"Ye'll be for the fushin', sir? Adam, that's my man, will give ye a'
the information. He's fell at the saumon; and muckle need to be fell
at something," added Janet; "for a mair fusionless man about a house
doesna exist. He's no made for an innkeeper. I'm aye telling him that;
but I might just as weel keep my breath for ither purposes. It never
does him ony good."
"It is all the more to your credit, Mrs.----"
"Oh, you needna fash your head about the mistress. I've aye been Janet,
and Janet I'll be to the end o' the chapter. If there had been ony pith
in the man, we might, maybe, have risen like the rest of the world; for
he's no ignorant, nor yet a gommeral, though ye might think sae to see
him: but no pith in him--you would call it spirit, maybe, in English.
That's 'the stalk o' carle-hemp in man,' that Robert Burns speaks
about. You'll maybe mind? Na, he's no an ill man, but there's nae
carle-hemp in him. Sae I have a' upon my shoulders. And, if everything
shouldna be just as you wish, it'll be real kind to name it, Mr.
Murray. So you're Murray, too? there are a hantle Murrays hereabout.
Ye'll be of the Athol family, or----"
"I have lived abroad all my life," said Lewis, "and I have been an
orphan since I was very young--so that I know very little about my
relations."
He felt very self-conscious as he made this little explanation, and
thought it so awkward that he must be found out, but Janet was entirely
unsuspicious, and accepted it as a matter of course.
"Eh, that's an awfu' pity," she said, sympathetically; then added, "If
ye've been abroad so lang as that, ye'll maybe have met with auld Sir
Patrick about the world. That's the grandfather of our misses here--a
real grand-looking auld gentleman as ever I set eyes on--but, I'm
feared, sir, no sae good as he looked. He's been aye abroad sin ever I
mind, and the general and him didna gree; and he has left every penny
of his siller that he could meddle with, away frae his family. It's an
awfu' hard case," Janet said.
"I have heard something of that: and I think--I have met Sir Patrick."
"I wonder," said Janet, "if ye've seen the lad that did a' the
mischief!--a young Frenchman or foreigner he was--that creepit into the
auld gentleman's heart, and turned him against his ain flesh and blood.
I wouldna have that man's conscience for a' the siller."
"I've seen," said Lewis, colouring in spite of himself, "a young
man--to whom Sir Patrick had been very kind--and who loved him as if he
had been his father. They were like father and son for years. I don't
think he knew anything about the money."
"Eh, that's mair nor I can believe," said Janet, shaking her head.
"What was a' that for, if he kent nothing about the money? I canna
believe that."
"Do you think foreigners, as you call them, are such _canaille_--I
mean, such brutes and dogs----"
"I ken very well what canailye means," said Janet. "Well, I wouldna be
uncharitable. There's maybe some that are mair high-minded, but the
most of them, you'll allow, sir, are just for what they can get--'deed
the English are maistly the same, in my opinion;--and twa-three Scots,
too, for that matter," she added, with a laugh.
"You are entirely wrong in that," said Lewis, with some heat. "Don't
you know, in other places, it is the Scotch who are said to be so
interested and greedy--always grasping at advantage, always thinking
what is to pay."
"Weel," said Janet, "that just shows what I'm saying, how little we
ken about our neighbours. Murkley folk canna bide the Braehead, and
Braehead has aye an ill word conter Murkley. That's just the way o'
the world. Me that's a philosopher's wife, if I'm no philosophical
mysel'----"
"Are you a philosopher's wife?" said Lewis, restored to good-humour, as
she probably meant he should be, by this statement.
"Oh, sir, do you no ken that? That shows you're little acquaint with
this countryside," said Janet. "And yonder he is, just starting for the
water; and if I was a fine young gentleman like you, instead of 'biding
in the house this fine morning, I would just be aff to the water, too,
with Adam. Ye'll find him a diverting companion, sir, though it's maybe
no me that should say it. He has a great deal to say for himself when
he is in the humour. Hi!" she said, raising her voice, and tapping
loudly on the window, "here's the gentleman coming with you, Adam."
This way of getting him out of the house amused Lewis greatly. He did
not resist it, indeed the sun was shining so brightly, yet the air
was so cool and sweet, a combination little known to the stranger,
that he had already felt his blood frisking in his veins. Adam was
going leisurely along, with his basket slung around him, and a great
machinery of rods and lines over his shoulder. He scarcely paused
to let Lewis come up with him, and all he said by way of salutation
was, "Ye've nae rod," said somewhat sulkily, Lewis thought, out of
the depths of his beard and his chest. And it cannot be said that the
description of Janet was very closely fulfilled. Adam was much intent
upon his work. If he could be "diverting" when he was in the humour, he
was not in the humour to-day.
