And in another direction, moreover, she was becoming a little anxious.

No message of any kind had arrived from the _Chicago Citizen_. Now she

had written to Miss Kerfoot before she left for Paris; her stay in the

French capital had extended to nearly three weeks; there was the space

occupied in going and returning; so that if Jack Huysen meant to do

anything with the verses it was about time that that should appear. And

the more she thought of it the more she set her heart on it, and hoped

that Ronald's introduction to the reading public would be a flattering

one and one of which he could reasonably be proud. Her father had it in

his power to secure his material advancement; and that was well enough;

but what if it were reserved for her to confer a far greater service on

him? For if this first modest effort were welcomed in a friendly way,

might he not be induced to put forth a volume, and claim a wider

recognition? It need not interfere with his more practical work; and

then, supposing it were successful? Look at the status it would win for

him--a thing of far more value in the old country, where society is

gradated into ranks, than in her country, where every one (except hotel

clerks, as she insisted) was on the same plane. He would then be the

equal of anybody--even in this old England; she had at least acquired so

far a knowledge of English society. And if he owed the first suggestion

and impulse to her?--if she were to be the means, in however small and

tentative a fashion, of his ultimately establishing his fame? That he

could do so if he tried, she never thought of doubting. She saw him

every day, and the longer she knew him the more she was certain that the

obvious mental force that seemed to radiate from him in the ordinary

conversation and discussion of everyday life only wanted to be put into

a definite literary channel to make its mark. And was not the time ripe

for a poet? And it was not Edinburgh, or Glasgow, or London that had

nowadays to decide on his merits, but two great continents of

English-speaking people.

At length came the answer to her urgent prayer--a letter from Miss

Kerfoot and a copy of the _Chicago Citizen_. The newspaper she opened

first; saw with delight that a long notice--a very long notice

indeed--had been accorded to the verses she had sent; and with a proud

heart she put the paper in her pocket, for careful reading when she

should get down to the lake. Miss Kerfoot's letter she glanced over;

but it did not say much; the writer observed that Mr. Jack Huysen had

only seemed half pleased when informed of Carry's extraordinary interest

in the phenomenal Scotch gamekeeper; and, referring to the article in

the _Citizen_, she said Jack Huysen had entrusted the writing of it to

Mr. G. Quincy Regan, who was, she understood, one of the most cultured

young men in Chicago, and likely to make quite a reputation for himself

ere long. There were some other matters mentioned in this letter; but

they need not detain us here.

Miss Carry was in very high spirits as she set forth from the inn with

her father to walk down to the boats. They met Ronald, too, on their

way; he was accompanied by the man who was to take his place after his

leaving; and Miss Carry could not help comparing the two of them as they

came along the road. But, after all, it was not outward appearance that

made the real difference between men; it was mental stature; she had

that in her pocket which could show to everybody how Ronald was a head

and shoulders over any of his peers. And she took but little interest

in the setting up of the rods or the selection of the minnows; she

wanted to be out on the lake, alone, in the silence, to read line by

line and word by word this introduction of her hero to the public.

The following is the article:

'A REMARKABLE LITERARY DISCOVERY--OUR FELLOW-CITIZENS ABROAD--ANOTHER

RUSTIC POET--CHICAGO CLAIMS HIM. It may be in the recollection of some

of our readers that a few years ago a small party of American tourists,

consisting of Curtis H. Mack, who was one of our most distinguished

major-generals in the rebellion, and is now serving on the Indian

frontier; his niece, Miss Hettie F. Doig, a very talented lady and

contributor to several of our best periodicals; and John Grimsby

Patterson, editor of the Baltimore _Evening News_, were travelling in

Europe, when they had the good fortune to discover an Irish poet,

Patrick Milligan, who had long languished in obscurity, no doubt the

victim of British jealousy as well as of misrule. Major-General Mack

interested himself in this poor man, and, in conjunction with William B.

Stevens, of Cleveland, Ohio, had him brought over to this country, where

they were eventually successful in obtaining for him a postmastership in

New Petersburg, Conn., leaving him to devote such time as he pleased to

the service of the tuneful nine. Mr. Milligan's Doric reed has not piped

to us much of late years; but we must all remember the stirring verses

which he wrote on the occasion of Colonel George W. Will's nomination

for Governor of Connecticut. It has now been reserved for another party

of American travellers, still better known to us than the above, for

they are no other than our esteemed fellow-citizen, Mr. Josiah Hodson

and his brilliant and accomplished daughter, Miss Caroline Hodson, to

make a similar discovery in the Highlands of Scotland; and in view of

such recurring instances, we may well ask whether there be not in the

mental alertness of our newer civilisation a capacity for the detection

and recognition of intellectual merit which exists not among the

deadening influences of an older and exhausted civilisation. It has

sometimes been charged against this country that we do not excel in arts

and letters; that we are in a measure careless of them; that political

problems and material interests occupy our mind. The present writer, at

least, is in no hurry to repel that charge, odious as it may seem to

some. We, as Americans, should remember that the Athenian Republic,

with which our western Republic has nothing to fear in the way of

comparison, when it boasted its most lavish display of artistic and

literary culture, was no less conspicuous for its moral degeneracy and

political corruption. It was in the age of Pericles and of Phidias, of

Socrates and Sophocles, of Euripides and Aristophanes and Thucydides,

that Athens showed herself most profligate; private licence was

unbridled; justice was bought and sold; generals incited to war that

they might fill their pockets out of the public purse; and all this

spectacle in striking contrast with the manly virtues of the rude and

unlettered kingdom of Sparta, whose envoys were laughed at because they

had not the trick of Athenian oratory and casuistry. We say, then, that

we are not anxious to repel this charge brought against our great

western Republic, that we assign to arts and letters a secondary place;

on the contrary, we are content that the over-cultivation of these

should fatten on the decaying and effete nations of Europe, as

phosphorus shines in rotten wood.'

Now she had determined to read every sentence of this article

conscientiously, as something more than a mere intellectual treat; but,

as she went on, joy did not seem to be the result. The reference to

Patrick Milligan and the postmastership in Connecticut she considered to

be distinctly impertinent; but perhaps Jack Huysen had not explained

clearly to the young gentleman all that she had written to Emma Kerfoot?

Anyhow, she thought, when he came to Ronald's little Highland poem, he

would perhaps drop his Athenians, and talk more like a reasonable human

being.

'That the first strain from the new singer's lyre should be placed at

the services of the readers of the _Citizen_, we owe to the patriotism

of the well-known and charming lady whose name we have given above; nor

could the verses have fallen into better hands. In this case there is

no need that Horace should cry to Tyndaris--

_O matre pulchra filia pulchrior,_

_Quem criminosis cunque voles modum_

_Pones iambis, sive flamma_

_Sive mari libet Hadriano._

Moreover, we have received a hint that this may not be the last piece of

the kind with which we may be favoured; so that we have again to thank

our fair fellow-townswoman for her kindly attention. But lest our

readers may be growing weary of this _prolegomenon_, we will at once

quote this latest utterance of the Scottish muse which has come to us

under such favourable auspices:'

Here followed Ronald's poor verses, that perhaps looked insignificant

enough, after this sonorous trumpet-blaring. The writer proceeded:

'Now certain qualities in this composition are so obvious that we need

hardly specify them; we give the writer credit for simplicity, pathos,

and a hearty sympathy with the victims of the tyrannical greed of the

chase-loving British landlord. But it is with no intent of looking a

gift-horse in the mouth (which would be a poor return for the courtesy

of the lady who has interested herself in the rustic bard) if we proceed

to resolve this piece into its elements, that we may the more accurately

cast the horoscope of this new applicant for the public applause. To

begin with, the sentiment of nostalgia is but a slender backbone for any

work of literary art. In almost every case it is itself a fallacy.

What were the conditions under which these people--arbitrarily and

tyrannically, it may have been--were forced away from their homes?

Either they were bad agriculturists or the land was too poor to support

them; and in either case their transference to a more generous soil

could be nothing but a benefit to them. Their life must have been full

of privations and cares. _Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit_; but

the pleasure ought to lie in thinking of the escape; so that we maintain

that to base any piece of literary work on such a false sentiment as

nostalgia is seen to be, leads us to suspect the _veracity_ of the

writer and calls upon us to be on our guard. Moreover, we maintain that

it is of the essence of pastoral and idyllic poetry to be cheerful and

jocund; and it is to be observed that sadness prevails in poetry only

when a nation has passed its youth and becomes saturated with the regret

of old age. We prefer the stories told

_Where Corydon and Thyrsis met_

_Are at their savoury dinner set;_

and the lyrist when he sings

_Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,_

_Dulce loquentem;_

and we hold that when the poets of a nation are permeated by a

lackadaisical sentiment--when they have the candour to style themselves

the idle singers of an empty day--when the burden of their song is

regret and weariness and a lamentation over former joys--then it is time

for such poets and the nation they represent to take a back seat in the

lecture halls of literature, and give way to the newer and stronger race

that is bound to dominate the future.'

She read no farther; and it is a great pity that she did not; for the

writer by and by went on to say some very nice things about these

unlucky verses; and even hinted that here was a man who might be

benefited by coming to stay in Chicago,--'the future capital of the

future empire of the world,'--and by having his eyes opened as to the

rate of progress possible in these modern days; and wound up with a most

elaborate compliment to the intellectual perspicacity and judgment of

Miss Carry herself. She did not read beyond what is quoted above for

the simple reason that she was in a most violent rage, and also

extremely mortified with herself for being so vexed. She tore the

newspaper into shreds, and crushed these together, and flung them into

the bottom of the boat. Her cheeks were quite pale; her eyes burning;

and through all the anger of her disappointment ran the shame of the

consciousness that it was she who had exposed Ronald to this insult.

What though he should never know anything about it? Her friends in

Chicago would know. And it was the man whom she wanted to glorify and

make a hero of who had, through her instrumentality, been subjected to

the pedantic criticism, the pretentious analyses, and, worst of all, the

insulting patronage of this unspeakable ass. Suddenly she regretted the

destruction of the newspaper; she would like to have looked at it again,

to justify her wrath. No matter; she could remember enough; and she

would not forget Jack Huysen's share in this transaction.

She was very silent and reserved at lunch time; and her father began to

believe that, after all, in spite of her repeated assurances, their

ill-luck with the fishing was weighing on her spirits.

'You know, Carry,' said he, 'it is not in the nature of things that

weather like this can last in the Highlands of Scotland. It is

notoriously one of the wettest places in the world. There _must_ be

rain coming soon; and then think of all the fish that will be rushing up

in shoals, and what a time we shall have.'

'I am not disappointed with the fishing at all, pappa,' she said. 'I

think we have done very well.'

'What is the matter, then?'

'Oh, nothing.'

And then she said--

'Well, I will tell you, pappa. I asked Jack Huysen to do me a very

particular favour; and he did not do it; and when I next see Jack

Huysen, I think he will find it a very cold day.'

The words were mysterious; but the tone was enough.

And all the afternoon she sate in the stern of the coble and brooded,

composing imaginary letters to the editor of the _New York Herald_, to

the editor of the _Nation_, to the editor of the Chicago _Tribune_, to

the editor of _Puck_, and a great many other journals, all of these

phantom epistles beginning 'As an American girl I appeal to you,' and

proceeding to beg of the editor to hold up to merciless scorn a certain

feeble, shallow, and impertinent article (herewith enclosed) which had

appeared in the _Chicago Citizen_. And on the way home, too, in the

evening, she began to question her father as to his personal

acquaintance with editors and journalists, which seemed to be of the

slightest; and she at length admitted that she wanted some one to

reply--and sharply--to an article that had been written about a friend

of hers.

