Chapter 4

CHAPTER VII.AN EYRIE.'Come along, Harry, my lad,' the young keeper cried next morning to his faithful terrier, 'and we'll go and have a look up the hill.'He slipped a cartridge or two into his pocket, more by custom than design as it were; put his gun over his shoulder; and went out into the cold clear air, the little terrier trotting at his heels. The vague unrest of the previous evening was altogether gone now; he was his natural self again; as he strode along the road he was lightly singing—but also under his breath, lest any herd-laddie should overhear—Roses red, roses white,Roses in the lane,Tell me, roses white and red,Where is Meenie gane!And when he got as far as the inn he found that the mail-cart had just arrived, so he turned aside to have a little gossip with the small group of shepherds and others who had come to see whether there were any newspapers or letters for them. He was a great favourite with these; perhaps also an object of envy to the younger of the lads; for he lived the life of a gentleman, one might say, and was his own master; moreover, where was there any one who looked so smart and dressed so neatly—his Glengarry cap, his deerstalking jacket, his knickerbockers, his hand-knitted socks, and white spats, and shoes, being all so trim and well cared for, even in this wild winter weather? There was some laughing and joking about the forthcoming supper-party; and more than one of them would have had him go inside with them to have 'a glass,' but he was proof against that temptation; while the yellow-haired Nelly, who was at work within, happening to turn her eyes to the window, and catching sight of him standing there, and being jealous of his popularity with all those shepherd-lads and gillies, suddenly said to her mistress—'There's Ronald outside, mem, and I think he might go away and shoot something for the gentleman's dinner.''Very well,' said Mrs. Murray; 'go and say that I would be very much obliged to him indeed if he would bring me a hare or two the first time he is going up the hill, but at his own convenience, to be sure.'But that was not the message that Nelly went to deliver. She wanted to show her authority before all these half-critical idlers, and also, as a good-looking lass, her independence and her mastery over men-folk.'Ronald,' said she, at the door of the inn, 'I think you might just as well be going up the hill and bringing us down a hare or two, instead of standing about here doing nothing.''Is that Highland manners, lass?' he said, but with perfect good humour. 'I'm thinking ye might say "if ye please." But I'll get ye a hare or two, sure enough, and ye'll keep the first dance for me on Monday night.''Indeed I am not sure that I will be at the dancing at all,' retorted the pretty Nelly; but this was merely to cover her retreat—she did not wish to have any further conversation before that lot of idle half-grinning fellows.As for Ronald, he bade them good-morning, and went lightly on his way again. He was going up the hill anyway; and he might as well bring down a brace of hares for Mrs. Murray; so, after walking along the road for a mile or so, he struck off across some rough and partly marshy ground, and presently began to climb the lower slopes of Clebrig, getting ever a wider and wider view as he ascended, and always when he turned finding beneath him the wind-stirred waters of the loch, where a tiny dark object, slow-moving near the shores, told him where the salmon fishers were patiently pursuing their sport.No, there were no more unsettling notions in his brain; here he was master and monarch of all he surveyed; and if he was profoundly unconscious of the ease with which he breasted this steep hillside, at least he rejoiced in the ever-widening prospect—as lochs and hills and stretches of undulating moorland seemed to stretch ever and ever outward until, afar in the north, he could make out the Kyle of Tongue and the faint line of the sea. It was a wild and changeable day; now filled with gloom, again bursting forth into a blaze of yellow sunshine; while ever and anon some flying tag of cloud would come sweeping across the hillside and engulf him, so that all he could then discern was the rough hard heather and bits of rock around his feet. It was just as one of these transient clouds was clearing off that he was suddenly startled by a loud noise—as of iron rattling on stones; and so bewildering was this unusual noise in the intense silence reigning there that instinctively he wheeled round and lowered his gun. And then again, the next second, what he saw was about as bewildering as what he had heard—a great creature, quite close by, and yet only half visible in the clearing mist, with huge outspread wings, dragging something after it across the broken rocks. The truth flashed upon him in an instant; it was an eagle caught in a fox-trap; the strange noise was the trap striking here and there on a stone. At once he put down his gun on an exposed knoll and gave chase, with the greatest difficulty subduing the eager desire of the yelping Harry to rush forward and attack the huge bird by himself. It was a rough and ludicrous pursuit but it ended in capture—though here, again, circumspection was necessary, for the eagle, with all his neck-feathers bristling, struck at him again and again with the talons that were free, only one foot having been caught in the trap. But the poor beast was quite exhausted; an examination of the trap showed Ronald that he must have flown with this weight attached to his leg all the way from Ben Ruach, some half dozen miles away; and now, though there was yet an occasional automatic motion of the beak or the claws, as though he would still strike for liberty, he submitted to be firmly seized while the iron teeth of the trap were being opened. And then Ronald looked at his prize (but still with a careful grip). He was a splendid specimen of the golden eagle—a bird that is only found here and there in Sutherlandshire, though the keepers are no longer allowed to kill them—and, despite himself, looking at the noble creature, he began to ask himself casuistical questions. Would not this make a handsome gift for Meenie?—he could send the bird to Macleay at Inverness, and have it stuffed and returned without anybody knowing. Moreover, the keepers were only charged to abstain from shooting such golden eagles as they might find on their own ground; and he knew from the make of the trap that this one must have come from a different shooting altogether; it was not a Clebrig eagle at all. But he looked at the fierce eye of the beast, and its undaunted mien; he knew that, if it could, it would fight to the death; and he felt a kind of pride in the creature, and admiration for it, and even a sort of sympathy and fellow-feeling.'My good chap,' said he, 'I'm not going to kill you in cold blood—not me. Go back to your wife and weans, wherever they are. Off!'And he tried to throw the big beast into the air. But this was not like flinging up a released pigeon. The eagle fell forward, and stumbled twice ere it could get its great wings into play; and then, instead of trying to soar upward, it went flapping away down wind—increasing in speed, until he could see it, now rising somewhat, cross the lower windings of Loch Naver, and make away for the northern skies.'It's a God's mercy,' he was saying to himself, as he went back to get his gun, 'that I met the creature in the daytime; had it been at night, I would hae thought it was the devil.'Some two or three hundred feet still farther up the hillside he came to his own eyrie—a great mass of rock, affording shelter from either southerly or easterly winds, and surrounded with some smaller stones; and here he sate contentedly down to look around him—Harry crouched at his feet, his nose between his paws, but his eyes watchful. And this wide stretch of country between Clebrig and the northern sea would have formed a striking prospect in any kind of weather—the strange and savage loneliness of the moorlands; the solitary lakes with never a sign of habitation along their shores; the great ranges of mountains whose silent recesses are known only to the stag and the hind; but on such a morning as this it was all as unstable and unreal as it was wildly beautiful and picturesque;—for the hurrying weather made a kind of phantasmagoria of the solid land; bursts of sunlight that struck on the yellow straths were followed by swift gray cloud-wreaths blotting out the world; and again and again the white snow-peaks of the hills would melt away and become invisible only to reappear again shining and glorious in a sky of brilliant blue; until, indeed, it seemed as if the earth had no substance and fixed foundation at all, but was a mere dream, an