CHAPTER XVI.

THE DOWNWARD WAY

*WHITE HEATHER.*

*CHAPTER I.*

*A FURTHER DISCOVERY.*

It can hardly be wondered at that these suddenly presented ambitious

projects--this call to be up and doing, and getting forward in the

general race of the world--should add a new interest and fascination, in

his eyes, to the society of the American father and daughter who had

wandered into these distant wilds. And perhaps, after all, he had been

merely wasting his time and throwing away his life? That solitary,

contented, healthy and happy existence was a mistake--an idle dream--an

anachronism, even? The common way of the world was right; and that, as

he heard of it in the echoes brought by these strangers from without,

was all a pushing and striving and making the most of opportunities,

until the end was reached--independence and ease and wealth; the power

of choosing this or that continent for a residence; the radiant

happiness and glow of success. And then it all seemed so easy and

practicable when he heard these two talking about their friends and the

fortunes they had made; and it seemed still more easy--and a far more

desirable and beautiful thing--when it was Miss Carry herself who was

speaking, she seated alone in the stern of the boat, her eyes--that had

a kind of surface darkness and softness, like blackberries wet with

rain--helping out her speech, and betraying an open friendliness, and

even conferring a charm on her descriptions of that far-off

pork-producing city of the west. Mr. Hodson, as he sate upright in his

easy-chair before the fire, spoke slowly and sententiously, and without

any visible enthusiasm; Miss Carry, in the stern of the coble, her face

all lit up with the blowing winds and the sunlight, talked with far

greater vivacity, and was obviously deeply interested in the future of

her companion. And it had come to this now, that, as she sate opposite

him, he quite naturally and habitually regarded her eyes as

supplementing her meaning; he no longer rather shrank from the

directness of her look; he no longer wished that she would sit the other

way, and attend to the tops of the salmon-rods. As for their speech

together, the exceeding frankness of it and lack of conventionality

arose from one or two causes, but no doubt partly from this--that during

their various adventures on the loch there was no time for the

observance of studied forms. It was 'Do this' and 'Do that,' on his

part--sometimes with even a sharp word of monition; and with her it was

'Will that do, Ronald?' or again,--when she was standing up in fell

encounter with her unseen enemy, both hands engaged with the

rod--'Ronald, tie my cap down, or the wind will blow it away--No, no,

the other strings--underneath!'

Indeed, on the morning after the evening on which they had been urging

him to make a career for himself, there was not much chance of any calm

discussion of that subject. The proceedings of the day opened in a

remarkably lively manner. For one thing the wind had backed still

farther during the night, and was now blowing briskly from the north,

bringing with it from time to time smart snow showers that blackened the

heavens and earth for a few minutes and then sped on, leaving the peaks

and shoulders and even the lower spurs of the hills all a gleaming white

in the wintry sunlight.

'Salmon-fishing in a snow-storm--well, I declare!' said she, as she

stood on the shore of the lake, watching him putting the rods together.

'The very best time,' said he, in his positive way (for he had assumed a

kind of authority over her, whereas with Meenie he was always reserved

and distant and timidly gentle). 'None better. I would just like to

find a foot of snow on the ground, right down to the edge of the loch;

and the flakes falling so thick ye couldna see a dozen yards ahead of

ye.'

'Do you know where I should be then?' she retorted. 'I should be warming

my toes in front of Mrs. Murray's peat-fire.'

'Not one bit,' said he, just as positively. 'If ye heard the salmon

were taking, ye'd be down here fast enough, I'm thinking.'

And presently it seemed as if this early start of theirs was to be

rewarded, for scarcely were both lines out--and Miss Carry was just

settling herself down for a little quiet talk, and was pulling the

collar of her ulster higher over her ears (for the wind was somewhat

cold)--when a sudden tugging and straining at one of the rods, followed

by a sharp scream of the reel, upset all these little plans. She made a

dash at the rod and raised it quickly.

'That's a good fish--that's a good fish!' Ronald cried, with his mouth

set hard. 'Now let's see if we canna hold on to this one. Let him go,

lassie!--I beg your pardon--let him go--let him go--that's right--a

clean fish, and a beauty!'

Beauty or no, the salmon had no hesitation about showing himself, at

least; for now he began to lash the surface of the water, some fifty

yards away, not springing into the air, but merely beating the waves

with head and body and tail to get rid of this unholy thing that he had

pursued and gripped. Then down he went with a mighty plunge--the reel

whirring out its shrill cry, and Miss Carry's gloves suffering in

consequence--and there he sulked; so that they backed the boat again,

and again she got in some of the line. What was the sound that came

across the lake to them, in the face of the northerly wind?

'They're waving a handkerchief to ye, Miss Hodson,' said he, 'from the

other boat.'

'Oh, bother,' said she (for the strain of a heavy salmon and forty yards

of line was something on her arms), 'here, take the handkerchief from

this breast-pocket, and wave it back to them--stand up beside me--they

won't see the difference----'

He did as he was bid; apparently she paid little attention; she seemed

wholly bent on getting the fish. And clearly the salmon had somewhat

exhausted himself with his first escapades; he now lay deep down, not

stirring an inch; so that she got in her line until there was not more

than twenty yards out: then they waited.

And meanwhile this strange thing that was overtaking them? The bright,

windy, changeable day--with its gleaming snow-slopes and sunlit straths

and woods darkened by passing shadows--seemed to be slowly receding from

them, and around them came a kind of hushed and stealthy gloom. And

then the wind stirred again; the gusts came sharper and colder; here and

there a wet particle stung the cheek or the back of the hand. Of

course, she was in a death-struggle with a salmon; she could not heed.

And presently the gathering blackness all around seemed to break into a

soft bewilderment of snow; large, soft, woolly flakes came driving along

before the wind; all the world was shut out from them; they could see

nothing but a short space of livid dark water, and feel nothing but this

choking silent thing in the air. And then again, with a magical

rapidity, the heavens and the earth seemed to open above and around

them; the clouds swept on; there was a great deep of dazzling blue

suddenly revealed in the sky overhead; and all the dancing waters of the

lake, from the boat to the farthest shores, were one flashing and

lapping mass of keen, pure cobalt, absolutely bewildering to the eyes.

The joy of that radiant colour, after the mystery and the darkness! And

then the sunlight broke out; and Clebrig had a touch of gold along his

mighty shoulders; and Ben Loyal's snow-slopes were white against the

brilliant blue; and it seemed as if the fairest of soft summer skies

were shining over Bonnie Strath-Naver.

To her it meant that she could see a little more clearly. She shook the

snowflakes from her hair.

'Ronald, you are sure it is not a kelt?'

'Indeed I am. There's nothing of the kelt about that one.'

'If it is,' said she, 'I'll go home and tell my ma.'

She was clearly feeling a little more secure about this one. And she

did capture the creature in the end, though it was after a long and

arduous struggle. For he was a strong fish--fresh run up from the sea,

and heavy for his size; and again and again, and a dozen times repeated,

he would make rushes away from the boat just as they thought he was

finally showing the white feather. It was the toughest fight she had

had; but practice was hardening her muscles a little; and she had

acquired a little dexterity in altering her position and shifting the

strain. By this time the other boat was coming round.

'Stick to him, Carry!' her father cried. 'No Secesh tactics allowed:

hold on to him!'

The next moment Ronald had settled all that by a smart scoop of the

clip; and there in the bottom of the boat lay a small-headed

deep-shouldered fish of just over sixteen pounds--Ronald pinning him

down to get the minnow out of his jaw, and the lad Johnnie grinning all

over his ruddy face with delight.

Miss Carry looked on in a very calm and business-like fashion; though in

reality her heart was beating quickly--with gladness and exultation.

And then, with the same business-like calmness, she took from the deep

pocket of her ulster a flask that she had borrowed from Mr. Murray.

'Ronald,' said she, 'you must drink to our good luck.'

She handed him the flask. She appeared to be quite to the manner born

now. You would not have imagined that her heart was beating so quickly,

or her hands just a little bit nervous and shaky after that prolonged

excitement.

Good luck seemed to follow the Duke's boat this morning. Within the next

three quarters of an hour they had got hold of another salmon--just over

ten pounds. And it was barely lunch time when they had succeeded in

landing a third--this time a remarkably handsome fish of fifteen pounds.

She now thought she had done enough. She resumed her seat contentedly;

there was no elation visible on her face. But she absolutely forbade

the putting out of the lines again.

'Look here, Ronald,' she said seriously. 'What do you think I came here

for? Do you think I came here to leave my bones in a foreign land? I

am just about dead now. My arms are not made of steel. We can go

ashore, and get lunch unpacked; the other boat will follow quickly

enough. I tell you my arms and wrists have just had about enough for

one morning.'

And a very snug and merry little luncheon-party they made there--down by

the side of the lapping water, and under the shelter of a wood of young

birch-trees. For the other boat had brought ashore two salmon; so that

the five handsome fish, laid side by side on a broad slab of rock, made

an excellent show. Miss Carry said nothing about her arms aching; but

she did not seem to be in as great a hurry as the others to set to work

again. No; she enjoyed the rest; and, observing that Ronald had

finished his lunch, she called to him, under the pretext of wanting to

know something about sending the fish south. This led on to other

things; the three of them chatting together contentedly enough, and

Ronald even making bold enough to light his pipe. A very friendly

little group this was--away by themselves there in these wintry

solitudes--with the wide blue waters of the lake in front of them, and

the snows of Clebrig white against the sky. And if he were to go away

from these familiar scenes, might he not come back again in the after

days? And with the splendid power of remaining or going, just as he

pleased?--just as these friendly folk could, who spoke so lightly of

choosing this or that quarter of the globe for their temporary

habitation? Yes, there were many things that money could do: these two

strangers, now, could linger here at Inver-Mudal just as long as the

salmon-fishing continued to amuse them; or they could cross over to

Paris, and see the wonders there; or they could go away back to the

great cities and harbours and lakes and huge hotels that they spoke so

much about. He listened with intensest interest, and with a keen

imagination. And was this part of the shore around them--with its rocks

and brushwood and clear water--really like the shores of Lake George,

where she was so afraid of rattlesnakes? She said she would send him

some photographs of Lake Michigan.

Then in the boat in the afternoon she quite innocently remarked that she

wished he was going back home with them; for that he would find the

voyage across the Atlantic so amusing. She described the people coming

out to say good-bye at Liverpool; and the throwing of knives and

pencil-cases and what not as farewell gifts from the steamer to the

tender, and _vice versa_; she described the scamper round Queenstown and

the waiting for the mails; then the long days on the wide ocean, with

all the various occupations, and the concerts in the evening, and the

raffles in the smoking-room (this from hearsay); then the crowding on

deck for the first glimpse of the American coast-line; and the gliding

over the shallows of Sandy Hook; and the friends who would come steaming

down the Bay to wave handkerchiefs and welcome them home. She seemed to

regard it as a quite natural and simple thing that he should be of this

party; and that, after landing, her father should take him about and

'see him through,' as it were; and if her fancy failed to carry out

these forecasts, and to picture him walking along Dearborn Avenue or

driving out with them to Washington Park, it was that once or twice ere

now she had somehow arrived at the notion that Ronald Strang and Chicago

would prove to be incongruous. Or was it some instinctive feeling that,

however natural and fitting their friendship might be in this remote

little place in the Highlands, it might give rise to awkwardness over

there? Anyhow, that could not prevent her father from seeing that

Ronald had ample introductions and guidance when he landed at New York;

and was not that the proper sphere for one of his years and courage and

abilities?

