'Indeed, I'll tell ye this, that the day that Ronald Strang comes into

my house--and into my own house too--that's no the day that he's gaun

out o't without eating and drinking. Ma certes, no! And as for company,

why there's none but auld mother Paterson--I ca' her auntie; but she's

no more my auntie than you are--ye see, my man, Ronald, a poor,

unprotected helpless widow woman maun look after appearances--for the

world's unco given to leein', as Shakespeare says. There, Ronald, that's

another thing,' she added suddenly--'ye'll take me to the theatre!--my

word, we'll have a box!'

But these gay visions were interrupted by the reappearance of Mrs.

Paterson, who was followed by a maidservant bearing a dish on which was

a large sole, smoking hot. Indeed, it soon became apparent that this was

to be a very elaborate banquet, such as Ronald was not at all familiar

with; and all the care and flattering attention his hostess could pay

him she paid him, laughing and joking with him, and insisting on his

having the very best of everything, and eager to hand things to

him--even if she rather ostentatiously displayed her abundant rings in

doing so. And when mother Paterson said--

'What will ye drink, Katie dear? Some ale--or some porter?'

The other stormily answered--

'Get out, ye daft auld wife! Ale or porter the first day that my cousin

Ronald comes into my own house? Champagne's the word, woman; and the

best! What will ye have, Ronald--what brand do ye like?--Moett and

Shandon?'

Ronald laughed.

'What do I know about such things?' said he. 'And besides, there's no

reason for such extravagance. There's been no stag killed the day.'

'There's been no stag killed the day,' she retorted, 'but Ronald

Strang's come into my house, and he'll have the best that's in it, or my

name's no Kate Burnside--or Kate Menzies, I should say, God forgie me!

Ring the bell, auntie.'

This time the grave-eyed barmaid appeared.

'A bottle of Moett and Shandon, Mary.'

'A pint bottle, m'm?'

'A pint bottle--ye stupid idiot?' she said (but quite good-naturedly).

'A quart bottle, of course!'

And then when the bottle was brought and the glasses filled, she said--

'Here's your health, Ronald; and right glad am I to see you looking so

weel--ye were aye a bonnie laddie, and ye've kept the promise o't--ay,

indeed, the whole o' you Strangs were a handsome family--except your

brother Andrew, maybe----'

'Do ye ever see Andrew?' Ronald said; for a modest man does not like to

have his looks discussed, even in the most flattering way.

Then loudly laughed Kate Menzies.

'Me? Me gang and see the Reverend Andrew Strang? No fears! He's no one

o' my kind. He'd drive me out o' the house wi' bell, book, and candle.

I hae my ain friends, thank ye--and I'm going to number you amongst them

so long as ye stop in this town. Auntie, pass the bottle to Ronald!'

And so the banquet proceeded--a roast fowl and bacon, an apple-tart,

cheese and biscuits and what not following in due succession; and all

the time she was learning more and more of the life that Ronald had led

since he had left the Lothians, and freely she gave him of her

confidences in return. On one point she was curiously inquisitive, and

that was as to whether he had not been in some entanglement with one or

other of the Highland lasses up there in Sutherlandshire; and there was

a considerable amount of joking on that subject, which Ronald bore

good-naturedly enough; finding it on the whole the easier way to let her

surmises have free course.

'But ye're a dark one!' she said at length. 'And ye would hae me

believe that a strapping fellow like you hasna had the lasses rinnin'

after him? I'm no sae daft.'

'I'll tell ye what it is, Katie,' he retorted, 'the lasses in the

Highlands have their work to look after; they dinna live a' in clover,

like the Glasgow dames.'

'Dinna tell me--dinna tell me,' she said.

And now, as supper was over and the table cleared, she went to a small

mahogany cabinet and opened it.

'I keep some cigars here for my particular friends,' said Mrs. Menzies,

'but I'm sure I dinna ken which is the best. Come and pick for yourself,

Ronald lad; if you're no certain the best plan is to take the biggest.'

'This is surely living on the fat of the land, Katie,' he protested.

'And what for no?' said she boldly. 'Let them enjoy themselves that's

earned the right to it.'

'But that's not me,' he said.

'Well, it's me,' she answered. 'And when my cousin Ronald comes into my

house, it's the best that's in it that's at his service--and no great

wonder either!'

Well, her hospitality was certainly a little stormy; but the handsome

widow meant kindly and well; and it is scarcely to be marvelled at

if--under the soothing influences of the fragrant tobacco--he was rather

inclined to substitute for this brisk and business-like Kate Menzies of

these present days the gentler figure of the Kate Burnside of earlier

years, more especially as she had taken to talking of those times, and

of all the escapades the young lads and lasses used to enjoy on

Hallowe'en night or during the first-footing at Hogmanay.

'And now I mind me, Ronald,' she said, 'ye used to be a fine singer when

ye were a lad. Do ye keep it up still?'

'I sometimes try,' he answered. 'But there's no been much occasion

since I came to this town. It's a lonely kind o' place, for a' the

number o' folk in it.'

'Well, now ye're among friends, give us something!'

'Oh, that I will, if ye like,' said he readily; and he laid aside his

cigar.

And then he sang--moderating his voice somewhat, so that he should not

be heard in the front premises--a verse or two of an old favourite--

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

_Light sprang the laverock, and mounted sae high,'_

and if his voice was quiet, still the clear, penetrating quality of it

was there; and when he had finished Kate Menzies said to him--after a

second of irresolution--

'Ye couldna sing like that when ye were a lad, Ronald. It's maist like

to gar a body greet.'

But he would not sing any more that night; he guessed that she must have

her business affairs to attend to; and he was resolved upon going, in

spite of all her importunacy. However, as a condition, she got him to

promise to come and see her on the following evening. It was Saturday

night; several of her friends were in the habit of dropping in on that

night; finally, she pressed her entreaty so that he could not well

refuse; and, having promised, he left.

And no doubt as he went home through the great, noisy, lonely city, he

felt warmed and cheered by this measure of human companionship that had

befallen him. As for Kate Menzies, it would have been a poor return for

her excessive kindness if he had stopped to ask himself whether her

robust _camaraderie_ did not annoy him a little. He had had plenty of

opportunities of becoming acquainted with the manners and speech and

ways of refined and educated women; indeed, there are few gamekeepers in

the Highlands who have not at one time or another enjoyed that

privilege. Noble and gracious ladies who, in the south, would as soon

think of talking to a door-mat as of entering into any kind of general

conversation with their butler or coachman, will fall quite naturally

into the habit--when they are living away in the seclusion of a Highland

glen with the shooting-party at the lodge--of stopping to have a chat

with Duncan or Hector the gamekeeper when they chance to meet, him

coming along the road with his dogs; and, what is more, they find him

worth the talking to. Then, again, had not Ronald been an almost daily

spectator of Miss Douglas's sweet and winning manners--and that

continued through years; and had not the young American lady, during the

briefer period she was in the north, made quite a companion of him in

her frank and brave fashion? He had almost to confess to himself that

there was just a little too much of Mrs. Menzies's tempestuous good

nature; and then again he refused to confess anything of the kind; and

quarrelled with himself for being so ungrateful. Why, the first bit of

real, heartfelt friendliness that had been shown him since he came to

this great city; and he was to examine it; and be doubtful; and wish

that the keeper of a tavern should be a little more refined!

'Ronald lad,' he was saying to himself when he reached his lodging in

the dusky Port Dundas Road, 'it's over-fed stomachs that wax proud.

You'll be better minded if you keep to your books and plainer living.'

*CHAPTER XII.*

*A SOCIAL EVENING.*

Looking forward to this further festivity he worked hard at his studies

all day, and it was not until nearly nine o'clock in the evening that he

went away down through the roaring streets to keep his engagement with

Kate Menzies. And very snug and comfortable indeed did the little

parlour look, with its clear glass globes and warmly-cushioned seats and

brilliant mirrors and polished wood. Kate herself (who was quite

resplendent in purple velvet and silver necklace and bangles) was

reading a sporting newspaper; old mother Paterson was sewing; there were

cigar-boxes on the table.

'And what d'ye mean,' cried the handsome widow gaily, when he made his

appearance, 'by coming at this hour? Did not I tell ye we would expect

ye to supper?'

'Would ye have me eat you out o' house and home, woman?' he said.

'Besides, I had some work to get through.'

'Well, sit down and make yerself happy; better late than never; there's

the cigars--

'I would as lief smoke a pipe, Katie, if ye don't object--only that I'm

shamed to smoke in a fine place like this----'

'What is't for, man? Do ye think I got it up for an exhibition--to be

put in a glass case! And what'll ye drink now, Ronald--some Moett and

Shandon?'

'Indeed no,' said he. 'If I may light my pipe I want nothing else.'

'But I canna bear an empty table,' said she. 'Here, auntie, get your

flounces and falderals out o' the road--bless us, woman, ye make the

place look like a milliner's shop! And bring out the punch-bowl frae

the chiffonnier--I want ye to see it, Ronald, for it was gien to my

gudeman by an auld freend o' his in Ayr, that got it from the last of

the lairds o' Garthlie. And if ane or twa o' them happen to come in

to-night we'll try a brew--for there's naething so wholesome, after a',

as the wine o' the country, and I can gie ye some o' the real stuff.

Will ye no try a drop the noo?'

'No thank ye, no thank ye,' said he, for he had lit his pipe, and was

well content.

'Well, well, we'll have one o' the lasses in to set the tumblers and the

glasses, for I canna thole to see a bare table; and in the meantime,

Ronald, you and me can hae a crack be oursels, and ye can tell me what

ye mean to do when ye get your certificate----'

'If I get it, ye mean, lass.'

'No fears,' she said confidently; 'ye were aye one o' the clever ones;

I'll warrant ye there's na skim-milk in your head where the brains

should be. But I want to ken what ye're ettling at after you've got the

certificate, and what's your plans, and the like; for I've been thinking

about it; and if there was any kind o' a starting needed--the loan of a

bit something in the way of a nest-egg, ye see--weel, I ken a place

where ye might get that, and ye wouldna have to whistle long at the yett

either.'

Now there was no mistaking the generosity of this offer, however darkly

it might be veiled by Kate Menzies's figurative manner of speech; and it

was with none the less gratitude that he answered her and explained that

a head-forester traded with the capital of his employer, though, to be

sure, he might on entering a new situation have to find sureties for

him.

'Is it caution-money ye mean, Ronald?' she said frankly.

'Well, if a man had no one to speak for him--no one whose word they

would take,' he said to her (though all this was guess-work on his

part), 'they might ask him for security. There would be no payment of

money, of course, unless he robbed his employer; and then the sureties

would have to make that good as far as they had undertaken. But it's a

long way off yet, Katie, and hardly worth speaking about. I daresay

Lord Ailine would say a word for me.'

'And is that a'?' she said, with a laugh. 'Is that a' the money's

wanted for--to guarantee the honesty o' one o' the Strangs o'

Whittermains? Weel, I'm no a rich woman, Ronald--for my money's maistly

sunk in the tavern--and doing weel enough there too--but if it's a

surety ye want, for three hunder pounds, ay, or five hunder pounds, just

you come to me, and the deil's in't if we canna manage it somehow.'

'I thank ye for the offer anyway; I'm sure you mean it,' said he.