aerial vision, changed and moved and controlled by some unseen and capricious hand.And then again, on the dark and wind-driven lake far below him, that small object was still to be made out—like some minute, black, crawling water insect. He took out his glass from its leather case, adjusted it, and placed it to his eye. What was this? In the world suddenly brought near—and yet dimly near, as though a film interposed—he could see that some one was standing up in the stern of the boat, and another crouching down, by his side. Was that a clip or the handle of the landing-net; in other words, was it a salmon or a kelt that was fighting them there? He swept the dull waters of the loch with his glass; but could make out no splashing or springing anywhere near them. And then he could see by the curve of the rod that the fish was close at hand; there was a minute or two longer of anxiety; then a sudden movement on the part of the crouching person—and behold a silver-white object gleams for a moment in the air and then disappears!'Good!' he says to himself—with a kind of sigh of satisfaction as if he had himself taken part in the struggle and capture.How peaceful looks the little hamlet of Inver-Mudal! The wild storm-clouds, and the bursts of sunlight, and the howling winds seem to sail over it unheeded; down in the hollow there surely all is quiet and still. And is Meenie singing at her work, by the window; or perhaps superintending Maggie's lessons; or gone away on one of the lonely walks that she is fond of—up by the banks of the Mudal Water? It is a bleak and a bare stream; there is scarce a bush on its banks; and yet he knows of no other river—however hung with foliage and flowers—that is so sweet and sacred and beautiful. What was it he wrote in the bygone year—one summer day when he had seen her go by—and he, too, was near the water, and could hear the soft murmuring over the pebbles? He called the idle versesMUDAL IN JUNE.Mudal, that comes from the lonely mere,Silent or whispering, vanishing ever,Know you of aught that concerns us here?—You, youngest of all God's creatures, a river.Born of a yesterday's summer shower,And hurrying on with your restless motion,Silent or whispering, every hour,To lose yourself in the great lone ocean.Your banks remain; but you go by,Through day and through darkness swiftly sailing:Say, do you hear the curlew cry,And the snipe in the night-time hoarsely wailing?Do you watch the wandering hinds in the morn;Do you hear the grouse-cock crow in the heather;Do you see the lark spring up from the corn,All in the radiant summer weather?O Mudal stream, how little you knowThat Meenie has loved you, and loves you ever;And while to your ocean home you flow,She says good-bye to her well-loved river!—O see you her now—she is coming anigh—And the flower in her hand her aim discloses:Laugh, Mudal, your thanks as you're hurrying by—For she flings you a rose, in the month of roses!Well, that was written as long ago as last midsummer; and was Meenie still as far away from him as then, and as ignorant as ever of his mute worship of her, and of these verses that he had written about her? But he indulged in no day-dreams. Meenie was as near to him as he had any right to expect—giving him of an assured and constant friendship; and as for these passing rhymes—well, he tried to make them as worthy of her as he could, though he knew she should never see them; polishing them, in so far as they might be said to have any polish at all, in honour of her; and, what is more to the point, at once cutting out and destroying any of them that seemed to savour either of affectation or of echo. No: the rude rhymes should at least be honest and of his own invention and method; imitations he could not, even in fancy, lay at Meenie's feet. And sometimes, it is true, a wild imagination would get hold of him—a whimsical thing, that he laughed at: supposing that life—the actual real life here at Inver-Mudal—were suddenly to become a play, a poem, a romantic tale; and that Meenie was to fall in love with him; and he to grow rich all at once; and the Stuarts of Glengask to be quite complaisant: why, then, would it not be a fine thing to bring all this collection of verses to Meenie, and say 'There, now, it is not much; but it shows you that I have been thinking of you all through these years?' Yes, it would be a very fine thing, in a romance. But, as has been said, he was one not given to day-dreams; and he accepted the facts of life with much equanimity; and when he had written some lines about Meenie that he regarded with a little affection—as suggesting, let us say, something of the glamour of her clear Highland eyes, and the rose-sweetness of her nature, and the kindness of her heart—and when it seemed rather a pity that she should never see them—if only as a tribute to her gentleness offered by a perfectly unbiassed spectator—he quickly reminded himself that it was not his business to write verses but to trap foxes and train dogs and shoot hoodie-crows. He was not vain of his rhymes—except where Meenie's name came in. Besides, he was a very busy person at most seasons of the year; and men, women, and children alike showed a considerable fondness for him, so that his life was full of sympathies and interests; and altogether he cannot be regarded, nor did he regard himself, as a broken-hearted or blighted being. His temperament was essentially joyous and healthy; the passing moment was enough; nothing pleased him so much as to have a grouse, or a hare, or a ptarmigan, or a startled hind appear within sure and easy range, and to say 'Well, go on. Take your life with you. Rather a pleasant day this: why shouldn't you enjoy it as well as I?'However, on this blustering and brilliant morning he had not come all the way up hither merely to get a brace of hares for Mrs. Murray, nor yet to be a distant spectator of the salmon-fishing going on far below. Under this big rock there was a considerable cavity, and right at the back of that he had wedged in a wooden box lined with tin, and fitted with a lid and a lock. It was useful in the autumn; he generally kept in it a bottle of whisky and a few bottles of soda-water, lest any of the gentlemen should find themselves thirsty on the way home from the stalking. But on this occasion, when he got out the key and unlocked the little chest, it was not any refreshment of that kind he was after. He took out a copy-book—a cheap paper-covered thing such as is used in juvenile schools in Scotland—and turned to the first page, which was scrawled over with pencilled lines that had apparently been written in time of rain, for there were plenty of smudges there. It had become a habit of his that, when in these lonely rambles among the hills, he found some further rhymes about Meenie come into his head, he would jot them down in this copy-book, deposit it in the little chest, and probably not see them again for weeks and weeks, when, as on the present occasion, he would come with fresh eyes to see it there were any worth or value in them. Not that he took such trouble with anything else. His rhyming epistles to his friends, his praises of his terrier Harry, his songs for the Inver-Mudal lasses to sing—these things were thrown off anyhow, and had to take their chance. But his solitary intercommunings away amid these alpine wastes were of a more serious cast; insensibly they gathered dignity and repose from the very silence and awfulness of the solitudes around; there was no idle and pastoral singing here about roses in the lane. He regarded the blurred lines, striving to think of them as having been written by somebody else:Through the long sad centuries Clebrig slept,Nor a sound the silence broke,Till a morning in Spring a strange new thingBetrayed him and he awoke;And he laughed, and his joyous laugh was heardFrom Erribol far to Tongue;And his granite veins deep down were stirred,And the great old mountain grew young.'Twas Love Meenie he saw, and she walked by the shore,And she sang so sweet and so clear,That the sound of her voice made him see againThe dawn of the world appear;And at night he spake to the listening starsAnd charged them a guard to keepOn the hamlet of Inver-Mudal thereAnd the maid in her innocent sleep,Till the years should go by; and they should seeLove Meenie take her stand'Mong the maidens around the footstool of God—She gentlest of all the band!He tore the leaf out, folded it, and put it in his pocket.'Another one for the little bookie that's never to be seen,' said he, with a kind of laugh; for indeed he treated himself to a good deal of satire, and would rather have blown his brains out than that the neighbourhood should have known he was writing these verses about Meenie Douglas.'And hey, Harry, lad!' he