When they got ashore at the end of the day it was found that each boat

had got two more salmon, so that there was a display of nine big fish on

the grass there in the gathering dusk.

'And to think that I should live to catch five salmon in one day,' said

Miss Carry, as she contemplated her share of the spoil. 'Well, no one

will believe it; for they're just real mean people at home; and they

won't allow that anything's happened to you in Europe unless you have

something to show for it. I suppose Ronald would give me a written

guarantee. Anyway, I am going to take that big one along to the

Doctor--it will be a good introduction, won't it, pappa?'

But a curious thing happened about that same salmon. When they got to

the inn the fish were laid out on the stone flags of the dairy--the

coolest and safest place for them in the house; and Miss Carry, who had

come along to see them, when she wanted anything done, naturally turned

to Ronald.

'Ronald,' said she, 'I want to give that big one to Mrs. Douglas, and I

am going along now to the cottage. Will you carry it for me?'

He said something about getting a piece of string and left. A couple of

minutes thereafter the lad Johnnie appeared, with a stout bit of cord in

his hand; and he, having affixed that to the head and the tail of the

salmon, caught it up, and stood in readiness. She seemed surprised.

'Where is Ronald?' said she--for he was always at her bidding.

'He asked me to carry the fish to the Doctor's house, mem,' said the

lad. 'Will I go now?'

Moreover, this salmon was accidentally responsible for a still further

discovery. When Miss Carry went along to call on the Douglases, little

Maggie was with her friend Meenie; and they all of them had tea

together; and when the little Maggie considered it fitting she should go

home, Miss Carry said she would accompany her--for it was now quite

dark. And they had a good deal of talk by the way, partly about

schooling and accomplishments, but much more largely about Ronald, who

was the one person in all the world in the eyes of his sister. And if

Maggie was ready with her information, this pretty young lady was

equally interested in receiving it, and also in making inquiries. And

thus it came about that Miss Carry now for the first time learned that

Ronald was in the habit of writing poems, verses, and things of that

kind; and that they were greatly thought of by those who had seen them

or to whom he had sent them.

'Why, I might have guessed as much,' she said to herself, as she walked

on alone to the inn--though what there was in Ronald's appearance to

suggest that he was a writer of rhymes it might have puzzled any one to

determine.

But this was a notable discovery; and it set her quick and fertile brain

working in a hundred different ways; but mostly she bethought her of one

John C. Huysen and of a certain newspaper-office on Fifth Avenue,

Chicago, 111.

'Well, there,' she said to herself, as the result of these rapid

cogitations, 'if Jack Huysen's good for anything--if he wants to say he

has done me a service--if he wants to show he has the spirit of a man in

him--well, _now's his chance_.'

*CHAPTER II.*

*CONFESSIONS.*

It was but another instance of the curiously magnetic influence of this

man's personality that she instantly and unhesitatingly assumed that

what he wrote must be of value. Now every second human being, as well

she knew, writes verses at one period of his life, and these are mostly

trash; and remain discreetly hidden, or are mercifully burned. But what

Ronald wrote, she was already certain, must be characteristic of

himself, and have interest and definite worth; and what better could she

do than get hold of some of these things, and have them introduced to

the public, perhaps with some little preliminary encomium written by a

friendly hand? She had heard from the little Maggie that Ronald had

never sent any of his writings to the newspapers; might not this be a

service? She could not offer him a sovereign because he happened to be

in the boat when she caught her first salmon; but fame--the appeal to

the wide-reading public--the glory of print? Nay, might they not be of

some commercial value also? She knew but little of the customs of the

Chicago journals, but she guessed that a roundabout hint conveyed to Mr.

John C. Huysen would not be without effect. And what were the subjects,

she asked herself, that Ronald wrote about? In praise of deerstalking,

for one thing, and mountain-climbing, and out-of-door life, she felt

assured: you could see it in his gait and in his look; you could hear it

in his laugh and his singing as he went along the road. Politics,

perhaps--if sarcastic verses were in his way; for there was a sharp

savour running through his talk; and he took abundant interest in public

affairs. Or perhaps he would be for recording the charms of some rustic

maiden--some 'Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane'--some blue-eyed and rather

silent and uninteresting young person, living alone in a glen, and

tending cattle or hanging out things to dry on a hedge? Well, even a

song would be something. The _Chicago Citizen_ might not pay very much

for it, but the great and generous public might take kindly to it; and

if Jack Huysen did not say something friendly about it, then she would

know the reason why.

But the stiffest struggle Miss Carry ever had with any salmon was mere

child's play compared with the fight she had with Ronald himself over

this matter. At first he was exceedingly angry that she should have

been told; but then he laughed, and said to her that there were plenty

of folk in Scotland as elsewhere who wrote idle verses, but that they

had the common sense to say nothing about it. If she wanted a memento of

her stay in the Highlands to take back with her to America, he would

give her her choice of the deer-skins he had in the shed; that would be

appropriate, and she was welcome to the best of them; but as for

scribblings and nonsense of that kind--no, no. On the other hand she

was just as persistent, and treated him to a little gentle raillery,

wondering that he had not yet outgrown the years of shyness; and

finally, when everything else had failed, putting her request as a grace

and courtesy to be granted to an American stranger. This was hardly

fair; but she was very anxious about the matter; and she knew that her

demand was founded far less on mere curiosity than on an honest desire

to do him a service.

Of course he yielded; and a terrible time he had of it the night he set

about selecting something to show to her. For how could she understand

the circumstances in which these random things were written--these idle

fancies of a summer morning--these careless love songs--these rhymed

epistles in which the practical common sense and shrewd advice were much

more conspicuous than any graces of art? And then again so many of them

were about Meenie; and these were forbidden; the praise of Meenie--even

when it was the birds and the roses and the foxgloves and the summer

rills that sang of her--was not for alien eyes. But at last he lit upon

some verses supposed to convey the sentiments of certain exiles met

together on New Year's night in Nova Scotia; and he thought it was a

simple kind of thing; at all events it would get him out of a grievous

difficulty. So--for the lines had been written many a day ago, and came

upon him now with a new aspect--he altered a phrase here or there, by

way of passing the time; and finally he made a fair copy. The next

morning, being a Sunday, he espied Miss Carry walking down towards the

river; and he overtook her and gave her this little piece to redeem his

pledge.

'It's not worth much,' said he, 'but you'll understand what it is about.

Burn it when you've read it--that's all I ask of ye----' Then on he

went, glad not to be cross-questioned, the faithful Harry trotting at

his heels.

So she sat down on the stone parapet of the little bridge--on this

hushed, still, shining morning that was quite summer-like in its

calm--and opened the paper with not a little curiosity. And well enough

she understood the meaning of the little piece: she knew that the

Mackays[#] used to live about here; and was not Strath-Naver but a few

miles off; and this the very Mudal river running underneath the bridge

on which she was sitting? But here are the verses she read--and he had

entitled them

[#] Pronounced _Mackise_, with the accent on the second syllable.

_ACROSS THE SEA._

_In Nova Scotia's clime they've met_

_To keep the New Year's night;_

_The merry lads and lasses crowd_

_Around the blazing light._

_But father and mother sit withdrawn_

_To let their fancies flee_

_To the old, old time, and the old, old home_

_That's far across the sea._

_And what strange sights and scenes are these_

_That sadden their shaded eyes?_

_Is it only thus they can see again_

_The land of the Mackays?_

_O there the red-deer roam at will:_

_And the grouse whirr on the wing;_

_And the curlew call, and the ptarmigan_

_Drink at the mountain spring;_

_And the hares lie snug on the hillside:_

_And the lusty blackcock crows;_

_But the river the children used to love_

_Through an empty valley flows._

_Do they see again a young lad wait_

_To shelter with his plaid,_

_When she steals to him in the gathering dusk._

_His gentle Highland maid?_

_Do they hear the pipes at the weddings;_

_Or the low sad funeral wail_

_As the boat goes out to the island,_

_And the pibroch tells its tale?_

_O fair is Naver's strath, and fair_

_The strath that Mudal laves;_

_And dear the haunts of our childhood,_

_And dear the old folks' graves;_

_And the parting from one's native land_

_Is a sorrow hard to dree:_

_God's forgiveness to them that sent us_

_So far across the sea!_

_And is bonnie Strath-Naver shining,_

_As it shone in the bygone years?--_

_As it shines for us now--ay, ever--_

_Though our eyes are blind with tears._

Well, her own eyes were moist--though that was but for a moment; for

when she proceeded to walk slowly and meditatively back to the inn, her

mind was busy with many things; and she began to think that she had not

got any way near to the understanding of this man, whom she had treated

in so familiar a fashion, as boatman, and companion, and gillie--almost

as valet. What lay behind those eyes of his, that glowed with so

strange a light at times, and seemed capable of reading her through and

through, only that the slightly tremulous eyelids came down and veiled

them, or that he turned away his head? And why this strain of pathos in

a nature that seemed essentially joyous and glad and careless? Not only

that, but in the several discussions with her father--occasionally

becoming rather warm, indeed--Ronald had been invariably on the side of

the landlord, as was naturally to be expected. He had insisted that the

great bulk of the land given over to deer was of no possible use to any

other living creature; he had maintained the right of the landlord to

clear any portion of his property of sheep and forest it, if by so doing

he could gain an increase of rental; he had even maintained the right of

the landlord to eject non-paying tenants from holdings clearly not

capable of supporting the ever-increasing families; and so forth. But

was his feeling, after all, with the people--he himself being one of the

people? His stout championship of the claims and privileges of Lord

Ailine--that was not incompatible with a deeper sense of the cruelty of

driving the poor people away from the land of their birth and the home

of their childhood? His natural sentiment as a man was not to be

overborne by the fact that he was officially a dependant on Lord Ailine?

These and a good many other curious problems concerning him--and

concerning his possible future--occupied her until she had got back to

the snug little parlour; and there, as she found her father seated in

front of the blazing fire, and engaged in getting through the mighty

pile of newspapers and illustrated journals and magazines that had come

by the previous day's mail, she thought she might as well sit down and

write a long letter to her bosom friend in Chicago, through whose

intermediation these verses might discreetly be brought to the notice of

Mr. Huysen. She had reasons for not asking any favour directly.

'DEAREST EM,' she wrote--after having studied a long while as to how she

should begin--'would it surprise you to know that I have at last found

my _fate_ in the very handsome person of a Scotch gamekeeper? Well, it

aint so; don't break the furniture; but the fact is my poor brain has

been wool-gathering a little in this land of wild storms and legends and

romantic ballads; and to-morrow I am fleeing away to Paris--the region

of clear atmosphere, and reasonable people, and cynicism; and I hope to

have any lingering cobwebs of romance completely blown out of my head.

