XV
Before ever men were Christians they were fishermen.Let men now be first Christians, then fishermen, soshall they not forget the gillie who stands and waits.
Before ever men were Christians they were fishermen.Let men now be first Christians, then fishermen, soshall they not forget the gillie who stands and waits.
Before ever men were Christians they were fishermen.Let men now be first Christians, then fishermen, soshall they not forget the gillie who stands and waits.
Before ever men were Christians they were fishermen.
Let men now be first Christians, then fishermen, so
shall they not forget the gillie who stands and waits.
Oneevening in August there went out from Euston, bound for Scotland, two men, each with his heart full of Diana. There went also yet another and his heart, too, was full of Diana. Her address he had learnt was Glenbossie, and to Glenbossie he was going, although he had no invitation. Nevertheless he did not despair. God is ever on the side of youth, and—if youth had not been asked to the Lodge he was going to the station, and where a Loch Bossie station is there is bound to be a Glenbossie Lodge. Wandering along the platform at Euston, seeing again all the things—familiar things—of which abroad he had dreamed every August and onwards—men and dogs, gun cases and fishing-rod cases—he came upon a prodigiously long fishing-rod case. It must belong, he thought, to a renowned fisherman, or to one who had fished little. Guarding the rod case, almost jealously, he saw what he guessed to be a parson, with a light in his eyes, not of this world.
No one knew better than Miles Hastings what starting for Scotland meant, but he had learnt to keep his face in order, whatever liberties his heart might take. Approaching the owner of the long rod case he read the label attached—“Watkins, Loch Bossie.”
Now Miles Hastings was a lucky young man, but this was more than even he could have expected. Here was one who could tell him all he wanted to know, so he set about to make friends with Watkins, of Loch Bossie; but he found it was with one Pease he made friends, who but guarded the treasure of Watkins.
Miles had a genius for making friends, and a charming frankness that endeared him at sight to old ladies, old men, men and women generally, and children in particular. He was devoted to all animals especially if they were young, and as to puppies, he was as putty in their paws. There was nothing he would not give a puppy if “asked for it” properly. In winter-time he would rescue little birds in the snow: take them home and revive them. He would go out of his way to help anything that could not help itself. In addition to this he was good to look at, a wholesome, fine young Englishman, and in all this there lay danger, Sir Eustace thought, danger to Diana: and against it he would have protected her. Also he wanted toprotect himself against the possibility of having to say No, if Hastings should ask him for Diana, which if he met her he was bound to do. Sir Eustace would have liked to be able to say, “My dear boy, there is no one in the world to whom I would rather give her!” “And why not say it?” thought Sibyl Carston, who was one of those who held strongly the belief that things must turn out all right in the end, and so strong was her faith in the good that must come to those who look for it that it generally did come. It had come to her, why not to Diana? Life had been very good to Miles Hastings: the world had treated him very kindly, surely it would go on being kind. His was a nature that only expected what it gave in overflowing measure itself—just kindness—surely there should be no difficulty about that.
So he made friends with Pease, thinking to himself: “Here is a nice young thing, devoted to his mother”—he looked like that—“who is going off to fish, to catch bigger fish than he has ever caught, bigger fish than the world has ever seen, and better fish”; he hoped he might catch them. But, by the way, where was Pease going,exactly? Deep guile this, for Hastings knew, but Pease knew not that Hastings knew. So he explained—with an indifference assumed—that he was going to the inn at Loch Bossie where the fishing wasexcellent—quite excellent! Yes, it was near Glenbossie Lodge—yes, quite near!
Here Pease pulled at his pipe, giving pause to think.
No, Glenbossie Lodge was not to let. Pease knew that—had very good reasons for knowing it. It was strange he should have been asked because he was curiously cognizant of the state of affairs.
“How much?” asked Captain Hastings.
“I happen to know all about it.”
“Oh, yes, thanks, I am only just back from abroad; one gets a little rusty—I remember the word, of course. Please go on.”