called, as he locked the little cupboard again, 'I'm thinking we must be picking up a hare now, if it's for soup for the gentleman's dinner the night. So ye were bauld enough to face an eagle? I doubt, if both his feet had been free, but ye might have had a lift in the air, and seen the heavens and the earth spread out below ye.'He shouldered his gun and set out again—making his way towards some rockier ground, where he very soon bagged the brace of hares he wanted. He tied their legs together, slung them over his shoulder, and began to descend the mountain again—usually keeping his eye on the minute black speck on the loch, lest there might be occasion again for his telescope.He took the two hares—they looked remarkably like cats, by the way, for they were almost entirely white—into the inn, and threw them on to the chair in the passage.'There you are, Nelly, lass,' said he, as the fair-haired Highland maid happened to go by.'All right,' said she, which was no great thanks.But Mr. Murray, in the parlour, had heard the keeper's voice.'Ronald,' he cried, 'come in for a minute, will ye?'Mr. Murray was a little, wiry, gray-haired, good-natured looking man, who, when Ronald entered the parlour, was seated at the table, and evidently puzzling his brains over a blank sheet of paper that lay before him.'Your sister Maggie wass here this morning,' the inn-keeper said—still with his eyes fixed upon the paper—'and she wass saying that maybe Meenie—Miss Douglas—would like to come with the others on Monday night—ay, and maybe Mrs. Douglas herself too as well—but they would hef to be asked. And Kott pless me, it is not an easy thing, if you hef to write a letter, and that is more polite than asking—it is not an easy thing, I am sure. Ronald,' he said, raising his eyes and turning round, 'would you tek a message?''Where?' said Ronald—but he knew well enough, and was only seeking time to make an excuse.'To Mrs. Douglas and the young lass; and tell them we will be glad if they will come with the others on Monday night—for the doctor is away from home, and why should they be left by themselves? Will you tek the message, Ronald?''How could I do that?' Ronald said. 'It's you that's giving the party, Mr. Murray.''But they know you so ferry well—and—and there will be no harm if they come and see the young lads and lasses having a reel together—ay, and a song too. And if Mrs. Douglas could not be bothered, it's you that could bring the young lady—oh yes, I know ferry well—if you will ask her, she will come.''I am sure no,' Ronald said hastily, and with an embarrassment he sought in vain to conceal. 'If Miss Douglas cares to come at all, it will be when you ask her. And why should ye write, man? Go down the road and ask her yourself—I mean, ask Mrs. Douglas; it's as simple as simple. What for should ye write a letter? Would ye send it through the post too? That's ceremony for next-door neighbours!''But Ronald, lad, if ye should see the young lass herself——''No, no; take your own message, Mr. Murray; they can but give you a civil answer.'Mr. Murray was left doubting. It was clear that the awful shadow of Glengask and Orosay still dwelt over the doctor's household; and that the innkeeper was not at all sure as to what Mrs. Douglas would say to an invitation that she and her daughter Meenie—or Williamina, as the mother called her—should be present at a merry-meeting of farm lads, keepers, gillies, and kitchen wenches.CHAPTER VIII.THE NEW YEAR'S FEAST.Loud and shrill in the empty barn arose the strains of theAthole March, warning the young lasses to hasten with the adjustment of their ribbons, and summoning the young lads about to look sharp and escort them. The long and narrow table was prettily laid out; two candelabra instead of one shed a flood of light on the white cover; the walls were decorated with evergreens and with Meenie's resplendent paper blossoms; the peats in the improvised fireplace burned merrily. And when the company began to arrive, in twos and threes, some bashful and hesitating, others merry and jocular, there was a little embarrassment about the taking of places until Ronald laid down his pipes and set to work to arrange them. The American gentleman had brought in Mrs. Murray in state, and they were at the head of the table; while Ronald himself took the foot, in order, as he said, to keep order—if he were able—among the lasses who had mostly congregated there. Then the general excitement and talking was hushed for a minute, while the innkeeper said grace; and then the girls—farm wenches, some of them, and Nelly, the pretty parlour-maid, and Finnuala, the cook's youngest sister, who was but lately come from Uist and talked the quaintest English, and Mr. Murray's two nieces from Tongue, and the other young lasses about the inn—all of them became demure and proper in their manner, for they were about to enjoy the unusual sensation of being waited upon.This, of course, was Ronald's doing. There had been a question as to which of the maids were to bring in supper for so large a number; so he addressed himself to the young fellows who were standing about.'You lazy laddies,' he said, 'what are ye thinking o'? Here's a chance for ye, if there's a pennyworth o' spunk among the lot o' ye. They lasses there wait on ye the whole year long, and make the beds for ye, and redd the house; I'm thinking ye might do worse than wait on them for one night, and bring in the supper when they sit down. They canna do both things; and the fun o' the night belongs to them or to nobody at all.'At first there was a little shamefaced reluctance—it was 'lasses' work,' they said—until a great huge Highland tyke—a Ross-shire drover who happened to be here on a visit—a man of about six feet four, with a red beard big enough for a raven to build in, declared that he would lend a hand, if no one else did; and forthwith brought his huge fist down on the bar-room table to give emphasis to his words. There was some suspicion that this unwonted gallantry was due to the fact that he had a covetous eye on Jeannie, Donald Macrae's lass, who was a very superior dairy-mistress, and was also heir-presumptive to her father's farmstead and about a score of well-favoured cattle; but that was neither here nor there; he was as good as his word; he organised the brigade, and led it; and if he swallowed a stiff glass of whisky before setting out from the kitchen for the barn, with a steaming plate of soup in each hand, that was merely to steady his nerves and enable him to face the merriment of the whole gang of those girls. And then when this red-bearded giant of a Ganymede and his attendants had served every one, they fetched in their own plates, and sat down; and time was allowed them; for the evening was young yet, and no one in a hurry.Now if Mr. Hodson had been rather doubtful lest his presence might produce some little restraint, he was speedily reassured, to his own great satisfaction, for he was really a most good-natured person and anxious to be friendly with everybody. In the general fun and jollity he was not even noticed; he could ask Mrs. Murray any questions he chose without suspicion of being observant; the young lady next him—who was Jeannie Macrae herself, and to whom he strove to be as gallant as might be—was very winsome and gentle and shy, and spoke in a more Highland fashion than he had heard yet; while otherwise he did not fare at all badly at this rustic feast, for there were boiled fowls and roast hares after the soup, and there was plenty of ale passed round, and tea for those who wished it. Nay, on the contrary, he had rather to push himself forward and assert himself ere he could get his proper share of the work that was going on. He insisted upon carving for at least half a dozen neighbours; he was most attentive to the pretty Highland girl next him; and laughed heartily at Mrs. Murray's Scotch stories, which he did not quite understand; and altogether entered into the spirit of the evening. But there was no doubt it was at the other end of the table that the fun was getting fast and furious; and just as little doubt that Ronald the keeper was suffering considerably at the hands of those ungrateful lasses for whom he had done so much. Like a prudent man, he held his tongue and waited his opportunity; taking their teasing with much good humour; and paying no heed to the other young fellows who were urging him to face and silence the saucy creatures. And his opportunity came in the most unexpected way. One of the girls, out of pure mischief, and without the least notion that she would be overheard, rapped lightly on the table, and said: 'Mr. Ronald Strang will now favour us with a song.' To her amazement and horror there was an almost instant silence; for an impression had travelled up the table that some announcement was about to be made.'What is it now? What are you about down there?' their host called to them—and the silence, to her who had unwittingly caused it, was terrible.But another of the girls, still bent on mischief, was bold enough to say.'Oh, it's Ronald that's going to sing us a song.''Sing ye a song, ye limmer, ere ye're through with your supper?' Ronald said sharply. 