Chapter III: “we Have Been as Brothers: We Are Brothers Still”

Yes, Greek had met Greek, and the tug of war had begun.

It really does seem surprising, when we come to consider it, that those two humble Scottish students, knowing that they were rivals, well aware that they would have to fight against each other at the great competition, should have studied side by side, cheek by cheek, for so many weary months.

But such was the case.

They were very far separated now though, many seats apart, and each was for himself.

Before he even glanced at the paper, Sandie bent his head over his hands on the desk and prayed long and fervently, asking a blessing on the work he was about to do, but reverently adding, “If it be Thy will.”

Do not smile, O thoughtless reader. I myself, the writer of this true story, have had in my time the most marvellous answers to prayers, and I do not think I ever prayed for anything fervently, earnestly, without my prayer being granted.

Sandie soon found that he could do every portion of the exercises, difficult though they were, except one. That he could not bring out. After finishing all the rest, he pored and posed over this for one long hour. His head felt splitting in twain, strange nervous tremors ran along his limbs, and the cold sweat burst out from every pore.

At last a strange drowsiness stole over him. He put up his feet upon the seat, leaned his head upon his folded hands, and fell fast asleep.

Now, account for it as you may, reader, account for it if you can, I but state a fact when I say that in a dream Sandie got out of his difficulty, and saw the question written plainly out before him.

He was hardly awake when he sprung up and recommenced to write, fast and faster, and presently the thing was done.

“Hurrah!” he shouted, “EUREKA!”

He really could not help it.

The Professor looked a little surprised, but smiled.

“I hope you enjoyed your nap,” he said.

“Did I sleep long?” said Sandie.

“Only two hours.”

“Oh dear, Professor, I am very very sorry, and I see Maclean has gone. It was cruel of me to keep you.”

“All right, my lad; don’t mention it. Are you ready now?”

“I shall just write a clean copy of this last, then I’m done.”

In fifteen minutes more he had handed in his papers. The Professor shook him by the hand, and he went away happy and hopeful.

But he did not remain long so, for while at tea, about an hour after, on looking over his papers he discovered a mistake he had made, which threw him into the lowest depths of despair.

He had scarcely finished, when there was a modest knock at the door, and his friend Maclean himself entered, smiling too.

“He is the winner,” said Sandie to himself, when he saw that smile.

“May I come in?”

“Don’t ask such a question; you know you are as welcome as the primrose in spring!”

Maclean seated himself on the edge of a chair.

“Mr. M‘Crae--Sandie,” he said, “if you don’t win this £60 prize, I will.”

“True!”

“And, Sandie, if I lose, you will win.”

“Naturally!”

“But I haven’t flattered myself I shall win, so don’t think it will keep me awake at night if I don’t.”

“Bravo! Maclean. Spoken like a true Highlander.”

“But, Sandie----”

“Yes, Mac!”

“I want you to promise me one thing, and the same promise do I now make to you.”

“Name it, lad.”

“I promise faithfully that whichever way the prize goes, it shall not alter my friendship for you.”

“And I promise the same, Mac.”

“Shake hands.”

“Will you have a cup of tea? Do.”

“Well, I will, to please you.”

“And now,” said Mac, when tea was finished, “suppose we compare papers.”

“Right; but, Maclean, I tell you to begin with, that when I handed in my work, I thought it was _sine errore_, but only a few minutes ago I discovered an egregious mistake. So I fear I have little chance.”

The landlady came at Sandie’s summons--there was no bell; he simply knocked on the floor with the heel of his boot. She cleared the table and placed thereon cold water and glasses.

Then those two anxious young men drew near, and first Sandie’s papers were carefully gone over. No mistake but the one could be discovered.

“If you are right,” said Maclean, his hopes going down to zero, “then I’m very far out of my reckoning in many things.”

And so it really seemed.

Sandie took very great pains, but could not help condemning more than one of Maclean’s exercises.

Maclean leaned back in his chair at last and heaved a deep sigh.

“What is to be will be,” he said resignedly. “Sandie, you are the lucky man.”

“Maclean,” said Sandie innocently, “I begin to think I am. Oh, would we could both get a prize!”

“Maclean,” he said, after a pause, “we have worked and toiled together all throughout the weary winter. We have been as brothers. We are as brothers still. We are both poor, but, Mac, you are the poorer. It seems certain this prize is mine; let me share it with you. I can rub along, God helping me, with half of it.”

The tears sprang to poor Mac’s eyes.

“Och, and och,” he said, rapidly dashing his hand across his face, “I never thought the man was living who could bring tears to the eyes of a Maclean, whose forbears fought and bled at Culloden. Sandie, if anybody but yourself had made me such an offer, it is wild with the anger I would have been. But you are like a brother. Promise never to repeat the offer, and I’ll forgive you. Never will a Maclean touch the copper penny he has not won or earned. Promise!”

“I promise, and crave your forgiveness--brother.”

* * * * *

Yes, Sandie was declared victor.

And just an hour afterwards, a little boy with a buff-coloured envelope appeared at the door of Kilbuie house. Elsie flew to meet him, and went rushing in with the telegram to her mother.

Mrs. M‘Crae’s hand shook so, she could not open it, so Elsie tore it open.

