Robert Falconer

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.

He was sure of joining him before he reached the new town, for he was fleet-footed, and there was a path only on one side of the way, so that there was no danger of passing him in the dark. As he ran he heard the moaning of the sea. There must be a storm somewhere, away in the deep spaces of its dark bosom, and its lips muttered of its far unrest. When the sun rose it would be seen misty and gray, tossing about under the one rain cloud that like a thinner ocean overspread the heavens—tossing like an animal that would fain lie down and be at peace but could not compose its unwieldy strength.

Suddenly Robert slackened his speed, ceased running, stood, gazed through the darkness at a figure a few yards before him.

An old wall, bowed out with age and the weight behind it, flanked the road in this part. Doors in this wall, with a few steps in front of them and more behind, led up into gardens upon a slope, at the top of which stood the houses to which they belonged. Against one of these doors the figure stood with its head bowed upon its hands. When Robert was within a few feet, it descended and went on.

‘Mr. Ericson!’ exclaimed Robert. ‘Ye’ll get yer deith gin ye stan’ that gait i’ the weet.’

‘Amen,’ said Ericson, turning with a smile that glimmered wan through the misty night. Then changing his tone, he went on: ‘What are you after, Robert?’

‘You,’ answered Robert. ‘I cudna bide to be left my lane whan I micht be wi’ ye a’ the time—gin ye wad lat me. Ye war oot o’ the hoose afore I weel kent what ye was aboot. It’s no a fit nicht for ye to be oot at a’, mair by token ‘at ye’re no the ablest to stan’ cauld an’ weet.’

‘I’ve stood a great deal of both in my time,’ returned Ericson; ‘but come along. We’ll go and get that fiddle-string.’

‘Dinna ye think it wad be fully better to gang hame?’ Robert ventured to suggest.

‘What would be the use? I’m in no mood for Plato to-night,’ he answered, trying hard to keep from shivering.

‘Ye hae an ill cauld upo’ ye,’ persisted Robert; ‘an’ ye maun be as weet ‘s a dishcloot.’

Ericson laughed—a strange, hollow laugh.

‘Come along,’ he said. ‘A walk will do me good. We’ll get the string, and then you shall play to me. That will do me more good yet.’

Robert ceased opposing him, and they walked together to the new town. Robert bought the string, and they set out, as he thought, to return.

But not yet did Ericson seem inclined to go home. He took the lead, and they emerged upon the quay.

There were not many vessels. One of them was the Antwerp tub, already known to Robert. He recognized her even in the dull light of the quay lamps. Her captain being a prudent and well-to-do Dutchman, never slept on shore; he preferred saving his money; and therefore, as the friends passed, Robert caught sight of him walking his own deck and smoking a long clay pipe before turning in.

‘A fine nicht, capt’n,’ said Robert.

‘It does rain,’ returned the captain. ‘Will you come on board and have one schnapps before you turn in?’

‘I hae a frien’ wi’ me here,’ said Robert, feeling his way.

‘Let him come and be welcomed.’

Ericson making no objection, they went on board, and down into the neat little cabin, which was all the roomier for the straightness of the vessel’s quarter. The captain got out a square, coffin-shouldered bottle, and having respect to the condition of their garments, neither of the young men refused his hospitality, though Robert did feel a little compunction at the thought of the horror it would have caused his grandmother. Then the Dutchman got out his violin and asked Robert to play a Scotch air. But in the middle of it his eyes fell on Ericson, and he stopped at once. Ericson was sitting on a locker, leaning back against the side of the vessel: his eyes were open and fixed, and he seemed quite unconscious of what was passing. Robert fancied at first that the hollands he had taken had gone to his head, but he saw at the same moment, from his glass, that he had scarcely tasted the spirit. In great alarm they tried to rouse him, and at length succeeded. He closed his eyes, opened them again, rose up, and was going away.

‘What’s the maitter wi’ ye, Mr. Ericson?’ said Robert, in distress.

‘Nothing, nothing,’ answered Ericson, in a strange voice. ‘I fell asleep, I believe. It was very bad manners, captain. I beg your pardon. I believe I am overtired.’

The Dutchman was as kind as possible, and begged Ericson to stay the night and occupy his berth. But he insisted on going home, although he was clearly unfit for such a walk. They bade the skipper good-night, went on shore, and set out, Ericson leaning rather heavily upon Robert’s arm. Robert led him up Marischal Street.

The steep ascent was too much for Ericson. He stood still upon the bridge and leaned over the wall of it. Robert stood beside, almost in despair about getting him home.

‘Have patience with me, Robert,’ said Ericson, in his natural voice. ‘I shall be better presently. I don’t know what’s come to me. If I had been a Celt now, I should have said I had a touch of the second sight. But I am, as far as I know, pure Northman.’

‘What did you see?’ asked Robert, with a strange feeling that miles of the spirit world, if one may be allowed such a contradiction in words, lay between him and his friend.

Ericson returned no answer. Robert feared he was going to have a relapse; but in a moment more he lifted himself up and bent again to the brae.

They got on pretty well till they were about the middle of the Gallowgate.

‘I can’t,’ said Ericson feebly, and half leaned, half fell against the wall of a house.

‘Come into this shop,’ said Robert. ‘I ken the man. He’ll lat ye sit doon.’

He managed to get him in. He was as pale as death. The bookseller got a chair, and he sank into it. Robert was almost at his wit’s end. There was no such thing as a cab in Aberdeen for years and years after the date of my story. He was holding a glass of water to Ericson’s lips,—when he heard his name, in a low earnest whisper, from the door. There, round the door-cheek, peered the white face and red head of Shargar.

‘Robert! Robert!’ said Shargar.

‘I hear ye,’ returned Robert coolly: he was too anxious to be surprised at anything. ‘Haud yer tongue. I’ll come to ye in a minute.’

Ericson recovered a little, refused the whisky offered by the bookseller, rose, and staggered out.