He led the way down the riverside with scarcely a word, and crossing
the unsheltered meadow which lay along the bank, with only a few trees
on the edge, soon got within the shelter of the woods. Tay was smooth
and smiling as he passed by the meadows and the village; a few yards
up the stream there was a ferry, with a large boat, intended to carry
horses and carriages over the water, but here, where the fisherman
established himself, the placid reach ended abruptly in rapids, rushing
among huge boulders, through which the water foamed and fretted, with
cliffs rising high on the opposite bank, and an abundance of great
trees bending over the water's edge and on the bank, and nodding from
the cliff that looked like a ruined tower.
"I was about to ask you if you had much boating here," Lewis said, with
a laugh; "but Nature seems to have stopped that."
"You'll no boat much here," said the philosopher, grimly, which was not
a profound remark.
He came to a pause upon a green bank, a little opening between the
trees opposite the great cliff which reared itself like a great
fortification out of the water. The village, the bit of level meadow,
the stillness and serene air of comfort seemed to have passed away in
a moment to give place to a mountain torrent, the dark water frowning
and leaping against the rocks. Adam took some time to arrange all his
paraphernalia, to fit his rod, and arrange his bait, during which time
he did not deign to address a word to his companion, who watched him
with curiosity, but, unfortunately, with a curiosity which was that of
ignorance. After he had asked several questions which made this very
distinct, the philosopher at last turned round upon him with a sort of
slow defiance.
"You're no a fisher," he said. "What will have brocht ye here?"
This was to Adam the most simple and natural of questions; but it
somewhat disturbed Lewis, who was conscious of intentions not perfectly
straightforward. Necessity, which is the best quickener of wit, came
to his aid. He bethought himself of a little sketch-book he had in his
pocket, and drew that out.
"There are other things than fishing to bring one into a beautiful
country," he said.
"Oh, ay," said Adam, "if you're o' the airtist class--" Perhaps there
was a shade of contempt in his tone. But, if so, he changed it quickly,
with a respect for his companion's feelings, which was the height of
politeness. "There's mony comes this way, but to my mind they should
a' gang a wee further. We're naething in comparison with the real
Highlands."
For nearly an hour he said no more; the little click of the reel, the
sweep of the water, the occasional leap of a fish, the multitudinous
hum of insects were all the sounds about. Lewis seated himself on the
grass, and began to justify his title of artist by beginning a sketch
at once. He had a pretty amateur talent, and could accomplish without
much difficulty the kind of sketch which seems to promise great things.
The promise was never fulfilled, but that mattered little. The bold
cliff opposite, the mass of rock half way across the stream, which at
that point lashed the rapid water into fury, the deeper shadow under
the bank, the blaze of light where the trees opened, and flickering
intermixture of light and shade where the foliage was thicker, gave
exactly the picturesque effect necessary for such a composition as
amateurs love.
As he sat on the grass, sketching this unfamiliar landscape, with
the silent figure by his side, manipulating his line, and the rush
of the water in his ears like a new language, Lewis could not but
smile to himself at the strange revolution in his own thoughts and
surroundings. His connections had been entirely urban. Old historical
towers, churches, and palaces had been the shrines at which he had paid
his devotions. Of Nature he knew next to nothing, and to think that
his first acquaintance with her should be made on the banks of the Tay
was strange indeed. The Tiber would have been more likely, that yellow
stream to which its sons paid a most undeserved compliment when they
hailed the noble Tay as its resemblance. But there was something in the
coolness and sweetness of this still hour which moved Lewis strangely.
He had been more used to the cicali in the trees than to the endless
twitter of the northern woods, the perpetual concert in which "the
mavis and the merle were singing," and to avoid the grass as perhaps
full of snakes, and to fear the sun as it is feared where its fury
gives sudden death. He sat in the full blaze of it now with a pleased
abandonment of all precautions. It was altogether like a pleasant dream.
"Is that a house behind the cliff high up among those trees?" he said.
He could not help thinking of a similar corner of old masonry peering
through the olive groves on a slope of the Apennines; but how different
this was! "And who may live there, I wonder?" he added, pausing to look
sideways at his sketch, in the true artistic _pose_.
Adam was very busy at that moment; he gave a sort of oblique glance
upwards from the corner of his eyes, but he was struggling with his
first fish, which was far too important a crisis to be mixed up with
talk, or vain answers to useless questions. It was not till he had
pulled out his prize, and deposited the glistening, gasping trout upon
the grass with a grunt of fatigue and satisfaction, that he took any
notice of what his companion said. Lewis got up to look at it as it
leaped its last in a convulsive flutter. He was no sportsman--indeed,
he was so little of his race that the sight of dying was painful to him
even in this uninteresting example. But he knew better than to show
this.
