Chapter II: Victory--Poor Herbert Grant

As soon after four o’clock as possible, it had been announced, the result of the competition would be made to the students from one of the windows near to the Senatus-room and overlooking the quad. So even before that time Sandie, with his friend Willie, had joined the crowd beneath the window. And a right jovial and merry crowd it was, to all outward appearance; and yet there were amongst those roystering lads many whose hearts were like Sandie’s, going pit-a-pat, and of a verity, almost sick with anxiety.

Many poor students there were from the far Highlands of Inverness, whose future careers, if not indeed their very lives, depended upon their success in this competition, and who, if unsuccessful, would have to go back to the misery of their smoky Highland homes and hard work, to be the butt of many a senseless joke and the laughing-stock of the parish, that would tell them to their faces that pride goeth before a fall and haughtiness before destruction.

Four o’clock passed, half-past four, and five--oh, so wearily away--and still the window was not opened.

But behold, a few minutes after that, the form of the old Sacrist in his dusty gown, holding a paper and a lamp, can be dimly descried behind the window.

Hushed is every voice now, upturned each eager face. So great is the silence, I might almost say one could hear the snowflakes fall.

“Ahem! ahem!”

The Sacrist cleared his throat by way of creating a greater impression.

“Ahem! First Bursar, Peter--no, Alexander Mac--Mac--Mac--Oh, I see. First Bursar Alexander M‘Crae. Is Sandie there? Come up, young sir, into the Senatus-room.”

And as Sandie, head down, and walking apparently on the air, goes hurrying away for the stair-door, the Sacrist continues leisurely to read out the list until the close, and as one student comes back from the Senatus, the next in turn is asked to go up.

Sandie was terribly but delightfully bewildered. He soon found himself in the Senatus-room, though how he had gotten there he never could be rightly sure. He found the professors all standing, all arrayed in their gowns, and each one shook him by the hand. They even praised the elegance of the diction he had written, congratulated him on his wonderful success, and hoped he would live to become an honour and glory to the grand old Marischal College and University.

Sandie thanked them, blushing beet-red as he retired.

He would fain have got away home quietly now to write to his dear mother.

But this was not to be.

He was received by such shouting and cheering as he had never heard before, while every student in the quad crowded round to shake him by the hand. No spite, no chaff, no jealousy, only friendship unalloyed, and downright pride in the ploughman-student with his short frayed breeks, his brogues, and his stockings of blue.

Their enthusiasm ended by bringing tears to Sandie’s eyes. He had meant to make a speech, but he never got farther than--

“Gentlemen, I thank you all. I--I--I--No, it is impossible--I can’t speak----”

“Hurrah!” cried one of the students. He it was who had gained the third bursary. “Hoist, lads, hoist! I must go to the Senatus-room.”

And before Sandie could move a step, he was hoisted shoulder-high, and borne twice round the quad, his followers singing in voices loud and shrill--

“For he’s a jolly good fellow,
For he’s a jolly good fellow,
For he’s a jolly good fe--a--low
Which nobody can deny.”

The usual chorus of hip, hips, and Sandie was glad when at last, with his friend Willie, he found himself outside the gates and able to breathe more freely.

“Well,” said Willie, “you know how friendly I feel towards you, so I’ll say nothing. Let me see,” he continued; “it is only six; you’ll just have time to go home and change, and write your letter, and be at our place at half-past seven to dinner.”

“But really----”

“Nonsense! your coming, and there is an end to it. I’ll go with you to your attic and have a cup of old Mrs. Gully’s excellent tea. I’ll read while you write and dress. I shall thus make sure of you.”

So home to Sandie’s attic went the two students, and when old Mrs. Gully heard the news, she was so joyously excited that she almost cried.

“To think,” she said, “that I should hae a real leevin’ first bursar in my attic! Eh! sirs, it’s a high, high honour. But noo for your tay, for ye maun be famished.”

* * * * *

That evening spent at the Provost’s house was like many others, very shortsome and pleasant, and even very merry. A great cloud had rolled off the firmament of Sandie’s existence. His mental sky was clear. The future was all bright and hopeful, and he was happy. But his happiness was not permitted to last unalloyed all that evening. He had bidden his friends good-night, and Willie and he had walked up on to the Castle-gate to feast their eyes on the four long chains of light that, starting from here at right angles, go sweeping along Union Street and King Street, the houses on each side looking like mansions of marble under the stars, now so sweetly shining.

As they still stood looking and admiring, Sandie humming a song the while, their attention was attracted to a little crowd like a procession that had just rounded the corner of Market Street, and were coming onwards in their direction. They went straight away to meet it, and soon found that the centre of the crowd consisted of four policemen bearing a stretcher, on which lay a form, still in death, and covered over with a black cloth.

Willie sought explanations from some of the crowd. All they could tell him was that the body had been taken out of the harbour. It was that of a young man and supposed to be a student.

The body was taken to the station and to the dead-house.

“I think,” said Willie to a superintendent, “that I and my friend--we are both students--can identify the body, if it be a student, for either he or I know them all.”

“Well, come along, lads,” said the officer.

