr. Anderson lived in Union Street, towards the western end of it.

Away went Robert to find the house. That was easy. What a grand house of smooth granite and wide approach it was! The great door was opened by a man-servant, who looked at the country boy from head to foot.

‘Is the doctor in?’ asked Robert.

‘Yes.’

‘I wad like to see him.’

‘Wha will I say wants him?’

‘Say the laddie he saw at Bodyfauld.’

The man left Robert in the hall, which was spread with tiger and leopard skins, and had a bright fire burning in a large stove. Returning presently, he led him through noiseless swing-doors covered with cloth into a large library. Never had Robert conceived such luxury. What with Turkey carpet, crimson curtains, easy-chairs, grandly-bound books and morocco-covered writing-table, it seemed the very ideal of comfort. But Robert liked the grandeur too much to be abashed by it.

‘Sit ye doon there,’ said the servant, ‘and the doctor ‘ill be wi’ ye in ae minute.’

He was hardly out of the room before a door opened in the middle of the books, and the doctor appeared in a long dressing-gown. He looked inquiringly at Robert for one moment, then made two long strides like a pair of eager compasses, holding out his hand.

‘I’m Robert Faukner,’ said the boy. ‘Ye’ll min’, maybe, doctor, ‘at ye war verra kin’ to me ance, and tellt me lots o’ stories—at Bodyfauld, ye ken.’

‘I’m very glad to see you, Robert,’ said Dr. Anderson. ‘Of course I remember you perfectly; but my servant did not bring your name, and I did not know but it might be the other boy—I forget his name.’

‘Ye mean Shargar, sir. It’s no him.’

‘I can see that,’ said the doctor, laughing, ‘although you are altered. You have grown quite a man! I am very glad to see you,’ he repeated, shaking hands with him again. ‘When did you come to town?’

‘I hae been at the grammer school i’ the auld toon for the last three months,’ said Robert.

‘Three months!’ exclaimed Dr. Anderson. ‘And never came to see me till now! That was too bad of you, Robert.’

‘Weel, ye see, sir, I didna ken better. An’ I had a heap to do, an’ a’ for naething, efter a’. But gin I had kent ‘at ye wad like to see me, I wad hae likit weel to come to ye.’

‘I have been away most of the summer,’ said the doctor; ‘but I have been at home for the last month. You haven’t had your dinner, have you?’

‘Weel, I dinna exackly ken what to say, sir. Ye see, I wasna that sharp-set the day, sae I had jist a mou’fu’ o’ breid and cheese. I’m turnin’ hungry, noo, I maun confess.’

The doctor rang the bell.

‘You must stop and dine with me.—Johnston,’ he continued, as his servant entered, ‘tell the cook that I have a gentleman to dinner with me to-day, and she must be liberal.’

‘Guidsake, sir!’ said Robert, ‘dinna set the woman agen me.’

He had no intention of saying anything humorous, but Dr. Anderson laughed heartily.

‘Come into my room till dinner-time,’ he said, opening the door by which he had entered.

To Robert’s astonishment, he found himself in a room bare as that of the poorest cottage. A small square window, small as the window in John Hewson’s, looked out upon a garden neatly kept, but now ‘having no adorning but cleanliness.’ The place was just the benn end of a cottage. The walls were whitewashed, the ceiling was of bare boards, and the floor was sprinkled with a little white sand. The table and chairs were of common deal, white and clean, save that the former was spotted with ink. A greater contrast to the soft, large, richly-coloured room they had left could hardly be imagined. A few bookshelves on the wall were filled with old books. A fire blazed cheerily in the little grate. A bed with snow-white coverlet stood in a recess.

‘This is the nicest room in the house, Robert,’ said the doctor. ‘When I was a student like you—’

Robert shook his head,

‘I’m nae student yet,’ he said; but the doctor went on:

‘I had the benn end of my father’s cottage to study in, for he treated me like a stranger-gentleman when I came home from college. The father respected the son for whose advantage he was working like a slave from morning till night. My heart is sometimes sore with the gratitude I feel to him. Though he’s been dead for thirty years—would you believe it, Robert?—well, I can’t talk more about him now. I made this room as like my father’s benn end as I could, and I am happier here than anywhere in the world.’