'I'd make ye sing yourself—with a leather strap—if I had my will o' ye.'But this was not heard up the table.'Very well, then, Ronald,' the innkeeper cried, graciously. 'Come away with it now. There is no one at all can touch you at that.''Oh, do not ask him,' the pretty Nelly said—apparently addressing the company, but keeping her cruel eyes on him. 'Do not ask Ronald to sing. Ronald is such a shy lad.'He glanced at her; and then he seemed to make up his mind.'Very well, then,' said he, 'I'll sing ye a song—and let's have a chorus, lads.'Now in Sutherlandshire, as in many other parts of the Highlands, the chief object of singing in company is to establish a chorus; and the audience, no matter whether they have heard the air or not, so soon as it begins, proceed to beat time with hand and heel, forming a kind of accompanying tramp, as it were; so that by the time the end of the first verse is reached, if they have not quite caught the tune, at least they can make some kind of rhythmic noise with the refrain. And on this occasion, if the words were new—and Ronald, on evil intent, took care to pronounce them clearly—the air was sufficiently like 'Jenny dang the Weaver' for the general chorus to come in, in not more than half a dozen keys. This was what Ronald sang—and he sang it in that resonant tenor of his, and in a rollicking fashion—just as if it were an impromptu, and not a weapon that he had carefully forged long ago, and hidden away to serve some such chance as the present:O lasses, lasses, gang your ways,And dust the house, or wash the claes,Ye put me in a kind o' blaze—Ye'll break my heart among ye!The girls rather hung their heads—the imputation that they were all setting their caps at a modest youth who wanted to have nothing to do with them was scarcely what they expected. But the lads had struck the tune somehow; and there was a roaring chorus, twice repeated, with heavy boots marking the time—Ye'll break my heart among ye!And then the singer proceeded—gravely—At kirk or market, morn or e'en,The like o' them was never seen,For each is kind, and each a queen;—Ye'll break my heart among ye!And again came the roaring chorus from the delighted lads—Ye'll break my heart among ye!There was but one more verse—There's that one dark, and that one fair,And yon has wealth o' yellow hair;Gang hame, gang hame—I can nae mair—Ye'll break my heart among ye!Yellow hair? The allusion was so obvious that the pretty Nelly blushed scarlet—all the more visibly because of her fair complexion; and when the thunder of the thrice-repeated refrain had ceased, she leant forward and said to him in a low voice, but with much terrible meaning—'My lad, when I get you by yourself, I'll give it to you!'They had nearly finished supper by this time; but ere they had the decks cleared for action, there was a formal ceremony to be gone through. The host produced hisquaich—a small cup of horn, with a handle on each side; and likewise a bottle of whisky; and as one guest after another took hold of the quaich with the thumb and forefinger of each hand, the innkeeper filled the small cup with whisky, which had then to be drank to some more or less appropriate toast. These were in Gaelic for the most part—'To the goodman of the inn'; 'To the young girls that are kind, and old wives that keep a clean house'; 'Good health; and good luck in finding things washed ashore,' and so forth—and when it came to Mr. Hodson's turn, he would have a try at the Gaelic too.'I think I can wrestle with it, if you give me an easy one,' he remarked, as he took the quaich between his fingers and held it till it was filled.'Oh no, sir, do not trouble about the Gaelic,' said his pretty neighbour Jeannie—blushing very much, for there was comparative silence at the time.'But I want to have my turn. If it's anything a white man can do, I can do it.''Sayair do shlàinte—that is, your good health,' said Jeannie, blushing more furiously than ever.He carefully balanced the cup in his hands, gravely turned towards his hostess, bowed to her, repeated the magic words with a very fair accent indeed, and drained off the whisky—amid the general applause; though none of them suspected that the swallowing of the whisky was to him a much more severe task than the pronunciation of the Gaelic. And then it came to Ronald's turn.'Oh no, Mr. Murray,' said the slim-waisted Nelly, who had recovered from her confusion, and whose eyes were now as full of mischief as ever, 'do not ask Ronald to say anything in the Gaelic; he is ashamed to hear himself speak. It is six years and more he has been trying to say "a young calf," and he cannot do it yet.''And besides, he's thinking of the lass he left behind in the Lothians,' said her neighbour.'And they're all black-haired girls there,' continued the fair-haired Nelly. 'Ronald, drink "mo nighean dubh."'He fixed his eyes on her steadily, and said: 'Tir nam beann, nan gleann, s'nan gaisgeach;[#] and may all the saucy jades in Sutherland find a husband to keep them in order ere the year be out.'[#] The land of hills and glens and heroes.And now two or three of the lasses rose to clear the table; for the red-bearded drover and his brigade had not the skill to do that; and the men lit their pipes; and there was a good deal of joyousschwärmerei. In the midst of it all there was a rapping of spoons and knuckles at the upper end of the table; and it was clear, from the importance of his look, that Mr. Murray himself was about to favour the company—so that a general silence ensued. And very well indeed did the host of the evening sing—in a shrill, high-pitched voice, it is true, but still with such a multitude of small flourishes and quavers and grace notes as showed he had once been proud enough of his voice in the days gone by. 'Scotland yet' he sang; and there was a universal rush at the chorus—'And trow ye as I sing, my lads,The burden o't shall be,Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's knowes,And Scotland's hills for me,I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,Wi' a' the honours three.'And was their American friend to be excluded?—not if he knew it. He could make a noise as well as any; and he waved the quaich—which had wandered back to him—round his head; and strident enough was his voice withI'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,Wi' a' the honours three.''I feel half a Scotchman already,' said he gaily to his hostess.'Indeed, sir, I wish you were altogether one,' she said in her gentle way. 'I am sure I think you would look a little better in health if you lived in this country.''But I don't look so ill, do I?' said he—rather disappointed; for he had been striving to be hilarious, and had twice drank the contents of the quaich, out of pure friendliness.'Well, no, sir,' said Mrs. Murray politely, 'not more than most of them I hef seen from your country; but surely it cannot be so healthy as other places; the young ladies are so thin and delicate-looking whatever; many a one I would like to hef kept here for a while—for more friendly young ladies I never met with anywhere—just to see what the mountain air and the sweet milk would do for her.''Well, then, Mrs. Murray, you will have the chance of trying your doctoring on my daughter when she comes up here a few weeks hence; but I think you won't find much of the invalid about her—it's my belief she could give twenty pounds to any girl I know of in a go-as-you-please race across the stiffest ground anywhere. There's not much the matter with my Carry, if she'd only not spend the whole day in those stores in Regent Street. Well, that will be over when she come here; I should think it'll make her stare some, if she wants to buy a veil or a pair of gloves.'But the girls at the foot of the table had been teasing Ronald to sing something; silence was forthwith procured; and presently—for he was very good natured, and sang whenever he was asked—the clear and penetrating tenor voice was ringing along the rafters:'The news frae Moidart cam' yestreen,Will soon gar many ferlie,[#]For ships o' war hae just come inAnd landed royal Charlie.'[#] 'Ferlie,' wonder.It was a well-known song, with a resounding chorus:'Come through the heather, around him gather,Ye're a' the welcomer early;Around him cling wi' a' your kin,For wha'll be king but Charlie?'Nay, was not this the right popular kind of song—to have two choruses instead of one?