'That lawyer o' mine,' she continued, 'is a dour chiel; he'll no let me

do this; and he's grumbling at that; and a poor widow woman is supposed

to hae nae soul o' her ain. I'm sure the fuss that he makes about that

cob, and only fifty-five guineas, and come o' the best Clydesdale

stock----'

'But it was no the expense, it was no the expense, Katie dear,' whined

the old woman, 'it was the risk to your life frae sae high-mettled a

beast. Just think o't, at your time o' life, wi' a grand business, and

yoursel' the manager o' it, and wi' sae mony freends, think what it

would be if ye broke your neck----'

'Broke your grandmother's fiddlestrings!' said she. 'The beast's as

quiet's a lamb. But that auld man, Peter Gunn. I suppose he's a good

lawyer--indeed, every one says that--but he's as pernickety as an auld

woman; and he'd mak' ye think the world was made o' silk paper, and ye

daurna stir a step for fear o' fa'in through. But you just give me the

word, Ronald, when the security's wanted; and we'll see if auld Peter

can hinder me frae doing what I ought to do for one o' my own kith and

kin.'

They were thus talking when there came a knock at the outer door; then

there was a clamour of voices in the little lobby; and presently there

were ushered into the room three visitors, who were forthwith introduced

to Ronald, with a few words of facetious playfulness from the widow.

There was first a Mr. Jaap, a little old man with Jewish features, bald

on the top of his head, but with long, flowing gray hair behind; a

mild-looking old man, but with merry eyes nevertheless--and indeed all

of them seemed to have been joking as they came in. Then there was a

Mr. Laidlaw, a younger man, of middle height, and of a horsey type;

stupid-looking, rather, but not ill-natured. The third was Captain

M'Taggart, a large heavy man, with a vast, radiant, Bardolphian face,

whose small, shrewd, twinkling blue eyes had the expression rather of a

Clyde skipper given to rough jesting and steady rum-drinking (and he was

all that) than of the high-souled, child-hearted sailor of romance.

'Sit ye down, sit ye down,' their hostess said gaily. 'Here, captain, is

a job for ye; here's the punch-bowl that we only have on great days, ye

ken; and your brew is famous--whether wi' old Jamaica or Long John. Set

to work now--here's the sugar and the lemons ready for ye--for ye maun

a' drink the health o' my cousin here that's come frae Sutherland.'

'Frae Sutherland, say ye, Mistress?' the big skipper said, as he reached

over for the lemons. 'Ye should ca' him your kissin frae the Hielans

then. Do ye ken that story, Laidlaw? D'ye ken that yin about the

Hielan kissins, Jaap? Man, that's a gude yin! have ye no heard it?

Have ye no heard it, Mistress?'

'Tell us what it is first, and we'll tell you afterwards,' said she

saucily.

'Weel, then,' said he--and he desisted from his preparations for the

punch-making, for he was famous along the Broomielaw as a story-teller,

and liked to keep up his reputation, 'it was twa young lasses, twa

cousins they were, frae the west side o' Skye--and if there's ony place

mair Hielan than that, it's no me that ever heard o't--and they were

ta'en into service in an inn up about the Gairloch or Loch Inver, or one

o' they lochs. Both o' them were good-looking lasses, mind ye; but one

o' them just unusual handsome. Well, then, there happened to come to

the inn an English tourist--a most respectable old gentleman he was; and

it was one o' they two lasses--and no the brawest o' them either--that

had to wait on him: but he was a freendly auld man; and on the mornin'

o' his gaun awa he had to ring for something or other, and when she

brought it to him, he said to her, jist by way o' compliment, ye ken,

"You are a very good-looking girl, do you know, Flora?" And of course

the lass was very well pleased; but she was a modest lassie too; and she

said, "Oh no, sir; but I hef heard them say my kissin was peautiful!"

"Your what?" said he. "My kissin, sir--" "Get away, you bold hussy!

Off with you at once, or I'll ring for your master--you brazen

baggage!"--and to this very day, they tell me, the poor lass do'esna ken

what on earth it was that made the auld man into a madman; for what harm

had she done in telling him that her cousin was better-looking than

herself?'

This recondite joke was received with much laughter by the company; and

even Ronald had to admit that the Clyde skipper's imitation of the

Highland accent was very fairly well done. But joke-making is dull work

with empty glasses; and so Captain M'Taggart set himself seriously to

the business of brewing that bowl of punch, while Kate Menzies polished

the silver ladle to an even higher extreme of brilliancy.

Now these three old cronies of the widow's had betrayed a little

surprise on finding a stranger installed in their favourite howf; and

perhaps they might have been inclined to resent the intrusion had not

Kate Menzies very speedily intimated her views upon the subject in

unmistakable language. Her 'cousin Ronald' was all her cry; it was

Ronald this and Ronald that; and whatever Ronald said, that was enough,

and decisive. For, of course, after a glass or so of punch, the

newcomers had got to talking politics--or what they took to be politics;

and Ronald, when he was invited to express his opinion, proved to be on

the unpopular side; nor did he improve his position by talking with open

scorn of a great public agitation then going on--indeed, he so far

forgot himself as to define stump-oratory as only another form of

foot-and-mouth disease. But at least he had one strenuous backer, and

neither Mr. Laidlaw nor Mr. Jaap nor the big skipper was anxious to

quarrel with a controversialist who had such abundant stores of

hospitality at her command. Moreover, Kate Menzies was in the habit of

speaking her mind; was it not better, for the sake of peace and

quietness, to yield a little? This cousin of hers from the Highlands

could parade some book-learning it is true; and he had plenty of

cut-and-dried theories that sounded plausible enough; and his apparent

knowledge of the working of American institutions was sufficiently good

for an argument--so long as one could not get at the real facts; but

they knew, of course, that, with time to get at these facts and to

furnish forth replies to his specious reasonings, they could easily

prove their own case. In the meantime they would be magnanimous. For

the sake of good fellowship--and to oblige a lady--they shifted the

subject.

Or rather she did.

'I suppose you'll be going to the Harmony Club to-night?' she said.

'For a while, at least,' replied the captain. 'Mr. Jaap's new song is

to be sung the nicht; and we maun get him an encore for't. Not that it

needs us; "Caledonia's hills and dales" will be a' ower Glasgow before a

fortnight's out; and it's young Tam Dalswinton that's to sing it.

Tam'll do his best, no fear.'

'It's little ye think,' observed Mrs. Menzies, with a kind of superior

air, 'that there's somebody not a hundred miles frae here that can sing

better than a' your members and a' your professionals put thegither.

The Harmony Club! If the Harmony Club heard _him_, they might tak tent

and learn a lesson.'

'Ay, and wha's he when he's at hame, Mistress?' Captain M'Taggart said.

'He's not fifty miles away frae here anyway,' she said. 'And if I was to

tell ye that he's sitting not three yards away frae ye at this meenit?'

'Katie, woman, are ye daft?' Ronald said, and he laughed, but his

forehead grew red all the same.

'No, I'm no,' she answered confidently. 'I ken what I'm saying as weel

as most folk. Oh, I've heard some o' the best o' them--no at the

Harmony Club, for they're too high and mighty to let women bodies

in--but at the City Hall concerts and in the theatres; and I've got a

good enough ear, too; I ken what's what; and I ken if my cousin Ronald

were to stand up at the Saturday Evening Concerts, and sing the song he

sung in this very room last night, I tell ye he would take the shine out

o' some o' them!'

'He micht gie us a screed now,' Mr. Laidlaw suggested--his somewhat

lack-lustre eyes going from his hostess to Ronald.

'Faith, no!' Ronald said, laughing, 'there's been ower great a flourish

beforehand. The fact is, Mrs. Menzies here----'

'I thought I telled ye my name was Kate?' she said sharply.

'Kate, Cat, or Kitten, then, as ye like, woman, what I mean to say is

that ower long a grace makes the porridge cold. Some other time--some

other time, lass.'

'Ay, and look here, Mr. Jaap,' continued the widow, who was determined

that her cousin's superior qualifications should not be hidden, 'ye are

aye complaining that ye canna get anything but trash to set your tunes

to. Well, here's my cousin; I dinna ken if he still keeps at the trade,

but as a laddie he could just write ye anything ye liked right aff the

reel, and as good as Burns, or better. There's your chance now.

Everybody says your music's jist splendid--and the choruses taken up in

a meenit--but you just ask Ronald there to gie ye something worth while

making a song o'.'

Now not only did the old man express his curiosity to see some of

Ronald's work in this way, and also the gratification it would give him

to set one of his songs to music, but Ronald was likewise well pleased

with the proposal. His own efforts in adapting tunes to his verses he

knew were very amateurish; and would it not be a new sensation--a little

pride commingled with the satisfaction perhaps--to have one of his songs

presented with an original air all to itself, and perhaps put to the

test of being sung before some more or less skilled audience? He knew

he had dozens to choose from; some of them patriotic, others convivial,

others humorous in a kind of way: from any of these the musician was

welcome to select as he liked. The love songs about Meenie were a class

apart.

And now that they had got away from the thrashed-out straw of politics

to more congenial themes, these three curiously assorted boon-companions

proved to be extremely pleasant and good-natured fellows; and when, at

length, they said it was time for them to be off to the musical club,

they cordially invited Ronald to accompany them. He was nothing loth,

for he was curious to see the place; and if Mrs. Menzies grumbled a

little at being left alone she consoled herself by hinting that her

_protege_ could teach them a lesson if he chose to do so.

'When ye've listened for a while to their squalling, Ronald, my man,

jist you get up and show them how an East Lothian lad can do the trick.'

'What's that, Mistress? I thought ye said your cousin was frae the

Hielans,' the skipper broke in.

'Frae the Hielans? Frae East Lothian, I tell ye; where I come frae

mysel'; and where ye'll find the brawest lads and lasses in the breadth

o' Scotland,' she added saucily.

'And they dinna stay a' at hame either,' remarked the big skipper, with

much gallantry, as the visitors prepared to leave.

They went away through the noisy, crowded, glaring streets, and at

length entered a spacious dark courtyard, at the head of which was a

small and narrow entrance. The skipper led the way; but as they passed

up the staircase they became aware of a noise of music overhead; and

when they reached the landing, they had to pause there, so as not to

interrupt the proceedings within. It was abundantly clear what these

were. A man's voice was singing 'Green grow the rashes, O' to a smart

and lively accompaniment on the piano; while at the end of each verse

joined in a sufficiently enthusiastic chorus:

_'Green grow the rashes, O,_

_Green grow the rashes, O,_

_The sweetest hours that e'er I spent,_

_Were spent among the lasses, O.'_

and that was repeated:

_'Green grow the rashes, O,_

_Green grow the rashes, O,_

_The sweetest hours that e'er I spen',_

_Were spent among the lasses, O.'_

Then there was silence. The skipper now opened the door; and, as they

entered, Ronald found himself near the head of a long and

loftily-ceilinged apartment, the atmosphere of which was of a pale blue

cast, through the presence of much tobacco smoke. All down this long

room were twin rows of small tables, at which little groups of friends

or acquaintances sate--respectable looking men they seemed, many of them

young fellows, more of them of middle age, and nearly all of them

furnished with drinks and pipes or cigars. At the head of the room was

a platform, not raised more than a foot from the floor, with a piano at

one end of it; and in front of the platform was a special semicircular

table, presided over by a bland rubicund gentleman, to whom Ronald was

forthwith introduced. Indeed, the newcomers were fortunate enough to

find seats at this semicircular table; and when beverages were called

for and pipes lit, they waited for the further continuance of the

proceedings.