'You let that alone,' her father said. 'It's not very easy for any one

to meddle in the politics of our country without coming out more or less

tattooed; for they don't mind what they say about you; and you are very

well to be out of it.'

'It isn't politics at all,' she said. 'And--and--the article is written

about a friend of mine--and--I want to have the writer told what a fool

he is.'

'But probably he would not believe it,' her father said quietly.

'He would see that some one else believed it.'

'I am not sure that that would hurt him much,' was the unsatisfactory

answer.

When they drew near to Inver-Mudal she found herself quite afraid and

ashamed at the thought of their possibly meeting Ronald. Had she not

betrayed him? He had sought for no recognition; probably he was too

proud or too manly and careless about what any one might write of him;

it was she who had put him into that suppliant attitude, and brought

upon him the insolent encouragement of a microcephalous fool. This was

the return she had made him for all his kindness to her father and to

herself. Why, he had told her to burn the verses! And to think that

she should have been the means of submitting them to the scrutiny and

patronage of this jackanapes--and that Mr. J. C. Huysen should as good

as say 'Well, this is what we think of your prodigy'--all this was near

bringing tears of rage to her eyes. For Miss Carry, it must be

repeated, was 'a real good fellow,' and very loyal to her friends, and

impatient of injustice done them; and perhaps, unconsciously to herself,

she may have felt some of the consternation of the wild animal whose

duty it is to protect her mate with her superior feminine watchfulness,

and who, through neglect or carelessness, allows the destroyer to come

in and slay. In any case, it certainly promised to be 'a very cold day'

for Mr. Jack Huysen when these two should meet in Chicago.

That night, after dinner, father and daughter went out for a stroll; for

by this time the moon was drawing to its full again; and all the world

lay peaceful and silent in the wan clear light. They had not emerged

from the trees in front of the inn on to the white pathway of the road

when a sound in the distance caught Miss Carry's ears, and instantly she

touched her father's arm and drew him back into the shadow. She wanted

to hear what song this was that Ronald was singing on his homeward way.

At first she could make out nothing but fragments of the air--clear and

soft and distant--

[Illustration: Music fragment]

but as he drew nearer the words become more distinct:

And kiss'd her ripe ros-es, and blest her black e'e;

And aye since whene'er we meet, sing, for the sound is sweet,

"I was a-sleep but ye've wak-en'd me.'

[Illustration: Music fragment]

So clear and penetrating and careless and joyous was this singing!--her

heart was stirred with pride as she listened; this was not the voice of

a man who would trouble himself with any whipper-snapper

criticism;--nay, she began to wonder that she had wasted so much

indignation on so trivial a thing. Then there was a sudden silence,

except for his footfall; and presently the dark figure appeared out

there on the white road--his shadow a sharp black in front of him, the

little terrier trotting behind him--and in a minute or so the long

swinging stride had carried him past their ambush on his homeward way to

the cottage.

'What a splendid voice that fellow has got!' her father said, as they

also now went out on to the white highway, and took the opposite

direction.

'He seems to be very well contented with himself,' she said, rather

absently.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*A LAST DAY ON THE LOCH.*

Ronald came down to the loch-side the next morning just as she was about

to get into the coble--her father having started a few minutes before.

'I hear you have not been doing very well with the fishing,' said he, in

that brisk, business-like fashion of his.

'The salmon appear to have gone away somewhere,' she replied.

'Oh, but that will never do,' said he cheerfully. 'We must try and make

some alteration.'

He took the key of the kennels from his pocket.

'Here, Johnnie lad, ye may go and take the dogs out for a run.'

Was Ronald, then, coming with her? Her eyes brightened with

anticipation; there was a welcome in the look of her face that ought to

have been sufficient reward for him. Nor had she the courage to

protest--though she knew that his time was drawing short now. As for

the salmon--well, it was not about salmon she was thinking exclusively.

'They say a change of gillie sometimes brings a change of luck,' said he

good-naturedly; and he began to overhaul the tackle, substituting

smaller minnows for those already on. 'And I think we will try down at

the other end of the loch this time. We will make sure of some trout in

any case.'

'But it is so far away, Ronald; are you certain you can afford the

time?' she was bound, in common fairness, to ask.

'Oh yes, I can afford the time,' said he, 'even if this should have to

be my last day on the loch. Besides, if we do not treat you well, maybe

you'll never come back.'

'And what is the use of our coming back, when you won't be here?' she

was on the point of saying, but she did not say it, fortunately.

Then they set forth, on this still summer-like day; and they hailed the

other boat in passing, and told them of their intended voyage of

exploration. Indeed their prospects of sport at the setting out were

anything but promising; the long levels of the lake were mostly of a

pale glassy blue and white; and the little puffs of wind that stirred

the surface here and there into a shimmer of silver invariably died down

again, leaving the water to become a mirror once more of rock and tree

and hill. But she was well content. This was an unknown world into

which they were now penetrating; and it was a good deal more beautiful

than the upper end of the lake (where the best fishing ground was) with

which they had grown so familiar. Here were hanging woods coming right

down to the water's edge; and lofty and precipitous crags stretching

away into the pale blue sky; and winding bays and picturesque shores

where the huge boulders, green and white and yellow with lichen, and the

rich velvet moss, and the withered bracken, and the silver-clear stems

of the birch trees were all brilliant in the sun. The only living

creatures that seemed to inhabit this strange silent region were the

birds. A pair of eagles slowly circled round and round, but at so great

a height that they were but a couple of specks which the eye was apt to

lose; black-throated divers and golden-eyed divers, disturbed by these

unusual visitors, rose from the water and went whirring by to the upper

stretches of the lake; a hen-harrier hovered in mid-air, causing a

frantic commotion among the smaller birds beneath; the curlews, now

wheeling about in pairs, uttered their long warning whistle; the peewits

called angrily, flying zig-zag, with audible whuffing of their soft

broad wings; the brilliant little redshanks flew like a flash along the

shore, just skimming the water; and two great wild-geese went by

overhead, with loud, harsh croak. And ever it was Ronald's keen eye

that first caught sight of them; and he would draw her attention to

them; and tell her the names of them all. And at last--as they were

coming out of one of the small glassy bays, and as he was idly regarding

the tall and rocky crags that rose above the birchwoods--he laughed

lightly.

'Ye glaiket things,' said he, as if he were recognising some old

friends, 'what brings ye in among the sheep?'

'What is it, Ronald?' she asked--and she followed the direction of his

look towards those lofty crags, but could make out nothing unusual.

'Dinna ye see the hinds?' he said quietly.

'Where--where?' she cried, in great excitement; for she had not seen a

single deer all the time of her stay.

'At the edge of the brown corrie--near the sky-line. There are three of

them--dinna ye see them?'

'No, I don't!' she said impatiently.

'Do ye see the two sheep?'

'I see two white specks--I suppose they're sheep.'

'Well--just above them.'

But the boat was slowly moving all this time; and presently the gradual

change in their position brought one of the hinds clear into view on the

sky-line. The beautiful creature, with its graceful neck, small head,

and upraised ears, was evidently watching them, but with no apparent

intention of making off; and presently Miss Carry, whose eyes were

becoming better accustomed to the place, could make out the other two

hinds, one of them lying on the grass, the other contentedly feeding,

and paying no heed whatever to the passing boat.

'I thought you said the sheep drove them away,' she said to him.

'It's the men and the dogs mostly,' he answered. 'Sometimes they will

come in among the sheep like that, if the feeding tempts them. My word,

that would be an easy stalk now--if it was the season.'

Very soon they found that the three hinds were no longer in view; but

there were plenty of other things to claim their attention on this

solitary voyage. What, for example, was this great circular mass of

stones standing on a projecting promontory? These were the remains, he

explained to her, of a Pictish fort. Another, in better preservation,

was on the opposite shore; and, if she cared to visit it, she might make

her way into the hollow passages constructed between the double line of

wall, if she were not afraid of adders, nor yet of some of the

uncemented stones falling upon her.

'And what are these?' she said, indicating the ruins of certain circles

formed on the hill-plateaux just above the loch.

'They're down in the Ordnance Survey as "hut-circles,"' he said, 'but

that is all I know about them.'

'At all events, there must have been plenty of people living here at one

time?'

'I suppose so.'

'Well, I don't think I ever saw any place in our country looking quite

so lonely as that,' she said, regarding the voiceless solitudes of wood

and hill and crag. 'Seems as if with us there was always some one

around--camping out, or something--but I dare say in Dacotah or Idaho

you would get lonelier places than this even. Well, now, what do they

call it?' she asked, as an afterthought.

'What?--the strath here?'

'Yes.'

'I suppose they would call it part of Strath-Naver.'

The mere mention of Strath-Naver struck a chill to her heart. It

recalled to her how she had betrayed him by sending those harmless

verses across the Atlantic, and subjecting them to the insolence of a

nincompoop's patronage. And if Ronald should ever get to know? Might

not some busybody send him a copy of the paper? These Scotch people had

so many relatives and friends all through the States. Or perhaps his

brother in Glasgow might have some correspondent over there? She dared

not look him in the face, she felt so guilty; and once or twice she was

almost on the point of confessing everything, and begging for his

forgiveness, and getting him to promise that he would not read the

article should it ever be sent to him.

And then it occurred to her as a very strange thing that from the moment

of Ronald's appearance that morning at the loch-side until now she had

never even given a thought to what had caused her so much annoyance the

day before. His very presence seemed to bring with it an atmosphere of

repose and safety and self-confidence. When she had seen him go

stalking by on the previous night, she had instantly said to

herself--'Oh, that is not the kind of man to worry about what is said of

him.' And this morning, when he came down to the boat, she had never

thought of him as a criticised and suffering poet, but as--well, as the

Ronald that all of them knew and were familiar with--self-reliant,

good-natured, masterful in his way, and ever ready with a laugh and a

song and a jest, save when there was any young lady there, to make him a

little more demure and respectful in his manner. Ronald a disappointed

poet?--Ronald suffering agony because a two-for-a-quarter kind of a

creature out there in Chicago did not think well of him? She ventured

to lift her eyes a little. He was not looking her way at all. He was

regarding the shore intently; and there was a quiet and humorous smile

on the hard-set, sun-tanned face.

'There are six--seven--blackcocks; do ye see them?'

'Oh yes; what handsome birds they are!' she said, with a curious sense

of relief.

'Ay,' said he, 'the lads are very friendly amongst themselves just now;

but soon there will be wars and rumours of wars when they begin to set

up house each for himself. There will be many a pitched battle on those

knolls there. Handsome? Ay, they're handsome enough; but handsome is as

handsome does. The blackcock is not nearly as good a fellow as the

grousecock, that stays with his family, and protects them, and gives

them the first warning cry if there's danger. These rascals there

wander off by themselves, and leave their wives and children to get on

as they can. They're handsome--but they're ne'er-do-weels. There's one

thing: the villain has a price put on his head; for a man would rather

bring down one old cock thumping on the grass than fill his bag with

gray hens.'

A disappointed poet indeed! And she was so glad to find him talking in

his usual half-bantering careless fashion (that he should talk in any

other way was only a wild suggestion of her own conscience, struck with

a qualm on the mention of Strath-Naver) that she made many inquiries

about the habits of black game and similar creatures; and was apparently

much interested; and all the while was vowing within herself that she

would think no more of the mortifying disappointment she had met with,

but would give up this last day on the loch wholly to such fancies and

quiet amusements as she would like to look back upon in after hours.

And a very pleasant day they spent in this still, silent, beautiful

region, cut off from all of the world, as it were. There were plenty of

trout, and therefore there was plenty of occupation; moreover, one or

two good-sized sea-trout added to the value of the basket. Nor was this

solitary district quite so untenanted as she had supposed. About

mid-day it occurred to her that she was becoming hungry and then the

wild reflection flashed on her that the lunch was in the other

boat--some eight miles away. She confided her perplexity--her

despair--to Ronald.