—'Come through the heather, around him gather,Come Ronald, and Donald, come a'thegitherAnd claim your rightfu' lawfu' king,For who'll be king but Charlie?'This song gave great satisfaction; for they had all taken part in the chorus; and they were pleased with the melodious result. And then the lasses were at him again:'Ronald, sing "Doon the burn, Davie lad."''Ronald, will you not give us "Logan Water" now?''Ronald, "Auld Joe Nicholson's Bonnie Nannie" or "My Peggy is a young thing" whichever you like best yourself.''No, no,' said the pretty Nelly, 'ask him to sing, "When the kye come hame," and he will be thinking of the black-haired lass he left in the Lothians.''Gae wa', gae wa',' said he, rising and shaking himself free from them. 'I ken what'll put other things into your heads—or into your heels, rather.'He picked up his pipes, which had been left in a corner, threw the drones over his shoulder, and marched to the upper end of the barn; then there was a preliminary groan or two, and presently the chanter broke away into a lively reel tune. The effect of this signal, as it might be called, was magical; every one at once divined what was needed; and the next moment they were all helping to get the long table separated into its component parts and carried out into the dark. There was a cross table left at the upper end, by the peat-fire, for the elderly people and the spectators to sit at, if they chose; the younger folk had wooden forms at the lower end; but the truth is that they were so eager not to have any of the inspiriting music thrown away that several sets were immediately formed, and off they went to the brisk strains ofMiss Jenny Gordon's Favourite—intertwisting deftly, setting to partners again, fingers and thumbs snapped in the air, every lad amongst them showing off his best steps, and ringing whoops sent up to the rafters as the reel broke off again into a quick strathspey. It was wild and barbaric, no doubt; but there was a kind of rhythmic poetry in it too; Ronald grew prouder and prouder of the fire that he could infuse into this tempestuous and yet methodical crowd; the whoops became yells; and if the red-bearded drover, dancing opposite the slim-figured Nelly, would challenge her to do her best, and could himself perform some remarkable steps and shakes, well, Nelly was not ashamed to raise her gown an inch or two just to show him that he was not dancing with a flat-footed creature, but that she had swift toes and graceful ankles to compare with any. And then again they would trip off into the figure 8, swinging round with arms interlocked; and again roof and rafter would 'dirl' with the triumphant shouts of the men. Then came the long wailing monition from the pipes; the sounds died down; panting and laughing and rosy-cheeked the lasses were led to the benches by their partners; and a general halt was called.Little Maggie stole up to her brother.'I'm going home now, Ronald,' she said.'Very well,' he said. 'Mind you go to bed as soon as ye get in. Good-night, lass.''Good-night, Ronald.'She was going away, when he said to her—'Maggie, do ye think that Miss Douglas is not coming along to see the dancing? I thought she would do that if she would rather no come to the supper.'In truth he had had his eye on the door all the time he was playingMiss Jenny Gordon's Favourite.'I am sure if she stays away,' the little Maggie said, 'it is not her own doing. Meenie wanted to come. It is very hard that everybody should be at the party and not Meenie.''Well, well, good-night, lass,' said he; for the young folk were choosing their partners again, and the pipes were wanted. Soon there was another reel going on, as fast and furious as before.At the end of this reel—Meenie had not appeared, by the way, and Ronald concluded that she was not to be allowed to look on at the dancing—the yellow-haired Nelly came up to the top of the room, and addressed Mrs. Murray in the Gaelic; but as she finished up with the wordquadrille, and as she directed one modest little glance towards Mr. Hodson, that amiable but astute onlooker naturally inferred that he was somehow concerned in this speech. Mrs. Murray laughed.'Well, sir, the girls are asking if you would not like to have a dance too; and they could have a quadrille.''I've no cause to brag about my dancing,' he said good-humouredly, 'but if Miss Nelly will see me through, I dare say we'll manage somehow. Will you excuse my ignorance?'Now the tall and slender Highland maid had not in any way bargained for this—it was merely friendliness that had prompted her proposal; but she could not well refuse; and soon one or two sets were formed; and a young lad called Munro, from Lairg, who had brought his fiddle with him for this great occasion, proceeded to tune up. The quadrille, when it came off, was performed with more of vigour than science; there was no ignominious shirking of steps—no idle and languid walking—but a thorough and resolute flinging about, as the somewhat bewildered Mr. Hodson speedily discovered. However, he did his part gallantly, and was now grown so gay that when, at the end of the dance, he inquired of the fair Nelly whether she would like to have any little refreshment, and when she mildly suggested a little water, and offered to go for it herself, he would hear of no such thing. No, no; he went and got some soda-water, and declared that it was much more wholesome with a little whisky in it; and had some himself also. Gay and gallant?—why, certainly. He threw off thirty years of his life; he forgot that this was the young person who would be waiting at table after his daughter Carry came hither: he would have danced another quadrille with her; and felt almost jealous when a young fellow came up to claim her for theHighland Schottische—thus sending him back to the society of Mrs. Murray. And it was not until he had sate down that he remembered he had suggested to his daughter the training of this pretty Highland girl for the position of maid and travelling companion. But what of that? If all men were born equal, so were women; and he declared to himself that any day he would rather converse with Nelly the pretty parlour-maid than (supposing him to have the chance) with Her Illustrious Highness the Princess of Pfalzgrafweiler-Gunzenhausen.In the meantime Ronald, his pipes not being then needed, had wandered out into the cold night-air. There were some stars visible, but they shed no great light; the world lay black enough all around. He went idly and dreamily along the road—the sounds in the barn growing fainter and fainter—until he reached the plateau where his own cottage stood. There was no light in it anywhere; doubtless Maggie had at once gone to bed, as she had been bid. And then he wandered on again—walking a little more quietly—until he reached the doctor's house. Here all the lights were out but one; there was a red glow in that solitary window; and he knew that that was Meenie's room. Surely she could not be sitting up and listening?—even the skirl of the pipes could scarcely be heard so far; and her window was closed. Reading, perhaps? He knew so many of her favourites—'The Burial March of Dundee,' 'Jeannie Morrison,' 'Bonny Kilmeny,' 'Christabel,' the 'Hymn before Sunrise in the Valley of Chamounix,' and others of a similar noble or mystical or tender kind; and perhaps, after all, these were more in consonance with the gentle dignity and rose-sweetness of her mind and nature than the gambols of a lot of farm-lads and wenches? He walked on to the bridge, and sate down there for a while, in the dark and the silence; he could hear the Mudal Water rippling by, but could see nothing. And when he passed along the road again, the light in the small red-blinded window was gone; Meenie was away in the world of dreams and phantoms—and he wondered if the people there knew who this was who had come amongst them, with her wondering eyes and sweet ways.He went back to the barn, and resumed his pipe-playing with all his wonted vigour—waking up the whole thing, as it were; but nothing could induce him to allow one or other of the lads to be his substitute, so that he might go and choose a partner for one of the reels. He would not dance; he said his business was to keep the merry-making going. And he and they did keep it going till between five and six in the morning, when all hands were piped for the singing of 'Auld Lang Syne:' and thereafter there was a general dispersal, candles going this way and that through the blackness like so many will-o'-the-wisps; and the last good-nights at length sank into silence—a silence as profound and hushed as that that lay over the unseen heights of Clebrig and the dark and still lake below.