“I am able to give you the information, because I happen to know the man who has taken it.”
Captain Hastings nodded. That was good evidence, except that sometimes lodges at the last moment were sub-let. Was it possible—?
“It is a sub-let as it is,” said Pease, interrupting him.
“And who has taken it?”
“A Mr. Maitland.”
“A good chap?”
“Oh, I believe so, but I am—as it were—on the other side.”
Captain Hastings looked puzzled and Mr. Pease hastened to explain.
“You see there is a little family friction on thesubject of the guardianship of the children, during the absence of their parents abroad, and I am rather on the side of the aunt.”
Captain Hastings thought he looked as though he would be, but did not say so. “You are going to the Lodge, I suppose?” He knocked the ash off the end of his cigar.
No, Mr. Pease was not going there. The fact of the matter was Watkins also wanted a holiday—and they were both going to the inn so—so as to be near Glenbossie Lodge.
“And you?” asked Mr. Pease, feeling it was now his turn to ask questions. Miles Hastings did not say he was going to the Lodge, but he was.
“I shall hope to get into the inn,” he said modestly; “from what you say it must be a most excellent place.”
In the corner of a third-class compartment sat Watkins, writing a poem to Diana. He had been red with the rhyming possibilities of “glossy” and “Bossie,” and it may be presumed that a very minor poet is as eager to capture a rhyme as a swallow is to catch a fly.
Pease intimated to Hastings that he personally was enjoying the journey immensely—so far; hinted that it was almost a pity they should have to part; he supposed Captain Hastings had booked a sleeper, otherwise they might have talked thegreater part of the night. Almost apologetically Hastings confessed that he had booked a sleeper. He was afraid he was a slave to comfort—it was a terrible thing to confess to; but Pease said he quite understood—he was only sorry for his own sake—being a light sleeper he was quite ready to talk.
Hastings gave him, at parting for the night, the story of the old lady, the parson, and the sleeping-berth, and felt it no poor thing to give. And when he saw Pease next morning Pease was still smiling. Whether it was the beginning of a new smile, or the lasting impression of the one he had worn the night before, when they had parted, Hastings could not say. It was enough that a man could smile after sitting up all night; it spoke well for England and her sons. Miles smiled, too, happy in thinking that perhaps on this very ground Diana, not long ago, had stood. He did not know the same thought filled the mind of Pease. Watkins had chased elusive quantities during a long night. He had neither had good sleep nor had he been able to make bad poetry—so he was not happy and he had never cared less for Pease. To the stranger, he had taken a great dislike. What had such a man to do with men like himself and Pease? Hard-working, sensible men!
Hastings went with the two other men to theinn, and there he laid siege to the heart of Mrs. MacFie, and the quality of his smile was such that her Scottish reserve melted beneath its warmth, like butter beneath the rays of the sun, and she promised to give him a bedroom: and if he would be requiring it, a sitting-room; but Hastings would not be requiring a sitting-room: he meant to sit elsewhere—and for the matter of that to sleep elsewhere—after the first night; but he did not say that.
The first day, what there was left of it, he spent quietly bearing all things with patience. He watched Pease tangling and disentangling fishing-tackle: watched Watkins reading a book on theSalmo salar. For Pease he evinced a great liking and for Watkins a profound pity, for he judged there was to be no untruth to which Watkins would not descend for the sake of a rhyme: whereas Pease was honesty itself, which combined with an almost childlike simplicity made him likable enough. That night Miles Hastings slept. The following morning he rose refreshed, if not quite a giant—and after all why not a giant, since there are more kinds of giants than one, if we are to believe the old story of the man who applied to the Manager of a Travelling Show for the advertised vacancy of giant? “But you’re not even a big man,” protested the manager; whereupon the man, drawing himselfup, said proudly: “No, I am the smallest giant in the world!”
Miles might claim to be more than that. Pease respected him immensely for his tweeds and his tie: and Watkins envied him his inches.