By this time Robert was perfectly at home. Before the dinner was ready he had not only told Dr. Anderson his present difficulty, but his whole story as far back as he could remember. The good man listened eagerly, gazed at the boy with more and more of interest, which deepened till his eyes glistened as he gazed, and when a ludicrous passage intervened, welcomed the laughter as an excuse for wiping them. When dinner was announced, he rose without a word and led the way to the dining-room. Robert followed, and they sat down to a meal simple enough for such a house, but which to Robert seemed a feast followed by a banquet. For after they had done eating—on the doctor’s part a very meagre performance—they retired to his room again, and then Robert found the table covered with a snowy cloth, and wine and fruits arranged upon it.

It was far into the night before he rose to go home. As he passed through a thick rain of pin-point drops, he felt that although those cold granite houses, with glimmering dead face, stood like rows of sepulchres, he was in reality walking through an avenue of homes. Wet to the skin long before he reached Mrs. Fyvie’s in the auld toon, he was notwithstanding as warm as the under side of a bird’s wing. For he had to sit down and write to his grandmother informing her that Dr. Anderson had employed him to copy for the printers a book of his upon the Medical Boards of India, and that as he was going to pay him for that and other work at a rate which would secure him ten shillings a week, it would be a pity to lose a year for the chance of getting a bursary next winter.

The doctor did want the manuscript copied; and he knew that the only chance of getting Mrs. Falconer’s consent to Robert’s receiving any assistance from him, was to make some business arrangement of the sort. He wrote to her the same night, and after mentioning the unexpected pleasure of Robert’s visit, not only explained the advantage to himself of the arrangement he had proposed, but set forth the greater advantage to Robert, inasmuch as he would thus be able in some measure to keep a hold of him. He judged that although Mrs. Falconer had no great opinion of his religion, she would yet consider his influence rather on the side of good than otherwise in the case of a boy else abandoned to his own resources.

The end of it all was that his grandmother yielded, and Robert was straightway a Bejan, or Yellow-beak.

Three days had he been clothed in the red gown of the Aberdeen student, and had attended the Humanity and Greek class-rooms. On the evening of the third day he was seated at his table preparing his Virgil for the next, when he found himself growing very weary, and no wonder, for, except the walk of a few hundred yards to and from the college, he had had no open air for those three days. It was raining in a persistent November fashion, and he thought of the sea, away through the dark and the rain, tossing uneasily. Should he pay it a visit? He sat for a moment,

     This way and that dividing the swift mind,4

when his eye fell on his violin. He had been so full of his new position and its requirements, that he had not touched it since the session opened. Now it was just what he wanted. He caught it up eagerly, and began to play. The power of the music seized upon him, and he went on playing, forgetful of everything else, till a string broke. It was all too short for further use. Regardless of the rain or the depth of darkness to be traversed before he could find a music-shop, he caught up his cap, and went to rush from the house.

His door opened immediately on the top step of the stair, without any landing. There was a door opposite, to which likewise a few steps led immediately up. The stairs from the two doors united a little below. So near were the doors that one might stride across the fork. The opposite door was open, and in it stood Eric Ericson.

CHAPTER VII. ERIC ERICSON

Robert sprang across the dividing chasm, clasped Ericson’s hand in both of his, looked up into his face, and stood speechless. Ericson returned the salute with a still kindness—tender and still. His face was like a gray morning sky of summer from whose level cloud-fields rain will fall before noon.

‘So it was you,’ he said, ‘playing the violin so well?’

‘I was doin’ my best,’ answered Robert. ‘But eh! Mr. Ericson, I wad hae dune better gin I had kent ye was hearkenin’.’

‘You couldn’t do better than your best,’ returned Eric, smiling.

‘Ay, but yer best micht aye grow better, ye ken,’ persisted Robert.

