One gusty evening--it was of the last day in March--Robert well
remembered both the date and the day--a bleak wind was driving up the
long street of the town, and Robert was standing looking out of one of
the windows in the gable-room. The evening was closing into night. He
hardly knew how he came to be there, but when he thought about it he
found it was play-Wednesday, and that he had been all the half-holiday
trying one thing after another to interest himself withal, but in vain.
He knew nothing about east winds; but not the less did this dreary wind
of the dreary March world prove itself upon his soul. For such a wind
has a shadow wind along with it, that blows in the minds of men.
There was nothing genial, no growth in it. It killed, and killed most
dogmatically. But it is an ill wind that blows nobody good. Even an east
wind must bear some blessing on its ugly wings. And as Robert looked
down from the gable, the wind was blowing up the street before it
half-a-dozen footfaring students from Aberdeen, on their way home at the
close of the session, probably to the farm-labours of the spring.
This was a glad sight, as that of the returning storks in Denmark.
Robert knew where they would put up, sought his cap, and went out. His
grandmother never objected to his going to see Miss Napier; it was in
her house that the weary men would this night rest.
It was not without reason that Lord Rothie had teased his hostess about
receiving foot-passengers, for to such it was her invariable custom to
make some civil excuse, sending Meg or Peggy to show them over the way
to the hostelry next in rank, a proceeding recognized by the inferior
hostess as both just and friendly, for the good woman never thought of
measuring The Star against The Boar's Head. More than one comical story
had been the result of this law of The Boar's Head, unalterable almost
as that of the Medes and Persians. I say almost, for to one class of
the footfaring community the official ice about the hearts of the three
women did thaw, yielding passage to a full river of hospitality and
generosity; and that was the class to which these wayfarers belonged.
Well may Scotland rejoice in her universities, for whatever may be said
against their system--I have no complaint to make--they are divine in
their freedom: men who follow the plough in the spring and reap
the harvest in the autumn, may, and often do, frequent their sacred
precincts when the winter comes--so fierce, yet so welcome--so severe,
yet so blessed--opening for them the doors to yet harder toil and yet
poorer fare. I fear, however, that of such there will be fewer and
fewer, seeing one class which supplied a portion of them has almost
vanished from the country--that class which was its truest, simplest,
and noblest strength--that class which at one time rendered it something
far other than ridicule to say that Scotland was pre-eminently a
God-fearing nation--I mean the class of cottars.
Of this class were some of the footfaring company. But there were others
of more means than the men of this lowly origin, who either could
not afford to travel by the expensive coaches, or could find none to
accommodate them. Possibly some preferred to walk. However this may have
been, the various groups which at the beginning and close of the session
passed through Rothieden weary and footsore, were sure of a hearty
welcome at The Boar's Head. And much the men needed it. Some of them
would have walked between one and two hundred miles before completing
their journey.
Robert made a circuit, and, fleet of foot, was in Miss Napier's parlour
before the travellers made their appearance on the square. When they
knocked at the door, Miss Letty herself went and opened it.
'Can ye tak 's in, mem?' was on the lips of their spokesman, but Miss
Letty had the first word.
'Come in, come in, gentlemen. This is the first o' ye, and ye're the
mair welcome. It's like seein' the first o' the swallows. An' sic a day
as ye hae had for yer lang traivel!' she went on, leading the way to her
sister's parlour, and followed by all the students, of whom the one that
came hindmost was the most remarkable of the group--at the same time the
most weary and downcast.
Miss Napier gave them a similar welcome, shaking hands with every one of
them. She knew them all but the last. To him she involuntarily showed a
more formal respect, partly from his appearance, and partly that she
had never seen him before. The whisky-bottle was brought out, and all
partook, save still the last. Miss Lizzie went to order their supper.
'Noo, gentlemen,' said Miss Letty, 'wad ony o' ye like to gang an'
change yer hose, and pit on a pair o' slippers?'
Several declined, saying they would wait until they had had their
supper; the roads had been quite dry, &c., &c. One said he would, and
another said his feet were blistered.
'Hoot awa'!' [2] exclaimed Miss Letty.--'Here, Peggy!' she cried, going to
the door; 'tak a pail o' het watter up to the chackit room. Jist ye gang
up, Mr. Cameron, and Peggy 'll see to yer feet.--Noo, sir, will ye gang
to yer room an' mak yersel' comfortable?--jist as gin ye war at hame,
for sae ye are.'
She addressed the stranger thus. He replied in a low indifferent tone,
'No, thank you; I must be off again directly.'