After breakfast Miles started off for Glenbossie Lodge and nothing of beauty escaped him as he went. The clearness of the running river—too clear for a fisherman—was for him at the moment beautiful. The minutest flower that grew in the cranny of a rock filled him, on this wonderful morning, with delight; because everything in nature sang of Diana. All beauty was but a tribute to hers. He laughed as the sheep scuttled out of his path. The scent of the bog-myrtle rose like incense on the air: the sandy road with its heather-topped ruts was good going: the wide stretches of moor on either side of him invited him to climb the hills to which they gently led: the rocks scattered here and there in the heather challenged him to guess how they had come there. Great boulders they were that no man could move, certainly not the smallest giant in the world.
The curlew called to him: the gulls plainly enough told him to go away—the sky was theirs—not his: the sea and all that therein was—theirs, not his. A little child padded past him, too shy to answer his greeting; but not too shy tosmile hers. The burns gurgling down from the hillside laughed at him—chuckled over jokes of their own, which jokes were hidden either deep down in “pots,” or by the heather that touched hands over the laughing waters.
Hastings knew what good jokes little trout can be, and if he had been younger they might have kept him,—even from Diana,—but now nothing could do that: everything bade him hurry, the golden-rod at the side of the road waved to him: the blue and pink scabious nodded: everything sympathized with him.
An old woman making hay, in a patch of a field, at the side of the road, came down to the low stone wall and greeted him in her soft native tongue; which greeting conveyed to him a wish for good luck in his wooing. She understood! Her smiling, sunken eyes held memories. It must have been years ago that she was wooed, yet she had not forgotten! Who could forget, if it had been among these hills, beside these burns, under this sky that he had loved? O Scotland! No wonder Shan’t addressed her letters to Uncle Marcus “Glenbossie, darlin’ Scotland.”
Arrived at the Lodge, Miles went up the pebbly path that led to the door, rang the bell—and waited.
Pillar came to the wide-open door. “Good-morning,” said Captain Hastings.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Pillar.
“I have an order—” Then he repented him of his wickedness and said, “Would you allow me to see over the house?”
“It is let, sir.”
“Let? What scoundrels they are—agents—letting me come all this way—for how long is it let?”
“For two months, sir.”
“Ah, yes, of course, but I am in negotiations for taking it on a long lease—ninety-nine years sort of thing.”
Pillar looked at him. Ninety-nine years! He didn’t believe there were such things in Scotch leases—but perhaps it was hardly worth discussing that—the quality of the visitor was such that Pillar judged him to be a law unto himself.
“Would—whoever the house is let to—allow me, d’you think, to see over it? I must do it now or never—I’ve come a long way from—” And he mentioned that far-off island, the sound of whose name was always in Diana’s heart if not forever on her lips. She was passing through the hall, heard the name, and went out—and found herself face to face with the young man who for months had prayed for her every night. That, of course, she did not know. But she knew he must know her father and mother.
“I was asking if you would be so kind as toallow me to see the Lodge.” She was far more adorable than he had imagined and that he had not deemed possible.
“Of course,” she answered; “do come in”—and he went in, following his dream of dreams come true.
“This is the hall,” she said; “it’s small, but it’s quite big enough for wet mackintoshes—and—”
“I like it,” said Hastings, looking at her.
“So do I—this is the dining-room.” She opened a door and motioned him to go in. He went in and said it was delicious—still looking at her.
“We shouldn’t think it so delicious in England, I suppose. I’ve never sat on horsehair in England.”
“Rather slippery, isn’t it?”
“This is what we call the living-room—” Opening another door; “your wife would perhaps call it the drawing-room—youaremarried?”
“No—but why should you say my wife would call it that?”
“Why shouldn’t she?”
“Because—why shouldn’t she call it what you do?”
“Don’t get stuffy about it—I didn’t mean to say anything against your wife.”
“But you did—and it’s a thing no man should stand—you said she would do what you wouldn’t do.”
“And why shouldn’t she?”