'It is my fault,' he said, with vexation very visible in his face. 'I

should have remembered. But--but--' he added timidly--for he was not

accustomed to ministering to the wants of young ladies--'I could get ye

some bread and a drink of milk, if that would do.'

'What, right here?'

'Yes.'

'Why, nothing could be better!'

They were rowing the boat ashore by this time; and when they had got to

land, he leaped on to the beach, and presently disappeared. In little

more than a quarter of an hour he was back again, bringing with him a

substantial loaf of home-made bread and a large jug of milk.

'Well done!' she said. 'There's plenty for all of us. Lend me your

knife, Ronald.'

'Oh no,' said he, 'it's for you.'

And a hard fight she had of it ere she could get the two men to accept a

fair division; but she had her way in the end; and Ronald, seeing that

she was determined they should share the milk also (she drank first, and

handed the jug to him quite as a matter of course), swiftly and

stealthily pulled off the cup from his whisky-flask, and old Malcolm and

he drank from that, pouring the milk into it from the jug. It was a

frugal picnic; but she was very happy; and she was telling him that when

he came to Chicago, and they were showing him the beauties of Lake

Michigan, they might give him a grander luncheon than this, but none

more comfortable.

In the afternoon they set out for home, picking up a few more trout by

the way; and when they at length drew near to the upper waters of the

lake they found the other boat still pursuing its unwearied round.

Moreover Mr. Hodson's strict attention to business had been rewarded by

the capture of a handsome fish of sixteen pounds; whereas they had

nothing but a miscellaneous collection of brown and white trout. But,

just as they were thinking of going ashore, for the dusk was now coming

on, a most extraordinary piece of luck befell them. Miss Carry was

scarcely thinking of the rods when the sudden shriek of one of the reels

startled her out of her idle contemplation.

'Surely that is a salmon, Ronald!' she cried, as she instantly grasped

the rod and got it up.

He did not stay to answer, for his business was to get in the other line

as fast as possible. But he had just got this second rod into his hand

when lo! there was a tugging and another scream of a reel--there was now

a salmon at each of the lines! It was a position of the direst

danger--for a single cross rush of either of the fish must inevitably

break both off--and how were they to be kept separate, with both rods

confined to one boat? Ronald did not lose his head.

'Row ashore, Malcolm--row ashore, man!' he shouted--'fast as ever ye

can, man!'

Nor did he wait until the bow had touched land; he slipped over the edge

of the boat while as yet the water was deep enough to take him up to the

waist; and away he waded, taking the one rod with him, and slowly

increasing the distance between the two fish. By the time he got ashore

there was a hundred yards or so between them, and he did not attempt to

play this salmon at all; he gave it plenty of law; and merely waited to

see the end of Miss Carry's struggle.

She hardly knew what had happened, except that Ronald's going away had

left her very nervous and excited and helpless. How was she ever to

land a fish unless he was at her shoulder directing her? But by this

time old Malcolm had jammed the bow of the boat on to the beach, had got

in the oars, and now sate patiently waiting, clip in hand.

The fish was not a very game one, though he was no kelt.

'Put a good strain on him, Miss,' said old Malcolm--who had been taking

a sly look round. 'Ronald's keeping the other one for ye.'

'What do you say?' she called to him--rather breathlessly.

'Ronald will be wanting ye to play the other fish too,' said the old

man. 'And a wonderful fine thing, if we can get them both--oh yes,

indeed. It is not an ordinary thing to hook two salmon at once and land

them both--I wass neffer seeing that done except once before.'

'Beast!' she said, between her teeth--for the fish made a desperate rush

away out into the loch, with a magnificent flourish in the air as a

finish. But no harm was done; indeed, it was about his last strong

effort to free himself. Yard after yard of the line was got in again;

his struggles to get away grew less and less vigorous; at last the old

Highlander made an adventurous swoop with the clip, and was successful

in landing the brilliant creature in the bottom of the boat.

'Now, Miss,' he cried, 'leave him to me--leave him to me. Quick, get

ashore, and try for the other one. And will you take the clip?'

He was greatly excited by this unusual adventure; and so was she--and

breathless, moreover; but she managed to do as she was bid. She got

rather wet in getting ashore; for Ronald was not there to help her; but

she had no time to mind that; she made her way as rapidly as she could

along the bank, and there was Ronald awaiting her, with a quiet smile on

his face.

'This is better work,' said he placidly, as he gave her the rod.

She was anxious no longer; she was triumphant. Ronald was with her; of

course she would get this one also. And who but Ronald would have

brought such a stroke of luck to the boat?

'I would get in some of the line now,' said he calmly. 'I have been

letting him do as he liked; and he is a long way out. And mind, you'll

have to watch him; he is quite fresh; there has been no fighting at all

yet.'

'Oh, Ronald,' she said, with the pretty pale face grown quite rosy with

the excitement and the hard work, 'won't it be just too splendid for

anything if we can get them both!'

'I hope ye may,' he said, 'for it's not likely to happen again in your

lifetime.'

The fish now began to rebel against the new strain that was being put on

him, and indulged in a variety of audacious cantrips--apparently at a

considerable distance out. By this time the other boat was also ashore,

and Miss Carry's father came along to see how Ronald's pupil could play

a salmon. Just as he drew near, there was a pretty lively scrimmage

going on.

'Why, you want to have them all,' he complained. 'It is not fair sport

to bag a brace of salmon right and left.'

She did not answer--in fact, she could not; she had enough to do. For

now the salmon seemed wanting to get right out to the middle of the

lake; and the length of line that lay between her and her enemy dragged

heavily on her arms. And then he altered his tactics--coming rapidly to

the surface and trying to break the suddenly slackened line by furious

lashings of his tail. But all this was in vain; and now, as he seemed

yielding a little, she put a heavier strain on him, and began to reel

up. It was very well done, and without a word of admonition; for Ronald

was proud of his pupil, and wished to show that he could leave her to

herself.

By and by the fish began to show himself a little more amenable, and

preparations were made for receiving him on shore. Miss Carry stepped

back a few yards; her father got out of the way altogether; Ronald

crouched down, clip in hand. Of course, when the salmon found himself

being guided into the shallows, he was off like a bolt; and again and

again he repeated these sullen rushes; but each time they were growing

weaker; and at last, as the gleam of something white showed in the

water, Ronald made a sudden plunge with the clip--and the salmon was

ashore.

He laughed.

'I suppose this will be my last day on the loch, and a very good finish

it is.'

The men brought along the other fish, and these were all laid out on the

grass side by side, though it was now too dark to see much of them. As

regards the three salmon, Mr. Hodson's, on being accurately weighed, was

found to be sixteen and a half pounds, Miss Carry's two respectively

fourteen pounds and eleven pounds. She was a very happy young woman as

she walked home with her father and Ronald through the now rapidly

gathering dusk.

His last day on the lake:--well, it would be something pleasant to look

back upon in after times--the summer-like weather, the still water, the

silent and sunlit crags and woods and bays. And perhaps, too, he would

remember something of her bright society, her friendly disposition, and

the frank good-comradeship with which she shared her meal of milk and

bread with two common boatmen. Nay, he could not well help remembering

that--and with a touch of gratitude and kindness, too--even though they

should never meet again through the long years of life.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*THE PARTING.*

Now amid all his preparations for departure nothing distressed him so

much as the difficulty he found in trying to write something worthy of

being placed in Meenie's book. It was to be his last gift to her; she

herself had asked for it; surely he ought to do his best? And perhaps

it was this very anxiety that baffled him. Even of such small lyrical

faculty as he possessed, he was in no sense the master. He could write

easily enough at the instigation of some passing fancy; but the fancy

had to come uncalled-for; it was not of his summoning. And now, in this

hour of direst need, no kindly Ariel would come to help him. Walking

across the lonely moors, with the dogs for his sole companions, or lying

on a far hillside, and tearing twigs of heather with his teeth, he

worried his brain for a subject, and all to no purpose. Perhaps, if

praise of Meenie had been permissible--if he could have dared to write

anything about herself in her own book--he might have found the task

more easy; for that was the one direction in which his imagination was

always facile enough. One morning, indeed, when he was coming down the

Clebrig slopes, he saw Miss Carry and Meenie walking together along the

road; and he had not much difficulty in shaping out some such verses as

these--jingling the rhymes together without much concern about the

sense, and then scribbling the result on the back of an envelope to see

how it looked:

_By Mudal's river she idly strayed,_

_And drank afresh the morning breeze:_

_Tell me, you beautiful dark-eyed maid,_

_That's come across the Atlantic seas--_

_See you our winsome Sutherland flower,_

_Her cheek the tint of the summer rose,_

_Her gold-brown hair her only dower,_

_Her soul as white as Ben Clebrig's snows;_

_Blue as the ruffled loch her eyes,_

_Sweet her breath as the blossoming heather:_

_O do you think the whole world's skies_

_Can see aught fairer than you together?_

_Sisters twain--one slender and dark,_

_Her cheek faint-tanned by the tropic south;_

_One northern bred, her voice like a lark,_

_The joy of the hills in her gladsome youth._

_Ben Clebrig shall judge--nay, shall keep the two,_

_And bind them in chains of love for ever;_

_Look to it, Clebrig; guard them true:_

_Sisters twain--and why should they sever?_

But even here there was a false note; and he knew it. Perhaps he was

vaguely jealous of any alien interference: was not Meenie the sole and

only care of the giant mountain? Anyhow, the verses were of no avail

for Meenie's book; and otherwise he did not care for them; so the

envelope was crumpled up and thrown away.

On the evening before the brother and sister were to leave for the

south, Meenie came along to see them. Ronald had got quite accustomed to

find Miss Douglas in the house of late; for Maggie needed a good deal of

direction and help--the tearful little lass being sorely distraught at

the thought of going away. But on this occasion it was himself she had

come to seek.

'I have made a little drawing for you, Ronald,' said she--and the

beautiful Highland eyes were downcast a little--'as well as I could, of

the loch and the hills and the river; and I want you to take it to

Glasgow with you, and put it on the mantelpiece of your room, and then

sometimes it will make you think of the old place and of us all.'

'I'm sure, it will not need a picture to make me do that,' said he, 'but

all the same I am obliged to ye, and it will be the chief treasure in

the house----'

'Oh no, oh no,' she said, with a rueful smile--and she ventured to raise

her eyes. 'You must not think it a picture at all--but only a few lines

scribbled on a paper-knife to make you remember the place when you

happen to find it lying about. And you must not look at it until I have

gone, because you would feel bound to praise it; and that would be as

awkward for you as for me--for indeed it is nothing at all. And here,'

she added, producing a small slip of paper, 'is my sister's address in

Glasgow; and I have written to her; and she will be very glad if you

will call on them when you have the time.'

'I don't know how to thank ye,' said he. 'It's when people are going

away that they find out how many friends they are leaving behind.'

'In your case' said she, very modestly and prettily, 'it is not

difficult to count--you have only to say the whole country-side.' And

then she added: 'I heard of the lads that came all the way from Tongue.'

'The wild fellows!--they had a long tramp here and back home again.'

She looked at him rather hesitatingly.

'There will be a great many coming to see you off to-morrow morning,

Ronald,' she said.

'I should think not--I should think not,' he said.

'Oh, but I know there will be. Every one is talking of it. And I was

thinking--if it was not too much trouble--if you were not too busy--I

was wondering if you would come along and say good-bye to my father and

mother this evening--I would rather have that than--than--with a crowd

of people standing by----'

'Oh yes, certainly,' he said, at once. 'When will I come? Now, if ye

like.'

'And Maggie too?'

'Yes, yes, why not?'

'And about my album, Ronald?'

