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.'
'That's naething. The cauld 's jist lyin' i' the street like a verra deevil to get a grup o' ye. Gin ye dinna pit on yer plaid, I winna tak my fiddle.'
Ericson yielded; and they set out together.
I will account for Ericson's request about the violin.
He went to the episcopal church on Sundays, and sat where he could see Mysie--sat longing and thirsting ever till the music returned. Yet the music he never heard; he watched only its transmutation into form, never taking his eyes off Mysie's face. Reflected thence in a metamorphosed echo, he followed all its changes. Never was one powerless to produce it more strangely responsive to its influence. She had no voice; she had never been taught the use of any instrument. A world of musical feeling was pent up in her, and music raised the suddener storms in her mobile nature, that she was unable to give that feeling utterance. The waves of her soul dashed the more wildly against their shores, inasmuch as those shores were precipitous, and yielded no outlet to the swelling waters. It was that his soul might hover like a bird of Paradise over the lovely changes of her countenance, changes more lovely and frequent than those of an English May, that Ericson persuaded Robert to take his violin.