“Because I wouldn’t allow it—”
At that Diana laughed so much that Uncle Marcus came to see what she was laughing at. Had she had a letter from Elsie?—forgetting this was not post-time—and he saw to his great amazement a long-legged, very nice-looking young man (the right sort of young man) sitting quite close to Diana and laughing just as much as Diana was laughing and apparently with as little reason.
“My dear Diana—” he said.
“Oh, here’s some one to see the house and we’re fighting about his wife.”
“Wife?” A smile broke upon the lips of Marcus—thank goodness, this man was married.
“And he hasn’t got one,” said Diana.
“Not got one?”
“Not yet,” said Hastings; “the fact of the matter is—I am just back from abroad. Perhaps I should tell you at once that I am Miles Hastings, one of Sir Eustace Carston’s A.D.C.’s—and—”
Of course Marcus vowed it was the most extraordinary thing that had ever happened! Of course, he must stay with them. His luggage should be sent for. Marcus pulled the bell-rope and it came down. Diana said it always did, and she went to call Pillar.
“It’s too amazing you should have come by chance,” said Marcus.
Hastings did not see why he should say he had gone to Mr. Maitland’s house in London, and asked his address, because it was such an easy thing to guess—Mr. Maitland should have guessed it. Lady Carston naturally had not known the Scotch address, but she had given him the London one. Neither did he feel bound to say that Sir Eustace had shown no anxiety to give him even the London one. He had wondered at it; now he was beginning to understand, for no father possessed of a daughter like Diana would wish to encourage any man.
Miles Hastings did not suppose, of course, for one moment, that Sir Eustace had thought him rather more dangerous than most young men, and was seeking to protect Diana against his fascination. Nor could he have dared to imagine that Lady Carston would have let the child take her chance, believing it might be a happy chance. He was happy enough as it was.
The following day he was happier still. He and Diana were fishing on the loch. Away in the distance, a speck on the face of the waters, were Watkins and Pease in their boat, fishing too.
To be quite accurate, in Diana’s boat, John, gillie, was fishing, while Donald, gillie, kept the boat drifting: and it must drift until Miles Hastings, in the bow, had told Diana, likewise in thebow, all there was to tell of that far-off island, from which he had come—to see her.
He had said everything any girl would wish to hear said of her father. He had said nearly all he had to say about her mother. He was now deep in tropical undergrowth and vegetation. It was wonderful the number of plants he remembered in their infinite variety—tree ferns—trees, ferns, and flowers. Diana listened—she had never before found ferns interesting.
Marcus waved from his boat, but no one saw him. So he went home and sent Elsie two brace of grouse. It was a message he wanted to send more than the grouse and he dipped his pen in vinegar and wrote, “Diana is very happy surrounded with admirers.”
Elsie ate the grouse, sharing them with others, dipped her pen in gall, and wrote back: “Of course she is. She always is, but this surely istheone—what do you think?”
What did Marcus think? A thousand things, miserable things—jealous things, unreasoning things, and, above all, he thought: “How did she know? Had Diana confided in her and not in him?”
He took Elsie’s letter out on to the river’s side to read again, to make certain of what lay behind her words.
While he was reading it he gave Sandy therod, and Sandy was grateful to the man who had written a letter (surely a woman it must have been) that took three distinct readings to its proper digestion. If a man were a true Christian—and all fishermen should be that, for the earliest of all Christians were fishermen before anything else—he would give the rod oftener to the gillie who stands beside him, knowing himself to be by far the better fisherman of the two. For hours he stands there with that certain knowledge biting into his heart.
If Marcus had told Sandy all that lay in his heart, Sandy would have been profoundly interested, no doubt, because he had had cause, in his time, to think of women as interfering creatures—and of small use in a world of God-fearing men. There were exceptions, he would have allowed, and he would have instanced the one now driving along the road behind them.
“Yon’s Mrs. Scott,” he said to Marcus.