'Well,' said he, with not a little embarrassment, 'I have not written

anything in it yet; but I will give it to you in the morning; and--and

if there's nothing in it, then ye must just understand that I could not

get anything good enough, and I will send something from Glasgow----'

'Indeed no,' said she promptly. 'Why should you trouble about a thing

like that? Write your name in the book, Ronald, and that will be

enough.'

The three of them now went outside, and the door was shut behind them.

It was a beautiful night; the moon was slowly rising over the solitudes

of Strath-Terry; and the lake was like a sheet of silver. They were

rather silent as they walked along the gray highway; to-morrow was to

make a difference to all of their lives.

When they reached the Doctor's cottage, and when Ronald and Maggie were

ushered into the parlour, it was clear that the visit had been expected;

for there was cake on the table, and there were plates and knives, and a

decanter of sherry, and a number of wine-glasses. And not only was the

big good-humoured Doctor as friendly as ever, but even the awe-inspiring

little Dresden-china lady condescended, in these unusual circumstances,

to be gracious. Of course the talk was all about Ronald's going away,

and his prospects in Glasgow, and so forth; and Mrs. Douglas took care

to impress him with the fact that, on the occasion of Lord Ailine having

recently spent an evening with them, his lordship had distinctly

approved of the step Ronald had taken, and hoped it might turn out well

in every way.

'Will there be any office work, Ronald?' the Doctor asked.

'I suppose so, for a time.'

'You'll not like that, my lad.'

'I'll have to take what comes, like other folk,' was the simple answer.

How pretty Meenie was on this last evening! She did not say much; and

she hardly ever looked at him; but her presence, then as ever, seemed to

bring with it an atmosphere of gentleness and sweetness; and when, by

chance, she did happen to regard him, there was a kind of magic wonder

in her eyes that for the moment rather bedazzled him and made his

answers to these good people's inquiries somewhat inconsecutive. For

they were curious to know about his plans and schemes; and showed much

interest in his welfare; while all the time he sate thinking of how

strange Glasgow would be without the chance of catching a glimpse of

Meenie anywhere; and wondering whether his dream-sweetheart--the

imaginary Meenie whom he courted and wooed and won in these idle verses

of his--would be nearer to him there, or would fade gradually away and

finally disappear.

'In any case, Ronald,' said Mrs. Douglas--and she thus addressed him for

the first time, 'you have a good friend in his lordship.'

'I know that.'

'I suppose I am breaking no confidence,' continued the little dame, in

her grand way, 'in saying that he plainly intimated to us his

willingness, supposing that you were not as successful as we all hope

you may be--I say, his lordship plainly intimated to us that he would

always have a place open for you somewhere.'

'Yes, I think he would do that,' Ronald said; 'but when a man has once

put his hand to the plough he must not go back.'

And perhaps, for one feeble moment of indecision, he asked himself what

had ever tempted him to put his hand to the plough, and to go away from

this quiet security and friendliness and peace. But it was only for a

moment. Of course, all that had been argued out before. The step had

been taken; forwards, and not backwards, he must go. Still, to be

sitting in this quiet little room--with the strange consciousness that

Meenie was so near--watching the nimble, small fingers busy with her

knitting--and wondering when she would raise those beautiful, deep,

tender, clear eyes; and to think that on the morrow hour after hour

would be placing a greater and greater distance between him and the

possibility of any such another evening--nay, that it was not only miles

but years, and perhaps a whole lifetime, that he was placing between her

and him--that was no joyful kind of a fancy. If it had been Meenie who

was going away, that would have been easier to bear.

_'Call her back, Clebrig; Mudal, call;_

_Ere all of the young springtime be flown'_

he would have cried to hill and river and loch and glen, knowing that

sooner or later Love Meenie would come back from Glasgow Town. But his

own going away was very different--and perhaps a final thing.

By and by he rose, and begged to be excused. Maggie might stay for a

while longer with Miss Douglas, if she liked; as for him, he had some

matters to attend to. And so they bade him good-bye, and wished him

well, and hoped to hear all good things of him. Thus they parted; and

he went out by himself into the clear moonlight night.

But he did not go home. A strange unrest and longing had seized him; a

desire to be alone with the silence of the night; perhaps some angry

impatience that he could not make out so much as a few trivial verses

for this beautiful girl-friend whom he might never see again. He could

write about his dream-sweetheart easily enough; and was there to be

never a word for Meenie herself? So he walked down to the river; and

wandered along the winding and marshy banks--startling many wildfowl the

while--until he reached the lake. There he launched one of the cobles,

and pulled out to the middle of the still sheet of water; and took the

oars in again. By this time the redshank and curlews and plover had

quieted down once more; there was a deadly stillness all around; and he

had persuaded himself that he had only come to have a last look at the

hills and the loch and the moorland wastes that Meenie had made magical

for him in the years now left behind; and to bid farewell to these; and

carry away in his memory a beautiful picture of them.

It was a lonely and a silent world. There was not a sound save the

distant murmur of a stream; no breath of wind came down from the Clebrig

slopes to ruffle the broad silver sweeps of moonlight on the water; the

tiny hamlet half hidden among the trees gave no sign of life. The

cottage he had left--the white front of it now palely clear in the

distance--seemed a ghostly thing: a small, solitary, forsaken thing, in

the midst of this vast amphitheatre of hills that stood in awful commune

with the stars. On such a night the wide and vacant spaces can readily

become peopled; phantoms issue from the shadows of the woods and grow

white in the open; an unknown wind may arise, bringing with it strange

singing from the northern seas. And if he forgot the immediate purpose

of the verses that he wanted; if he forgot that he must not mention the

name of Meenie; if he saw only the little cottage, and the moonlit loch,

and the giant bulk of Clebrig that was keeping guard over the sleeping

hamlet, and watching that no sprites or spectres should work their evil

charms within reach of Meenie's half-listening ear--well, it was all a

fire in his blood and his brain, and he could not stay to consider. The

phantom-world was revealed; the silence now was filled as with a cry

from the lone seas of the far north; and, all impatient and eager and

half bewildered, he seemed to press forward to seize those visions and

that weird music ere both should vanish and be mute:--

_The moonlight lies on Loch Naver,_

_And the night is strange and still;_

_And the stars are twinkling coldly_

_Above the Clebrig hill._

_And there by the side of the water,_

_O what strange shapes are these!_

_O these are the wild witch-maidens_

_Down from the northern seas._

_And they stand in a magic circle,_

_Pale in the moonlight sheen;_

_And each has over her forehead_

_A star of golden green._

_O what is their song?--of sailors_

_That never again shall sail;_

_And the music sounds like the sobbing_

_And sighing that brings a gale._

_But who is she who comes yonder?--_

_And all in white is she;_

_And her eyes are open, but nothing_

_Of the outward world can she see._

_O haste you back, Meenie, haste you,_

_And haste to your bed again;_

_For these are the wild witch-maidens_

_Down from the northern main._

_They open the magic circle;_

_They draw her into the ring;_

_They kneel before her, and slowly_

_A strange, sad song they sing--_

_A strange, sad song--as of sailors_

_That never again shall sail;_

_And the music sounds like the sobbing_

_And sighing that brings a gale._

_O haste you back, Meenie, haste you,_

_And haste to your bed again;_

_For these are the wild witch-maidens_

_Down from the northern main._

_'O come with us, rose-white Meenie,_

_To our sea-halls draped with green:_

_O come with us, rose-white Meenie,_

_And be our rose-white queen!_

_'And you shall have robes of splendour,_

_With shells and pearls bestrewn;_

_And a sceptre olden and golden,_

_And a rose-white coral throne._

_'And by day you will hear the music_

_Of the ocean come nigher and nigher:_

_And by night you will see your palace_

_Ablaze with phosphor fire._

_'O come with us, rose-white Meenie,_

_To our sea-halls draped with green;_

_O come with us, rose-white Meenie,_

_And be our rose-white queen!'_

_But Clebrig heard; and the thunder_

_Down from his iron hand sped;_

_And the band of the wild witch-maidens_

_One swift shriek uttered, and fled._

_And Meenie awoke, and terror_

_And wonder were in her eyes;_

_And she looked at the moon-white valley,_

_And she looked to the starlit skies._

_O haste you back, Meenie, haste you,_

_And haste to your bed again;_

_For these are the wild witch-maidens_

_Down from the northern main._

_O hear you not yet their singing_

_Come faintly back on the breeze?--_

_The song of the wild witch-sisters_

_As they fly to the Iceland seas._

_O hark--'tis a sound like the sobbing_

_And sighing that brings a gale:_

_A low, sad song--as of sailors_

_That never again shall sail!_

Slowly he pulled in to the shore again, and fastened up the boat; and

slowly he walked away through the silent and moonlit landscape,

revolving these verses in his mind, but not trying in the least to

estimate their value, supposing them to have any at all. Even when he

had got home, and in the stillness of his own room--for by this time

Maggie had gone to bed--was writing out the lines, with apparent ease

enough, on a large sheet of paper, it was with no kind of critical doubt

or anxiety. He could not have written them otherwise; probably he knew

he was not likely to make them any better by over-refining them. And

the reason why he put them down on the large sheet of paper was that

Meenie's name occurred in them; and she might not like that familiarity

to appear in her album; he would fold the sheet of paper and place it in

the book, and she could let it remain there or burn it as she chose.

And then he went and had his supper, which Maggie had left warm by the

fire, and thereafter lit a pipe--or rather two or three pipes, as it

befel, for this was the last night before his leaving Inver-Mudal, and

there were many dreams and reveries (and even fantastic possibilities)

to be dismissed for ever.

The next morning, of course, there was no time or room for poetic

fancies. When he had got Maggie to take along the little book to the

Doctor's cottage, he set about making his final preparations, and here

he was assisted by his successor, one Peter Munro. Finally he went to

say good-bye to the dogs.

'Good-bye, doggies, good-bye,' said he, as they came bounding to the

front of the kennel, pawing at him through the wooden bars, and barking

and whining, and trying to lick his hand. 'Good-bye, Bess! Good-bye,

Lugar--lad, lad, we've had many a day on the hill together.'

And then he turned sharply to his companion.

'Ye'll not forget what I told you about that dog, Peter?'

'I will not,' said the other.

'If I thought that dog was not to be looked after, I would get out my

rifle this very minute and put a bullet through his head--though it

would cost me L7. Mind what I've told ye now; if he's not fed separate,

he'll starve; he's that gentle and shy that he'll not go near the trough

when the others are feeding. And a single cross word on the hill will

spoil him for the day--mind you tell any strange gentlemen that come up

with his lordship--some o' them keep roaring at dogs as if they were

bull-calves. There's not a better setter in the county of Sutherland

than that old Lugar--but he wants civil treatment.'

'I'll look after him, never fear, Ronald,' his companion said. 'And now

come away, man. Ye've seen to everything; and the mail-gig will be here

in half an hour.'

Ronald was still patting the dogs' heads, and talking to them--he seemed

loth to leave them.

'Come away, man,' his companion urged. 'All the lads are at the inn,

and they want to have a parting glass with you. Your sister and every

one is there, and everything is ready.'

'Very well,' said he, and he turned away rather moodily.

But when they were descended from the little plateau into the highway he

saw that Meenie Douglas was coming along the road--and rather quickly;

and for a minute he hesitated, lest she should have some message for

him.

'Oh, Ronald,' she said, and he hardly noticed that her face was rather

pale and anxious, 'I wanted to thank you--I could not let you go away

without thanking you--it--it is so beautiful----'

'I should beg your pardon,' said he, with his eyes cast down, 'for

making use of your short name----'

'But, Ronald,' she said very bravely (though after a moment's

hesitation, as if she had to nerve herself), 'whenever you think of any

of us here, I hope you will think of me by that name always--and now,

good-bye!'

