"Why do summer roses fade,
If not to show how fleeting
All things bright and fair are made,
To bloom awhile as half afraid
To join our summer greeting?"
"Now," said Frank one evening to me, "a little change is all that is
needed to make the child as well again as ever she was in her life."
"I think you are right, Frank," was my reply; "change will do it--a few
weeks' residence in a bracing atmosphere; and it would do us all good
too; for of course you would be of the party, Frank?"
"I'll go with you like a shot," said this honest-hearted, blunt old
sailor.
"What say you, then, to the Highlands?"
"Just the thing," replied Frank. "Just the place--
"`My heart's in the Hielans.
My heart is not here;
My heart's in the Hielans, chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer and following the roe--
My heart's in the Hielans, wherever I go.'"
"Bravo! Frank," I cried; "now let us consider the matter as practically
settled. And let us go in for division of labour in the matter of
preparation for this journey due north. You two old folks shall do the
packing and all that sort of thing, and Ida and I will--get the
tickets."
And, truth to tell, that is really all Ida and myself did do; but we
knew we were in good hands, and a better caterer for comfort on a
journey, or a better baggage-master than Frank never lived.
He got an immense double kennel built for Aileen and Nero; all the other
pets were left at home under good surveillance, not even a cat being
forgotten. This kennel, when the dogs were in it, took four good men
and true to lift it, and the doing so was as good as a Turkish bath to
each of them.
We had a compartment all to our four selves, and as we travelled by
night, and made a friend of the burly, brown-bearded guard, the dogs had
water several times during the journey, and we human folks were never
once disturbed until we found ourselves in what Walter Scott calls--
"My own romantic town."
A week spent in Edinburgh in the sweet summer-time is something to dream
about ever after. We saw everything that was to be seen, from the
Castle itself to Greyfriars' Bobby's monument, and the quiet corner in
which he sleeps.
Then onward we went to beautiful and romantic Perth. Then on to
Callander and Doune. At the latter place we visited the romantic ruin
called Doune Castle, where my old favourite Tyro is buried. In
Perthshire we spent several days, and once had the good or bad fortune
to get storm-stayed at a little wayside hotel or hostelry, where we had
stopped to dine. The place seemed a long way from anywhere. I'm not
sure that it wasn't at the back of the north wind; at all events, there
was neither cab nor conveyance to be had for love nor money, and a
Scotch mist prevailed--that is, the rain came down in streams as solid
and thick as wooden penholders. So we determined to make the best of
matters and stay all night; the little place was as clean as clean could
be, and the landlady, in mutch of spotless white, was delighted at the
prospect of having us.
She heaped the wood on the hearth as the evening glome began to descend;
the bright flames leapt up and cast great shadows on the wall behind us,
and we all gathered round the fire, the all including Nero and Aileen;
the circle would not have been complete without them.
No, thank you, we told the landlady, we wouldn't have candles; it was
ever so much cosier by the light of the fire. But, by-and-by, we would
have tea.
Despite the Scotch mist, we spent a very happy evening. Ida was more
than herself in mirth and merriment; her bright and joyous face was a
treat to behold. She sang some little simple Highland song to us that
we never knew she had learned; she said she had picked it up on purpose;
and then she called on Frank to "contribute to the harmony of the
evening"--a phrase she had learned from the old tar himself.
"Me!" said Frank; "bless you, you would all run out if I began to sing."
But we promised to sit still, whatever might happen, and then we got the
"Bay of Biscay" out of him, and he gave it that genuine, true sea-ring
and rhythm, that no landsman, in my opinion, can imitate. As he sang,
in fact, you could positively imagine you were on the deck of that
storm-tossed ship, with her tattered canvas fluttering idly in the
breeze, her wave-riddled bulwarks, and wet and slippery decks. You
could see the shivering sailors clinging to shroud or stay as the green
seas thundered over the decks; you could hear the wind roaring in the
rigging, and the hissing boom of the breaking waters, all about and
around you.