He led them to the gloomy room, and still more gloomy table, whereon the body lay.

With scant ceremony the officer pulled off the cloth.

Then with a stifled cry of alarm, Willie shrank back, clapping his hand to his brow.

“My God!” he exclaimed, “it is poor Herbert Grant!”

“You know him, then?”

“Oh, well, and all his history. He was a poor Highland student who came down to compete, but failed.”

“Do you know the address of his parents? It is evidently a case of suicide. Here is a letter we found on him addressed to his mother and father, but not directed. In the agony of his mind the poor boy must have forgotten that.”

“I do know their address.”

Then Willie took the letter, which was somewhat blotted from immersion and subsequent drying, and read as follows:--

“DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,--Only a line in my agony can I write at
all at all. But to be sure it is perhaps just as well. I have
failed to take a bursary. When your eyes shall fall on these lines
I shall be dead evermore. Don’t sorrow for me whatever. I shall be
quieter and better in the cold, cold grave.

“I never could face you after failure, and I never could face the
taunts of my brothers and my cousins. Forgive me! forgive me!
Good-bye for evermore whatever.--Your dead boy,

HERBERT.”

Willie Munro was naturally a tender-hearted boy, and this strange last letter, with the sight of the calm dead face lying there as if Herbert but slept, so wrought upon his feelings that he threw himself into a rude chair, and, with his hands to his face, wept long and bitterly.

Even the sturdy superintendent of police was visibly affected, and tried to console the boy, but for a time he only wept the more.

He started up at last, and that suddenly too; he dashed the tears aside.

“Come, Sandie, come,” he said, and left the dead-house.

In the outer office he addressed an envelope to Herbert’s parents. The very act of doing so seemed to restore him somewhat. He bade the officer good-night more cheerfully, and with Sandie walked out into the night and the starlight.

* * * * *

“Sandie,” said Willie next morning, “you’re going home, aren’t you?”

“Yes, certainly, to-day too.”

“Well, I think I could do with another day or two in the country. I want to get out from under the shadow of that dead-house, Sandie, away from the memory of that awful sleeping face.”

“My dear friend,” replied Sandie, “I had meant to ask you to come, though I wasn’t sure you would accept. But now I am delighted.”

* * * * *

There were several days to be spent in the Deeside Highlands before the classes should assemble for the work of the winter, and right pleasantly were they spent now by our heroes and their friend Mackenzie. The weather was most delightful, cold, crisp, and clear, with bright starry nights and dancing aurora. The aurora is here called the Merry Dancers, and right well does it deserve the name.

Long spears of light that meet, and mix, and clash in such a way as quite to bewilder the senses. It is in, the following way Burns the poet talks about pleasures--

“But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snowfall in the river,
One moment white, then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race
That flit ere ye can point their place.”

It was cold work fishing now, but they did spend one forenoon by a trout stream-side, and, much to his joy and pride, Willie caught no less than three handsome trout. He duly entered the fact in his note-book, and henceforward he said he thought he should be quite justified in dubbing himself a member of the gentle craft and a disciple of Walton’s.

But it was glorious weather for walking, and together they climbed some of the highest hills in the neighbourhood, the view spread out beneath them, wintry aspect though it was, being sometimes magnificent. The many streams winding out and in through snow-clad glens, and woods and wilds, the rocks and hills, the black solemn river itself, the cliffs above it, and the weird-like forests of pines--the whole formed a scene that was impressive in the extreme. “That tall sugar-loaf mountain to the east,” said Mackenzie, “some day we will climb. It towers half-a-mile above the level of the sea, and the view obtained from its summit is awe-striking and magnificent. Some day, Willie, when, as the song says,

‘Summer comes lilting out o’er the green leas,’

we will climb that hill. There is a romance attached to it that few are aware of. The mountain is called Benachie, or the Hill of the Mist, and many hundreds of years ago a wild Highland chieftain had a castle or stronghold on the very summit of it. He also had a castle below here, that old ruin that you can just see peeping round the corner of the pine wood. He owned all the land you can see to the east of us here. I am sorry to tell you this chief was a bad man. His constant habit was to abduct young ladies from the country of his hereditary enemy, just beyond the Don, and convey them to his fortress on the mountain; and never were they seen again. Well, it came to pass that a wealthy laird across the water was to be married to a beautiful young lady, the daughter of the chieftain, and the chief of Benachie’s son, who was now of age, thought he would follow in his father’s footsteps. So he made a raid across the Don one dark night, attacked the castle and carried off the daughter, taking her right to the stronghold on the summit of the mountain. When he heard of it, the young lady’s intended husband could not contain himself with rage. He collected a force with which he crossed the Don, and commenced laying waste the country with fire and sword. But his triumph was short-lived, for Benachie came down in force. Not only did he hurl the invader backwards into the dark rolling Don, but--oh! pitiful to relate!--he crossed the river and commenced an indiscriminate slaughter of young and old, while every cottage was fired, the chief slain, and his castle laid in ruins.[5]

“I do not tell you this story, boys, for the sake of sensation, but that you may thank Heaven in your hearts, we do not live in such dark and terrible times.”