Her face sparkled with joy when she read the glad tidings.

About the same time another telegraph-boy put in an appearance at the manse of Belhaven.

This message was addressed to Maggie May. It was the first telegram ever she had received in her life. She read it a dozen times over, ay, and kissed it. Then she went joyfully bounding down the road to meet her father, who had been paying visits in the pony trap.

“O father, father! what do you think?” she shouted.

“Oh, I can guess.”

“Yes, Sandie has won! Oh, isn’t it nice? oh, isn’t he clever?”

She jumped up beside her father as she spoke, that with his own eyes he might read the joyful news.

“So glad, so glad!” he said with moistening eyes. “He is our own boy--so glad!”

* * * * *

I may state here at once, that both sums of £60 each, that were paid to Sandie during the next two years, were placed carefully away in the North of Scotland Bank. They would come in handy later on, when he commenced the study of Divinity.

Meanwhile, Sandie relaxed no effort to keep well ahead of his classes. He determined not only to pass his examinations for his Bachelor of Arts degree, but to pass with honours.

With this end in view, I am bound to say that he studied harder than he ought to have done.

Sandie was, however, much reinvigorated in health from his herring-fishing cruises, which he took every summer. But he never sailed again from Blackhive. The memories of the sad deaths of poor Eppie and her wee man were far too painful, and he wished rather they should die away than revive.

* * * * *

It is the end of the last session of the curriculum. Sandie and several others are to be capped and gowned in the great hall, as they have their degrees conferred upon them.

The ceremony is a very pretty, not to say an impressive one, and the hall is crowded with lady sight-seers, chiefly the friends and relations of the young Masters and Bachelors of Arts.

Among these is a young girl of about sixteen, so innocently beautiful that many an opera-glass is turned towards her by the students--who as a class are by no means shy. She sits by the side of an elderly clergyman with mild blue eyes and a pleasant smile. The girl is Maggie May, the gentleman her father. Next her on the other side is Elsie herself, flanked by Willie Munro. She too is beautiful, and commands a greater share of attention than she desires, for more than once the colour suffuses her face, and she feels anything but happy.

When Sandie was receiving his degree, so great was the silence you might have heard the proverbial pin drop, especially when the Principal of the University addressed him in words somewhat as follows:--

“I cannot let this opportunity pass, Mr. M‘Crae, of congratulating you on the most successful career you have sustained at this University. My brother Professors all agree with me in saying you have been an honour to the great Northern University. We all wish you long life and good health. If you have this latter blessing, we do not fear for your success in life.”

Then every Professor shook Sandie kindly by the hand, while the cheering of his fellow-students was like thunder itself.

* * * * *

It was all over now, and it is no wonder that reaction came on, or that depression succeeded to the long-continued excitement of study.

Sandie was home at Kilbuie, and Willie--merry-hearted Willie, who never let anything trouble him long--was on an early summer visit to the farm.

But do what he could, he was unable to rouse Sandie from the seeming lethargy into which he was sinking.

Sandie was changed too, and changing still. His cheeks and temples had become more hollow of late; there was a red spot beneath each eye that his mother did not like; he had lost much of his strength, perspired more easily than he ought to have done; his voice was weak, and, worst symptom of all, he sometimes had a hollow cough.

Willie went straight away to Aberdeen one day, and when he returned next forenoon Dr. Kilgour was with him.

He most carefully examined our ploughboy-student, then he said to him--

“You’re a sensible youth, so I can speak to you straight. If you can get away to sunnier climes for a year, including a long sea-voyage in a sailing ship, you’ll return as hard as a hunter. If you don’t do this, you are booked for the other side of Jordan.”

The rough but kindly doctor told his mother the same, and she began to cry.

“Oh,” she moaned, “if my boy goes to sea, I shall never never see him more!”

“Tuts! woman, don’t be a fool. I tell you it is his only chance. You are bound to let him go--so there!”

* * * * *

There was that sum of £120 lying untouched in the bank, and this Sandie determined to devote to the payment of his expenses. If it pleased God, he said to himself, to bring him back from sea safe and well, he would be able by teaching to make enough to pay his divinity classes.

So he commenced at once to get ready his outfit.

There was a hopeful pleasure in even this, and while so engaged Sandie believed himself getting better already.

The parting from his parents and Elsie, and from Maggie May and the minister, would, he knew, be painful enough, but then there was Hope to sit up aloft and breathe the flattering tale.

One day Willie, who had been to Aberdeen, burst into Sandie’s room in a state of joyful excitement. He was waving aloft a curious-looking document, which was half printed, half written.

“Hurrah!” he cried. “Now, Sandie, I’m going to astonish you. Better catch hold of something for fear you fall. Do you know the Tomlisons, the rich shipowners?”

“By hearsay, Willie.”

“Well, they know you by hearsay. They know all your strange story, and all your hard struggles, and they have heard about your illness, and even got Dr. Kilgour’s report, and they have sent you a free pass to Australia, round by the Horn.”

“Oh, how kind!” cried Sandie. “But, Willie, can I in honour accept?”

“If you didn’t accept, I should look upon you as a pagan, Sandie. Sit down there at once, and write and thank them.”

And Sandie did.