He lifted his eyes to hers for but a second--for but a second only, and

yet, perhaps, with some sudden and unforeseen and farewell message on

his part, and on hers some swift and not overglad guessing.

'Good-bye!'

They shook hands in silence, and then she turned and went away; and he

rejoined his companion and then they went on together. But Meenie did

not re-enter the cottage. She stole away down to the river, and lingered

by the bridge, listening. For there were faint sounds audible in the

still morning air.

The mail-cart from the north came rattling along, and crossed the

bridge, and went on towards the inn, and again there was silence, but

for these faint sounds. And now she could make out the thin echoes of

the pipes--no doubt one of the young lads was playing--_Lochiel's away

to France_, perhaps, or _A Thousand Blessings_, for surely no one, on

such an occasion, would think of _Macrimmon's Lament_--

_'Macrimmon shall no more return_

_Oh! never, never more return!'_

It would be something joyous they were playing there to speed him on his

way; and the 'drink at the door'--the _Deoch an Dhoruis_--would be going

the round; and many would be the hand-shaking and farewell. And then,

by and by, as she sate there all alone and listening, she heard a faint

sound of cheering--and that was repeated, in a straggling sort of

fashion; and thereafter there was silence. The mail-cart had driven away

for the south.

Nor even now did she go back to the cottage. She wandered away through

the wild moorland wastes--hour after hour, and aimlessly; and when, by

chance, a shepherd or crofter came along the road, she left the highway

and went aside among the heather, pretending to seek for wild-flowers or

the like: for sometimes, if not always, there was that in the beautiful,

tender Highland eyes which she would have no stranger see.

*CHAPTER IX.*

*SOUTHWARDS.*

As for him, it was a sufficiently joyous departure; for some of the lads

about were bent on accompanying him on the mail-car as far as Lairg; and

they took with them John Macalpine and his weather-worn pipes to cheer

them by the way; and at Crask they each and all of them had a glass of

whisky; and on the platform at Lairg railway-station the clamour of

farewell was great. And even when he had got quit of that noisy crew,

and was in the third-class compartment, and thundering away to the

south, his thoughts and fancies were eager and ardent and glad enough;

and his brain was busy with pictures; and these were altogether of a

joyful and hopeful kind. Already he saw himself on that wide

estate--somewhere or other in the Highlands he fondly trusted; draining

and planting and enclosing here; there pruning and thinning and felling;

manufacturing charcoal and tar; planning temporary roads and bridges;

stacking bark and faggots; or discussing with the head-keeper as to the

desirability or non-desirability of reintroducing capercailzie. And if

the young American lady and her father should chance to come that way,

would he not have pleasure and pride in showing them over the

place?--nay, his thoughts went farther afield, and he saw before him

Chicago, with its masts and its mighty lake, and himself not without a

friendly grip of welcome on getting there. As for Meenie, where would

she be in those coming and golden and as yet distant days? Far away

from him, no doubt; and what else could he expect?--for now he saw her

among the fine folk assembled at the shooting-lodge in Glengask--and

charming all of them with her sweet and serious beauty and her gentle

ways--and again he pictured her seated on the white deck of Sir

Alexander's yacht, a soft south wind filling the sails, and the happy

gray-blue Highland eyes looking forward contentedly enough to the yellow

line of the Orosay shore. That was to be her future--fair and shining;

for always he had associated Meenie with beautiful things--roses, the

clear tints of the dawn, the singing of a lark in the blue; and who

could doubt that her life would continue so, through these bright and

freshly-coming years?

Yes, it was a glad enough departure for him; for he was busy and eager,

and only anxious to set to work at once. But by and by, when the first

novelty and excitement of the travelling was beginning to wear off, he

suddenly discovered that the little Maggie, seated in the corner there,

was stealthily crying.

'What, what, lass?' said he cheerfully. 'What is it now?'

She did not answer; and so he had to set to work to comfort her; making

light of the change; painting in glowing colours all that lay before

them; and promising that she should write to Miss Douglas a complete

account of all her adventures in the great city. He was not very

successful, for the little lass was sorely grieved over the parting from

the few friends she had in the world; but at least it was an occupation;

and perhaps in convincing her he was likewise convincing himself that

all was for the best, and proving that people should be well content to

leave the monotony and dulness of a Highland village for the wide

opportunities of Glasgow.

But even he, with all his eager hopes and ambitions, was chilled to the

heart when at last they drew near to the giant town. They had spent the

night in Inverness, for he had some business to transact there on behalf

of Lord Ailine; and now it was afternoon--an afternoon dull and dismal,

with an east wind blowing that made even the outlying landscape they had

come through dreary and hopeless. Then, as they got nearer to the city,

such suggestions of the country as still remained grew more and more

grim; there were patches of sour-looking grass surrounded by damp stone

walls; gaunt buildings soot-begrimed and gloomy; and an ever-increasing

blue-gray mist pierced by tall chimneys that were almost spectral in the

dulled light. He had been to Glasgow before, but chiefly on one or two

swift errands connected with guns and game and fishing-rods; and he did

not remember having found it so very melancholy-looking a place as this

was. He was rather silent as he got ready for leaving the train.

He found his brother Andrew awaiting them; and he had engaged a cab, for

a slight drizzle had begun. Moreover, he said he had secured for Ronald

a lodging right opposite the station; and thither the younger brother

forthwith transferred his things; then he came down the

hollow-resounding stone stair again, and got into the cab, and set out

for the Reverend Andrew's house, which was on the south side of the

city.

And what a fierce and roaring Maelstrom was this into which they now

were plunged! The dusky crowds of people, the melancholy masses of

dark-hued buildings, the grimy flagstones, all seemed more or less

phantasmal through the gray veil of mist and smoke; but always there

arose the harsh and strident rattle of the tram-cars and the waggons and

carts--a confused, commingled, unending din that seemed to fill the

brain somehow and bewilder one. It appeared a terrible place this, with

its cold gray streets and hazy skies, and its drizzle of rain; when, in

course of time, they crossed a wide bridge, and caught a glimpse of the

river and the masts and funnels of some ships and steamers, these were

all ghost-like in the thin, ubiquitous fog. Ronald did not talk much,

for the unceasing turmoil perplexed and confused him; and so the stout,

phlegmatic minister, whose bilious-hued face and gray eyes were far from

being unkindly in their expression, addressed himself mostly to the

little Maggie, and said that Rosina and Alexandra and Esther and their

brother James were all highly pleased that she was coming to stay with

them, and also assured her that Glasgow did not always look so dull and

miserable as it did then.

At length they stopped in front of a house in a long, unlovely,

neutral-tinted street; and presently two rather weedy-looking girls, who

turned out to be Rosina and Alexandra, were at the door, ready to

receive the new-comers. Of course it was Maggie who claimed their first

attention; and she was carried off to her own quarters to remove the

stains of travel (and of tears) from her face; as for Ronald, he was

ushered at once into the parlour, where his sister-in-law--a tall, thin

woman, with a lachrymose face, but with sufficiently watchful

eyes--greeted him in a melancholy way, and sighed, and introduced him to

the company. That consisted of a Mr. M'Lachlan--a large,

pompous-looking person, with a gray face and short-cropped white hair,

whose cool stare of observation and lofty smile of patronage instantly

made Ronald say to himself, 'My good friend, we shall have to put you

into your proper place;' Mrs. M'Lachlan, an insignificant woman, dowdily

dressed; and finally, Mr. Weems, a little, old, withered man, with a

timid and appealing look coming from under bushy black eyebrows--though

the rest of his hair was gray. This Mr. Weems, as Ronald knew, was in a

kind of fashion to become his coach. The poor old man had been

half-killed in a railway-accident; had thus been driven from active

duty; and now, with a shattered constitution and a nervous system all

gone to bits, managed to live somehow on the interest of the

compensation-sum awarded him by the railway-company. He did not look

much of a hardy forester; but if his knowledge of land and timber

measuring and surveying, and of book-keeping and accounts, was such as

to enable him to give this stalwart pupil a few practical lessons, so

far well; and even the moderate recompense would doubtless be a welcome

addition to his income.

And now this high occasion was to be celebrated by a 'meat-tea,' for the

Reverend Andrew was no stingy person, though his wife had sighed and

sighed again over the bringing into the house of a new mouth to feed.

Maggie came downstairs, accompanied by the other members of the family;

Mr. M'Lachlan was invited to sit at his hostess's right hand; the others

of them took their seats in due course; and the minister pronounced a

long and formal blessing, which was not without a reference or two to

the special circumstances of their being thus brought together. And if

the good man spoke apparently under the assumption that the Deity had a

particular interest in this tea-meeting in Abbotsford Place, it was

assuredly without a thought of irreverence; to himself the occasion was

one of importance; and the way of his life led him to have

continual--and even familiar--communion with the unseen Powers.

But it was not Ronald's affairs that were to be the staple of

conversation at this somewhat melancholy banquet. It very soon appeared

that Mr. M'Lachlan was an elder--and a ruling elder, unmistakably--of

Andrew Strang's church, and he had come prepared with a notable proposal

for wiping off the debt of the same.

'Ah'm not wan that'll gang back from his word,' he said, in his pompous

and raucous voice, and he leaned back in his chair, and crossed his

hands over his capacious black satin waistcoat, and gazed loftily on his

audience. 'Wan hundred pounds--there it is, as sure as if it was in my

pocket this meenit--and there it'll be when ye get fower ither members

o' the congregation to pit doon their fifty pounds apiece. Not but that

there's several in the church abler than me to pit doon as much; but ye

ken how it is, Mr. Strang, the man makes the money and the woman spends

it; and there's mair than one family we ken o' that should come forrit

on an occasion like this, but that the money rins through the fingers o'

a feckless wife. What think ye, noo, o' Mrs. Nicol setting up her

powny-carriage, and it's no nine years since Geordie had to make a

composition? And they tell me that Mrs. Paton's lasses, when they gang

doon the waiter--and not for one month in the year will they let that

house o' theirs at Dunoon--they tell me that the pairties and dances

they have is jist extraordinar' and the wastry beyond a' things. Ay,

it's them that save and scrimp and deny themselves that's expected to do

everything in a case like this--notwithstanding it's a public

debt--mind, it's a public debt, binding on the whole congregation; but

what ah say ah'll stand to--there's wan hundred pounds ready, when

there's fower ithers wi' fifty pounds apiece--that's three hundred

pounds--and wi' such an example before them, surely the rest o' the

members will make up the remaining two hundred and fifty--surely,

surely.'

'It's lending to the Lord,' said the minister's wife sadly, as she

passed the marmalade to the children.

The conversation now took the form of a discussion as to which of the

members might reasonably be expected to come forward at such a juncture;

and as Ronald had no part or interest in this matter he made bold to

turn to Mr. Weems, who sate beside him, and engage him in talk on their

own account. Indeed, he had rather taken a liking for this timorous

little man, and wished to know more about him and his belongings and

occupations; and when Mr. Weems revealed to him the great trouble of his

life--the existence of a shrill-voiced chanticleer in the backyard of

the cottage adjoining his own, out somewhere in the Pollokshaws

direction--Ronald was glad to come to his help at once.

'Oh, that's all right,' said he. 'I'll shoot him for you.'

But this calm proposal was like to drive the poor little man daft with

terror. His nervous system suffered cruelly from the skirling of the

abominable fowl; but even that was to be dreaded less than a summons and

a prosecution and a deadly feud with his neighbour, who was a drunken,

quarrelsome, cantankerous shoemaker.