These were of an entirely simple and ingenuous character, and had no

taint whatsoever of the ghastly make-believe of wit, the mean swagger,

and facetious innuendo of the London music hall. Now a member of the

Club, when loudly called upon by the general voice, would step up to the

platform and sing some familiar Scotch ballad; and again one of the

professional singers in attendance (they did not appear in swallow-tail

and white tie, by the way, but in soberer attire) would 'oblige' with

something more ambitious; but throughout there was a prevailing tendency

towards compositions with a chorus; and the chorus grew more universal

and more enthusiastic as the evening proceeded. Then occasionally

between the performances there occurred a considerable interval, during

which the members of the Club would make brief visits to the other

tables; and in this way Ronald made the acquaintance of a good number of

those moderately convivial souls. For, if there was a tolerable amount

of treating and its corresponding challenges, there was no drunkenness

apparent anywhere; there was some loud talking; and Captain M'Taggart

was unduly anxious that everybody should come and sit at the President's

table; but the greatest hilarity did not exceed bounds. It was to be

observed, however, that, as the evening drew on, it was the extremely

sentimental songs that were the chief favourites--those that mourned the

bygone days of boyhood and youth, or told of the premature decease of

some beloved Annie or Mary.

Ronald was once or twice pressed to sing; but he good-naturedly refused.

'Some other time, if I may have the chance, I will try to screw up my

courage,' he said. 'And by that time ye'll have forgotten what Mrs.

Menzies said: the East Lothian folk are wonderful for praising their own

kith and kin.'

As to letting old Mr. Jaap have a song or two to set to music, that was

another and simpler matter; and he promised to hunt out one or two of

them. In truth, it would not be difficult, as he himself perceived, to

find something a little better than the 'Caledonia's hills and dales'

which was sung that night, and which was of a very familiar pattern

indeed. And Ronald looked forward with not a little natural

satisfaction to the possibility of one of his songs being sung in that

resounding hall; a poet must have his audience somewhere; and this, at

least, was more extensive than a handful of farm lads and lasses

collected together in the barn at Inver-Mudal.

At about half-past eleven the entire company broke up and dispersed; and

Ronald, after thanking his three companions very heartily for their

hospitality during the evening, set off for his lodgings in the north of

the city. He was quite enlivened and inspirited by this unusual whirl

of gaiety; it had come into his sombre and lonely life as a startling

surprise. The rattle of the piano--the resounding choruses--the eager

talk of these boon-companions--all this was of an exciting nature; and

as he walked away through the now darkened thoroughfares, he began to

wonder whether he could not write some lilting verses in the old

haphazard way. He had not even tried such a thing since he came to

Glasgow; the measurement of surface areas and the classification of

Dicotyledons did not lead him in that direction. But on such a

gala-night as this, surely he might string some lines together--about

Glasgow lads and lasses, and good-fellowship, and the delights of a

roaring town? It would be an experiment, in any case.

Well, when he had got home and lit the gas, and sate down to the

jingling task, it was not so difficult, after all. But there was an

undernote running through these verses that he had not contemplated when

he set out. When the first glow of getting them together was over, he

looked down the page, and then he put it away; in no circumstances could

this kind of song find its way into the Harmony Club; and yet he was not

altogether disappointed that it was so.

_O Glasgow lasses are fair enough,_

_And Glasgow lads are merry;_

_But I would be with my own dear maid,_

_A-wandering down Strath-Terry._

_And she would be singing her morning song,_

_The song that the larks have taught her;_

_A song of the northern seas and hills,_

_And a song of Mudal-Water._

_The bands go thundering through the streets,_

_The fifes and drums together;_

_Far rather I'd hear the grouse-cock crow_

_Among the purple heather;_

_And I would be on Ben Clebrig's brow,_

_To watch the red-deer stealing_

_In single file adown the glen_

_And past the summer sheiling._

_O Glasgow lasses are fair enough,_

_And Glasgow lads are merry;_

_But ah, for the voice of my own dear maid,_

_A-singing adown Strath-Terry!_

*CHAPTER XIII.*

*INDUCEMENTS.*

Ronald's friendship with the hospitable widow and his acquaintanceship

with those three boon-companions of hers grew apace; and many a merry

evening they all of them had together in the brilliant little parlour,

Ronald singing his own or any other songs without stint, the big skipper

telling elaborately facetious Highland stories, the widow bountiful with

her cigars and her whisky-toddy. And yet he was ill, ill at ease. He

would not admit to himself, of course, that he rather despised these new

acquaintances--for were they not most generous and kind towards

him?--nor yet that the loud hilarity he joined in was on his part at

times a trifle forced. Indeed, he could not very well have defined the

cause of this disquietude and restlessness and almost despair that was

present to his consciousness even when the laugh was at its loudest and

the glasses going round most merrily. But the truth was he had begun to

lose heart in his work. The first glow of determination that had

enabled him to withstand the depression of the dull days and the

monotonous labour had subsided now. The brilliant future the Americans

had painted for him did not seem so attractive. Meenie was away;

perhaps never to be met with more; and the old glad days that were

filled with the light of her presence were all gone now and growing ever

more and more distant. And in the solitude of the little room up there

in the Port Dundas Road--with the gray atmosphere ever present at the

windows, and the dull rumble of the carts and waggons without--he was

now getting into a habit of pushing aside his books for a while, and

letting his fancies go far afield; insomuch that his heart seemed to

grow more and more sick within him, and more and more he grew to think

that somehow life had gone all wrong with him.

There is in Glasgow a thoroughfare familiarly known as Balmanno Brae.

It is in one of the poorer neighbourhoods of the town; and is in truth

rather a squalid and uninteresting place; but it has the one striking

peculiarity of being extraordinarily steep, having been built on the

side of a considerable hill. Now one must have a powerful imagination

to see in this long, abrupt, blue-gray thoroughfare--with its grimy

pavements and house-fronts, and its gutters running with dirty

water--any resemblance to the wide slopes of Ben Clebrig and the

carolling rills that flow down to Loch Naver; but all the same Ronald

had a curious fancy for mounting this long incline, and that at the

hardest pace he could go. For sometimes, in that little room, he felt

almost like a caged animal dying for a wider air, a more active work;

and here at least was a height that enabled him to feel the power of his

knees; while the mere upward progress was a kind of inspiriting thing,

one always having a vague fancy that one is going to see farther in

getting higher. Alas! there was but the one inevitable termination to

these repeated climbings; and that not the wide panorama embracing Loch

Loyal and Ben Hope and the far Kyle of Tongue, but a wretched little

lane called Rotten Row--a double line of gloomy houses, with here and

there an older-fashioned cottage with a thatched roof, and with

everywhere pervading the close atmosphere an odour of boiled herrings.

And then again, looking back, there was no yellow and wide-shining

Strath-Terry, with its knolls of purple heather and its devious rippling

burns, but only the great, dark, grim, mysterious city, weltering in its

smoke, and dully groaning, as it were, under the grinding burden of its

monotonous toil.

As the Twelfth of August drew near he became more and more restless. He

had written to Lord Ailine to say that, if he could be of any use, he

would take a run up to Inver-Mudal for a week or so, just to see things

started for the season; but Lord Ailine had considerately refused the

offer, saying that everything seemed going on well enough, except,

indeed, that Lugar the Gordon setter was in a fair way of being spoilt,

for that, owing to Ronald's parting injunctions, there was not a man or

boy about the place would subject the dog to any kind of chastisement or

discipline whatever. And it sounded strange to Ronald to hear that he

was still remembered away up there in the remote little hamlet.

On the morning of the day before the Twelfth his books did not get much

attention. He kept going to the window to watch the arrivals at the

railway station opposite, wondering whether this one or that was off and

away to the wide moors and the hills. Then, about mid-day, he saw a

young lad bring up four dogs--a brace of setters, a small spaniel, and a

big brown retriever--and give them over in charge to a porter. Well,

human nature could not stand this any longer. His books were no longer

thought of; on went his Glengarry cap; and in a couple of minutes he was

across the road and into the station, where the porter was hauling the

dogs along the platform.

'Here, my man, I'll manage the doggies for ye,' he said, getting hold of

the chains and straps; and of course the dogs at once recognised in him

a natural ally and were less alarmed. A shambling, bow-legged porter

hauling at them they could not understand at all; but in the straight

figure and sun-tanned cheek and clear eye of the newcomer they

recognised features familiar to them; and then he spoke to them as if he

knew them.

'Ay, and what's your name, then?--Bruce, or Wallace, or Soldier?--but

there'll no be much work for you for a while yet. It's you, you two

bonnie lassies, that'll be amongst the heather the morn; and well I can

see ye'll work together, and back each other, and just set an example to

human folk. And if ye show yourselves just a wee bit eager at the

beginning o' the day--well, well, well, we all have our faults, and that

one soon wears off. And what's your names, then?--Lufra, or Nell, or

Bess, or Fan? And you, you wise auld chiel--I'm thinking ye could get a

grip o' a mallard that would make him imagine he had got back into his

mother's nest--you're a wise one--the Free Kirk elder o' the lot'--for,

indeed, the rest of them were all pawing at him, and licking his hands,

and whimpering their friendship. The porter had to point out to him

that he, the porter, could not stand there the whole day with 'a wheen

dogs;' whereupon Ronald led these new companions of his along to the

dog-box that had been provided for them, and there, when they had been

properly secured, the porter left him. Ronald could still talk to them

however, and ask them questions; and they seemed to understand well

enough: indeed, he had not spent so pleasant a half-hour for many and

many a day.

There chanced to come along the platform a little, wiry, elderly man,

with a wholesome-looking weather-tanned face, who was carrying a bundle

of fishing-rods over his shoulder; and seeing how Ronald was engaged he

spoke to him in passing and began to talk about the dogs.

'Perhaps they're your dogs?' Ronald said.

'No, no, our folk are a' fishing folk,' said the little old man, who was

probably a gardener or something of the kind, and who seemed to take

readily to this new acquaintance. 'I've just been in to Glasgow to get a

rod mended, and to bring out a new one that the laird has bought for

himself.'

He grinned in a curious sarcastic way.

'He's rather a wee man; and this rod--Lord sakes, ye never saw such a

thing! it would break the back o' a Samson--bless ye, the butt o't's

like a weaver's beam; and for our gudeman to buy a thing like

that--well, rich folk hae queer ways o' spending their money.'

He was a friendly old man; and this joke of his master having bought so

tremendous an engine seemed to afford him so much enjoyment that when

Ronald asked to be allowed to see this formidable weapon he said at

once--

'Just you come along outside there, and we'll put it thegither, and

ye'll see what kind o' salmon-rod an old man o' five foot five thinks he

can cast wi'----'

'If it's no taking up too much of your time,' Ronald suggested, but

eager enough he was to get a salmon-rod into his fingers again.

'I've three quarters of an hour to wait,' was the reply, 'for I canna

make out they train books ava.'

They went out beyond the platform to an open space, and very speedily

the big rod was put together. It was indeed an enormous thing; but a

very fine rod, for all that; and so beautifully balanced and so

beautifully pliant that Ronald, after having made one or two passes

through the air with it, could not help saying to the old man, and

rather wistfully too--

'I suppose ye dinna happen to have a reel about ye?'

'That I have,' was the instant answer, 'and a brand new hundred-yard

line on it too. Would ye like to try a cast? I'm thinking ye ken

something about it.'

It was an odd kind of place to try the casting-power of a salmon-rod,

this dismal no-man's-land of empty trucks and rusted railway-points and

black ashes; but no sooner had Ronald begun to send out a good

line--taking care to recover it so that it should not fray itself along

the gritty ground--than the old man perceived he had to deal with no

amateur.

'Man, ye're a dab, and no mistake! As clean a line as ever I saw cast!

It's no the first time _you've_ handled a salmon-rod, I'll be bound!'

'It's the best rod I've ever had in my hand,' Ronald said, as he began

to reel in the line again. 'I'm much obliged to ye for letting me try a

cast--it's many a day now since I threw a line.'

They took the rod down and put it in its case.

'I'm much obliged to ye,' Ronald repeated (for the mere handling of this

rod had fired his veins with a strange kind of excitement). 'Will ye

come and take a dram?'