"That's a fine ane," said Adam--"no so big as mony, but a strong
creature; he has most strained my wrist wi' his acteevity. Ye were
asking what house is yon. It is old Stormont Tower, a bit poor place,
but as old as the hills themselves. You that makes pictures, did ye
ever see a bonnier picture than that?"
"Is it for the value of the fish or the pleasure of catching it," said
Lewis, "that you put a stop to its enjoyment? That's a more pleasant
picture, I think," and he pointed to the sudden gleam of a salmon
leaping in the middle of the stream.
Adam cast a glance at him of mingled curiosity and disdain.
"I said ye were nae fisher the first look I got at ye," he said. "And
ye find more pleasure in making scarts upon paper than in sport?" he
added, a minute after, in a solemn tone.
"At least, the scarts on the paper do no one any harm," said Lewis,
laughing. But he acknowledged the ineffectualness of his occupation by
forthwith putting away his sketch-book.
Adam saw this too with the corner of his eye, and apparently was
mollified by the withdrawal of that peaceful competitor Art from the
regions sacred to a stouter occupation. After a while, he spoke again,
"Sport," he said, "I'll no deny, is a mystery. That ye should take
your pleasure in what's pain and death to another poor creature, maybe
just as good as yoursel'--it's a real funny thing when you come to
think o't. I can gi'e no explanation. I've taken mony a thought on the
subject mysel'. That's how we're made, I suppose--to see the thing
fecht for its life, that's your pleasure, and to battle wi' 't and get
the upper hand. I canna be sorry for a trout," he said, casting a slow
glance at the fish; "it's just made for a man's dinner, and that's the
short and the long of it; but a deer, now--a grand creature, carrying
yon muckle horns like a king his crown, and a wheen skulking murderers
lying in wait for him, letting fly when the poor beast comes up
unsuspecting! I'm not a deer-stalker," said Adam, with more simplicity
than philosophy, making up
"For sins he was inclined to
By d--ning those he had no mind to,"
"and I just canna bide _yon_."
Upon which he cast his line once more, and Lewis, though he did not
feel any pleasure in the sight of the last convulsions, began to watch
with interest, which gradually grew into excitement, the skill with
which Adam plied his trade, the cunning arts by which he beguiled a
wary old Tay trout, up to a great many things, into acceptance of the
fly which dangled before his nose. The trout was experienced, but the
man was too much for him. Then there ensued that struggle between the
two which strained the fisherman's skill and patience to the utmost.
The little drama roused the spectator out of his calm and almost
repugnance. He followed it to its conclusion with almost as much real,
and considerably more apparent, excitement than Adam himself, and
scarcely repressed a "hurrah!" of triumph when the prey was finally
secured.
"I tell't you sae," said Adam. "That's just the way with man; ye canna
get the pleasure without the killing o' the creature. It's a queer
thing, but most things are queer. You'll have been at the college, and
studied pheelosophy, nae doubt? but you'll no explain that to me: nor
me, I can give no explanation, that have turned the thing o'er and o'er
in my head. Life's just a long puzzle from the beginning o't to the end
o't, and if you once begin to question what it means, ye'll never be
done, nor ye'll never get any satisfaction," Adam said.
Lewis did not take this bait as perhaps a young scholar, one of the
Oxford men to whom Adam was accustomed, who haunted these banks in the
autumn, or still more keenly an argumentative youth from Aberdeen or
St. Andrews might have done. He had known no college training, and had
little reading of the graver sort, but he pleased the fisherman almost
as much by his conversion to the excitement of sport to which indeed he
was as little accustomed as to philosophy. The hours passed on quickly
in the sweet air and sunshine, with the rhythm of the quick-flowing
river and the dramatic episodes of trout catching, and all the novelty
and freshness of the new world which was widening out around the young
man. He tried to beguile Adam to talk about matters which were still
more interesting to himself, but the philosopher had not that lively
interest in his fellow-creatures, at least of the human kind, which
usually characterizes the village sage.
When Adam's creel was full they went back, but by a round which brought
them in sight of the gate which Lewis remembered having passed through
on the previous night; the turrets of the old house showed over the
trees, and the young man looked at them with a quickened beating of
his heart. He was strangely simple in some matters, straightforward
in his ideas as Englishmen rarely are, and the secret intention in
his mind which had actuated his coming here moved all his pulses at
this sudden reminder. He looked curiously at the trees which hid this
dwelling-place. He did not know how to get access to it, how to carry
out his intention; but there it was, the aim of his journey, the future
scene of--how could he tell what? The future was all vague, but yet
alight with pleasant chances, he did not even know whether to call them
hopes. He was standing still gazing at the old house when he suddenly
heard voices behind him, kind salutations to Adam, to which the
fisherman replied with some cordiality. Lewis turned round quickly, for
the voices were feminine and refined, though they had a whiff of accent
to which he was as yet unaccustomed. It was a group of three ladies
who had paused to speak to Adam, and were looking with interest at his
fish. They were all in black dresses, standing out in the midst of the
sunshine, three slim, clear-marked figures. The furthest from him was
shorter than the others, and wore a veil which partially concealed
her face; the two who were talking were evidently sisters and of ripe
years. They talked both together, one voice overlapping the other.