'But, God bless me,' Ronald said, 'it's not to be thought of that any

human being should be tortured like that by a brute beast. Well,

there's another way o' settling the hash o' that screeching thing. You

just go and buy a pea-shooter--or if one of the laddies will lend you a

tin whistle, that will do; then go and buy twopence-worth of antibilious

pills--indeed, I suppose any kind would serve; and then fire half a

dozen over into the back-yard; my word, when the bantam gentleman has

picked up these bonny looking peas, and swallowed them, he'll no be for

flapping his wings and crowing, I'm thinking; he'll rather be for

singing the tune of "Annie Laurie." But maybe you're not a good shot

with a pea-shooter? Well, I'll come over and do it for you early some

morning, when the beast's hungry.'

But it was difficult for any one to talk, even in the most subdued and

modest way, with that harsh and strident voice laying down the law at

the head of the table. And now the large-waistcoated elder was on the

subject of the temperance movement; arraigning the government for not

suppressing the liquor-traffic altogether; denouncing the callous

selfishness of those who were inclined to temporise with the devil, and

laying at their door all the misery caused by the drunkenness of their

fellow-creatures; and proudly putting in evidence his own position in

the city of Glasgow--his authority in the church--the regard paid to his

advice--and the solid, substantial slice of the world's gear that he

possessed--as entirely due to the fact that he had never, not even as a

young man, imbibed one drop of alcohol. Now Ronald Strang was

ordinarily a most abstemious person--and no credit to him, nor to any

one in the like case; for his firm physique and his way of living

hitherto had equally rendered him independent of any such artificial aid

(though a glass of whisky on a wet day on the hillside did not come

amiss to him, and his hard head could steer him safely through a fair

amount of jollification when those wild lads came down from Tongue).

But he was irritated by that loud and raucous voice; he resented the

man's arrogance and his domineering over the placid and phlegmatic

Andrew, who scarcely opened his mouth; and here and there he began to

put in a sharp saying or two that betokened discontent and also a coming

storm. 'They used to say that cleanliness was next to godliness; but

nowadays ye would put total abstinence half a mile ahead of it,' he

would say, or something of the kind; and in due course these two were

engaged in a battle-royal of discussion. It shall not be put down here;

for who was ever convinced--in morals, or art, or literature, or

anything else--by an argument? it needs only be said that the elder,

being rather hard pressed, took refuge in Scriptural authority. But

alas! this was not of much avail; for the whole family of the East

Lothian farmer (not merely the student one of them) had been brought up

with exceeding care, and taught to give chapter and verse for

everything; so that when Mr. M'Lachlan sought to crush his antagonist

with the bludgeon of quotation he found it was only a battledore he had

got hold of.

'"Wine is a mocker; strong drink is raging; and whosoever is deceived

thereby is not wise,"' he would say severely.

'"Wine which cheereth God and man,"' the other would retort. '"Wine

that maketh glad the heart of man." What make ye of these?'

'"Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath babbling?--they that tarry

long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine." What better

authority can we have?'

'Ay, man, the wise king said that; but it wasna his last word. "Give

strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that

be of heavy hearts. Let him drink, and forget his poverty, and remember

his misery no more."'

'The devil quoting Scripture for his own ends,' the Reverend Andrew

interposed, with a mild facetiousness.

'It's a dreadful thing to hear in a minister's house,' said the

minister's wife, appealing to her neighbour, Mrs. M'Lachlan.

'What is? A verse from the Proverbs of Solomon?' Ronald said, turning

to her quite good-naturedly.

But instantly he saw that she was distressed, and even more lachrymose

than ever; and he knew that nothing would convince her that he was not a

child of wrath and of the devil; and he reproached himself for having

entered into any discussion of any kind whatever in this house, where

Maggie was to live--he hoped in perfect accord and amity. As for

himself, he wished only to be out of it. He was not in his right

element. The vulgar complacency of the rich elder irritated him; the

melancholy unreason of his sister-in-law depressed him. He foresaw that

not here was any abiding-place for him while he sojourned in the great

city.

But how was he to get away? They lingered and dawdled over their

tea-drinking in a most astonishing fashion; his brother being the most

intemperate of all of them, and obviously accounting thereby for his

pallid and bilious cheeks. Moreover, they had returned to that fruitful

topic of talk--the capability of this or the other member of the

congregation to subscribe to the fund for paying off the debt on the

church; and as this involved a discussion of everybody's ways and means,

and of his expenditure, and the manner of living of himself, his wife,

his sons, and daughters and servants, the very air seemed thick with

trivial and envious tittle-tattle, the women-folk, of course, being more

loquacious than any.

'Lord help us,' said Ronald to himself, as he sate there in silence,

'this house would be a perfect paradise for an Income-tax Commissioner.'

However, the fourth or fifth tea-pot was exhausted at last; the minister

offered up a prolonged thanksgiving; and Ronald thought that now he

might get away--and out into the freer air. But that was not to be as

yet. His brother observed that it was getting late; that all the

members of the household were gathered together; and they might

appropriately have family worship now. So the two servant-girls were

summoned in to clear the table, and that done, they remained; the

minister brought the family Bible over from the sideboard; and all sate

still and attentive, their books in their hand, while he sought out the

chapter he wanted. It was the Eighth of the Epistle to the Romans; and

he read it slowly and elaborately, but without any word of comment or

expounding. Then he said that they would sing to the praise of the Lord

the XCIII. Psalm--himself leading off with the fine old tune of

_Martyrdom_; and this the young people sang very well indeed, though

they were a little interfered with by the uncertain treble of the

married women and the bovine baritone of the elder. Thereafter the

minister offered up a prayer, in which very pointed reference was made

to the brother and sister who had come from the far mountains to dwell

within the gates of the city; and then all of them rose, and the

maidservants withdrew, and those remaining who had to go began to get

ready for their departure.

'Come over and see us soon again,' the minister said to him, as they

followed him into the lobby; but the minister's wife did not repeat that

friendly invitation.

'Ronald,' the little Maggie whispered--and her lips were rather

tremulous, 'if you hear from Meenie, will you let me know?'

'But I am not likely to hear from her, lass,' said he, with his hand

upon her shoulder. 'You must write to her yourself, and she will

answer, and send ye the news.'

'Mind ye pass the public-houses on the way gaun hame,' said the elder,

by way of finishing up the evening with a joke: Ronald took no notice,

but bade the others good-bye, and opened the door and went out.

When he got into the street his first startled impression was that the

world was on fire--all the heavens, but especially the southern heavens,

were one blaze of soft and smoky blood-red, into which the roofs and

chimney-stacks of the dusky buildings rose solemn and dark. A pulsating

crimson it was, now dying away slightly, again gleaming up with a sudden

fervour; and always it looked the more strange and bewildering because

of the heavy gloom of the buildings and the ineffectual lemon-yellow

points of the gas-lamps. Of course he remembered instantly what this

must be--the glow of the ironworks over there in the south; and

presently he had turned his back on that sullen radiance, and was making

away for the north side of the city.

But when he emerged from the comparative quiet of the southern

thoroughfares into the glare and roar of Jamaica Street and Argyll

Street, all around him there seemed even more of bewilderment than in

the daytime. The unceasing din of tramway-cars and vans and carts still

filled the air; but now there was everywhere a fierce yellow blaze of

gaslight--glowing in the great stocked windows, streaming out across the

crowded pavements, and shining on the huge gilded letters and sprawling

advertisements of the shops. Then the people--a continuous surge, as of

a river; the men begrimed for the most part, here and there two or three

drunk and bawling, the women with cleaner faces, but most of them

bareheaded, with Highland shawls wrapped round their shoulders. The

suffused crimson glow of the skies was scarcely visible now; this

horizontal blaze of gas-light killed it; and through the yellow glare

passed the dusky phantasmagoria of a city's life--the cars and horses,

the grimy crowds. Buchanan Street, it is true, was less noisy; and he

walked quickly, glad to get out of that terrible din; and by and by,

when he got away up to Port Dundas Road, where his lodging was, he found

the world grown quite quiet again, and gloomy and dark, save for the

solitary gas-lamps and the faint dull crimson glow sent across from the

southern skies.

He went up the stone stair, was admitted to the house, and shown into

the apartment that his brother had secured for him. It had formerly

been used as a sitting-room, with a bedroom attached; but now these were

separated, and a bed was placed at one end of the little parlour, which

was plainly and not untidily furnished. When his landlady left he

proceeded to unpack his things, getting out first his books, which he

placed on the mantel-shelf to be ready for use in the morning; then he

made some further disposition of his belongings; and then--then somehow

he fell away from this industrious mood, and became more and more

absent, and at last went idly to the window, and stood looking out

there. There was not much to be seen--a few lights about the Caledonian

Railway Station, some dusky sheds, and that faint red glow in the sky.

But--Inver-Mudal? Well, if only he had reflected, Inver-Mudal must at

this moment have been just about as dark as was this railway station and

the neighbourhood surrounding it--unless, indeed, it happened to be a

clear starlit night away up there in the north, with the heavens shining

beautiful and benignant over Clebrig, and the loch, and the little

hamlet among the trees. However, that was not the Inver-Mudal he was

thinking of; it was the Inver-Mudal of a clear spring day, with sweet

winds blowing across the moors, and the sunlight yellow on Clebrig's

slopes, and Loch Naver's waters all a rippling and dazzling blue. And

Mr. Murray standing at the door of the inn, and smoking his pipe, and

joking with any one that passed; the saucy Nelly casting glances among

the lads; Harry with dark suspicions of rats wherever he could find a

hole in the wall of the barn; Maggie, under instruction of Duncan the

ploughman, driving the two horses hauling a harrow over the rough red

land; everywhere the birds singing; the young corn showing green; and

then--just as the chance might be--Meenie coming along the road, her

golden-brown hair blown by the wind, her eyes about as blue as Loch

Naver's shining waters, and herself calling, with laughter and scolding,

to Maggie to desist from that tomboy work. And where was it all gone

now? He seemed to have shut his eyes upon that beautiful clear, joyous

world; and to have plunged into a hideous and ghastly dream. The roar

and yellow glare--the black houses--the lurid crimson in the sky--the

terrible loneliness and silence of this very room--well, he could not

quite understand it yet. But perhaps it would not always seem so

bewildering; perhaps one might grow accustomed in time?--and teach one's

self to forget? And then again he had resolved that he would not read

over any more the verses he had written in the olden days about Meenie,

and the hills and the streams and the straths that knew her and loved

her--for these idle rhymes made him dream dreams; that is to say, he had

almost resolved--he had very nearly resolved--that he would not read

over any more the verses he had written about Meenie.

*CHAPTER X.*

*GRAY DAYS.*

But, after all, that first plunge into city-life had had something of

the excitement of novelty; it was the settling down thereafter to the

dull monotonous round of labour, in this lonely lodging, with the

melancholy gray world of mist surrounding him and shutting him in, that

was to test the strength of his resolve. The first day was not so bad;

for now and again he would relieve the slow tedium of the hours by doing

a little carpentering about the room; and the sharp sound of hammer and

nail served to break in upon that hushed, slumberous murmur of the great

city without that seemed a mournful, distant, oppressive thing. But the

next day of this solitary life (for it was not until the end of the week

he was to see Mr. Weems) was dreadful. The dull, silent gray hours would

not go by. Wrestling with Ewart's _Agricultural Assistant_, or

Balfour's _Elements of Botany_, or with distressing problems in

land-surveying or timber-measuring, he would think the time had passed;

and then, going to the window for a moment's relief to eye and brain, he

would see by the clock of the railway station that barely half an hour

had elapsed since last he had looked at the obdurate hands. How he

envied the porters, the cab-drivers, the men who were loading and

unloading the waggons; they seemed all so busy and contented; they were

getting through with their work; they had something to show for their

labour; they had companions to talk to and joke with; sometimes he

thought he could hear them laughing. And ah, how much more he envied

the traveller who drove up and got leisurely out of the cab, and had his

luggage carried into the station, himself following and disappearing

from view! Whither was he going, then, away from this great, melancholy

city, with its slow hours, and wan skies, and dull, continuous,

stupefying murmur? Whither, indeed!--away by the silver links of Forth,

perhaps, with the castled rock of Stirling rising into the windy blue

and white; away by the wooded banks of Allan Water and the bonny Braes

of Doune; by Strathyre, and Glenogle, and Glenorchy; and past the

towering peaks of Ben Cruachan, and out to the far-glancing waters of

the western seas. Indeed it is a sore pity that Miss Carry Hodson, in a

fit of temper, had crushed together and thrust into the bottom of the

boat the newspaper containing an estimate of Ronald's little Highland

poem; if only she had handed it on to him, he would have learned that

the sentiment of nostalgia is too slender and fallacious a thing for any

sensible person to bother his head about; and, instead of wasting his

time in gazing at the front of a railway station, he would have gone

resolutely back to Strachan's _Agricultural Tables_ and the measuring

and mapping of surface areas.