'No, thank ye, I'm a teetotaller,' said the other; and then he glanced

at Ronald curiously. 'But ye seem to ken plenty about dogs and about

fishing and so on--what are ye doing in Glasgow and the morn the

Twelfth? Ye are not a town lad?'

'No, I'm not; but I have to live in the town at present,' was the

answer. 'Well, good-day to ye; and many thanks for the trial o' the

rod.'

'Good-day, my lad; I wish I had your years and the strength o' your

shouthers.'

In passing Ronald said good-bye again to the handsome setters and the

spaniel and the old retriever; and then he went on and out of the

station, but it was not to return to his books. The seeing of so many

people going away to the north, the talking with the dogs, the trial of

the big salmon-rod, had set his brain a little wild. What if he were to

go back and beg of the withered old man to take him with him--ay, even

as the humblest of gillies, to watch, gaff in hand, by the side of the

broad silver-rippling stream, or to work in a boat on a blue-ruffled

loch! To jump into a third-class carriage and know that the firm

inevitable grip of the engine was dragging him away into the clearer

light, the wider skies, the glad free air! No wonder they said that

fisher folk were merry folk; the very jolting of the engine would in

such a case have a kind of music in it; how easily could one make a song

that would match with the swing of the train! It was in his head now,

as he rapidly and blindly walked away along the Cowcaddens, and along

the New City Road, and along the Western Road--random rhymes, random

verses, that the jolly company could sing together as the engine

thundered along--

_Out of the station we rattle away,_

_Wi' a clangour of axle and wheel;_

_There's a merrier sound that we knew in the north--_

_The merry, merry shriek of the reel!_

_O you that shouther the heavy iron gun,_

_And have steep, steep braes to speel--_

_We envy you not; enough is for us_

_The merry, merry shriek of the reel!_

_When the twenty-four pounder leaps in the air,_

_And the line flies out with a squeal--_

_O that is the blessedest sound upon earth,_

_The merry, merry shriek of the reel!_

_So here's to good fellows!--for them that are not,_

_Let them gang and sup kail wi' the deil!_

_We've other work here--so look out, my lads,_

_For the first, sharp shriek of the reel!_

He did not care to put the rough-jolting verses down on paper, for the

farther and the more rapidly he walked away out of the town the more was

his brain busy with pictures and visions of all that they would be doing

at this very moment at Inver-Mudal.

'God bless me,' he said to himself, 'I could almost swear I hear the

dogs whimpering in the kennels.'

There would be the young lads looking after the panniers and the ponies;

and the head-keeper up at the lodge discussing with Lord Ailine the best

way of taking the hill in the morning, supposing the wind to remain in

the same direction; and Mr. Murray at the door of the inn, smoking his

pipe as usual; and the pretty Nelly indoors waiting upon the shooting

party just arrived from the south and listening to all their wants. And

Harry would be wondering, amid all this new bustle and turmoil, why his

master did not put in an appearance; perhaps scanning each succeeding

dog-cart or waggonette that came along the road; and then, not so

blithe-spirited, making his way to the Doctor's house. Comfort awaited

him there, at all events; for Ronald had heard that Meenie had taken

pity on the little terrier, and that it was a good deal oftener with her

than at the inn. Only all this seemed now so strange; the great dusk

city lay behind him like a nightmare from which he had but partially

escaped, and that with tightened breath; and he seemed to be straining

his ears to catch those soft and friendly voices so far away. And then

later on, as the darkness fell, what would be happening there? The lads

would be coming along to the inn; lamps lit, and chairs drawn in to the

table; Mr. Murray looking in at times with his jokes, and perhaps with a

bit of a treat on so great an occasion. And surely--surely--as they

begin to talk of this year and of last year and of the changes--surely

some one will say--perhaps Nelly, as she brings in the ale--but surely

some one will say--as a mere word of friendly remembrance--'Well, I wish

Ronald was here now with his pipes, to play us _The Barren Rocks of

Aden_? Only a single friendly word of remembrance--it was all that he

craved.

He struck away south through Dowanhill and Partick, and crossed the

Clyde at Govan Ferry; then he made his way back to the town and Jamaica

Street bridge; and finally, it being now dusk, looked in to see whether

Mrs. Menzies was at leisure for the evening.

'What's the matter, Ronald?' she said instantly, as he entered, for she

noticed that his look was careworn and strange.

'Well, Katie, lass, I don't quite know what's the matter wi' me, but I

feel as if I just couldna go back to that room of mine and sit there by

myself--at least not yet; I think I've been put a bit daft wi' seeing

the people going away for the Twelfth; and if ye wouldna mind my sitting

here for a while with ye, for the sake o' company----'

'Mind!' she said. 'Mind! What I do mind is that you should be ganging

to that lodging-house at a', when there's a room--and a comfortable

room, though I say it that shouldn't--in this very house at your

disposal, whenever ye like to bring your trunk till it. There it is--an

empty room, used by nobody--and who more welcome to it than my ain

cousin? I'll tell ye what, Ronald, my lad, ye're wearing yoursel' away

on a gowk's errand. Your certificate! How do ye ken ye'll get your

certificate? How do ye ken ye will do such great things with it when ye

get it? You're a young man; you'll no be a young man twice; what I say

is, take your fling when ye can get it! Look at Jimmy Laidlaw--he's off

the first thing in the morning to the Mearns--L15 for his share of the

shooting--do ye think he can shoot like you?--and why should ye no have

had your share too?'

'Well, it was very kind of you, Katie, woman, to make the offer;

but--but--there's a time for everything.'

'Man, I could have driven ye out every morning in the dog-cart! and

welcome. I'm no for having young folk waste the best years of their

life, and find out how little use the rest o't's to them--no that I

consider mysel' one o' the auld folk yet----'

'You, Katie dear!' whined old mother Paterson from her millinery corner.

'You--just in the prime o' youth, one micht say! you one o' the auld

folk?--ay, in thirty years' time maybe!'

'Take my advice, Ronald, my lad,' said the widow boldly. 'Dinna slave

away for naething--because folk have put fancy notions into your head.

Have a better opinion o' yoursel'! Take your chance o' life when ye can

get it--books and books, what's the use o' books?'

'Too late now--I've made my bed and maun lie on it,' he said gloomily;

but then he seemed to try to shake off this depression. 'Well, well,

lass, Rome was not built in a day. And if I were to throw aside my

books, what then? How would that serve? Think ye that that would make

it any the easier for me to get a three-weeks' shooting wi' Jimmy

Laidlaw?'

'And indeed ye might have had that in any case, and welcome,' said Kate

Menzies, with a toss of her head. 'Who is Jimmy Laidlaw, I wonder! But

it's no use arguin' wi' ye, Ronald, lad; he that will to Cupar maun to

Cupar;' only I dinna like to see ye looking just ill.'

'Enough said, lass; I didna come here to torment ye with my wretched

affairs,' he answered; and at this moment the maidservant entered to lay

the cloth for supper, while Mrs. Menzies withdrew to make herself

gorgeous for the occasion.

He was left with old mother Paterson.

'There's none so blind as them that winna see,' she began, in her

whining voice.

'What is't?'

'Ay, ay,' she continued, in a sort of maundering soliloquy, 'a braw

woman like that--and free-handed as the day--she could have plenty

offers if she liked; But there's none so blind as them that winna see.

There's Mr. Laidlaw there, a good-looking man, and wan wi' a good penny

at the bank; and wouldna he just jump at the chance, if she had a nod or

a wink for him? But Katie was aye like that--headstrong; she would aye

have her ain way--and there she is, a single woman, a braw, handsome,

young woman--and weel provided for--weel provided for--only it's no

every one that takes her fancy. A prize like that, to be had for the

asking! Dear me--but there's nane so blind as them that winna see.'

It was not by any means the first time that mother Paterson had managed

to drop a few dark hints--and much to his embarrassment, moreover, for

he could not pretend to ignore their purport. Nay, there was something

more than that. Kate Menzies's rough-and-ready friendliness for her

cousin had of late become more and more pronounced--almost obtrusive,

indeed. She wanted to have the mastery of his actions altogether. She

would have him pitch his books aside and come for a drive with her

whether he was in the humour or no. She offered him the occupancy of a

room which, if it was not actually within the tavern, communicated with

it. She seemed unable to understand why he should object to her paying

L15 to obtain for him a share in a small bit of conjoint shooting out at

the Mearns. And so forth in many ways. Well, these things, taken by

themselves, he might have attributed to a somewhat tempestuous

good-nature; but here was this old woman, whenever a chance occurred,

whining about the folly of people who did not see that Katie dear was so

handsome and generous and so marvellous a matrimonial prize. Nor could

he very well tell her to mind her own business, for that would be

admitting that he understood her hints.

However, on this occasion he had not to listen long; for presently Mrs.

Menzies returned, smiling, good-natured, radiant in further finery; and

then they all had supper together; and she did her best to console her

cousin for being cooped up in the great city on the eve of the Twelfth.

And Ronald was very grateful to her; and perhaps, in his eager desire to

keep up this flow of high spirits, and to forget what was happening at

Inver-Mudal and about to happen, he may have drunk a little too much; at

all events, when Laidlaw and Jaap and the skipper came in they found him

in a very merry mood, and Kate Menzies equally hilarious and happy.

Songs?--he was going to no Harmony Club that night, he declared--he

would sing them as many songs as ever they liked--but he was not going

to forsake his cousin. Nor were the others the least unwilling to

remain where they were; for here they were in privacy, and the singing

was better, and the liquor unexceptionable. The blue smoke rose quietly

in the air; the fumes of Long John warmed blood and brain; and then from

time to time they heard of the brave, or beautiful, or heart-broken

maidens of Scotch song--Maggie Lauder, or Nelly Munro, or Barbara Allan,

as the chance might be--and music and good fellowship and whisky all

combined to throw a romantic halo round these simple heroines.

'But sing us one o' your own, Ronald, my lad--there's none better, and

that's what I say!' cried the widow; and as she happened to be passing

his chair at the time--going to the sideboard for some more lemons, she

slapped him on the shoulder by way of encouragement.

'One o' my own?' said he. 'But which--which--lass? Oh, well, here's

one.'

He lay back in his chair, and quite at haphazard and carelessly and

jovially began to sing--in that clearly penetrating voice that neither

tobacco smoke nor whisky seemed to affect--

_Roses white, roses red,_

_Roses in the lane,_

_Tell me, roses red and white,_

_Where is----_

And then suddenly something seemed to grip his heart. But the stumble

was only for the fiftieth part of a second. He continued:

_Where is Jeannie gane?_

And so he finished the careless little verses. Nevertheless, Kate

Menzies, returning to her seat, had noticed that quick, instinctive

pulling of himself up.

'And who's Jeannie when she's at home?' she asked saucily.

'Jeannie?' he said, with apparent indifference. 'Jeannie? There's

plenty o' that name about.'

'Ay; and how many o' them are at Inver-Mudal?' she asked, regarding him

shrewdly, and with an air which he resented.

But the little incident passed. There was more singing, drinking,

smoking, talking of nonsense and laughing. And at last the time came for

the merry companions to separate; and he went away home through the dark

streets alone. He had drunk too much, it must be admitted; but he had a

hard head; and he had kept his wits about him; and even now as he

ascended the stone stairs to his lodgings he remembered with a kind of

shiver, and also with not a little heartfelt satisfaction, how he had

just managed to save himself from bringing Meenie's name before that

crew.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*ENTANGLEMENTS.*

And then came along the great evening on which the first of Ronald's

songs that Mr. Jaap had set to music was to be sung at the Harmony Club.

Ronald had unluckily got into the way of going a good deal to that club.

