Robert Falconer

‘The coachman will deliver your parcel, Moray,’ said the doctor, this time repeating the name with emphasis.

‘Deil a bit o’ ‘t!’ cried Shargar. ‘He daurna lea’ his box wi’ thae deevils o’ horses. What gars he keep sic horses, doctor? They’ll play some mischeef some day.’

‘Indeed, they’ve played enough already, my poor boy. They’ve broken your arm.’

‘Never min’ that. That’s no muckle. Ye’re welcome, doctor, to my twa airms for what ye hae dune for Robert an’ that lang-leggit frien’ o’ his—the Lord forgie me—Mr. Ericson. But ye maun jist pay him what I canna mak for a day or twa, till ‘t jines again—to haud them gaein’, ye ken.—It winna be muckle to you, doctor,’ added Shargar, beseechingly.

‘Trust me for that, Moray,’ returned Dr. Anderson. ‘I owe you a good deal more than that. My brains might have been out by this time.’

‘The Lord be praised!’ said Shargar, making about his first profession of Christianity. ‘Robert ‘ill think something o’ me noo.’

During this conversation the coachman sat expecting some one to appear from the shop, and longing to pitch into the ‘camstary’ horse, but not daring to lift his whip beyond its natural angle. No one came. All at once Shargar knew where he was.

‘Guid be here! we’re at Donal’s door! Guid day to ye, doctor; an’ I’m muckle obleeged to ye. Maybe, gin ye war comin’ oor gait, the morn, or the neist day, to see Maister Ericson, ye wad tie up my airm, for it gangs wallopin’ aboot, an’ that canna be guid for the stickin’ o’ ‘t thegither again.’

‘My poor boy! you don’t think I’m going to leave you here, do you?’ said the doctor, proceeding to open the carriage-door.

‘But whaur’s the hamper?’ said Shargar, looking about him in dismay.

‘The coachman has got it on the box,’ answered the doctor.

‘Eh! that’ll never do. Gin thae rampaugin’ brutes war to tak a start again, what wad come o’ the bit basket? I maun get it doon direckly.’

‘Sit still. I will get it down, and deliver it myself.’ As he spoke the doctor got out.

‘Tak care o’ ‘t, sir; tak care o’ ‘t. William Walker said there was a jar o’ drained hinney i’ the basket; an’ the bairns wad miss ‘t sair gin ‘t war spult.’

‘I will take good care of it,’ responded the doctor.

He delivered the basket, returned to the carriage, and told the coachman to drive home.

‘Whaur are ye takin’ me till?’ exclaimed Shargar. ‘Willie hasna payed me for the parcel.’

‘Never mind Willie. I’ll pay you,’ said the doctor.

‘But Robert wadna like me to tak siller whaur I did nae wark for ‘t,’ objected Shargar. ‘He’s some pernickety (precise)—Robert. But I’ll jist say ‘at ye garred me, doctor. Maybe that ‘ll saitisfee him. An’ faith! I’m queer aboot my left fin here.’

‘We’ll soon set it all right,’ said the doctor.

When they reached his house he led the way to his surgery, and there put the broken limb in splints. He then told Johnston to help the patient to bed.

‘I maun gang hame,’ objected Shargar. ‘What wad Robert think?’

‘I will tell him all about it,’ said the doctor.

‘Yersel, sir?’ stipulated Shargar.

‘Yes, myself.’

‘Afore nicht?’

‘Directly,’ answered the doctor, and Shargar yielded.

‘But what will Robert say?’ were his last words, as he fell asleep, appreciating, no doubt, the superiority of the bed to his usual lair upon the hearthrug.

Robert was delighted to hear how well Shargar had acquitted himself. Followed a small consultation about him; for the accident had ripened the doctor’s intentions concerning the outcast.

‘As soon as his arm is sound again, he shall go to the grammar-school,’ he said.

‘An’ the college?’ asked Robert.

‘I hope so,’ answered the doctor. ‘Do you think he will do well? He has plenty of courage, at all events, and that is a fine thing.’

‘Ow ay,’ answered Robert; ‘he’s no ill aff for smeddum (spirit)—that is, gin it be for ony ither body. He wad never lift a han’ for himsel’; an’ that’s what garred me tak till him sae muckle. He’s a fine crater. He canna gang him lane, but he’ll gang wi’ onybody—and haud up wi’ him.’