On the third day he grew desperate.

'In God's name let us see if there's not a bit of blue sky anywhere!' he

said to himself; and he flung his books aside, and put on his Glengarry

cap, and took a stick in his hand, and went out.

Alas! that there were no light pattering steps following him down the

stone stair; the faithful Harry had had to be left behind, under charge

of Mr. Murray of the inn. And indeed Ronald found it so strange to be

going out without some companion of the kind that when he passed into

the wide, dull thoroughfare, he looked up and down everywhere to see if

he could not find some homeless wandering cur that he could induce to go

with him. But there was no sign of dog-life visible; for the matter of

that there was little sign of any other kind of life; there was nothing

before him but the wide, empty, dull-hued street, apparently terminating

in a great wilderness of india-rubber works and oil-works and the like,

all of them busily engaged in pouring volumes of smoke through tall

chimneys into the already sufficiently murky sky.

But when he got farther north, he found that there were lanes and alleys

permeating this mass of public works; and eventually he reached a canal,

and crossed that, deeming that if he kept straight on he must reach the

open country somewhere. As yet he could make out no distance; blocks of

melancholy soot-begrimed houses, timber-yards, and blank stone walls

shut in the view on every hand; moreover there was a brisk north wind

blowing that was sharply pungent with chemical fumes and also gritty

with dust; so that he pushed on quickly, anxious to get some clean air

into his lungs, and anxious, if that were possible, to get a glimpse of

green fields and blue skies. For, of course, he could not always be at

his books; and this, as he judged, must be the nearest way out into the

country; and he could not do better than gain some knowledge of his

surroundings, and perchance discover some more or less secluded sylvan

retreat, where, in idle time, he might pass an hour or so with his

pencil and his verses and his memories of the moors and hills.

But the farther out he got the more desolate and desolating became the

scene around him. Here was neither town nor country; or rather, both

were there; and both were dead. He came upon a bit of hawthorn-hedge;

the stems were coal-black, the leaves begrimed out of all semblance to

natural foliage. There were long straight roads, sometimes fronted by a

stone wall and sometimes by a block of buildings--dwelling-houses,

apparently, but of the most squalid and dingy description; the windows

opaque with dirt; the 'closes' foul; the pavements in front unspeakable.

But the most curious thing was the lifeless aspect of this dreary

neighbourhood. Where were the people? Here or there two or three

ragged children would be playing in the gutter; or perhaps, in a dismal

little shop, an old woman might be seen, with some half-withered apples

and potatoes on the counter. But where were the people who at one time

or other must have inhabited these great, gaunt, gloomy tenements? He

came to a dreadful place called Saracen Cross--a very picture of

desolation and misery; the tall blue-black buildings showing hardly any

sign of life in their upper flats; the shops below being for the most

part tenantless, the windows rudely boarded over. It seemed as if some

blight had fallen over the land, first obliterating the fields, and then

laying its withering hand on the houses that had been built on them. And

yet these melancholy-looking buildings were not wholly uninhabited; here

or there a face was visible--but always of women or children; and

perhaps the men-folk were away at work somewhere in a factory. Anyhow,

under this dull gray sky, with a dull gray mist in the air, and with a

strange silence everywhere around, the place seemed a City of the Dead;

he could not understand how human beings could live in it at all.

At last, however, he came to some open spaces that still bore some

half-decipherable marks of the country, and his spirits rose a little.

He even tried to sing 'O say, will you marry me, Nelly Munro?'--to force

himself into a kind of liveliness, as it were, and to prove to himself

that things were not quite so bad after all. But the words stuck in his

throat. His voice sounded strangely in this silent and sickly solitude.

And at last he stood stock-still, to have a look round about him, and to

make out what kind of a place this was that he had entered into.

Well, it was a very strange kind of place. It seemed to have been

forgotten by somebody, when all the other land near was being ploughed

through by railway-lines and heaped up into embankments. Undoubtedly

there were traces of the country still remaining--and even of

agriculture; here and there a line of trees, stunted and nipped by the

poisonous air; a straggling hedge or two, withered and black; a patch of

corn, of a pallid and hopeless colour; and a meadow with cattle feeding

in it. But the road that led through these bucolic solitudes was quite

new and made of cinders; in the distance it seemed to lose itself in a

network of railway embankments; while the background of this strange

simulacrum of a landscape--so far as that could be seen through the pall

of mist and smoke--seemed to consist of further houses, ironworks, and

tall chimney-stacks. Anything more depressing and disconsolate he had

never witnessed; nay, he had had no idea that any such God-forsaken

neighbourhood existed anywhere in the world; and he thought he would

much rather be back at his books than wandering through this dead and

spectral land. Moreover it was beginning to rain--a thin, pertinacious

drizzle that seemed to hang in the thick and clammy air; and so he

struck away to the right, in the direction of some houses, guessing that

there he would find some way of getting back to the city other than that

ghastly one he had come by.

By the time he had reached these houses--a suburb or village this seemed

to be that led in a straggling fashion up to the crest of a small

hill--it was raining heavily. Now ordinarily a gamekeeper in the

Highlands is not only indifferent to rain, but apparently incapable of

perceiving the existence of it. When was wet weather at Inver-Mudal

ever known to interfere with the pursuits or occupations of anybody?

Why, the lads there would as soon have thought of taking shelter from

the rain as a terrier would. But it is one thing to be walking over wet

heather in knickerbocker-stockings and shoes, the water quite clean, and

the exercise keeping legs and feet warm enough, and it is entirely

another thing to be walking through mud made of black cinders, with

clammy trousers flapping coldly round one's ankles. Nay, so miserable

was all this business that he took refuge in an entry leading into one

of those 'lands' of houses; and there he stood, in the cold stone

passage, with a chill wind blowing through it, looking out on the

swimming pavements, and the black and muddy road, and the dull stone

walls, and the mournful skies.

At length, the rain moderating somewhat, he issued out from this

shelter, and set forth for the town. A tramway-car passed him, but he

had no mind to be jammed in amongst a lot of elderly women, all damp and

with dripping umbrellas. Nay, he was trying to convince himself that

the very discomfort of this dreary march homeward--through mud and

drizzle and fog--was a wholesome thing. After that glimpse of the kind

of country that lay outside the town--in this direction at least--there

would be less temptation for him to throw down his books and go off for

idle strolls. He assured himself that he ought to be glad that he found

no verdant meadows and purling brooks; that, on the contrary, the aspect

of this suburban territory was sufficiently appalling to drive him back

to his lodgings. All the same, when he did arrive there, he was somewhat

disheartened and depressed; and he went up the stone staircase slowly;

and when he entered that solitary, dull little room, and sate down, he

felt limp and damp and tired--tired, after a few miles' walk! And then

he took to his books again, with his mouth set hard.

Late that night he was sitting as usual alone, and rather absently

turning over his papers; and already it had come to this that now, when

he chanced to read any of these writings of his of former days, they

seemed to have been written by some one else. Who was this man, then,

that seemed to go through the world with a laugh and a song, as it were;

rating this one, praising that; having it all his own way; and with

never a thought of the morrow? But there was one piece in particular

that struck home. It was a description of the little terrier; he had

pencilled it on the back of an envelope one warm summer day when he was

lying at full length on the heather, with Harry not half a dozen yards

off, his nose between his paws. Harry did not know that his picture was

being taken.

_Auld, gray, and grizzled; yellow een;_

_A nose as brown's a berry;_

_A wit as sharp as ony preen--_

_That's my wee chieftain Harry._

_Lord sakes!--the courage of the man!_

_The biggest barn-yard ratten,_

_He'll snip him by the neck, o'er-han',_

_As he the deil had gatten._

_And when his master's work on hand,_

_There's none maun come anear him;_

_The biggest Duke in all Scotland,_

_My Harry's teeth would fear him._

_But ordinar' wise like fowl or freen,_

_He's harmless as a kitten;_

_As soon he'd think o' worryin'_

_A hennie when she's sittin'._

_But Harry, lad, ye're growin' auld;_

_Your days are gettin' fewer;_

_And maybe Heaven has made a fauld_

_For such wee things as you are._

_And what strange kintra will that be?_

_And will they fill your coggies?_

_And whatna strange folk there will see_

_There's water for the doggies?_

_Ae thing I brawly ken; it's this--_

_Ye may hae work or play there;_

_But if your master once ye miss,_

_I'm bound ye winna stay there._

It was the last verse that struck home. It was through no failure of

devotion on the part of the faithful Harry that he was now at

Inver-Mudal; it was his master that had played him false, and severed

the old companionship. And he kept thinking about the little terrier;

and wondering whether he missed his master as much as his master missed

him; and wondering whether Meenie had ever a word for him as she went

by--for she and Harry had always been great friends. Nay, perhaps

Meenie might not take it ill if Maggie wrote to her for news of the

little dog; and then Meenie would answer; and might not her letter take

a wider scope, and say something about the people there, and about

herself? Surely she would do that; and some fine morning the answer--in

Meenie's handwriting--would be delivered in Abbotsford Place; and he

knew that Maggie would not be long in apprising him of the same.

Perhaps, indeed, he might himself become possessed of that precious

missive; and bring it away with him; and from time to time have a glance

at this or that sentence of it--in Meenie's own actual handwriting--when

the long dull work of the day was over, and his fancy free to fly away

to the north again, to Strath-Terry and Clebrig and Loch Naver, and the

neat small cottage with the red blinds in the windows. It seemed to him

a long time now since he had left all of these; he felt as though

Glasgow had engulfed him: while the day of his rescue--the day of the

fulfilment of his ambitious designs--was now growing more and more

distant and vague and uncertain, leaving him only the slow drudgery of

these weary hours. But Meenie's letter would be a kind of talisman; to

see her handwriting would be like hearing her speak; and surely this

dull little lodging was quiet enough, so that in the hushed silence of

the evening, he, reading those cheerful phrases, might persuade himself

that it was Meenie's voice he was listening to, with the quiet, clear,

soft laugh that so well he remembered.

And so these first days went by; and he hoped in time to get more

accustomed to this melancholy life; and doggedly he stuck to the task he

had set before him. As for the outcome of it all--well, that did not

seem quite so facile nor so fine a thing as it had appeared before he

came away from the north; but he left that for the future to decide; and

in the meantime he was above all anxious not to perplex himself by the

dreaming of idle dreams. He had come to Glasgow to work; not to build

impossible castles in the air.