It was a relief from weary days and vain regrets; it was a way of escape

from the too profuse favours that Kate Menzies wished to shower upon

him. Moreover, he had become very popular there. His laugh was hearty;

his jokes and sarcasms were always good-natured; he could drink with the

best without getting quarrelsome. His acquaintanceship rapidly

extended; his society was eagerly bid for, in the rough-and-ready

fashion that prevails towards midnight; and long after the club was

closed certain of these boon-companions would 'keep it up' in this or

the other bachelor's lodgings, while through the open window there rang

out into the empty street the oft-repeated chorus--

_'We are na fou', we're nae that fou',_

_But just a drappie in our e'e;_

_The cock may craw, the day may daw,_

_And aye we'll taste the barky bree!'_

The night-time seemed to go by so easily; the daytime was so slow. He

still did his best, it is true, to get on with this work that had so

completely lost all its fascination for him; and he tried hard to banish

dreams. For one thing, he had gathered together all the fragments of

verse he had written about Meenie, and had added thereto the little

sketch of Inver-Mudal she had given him; and that parcel he had

resolutely locked away, so that he should no longer be tempted to waste

the hours in idle musings, and in useless catechising of himself as to

how he came to be in Glasgow at all. He had forborne to ask from Maggie

the answer that Meenie had sent to her letter. In truth, there were

many such; for there was almost a constant correspondence between these

two; and as the chief subject of Maggie's writings was always and ever

Ronald, there were no doubt references to him in the replies that came

from Inver-Mudal. But he only heard vaguely of these; he did not call

often at his brother's house; and he grew to imagine that the next

definite news he would hear about Meenie would be to the effect that she

had been sent to live with the Stuarts of Glengask, with a view to her

possible marriage with some person in their rank of life.

There was a goodly to-do at the Harmony Club on the evening of the

production of the new song; for Ronald, as has been said, was much of a

favourite; and his friends declared that if Jaap's music was at all up

to the mark, then the new piece would be placed on the standard and

permanent list. Mr. Jaap's little circle, on the other hand, who had

heard the air, were convinced that the refrain would be caught at once;

and as the success of the song seemed thus secure, Mrs. Menzies had

resolved to celebrate the occasion by a supper after the performance,

and Jimmy Laidlaw had presented her, for that purpose, with some game

which he declared was of his own shooting.

'What's the use o' making such a fuss about nothing?' Ronald grumbled.

'What?' retorted the big skipper facetiously. 'Naething? Is bringing

out a new poet naething?'

Now this drinking song, as it turned out, was a very curious kind of

drinking song. Observe that it was written by a young fellow of

eight-and-twenty; of splendid physique, and of as yet untouched nerve,

who could not possibly have had wide experience of the vanities and

disappointments of human life. What iron had entered into his soul,

then, that a gay and joyous drinking song should have been written in

this fashion?--

_Good friends and neighbours, life is short,_

_And man, they say, is made to mourn;_

_Dame Fortune makes us all her sport,_

_And laughs our very best to scorn:_

_Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,_

_A merry glass before we go._

_The blue-eyed lass will change her mind,_

_And give her kisses otherwhere;_

_And she'll be cruel that was kind,_

_And pass you by with but a stare:_

_Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,_

_A merry glass before we go._

_The silly laddie sits and fills_

_Wi' dreams and schemes the first o' life;_

_And then comes heap on heap o' ills,_

_And squalling bairns and scolding wife:_

_Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,_

_A merry glass before we go._

_Come stir the fire and make us warm;_

_The night without is dark and wet;_

_An hour or twa 'twill do nae harm_

_The dints o' fortune to forget:_

_So now will have, come weal or woe,_

_Another glass before we go._

_To bonny lasses, honest blades,_

_We'll up and give a hearty cheer;_

_Contention is the worst of trades--_

_We drink their health, both far and near:_

_And so we'll have, come weal or woe,_

_Another glass before we go._

_And here's ourselves!--no much to boast;_

_For man's a wean that lives and learns;_

_And some win hame, and some are lost;_

_But still--we're all John Thomson's bairns!_

_So here, your hand!--come weal or woe,_

_Another glass before we go!_

'_And some win hame, and some are lost_'--this was a curious note to

strike in a bacchanalian song; but of course in that atmosphere of

tobacco and whisky and loud-voiced merriment such minor touches were

altogether unnoticed.

'Gentlemen,' called out the rubicund chairman, rapping on the table,

'silence, if you please. Mr. Aikman is about to favour us with a new

song written by our recently-elected member, Mr. Ronald Strang, the

music by our old friend Mr. Jaap. Silence--silence, if you please.'

Mr. Aikman, who was a melancholy-looking youth, with a white face,

straw-coloured hair, and almost colourless eyes, stepped on to the

platform, and after the accompanist had played a few bars of prelude,

began the song. Feeble as the young man looked, he had,

notwithstanding, a powerful baritone voice; and the air was simple, with

a well-marked swing in it; so that the refrain--at first rather

uncertain and experimental--became after the first verse more and more

general, until it may be said that the whole room formed the chorus.

And from the very beginning it was clear that the new song was going to

be a great success. Any undercurrent of reflection--or even of

sadness--there might be in it was not perceived at all by this roaring

assemblage; the refrain was the practical and actual thing; and when

once they had fairly grasped the air, they sang the chorus with a will.

Nay, amid the loud burst of applause that followed the last verse came

numerous cries for an encore; and these increased until the whole room

was clamorous; and then the pale-faced youth had to step back on to the

platform and get through all of the verses again.

_'So here, your hand!--come weal or woe,_

_Another glass before we go!'_

roared the big skipper and Jimmy Laidlaw with the best of them; and then

in the renewed thunder of cheering that followed--

'Man, I wish Kate Menzies was here,' said the one; and--

'Your health, Ronald, lad; ye've done the trick this time,' said the

other.

'Gentlemen,' said the chairman, again calling them to silence, 'I

propose that the thanks of the club be given to these two members whom I

have named, and who have kindly allowed us to place this capital song on

our permanent list.'

'I second that, Mr. Chairman,' said a little, round, fat man, with a

beaming countenance and a bald head; 'and I propose that we sing that

song every night just afore we leave.'

But this last suggestion was drowned amidst laughter and cries of

dissent. 'What?--instead of "Auld Lang Syne"?' 'Ye're daft, John

Campbell.' 'Would ye hae the ghost o' Robbie Burns turning up?'

Indeed, the chairman had to interpose and suavely say that while the

song they had just heard would bring any such pleasant evenings as they

spent together to an appropriate close, still, they would not disturb

established precedent; there would be many occasions, he hoped, for them

to hear this production of two of their most talented members.

In the interval of noise and talk and laughter that followed, it seemed

to Ronald that half the people in the hall wanted him to drink with

them. Fame came to him in the shape of unlimited proffers of glasses of

whisky; and he experienced so much of the delight of having become a

public character as consisted in absolute strangers assuming the right

to make his acquaintance off-hand. Of course they were all members of

the same club; and in no case was very strict etiquette observed within

these four walls; nevertheless Ronald found that he had immediately and

indefinitely enlarged the circle of his acquaintance; and that this

meant drink.

'Another glass?' he said, to one of those strangers who had thus

casually strolled up to the table where he sate. 'My good friend, there

was nothing said in that wretched song about a caskful. I've had too

many other ones already.'

However, relief came; the chairman hammered on the table; the business

of the evening was resumed; and the skipper, Jaap, Laidlaw, and Ronald

were left to themselves.

Now there is no doubt that this little circle of friends was highly

elated over the success of the new song; and Ronald had been pleased

enough to hear the words he had written so quickly caught up and echoed

by that, to him, big assemblage. Probably, too, they had all of them,

in the enthusiasm of the moment, been somewhat liberal in their cups; at

all events, a little later on in the evening, when Jimmy Laidlaw

stormily demanded that Ronald should sing a song from the platform--to

show them what East Lothian could do, as Kate Menzies had said--Ronald

did not at once, as usual, shrink from the thought of facing so large an

audience. It was the question of the accompaniment, he said. He had

had no practice in singing to a piano. He would put the man out. Why

should he not sing here--if sing he must--at the table where they were

sitting? That was what he was used to; he had no skill in keeping

correct time; he would only bother the accompanist, and bewilder

himself.

'No, I'll tell ye what it is, Ronald, my lad,' his friend Jaap said to

him. 'I'll play the accompaniment for ye, if ye pick out something I'm

familiar wi'; and don't you heed me; you look after yourself. Even if

ye change the key--and that's not likely--I'll look after ye. Is't a

bargain?'

Well, he was not afraid--on this occasion. It was announced from the

chair that Mr. Ronald Strang, to whom they were already indebted, would

favour the company with 'The MacGregors' Gathering,' accompanied by Mr.

Jaap; and in the rattle of applause that followed this announcement,

Ronald made his way across the floor and went up the couple of steps

leading to the platform. Why he had consented he hardly knew, nor did

he stay to ask. It was enough that he had to face this long hall, and

its groups of faces seen through the pale haze of the tobacco smoke; and

then the first notes of the piano startled him into the necessity of

getting into the same key. He began--a little bewildered, perhaps, and

hearing his own voice too consciously--

_'The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,_

_And the clan has a name that is nameless by day.'_

'Louder, man, louder!' the accompanist muttered, under his breath.

Whether it was this admonition, or whether it was that he gained

confidence from feeling himself in harmony with the firm-struck notes of

the accompaniment, his voice rose in clearness and courage, and he got

through the first verse with very fair success. Nay, when he came to

the second, and the music went into a pathetic minor, the sensitiveness

of his ear still carried him through bravely--

_'Glenorchy's proud mountains, Colchurn and her towers,_

_Glenstrae and Glen Lyon no longer are ours--_

_We're landless, landless, landless, Gregalach.'_

All this was very well done; for he began to forget his audience a

little, and to put into his singing something of the expression that had

come naturally enough to him when he was away on the Clebrig slopes or

wandering along Strath-Terry. As for the audience--when he had finished

and stepped back to his seat--they seemed quite electrified. Not often

had such a clear-ringing voice penetrated that murky atmosphere. But

nothing would induce Ronald to repeat the performance.

'What made me do it?' he kept asking himself. 'What made me do it?

Bless me, surely I'm no fou'?'

'Ye've got a most extraordinarily fine voice, Mr. Strang,' the chairman

said, in his most complaisant manner, 'I hope it's not the last time

ye'll favour us.'

Ronald did not answer this. He seemed at once moody and restless.

Presently he said--

'Come away, lads, come away. In God's name let's get a breath o' fresh

air--the smoke o' this place is like the bottomless pit.'

'Then let's gang down and have a chat wi' Kate Menzies,' said Jimmy

Laidlaw at once.

'Ye're after that supper, Jimmy!' the big skipper said facetiously.

'What for no? Would ye disappoint the woman; and her sae anxious to

hear what happened to Strang's poetry? Come on, Ronald--she'll be as

proud as Punch. And we'll tell her about "The MacGregors'

Gathering"'--she said East Lothian would show them something.'

'Very well, then--very well; anything to get out o' here,' Ronald said;

and away they all went down to the tavern.

The widow received them most graciously; and very sumptuous indeed was

the entertainment she had provided for them. She knew that the drinking

song would be successful--if the folk had common sense and ears. And he

had sung 'The MacGregors' Gathering' too?--well, had they ever heard

singing like that before?

'But they have been worrying you?' she said, glancing shrewdly at him.

'Or, what's the matter--ye look down in the mouth--indeed, Ronald, ye've

never looked yoursel' since the night ye came in here just before the

grouse-shooting began. Here, man, drink a glass o' champagne; that'll

rouse ye up.'