Not that I would call it romance, _even if it were to happen;_ I should

call it merely the plain result of my father's theories. You know he is

always preaching that all men are born equal; which isn't true anyhow;

he would get a little nearer the truth if he were to say that all men

are born equal except hotel clerks, who are of a superior race; but

wouldn't it be a joke if I were to take him at his word, and ask him how

he would like a gamekeeper as his son-in-law? But you need not be

afraid, my dear Em; this chipmunk has still got a little of her senses

left; and I may say in the words of the poet--

"There is not in this wide world a valet so sweet"--

no, nor any Claude Melnotte of a gardener, nor any handsome coachman or

groom, who could induce me to run away with him. It would be "playing

it too low down on pa," as you used to say; besides, one knows how these

things always end. Another besides; how do I know that he would marry

me, even if I asked him?--and I _should_ have to ask him, for he would

never ask me. Now, Em, if you don't burn this letter the moment you

have read it, I will murder you, as sure as you are alive.

'Besides, it is a shame. He is a real good fellow; and no such nonsense

has got into his head, I know. I know it, because I tried him twice for

fun; I got him to tie my cap under my chin; and I made him take my

pocket-handkerchief out of my breast-pocket when I was fighting a salmon

(I caught _five in one day_--monsters!), and do you think the bashful

young gentleman was embarrassed and showed trembling fingers? Not a

bit; I think he thought me rather a nuisance--in the polite phraseology

of the English people. But I wish I could tell you about him, really.

It's all very well to say he is very handsome and hardy-looking and

weather-tanned; but how can I describe to you how respectful his manner

is, and yet always keeping his own self-respect, and he won't quarrel

with me--he only laughs when I have been talking absolute folly--though

papa and he have rare fights, for he has very positive opinions, and

sticks to his guns, I can tell you. But the astonishing thing is his

education; he has been nowhere, but seems to know everything; he seems

to be quite content to be a gamekeeper, though his brother took his

degree at college and is now in the Scotch Church. I tell you he makes

me feel pretty small at times. The other night papa and I went along to

his cottage after dinner, and found him reading Gibbon's _Decline and

Fall of the Roman Empire_--lent him by his brother, it appeared. I

borrowed the first volume--but, oh, squawks! it is a good deal too stiff

work for the likes of me. And then there is never the least pretence or

show, but all the other way; he will talk to you as long as you like

about his deerstalking and about what he has seen his dogs do; but never

a word about books or writing--unless you happen to have found out.

'Now I'm coming to business. I have never seen any writing of his until

this morning, when, after long goading, he showed me a little poem which

I will copy out and enclose in this letter when I have finished. Now,

darling Em, I want you to do me a real kindness; the first time you see

Jack Huysen--I don't want to ask the favour of him direct--will you ask

him to print it in the _Citizen_, and to say something nice about it? I

don't want any patronage: understand--I mean let Jack Huysen

understand--that Ronald Strang is a particular _friend_ of both my

father and myself; and that I am sending you this without his authority,

but merely to give him a little pleasant surprise, perhaps, when he sees

it in print; and perhaps to tempt him to give us some more. I should

like him to print a volume,--for he is really far above his present

station, and it is absurd he should not take his _place_,--and if he did

that I know of a young party who would buy 500 copies even if she were

to go back home without a single Paris bonnet. Tell Jack Huysen there is

to be _no patronage_, mind; there is to be nothing about the peasant

poet, or anything like that; for this man is a _gentleman_, if I know

anything about it; and I won't have him trotted out as a phenomenon--to

be discussed by the dudes who smoke cigarettes in Lincoln Park. If you

could only talk to him for ten minutes it would be better than fifty

letters, but I suppose there are _attractions nearer home_ just at

present. My kind remembrances to T.T.

'I forgot to say that I am quite ignorant as to whether newspapers ever

pay for poetry--I mean if a number of pieces were sent? Or could Jack

Huysen find a publisher who would undertake a volume; my father will see

he does not lose anything by it. I really want to do something for this

Ronald, for he has been so kind and attentive to us; and before long it

may become more difficult to do so; for of course a man of his abilities

is not likely to remain as he is; indeed, he has already formed plans

for getting away altogether from his present way of life, and whatever

he tries to do I know he will do--and easily. But if I talk any more

about him, you will be making very _very_ mistaken guesses; and I won't

give you the delight of imagining even for a moment that I have been

caught at last; when the sad event arrives there will be time enough for

you to take your cake-walk of triumph up and down the room--of course to

_Dancing in the Barn_, as in the days of old.'

Here followed a long and rambling chronicle of her travels in Europe

since her last letter, all of which may be omitted; the only point to be

remarked was that her very brief experiences of Scotland took up a

disproportionately large portion of the space, and that she was minute

in her description of the incidents and excitement of salmon-fishing.

Then followed an outline of her present plans; a string of questions; a

request for an instant reply; and finally--

_'With dearest love, old Em,_

_'Thine,_

_'Carry.'_

And then she had to copy the verses; but when she had done that, and

risen, and gone to the window for a time, some misgiving seemed to enter

her mind, for she returned to the table, and sate down again, and wrote

this postscript:

'Perhaps, after all, you won't see much in this little piece; if you

were here, among the very places, and affected by all the old stories

and romantic traditions and the wild scenery, it might be different.

Since I've been to Europe I've come to see what's the trouble about our

reading English history and literature at home; why, you can't do it,

you can't understand it, unless you have lived in an atmosphere that is

just full of poetry and romance, and meeting people whose names tell you

they belong to the families who did great things in history centuries

and centuries ago. I can't explain it very well--not even to myself;

but I feel it; why, you can't take a single day's drive in England

without coming across a hundred things of interest--Norman churches, and

the tombs of Saxon Kings, and old abbeys, and monasteries, and

battlefields, and, just as interesting as any, farm-houses of the

sixteenth century in their quaint old-fashioned orchards. And as for

Scotland, why, it is just steeped to the lips in poetry and tradition;

the hills and the glens have all their romantic stories of the clans,

many of them very pathetic; and you want to see these wild and lonely

places before you can understand the legends. And in southern Scotland

too--what could any one at home make of such a simple couplet as this--

_"The King sits in Dunfermline town,_

_Drinking the blude-red wine;"_

but when you come near Dunfermline and see the hill where Malcolm

Canmore built his castle in the eleventh century, and when you are told

that it was from this very town that Sir Patrick Spens and the Scots

lords set out for "Norroway o'er the faem," everything comes nearer to

you. In America, I remember very well, Flodden Field sounded to us

something very far away, that we couldn't take much interest in; but if

you were here just now, dear Em, and told that a bit farther north there

was a river that the Earl of Caithness and his clan had to cross when

they went to Flodden, and that the people living there at this very day

won't go near it on the anniversary of the battle, because on that day

the ghosts of the earl and his men, all clad in green tartan, come home

again and are seen to cross the river, wouldn't that interest you? In

America we have got nothing behind us; when you leave the day before

yesterday you don't want to go back. But here, in the most vulgar

superstitions and customs, you come upon the strangest things. Would

you believe it, less than twenty miles from this place there is a little

lake that is supposed to cure the most desperate diseases--diseases that

the doctors have given up; and the poor people meet at midnight, on the

first Monday after the change of the moon, and then they throw a piece

of money into the lake, and go in and dip themselves three times, and

then they must get home before sunrise. Perhaps it is very absurd, but

they belong to that same imaginative race of people who have left so

many weird stories and poetical legends behind them; and what I say is

that you want to come over and breathe this atmosphere of tradition and

romance, and see the places, before you can quite understand the charm

of all that kind of literature. And perhaps you don't find much in

these verses about the poor people who have been driven away from their

native strath? Well, they don't claim to be much. They were never

meant for you to see. But yes, I do think you will like them; and

anyhow Jack Huysen has got to like them, and treat them hospitably,

unless he is anxious to have his hair raised.

'Gracious me, I think I must hire a hall. I have just read this scrawl

over. Sounds rather muzzy, don't it? But it's this poor brain of mine

that has got full of confusion and cobwebs and theories of equality,

when I wasn't attending to it. My arms had the whole day's work to

do--as they remind me at this minute; and the Cerebral Hemispheres laid

their heads, or their half-heads together, when I was busy with the

salmon; and entered into a conspiracy against me; and began to make

pictures--ghosts, phantom earls, and romantic shepherds and

peasant-poets, and I don't know what kind of dreams of a deer stalker

walking down Wabash Avenue. But, as I said, to-morrow I start for

Paris, thank goodness; and in that calmer atmosphere I hope to come to

my senses again; and I will send you a long account of Lily Selden's

marriage--though your last letter to me was a fraud: what do I care

about the C.M.C.A.? _This_ letter, anyhow, you must burn; I don't feel

like reading it over again myself, or perhaps I would save you the

trouble; but you may depend on it that the one I shall send you from

Paris will be quite sane.

'Second P.S.--Of course you must manage Jack Huysen with a little

discretion. I don't want to be drawn into it any more than I can help;

I mean, I would just hate to write to him direct and ask him for a

particular favour; but this is a very little one, and you know him as

well as any of us. And mind you burn this letter--instantly--the moment

you have read it--for it is just full of nonsense and wool-gathering;

and _it will not occur again. Toujours a toi_. C.H.'

'What have you been writing all this time?' her father said, when she

rose.

'A letter--to Emma Kerfoot.'

'It will make her stare. You don't often write long letters.'

'I do not,' said she, gravely regarding the envelope; and then she added

solemnly: 'But this is the record of a chapter in my life that is now

closed for ever--at least, I hope so.'

*CHAPTER III.*

*HESITATIONS.*

The waggonette stood at the door; Miss Carry's luggage was put in; and

her father was waiting to see her off. But the young lady herself

seemed unwilling to take the final step; twice she went back into the

inn, on some pretence or another; and each time she came out she looked

impatiently around, as if wondering at the absence of some one.

'Well, ain't you ready yet?' her father asked.

'I want to say good-bye to Ronald,' she said half angrily.

'Oh, nonsense--you are not going to America. Why, you will be back in

ten days or a fortnight. See here, Carry,' he added, 'are you sure you

don't want me to go part of the way with you?'

'Not at all,' she said promptly. 'It is impossible for Mary to mistake

the directions I wrote to her; and I shall find her in the Station Hotel

at Inverness all right. Don't you worry about me, pappa.'

She glanced along the road again, in the direction of the keeper's

cottage; but there was no one in sight.

'Pappa dear,' she said, in an undertone--for there were one or two

onlookers standing by--'if Ronald should decide on giving up his place

here, and trying what you suggested, you'll have to stand by him.'

'Oh yes, I'll see him through,' was the complacent answer. 'I should

take him to be the sort of man who can look after himself; but if he

wants any kind of help--well, here I am; I won't go back on a man who is

acting on my advice. Why, if he were to come out to Chicago----'

'Oh no, not Chicago, pappa,' she said, somewhat earnestly, 'not to

Chicago. I am sure he will be more at home--he will be happier--in his

own country.'

She looked around once more; and then she stepped into the waggonette.

'He might have come to see me off,' she said, a little proudly.

'Good-bye, pappa dear--I will send you a telegram as soon as I get to

Paris.'

The two horses sprang forward; Miss Carry waved her lily hand; and then

set to work to make herself comfortable with wraps and rugs, for the

morning was chill. She thought it was very unfriendly of Ronald not to

have come to say good-bye. And what was the reason of it? Of course he

could know nothing of the nonsense she had written to her friend in

Chicago.

'Have you not seen Ronald about anywhere?' she asked of the driver.

'No, mem,' answered that exceedingly shy youth, 'he wass not about all

the morning. But I heard the crack of a gun; maybe he wass on the

hill.'