“Where?” And Marcus’s eyes, following the direction of Sandy’s finger, saw a lady driving two ponies in a low phaeton. She pulled up the ponies and, getting out of the carriage, came over the heather towards Marcus. Marcus again handed the rod to Sandy and went to meet Mrs. Scott: Sandy would not have minded if Mr. Maitland had gone to Heaven—just for a wee bittie, whilehe, Sandy, fished the pool as it should be fished—on earth.
Mrs. Scott was a gentle, mild, little woman and she looked much happier in the heather she loved than she had looked in the ballroom, in London, she had not loved. And the tweed hat, pulled down over her eyes, was infinitely more becoming to her than the tiara had been.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“None. Sandy thinks I’m a poor fisherman.”
She smiled: Sandy possibly was right, but that shouldn’t count against Mr. Maitland as a man.
It was then Mrs. Scott said how kind Marcus had been in subscribing so generously to the cottage hospital, and Marcus said: “Not at all.”
“I was so glad,” went on Mrs. Scott, “to see your niece at the Sale—it was so good of her to come. I remember her so well at the dance that night—you remember?”
Marcus remembered more than he wanted her to remember. Did she remember that he had told her she was beautiful? It was a thing, he feared, no plain woman would be likely to forget.
Mrs. Scott sat down, arranged the heather round her, dug the heels of her square-toed brogues into its roots, and began:
“Now tell me about her! That night she seemed imprisoned sunshine—is she in love?”
Marcus looked at her honest little brogues; then at her clear eyes, but even they could not reassure him. “D’you know her aunt, on the other side?” This to make sure.
Mrs. Scott said she did not. “On the other side? Which side are you? Her mother’s, of course, how stupid I am! Is the aunt very charming?”
Marcus said he hardly knew her, and felt this restraint on his part to be magnanimous.
Mrs. Scott smiled. “It’s so nice not to have to know relations on the other side, isn’t it? Sometimes they expect to be kissed—oh, I mean, women expect women relations on the other side—”
Marcus hastened to say he quite understood.
Mrs. Scott went on. “I was so sorry to miss your niece when I called. You can imagine how busy one is when one first comes back here. There are all the dear old people to see. I admired your niece so much that night—I was homesick for the breeze on the moor—for the views of hills in the distance—for—well, just for this dear country of mine and your niece seemed to open the door to its soft west wind.”
Marcus was very happy.
“I really want to tell you Ralph St. Jermyn arrives to-morrow. You know why I expect you to be interested? I have not forgotten how interestedhe seemed that night. Does she care, do you think?”
“I cannot tell whether my niece cares for any one or not—there are several.”
“Of course there must be, but Ralph is so—”
“Yes, I know, but she must do as she wishes—”
“Of course—I only thought—perhaps, hoped—I was very sleepy that night. I forget much of what happened.”
Marcus was relieved to hear it.
“You were very kind to me, I remember. I am so insignificant in a ballroom, I generally go to sleep: but people are very kind; some one always tells me when it’s time to wake up—but here I count and I like it. I am thankful to be noticed by any one in London, but here people are bound to notice me,”—and the little woman laughed. “I stand out. The biggest gillie runs to do my bidding, and I love them all—gillies, women, children; lairds too—all of them; and my one hope is that my Sheila may meet some good man soon and marry him at once, so that I may never have to go to London again. Will you tell your niece how kind she was the other day at the bazaar? But she ran away too soon. I am afraid these things bore young people, although my party were very long-suffering—I am a fearful ogre, I fear.”
Marcus turned and looked at her: a little speckof kind humanity she seemed in a vast sea of heather. At her feet, heather; behind her, heather; before her, the rushing river; above her, the blue sky; encircling her on all sides, hills, hills, hills.
“It’s good to be alive—it’s a good world,” she said, but Marcus was not so sure that it was. His days were spent without Diana, and his evenings with Pease and Watkins; while Hastings talked to Diana about her father. It was quite impossible, he knew, that there should be so much to say about any one man, and now to add to it all another man was coming who would also talk to Diana—of many things.