Old mother Paterson was at this moment opening a bottle.

'Not one other drop of anything, Katie, lass, will I drink this night,'

Ronald said.

'What? A lively supper we're likely to have, then!' the widow cried.

'Where's your spunk, man? I think ye're broken-hearted about some

lassie--that's what it is! Here, now.'

She brought him the foaming glass of champagne; but he would not look at

it.

'And if I drink to your health out o' the same glass?'

She touched the glass with her lips.'

'There, now, if you're a man, ye'll no refuse noo.'

Nor could he. And then the supper came along; and there was eating and

talking and laughing and further drinking, until a kind of galvanised

hilarity sprang up once more amongst them. And she would have Ronald

declare to them which of the lasses in Sutherlandshire it was who had

broken his heart for him; and, in order to get her away from that

subject, he was very amenable in her hands, and would do anything she

bade him, singing first one song and then another, and not refusing the

drinking of successive toasts. As for the others, they very prudently

declined having anything to do with champagne. But Ronald was her pet,

her favourite; and she had got a special box of cigars for him--all

wrapped up in silverfoil and labelled; and she would have them tell her

over and over again how Ronald's voice sounded in the long hall when he

sang--

_'Glenstrae and Glen Lyon no longer are ours?_

and she would have them tell her again of the thunders of cheering that

followed--

_'Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,_

_Another glass before we go.'_

Nay, she would have them try a verse or two of it there and then--led by

Mr. Jaap; and she herself joined in the chorus; and they clinked their

glasses together, and were proud of their vocalisation and their good

comradeship. Indeed, they prolonged this jovial evening as late as the

law allowed them; and then the widow said gaily--

'There's that poor man thinks I'm gaun to allow him to gang away to that

wretched hole o' a lodging o' his, where he's just eating his heart out

wi' solitariness and a wheen useless books. But I'm not. I ken better

than that, Ronald, my lad. Whilst ye've a' been singing and roaring,

I've had a room got ready for ye; and there ye'll sleep this night, my

man--for I'm not going to hae ye march away through the lonely streets,

and maybe cut your throat ere daybreak; and ye can lock yourself in, if

ye're feared that any warlock or bogle is likely to come and snatch ye;

and in the morning ye'll come down and have your breakfast wi' auntie

Paterson and me--and then--what then? What do ye think? When the

dog-cart's at the door, and me gaun to drive ye oot to Campsie Glen?

There, laddie, that's the programme; and wet or dry is my motto. If

it's wet we'll sing "Come under my plaidie"; and we'll take a drop o'

something comfortable wi' us to keep out the rain.'

'I wish I was gaun wi' ye, Mistress,' the big skipper said.

'Two's company and three's none,' said Kate Menzies, with a frank laugh.

'Is't a bargain, Ronald?'

'It's a bargain, lass; and there's my hand on't,' he said. 'Now, where's

this room--for I don't know whether it has been the smoke, or the

singing, or the whisky, or all o' them together, but my head's like a

ship sailing before the wind, without any helm to steer her.'

'Your head!' she said proudly. 'Your head's like iron, man; there's

nothing the matter wi' ye. And here's Alec--he'll show you where your

room is; and in the morning ring for whatever ye want; mind ye, a glass

o' champagne and angostura bitters is just first-rate; and we'll have

breakfast at whatever hour ye please--and then we'll be off to Campsie

Glen.'

The little party now broke up, each going his several way; and Ronald,

having bade them all good-night, followed the ostler-lad Alec along one

or two gloomy corridors until he found the room that had been prepared

for him. As he got to bed he was rather sick and sorry about the whole

night's proceedings, he scarcely knew why; and his thinking faculty was

in a nebulous condition; and he only vaguely knew that he would rather

not have pledged himself to go to Campsie Glen on the following morning.

No matter--'_another glass before we go_,' that was the last of the song

they had all shouted: he had forgotten that other line--'_and some win

hame, and some are lost_.'

*CHAPTER XV.*

*CAMPSIE GLEN.*

The next morning, between nine and ten o'clock, there was a rapping at

his door, and then a further rapping, and then he awoke--confused,

uncertain as to his whereabouts, and with his head going like a

threshing machine. Again there came the loud rapping.

'Come in, then,' he called aloud.

The door was opened, and there was the young widow, smiling and jocund

as the morn, and very smartly attired; and alongside of her was a

servant-lass bearing a small tray, on which were a tumbler, a pint

bottle of champagne, and some angostura bitters.

'Bless me, woman,' he said, 'I was wondering where I was. And what's

this now?--do ye want to make a drunkard o' me?'

'Not I,' said Kate Menzies blithely, 'I want to make a man o' ye. Ye'll

just take a glass o' this, Ronald, my lad; and then ye'll get up and

come down to breakfast; for we're going to have a splendid drive. The

weather's as bright and clear as a new shilling; and I've been up since

seven o'clock, and I'm free for the day now. Here ye are, lad; this'll

put some life into ye.'

She shook a few drops of bitters into the tumbler, and then poured out a

foaming measure of the amber-coloured wine, and offered it to him. He

refused to take it.

'I canna look at it, lass. There was too much o' that going last

night.'

'And the very reason you should take a glass now!' she said. 'Well,

I'll leave it on the mantelpiece, and ye can take it when ye get up.

Make haste, Ronald, lad; it's a pity to lose so fine a morning.'

When they had left, he dressed as rapidly as possible, and went down.

Breakfast was awaiting him--though it did not tempt him much. And then,

by and by, the smart dog-cart was at the door; and a hamper was put in;

and Kate Menzies got up and took the reins. There was no

sick-and-sorriness about her at all events. She was radiant and

laughing and saucy; she wore a driving-coat fastened at the neck by a

horse-shoe brooch of brilliants, and a white straw hat with a

wide-sweeping jet-black ostrich feather. It was clear that the tavern

was a paying concern.

'And why will ye aye sit behind, Mr. Strang?' old mother Paterson

whined, as she made herself comfortable in front. 'I am sure Katie

would rather have ye here than an auld wife like me. Ye could talk to

her ever so much better.'

'That would be a way to go driving through Glasgow town,' he said, as he

swung himself up on the back seat; 'a man in front and a woman behind!

Never you fear; there can be plenty of talking done as it is.'

But as they drove away through the city--and even Glasgow looked quite

bright and cheerful on this sunny morning, and there was a stirring of

cool air that was grateful enough to his throbbing temples--it appeared

that the buxom widow wanted to have most of the talking to herself. She

was very merry; and laughed at his penitential scorn of himself; and was

for spurring him on to further poetical efforts.

'East Lothian for ever!' she was saying, as they got away out by the

north of the town. 'Didna I tell them? Ay, and ye've got to do

something better yet, Ronald, my lad, than the "other glass before we

go." You're no at that time o' life yet to talk as if everything had

gone wrong; and the blue-eyed lass--what blue-eyed lass was it, I

wonder, that passed ye by with but a stare? Let her, and welcome, the

hussy; there's plenty others. But no, my lad, what I want ye to write

is a song about Scotland, and the East Lothian part o't especially.

Ye've no lived long enough in the Hielans to forget your ain country,

have ye? and where's there a song about Scotland nowadays? "Caledonia's

hills and dales"?--stuff!--I wonder Jaap would hae bothered his head

about rubbish like that. No, no; we'll show them whether East Lothian

canna do the trick!--and it's no the Harmony Club but the City Hall o'

Glasgow that ye'll hear that song sung in--that's better like! Ye mind

what Robbie says, Ronald, my lad?--

_'E'en then a wish, I mind its power--_

_A wish that to my latest hour_

_Shall strongly heave my breast--_

_That I for poor auld Scotland's sake,_

_Some usefu' plan or book could make,_

_Or sing a sang at least.'_

That's what ye've got to do yet, my man.'

And so they bowled along the wide whinstone road, out into this open

landscape that seemed to lie behind a thin veil of pale-blue smoke. It

was the country, no doubt; but a kind of sophisticated country; there

were occasional grimy villages and railway-embankments and canals and

what not; and the pathway that ran alongside the wide highway was of

black ashes--not much like a Sutherlandshire road. However, as they got

still farther away from the town matters improved. There were hedges

and woods--getting a touch of the golden autumn on their foliage now;

the landscape grew brighter; those hills far ahead of them rose into a

fairly clear blue sky. And then the brisk motion and the fresher air

seemed to drive away from him the dismal recollections of the previous

night; he ceased to upbraid himself for having been induced to sing

before all those people; he would atone for the recklessness of his

potations by taking greater care in the future. So that when in due

course of time they reached the inn at the foot of Campsie Glen, and had

the horse and trap put up, and set out to explore the beauties of that

not too savage solitude, he was in a sufficiently cheerful frame of

mind, and Kate Menzies had no reason to complain of her companion.

They had brought a luncheon basket with them; and as he had refused the

proffered aid of a stable-lad, he had to carry this himself, and Kate

Menzies was a liberal provider. Accordingly, as they began to make their

way up the steep and slippery ascent--for rain had recently fallen, and

the narrow path was sloppy enough--he had to leave the two women to look

after themselves; and a fine haphazard scramble and hauling and

pushing--with screams of fright and bursts of laughter--ensued. This

was hardly the proper mood in which to seek out Nature in her sylvan

retreats; but the truth is that the glen itself did not wear a very

romantic aspect. No doubt there were massive boulders in the bed of the

stream; and they had to clamber past precipitous rocks; and overhead was

a wilderness of foliage. But everything was dull-hued somehow, and

damp-looking, and dismal; the green-mossed boulders, the stems of the

trees, the dark red earth were all of a sombre hue; while here and there

the eye caught sight of a bit of newspaper, or of an empty soda-water

bottle, or perchance of the non-idyllic figure of a Glasgow youth seated

astride a fallen bough, a pot-hat on his head and a Manilla cheroot in

his mouth. But still, it was more of the country than the Broomielaw;

and when Kate and her companion had to pause in their panting struggle

up the slippery path, and after she had recovered her breath

sufficiently to demand a halt, she would turn to pick ferns from the

dripping rocks, or to ask Ronald if there were any more picturesque

place than this in Sutherlandshire. Now Ronald was not in the least

afflicted by the common curse of travellers--the desire for comparison;

he was well content to say that it was a 'pretty bit glen'; for one

thing his attention was chiefly devoted to keeping his footing, for the

heavy basket was a sore encumbrance.

However, after some further climbing, they reached certain drier

altitudes; and there the hamper was deposited, while they looked out for

such trunks or big stones as would make convenient seats. The old woman

was speechless from exhaustion; Kate was laughing at her own

breathlessness, or miscalling the place for having dirtied her boots and

her skirts; while Ronald was bringing things together for their comfort,

so that they could have their luncheon in peace. This was not quite the

same kind of a luncheon party as that he had attended on the shores of

the far northern loch--with Miss Carry complacently regarding the

silver-clear salmon lying on the smooth, dry greensward; and the

American talking in his friendly fashion of the splendid future that lay

before a capable and energetic young fellow in the great country beyond

the seas; while all around them the sweet air was blowing, and the clear

light shining, and the white clouds sailing high over the Clebrig

slopes. Things were changed with him since then--he did not himself

know how much they had changed. But in all circumstances he was

abundantly good-natured and grateful for any kindness shown him; and as

Kate Menzies had projected this trip mainly on his account, he did his

best to promote good-fellowship, and was serviceable and handy, and took

her raillery in excellent part.

'Katie dear,' whimpered old mother Paterson, as Ronald took out the

things from the hamper, 'ye jist spoil every one that comes near ye.

Such extravagance--such waste--many's the time I wish ye would get

married, and have a man to look after ye----'

'Stop your havering--who would marry an auld woman like me?' said Mrs.