He was from Caithness, and talked no Scotch.
''Deed, sir, ye'll do naething o' the kin'. Here ye s' bide, tho' I suld
lock the door.'
'Come, come, Ericson, none o' your nonsense!' said one of his fellows.
'Ye ken yer feet are sae blistered ye can hardly put ane by the
ither.--It was a' we cud du, mem, to get him alang the last mile.'
'That s' be my business, than,' concluded Miss Letty.
She left the room, and returning in a few minutes, said, as a matter of
course, but with authority,
'Mr. Ericson, ye maun come wi' me.'
Then she hesitated a little. Was it maidenliness in the waning woman of
five-and-forty? It was, I believe; for how can a woman always remember
how old she is? If ever there was a young soul in God's world, it was
Letty Napier. And the young man was tall and stately as a Scandinavian
chief, with a look of command, tempered with patient endurance, in his
eagle face, for he was more like an eagle than any other creature,
and in his countenance signs of suffering. Miss Letty seeing this,
was moved, and her heart swelled, and she grew conscious and shy, and
turning to Robert, said,
'Come up the stair wi' 's, Robert; I may want ye.'
Robert jumped to his feet. His heart too had been yearning towards the
stranger.
As if yielding to the inevitable, Ericson rose and followed Miss Letty.
But when they had reached the room, and the door was shut behind them,
and Miss Letty pointed to a chair beside which stood a little wooden
tub full of hot water, saying, 'Sit ye doon there, Mr. Ericson,' he drew
himself up, all but his graciously-bowed head, and said,
'Ma'am, I must tell you that I followed the rest in here from the very
stupidity of weariness. I have not a shilling in my pocket.'
'God bless me!' said Miss Letty--and God did bless her, I am sure--'we
maun see to the feet first. What wad ye du wi' a shillin' gin ye had it?
Wad ye clap ane upo' ilka blister?'
Ericson burst out laughing, and sat down. But still he hesitated.
'Aff wi' yer shune, sir. Duv ye think I can wash yer feet throu ben'
leather?' said Miss Letty, not disdaining to advance her fingers to a
shoe-tie.
'But I'm ashamed. My stockings are all in holes.'
'Weel, ye s' get a clean pair to put on the morn, an' I'll darn them 'at
ye hae on, gin they be worth darnin', afore ye gang--an' what are ye sae
camstairie (unmanageable) for? A body wad think ye had a clo'en fit in
ilk ane o' thae bits o' shune o' yours. I winna promise to please yer
mither wi' my darnin' though.'
'I have no mother to find fault with it,' said Ericson.
'Weel, a sister's waur.'
'I have no sister, either.'
This was too much for Miss Letty. She could keep up the bravado of
humour no longer. She fairly burst out crying. In a moment more the
shoes and stockings were off, and the blisters in the hot water. Miss
Letty's tears dropped into the tub, and the salt in them did not hurt
the feet with which she busied herself, more than was necessary, to hide
them.
But no sooner had she recovered herself than she resumed her former
tone.
'A shillin'! said ye? An' a' thae greedy gleds (kites) o' professors to
pay, that live upo' the verra blude and banes o' sair-vroucht students!
Hoo cud ye hae a shillin' ower? Troth, it's nae wonner ye haena ane
left. An' a' the merchan's there jist leevin' upo' ye! Lord hae a care
o' 's! sic bonnie feet!--Wi' blisters I mean. I never saw sic a sicht o'
raw puddin's in my life. Ye're no fit to come doon the stair again.'
All the time she was tenderly washing and bathing the weary feet. When
she had dressed them and tied them up, she took the tub of water and
carried it away, but turned at the door.
'Ye'll jist mak up yer min' to bide a twa three days,' she said; 'for
thae feet cudna bide to be carried, no to say to carry a weicht like
you. There's naebody to luik for ye, ye ken. An' ye're no to come doon
the nicht. I'll sen' up yer supper. And Robert there 'll bide and keep
ye company.'
She vanished; and a moment after, Peggy appeared with a salamander--that
is a huge poker, ending not in a point, but a red-hot ace of
spades--which she thrust between the bars of the grate, into the heart
of a nest of brushwood. Presently a cheerful fire illuminated the room.
Ericson was seated on one chair, with his feet on another, his head
sunk on his bosom, and his eyes thinking. There was something about him
almost as powerfully attractive to Robert as it had been to Miss Letty.