And presently he said--

'I'm thinking that's him along the road--it's two of his dogs whatever.'

And indeed this did turn out to be Ronald who was coming striding along

the road, with his gun over his shoulder, a brace of setters at his

heels, and something dangling from his left hand. The driver pulled up

his horses.

'I've brought ye two or three golden plover to take with ye, Miss

Hodson,' Ronald said--and he handed up the birds.

Well, she was exceedingly pleased to find that he had not neglected her,

nay, that he had been especially thinking of her and her departure. But

what should she do with these birds in a hotel?

'It's so kind of you,' she said, 'but really I'm afraid they're--would

you not rather give them to my father?'

'Ye must not go away empty-handed,' said he, with good-humoured

insistence; and then it swiftly occurred to her that perhaps this was

some custom of the neighbourhood; and so she accepted the little parting

gift with a very pretty speech of thanks.

He raised his cap, and was going on.

'Ronald,' she called, and he turned.

'I wish you would tell me,' she said--and there was a little touch of

colour in the pretty, pale, interesting face--'if there is anything I

could bring from London that would help you--I mean books about

chemistry--or--or--about trees--or instruments for land-surveying--I am

sure I could get them----'

He laughed, in a doubtful kind of a way.

'I'm obliged to ye,' he said, 'but it's too soon to speak about that. I

havena made up my mind yet.'

'Not yet?'

'No.'

'But you will?'

He said nothing.

'Good-bye, then.'

She held out her hand, so that he could not refuse to take it. So they

parted; and the horses' hoofs rang again in the silence of the valley;

and she sat looking after the disappearing figure and the meekly

following dogs. And then, in the distance, she thought she could make

out some faint sound: was he singing to himself as he strode along

towards the little hamlet?

'At all events,' she said to herself, with just a touch of pique, 'he

does not seem much downhearted at my going away.' And little indeed did

she imagine that this song he was thus carelessly and unthinkingly

singing was all about Meenie, and red and white roses, and trifles light

and joyous as the summer air. For not yet had black care got a grip of

his heart.

But this departure of Miss Carry for the south now gave him leisure to

attend to his own affairs and proper duties, which had suffered somewhat

from his attendance in the coble; and it was not until all these were

put straight that he addressed himself to the serious consideration of

the ambitious and daring project that had been placed before him.

Hitherto it had been pretty much of an idle speculation--a dream, in

short, that looked very charming and fascinating as the black-eyed young

lady from over the seas sate in the stern of the boat and chatted

through the idle hours. Her imagination did not stay to regard the

immediate and practical difficulties and risks; all these seemed already

surmounted; Ronald had assumed the position to which he was entitled by

his abilities and personal character; she only wondered which part of

Scotland he would be living in when next her father and herself visited

Europe; and whether they might induce him to go over with them for a

while to the States. But when Ronald himself, in cold blood, came to

consider ways and means, there was no such plain and easy sailing. Not

that he hesitated about cutting himself adrift from his present

moorings; he had plenty of confidence in himself, and knew that he could

always earn a living with his ten fingers, whatever happened. Then he

had between L80 and L90 lodged in a savings bank in Inverness; and out

of that he could pay for any classes he might have to attend, or perhaps

offer a modest premium if he wished to get into a surveyor's office for

a short time. But there were so many things to think of. What should

he do about Maggie, for example? Then Lord Ailine had always been a good

master to him: would it not seem ungrateful that he should throw up his

situation without apparent reason? And so forth, and so forth, through

cogitations long and anxious; and many a half-hour on the hillside and

many a half-hour by the slumbering peat-fire was given to this great

project; but always there was one side of the question that he shut out

from his mind. For how could he admit to himself that this lingering

hesitation--this dread, almost, of what lay await for him in the

future--had anything to do with the going away from Meenie, and the

leaving behind him, and perhaps for ever, the hills and streams and

lonely glens that were all steeped in the magic and witchery of her

presence? Was it not time to be done with idle fancies? And if, in the

great city--in Edinburgh or Glasgow, as the case might be--he should

fall to thinking of Ben Loyal and Bonnie Strath-Naver, and the long,

long days on Clebrig; and Meenie coming home in the evening from her

wanderings by Mudal-Water, with a few wild-flowers, perhaps, or a bit of

white heather, but always with her beautiful blue-gray Highland eyes so

full of kindness as she stopped for a few minutes' friendly

chatting--well, that would be a pretty picture to look back upon, all

lambent and clear in the tender colours that memory loves to use. A

silent picture, of course: there would be no sound of the summer rills,

nor the sweeter sound of Meenie's voice; but not a sad picture; only

remote and ethereal, as if the years had come between, and made

everything distant and pale and dreamlike.

The first definite thing that he did was to write to his brother in

Glasgow, acquainting him with his plans, and begging him to obtain some

further particulars about the Highland and Agricultural Society's

certificates. The answer that came back from Glasgow was most

encouraging; for the Rev. Alexander Strang, though outwardly a heavy and

lethargic man, had a shrewd head enough, and was an enterprising shifty

person, not a little proud of the position that he had won for himself,

and rather inclined to conceal from his circle of friends--who were

mostly members of his congregation--the fact that his brother was merely

a gamekeeper in the Highlands. Nay, more, he was willing to assist; he

would take Maggie into his house, so that there might be no difficulty

in that direction; and in the meantime he would see what were the best

class-books on the subjects named, so that Ronald might be working away

at them in these comparatively idle spring and summer months, and need

not give up his situation prematurely. There was even some hint thrown

out that perhaps Ronald might board with his brother; but this was not

pressed; for the fact was that Mrs. Alexander was a severely rigid

disciplinarian, and on the few occasions on which Ronald had been their

guest she had given both brothers to understand that the frivolous

gaiety of Ronald's talk, and the independence of his manners, and his

Gallio-like indifference about the fierce schisms and heart-burnings in

the Scotch Church were not, in her opinion, in consonance with the

atmosphere that ought to prevail in a Free Church minister's house. But

on the whole the letter was very friendly and hopeful; and Ronald was

enjoined to let his brother know when his decision should be finally

taken, and in what way assistance could be rendered him.

One night the little Maggie stole away through the dark to the Doctor's

cottage. There was a light in the window of Meenie's room; she could

hear the sound of the piano; no doubt Meenie was practising and alone;

and on such occasions a visit from Maggie was but little interruption.

And so the smaller girl went boldly towards the house and gained

admission, and was proceeding upstairs without any ceremony, when the

sudden cessation of the music caused her to stop. And then she heard a

very simple and pathetic air begin--just touched here and there with a

few chords: and was Meenie, tired with the hard work of the practising,

allowing herself this little bit of quiet relaxation? She was singing

too--though so gently that Maggie could scarcely make out the words.

But she knew the song--had not Meenie sung it many times before to

her?--and who but Meenie could put such tenderness and pathos into the

simple air? She had almost to imagine the words--so gentle was the

voice that went with those lightly-touched chords--

_'The sun rase sae rosy, the gray hills adorning,_

_Light sprang the laverock, and mounted on hie,_

_When true to the tryst o' blythe May's dewy morning,_

_Jeanie cam' linking out owre the green lea._

_To mark her impatience I crap 'mong the brackens,_

_Aft, aft to the kent gate she turned her black e'e;_

_Then lying down dowilie, sighed, by the willow tree,_

_"I am asleep, do not waken me."'[#]_

[#] 'I am asleep, do not waken me' is the English equivalent of the

Gaelic name of the air, which is a very old one, and equally pathetic in

its Irish and Highland versions.

Then there was silence. The little Maggie waited; for this song was a

great favourite with Ronald, who himself sometimes attempted it; and she

would be able to tell him when she got home that she had heard Meenie

sing it--and he always listened with interest to anything, even the

smallest particulars, she could tell him about Meenie and about what she

had done or said. But where were the other verses? She waited and

listened; the silence was unbroken. And so she tapped lightly at the

door and entered.

And then something strange happened. For when Maggie shut the door

behind her and went forward, Meenie did not at once turn her head to see

who this was, but had hastily whipped out her handkerchief and passed it

over her eyes. And when she did turn, it was with a kind of look of

bravery--as if to dare any one to say that she had been crying--though

there were traces of tears on her cheeks.

'Is it you, Maggie? I am glad to see you,' she managed to say.

The younger girl was rather frightened and sorely concerned as well.

'But what is it, Meenie dear?' she said, going and taking her hand.

'Are you in trouble?'

'No, no,' her friend said, with an effort to appear quite cheerful, 'I

was thinking of many things--I scarcely know what. And now take off

your things and sit down, Maggie, and tell me all about this great news.

It was only this afternoon that my father learnt that you and your

brother were going away; and he would not believe it at first, till he

saw Ronald himself. And it is true, after all? Dear me, what a change

there will be!'

She spoke quite in her usual manner now; and her lips were no longer

trembling, but smiling; and the Highland eyes were clear, and as full of

kindness as ever.

'But it is a long way off, Meenie,' the smaller girl began to explain

quickly, when she had taken her seat by the fire, 'and Ronald is so

anxious to please everybody, and--and that is why I came along to ask

you what you think best.'

'I?' said Meenie, with a sudden slight touch of reserve.

'It'll not be a nice thing going away among strange folk,' said her

companion, 'but I'll no grumble if it's to do Ronald good; and even

among strange folk--well, I don't care as long as I have Ronald and you,

Meenie. And it's to Glasgow, and not to Edinburgh, he thinks he'll have

to go; and then you will be in Glasgow too; so I do not mind anything

else. It will not be so lonely for any of us; and we can spend the

evenings together--oh no, it will not be lonely at all----'

'But, Maggie,' the elder girl said gravely, 'I am not going to Glasgow.'

Her companion looked up quickly, with frightened eyes.

'But you said you were going, Meenie!'

'Oh no,' the other said gently. 'My mother has often talked of it--and

I suppose I may have to go some time; but my father is against it; and I

know I am not going at present anyway.'

'And you are staying here--and--and Ronald and me--we will be by

ourselves in Glasgow!' the other exclaimed, as if this prospect were too

terrible to be quite comprehended as yet.

'But if it is needful he should go?' Meenie said. 'People have often to

part from their friends like that.'

'Yes, and it's no much matter when they have plenty of friends,' said

the smaller girl, with her eyes becoming moist, 'but, Meenie, I havena

got one but you.'

'Oh no, you must not say that,' her friend remonstrated. 'Why, there is

your brother in Glasgow, and his family; I am sure they will be kind to

you. And Ronald will make plenty of friends wherever he goes--you can

see that for yourself; and do you think you will be lonely in a great

town like Glasgow? It is the very place to make friends, and plenty of

them--

'Oh, I don't know what to do--I don't know what to do, if you are not

going to Glasgow, Meenie!' she broke in. 'I wonder if it was that that

Ronald meant. He asked me whether I would like to stay here or go with

him, for Mrs. Murray has offered to take me in, and I would have to help

at keeping the books, and that is very kind of them, I am sure, for I

did not think I could be of any use to anybody. And you are to be here

in Inver-Mudal--and Ronald away in Glasgow----'

Well, it was a bewildering thing. These were the two people she cared

for most of all in the world; and virtually she was called upon to

choose between them. And if she had a greater loyalty and reverence

towards her brother, still, Meenie was her sole girl-friend, and

monitress, and counsellor. What would her tasks be without Meenie's

approval; how could she get on with her knitting and sewing without

Meenie's aid; what would the days be like without the witchery of

Meenie's companionship--even if that were limited to a passing word or a

smile? Ronald had not sought to influence her choice; indeed, the

alternative had scarcely been considered, for she believed that Meenie

was going to Glasgow also; and with her hero brother and her beautiful

girl-friend both there, what more could she wish for in the world? But

now---?

