"The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all,
Knight and page and household squire
Loitered through the lofty hall,
Or crowded round the ample fire.
The stag-hounds, weary of the chase,
Lay stretched upon the rushy floor,
And urged in dreams the forest race,
From Teviot Stone to Eskdale moor."
Walter Scott.
Scene: The tartan parlour of an old Highland mansion in the west of
Scotland. Wine and walnuts on the table. About a dozen gentlemen
seated round in attitudes of ease and enjoyment. A great fire of coal
and oak logs in the low and spacious grate. From their accent these
gentlemen are mostly English and American.
"Robinson!" cried Mr Steve, who was seated at the head of the table,
and whose sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks told a tale that was far
from difficult to read, "Robinson, the bottle is with you. What think
you of the stuff? I paid thirty dollars a dozen for it at old
Clintock's sale, and I guess you'll hardly match it in this country, if
anywheres. Donald," he continued, addressing a white-haired old
Highland servant, who stood near, "heap more wood on the fire, and look
active. Don't stand and stare like the log figure on a tobacconist's
sign. Move your joints, I say."
Donald hastened to do as he was told; but as he obeyed he muttered
something in the Gaelic language, of which the following is a pretty
fair translation.
"It is Donald's own self that would like to put _you_ on the fire.
Truth told, and it is then."
"Yes," replied Robinson, a wealthy draper from London, "the wine is
truly excellent, and if I were to speak the truth now, I'd say earnestly
that I don't think we _could_ match it in our old country."
"And after all, you know," said a white-faced, meek young man, who sat
near Mr Steve, "this country is vewy nearly worn out."
"Oh! for the matter of that now," said Steve, "America, above all
countries for institooshuns, great armies, great navies--if we chose to
build them--for tall mountains, broad lakes, big steamboats, and mighty
rivers."
"Heah! heah!" from several voices.
"England," continued Steve, "is all very well to spend money in, 'cause
you're near the Continent, and can run 'most anywhere without the
trouble of crossing much water. But I say America's the country to make
the money in."
"Heah! heah!"
"And, after all, what, I ask, would England be without America?"
"What, indeed?"
"Yet, _I_ wouldn't boast. Your true American never does. You
Englishmen, pardon me, talk about the sun never setting on British
territory, of your drum rolling and your reveille beating in a cordon
right round the globe, and of your owning the sixth part of the land of
this boundless universe, and _all_ the water. Now, if that ain't
boasting--and mebbe it ain't--it is what I'd call pretty tall talk."
The laugh became general at this speech of Mr Steve of Glen Alva, and
every face beamed.
"You must all come out next spring, gentlemen, and stay a few weeks in
my New York mansion. Nay, I won't take a refusal from one of you. So
there! And I guess, too, I can give you a good time of it."
A beautiful deerhound rose slowly up from the mat and leaned his great
head on the table. He did not wish to join the conversation. He was
only craving a biscuit.
Steve flicked a walnut at the head, which struck the poor animal on the
eye, and evidently caused him great pain. He did not howl, however--
Scotch deerhounds are far too game for that; but he shut his eye, which
watered a deal, and went and lay down again on the rug with a big sigh,
and all the rest of the evening was engaged licking his pastern, and
applying it tenderly to the eye. This is a dog's way of administering a
warm fomentation.
"Capital shot, eh?" laughed Steve.
"Yes," from some of his guests.
"But I say, you know, Mr Steve," said one, with probably something of
kindness to God's lower creation in his heart, "I say, it wouldn't do to
go to the hill with blind dogs. Would it?"
"Oh! he won't hurt. It takes a deal to hurt these hounds. They are
like the Scots themselves, very hardy and active, but precious lazy.
Just look at all those dogs snoring round the fire.
"I've cleared the glen, though, of some of the lazy Scots. Why, it is
doing them good to drum them off to America. In my opinion, more'n one
half of Scotland should be cleared and planted out in forest."