So he sat gazing at him, and longing for a chance of doing something for
him. He had reverence already, and some love, but he had never felt
at all as he felt towards this man. Nor was it as the Chinese puzzlers
called Scotch metaphysicians, might have represented it--a combination
of love and reverence. It was the recognition of the eternal brotherhood
between him and one nobler than himself--hence a lovely eager worship.
Seeing Ericson look about him as if he wanted something, Robert started
to his feet.
'Is there onything ye want, Mr. Ericson?' he said, with service standing
in his eyes.
'A small bundle I think I brought up with me,' replied the youth.
It was not there. Robert rushed down-stairs, and returned with it--a
nightshirt and a hairbrush or so, tied up in a blue cotton handkerchief.
This was all that Robert was able to do for Ericson that evening.
He went home and dreamed about him. He called at The Boar's Head the
next morning before going to school, but Ericson was not yet up. When he
called again as soon as morning school was over, he found that they had
persuaded him to keep his bed, but Miss Letty took him up to his room.
He looked better, was pleased to see Robert, and spoke to him kindly.
Twice yet Robert called to inquire after him that day, and once more he
saw him, for he took his tea up to him.
The next day Ericson was much better, received Robert with a smile, and
went out with him for a stroll, for all his companions were gone, and of
some students who had arrived since he did not know any. Robert took him
to his grandmother, who received him with stately kindness. Then they
went out again, and passed the windows of Captain Forsyth's house. Mary
St. John was playing. They stood for a moment, almost involuntarily, to
listen. She ceased.
'That's the music of the spheres,' said Ericson, in a low voice, as they
moved on.
'Will you tell me what that means?' asked Robert. 'I've come upon 't
ower an' ower in Milton.'
Thereupon Ericson explained to him what Pythagoras had taught about the
stars moving in their great orbits with sounds of awful harmony,
too grandly loud for the human organ to vibrate in response to their
music--hence unheard of men. And Ericson spoke as if he believed it.
But after he had spoken, his face grew sadder than ever; and, as if to
change the subject, he said, abruptly,
'What a fine old lady your grandmother is, Robert!'
'Is she?' returned Robert.
'I don't mean to say she's like Miss Letty,' said Ericson. 'She's an
angel!'
A long pause followed. Robert's thoughts went roaming in their usual
haunts.
'Do you think, Mr. Ericson,' he said, at length, taking up the old
question still floating unanswered in his mind, 'do you think if a devil
was to repent God would forgive him?'
Ericson turned and looked at him. Their eyes met. The youth wondered at
the boy. He had recognized in him a younger brother, one who had begun
to ask questions, calling them out into the deaf and dumb abyss of the
universe.
'If God was as good as I would like him to be, the devils themselves
would repent,' he said, turning away.
Then he turned again, and looking down upon Robert like a sorrowful
eagle from a crag over its harried nest, said,
'If I only knew that God was as good as--that woman, I should die
content.'
Robert heard words of blasphemy from the mouth of an angel, but his
respect for Ericson compelled a reply.
'What woman, Mr. Ericson?' he asked.
'I mean Miss Letty, of course.'
'But surely ye dinna think God's nae as guid as she is? Surely he's as
good as he can be. He is good, ye ken.'
'Oh, yes. They say so. And then they tell you something about him that
isn't good, and go on calling him good all the same. But calling anybody
good doesn't make him good, you know.'
'Then ye dinna believe 'at God is good, Mr. Ericson?' said Robert,
choking with a strange mingling of horror and hope.
'I didn't say that, my boy. But to know that God was good, and fair, and
kind--heartily, I mean, not half-ways, and with ifs and buts--my boy,
there would be nothing left to be miserable about.'
In a momentary flash of thought, Robert wondered whether this might not
be his old friend, the repentant angel, sent to earth as a man, that he
might have a share in the redemption, and work out his own salvation.
And from this very moment the thoughts about God that had hitherto been
moving in formless solution in his mind began slowly to crystallize.
The next day, Eric Ericson, not without a piece in ae pouch and money
in another, took his way home, if home it could be called where neither
father, mother, brother, nor sister awaited his return. For a season
Robert saw him no more.
As often as his name was mentioned, Miss Letty's eyes would grow hazy,
and as often she would make some comical remark.
'Puir fallow!' she would say, 'he was ower lang-leggit for this warld.'
Or again:
'Ay, he was a braw chield. But he canna live. His feet's ower sma'.'
Or yet again:
'Saw ye ever sic a gowk, to mak sic a wark aboot sittin' doon an' haein'
his feet washed, as gin that cost a body onything!'