‘What do you think him fit for, then?’

Now Robert had been building castles for Shargar out of the hopes which the doctor’s friendliness had given him. Therefore he was ready with his answer.

‘Gin ye cud ensure him no bein’ made a general o’, he wad mak a gran’ sojer. Set’s face foret, and say “quick mairch,” an’ he’ll ca his bagonet throu auld Hornie. But lay nae consequences upo’ him, for he cudna stan’ unner them.’

Dr. Anderson laughed, but thought none the less, and went home to see how his patient was getting on.

CHAPTER XIV. MYSIE’S FACE

Meantime Ericson grew better. A space of hard, clear weather, in which everything sparkled with frost and sunshine, did him good. But not yet could he use his brain. He turned with dislike even from his friend Plato. He would sit in bed or on his chair by the fireside for hours, with his hands folded before him, and his eyelids drooping, and let his thoughts flow, for he could not think. And that these thoughts flowed not always with other than sweet sounds over the stones of question, the curves of his lip would testify to the friendly, furtive glance of the watchful Robert. None but the troubled mind knows its own consolations; and I believe the saddest life has its own presence—however it may be unrecognized as such—of the upholding Deity. Doth God care for the hairs that perish from our heads? To a mind like Ericson’s the remembered scent, the recurring vision of a flower loved in childhood, is enough to sustain anxiety with beauty, for the lovely is itself healing and hope-giving, because it is the form and presence of the true. To have such a presence is to be; and while a mind exists in any high consciousness, the intellectual trouble that springs from the desire to know its own life, to be assured of its rounded law and security, ceases, for the desire itself falls into abeyance.

But although Ericson was so weak, he was always able and ready to help Robert in any difficulty not unfrequently springing from his imperfect preparation in Greek; for while Mr. Innes was an excellent Latin scholar, his knowledge of Greek was too limited either to compel learning or inspire enthusiasm. And with the keen instinct he possessed in everything immediate between man and man, Robert would sometimes search for a difficulty in order to request its solution; for then Ericson would rouse himself to explain as few men could have explained: where a clear view was to be had of anything, Ericson either had it or knew that he had it not. Hence Robert’s progress was good; for one word from a wise helper will clear off a whole atmosphere of obstructions.

At length one day when Robert came home he found him seated at the table, with his slate, working away at the Differential Calculus. After this he recovered more rapidly, and ere another week was over began to attend one class a day. He had been so far in advance before, that though he could not expect prizes, there was no fear of his passing.

One morning, Robert, coming out from a lecture, saw Ericson in the quadrangle talking to an elderly gentleman. When they met in the afternoon Ericson told him that that was Mr. Lindsay, and that he had asked them both to spend the evening at his house. Robert would go anywhere to be with his friend.

He got out his Sunday clothes, and dressed himself with anxiety: he had visited scarcely at all, and was shy and doubtful. He then sat down to his books, till Ericson came to his door—dressed, and hence in Robert’s eyes ceremonial—a stately, graceful gentleman. Renewed awe came upon him at the sight, and renewed gratitude. There was a flush on Ericson’s cheek, and a fire in his eye. Robert had never seen him look so grand. But there was a something about him that rendered him uneasy—a look that made Ericson seem strange, as if his life lay in some far-off region.

‘I want you to take your violin with you, Robert,’ he said.

‘Hoots!’ returned Robert, ‘hoo can I do that? To tak her wi’ me the first time I gang to a strange hoose, as gin I thocht a’body wad think as muckle o’ my auld wife as I do mysel’! That wadna be mainners—wad it noo, Mr. Ericson?’

‘But I told Mr. Lindsay that you could play well. The old gentleman is fond of Scotch tunes, and you will please him if you take it.’

‘That maks a’ the differ,’ answered Robert.

‘Thank you,’ said Ericson, as Robert went towards his instrument; and, turning, would have walked from the house without any additional protection.

‘Whaur are ye gaein’ that gait, Mr. Ericson? Tak yer plaid, or ye’ll be laid up again, as sure’s ye live.’

‘I’m warm enough,’ returned Ericson.