Well, Meenie, in her wise and kind way, strove to calm the anxiety of

the girl; and her advice was altogether in favour of Maggie's going to

Glasgow with her brother Ronald, if that were equally convenient to him,

and of no greater expense than her remaining in Inver-Mudal with Mrs.

Murray.

'For you know he wants somebody to look after him,' Meenie continued,

with her eyes rather averted, 'and if it does not matter so much here

about his carelessness of being wet and cold, because he has plenty of

health and exercise, it will be very different in Glasgow, where there

should be some one to bid him be more careful.'

'But he pays no heed to me,' the little sister sighed, 'unless I can

tell him you have been saying so-and-so--then he listens. He is very

strange. He has never once worn the blue jersey that I knitted for him.

He asked me a lot of questions about how it was begun; and I told him as

little as I could about the help you had given me,' she continued

evasively, 'and when the snow came on, I thought he would wear it; but

no--he put it away in the drawer with his best clothes, and it's lying

there all neatly folded up--and what is the use of that? If you were

going to Glasgow, Meenie, it would be quite different. It will be very

lonely there.'

'Lonely!' the other exclaimed; 'with your brother Ronald, and your other

brother's family, and all their friends. And then you will be able to go

to school and have more regular teaching--Ronald spoke once or twice to

me about that.'

'Yes, indeed,' the little Maggie said; but the prospect did not cheer

her much; and for some minutes they both sate silent, she staring into

the fire. And then she said bitterly--

'I wish the American people had never come here. It is all their doing.

It never would have come into Ronald's head to leave Inver-Mudal but for

them. And where else will he be so well known--and--and every one

speaking well of him--and every one so friendly----'

'But, Maggie, these things are always happening,' her companion

remonstrated. 'Look at the changes my father has had to make.'

'And I wonder if we are never to come back to Inver-Mudal, Meenie?' the

girl said suddenly, with appealing eyes.

Meenie tried to laugh, and said--

'Who can tell? It is the way of the world for people to come and go.

And Glasgow is a big place--perhaps you would not care to come back

after having made plenty of friends there.'

'My friends will always be here, and nowhere else,' the smaller girl

said, with emphasis. 'Oh, Meenie, do you think if Ronald were to get on

well and make more money than he has now, he would come back here, and

bring me too, for a week maybe, just to see every one again?'

'I cannot tell you that, Maggie,' the elder girl said, rather absently.

After this their discussion of the strange and unknown future that lay

before them languished somehow; for Meenie seemed preoccupied, and

scarcely as blithe and hopeful as she had striven to appear. But when

Maggie rose to return home--saying that it was time for her to be

looking after Ronald's supper--her friend seemed to pull herself

together somewhat, and at once and cheerfully accepted Maggie's

invitation to come and have tea with her the following afternoon.

'For you have been so little in to see us lately,' the small Maggie

said; 'and Ronald always engaged with the American people--and often in

the evening too as well as the whole day long.'

'But I must make a great deal of you now that you are going away,' said

Miss Douglas, smiling.

'And Ronald--will I ask him to stay in till you come?'

But here there was some hesitation.

'Oh no, I would not do that--no doubt he is busy just now with his

preparations for going away. I would not say anything to him--you and I

will have tea together by ourselves.'

The smaller girl looked up timidly.

'Ronald is going away too, Meenie.'

Perhaps there was a touch of reproach in the tone; at all events Meenie

said, after a moment's embarrassment--

'Of course I should be very glad if he happened to be in the

house--and--and had the time to spare; but I think he will understand

that, Maggie, without your saying as much to him.'

'He gave plenty of his time to the American young lady,' said Maggie,

rather proudly.

'But I thought you and she were great friends,' Meenie said, in some

surprise.

'It takes a longer time than that to make friends,' the girl said; and

by and by she left.

Then Meenie went up to her room again, and sate down in front of the

dull, smouldering peat-fire, with its heavy lumps of shadow, and its

keen edges of crimson, and its occasional flare of flame and shower of

sparks. There were many pictures there--of distant things; of the

coming spring-time, with all the new wonder and gladness somehow gone

out of it; and of the long long shining summer days, and Inver-Mudal

grown lonely: and of the busy autumn time, with the English people come

from the south, and no Ronald there, to manage everything for them. For

her heart was very affectionate; and she had but few friends; and

Glasgow was a great distance away. There were some other fancies too,

and self-questionings and perhaps even self-reproaches, that need not be

mentioned here. When, by and by, she rose and went to the piano, which

was still open, it was not to resume her seat. She stood absently

staring at the keys--for these strange pictures followed her; and indeed

that one half-unconscious trial of '_I am asleep, do not waken me_' had

been quite enough for her in her present mood.

*CHAPTER IV.*

*'AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS.'*

Yes; it soon became clear that Meenie Douglas, in view of this

forthcoming departure, had resolved to forego something of the too

obvious reserve she had recently imposed on herself--if, indeed, that

maidenly shrinking and shyness had not been rather a matter of instinct

than of will. When Ronald came home on the following evening she was

seated with Maggie in the old familiar way at a table plentifully

littered with books, patterns, and knitting; and when she shook hands

with him, her timidly uplifted eyes had much of the old friendliness in

them, and her smile of welcome was pleasant to see. It was he who was

diffident and very respectful. For if her mother had enjoined her to be

a little more distant in manner towards this one or the other of those

around her--well, that was quite intelligible; that was quite right; and

he could not complain; but on the other hand, if the girl herself, in

this very small domestic circle, seemed rather anxious to put aside

those barriers which were necessary out of doors, he would not presume

on her good-nature. And yet--and yet--he could not help thawing a

little; for she was very kind, and even merry withal; and her eyes were

like the eyes of the Meenie of old.

'I am sure Maggie will be glad to get away from Inver-Mudal,' she was

saying, 'for she will not find anywhere a schoolmistress as hard as I

have been. But maybe she will not have to go to school at all, if she

has to keep house for you?'

'But she'll no have to keep house for me,' Ronald said at once. 'If she

goes to Glasgow, she'll be much better with my brother's family, for

that will be a home for her.'

'And where will you go, Ronald?' she said.

'Oh, into a lodging--I can fend for myself.'

At this she looked grave--nay, she did not care to conceal her

disapproval. For had she not been instructing Maggie in the mysteries

of housekeeping in a town--as far as these were known to herself: and

had not the little girl showed great courage; and declared there was

nothing she would not attempt rather than be separated from her brother

Ronald?

'It would never do,' said he, 'to leave the lass alone in the house all

day in a big town. It's very well here, where she has neighbours and

people to look after her from time to time; but among strangers----'

Then he looked at the table.

'But where's the tea ye said ye would ask Miss Douglas in to?'

'We were so busy with the Glasgow housekeeping,' Meenie said, laughing,

'that we forgot all about it.'

'I'll go and get it ready now,' the little Maggie said, and she went

from the room, leaving these two alone.

He was a little embarrassed; and she was also. There had been no

_amantium irae_ of any kind; but all the same the _integratio amoris_

was just a trifle difficult; for she on her side was anxious to have

their old relations re-established during the brief period that would

elapse ere he left the neighbourhood, and yet she was hesitating and

uncertain; while he on his side maintained a strictly respectful

reserve. He 'knew his place;' his respect towards her was part of his

own self-respect; and if it did not occur to him that it was rather hard

upon Meenie that all the advances towards a complete rehabilitation of

their friendship should come from her, that was because he did not know

that she was moved by any such wish, and also because he was completely

ignorant of a good deal else that had happened of late. Of course,

certain things were obvious enough. Clearly the half-frightened,

distant, and yet regretful look with which she had recently met and

parted from him when by chance they passed each other in the road was no

longer in her eyes; there was a kind of appeal for friendliness in her

manner towards him; she seemed to say, 'Well, you are going away; don't

let us forget the old terms on which we used to meet.' And not only did

he quickly respond to that feeling, but also he was abundantly grateful

to her; did not he wish to carry away with him the pleasantest memories

of this beautiful, sweet-natured friend, who had made all the world

magical to him for a while, who had shown him the grace and dignity and

honour of true womanhood, and made him wonder no less at the charm of

her clear-shining simplicity and naturalness? The very name of 'Love

Meenie' would be as the scent of a rose--as the song of a lark--for him

through all the long coming years.

'It will make a great change about here,' said she, with her eyes

averted, 'your going away.'

'There's no one missed for long,' he answered, in his downright fashion.

'Where people go, people come; the places get filled up.'

'Yes, but sometimes they are not quite the same,' said she rather

gently. She was thinking of the newcomer. Would he be the universal

favourite that Ronald was--always good-natured and laughing, but

managing everybody and everything; lending a hand at the sheep-shearing

or playing the pipes at a wedding--anything to keep life moving along

briskly; and always ready to give her father a day's hare-shooting or a

turn at the pools of Mudal-Water when the spates began to clear? She

knew quite well--for often had she heard it spoken of--that no one could

get on as well as Ronald with the shepherds at the time of the

heather-burning: when on the other moors the shepherds and keepers were

growling and quarrelling like rival leashes of collies, on Lord Ailine's

ground everything was peace and quietness and good humour. And then she

had a vague impression that the next keeper would be merely a keeper;

whereas Ronald was--Ronald.

'I'm sure I was half ashamed,' said he, 'when I got his lordship's

letter. It was as fair an offer as one man could make to another; or

rather, half a dozen offers; for he said he would raise my wage, if that

was what was wrong; or he would let me have another lad to help me in

the kennels; or, if I was tired of the Highlands he would get me a place

at his shooting in the south. Well, I was sweirt to trouble his

lordship with my small affairs; but after that I couldna but sit down

and write to him the real reason of my leaving----'

'And I'm certain,' said she quickly, 'that he will write back and offer

you any help in his power.'

'No, no,' said he, with a kind of laugh, 'the one letter is enough--if

it ever comes to be a question of a written character. But it's just

real friendly and civil of him; and if I could win up here for a week or

a fortnight in August, I would like well to lend them a hand and set

them going; for it will be a good year for the grouse, I'm thinking----'

'Oh, will you be coming to see us in August?' she said, with her eyes

suddenly and rather wistfully lighting up.

'Well, I don't know how I may be situated,' said he. 'And there's the

railway expense--though I would not mind that much if I had the chance

otherwise; for his lordship has been a good master to me; and I would

just like to lend him a hand, and start the new man with the management

of the dogs and the beats. That's one thing Lord Ailine will do for me,

I hope: I hope he will let me have a word about the man that's coming in

my place; I would not like to have a cantankerous ill-tempered brute of

a fellow coming in to have charge of my dogs. They're the bonniest lot

in Sutherlandshire.'

All this was practical enough; and meanwhile she had set to work to

clear the table, to make way for Maggie. When the young handmaiden

appeared with the tea-things he left the room for a few minutes, and

presently returned with a polecat-skin, carefully dressed and smoothed,

in his hand.