*CHAPTER XI.*

*KATE.*

And yet it was a desperately hard ordeal; for this man was by nature

essentially joyous, and sociable, and fitted to be the king of all good

company; and the whole of his life had been spent in the open, in brisk

and active exercise; and sunlight and fresh air were to him as the very

breath of his nostrils. But here he was, day after day, week after

week, chained to these dismal tasks; in solitude; with the far white

dream of ambition becoming more and more distant and obscured; and with

a terrible consciousness ever growing upon him that in coming away from

even the mere neighbourhood of Meenie, from the briefest companionship

with her, he had sacrificed the one beautiful thing, the one precious

possession, that his life had ever held for him or would hold. What

though the impalpable barrier of Glengask and Orosay rose between him

and her? He was no sentimental Claude Melnotte; he had common sense; he

accepted facts. Of course Meenie would go away in due time. Of course

she was destined for higher things. But what then? What of the

meanwhile? Could anything happen to him quite so wonderful, or worth

the striving for, as Meenie's smile to him as she met him in the road?

What for the time being made the skies full of brightness, and made the

pulses of the blood flow gladly, and the day become charged with a kind

of buoyancy of life? And as for these vague ambitions for the sake of

which he had bartered away his freedom and sold himself into

slavery--towards what did they tend? For whom? The excited atmosphere

the Americans had brought with them had departed now: alas! this other

atmosphere into which he had plunged was dull and sad enough, in all

conscience; and the leaden days weighed down upon him; and the slow and

solitary hours would not go by.

One evening he was coming in to the town by way of the Pollokshaws road;

he had spent the afternoon hard at work with Mr. Weems, and was making

home again to the silent little lodging in the north. He had now been a

month and more in Glasgow; and had formed no kind of society or

companionship whatever. Once or twice he had looked in at his

brother's; but that was chiefly to see how the little Maggie was going

on; his sister-in-law gave him no over-friendly welcome; and, indeed,

the social atmosphere of the Reverend Andrew's house was far from being

congenial to him. As for the letter of introduction that Meenie had

given him to her married sister, of course he had not had the

presumption to deliver that; he had accepted the letter, and thanked

Meenie for it--for it was but another act of her always thoughtful

kindness; but Mrs. Gemmill was the wife of a partner in a large

warehouse; and they lived in Queen's Crescent; and altogether Ronald had

no thought of calling on them--although to be sure he had heard that

Mrs. Gemmill had been making sufficiently minute and even curious

inquiries with regard to him of a member of his brother's congregation

whom she happened to know. No; he lived his life alone; wrestling with

the weariness of it as best he might; and not quite knowing, perhaps,

how deeply it was eating into his heart.

Well, he was walking absently home on this dull gray evening, watching

the lamp-lighter adding point after point to the long string of golden

stars, when there went by a smartly appointed dog-cart. He did not

particularly remark the occupants of the vehicle, though he knew they

were two women, and that one of them was driving; his glance fell rather

on the well-groomed cob, and he thought the varnished oak dog-cart

looked neat and business-like. The next second it was pulled up; there

was a pause, during which time he was of course drawing nearer; and then

a woman's voice called to him--

'Bless me, is that you, Ronald?'

He looked up in amazement. And who was this, then, who had turned her

head round and was now regarding him with her laughing, handsome, bold

black eyes? She was a woman apparently of five-and-thirty or so, but

exceedingly well preserved and comely; of pleasant features and fresh

complexion; and of rather a manly build and carriage--an appearance that

was not lessened by her wearing a narrow-brimmed little billycock hat.

And then, even in this gathering dusk, he recognised her; and

unconsciously he repeated her own words--

'Bless me, is that you, Mrs.--Mrs.--Menzies--' for in truth he had

almost forgotten her name.

'Mrs. This or Mrs. That!' the other cried. 'I thought my name was

Kate--it used to be anyway. Well, I declare! Come, give us a shake of

your hand--auntie, this is my cousin Ronald!--and who would hae thought

of meeting you in Glasgow, now!'

'I have been here a month and more,' Ronald said, taking the proffered

hand.

'And never to look near me once--there's friendliness! Eh, and what a

man you've grown to--ye were just a bit laddie when I saw ye last--but

aye after the lasses, though--oh aye--bless me, what changes there hae

been since then!'

'Well, Katie, it's not you that have changed much anyway,' said he, for

he was making out again the old familiar girlish expression in the

firmer features of the mature woman.

'And what's brought ye to Glasgow?' said she--but then she corrected

herself: 'No, no; I'll have no long story wi' you standing on the

pavement like that. Jump up behind, Ronald, lad, and come home wi' us,

and we'll have a crack thegither----'

'Katie, dear,' said her companion, who was a little, white-faced,

cringing and fawning old woman, 'let me get down and get up behind.

Your cousin must sit beside ye----'

But already Ronald had swung himself on to the after seat of the

vehicle; and Mrs. Menzies had touched the cob with her whip; and soon

they were rattling away into the town.

'I suppose ye heard that my man was dead?' said she presently, and

partly turning round.

'I think I did,' he answered rather vaguely.

'He was a good man to me, like Auld Robin Gray,' said this strapping

widow, who certainly had a very matter-of-fact way in talking about her

deceased husband. 'But he was never the best of managers, poor man.

I've been doing better ever since. We've a better business, and not a

penny of mortgage left on the tavern.'

'Weel ye may say that, Katie,' whined the old woman. 'There never was

such a manager as you--never. Ay, and the splendid furniture--it was

never thought o' in his time--bless 'm! A good man he was, and a kind

man; but no the manager you are, Katie; there's no such another tavern

in a' Glesca.'

Now although the cousinship with Ronald claimed by Mrs. Menzies did not

exist in actual fact,--there was some kind of remote relationship,

however,--still, it must be confessed that it was very ungrateful and

inconstant of him to have let the fate and fortunes of the pretty Kate

Burnside (as she was in former days) so entirely vanish from his mind

and memory. Kate Burnside was the daughter of a small farmer in the

Lammermuir district; and the Strangs and Burnsides were neighbours as

well as remotely related by blood. But that was not the only reason why

Ronald ought to have remembered a little more about the stalwart,

black-eyed, fresh-cheeked country wench who, though she was some seven

or eight years or more his senior, he had boldly chosen for his

sweetheart in his juvenile days. Nay, had she not been the first

inspirer of his muse; and had he not sung this ox-eyed goddess in many a

laboured verse, carefully constructed after the manner of Tannahill or

Motherwell or Allan Cunningham? The 'lass of Lammer Law' he called her

in these artless strains; and Kate was far from resenting this frank

devotion; nay, she even treasured up the verses in which her radiant

beauties were enumerated; for why should not a comely East Lothian wench

take pleasure in being told that her cheeks outshone the rose, and that

the 'darts o' her bonnie black een' had slain their thousands, and that

her faithful lover would come to see her, ay, though the Himalayas

barred his way? But then, alas!--as happens in the world--the faithful

lover was sent off into far neighbourhoods to learn the art and mystery

of training pointers and setters; and Kate's father died, and the family

dispersed from the farm; Kate went into service in Glasgow, and there

she managed to capture the affections of an obese and elderly publican

whom--she being a prudent and sensible kind of a creature--she forthwith

married; by and by, through partaking too freely of his own wares, he

considerately died, leaving her in sole possession of the tavern (he had

called it a public-house, but she soon changed all that, and the place

too, when she was established as its mistress); and now she was a

handsome, buxom, firm-nerved woman, who could and did look well after

her own affairs; who had a flourishing business, a comfortable bank

account, and a sufficiency of friends of her own way of thinking; and

whose raven-black hair did not as yet show a single streak of gray. It

was all this latter part of Kate Burnside's--or rather, Mrs.

Menzies's--career of which Ronald was so shamefully ignorant; but she

speedily gave him enough information about herself as they drove through

the gas-lit streets, for she was a voluble, high-spirited woman, who

could make herself heard when she chose.

'Ay,' said she, at length, 'and where have ye left the good wife,

Ronald?'

'What goodwife?' said he.

'Ye dinna tell me that you're no married yet?'

'Not that I know of,' said he.

'What have ye been about, man? Ye were aye daft about the lasses; and

ye no married yet? What have ye been about, man, to let them a' escape

ye?'

'Some folk have other things to think of,' said he evasively.

'Dinna tell me,' she retorted. 'I ken weel what's upper-most in the

mind o' a handsome lad like you. Weel, if ye're no married, ye're the

next door to it, I'll be bound. What's she like?'

'I'll tell ye when I find her,' said he drily.

'Ye're a dark one; but I'll find ye out, my man.'

She could not continue the conversation, for they were about to cross

the bridge over the Clyde, and the congested traffic made her careful.

And then again Jamaica Street was crowded and difficult to steer

through; but presently she left that for a quieter thoroughfare leading

off to the right; and in a few moments she had pulled up in front of a

large tavern, close by a spacious archway.

'Auntie, gang you and fetch Alec to take the cob round, will ye?' said

she; and then Ronald, surmising that she had now reached home, leapt to

the ground, and went to the horse's head. Presently the groom appeared,

and Kate Menzies descended from her chariot.

Now in Glasgow, for an establishment of this kind to be popular, it must

have a side entrance--the more the merrier, indeed--by which people can

get into the tavern without being seen; but besides this it soon

appeared that Mrs. Menzies had a private right of way of her own. She

bade Ronald follow her; she went through the archway; produced a key and

opened a door; and then, passing along a short lobby, he found himself

in what might be regarded as the back parlour of the public-house, but

was in reality a private room reserved by Mrs. Menzies for herself and

her intimate friends. And a very brilliant little apartment it was;

handsomely furnished and shining with stained wood, plate glass, and

velvet; the gas-jets all aglow in the clear globes; the table in the

middle laid with a white cloth for supper, all sparkling with crystal

and polished electro-plate. Moreover (for business is business) this

luxurious little den commanded at will complete views of the front

premises; and there was also a door leading thither; but the door was

shut, and the red blinds were drawn over the two windows, so that the

room looked quite like one in a private dwelling.

'And now, my good woman,' said Mrs. Menzies, as she threw her hat and

cloak and dog-skin gloves into a corner, 'just you mak' them hurry up

wi' supper; for we're just home in time; and we'll want another place at

the table. And tell Jeannie there's a great friend o' mine come in, if

she can get anything special--Lord's sake, Ronald, if I had kent I was

going to fall in with you I would have looked after it mysel'.'

'Ye need not bother about me,' said he, 'for supper is not much in my

way--not since I came to the town. Without the country air, I think one

would as lief not sit down to a table at all.'

'Oh, I can cure ye o' that complaint,' she said confidently; and she

rang the bell.

Instantly the door was opened, and he caught a glimpse of a vast

palatial-looking place, with more stained wood and plate glass and

velvet, and with several smartly-dressed young ladies standing or moving

behind the long mahogany counters; moreover, one of these--a tall and

serious-eyed maiden--now stood at the partly opened door.

'Gin and bitters, Mary,' said Mrs. Menzies briskly--she was at this

moment standing in front of one of the mirrors, complacently smoothing

her hair with her hands, and setting to rights her mannish little

necktie.

The serious-eyed handmaiden presently reappeared, bringing a small

salver, on which was a glass filled with some kind of a fluid, which she

presented to him.

'What's this?' said he, appealing to his hostess.

'Drink it and find out,' said she; 'it'll make ye jump wi' hunger, as

the Hielanman said.'

He did as he was bid; and loudly she laughed at the wry face that he

made.

'What's the matter?'

'It's a devil of a kind of thing, that,' said he; for it was a first

experience.

'Ay, but wait till ye find how hungry it will make ye,' she answered;

and then she returned from the mirror. 'And I'm sure ye'll no mind my

hair being a wee thing camstrairy, Ronald; there's no need for ceremony

between auld freens, as the saying is----'

'But, look here, Katie, my lass,' said he--for perhaps he was a little

emboldened by that fiery fluid, 'I'm thinking that maybe I'm making

myself just a little too much at home. Now, some other time, when ye've

no company, I'll come in and see ye----'

But she cut him short at once, and with some pride.