"What fine fish you have got, Adam!" "And what a creel-ful! you've been
lucky to-day." "If Janet can spare us a couple, the cook will be very
thankful." "Dear me, that will be pleasant if Janet can spare us a
couple," they said.
After a few more questions they passed on, nodding and waving their
hands. "Come, Lilias," they called both together, looking back to the
third, who said nothing but "Good day, Adam," in a younger, softer
voice.
Lewis stood aside to let them pass, and took off his hat. It was
evidently a surprise to the ladies to see the stranger stand uncovered
as they passed. They looked at him keenly, and made some half audible
comments to each other. "Who will that be now, Jean?" "It will be
some English lad for the fishing, Margaret," Lewis heard, and laughed
to himself. Though he did not know much about Scotland, he had of
course picked up a Scotch novel now and then, and knew well enough
that what he profanely and carelessly, in the unconscious insolence
of his youth, called eccentric old ladies were figures invariable in
such productions. These no doubt were the Miss Grizzy and Miss Jacky
of Murkley. The little encounter pleased him. He should no doubt make
acquaintance with them and see the humours of the country at first
hand. The third little figure with the blue veil scarcely attracted his
eye at all; he saw her, but did not observe her. The blinding gauze hid
anything that might have raised his curiosity. She was less imposing in
every way, and when they both turned again with a "Come, Lilias," their
air gave their little companion the aspect of a child. He quickened his
pace to make up to Adam, who, though he seemed to plod along with slow,
large steps which had no appearance of speed, yet tasked his younger
companion, who was easily beguiled by any temptation of the way, to
keep up with him.
"Are those village people?" Lewis said.
"Eh? What was that you were saying?"
"Are those two ladies--village people? I mean do they live hereabout?"
Adam turned slowly half round upon him. His large and somewhat hazy
blue eyes uprose from between the bush of his shaggy eyebrows and the
redness of his beard, and contemplated the young man curiously.
"Yon's--the misses at the castle," Adam said.
"The misses?" Still Lewis did not take in what was meant; he repeated
the word with a smile.
"Our misses, the leddies at the castle," said Adam, laconically.
Lewis was so profoundly astonished that he gave a cry of dismay.
"The ladies at the castle?--Miss Murray of Murkley?" he said.
"Ay," said Adam, once more fixing him with a tranquil but somewhat
severe gaze. Then after a minute's reflection, "And wherefore no?"
Then Lewis laughed loud and long, with a mixture of excitement and
derision in his astonishment: the derision was at himself, but Adam was
not aware of this, and a shade of offence gradually came over as much
as was visible of his face.
"You're easy pleased with a joke," he said. "I canna say I see it." And
went on with his long steps devouring the way.
Lewis followed after a little, perhaps slightly ashamed of his
self-betrayal, although there was no betrayal in it save to himself.
As he looked round again he saw the group of ladies standing at the
Murkley gate. Probably their attention had been roused by the sudden
peal of his laughter, of which he now felt deeply ashamed. They were
going in at the smaller gate, which the lodgekeeper stood holding open
for them, but had paused apparently to look what it was that called
forth the young stranger's mirth. He was so self-conscious altogether
that he could scarcely believe the occasion of his laugh must be a
mystery to them, and felt ashamed of it as if they had been in the
secret. His impulse was to rush up to them, to assure them that it did
not matter, with an eagerness of shame and compunction which already
made his face crimson. What was it that did not matter? But then he
came to himself, and blushed more deeply than ever, and slunk away.
He did not hear the remarks the ladies made, but divined them in his
heart. What they said was brief enough, and he had indeed divined it
more or less.
"What is the lad laughing at? Do you think he is so ill-bred as to be
laughing at us, Jean?"
"What could he find to laugh at in us, Margaret?"
"'Deed that is what I don't know. Let me look at you. There is nothing
wrong about you that I can see, Jean."
"Nor about you, Margaret. It is, maybe, Lilias and her blue veil."
"Yes; it's odious of you," cried the third, suddenly seizing that
disguise in her hands and plucking it from her face, "to muffle me up
in this thing."
"You will not think that, my dear, when you see how it saves your
complexion. No doubt it was just the blue veil; but he must be a very
ill-bred young man."