'Here's a bit thing,' said he, 'I wish ye would take, if it's of any use

to you. Or if ye could tell me anything ye wished it made into, I could

have that done when I go south. And if your mother would like one or

two of the deer-skins, I'm sure she's welcome to them; they're useful

about a house.'

'Indeed, you are very kind, Ronald,' said she, flushing somewhat, 'and

too kind, indeed--for you know that ever since we have known you all

these kindnesses have always been on one side--and--and--we have never

had a chance of doing anything in return for you----'

'Oh, nonsense,' said he good-naturedly. 'Well, there is one thing your

father could do for me--if he would take my gun, and my rifle, and rods

and reels, and just keep them in good working order, that would be

better than taking them to Glasgow and getting them spoiled with rust

and want of use. I don't want to part with them altogether; for they're

old friends; and I would like to have them left in safe keeping----

She laughed lightly.

'And that is your way of asking a favour--to offer my father the loan of

all these things. Well, I am sure he will be very glad to take charge

of them----'

'And to use them,' said he, 'to use them; for that is the sure way of

keeping them in order.'

'But perhaps the new keeper may not be so friendly?'

'Oh, I will take care about that,' said he confidently; 'and in any case

you know it was his lordship said your father might have a day on the

Mudal-Water whenever he liked. And what do you think, now, about the

little skin there?'

'I think I will keep it as it is--just as you have given it to me,' she

said simply.

In due course they had tea together; but that afternoon or evening meal

is a substantial affair in the north-cold beef, ham, scones, oatmeal

cake, marmalade, jam, and similar things all making their

appearance--and one not to be lightly hurried over. And Meenie was so

much at home now; and there was so much to talk over; and she was so

hopeful. Of course, Ronald must have holiday-times, like other people;

and where would he spend these, if he did not come back to his old

friends? And he would have such chances as no mere stranger could have,

coming through on the mail-cart and asking everywhere for a little

trout-fishing. Ronald would have a day or two's stalking from Lord

Ailine; and there was the loch; and Mudal-Water; and if the gentlemen

were after the grouse, would they not be glad to have an extra gun on

the hill for a day or two, just to make up a bag for them?

'And then,' said Meenie, with a smile, 'who knows but that Ronald may in

time be able to have a shooting of his own? Stranger things have

happened.'

When tea was over and the things removed he lit his pipe, and the girls

took to their knitting. And never, he thought, had Meenie looked so

pretty and pleased and quickly responsive with her clear and happy eyes.

He forgot all about Mrs. Douglas's forecast as to the future estate of

her daughter; he forgot all about the Stuarts of Glengask and Orosay;

this was the Meenie whom Mudal knew, whom Clebrig had charge of, who was

the friend and companion of the birds and the wild-flowers and the

summer streams. What a wonderful thing it was to see her small fingers

so deftly at work; when she looked up the room seemed full of light and

entrancement; her sweet low laugh found an echo in the very core of his

heart. And they all of them, for this one happy evening, seemed to

forget that soon there was to be an end. They were together; the world

shut out; the old harmony re-established, or nearly re-established; and

Meenie was listening to his reading of 'the Eve of St. Agnes'--in the

breathless hush of the little room--or she was praying, and in vain, for

him to bring his pipes and play 'Lord Lovat's Lament,' or they were

merely idly chatting and laughing, while the busy work of the fingers

went on. And sometimes he sate quite silent, listening to the other

two; and her voice seemed to fill the room with music; and he wondered

whether he could carry away in his memory some accurate recollection of

the peculiar, soft, rich tone, that made the simplest things sound

valuable. It was a happy evening.

But when she rose to go away she grew graver; and as she and Ronald went

along the road together--it was very dark, though there were a few stars

visible here and there--she said to him in rather a low voice--

'Well, Ronald, the parting between friends is not very pleasant, but I

am sure I hope it will all be for the best, now that you have made up

your mind to it. And every one seems to think you will do well.'

'Oh, as for that,' said he, 'that is all right. If the worst comes to

the worst, there is always the Black Watch.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, they're always sending the Forty-Second into the thick of it, no

matter what part of the world the fighting is, so that a man has a good

chance. I suppose I'm not too old to get enlisted; sometimes I wish I

had thought of it when I was a lad--I don't know that I would like

anything better than to be a sergeant in the Black Watch. And I'm sure

I would serve three years for no pay at all if I could only get one

single chance of winning the V.C. But it comes to few; it's like the

big stag--it's there when ye least expect it; and a man's hand is not

just always ready, and steady. But I'm sure ye needna bother about

what's going to happen to me--that's of small account.'

'It is of very great account to your friends, at all events,' said she

valiantly, 'and you must not forget, when you are far enough away from

here, that you have friends here who are thinking of you and always

wishing you well. It will be easy for you to forget; you will have all

kinds of things to do, and many people around you; but the others here

may often think of you, and wish to hear from you. It is the one that

goes away that has the best of it, I think--among the excitement of

meeting strange scenes and strange faces----'

'But I am not likely to forget,' said he, rather peremptorily; and they

walked on in silence.

Presently she said--

'I have a little album that I wish you would write something in before

you go away altogether.'

'Oh yes, I will do that,' said he, 'and gladly.'

'But I mean something of your own,' she said rather more timidly.

'Why, but who told you--

'Oh, every one knows, surely!' said she. 'And why should you conceal

it? There were the verses that you wrote about Mrs. Semple's little

girl--I saw them when I was at Tongue last--and indeed I think they are

quite beautiful: will you write out a copy of them in my album?'

'Or something else, perhaps,' said he--for instantly it flashed upon him

that it was something better than a mere copy that was needed for

Meenie's book. Here, indeed, was a chance. If there was any

inspiration to be gained from these wild hills and straths and lonely

lakes, now was the time for them to be propitious; would not

Clebrig--the giant Clebrig--whose very child Meenie was--come to his

aid, that so he might present to her some fragment of song or rhyme not

unworthy to be added to her little treasury?

'I will send for the book to-morrow,' said he.

'I hope it will not give you too much trouble,' said she, as they

reached the small gate, 'but it is very pleasant to turn over the leaves

and see the actual writing of your friends, and think of when you last

saw them and where they are now. And that seems to be the way with most

of our friends; I suppose it is because we have moved about so; but

there is scarcely any one left--and if it was not for a letter

occasionally, or a dip into that album, I should think we were almost

alone in the world. Well, good-night, Ronald--or will you come in and

have a chat with my father?'

'I am afraid it is rather late,' he said.

'Well, good-night.'

'Good-night, Miss Douglas,' said he, and then he walked slowly back to

his home.

And indeed he was in no mood to turn to the scientific volumes that had

already arrived from Glasgow. His heart was all afire because of the

renewal of Meenie's kindness; and the sound of her voice was still in

his ears; and quite naturally he took out that blotting-pad full of

songs and fragments of songs, to glance over them here and there, and

see if amongst them there was any one likely to recall to him when he

was far away from Inver-Mudal the subtle mystery and charm of her manner

and look. And then he began to think what a stranger coming to

Inver-Mudal would see in Meenie? Perhaps only the obvious things--the

pretty oval of the cheek and chin, the beautiful proud mouth, the

wide-apart contemplative eyes? And perhaps these would be sufficient to

attract? He began to laugh with scorn at this stranger--who could only

see these obvious things--who knew nothing about Meenie, and the

sweetness of her ways, her shrewd common-sense and the frank courage and

honour of her mind. And what if she were to turn coquette under the

influence of this alien admiration? Or perhaps become sharply proud?

Well, he set to work--out of a kind of whimsicality--and in time had

scribbled out this--

_FLOWER AUCTION._

_Who will buy pansies?_

_There are her eyes,_

_Dew-soft and tender,_

_Love in them lies._

_Who will buy roses?_

_There are her lips,_

_And there is the nectar_

_That Cupidon sips._

_Who will buy lilies?_

_There are her cheeks,_

_And there the shy blushing_

_That maidhood bespeaks._

_'Meenie, Love Meenie,_

_What must one pay?'_

_'Good stranger, the market's_

_Not open to-day!'_

He looked at the verses again and again; and the longer he looked at

them the less he liked them--he scarcely knew why. Perhaps they were a

little too literary? They seemed to lack naturalness and simplicity; at

all events, they were not true to Meenie; why should Meenie figure as a

flippant coquette? And so he threw them away and turned to his

books--not the scientific ones--to hunt out something that was like

Meenie. He came near it in Tannahill, but was not quite satisfied. A

verse or two in Keats held his fancy for a moment. But at last he found

what he wanted in Wordsworth--

_'A violet by a mossy stone_

_Half hidden from the eye;_

_--Fair as a star, when only one_

_Is shining in the sky.'_

Yes; that was liker Meenie--who 'dwelt among the untrodden ways.'

*CHAPTER V.*

*A LESSON IN FLY-FISHING.*

Miss Carry Hodson returned from Paris in a very radiant mood; she had

had what she called a real good time, and everything connected with the

wedding had gone off most successfully. Her dress, that she had ordered

long before she came to the Highlands, was a perfect fit; Lily Selden

made the most charming and beautiful of brides; and no less a person

than a prince (rather swarthy, and hailing from some mysterious region

east of the Carpathians) had proposed the health of the bridesmaids, and

had made especial mention of the young ladies who had travelled long

distances to be present on the auspicious occasion.

However, on the morning after her return to Inver-Mudal her equanimity

was somewhat dashed. When she went along the passage to the little

hall--to see what the morning was like outside--she found waiting there

a respectable-looking elderly Highlander, with grizzled locks, who

touched his cap to her, and who had her waterproof over his arm. This

last circumstance made her suspicious; instantly she went back to her

father.

'Who is that man?' she asked.

'What man?'

'Why, an old man, who is waiting there, and he has got my waterproof

slung over his arm.'

'Well, I suppose that is the new gillie.'

'Isn't Ronald going down?' she said, with very evident disappointment.

'Of course not,' her father said, with some sharpness. 'I think you have

taken up enough of his time. And just now, when he is getting ready to

go away, do you think I could allow him to waste day after day in

attending to us? Seems to me it would be more to the point if you put

your small amount of brain into devising some means of squaring up with

him for what he has done already.'

'Oh, very well,' she said--or rather, what she did really say was 'Oh,

vurry well'--and the pretty, pale, attractive face resumed its ordinary

complacency, and she went off to make friends with the new gillie. She

was on good terms with the old Highlander in about a couple of minutes;

and presently they were on their way down to the loch, along with the

lad John. Her father was to follow as soon as he had finished his

letters.

But she was now to discover, what she had never discovered before, that

salmon-fishing on a loch is a rather monotonous affair, unless the fish

are taking very freely indeed. For one thing, the weather had settled

down into a fine, clear, spring-like calm and quiet that was not at all

favourable to the sport. It was very beautiful, no doubt; for sometimes

for hours together the lake would be like a sheet of glass--the yellow

shores and purple birch-woods all accurately doubled, with nearer at

hand the faint white reflections of the snow-peaks in the north

stretching out into the soft and deep blue; and when a breath of wind,

from some unexpected point of the compass, began to draw a sharp line of

silver between earth and water, and then came slowly across the loch to

them, ruffling out that magic inverted picture on its way, the breeze

was deliciously fresh and balmy, and seemed to bring with it tidings of

the secret life that was working forward to the leafiness of summer.

