"Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth of the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed,
And the shepherd tends his flocks as he pipes on his reed.
Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores,
To me hae the charm o' yon wild mossy moors."
Burns.
Scene: The parlour of an old-fashioned hotel in the Scottish Highlands.
It is the afternoon of an autumn day; a great round-topped mountain,
though some distance off, quite overshadows the window. This window is
open, and the cool evening breeze is stealing in, laden with the perfume
of the honeysuckle which almost covers a solitary pine tree close by.
There is the drowsy hum of bees in the air, and now and then the
melancholy lilt of the yellow-hammer--last songster of the season. Two
gentlemen seated at dessert. For a time both are silent. They are
thinking.
"Say, Lyle," says one at last, "you have been staring unremittingly at
the purple heather on yon hill-top for the last ten minutes, during
which time, my friend, you haven't spoken one word."
Lyle laughed quietly, and cracked a walnut.
"Do you see," he said, "two figures going on and on upwards through the
heather yonder?"
"I see what I take to be a couple of blue-bottle flies creeping up a
patch of crimson."
"Those blue-bottles are our boys."
"How small they seem!"
"Yet how plucky! That hill, Fitzroy, is precious nearly a mile in
height above the sea-level, and it is a good ten miles' climb to the top
of it. They have the worst of it before them, and they haven't eaten a
morsel since morning, but I'll wager the leg of the gauger they won't
give in."
"Well, Lyle, our boys are chips of the old blocks, so I won't take your
bet. Besides, you know, I am an Englishman, and though I know the
gauger is a kind of Scottish divinity, I was unaware you could take such
liberties with his anatomy as to wager one of his legs."
"Seriously talking now, Fitzroy, we are here all alone by our two
selves, though our sons are in sight; has the question ever occurred to
you what we are to do with our boys?"
"No," said Fitzroy, "I haven't given it a thought. Have you?"
"Well, I have, one or two; for my lad, you know, is big enough to make
his father look old. He is fifteen, and yours is a year or two more."
"They've had a good education," said Fitzroy, reflectively.
"True, true; but how to turn it to account?"
"Send them into the army or navy. Honour and glory, you know!"
Lyle laughed.
"Honour and glory! Eh? Why, you and I, Fitzroy, have had a lot of
that. Much good it has done us. I have a hook for a hand."
"And I have a wooden leg," said Fitzroy, "and that is about all I have
to leave my lad, for I don't suppose they bury a fellow with his wooden
leg on. Well, anyhow, that is my boy's legacy; he can hang it behind
the door in the library, and when he has company he can point to it
sadly, and say, `Heigho, that's all that is left of poor father!'"
"Yes," said Lyle; "and he can also tell the story of the forlorn hope
you led when you won that wooden toe. No, Fitzroy, honour and glory
won't do, now that the war is over. It was all very well when you and I
were boys."
"Well, there is medicine, the law, and the church, and business, and
farming, and what-not."
"Now, my dear friend, which of those on your list do you think your boy
would adopt?"
"Well," replied Fitzroy, with a smile, "I fear it would be the
`what-not.'"
"And mine, too. Our lads have too much spirit for anything very tame.
There is the blood of the old fighting Fitzroys in your boy's veins, and
the blood of the restless, busy Lyles in Leonard's. If you hadn't lost
nearly all your estates, and if I were rich, it would be different,
wouldn't it, my friend?"
"Yes, Lyle, yes."
Fitzroy jumped up immediately afterwards, and stumped round the room
several times, a way he had when thinking.
Then he stopped in front of his friend.
"Bother it all, Lyle," he said; "I think I have it."
"Well," quoth Lyle, "let us hear it."
Then Fitzroy sat down and drew his chair close to Lyle's.
"We love our boys, don't we?"
"Rather!"
"And we have only one each?"
"No more."
"Well, your estate is encumbered?"
"It's all in a heap."
"So is mine, but in a few years both may be clear."
"Yes, please God, unless, you know, my old pike turns his sides up--ha!
ha!"
"Well, what I propose is this. Let our lads have their fling for a
bit."
"What! appoint a tutor to each of them, and let them make the grand
tour, see a bit of Europe, and then settle down?"
"Bother tutors and your grand tour! How would we have liked at their
age to have had tutors hung on to us?"
"Well, Lyle, we might have had tutors, but I'll be bound we would have
been masters."
"Yes. Well, boys will be boys, and I know nothing would please our lads
better than seeing the world; so suppose we say to them, We can afford
you a hundred or two a year if you care to go and see a bit of life, and
don't lose yourselves, what do you think they would reply?"
"I don't know exactly what they would reply, but I know they would jump
at the offer, and put us down as model parents. But then, we have their
mothers to consult."
"Well, consult them, but put the matter very straight and clear before
their eyes. Explain to our worthy wives that boys cannot always be in
leading strings, that the only kind of education a gentleman can have to
fit him for the battle of life, is that which he gains from his
experience in roughing it and in rubbing shoulders with the wide world."
"Good; that ought to fetch them."
"Yes; and we may add that after a young man has seen the world, he is
more likely to settle down, and lead a quiet respectable life at home."
"As a country squire!"
"Oh yes; country squire will do, and we might throw Parliament in, eh?
Member for the county--how does that sound?"
Major Lyle laughed.
And Captain Fitzroy laughed.
Then they both rubbed their hands and looked pleased.
"I think," said Fitzroy, "we have it all cut and dry."
"There isn't a doubt of it."
"Well, then, we'll order the lads' dinner in--say in three hours' time,
and you and I will meanwhile have a stroll."
In about three hours both Leonard and his friend Douglas Fitzroy
returned to the inn, as hungry as Highland hunters, and were glad to see
the table groaning with good things.
"We've had such a day of it, dad," said Leonard; "though we had no idea
of the distance when we started, but I've found some of the rarest ferns
and mountain flora, and some of the rarest coleoptera in all creation.
Haven't we, Doug?"
"Yes, Leon. Your sister will be delighted."
"Dear Eff!" said Leonard; "I wish she'd been with us."
It was a grand walking expedition the two young gentleman and their
fathers were on, and it is wonderful how Captain Fitzroy did swing along
with that wooden leg of his. He was always in front, whether it was
going up hill or down dell. There really seems some advantage, after
all, in having a wooden leg, for once an angry adder struck the gallant
captain on the "timber toe," as he called it; and once a bulldog flew at
him, and though it rent some portion of his clothing, it could make no
impression to signify on that wooden leg, and finally received a kick on
the jaw that made it retire to its kennel in astonishment.
After they had dined Captain Fitzroy explained the travelling scheme to
the lads, and recommended them to think seriously about it after they
had retired to their bedroom, and give their answer in the morning.
I do not think there is any occasion to say what that answer was when
the morning came.
Book 2--CHAPTER TWO.