Menzies with a laugh. 'Ay, and what's the extravagance, noo, that has

driven ye oot o' your mind?'

'Champagne again!' the old woman said, shaking her head. 'Champagne

again! Dear me, it's like a Duke's house----'

'What, ye daft auld craytur? Would ye have me take my cousin Ronald for

his first trip to Campsie Glen, and bring out a gill o' whisky in a

soda-water bottle?'

'Indeed, Katie, lass, ye needna have brought one thing or the other for

me,' he said. 'It's a drop o' water, and nothing else, that will serve

my turn.'

'We'll see about that,' she said confidently.

Her provisioning was certainly of a sumptuous nature--far more

sumptuous, indeed, than the luncheons the rich Americans used to have

carried down for them to the lochside, and a perfect banquet as compared

with the frugal bit of cold beef and bread that Lord Ailine and his

friends allowed themselves on the hill. Then, as regards the champagne,

she would take no refusal--he had to submit. She was in the gayest of

moods; she laughed and joked; nay, at one point, she raised her glass

aloft, and waved it round her head, and sang--

_'O send Lewie Gordon hame,_

_And the lad I daurna name;_

_Though his back be at the wa',_

_Here's to him that's far awa'!'_

'What, what, lass?' Ronald cried grimly. 'Are ye thinking ye're in a

Highland glen? Do ye think it was frae places like this that the lads

were called out to follow Prince Charlie?'

'I carena--I carena!' she said; for what had trivial details of history

to do with a jovial picnic in Campsie Glen? 'Come, Ronald, lad, tune

up! Hang the Harmony Club!--give us a song in the open air!'

'Here goes, then--

_'It was about the Martinmas time,_

_And a gay time it was then, O,_

_That our guidwife had puddins to mak',_

_And she boiled them in the fan, O'--_

and then rang out the chorus, even the old mother Paterson joining in

with a feeble treble--

_'O the barrin' o' our door, weel, weel, weel,_

_And the barrin' o' our door, weel!'_

'Your health and song, Ronald!' she cried, when he had finished--or

rather when they all had finished. 'Man, if there was just a laddie

here wi' a fiddle or a penny whistle I'd get up and dance a Highland

Schottische wi' ye--auld as I am!'

After luncheon, they set out for further explorations (having deposited

the basket in a secret place) and always Kate Menzies's laugh was the

loudest, her jokes the merriest.

'Auld, say ye?' mother Paterson complained. 'A lassie--a very lassie!

Ye can skip about like a twa-year-auld colt.'

By and by they made their devious and difficult way down the glen again;

and they had tea at the inn; and then they set out to drive back to

Glasgow--and there was much singing the while. That is, up to a certain

point; for this easy homeward drive, as it turned out, was destined to

be suddenly and sharply stopped short, and that in a way that might have

produced serious consequences. They were bowling merrily along, taking

very little heed of anything on either side of them, when, as it

chanced, a small boy who had gone into a field to recover a kite that

had dropped there, came up unobserved behind the hedge, and threw the

kite over, preparatory to his struggling through himself. The sudden

appearance of this white thing startled the cob; it swerved to the other

side of the road, hesitated, and was like to rear, and then getting an

incautious cut from Kate's whip, away it tore along the highway, getting

completely the mastery of her. Ronald got up behind.

'Give me the reins, lass,' he called to her.

'I'll manage him--the stupid beast!' she said; with her teeth shut firm.

But all her pulling seemed to make no impression on the animal--nay, the

trap was now swaying and jolting about in a most ominous manner.

'If ye meet anything, we're done for, Kate--run the wheel into the

hedge.'

It was excellent advice, if it could have been properly followed; but

unluckily, just at the very moment when, with all her might and main,

she twisted the head of the cob to the side of the road, there happened

to be a deep ditch there. Over the whole thing went--Ronald and Mrs.

Menzies being pitched clean into the hedge; mother Paterson, not hanging

on so well, being actually deposited on the other side, but in a gradual

fashion. Oddly enough, the cob, with one or two pawings of his

forefeet, got on to the road again, and the trap righted itself; while a

farm-lad who had been coming along ran to the beast's head and held him.

As it turned out, there was no harm done at all.

But that, at first, was apparently not Kate Menzies's impression.

'Ronald, Ronald,' she cried, and she clung to him frantically, 'I'm

dying--I'm dying--kiss me!'

He had got a grip of her, and was getting her on to her feet again.

'There's nothing the matter wi' ye, woman,' he said, with unnecessary

roughness.

'Ronald, Ronald--I'm hurt--I'm dying--kiss me!' she cried, and she would

have fallen away from him, but that he gathered her up, and set her

upright on the road.

'There's nothing the matter wi' ye--what? tumbling into a hawthorn

hedge?--pull yourself together, woman! It's old mother Paterson that may

have been hurt.'

He left her unceremoniously to get over to the other side of the hedge,

and as he went off she darted a look of anger--of violent rage,

even--towards him, which happily he did not see. Moreover, she had to

calm herself; the farm lad was looking on. And when at length mother

Paterson--who was merely terrified, and was quite uninjured--was hoisted

over or through the hedge, and they all prepared to resume their seats

in the trap, Kate Menzies was apparently quite collected and mistress of

herself, though her face was somewhat pale, and her manner was

distinctly reserved and cold. She gave the lad a couple of shillings;

got up and took the reins; waited until the others were seated, and then

drove away without a word. Mother Paterson was loud in her thankfulness

over such a providential escape; she had only had her wrists scratched

slightly.

Ronald was sensible of her silence, though he could not well guess the

cause of it. Perhaps the fright had sobered down her high spirits; at

all events, she was now more circumspect with her driving; and, as her

attention was so much devoted to the cob, it was not for him to

interfere. As they drew near Glasgow, however, she relaxed the cold

severity of her manner, and made a few observations; and when they came

in sight of St. Rollox, she even condescended to ask him whether he

would not go on with them to the tavern and have some supper with them

as usual.

'I ought to go back to my work,' said he, 'and that's the truth. But it

would be a glum ending for such an unusual holiday as this.'

'Your prospects are not so very certain,' said Kate, who could talk

excellent English when she chose, and kept her broad Scotch for familiar

or affectionate intercourse. 'An hour or two one way or the other is

not likely to make much difference.'

'I am beginning to think that myself,' he said, rather gloomily.

And then, with a touch of remorse for the depressing speech she had

made, she tried to cheer him a little; and, in fact, insisted on his

going on with them. She even quoted a couplet from his own song to

him--

_'An hour or twa 'twill do nae harm,_

_The dints a' fortune to forget';_

and she said that, after the long drive, he ought to have a famous

appetite for supper, and that there would be a good story to tell about

their being shot into a hawthorn hedge, supposing that the skipper and

Laidlaw and Jaap came in in the evening.

Nevertheless, all during the evening there was a certain restraint in

her manner. Altogether gone was her profuse friendship and her pride in

East Lothian, although she remained as hospitable as ever. Sometimes

she regarded him sharply, as if trying to make out something. On his

part, he thought she was probably a little tired after the fatigues of

the day; perhaps, also, he preferred her quieter manner.

Then again, when the 'drei Gesellen' came in, there was a little less

hilarity than usual; and, contrary to her wont, she did not press them

to stay when they proposed to adjourn to the club. Ronald, who had been

vaguely resolving not to go near that haunt for some time to come, found

that that was the alternative to his returning to his solitary lodging

and his books at a comparatively early hour of the evening. Doubtless

he should have conquered his repugnance to this later course; but the

temptation--after a long day of pleasure-making--to finish up the last

hour or so in the society of these good fellows was great. He went to

the Harmony Club, and was made more welcome than ever; and somehow, in

the excitement of the moment, he was induced to sing another song, and

there were more people than ever claiming his acquaintance, and

challenging him to have 'another one.'

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*THE DOWNWARD WAY.*

With a fatal certainty he was going from bad to worse; and there was no

one to warn him; and if any one had warned him, probably he would not

have cared. Life had come to be for him a hopeless and useless thing.

His own instinct had answered true, when the American was urging him to

go and cast himself into the eager strife of the world, and press

forward to the universal goal of wealth and ease and independence. 'I'd

rather be "where the dun deer lie,"' he had said. Kingsley's poem had

taken firm root in his mind, simply because it found natural soil there.

_'Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben,_

_Scrabbling ower the sheets o' parchment with a weary, weary pen:_

_Looking through the lang stane windows at a narrow strip o' sky,_

_Like a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die._

_Ye'll bury me 'twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen far away,_

_Where I may hear the heathcock craw and the great harts bray;_

_And gin my ghaist can walk, mither, I'll go glowering at the sky,_

_The livelong night on the black hillsides where the dun deer lie.'_

His way of existence up there on the far hillsides--unlike that of the

luckless outlaw--had been a perfectly happy and contented one. His

sound common sense had put away from him that craving for fame which has

rendered so miserable the lives of many rustic verse writers; he was

proud of his occupation, grateful to the good friends around him, and

always in excellent health and spirits. Another thing has to be

said--to pacify the worthy folk who imagine that ambition must

necessarily fill the mind of youth: had he come away from that sphere of

careless content with a sufficient aim to strive for, perhaps affairs

might have gone differently. If it could have been said to him: 'Fight

your way to the worldly success that the Americans have so liberally

prophesied for you; and then come back, and you will find Meenie Douglas

awaiting you; and you shall win her and wear her, as the rose and crown

of your life, in spite of all the Stuarts of Glengask'--then the little

room in Port Dundas Road would no longer have been so gray; and all the

future would have been filled with light and hope; and the struggle,

however arduous and long, would have been glad enough. But with no such

hope; with increasing doubts as to his ultimate success; and with a more

dangerously increasing indifference as to whether he should ever reach

that success, the temptations of the passing hour became irresistibly

strong. And he became feebler to resist them. He did not care. After

all, these gay evenings at the Harmony Club were something to look

forward to during the long dull days; with a full glass and a good-going

pipe and a roaring chorus the hours passed; and then from time to time

there was the honour and glory of hearing one of his own songs sung. He

was a great figure at these gatherings now; that kind of fame at least

had come to him, and come to him unsought; and there were not wanting a

sufficiency of rather muddle-headed creatures who declared that he was

fit to rank with very distinguished names indeed in the noble roll-call

of Scotland's poets; and who, unfortunately, were only too eager to

prove the faith that was in them by asking him to drink at their

expense.