They kept well out into the midst of this spacious circle of loveliness,

for old Malcolm declared they would be doing more harm than good by

going over the fishing-ground; so she had a sufficiently ample view of

this great panorama of water and wood and far mountain-slopes. But it

grew monotonous. She began to think of Paris, and the brisk, busy

days--a hurry of gaiety and pleasure and interest using up every

possible minute. She wished she had a book--some knitting--anything.

Why, when Ronald was in the boat--with his quick sarcastic appreciation

of every story she had to tell, or every experience she had to

describe--there was always enough amusement and talking. But this old

man was hopeless. She asked him questions about his croft, his family,

his sheep and cows; and he answered gravely; but she took no interest in

his answers, as her father might have done. She was unmistakably glad

to get ashore for lunch--which was picturesque enough, by the way, with

that beautiful background all around; and neither her father nor herself

was in any hurry to break up the small picnic-party and set to work

again.

Nor did they do much better in the afternoon--though her father managed

to capture a small eight-pounder; and so, in the evening, before dinner,

she went along to Ronald to complain. She found him busy with his

books; his gun and cap and telescope lying on the table beside him,

showed that he had just come in.

'Ay,' said he, 'it's slow work in weather like this. But will ye no sit

down?' and he went and brought her a chair.

'No, I thank you,' said she; 'I came along to see if you thought there

was likely to be any change. Is your glass a good one?'

'First-rate,' he answered, and he went to the small aneroid and tapped

it lightly. 'It was given me by a gentleman that shot his first stag up

here. I think he would have given me his head, he was so pleased.

Well, no, Miss Hodson, there's not much sign of a change. But I'll tell

ye what we'll do, if you're tired of the loch, we'll try one or two of

the pools on the Mudal.'

'You mean the river down there?'

'There's not much hope there either--for the water's low the now; but we

might by chance get a little wind, or there are some broken bits in the

stream--

'But you mean with a fly--how could I throw a fly?' she exclaimed.

'Ye'll never learn younger,' was the quiet answer. 'It there's no

change to-morrow I'll take ye up the river myself--and at least ye can

get some practice in casting----'

'Oh no, no,' said she hurriedly, 'thank you very much, but I must not

take up your time----'

'I'm no so busy that I cannot leave the house for an hour or two,' said

he--and she understood by his manner that he was 'putting his foot

down,' in which case she knew she might just as well give in at once.

'But I warn ye that it's a dour river at the best, and not likely to be

in good ply; however, we might just happen on one.' And then he added,

by way of explanation, 'If we should, it will have to be sent to Lord

Ailine, ye understand.'

'Why?'

'Because the river doesna belong to your fishing; it goes with the

shooting.'

'Oh,' said she, somewhat coldly. 'And so, when Lord Ailine gives any

one a day's fishing he claims whatever fish they may catch?'

'When his lordship gives a day's fishing he does not; but when the

keeper does--that's different,' was the perfectly simple and respectful

answer.

'Oh, I beg your pardon,' said she hastily, and sincerely hoping she had

said nothing to wound his feelings. Apparently she had not, for he

proceeded to warn her about the necessity of her putting on a thick pair

of boots; and he also gently hinted that she might wear on her head

something less conspicuous than the bright orange Tam o' Shanter of

which she seemed rather fond.

Accordingly, next morning, instead of sending him a message that she was

ready, she walked along to the cottage, accoutred for a thorough stiff

day's work. The outer door was open, so she entered without ceremony;

and then tapped at the door of the little parlour, which she proceeded

to open also. She then found that Ronald was not alone; there was a

young man sitting there, who instantly rose as she made her appearance.

She had but a momentary glimpse of him, but she came to the conclusion

that the gamekeepers in this part of the world were a good-looking race,

for this was a strongly-built young fellow, keen and active, apparently,

with a rather pink and white complexion, closely-cropped head, bright

yellow moustache, and singularly clear blue eyes. He wore a plain tweed

suit; and as he rose he picked up a billycock hat that was lying on the

table.

'I'll see you to-night, Ronald,' said he, 'I'm going off by the mail

again to-morrow.'

And as he passed by Miss Carry, he said, very modestly and

respectfully--

'I hope you will have good sport.'

'Thank you,' said she, most civilly, for he seemed a well-mannered young

man, as he slightly bowed to her in passing, and made his way out.

Ronald had everything ready for the start.

'I'm feared they'll be laughing at us for trying the river on so clear a

day,' said he, as he put his big fly-book in his pocket. 'And there's

been no rain to let the fish get up.'

'Oh I don't mind about that,' said she, as he held the door open, and

she went out, 'it will be more interesting than the lake. However, I've

nothing to say against the lake fishing, for it has done such wonders

for my father. I have not seen him so well for years. Whether it is

the quiet life, or the mountain air, I don't know, but he sleeps

perfectly, and he has entirely given up the bromide of potassium. I do

hope he will take the shooting and come back in the autumn.'

'His lordship was saying there were two other gentlemen after it,'

remarked Ronald significantly.

'Who was saying?'

'His lordship--that was in the house the now when ye came in.'

'Was that Lord Ailine?' she said--and she almost paused in their walk

along the road.

'Oh yes.'

'You don't say! Why, how did he come here?'

'By the mail this morning.'

'With the country people?'

'Just like anybody else,' he said.

'Well, I declare! I thought he would have come with a coach and

outriders--in state, you know----'

'What for?' said he impassively. 'He had no luggage, I suppose, but a

bag and a waterproof. It's different in the autumn, of course, when all

the gentlemen come up, and there's luggage and the rifles and the

cartridge-boxes--then they have to have a brake or a waggonette.'

'And that was Lord Ailine,' she said, half to herself; and there was no

further speaking between them until they had gone past the Doctor's

cottage and over the bridge and were some distance up 'the strath that

Mudal laves'--to quote her companion's own words.

'Now,' said he, as he stooped and began to put together the slender

grilse-rod, 'we'll just let ye try a cast or two on this bit of open

grass--and we'll no trouble with a fly as yet.'

He fastened on the reel, got the line through the rings, and drew out a

few yards' length. Then he gave her the rod; showed her how to hold it;

and then stood just behind her, with his right hand covering hers.

'Now,' said he, 'keep your left hand just about as steady as ye can--and

don't jerk--this way--

Of course it was really he who was making these few preliminary casts,

and each time the line ran out and fell straight and trembling on the

grass.

'Now try it yourself.'

At first she made a very bad job of it--especially when she tried to do

it by main force; the line came curling down not much more than the

rod's length in front of her, and the more she whipped the closer became

the curls.

'I'm afraid I don't catch on quite,' she said, unconsciously adopting

one of her father's phrases.

'Patience--patience,' said he; and again he gripped her hand in his and

the line seemed to run out clear with the gentlest possible forward

movement.

And then he put out more line--and still more and more--until every

backward and upward swoop of the rod, and every forward cast, was

accompanied by a 'swish' through the air. This was all very well; and

she was throwing a beautiful, clean line; but she began to wonder when

the bones in her right hand would suddenly succumb and be crunched into

a jelly. The weight of the rod--which seemed a mighty engine to

her--did not tell on her, for his one hand did the whole thing; but his

grip was terrible; and yet she did not like to speak.

'Now try for yourself,' said he, and he stepped aside.

'Wait a minute,' she said--and she shook her hand, to get the life back

into it.

'I did not hurt you?' said he, in great concern.

'We learn in suffering what we teach in song,' she said lightly. 'If I

am to catch a salmon with a fly-rod, I suppose I have got to go through

something.'

She set to work again; and, curiously enough, she seemed to succeed

better with the longer line than with the short one. There was less

jerking; the forward movement was more even; and though she was far

indeed from throwing a good line, it was very passable for a beginner.

'You know,' said she, giving him a good-humoured hint, 'I don't feel

like doing this all day.'

'Well, then, we'll go down to the water now,' said he, and he took the

rod from her.

They walked down through the swampy grass and heather to the banks of

the stream; and here he got out his fly-book--a bulged and baggy volume

much the worse for wear. And then it instantly occurred to her that

this was something she could get for him--the most splendid fly-book and

assortment of salmon flies to be procured in London--until it just as

suddenly occurred to her that he would have little use for these in

Glasgow. She saw him select a smallish black and gold and

crimson-tipped object from that bulky volume; and a few minutes

thereafter she was armed for the fray, and he was standing by watching.

Now the Mudal, though an exceedingly 'dour' salmon-river, is at least

easy for a beginner to fish, for there is scarcely anywhere a bush along

its level banks. And there were the pools--some of them deep and drumly

enough in all conscience; and no doubt there were salmon in them, if

only they could be seduced from their lair. For one thing, Ronald had

taken her to a part of the stream where she could not, in any case, do

much harm by her preliminary whippings of the water.

She began--not without some little excitement, and awful visions of

triumph and glory if she should really be able to capture a salmon by

her own unaided skill. Of course she caught in the heather behind her

sometimes; and occasionally the line would come down in a ghastly heap

on the water; but then again it would go fairly out and over to the

other bank, and the letting it down with the current and drawing it

across--as he had shown her in one or two casts--was a comparatively

easy matter. She worked hard, at all events, and obeyed

implicitly--until alas! there came a catastrophe.

'A little bit nearer the bank if you can,' said he; 'just a foot

nearer.'

She clenched her teeth. Back went the rod with all her might--and

forward again with all her might--but midway and overhead there was a

mighty crack like that of a horse-whip; and calmly he regarded the line

as it fell on the water.

'The fly's gone,' said he--but with not a trace of vexation.

'Oh, Ronald, I'm so sorry!' she cried, for she knew that these things

were expensive, even where they did not involve a considerable outlay of

personal skill and trouble.

'Not at all,' said he, as he quietly sate down on a dry bunch of heather

and got out his book again. 'All beginners do that. I'll just show ye

in a minute or two how to avoid it. And we'll try a change now.'

Indeed she was in no way loth to sit down on the heather too; and even

after he had selected the particular Childers he wanted, she took the

book, and would have him tell her the names of all the various flies,

which, quite apart from their killing merits, seemed to her beautiful

and interesting objects. And finally she said--

'Ronald, my arms are a little tired. Won't you try a cast or two? I am

sure I should learn as much by looking on.'

He did as he was bid; and she went with him; but he could not stir

anything. The river was low; the day was clear; there was no wind. But

at last they came to a part of the stream where there was a dark and

deep pool, and below that a wide bed of shingle, while between the

shingle and the bank was a narrow channel where the water tossed and

raced before breaking out into the shallows. He drew her a little bit

back from the bank and made her take the rod again.

'If there's a chance at all, it's there,' he said. 'Do ye see that

stone over there?--well, just try to drop the fly a foot above the

stone, and let it get into the swirl.'

She made her first cast--the line fell in a tangled heap about three

yards short.

'Ye've got out of the way of it,' said he, and he took the rod from her,

let out a little more line, and then gave it to her again, standing

behind her, with his hand over-gripping hers.

'Now!'

The fly fell a foot short--but clean. The next cast it fell at the

precise spot indicated, and was swept into the current, and dragged

slowly and jerkily across. Again he made the cast for her, with the

same negative result; and then he withdrew his hand.