CHAPTER VII.

AN EYRIE.

'Come along, Harry, my lad,' the young keeper cried next morning to his faithful terrier, 'and we'll go and have a look up the hill.'

He slipped a cartridge or two into his pocket, more by custom than design as it were; put his gun over his shoulder; and went out into the cold clear air, the little terrier trotting at his heels. The vague unrest of the previous evening was altogether gone now; he was his natural self again; as he strode along the road he was lightly singing—but also under his breath, lest any herd-laddie should overhear—

Roses red, roses white,Roses in the lane,Tell me, roses white and red,Where is Meenie gane!

Roses red, roses white,

Roses in the lane,

Tell me, roses white and red,

Where is Meenie gane!

And when he got as far as the inn he found that the mail-cart had just arrived, so he turned aside to have a little gossip with the small group of shepherds and others who had come to see whether there were any newspapers or letters for them. He was a great favourite with these; perhaps also an object of envy to the younger of the lads; for he lived the life of a gentleman, one might say, and was his own master; moreover, where was there any one who looked so smart and dressed so neatly—his Glengarry cap, his deerstalking jacket, his knickerbockers, his hand-knitted socks, and white spats, and shoes, being all so trim and well cared for, even in this wild winter weather? There was some laughing and joking about the forthcoming supper-party; and more than one of them would have had him go inside with them to have 'a glass,' but he was proof against that temptation; while the yellow-haired Nelly, who was at work within, happening to turn her eyes to the window, and catching sight of him standing there, and being jealous of his popularity with all those shepherd-lads and gillies, suddenly said to her mistress—

'There's Ronald outside, mem, and I think he might go away and shoot something for the gentleman's dinner.'

'Very well,' said Mrs. Murray; 'go and say that I would be very much obliged to him indeed if he would bring me a hare or two the first time he is going up the hill, but at his own convenience, to be sure.'

But that was not the message that Nelly went to deliver. She wanted to show her authority before all these half-critical idlers, and also, as a good-looking lass, her independence and her mastery over men-folk.

'Ronald,' said she, at the door of the inn, 'I think you might just as well be going up the hill and bringing us down a hare or two, instead of standing about here doing nothing.'

'Is that Highland manners, lass?' he said, but with perfect good humour. 'I'm thinking ye might say "if ye please." But I'll get ye a hare or two, sure enough, and ye'll keep the first dance for me on Monday night.'

'Indeed I am not sure that I will be at the dancing at all,' retorted the pretty Nelly; but this was merely to cover her retreat—she did not wish to have any further conversation before that lot of idle half-grinning fellows.

As for Ronald, he bade them good-morning, and went lightly on his way again. He was going up the hill anyway; and he might as well bring down a brace of hares for Mrs. Murray; so, after walking along the road for a mile or so, he struck off across some rough and partly marshy ground, and presently began to climb the lower slopes of Clebrig, getting ever a wider and wider view as he ascended, and always when he turned finding beneath him the wind-stirred waters of the loch, where a tiny dark object, slow-moving near the shores, told him where the salmon fishers were patiently pursuing their sport.

No, there were no more unsettling notions in his brain; here he was master and monarch of all he surveyed; and if he was profoundly unconscious of the ease with which he breasted this steep hillside, at least he rejoiced in the ever-widening prospect—as lochs and hills and stretches of undulating moorland seemed to stretch ever and ever outward until, afar in the north, he could make out the Kyle of Tongue and the faint line of the sea. It was a wild and changeable day; now filled with gloom, again bursting forth into a blaze of yellow sunshine; while ever and anon some flying tag of cloud would come sweeping across the hillside and engulf him, so that all he could then discern was the rough hard heather and bits of rock around his feet. It was just as one of these transient clouds was clearing off that he was suddenly startled by a loud noise—as of iron rattling on stones; and so bewildering was this unusual noise in the intense silence reigning there that instinctively he wheeled round and lowered his gun. And then again, the next second, what he saw was about as bewildering as what he had heard—a great creature, quite close by, and yet only half visible in the clearing mist, with huge outspread wings, dragging something after it across the broken rocks. The truth flashed upon him in an instant; it was an eagle caught in a fox-trap; the strange noise was the trap striking here and there on a stone. At once he put down his gun on an exposed knoll and gave chase, with the greatest difficulty subduing the eager desire of the yelping Harry to rush forward and attack the huge bird by himself. It was a rough and ludicrous pursuit but it ended in capture—though here, again, circumspection was necessary, for the eagle, with all his neck-feathers bristling, struck at him again and again with the talons that were free, only one foot having been caught in the trap. But the poor beast was quite exhausted; an examination of the trap showed Ronald that he must have flown with this weight attached to his leg all the way from Ben Ruach, some half dozen miles away; and now, though there was yet an occasional automatic motion of the beak or the claws, as though he would still strike for liberty, he submitted to be firmly seized while the iron teeth of the trap were being opened. And then Ronald looked at his prize (but still with a careful grip). He was a splendid specimen of the golden eagle—a bird that is only found here and there in Sutherlandshire, though the keepers are no longer allowed to kill them—and, despite himself, looking at the noble creature, he began to ask himself casuistical questions. Would not this make a handsome gift for Meenie?—he could send the bird to Macleay at Inverness, and have it stuffed and returned without anybody knowing. Moreover, the keepers were only charged to abstain from shooting such golden eagles as they might find on their own ground; and he knew from the make of the trap that this one must have come from a different shooting altogether; it was not a Clebrig eagle at all. But he looked at the fierce eye of the beast, and its undaunted mien; he knew that, if it could, it would fight to the death; and he felt a kind of pride in the creature, and admiration for it, and even a sort of sympathy and fellow-feeling.

'My good chap,' said he, 'I'm not going to kill you in cold blood—not me. Go back to your wife and weans, wherever they are. Off!'

And he tried to throw the big beast into the air. But this was not like flinging up a released pigeon. The eagle fell forward, and stumbled twice ere it could get its great wings into play; and then, instead of trying to soar upward, it went flapping away down wind—increasing in speed, until he could see it, now rising somewhat, cross the lower windings of Loch Naver, and make away for the northern skies.

'It's a God's mercy,' he was saying to himself, as he went back to get his gun, 'that I met the creature in the daytime; had it been at night, I would hae thought it was the devil.'

Some two or three hundred feet still farther up the hillside he came to his own eyrie—a great mass of rock, affording shelter from either southerly or easterly winds, and surrounded with some smaller stones; and here he sate contentedly down to look around him—Harry crouched at his feet, his nose between his paws, but his eyes watchful. And this wide stretch of country between Clebrig and the northern sea would have formed a striking prospect in any kind of weather—the strange and savage loneliness of the moorlands; the solitary lakes with never a sign of habitation along their shores; the great ranges of mountains whose silent recesses are known only to the stag and the hind; but on such a morning as this it was all as unstable and unreal as it was wildly beautiful and picturesque;—for the hurrying weather made a kind of phantasmagoria of the solid land; bursts of sunlight that struck on the yellow straths were followed by swift gray cloud-wreaths blotting out the world; and again and again the white snow-peaks of the hills would melt away and become invisible only to reappear again shining and glorious in a sky of brilliant blue; until, indeed, it seemed as if the earth had no substance and fixed foundation at all, but was a mere dream, an aerial vision, changed and moved and controlled by some unseen and capricious hand.