In this rhyming direction there was one very curious point: when he

began to turn over the various pieces that might be made available for

Mr. Jaap, he was himself astonished to find how little melody there was

in them. Whatever little musical faculty he had seemed to be all locked

up in the love-verses he had written about Meenie. Many of the fragments

had other qualities--homely common sense; patriotism; a great affection

for dumb animals; here and there sometimes a touch of humour or pathos;

but somehow they did not _sing_. It is true that the following piece--

_SHOUTHER TO SHOUTHER._

_From Hudson's Bay to the Rio Grand',_

_The Scot is ever a rover;_

_In New South Wales and in Newfoundland,_

_And all the wide world over;_

_Chorus: But it's shouther to shouther, my bonnie lads,_

_And let every Scot be a brither;_

_And we'll work as we can, and we'll win if we can,_

_For the sake of our auld Scotch mither._

_She's a puir auld wife, wi' little to give;_

_And she's rather stint o' caressing;_

_But she's shown us how honest lives we may live,_

_And she's sent us out wi' her blessing._

_Chorus: And it's shouther to shouther, etc._

_Her land's no rick; and her crops are slim;_

_And I winna say much for the weather;_

_But she's given us legs that can gaily clim'_

_Up the slopes o' the blossoming heather._

_Chorus: And it's shouther to shouther, etc._

_And she's given us hearts that, whatever they say_

_(And I trow that we might be better)_

_There's one sair fault they never will hae--_

_Our mither, we'll never forget her!_

_Chorus: And it's shouther to shouther, my bonnie lads,_

_And let every Scot be a brither;_

_And we'll work as we can, and we'll win if we can,_

_For the sake of our auld Scotch mither!_

had attained a great success at the Harmony Club; but that was merely

because Mr. Jaap had managed to write for it an effective air, that

could be easily caught up and sung in chorus; in itself there was no

simple, natural 'lilt' whatever. And then, again, in his epistolary

rhymes to friends and acquaintances (alas! that was all over now) there

were many obvious qualities, but certainly not the lyrical one. Here,

for example, are some verses he had sent in former days to a certain

Johnnie Pringle, living at Tongue, who had had his eye on a young lass

down Loch Loyal way:

_O Johnnie, leave the lass alane;_

_Her mother has but that one wean;_

_For a' the others have been ta'en,_

_As weel ye ken, Johnnie._

_'Tis true her bonnie e'en would rive_

_The heart o' any man alive;_

_And in the husry[#] she would thrive--_

_I grant ye that, Johnnie._

[#] 'Husry,' housewifery.

_But wad ye tak' awa the lass,_

_I tell ye what would come to pass,_

_The mother soon would hae the grass_

_Boon her auld head, Johnnie._

_They've got some gear, and bit o' land_

_That well would bear another hand;_

_Come down frae Tongue, and take your stand_

_By Loyal's side, Johnnie!_

_Ye'd herd a bit, and work the farm,_

_And keep the widow-wife frae harm:_

_And wha would keep ye snug and warm_

_In winter-time, Johnnie?--_

_The lass hersel'--that I'll be sworn!_

_And bonnier creature ne'er was born:_

_Come down the strath the morrow's morn,_

_Your best foot first, Johnnie!_

Well, there may be wise and friendly counsel in verses such as these;

but they do not lend themselves readily to the musician who would adapt

them for concert purposes. No; all such lyrical faculty as he possessed

had been given in one direction. And yet not for one moment was he

tempted to show Mr. Jaap any of those little love-lyrics that he had

written about Meenie--those careless verses that seemed to sing

themselves, as it were, and that were all about summer mornings, and red

and white roses, and the carolling of birds, and the whispering of

Clebrig's streams. Meenie's praises to be sung at the Harmony Club!--he

could as soon have imagined herself singing there.

One wet and miserable afternoon old Peter Jaap was passing through St.

Enoch Square when, much to his satisfaction, he ran against the big

skipper, who had just come out of the railway station.

'Hallo, Captain,' said the little old man, 'back already?'

'Just up frae Greenock; and precious glad to be ashore again, I can tell

ye,' said Captain M'Taggart. 'That _Mary Jane_ 'll be my grave, mark my

words; I never get as far south as the Mull o' Galloway without

wondering whether I'll ever see Ailsa Craig or the Tail o' the Bank

again. Well, here I am this time; and I was gaun doon to hae a glass on

the strength o't--to the widow's----'

'We'll gang in some other place,' Mr. Jaap said. 'I want to hae a word

wi' ye about that young fellow Strang.'

They easily discovered another howf; and soon they were left by

themselves in a little compartment, two big tumblers of ale before them.

'Ay, and what's the matter wi' him?' said the skipper.

'I dinna rightly ken,' the little old musician said, 'but something is.

Ye see, I'm feared the lad has no' muckle siller----'

'It's a common complaint, Peter!' the skipper said, with a laugh.

'Ay; but ye see, the maist o' us hae some way o' leevin. That's no the

case wi' Ronald. He came to Glasgow, as I understand it, wi' a sma' bit

nest-egg; and he's been leevin on that ever since--every penny coming

out o' his capital, and never a penny being added. That's enough to

make a young fellow anxious.'

'Ay?'

'But there's mair than that. He's a proud kind o' chiel. It's just

wonderfu' the way that Mrs. Menzies humours him, and pretends this and

that so he'll no be at any expense; and when they gang out driving she

takes things wi' her--and a lot o' that kind o' way o' working; but a'

the same there's sma' expenses that canna be avoided, and deil a

bit--she says--will he let her pay. And the sma' things maun be great

things to him, if he's eating into his nest-egg in that way.'

'It's easy getting out o' that difficulty,' said the big skipper, who

was of a less sympathetic nature than the old musician. 'What for does

he no stay at hame? He doesna need to gang driving wi' her unless he

likes.'

'It's no easy getting away frae Mrs. Menzies,' the old man said

shrewdly, 'if she has a mind to take ye wi' her. And she hersel' sees

that he canna afford to spend money even on little things; and yet she's

feared to say anything to him. Man, dinna ye mind when she wanted him

to take a room in the house?--what was that but that she meant him to

have his board free? But no--the deevil has got some o' the Hielan

pride in him; she was just feared to say anything mair about it. And at

the club, too, it's no every one he'll drink wi' though there's plenty

ready to stand Sam, now that Ronald is kent as a writer o' poetry. Not

that but wi' ithers he's ower free--ay, confound him, he's getting the

reputation o' a harum-scarum deil--if he takes a liking to a man, he'll

gang off wi' him and his neighbours for the time being, and goodness

knows when or where they'll stop. A bottle o' whisky in their pocket,

and off they'll make; I heard the other week o' him and some o' them

finding themselves at daybreak in Helensburgh--naught would do the

rascal the night before but that he maun hae a sniff o' the saut

sea-air; and off they set, him and them, the lang night through, until

the daylight found them staring across to Roseneath and Kempoch Point.

He's no in the best o' hands, that's the fact. If he would but marry

the widow----'

'What would Jimmy Laidlaw say to that?' the skipper said, with a loud

laugh.

'Jimmy Laidlaw? He hasna the ghost o' a chance so long as this young

fellow's about. Kate's just daft about him; but he's no inclined that

way, I can see--unless hunger should tame him. Weel, M'Taggart, I dinna

like to see the lad being led away to the mischief. He's got into ill

hands. If it's the want o' a settled way o' leevin that's worrying him,

and driving him to gang wild and reckless at times, something should be

done. I'm an auld man now; I've seen ower many young fellows like that

gang to auld Harry; and I like this lad--I'm no going to stand by and

look on without a word.'

'Ay, and what would ye hiv me dae, Peter? Take him as a hand on board

the _Mary Jane_?'

'Na, na. The lad maun gang on wi' his surveying and that kind o'

thing--though he seems less and less to think there'll be any solid

outcome frae it. But what think ye o' this? There's Mr. Jackson paying

they professionals from week to week; and here's a fellow wi' a finer

natural voice than any o' them--if it had but a little training. Well,

now, why shouldna Jackson pay the lad for his singing?'

'Not if he can get it for nothing, Peter!'

'But he canna--that's just the thing, man,' retorted the other. 'It's

only when Ronald has had a glass and is in the humour that he'll sing

anything. Why shouldna he be engaged like the others? It would be a

stand-by. It would take up none o' his time. And it might make him a

wee thing steadier if he kent he had to sing every night.'

'Very well, then, ask Tom Jackson about it,' the big skipper said. 'Ye

may say it would please the members--I'll back ye up wi' that. Confound

him, I didna ken the deevil had got his leg ower the trace.'

The old man answered with a cautious smile:

'Ye're rough and ready, M'Taggart; but that'll no do. Ronald's a

camstrairy chiel. There's Hielan blood in his veins; and ye never ken

when his pride is gaun to bleeze oot and be up the lum wi'm in a fluff.'

'Beggars canna be choosers, my good freen----'

'Beggars? They Hielan folk are never beggars; they'll rob and plunder

ye, and fling ye ower a hedge, and rifle your pockets, but deil a bit o'

them 'll beg. Na, na; we'll have to contrive some roundabout way to see

how he'll take it. But I'll speak to Jackson; and we'll contrive

something, I doubtna. Sae finish up your beer, Captain; and if ye're

gaun doon to see Mrs. Menzies, I'll gang as far wi' ye; I havena been

there this nicht or twa.'

Now that was an amiable and benevolent, but, as it turned out, most

unfortunate design. That same night Ronald did show up at the Harmony

Club; and there was a little more than usual of hilarity and good

fellowship over the return of the skipper from the perils of the deep.

Laidlaw was there too; and he also had been acquainted with the way in

which they meant to approach Ronald, to see whether he could not be

induced to sing regularly at these musical meetings for a stipulated

payment.

Their first difficulty was to get him to sing at all; and for a long

time he was good-humouredly obdurate, and they let him alone. But later

on in the evening one of his own songs was sung--'The fisher lads are

bound for hame'--and was received with immense applause, which naturally

pleased him; and then there was a good deal of talking and laughing and

conviviality; in the midst of which the skipper called to him--

'Now, Ronald, lad, tune up; I havena heard a song frae ye this three

weeks and mair; man, if I had a voice like yours wouldna I give them--

_'"The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,_

_Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry;_

_The ship rides by the Berwick Law,_

_And I maun leave my bonnie mary!"'_

And indeed he did, in this loud and general hum, sing these lines, in

tones resembling the sharpening of a rusty saw.

'Very well, then,' Ronald said. 'But I'll sing it where I am--once

there's quietness. I'm not going up on that platform.'

Of course, the chairman was glad enough to make the announcement, for

Ronald's singing was highly appreciated by the members; moreover there

was a little experiment to be tried. So peace was restored; the

accompanist struck a few notes; and Ronald, with a little indecision at

first, but afterwards with a clear-ringing courage, sang that gayest of

all parting songs. In the hubbub of applause that followed none but the

conspirators saw what now took place. The chairman called a waiter, and

spoke a few words to him in an undertone; the waiter went over to the

table where Ronald was sitting and handed him a small package; and then

Ronald, naturally thinking that this was merely a written message or

something of the kind, opened the folded piece of white paper.

There was a message, it is true,--'with T. Jackson's compliments,'--and

there was also a sovereign and a shilling. For an instant Ronald

regarded this thing with a kind of bewilderment; and then his eyes

blazed; the money was dashed on to the ground; and, without a word or a

look to any one in the place, he had clapped on his hat and stalked to

the door, his mouth firm shut, his lips pale. This glass door was a

private door leading to an outer passage formerly described; the handle

seemed stiff or awkward; so by main force he drove it before him, and

the door swinging back into the lobby, smashed its glass panels against

the wall. The 'breenge'--for there is no other word--caused by this

violent departure was tremendous; and the three conspirators could only

sit and look at each other.

'The fat's in the fire now,' said the skipper.

'I wonder if the guinea 'll pay for the broken glass,' said Jimmy

Laidlaw.

But it was the little old musician, whose scheme this had been, who was

most concerned.

'We'll have to get hold o' the lad and pacify him,' said he. 'The

Hielan deevil! But if he doesna come back here, he'll get among a worse

lot than we are--we'll have to get hold o' him, Captain, and bring him

to his senses.'

Well, in the end--after a day or two--Ronald was pacified; and he did go

back to the club, and resumed his relations with the friends and

acquaintances he had formed there. And that was how it came about that

Meenie's married sister--who happened to know certain members of the

Rev. Andrew Strang's congregation, and who was very curious to discover

why it was that Meenie betrayed such a singular interest in this mere

gamekeeper, and was repeatedly referring to him in her

correspondence--added this postscript to a letter which she was sending

to Inver-Mudal:

'I don't know whether it may interest you to hear that Ronald Strang,

Mr. Strang's brother, whom you have several times asked about, is

_drinking himself to death_, and that in the lowest of low company.'

END OF VOL. II.