‘Come into my room,’ said Ericson. ‘This is Friday night, and there is nothing but chapel to-morrow. So we’ll have talk instead of work.’

In another moment they were seated by a tiny coal fire in a room one side of which was the slope of the roof, with a large, low skylight in it looking seawards. The sound of the distant waves, unheard in Robert’s room, beat upon the drum of the skylight, through all the world of mist that lay between it and them—dimly, vaguely—but ever and again with a swell of gathered force, that made the distant tumult doubtful no more.

‘I am sorry I have nothing to offer you,’ said Ericson.

‘You remind me of Peter and John at the Beautiful Gate of the temple,’ returned Robert, attempting to speak English like the Northerner, but breaking down as his heart got the better of him. ‘Eh! Mr. Ericson, gin ye kent what it is to me to see the face o’ ye, ye wadna speyk like that. Jist lat me sit an’ leuk at ye. I want nae mair.’

A smile broke up the cold, sad, gray light of the young eagle-face. Stern at once and gentle when in repose, its smile was as the summer of some lovely land where neither the heat nor the sun shall smite them. The youth laid his hand upon the boy’s head, then withdrew it hastily, and the smile vanished like the sun behind a cloud. Robert saw it, and as if he had been David before Saul, rose instinctively and said,

‘I’ll gang for my fiddle.—Hoots! I hae broken ane o’ the strings. We maun bide till the morn. But I want nae fiddle mysel’ whan I hear the great water oot there.’

‘You’re young yet, my boy, or you might hear voices in that water—! I’ve lived in the sound of it all my days. When I can’t rest at night, I hear a moaning and crying in the dark, and I lie and listen till I can’t tell whether I’m a man or some God-forsaken sea in the sunless north.’

‘Sometimes I believe in naething but my fiddle,’ answered Robert.

‘Yes, yes. But when it comes into you, my boy! You won’t hear much music in the cry of the sea after that. As long as you’ve got it at arm’s length, it’s all very well. It’s interesting then, and you can talk to your fiddle about it, and make poetry about it,’ said Ericson, with a smile of self-contempt. ‘But as soon as the real earnest comes that is all over. The sea-moan is the cry of a tortured world then. Its hollow bed is the cup of the world’s pain, ever rolling from side to side and dashing over its lip. Of all that might be, ought to be, nothing to be had!—I could get music out of it once. Look here. I could trifle like that once.’

He half rose, then dropped on his chair. But Robert’s believing eyes justified confidence, and Ericson had never had any one to talk to. He rose again, opened a cupboard at his side, took out some papers, threw them on the table, and, taking his hat, walked towards the door.

‘Which of your strings is broken?’ he asked.

‘The third,’ answered Robert.

‘I will get you one,’ said Ericson; and before Robert could reply he was down the stair. Robert heard him cough, then the door shut, and he was gone in the rain and fog.

Bewildered, unhappy, ready to fly after him, yet irresolute, Robert almost mechanically turned over the papers upon the little deal table. He was soon arrested by the following verses, headed:

A NOONDAY MELODY     Everything goes to its rest;       The hills are asleep in the noon;     And life is as still in its nest       As the moon when she looks on a moon     In the depths of a calm river’s breast       As it steals through a midnight in June.     The streams have forgotten the sea       In the dream of their musical sound;     The sunlight is thick on the tree,       And the shadows lie warm on the ground—     So still, you may watch them and see       Every breath that awakens around.     The churchyard lies still in the heat,       With its handful of mouldering bone;     As still as the long stalk of wheat       In the shadow that sits by the stone,     As still as the grass at my feet       When I walk in the meadows alone.     The waves are asleep on the main,       And the ships are asleep on the wave;     And the thoughts are as still in my brain       As the echo that sleeps in the cave;     All rest from their labour and pain—       Then why should not I in my grave?

His heart ready to burst with a sorrow, admiration, and devotion, which no criticism interfered to qualify, Robert rushed out into the darkness, and sped, fleet-footed, along the only path which Ericson could have taken. He could not bear to be left in the house while his friend was out in the rain.