And then again, on the dark and wind-driven lake far below him, that small object was still to be made out—like some minute, black, crawling water insect. He took out his glass from its leather case, adjusted it, and placed it to his eye. What was this? In the world suddenly brought near—and yet dimly near, as though a film interposed—he could see that some one was standing up in the stern of the boat, and another crouching down, by his side. Was that a clip or the handle of the landing-net; in other words, was it a salmon or a kelt that was fighting them there? He swept the dull waters of the loch with his glass; but could make out no splashing or springing anywhere near them. And then he could see by the curve of the rod that the fish was close at hand; there was a minute or two longer of anxiety; then a sudden movement on the part of the crouching person—and behold a silver-white object gleams for a moment in the air and then disappears!

'Good!' he says to himself—with a kind of sigh of satisfaction as if he had himself taken part in the struggle and capture.

How peaceful looks the little hamlet of Inver-Mudal! The wild storm-clouds, and the bursts of sunlight, and the howling winds seem to sail over it unheeded; down in the hollow there surely all is quiet and still. And is Meenie singing at her work, by the window; or perhaps superintending Maggie's lessons; or gone away on one of the lonely walks that she is fond of—up by the banks of the Mudal Water? It is a bleak and a bare stream; there is scarce a bush on its banks; and yet he knows of no other river—however hung with foliage and flowers—that is so sweet and sacred and beautiful. What was it he wrote in the bygone year—one summer day when he had seen her go by—and he, too, was near the water, and could hear the soft murmuring over the pebbles? He called the idle verses

MUDAL IN JUNE.

Mudal, that comes from the lonely mere,Silent or whispering, vanishing ever,Know you of aught that concerns us here?—You, youngest of all God's creatures, a river.Born of a yesterday's summer shower,And hurrying on with your restless motion,Silent or whispering, every hour,To lose yourself in the great lone ocean.Your banks remain; but you go by,Through day and through darkness swiftly sailing:Say, do you hear the curlew cry,And the snipe in the night-time hoarsely wailing?Do you watch the wandering hinds in the morn;Do you hear the grouse-cock crow in the heather;Do you see the lark spring up from the corn,All in the radiant summer weather?O Mudal stream, how little you knowThat Meenie has loved you, and loves you ever;And while to your ocean home you flow,She says good-bye to her well-loved river!—O see you her now—she is coming anigh—And the flower in her hand her aim discloses:Laugh, Mudal, your thanks as you're hurrying by—For she flings you a rose, in the month of roses!

Mudal, that comes from the lonely mere,

Silent or whispering, vanishing ever,

Know you of aught that concerns us here?—

You, youngest of all God's creatures, a river.

Born of a yesterday's summer shower,

And hurrying on with your restless motion,

Silent or whispering, every hour,

To lose yourself in the great lone ocean.

Your banks remain; but you go by,

Through day and through darkness swiftly sailing:

Say, do you hear the curlew cry,

And the snipe in the night-time hoarsely wailing?

Do you watch the wandering hinds in the morn;

Do you hear the grouse-cock crow in the heather;

Do you see the lark spring up from the corn,

All in the radiant summer weather?

O Mudal stream, how little you know

That Meenie has loved you, and loves you ever;

And while to your ocean home you flow,

She says good-bye to her well-loved river!—

O see you her now—she is coming anigh—

And the flower in her hand her aim discloses:

Laugh, Mudal, your thanks as you're hurrying by—

For she flings you a rose, in the month of roses!

Well, that was written as long ago as last midsummer; and was Meenie still as far away from him as then, and as ignorant as ever of his mute worship of her, and of these verses that he had written about her? But he indulged in no day-dreams. Meenie was as near to him as he had any right to expect—giving him of an assured and constant friendship; and as for these passing rhymes—well, he tried to make them as worthy of her as he could, though he knew she should never see them; polishing them, in so far as they might be said to have any polish at all, in honour of her; and, what is more to the point, at once cutting out and destroying any of them that seemed to savour either of affectation or of echo. No: the rude rhymes should at least be honest and of his own invention and method; imitations he could not, even in fancy, lay at Meenie's feet. And sometimes, it is true, a wild imagination would get hold of him—a whimsical thing, that he laughed at: supposing that life—the actual real life here at Inver-Mudal—were suddenly to become a play, a poem, a romantic tale; and that Meenie was to fall in love with him; and he to grow rich all at once; and the Stuarts of Glengask to be quite complaisant: why, then, would it not be a fine thing to bring all this collection of verses to Meenie, and say 'There, now, it is not much; but it shows you that I have been thinking of you all through these years?' Yes, it would be a very fine thing, in a romance. But, as has been said, he was one not given to day-dreams; and he accepted the facts of life with much equanimity; and when he had written some lines about Meenie that he regarded with a little affection—as suggesting, let us say, something of the glamour of her clear Highland eyes, and the rose-sweetness of her nature, and the kindness of her heart—and when it seemed rather a pity that she should never see them—if only as a tribute to her gentleness offered by a perfectly unbiassed spectator—he quickly reminded himself that it was not his business to write verses but to trap foxes and train dogs and shoot hoodie-crows. He was not vain of his rhymes—except where Meenie's name came in. Besides, he was a very busy person at most seasons of the year; and men, women, and children alike showed a considerable fondness for him, so that his life was full of sympathies and interests; and altogether he cannot be regarded, nor did he regard himself, as a broken-hearted or blighted being. His temperament was essentially joyous and healthy; the passing moment was enough; nothing pleased him so much as to have a grouse, or a hare, or a ptarmigan, or a startled hind appear within sure and easy range, and to say 'Well, go on. Take your life with you. Rather a pleasant day this: why shouldn't you enjoy it as well as I?'

However, on this blustering and brilliant morning he had not come all the way up hither merely to get a brace of hares for Mrs. Murray, nor yet to be a distant spectator of the salmon-fishing going on far below. Under this big rock there was a considerable cavity, and right at the back of that he had wedged in a wooden box lined with tin, and fitted with a lid and a lock. It was useful in the autumn; he generally kept in it a bottle of whisky and a few bottles of soda-water, lest any of the gentlemen should find themselves thirsty on the way home from the stalking. But on this occasion, when he got out the key and unlocked the little chest, it was not any refreshment of that kind he was after. He took out a copy-book—a cheap paper-covered thing such as is used in juvenile schools in Scotland—and turned to the first page, which was scrawled over with pencilled lines that had apparently been written in time of rain, for there were plenty of smudges there. It had become a habit of his that, when in these lonely rambles among the hills, he found some further rhymes about Meenie come into his head, he would jot them down in this copy-book, deposit it in the little chest, and probably not see them again for weeks and weeks, when, as on the present occasion, he would come with fresh eyes to see it there were any worth or value in them. Not that he took such trouble with anything else. His rhyming epistles to his friends, his praises of his terrier Harry, his songs for the Inver-Mudal lasses to sing—these things were thrown off anyhow, and had to take their chance. But his solitary intercommunings away amid these alpine wastes were of a more serious cast; insensibly they gathered dignity and repose from the very silence and awfulness of the solitudes around; there was no idle and pastoral singing here about roses in the lane. He regarded the blurred lines, striving to think of them as having been written by somebody else:

Through the long sad centuries Clebrig slept,Nor a sound the silence broke,Till a morning in Spring a strange new thingBetrayed him and he awoke;And he laughed, and his joyous laugh was heardFrom Erribol far to Tongue;And his granite veins deep down were stirred,And the great old mountain grew young.'Twas Love Meenie he saw, and she walked by the shore,And she sang so sweet and so clear,That the sound of her voice made him see againThe dawn of the world appear;And at night he spake to the listening starsAnd charged them a guard to keepOn the hamlet of Inver-Mudal thereAnd the maid in her innocent sleep,Till the years should go by; and they should seeLove Meenie take her stand'Mong the maidens around the footstool of God—She gentlest of all the band!