'That's right--very well done!' he said, as she continued.

'Yes, but what's the use when you have tried----'

She had scarcely got the words out when she suddenly found the line held

tight--and tighter--she saw it cut its way through the water, up and

towards the bank of the pool above--and down and down was the point of

the rod pulled until it almost touched the stream. All this had

happened in one wild second.

'Let the line go!--what are ye doing, lassie?' he cried. The fact was

that in her sudden alarm she had grasped both line and rod more firmly

than ever; and in another half second the fish must inevitably have

broken something. But this exclamation of his recalled her to her

senses--she let the line go free--got up the rod--and then waited

events--with her heart in her mouth. She had not long to wait. It very

soon appeared to her as if she had hooked an incarnate flash of

lightning; for there was nothing this beast did not attempt to do; now

rushing down the narrow channel so close to the bank that a single

out-jutting twig must have cut the line; now lashing on the edge of the

shallows; twice jerking himself into the air; and then settling down in

the deep pool, not to sulk, but to twist and tug at the line in a series

of angry snaps. And always it was 'Oh, Ronald, what shall I do now?' or

'Ronald, what will he do next?'

'You're doing well enough,' said he placidly. 'But it will be a long

fight; and ye must not let him too far down the stream, or he'll take ye

below the foot bridge. And don't give him much line; follow him,

rather.'

She was immediately called on to act on this advice; for with one

determined, vicious rush, away went the salmon down the stream--she

after him as well as her woman's skirts would allow, and always and

valorously she was keeping a tight strain on the pliant rod. Alas! all

of a sudden her foot caught in a tuft of heather--down she went, prone,

her arms thrown forward so that nothing could save her. But did she let

go the rod? Not a bit! She clung to it with the one hand; and when

Ronald helped her to her feet again, she had no thought of herself at

all--all her breathless interest was centred on the salmon. Fortunately

that creature had now taken to sulking, in a pool farther down; and she

followed him, getting in the line the while.

'But I'm afraid you're hurt,' said he.

'No, no.'

Something was tickling the side of her face. She shifted the grip of

the rod, and passed the back of her right hand across her ear; a brief

glance showed her that her knuckles were stained with blood. But she

took no further heed; for she had to get both hands on the rod again.

'She has pluck, that one,' Ronald said to himself; but he said nothing

aloud, he wanted her to remain as self-possessed as possible.

'And what if he goes down to the footbridge, Ronald?' she said

presently.

'But ye must not let him.'

'But if he will go?'

'Then ye'll give me the rod and I'll take it under the bridge.'

The fish lay there as heavy and dead as a stone; nothing they could do

could stir him an inch.

'The beast has been at this work before,' Ronald said. 'That jagging to

get the hook out is the trick of an old hand. But this sulking will

never do at all.'

He left her and went farther up the stream to the place where the river

ran over the wide bed of shingle. There he deliberately walked into the

water--picking up a few pebbles as he went--and, with a running leap,

crossed the channel and gained the opposite bank. Then he quickly

walked down to within a yard or two of the spot where the 'dour' salmon

lay.

She thought this was very foolish child's play that he should go and

fling little stones at a fish he could not see. But presently she

perceived that he was trying all he could to get the pebbles to drop

vertically and parallel with the line. And then the object of this

device was apparent. The salmon moved heavily forward, some few inches

only. Another pebble was dropped. This time the fish made a violent

rush up stream that caused Miss Carry's reel to shriek; and off she set

after him (but with more circumspection this time as regards her

footing), getting in the line as rapidly as possible as she went.

Ronald now came over and joined her, and this was comforting to her

nerves.

Well, long before she had killed that fish she had discovered the

difference between loch-fishing and river-fishing; but she did kill him

in the end; and mightily pleased she was when she saw him lying on the

sere wintry grass. Ronald would have had her try again; but she had had

enough; it was past lunch time, and she was hungry; moreover, she was

tired; and then again she did not wish that he should waste the whole

day. So, when she had sate down for a while, and watched him tie the

salmon head and tail, they set out for the village again, very well

content; while as for the slight wound she had received by her ear

catching on a twig of heather when she fell, that was quite forgotten

now.

'And ye are to have the fish,' said he. 'I told his lordship this

morning you were going to try your hand at the casting; and he said if

you got one you would be proud of it, no doubt, and ye were to keep it,

of course.'

'Well, that is very kind; I suppose I must thank him if I see him?'

And she was very curious to know all about Lord Ailine; and why he

should come to Inver-Mudal merely for these few hours; and what kind of

people he brought with him in the autumn. He answered her as well as he

could; and then they went on to other things--all in a very gay and

merry mood, for he was as proud as she was over this achievement.

At the same moment Meenie Douglas was in her own little room, engaged on

a work of art of a not very ambitious kind. She had lying before her on

the table a pencil-sketch in outline of such features of the landscape

as could be seen from the window--the loch, the wooded promontories, Ben

Clebrig, and the little clump of trees that sheltered the inn; and she

was engaged in making a smaller copy of this drawing, in pen and ink, on

a paper-cutter of brown wood. She was not much of an artist, perhaps;

but surely these simple outlines were recognisable; and if they were to

be entitled '_A Souvenir_,' and carried away to the south as a little

parting present, might they not in some idle moment of the future recall

some brief memory of these northern wilds? So she was at work on this

task--and very careful that the lines should be clear and precise--when

she heard the sound of voices without--or rather one voice, which

presently she recognised to be Ronald's: she could not easily mistake

it. And if she were to go to the window and get him to stop for a

minute, at the gate, and show him the sketch that she had just about

finished--perhaps he would be pleased?

She went to the window--but instantly drew back. She had just caught a

glimpse: it was the American young lady he was walking with--at a time

when he was supposed to be so busy; and he was carrying her rod for her

and her ulster as well as the salmon; and they were laughing and gaily

talking together, like a pair of lovers almost on this clear spring day.

Meenie went slowly back to the table--her face perhaps a trifle paler

than usual; and she sate down, and began to look at the little drawing

that she had been rather proud of. But her lips were proud and firm.

Why should she give a drawing to any one--more especially to one who was

so ready with his friendship and so quick to consort with strangers?

The lines on the brown wood seemed cold and uninteresting; she was no

longer anxious that they should suggest an accurate picture; nay, she

pushed the thing away from her, and rose, and went back to the window,

and stood idly gazing out there, her lips still proud, her mien defiant.

And then--well, Ronald was going away. Was it worth while to let pride

or self-love come between them and becloud these last few days, when

perhaps they might never see each other again? For well she knew of her

mother's aims and hopes with regard to herself; and well she knew

that--whatever she may have guessed from the verses of Ronald's which

assuredly had never been meant for her to see--it was neither for him

nor for her to expect that the harsh facts and necessities of the world

should give place and yield to a passing fancy, a dream, a kind of

wistful, half-poetic shadow of what otherwise might have been. But at

least Ronald and she might part friends; nay, they should part friends.

And so she returned to the table--overmastering her momentary pride; and

she took up the discarded little drawing and regarded it with gentler

eyes. For, after all (as she could not forget) Ronald was going away.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*POETA ... NON FIT.*

It soon became obvious that the salmon-fishers from the other side of

the Atlantic had got into a long spell of deplorably fine weather; and a

gentle melancholy settled down upon the souls of the gillies. In vain,

morning after morning, the men searched every quarter of the heavens for

any sign of even a couple of days' deluge to flood the rivers and send

the kelts down and bring the clean salmon up from the sea. This wild

and bleak region grew to be like some soft summer fairyland; the blue

loch and the yellow headlands, and the far treeless stretches of moor

lay basking in the sunlight; Ben Loyal's purples and browns were clear

to the summit; Ben Clebrig's snows had nearly all melted away. Nor

could the discontented boatmen understand how the two strangers should

accept this state of affairs with apparent equanimity. Both were now

provided with a book; and when the rods had been properly set so as to

be ready for any emergency, they could pass the time pleasantly enough

in this perfect stillness, gliding over the smooth waters, and drinking

in the sweet mountain air. As for Miss Carry, she had again attacked

the first volume of Gibbon--for she would hot be beaten; and very

startling indeed it was when a fish did happen to strike the minnow, to

be so suddenly summoned back from Palmyra to this Highland loch. In

perfect silence, with eyes and attention all absented, she would be

reading thus--

'_When the Syrian queen was brought into the presence of Aurelian, he

sternly asked her, how she had presumed to rise in arms against the

Emperor of Rome? The answer of Zenobia was a prudent mixture of respect

and firmness_'--when sharp would come the warning cry of Malcolm--'There

he is, Miss!--there he is!'--and she would dash down the historian to

find the rod being violently shaken and the reel screaming out its

joyous note. Moreover, in this still weather, the unusual visitor not

unfrequently brought some other element of surprise with him. She

acquired a considerable experience of the different forms of

foul-hooking and of the odd manoeuvres of the fish in such

circumstances. On one occasion the salmon caught himself on the minnow

by his dorsal fin; and for over an hour contented himself with rolling

about under water without once showing himself, and with such a strain

that she thought he must be the champion fish of the lake: when at last

they did get him into the boat he was found to be a trifle under ten

pounds. But, taken altogether, this cultivation of literature, varied

by an occasional 'fluke' of a capture, and these placid and dreamlike

mornings and afternoons, were far from being as satisfactory as the

former and wilder days when Ronald was in the boat, even with all their

discomforts of wind and rain and snow.

By this time she had acquired another grievance.

'Why did you let him go, pappa, without a single word?' she would say,

as they sate over their books or newspapers in the evening. 'It was my

only chance. You could easily have introduced yourself to him by

speaking of the shooting----'

'You know very well, Carry,' he would answer--trying to draw her into

the fields of common sense--'I can say nothing about that till I see how

mother's health is.'

'I am sure she would say yes if she saw what the place has done for you,

pappa; salmon-fishing has proved better for you than bromide of

potassium. But that's not the trouble at all. Why did you let him go?

Why did you let him spend the evening at the Doctor's?--and the next

morning he went about the whole time with Ronald! My only chance of

spurning a lord, too. Do they kneel in this country, pappa, when they

make their declaration; or is that only in plays? Never mind; it would

be all the same. "No, my lord; the daughter of a free Republic cannot

wed a relic of feudalism; farewell, my lord, farewell! I know that you

are heart-broken for life; but the daughter of a free Republic must be

true to her manifest destiny."'

'Oh, be quiet!'

'And then the girls at home, when I got back, they would all have come

crowding around: "Do tell, now, did you get a British nobleman to

propose, Carry?" "What do you imagine I went to Europe for?" "And you

rejected him?" "You bet your pile on that. Why, you should have seen

him writhe on the floor when I spurned him! I spurned him, I tell you I

did--the daughter of a free Republic"----'

'Will you be quiet!'

'But it was really too bad, pappa!' she protested. 'There he was

lounging around all the morning. And all I heard him say was when he

was just going--when he was on the mail-car, "Ronald," he called out,

"have you got a match about you?"--and he had a wooden pipe in his hand.

And that's all I know about the manners and conversation of the British

nobility; and what will they say of me at home?'

'When does Ronald go?' he would ask; and this, at least, was one sure

way of bringing her back to the paths of sanity and soberness; for the

nearer that this departure came, the more concerned she was about it,

having some faint consciousness that she herself had a share of the

responsibility.