"Now, Gordon, it is your turn at the wheel," he said. "You must either
sing or tell a story."
"My dear old sailor man," I replied, "I will sing all the evening if you
don't ask me to tell a story."
"But," cried Ida, shaking a merry forefinger at me, "you've got to do
_both_, dear."
There were more stories than mine told that night by the "ingleside" of
that Highland cot, for Frank himself must "open out" at last, and many a
strange adventure he told us, some of them humorous enough, others
pathetic in the extreme. Frank was not a bad hand at "spinning a yarn,"
as he called it, only he was like a witness in a box of justice: he
required a good deal of drawing out, and no small amount of
encouragement in the shape of honest smiles and laughter. Like all
sailors, he was shy.
"There's where you have me," Frank would say. "I am shy; there's no
getting over it; and no getting out of it but when I know I'm amusing
you, then I could go on as long as you like."
I have pleasing reminiscences of that evening. As I sit here at my
table, I have but to pause for a moment, put my hands across my eyes,
and the Rembrandt picture comes up again in every feature. Yonder sits
Frank, with his round, rosy face, looking still more round and rosy by
the peat-light. Yonder, side by side, with their great heads pointing
towards the blaze, lie the "twa dogs," and Ida crouched beside them, her
fair face held upwards, and all a-gleam with happiness and joy.
When lights were brought at last, it was plain that the honest old
landlady, bustling in with the tea-things, had dressed for the occasion,
and from the pleased expression on her face I felt sure she had been
listening somewhere in the gloom behind us.
The cottage where we went at last to reside in the remote Highlands was
a combination of comfort and rusticity, and Ida especially was delighted
with everything, more particularly with her own little room, half
bedroom, half boudoir, and the rustic flowers which old Mrs McF--
brought every day were in her eyes gems of matchless beauty.
Then everything out of doors was so new to her, and so beautiful and
grand withal, that we did not wonder at her being happy and pleased.
"When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath--"
So sings Byron. Well, _he_ had some kind of training to this species of
progression. Ida had none. _She_ was a young Highlander from the very
first day, and a bold and adventuresome one too. Nor torrent, cataract,
nor cliff feared she. And no bird, beast, or butterfly was afraid of
Ida.
Her chief companion was a matchless deerhound, whom we called Ossian.
Sometimes, when we were all seated together among the heather, Ossian
used to put his enormous head on her lap and gaze into her face for
minutes at a time. I've often thought of this since.
Nero, I think, was a little piqued and jealous when Ossian went
bounding, deer-like, from rock to rock. Ah! but when we came to the
lake's side, then it was Ossian's turn to be jealous, for in the days of
his youth he had neglected the art of swimming, in which many of his
breed excel.
Two months of this happy and idyllic life, then fell the shadow and the
gloom.
There was nothing romantic about Ida's illness and death. She suffered
but little pain, and bore that little with patience. She just faded
away, as it were; the young life went quietly out, the young barque
glided peacefully into the ocean of eternity.
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Poor Frank had an accident in the same year, and ere the winter was over
succumbed to his injuries. He died on such a night as one seldom sees
in England. The bravest man dared not face that terrible snowstorm
unless he courted death. Therefore I could not be with Frank at the
end.
The generous reader will easily understand why I say no more than these
few words about my dear friend's death. Alas! how few true friends
there are in this world, and it seems but yesterday he was with us,
seems but yesterday that I looked into his honest, smiling face, as I
bade him good-bye at my garden gate.