"Well," said one Englishman, "maybe you're right; and now, as myself and
most of us are going south early to-morrow morning, might I suggest that
we join the ladies? But before I go, I must just take the liberty of
thanking Mr Steve, our kindly-hearted host, for his hospitality to us
since we've been down here, and roamed in, and shot over, his
magnificent forest. I consider Mr Steve's hospitality to be far more
than princely, both out-doors and in. Just think, gentlemen, we have
had to our guns about one hundred and thirty-six stags, and as we all
know every stag costs its owner 300 pounds [so it is said in Scotland]
you can compute what Mr Steve's hospitality costs him. I say no more."
"A mere flea-bite," returned Mr Steve pompously; "I'll have you all
again next year; and now supposing we _do_ join the ladies."
Mr Steve's household was certainly kept up in a right lordly style.
There was no stint in it of anything that was good. He had any number
of beef-eating servants. He was a good customer to his tradesmen--
including his wine merchant,--who all, however, lived in Glasgow or
London. It must, therefore, be confessed that he brought money into the
country, and in this way did good; yet he was not liked in the glens nor
villages, nor much relished by the proud old Highland families. He was
no friend to the poor man, and his minions had been known ere now to
shoot stray pet dogs, and even cudgel to death the cats of poor old lone
women,--cats that probably were the only friends and companions they had
in this world. So, to put it plain, Mr Steve was _not_ liked in the
neighbourhood, and reference was often made of, and fond memories went
back to, the dear old days, when good Laird McGregor owned the glen--now
a wilderness,--when it was dotted over with peaceful if rustic cottages,
from which, as sure as sunrise, every morning rose, with the smoke from
the chimneys the song of praise to Him Who loves the poor man as well as
the rich.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The guests were preparing to retire, when a liveried servant entered
with a card on a gold salver.
"Beg pardon, sir, but the gentleman would insist upon my presenting that
'ere card."
"Take it away," said Mr Steve, reading the card, without even deigning
to finger it. "Take it away. I can see no one to-night."
"I'll tell him, sir; but on'y, sir, he said his business was of immense
importance to yourself, and that he were a-going south by first train
to-morrow morning."
"Heigho!" sighed Steve, moving towards the door. "What a bore! You'll
excuse me half a moment, gentlemen?"
The stranger had been shown into the low-ceilinged but snug
old-fashioned parlour, and rose and bowed as Steve entered.
"I presume," he said, "I have the honour of addressing Mr Steve?"
"You have," said Mr Steve; "and pray be brief, for my guests wait."
"My business is of a private nature," replied the stranger, with a
glance at the servant.
At a nod from his master the latter retired.
The stranger took the liberty of shutting the door, then confronted Mr
Steve.
He was a youngish man, of bold and gentlemanly appearance, and
unmistakably Scotch, though with slightly foreign action while
conversing.
"Mr Steve," he said, "I will be very brief. I might have communicated
with you through my solicitor, but thought it more fair to you, and more
honourable in me, to come personally, for, after all, when you hear what
I have to say, litigation will be unnecessary."
"Litigation, sir? Pray go on," said Steve, smiling somewhat
sarcastically. "You're not out of your mind, are you?"
"You shall judge for yourself. You purchased this estate of Alva, sir,
from the late Laird McGregor?"
"I did, and paid for it handsomely."
"But by the laws of this country entailed estates cannot be sold and the
entail thus broken, unless it can be proved that no other male heir
lives. Thus in point of fact, at all events, were the lands and estates
of Alva left by will to the McGregors and their lineal descendants."
"See, stranger," said Steve, "I'm not going to debate here all night on
matters of law. Law is a dry subject at best. I bought Alva, there was
_no_ other male heir to McGregor, and his only son was drowned at sea."
"His only son now stands before you!"
"Then the father--"
"Stay," cried young McGregor, "tempt me not to do that I should be sorry
for. I came but to inform you I would make every attempt to win back my
own. I have now to say good-night."
"I thank you," sneered Steve, "for your courtesy; but do--_not_--fear--
you. Good-night."