Through the long sad centuries Clebrig slept,

Nor a sound the silence broke,

Till a morning in Spring a strange new thing

Betrayed him and he awoke;

And he laughed, and his joyous laugh was heard

From Erribol far to Tongue;

And his granite veins deep down were stirred,

And the great old mountain grew young.

'Twas Love Meenie he saw, and she walked by the shore,

And she sang so sweet and so clear,

That the sound of her voice made him see again

The dawn of the world appear;

And at night he spake to the listening stars

And charged them a guard to keep

On the hamlet of Inver-Mudal there

And the maid in her innocent sleep,

Till the years should go by; and they should see

Love Meenie take her stand

'Mong the maidens around the footstool of God—

She gentlest of all the band!

He tore the leaf out, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

'Another one for the little bookie that's never to be seen,' said he, with a kind of laugh; for indeed he treated himself to a good deal of satire, and would rather have blown his brains out than that the neighbourhood should have known he was writing these verses about Meenie Douglas.

'And hey, Harry, lad!' he called, as he locked the little cupboard again, 'I'm thinking we must be picking up a hare now, if it's for soup for the gentleman's dinner the night. So ye were bauld enough to face an eagle? I doubt, if both his feet had been free, but ye might have had a lift in the air, and seen the heavens and the earth spread out below ye.'

He shouldered his gun and set out again—making his way towards some rockier ground, where he very soon bagged the brace of hares he wanted. He tied their legs together, slung them over his shoulder, and began to descend the mountain again—usually keeping his eye on the minute black speck on the loch, lest there might be occasion again for his telescope.

He took the two hares—they looked remarkably like cats, by the way, for they were almost entirely white—into the inn, and threw them on to the chair in the passage.

'There you are, Nelly, lass,' said he, as the fair-haired Highland maid happened to go by.

'All right,' said she, which was no great thanks.

But Mr. Murray, in the parlour, had heard the keeper's voice.

'Ronald,' he cried, 'come in for a minute, will ye?'

Mr. Murray was a little, wiry, gray-haired, good-natured looking man, who, when Ronald entered the parlour, was seated at the table, and evidently puzzling his brains over a blank sheet of paper that lay before him.

'Your sister Maggie wass here this morning,' the inn-keeper said—still with his eyes fixed upon the paper—'and she wass saying that maybe Meenie—Miss Douglas—would like to come with the others on Monday night—ay, and maybe Mrs. Douglas herself too as well—but they would hef to be asked. And Kott pless me, it is not an easy thing, if you hef to write a letter, and that is more polite than asking—it is not an easy thing, I am sure. Ronald,' he said, raising his eyes and turning round, 'would you tek a message?'

'Where?' said Ronald—but he knew well enough, and was only seeking time to make an excuse.

'To Mrs. Douglas and the young lass; and tell them we will be glad if they will come with the others on Monday night—for the doctor is away from home, and why should they be left by themselves? Will you tek the message, Ronald?'

'How could I do that?' Ronald said. 'It's you that's giving the party, Mr. Murray.'

'But they know you so ferry well—and—and there will be no harm if they come and see the young lads and lasses having a reel together—ay, and a song too. And if Mrs. Douglas could not be bothered, it's you that could bring the young lady—oh yes, I know ferry well—if you will ask her, she will come.'

'I am sure no,' Ronald said hastily, and with an embarrassment he sought in vain to conceal. 'If Miss Douglas cares to come at all, it will be when you ask her. And why should ye write, man? Go down the road and ask her yourself—I mean, ask Mrs. Douglas; it's as simple as simple. What for should ye write a letter? Would ye send it through the post too? That's ceremony for next-door neighbours!'

'But Ronald, lad, if ye should see the young lass herself——'

'No, no; take your own message, Mr. Murray; they can but give you a civil answer.'

Mr. Murray was left doubting. It was clear that the awful shadow of Glengask and Orosay still dwelt over the doctor's household; and that the innkeeper was not at all sure as to what Mrs. Douglas would say to an invitation that she and her daughter Meenie—or Williamina, as the mother called her—should be present at a merry-meeting of farm lads, keepers, gillies, and kitchen wenches.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE NEW YEAR'S FEAST.

Loud and shrill in the empty barn arose the strains of theAthole March, warning the young lasses to hasten with the adjustment of their ribbons, and summoning the young lads about to look sharp and escort them. The long and narrow table was prettily laid out; two candelabra instead of one shed a flood of light on the white cover; the walls were decorated with evergreens and with Meenie's resplendent paper blossoms; the peats in the improvised fireplace burned merrily. And when the company began to arrive, in twos and threes, some bashful and hesitating, others merry and jocular, there was a little embarrassment about the taking of places until Ronald laid down his pipes and set to work to arrange them. The American gentleman had brought in Mrs. Murray in state, and they were at the head of the table; while Ronald himself took the foot, in order, as he said, to keep order—if he were able—among the lasses who had mostly congregated there. Then the general excitement and talking was hushed for a minute, while the innkeeper said grace; and then the girls—farm wenches, some of them, and Nelly, the pretty parlour-maid, and Finnuala, the cook's youngest sister, who was but lately come from Uist and talked the quaintest English, and Mr. Murray's two nieces from Tongue, and the other young lasses about the inn—all of them became demure and proper in their manner, for they were about to enjoy the unusual sensation of being waited upon.

This, of course, was Ronald's doing. There had been a question as to which of the maids were to bring in supper for so large a number; so he addressed himself to the young fellows who were standing about.

'You lazy laddies,' he said, 'what are ye thinking o'? Here's a chance for ye, if there's a pennyworth o' spunk among the lot o' ye. They lasses there wait on ye the whole year long, and make the beds for ye, and redd the house; I'm thinking ye might do worse than wait on them for one night, and bring in the supper when they sit down. They canna do both things; and the fun o' the night belongs to them or to nobody at all.'

At first there was a little shamefaced reluctance—it was 'lasses' work,' they said—until a great huge Highland tyke—a Ross-shire drover who happened to be here on a visit—a man of about six feet four, with a red beard big enough for a raven to build in, declared that he would lend a hand, if no one else did; and forthwith brought his huge fist down on the bar-room table to give emphasis to his words. There was some suspicion that this unwonted gallantry was due to the fact that he had a covetous eye on Jeannie, Donald Macrae's lass, who was a very superior dairy-mistress, and was also heir-presumptive to her father's farmstead and about a score of well-favoured cattle; but that was neither here nor there; he was as good as his word; he organised the brigade, and led it; and if he swallowed a stiff glass of whisky before setting out from the kitchen for the barn, with a steaming plate of soup in each hand, that was merely to steady his nerves and enable him to face the merriment of the whole gang of those girls. And then when this red-bearded giant of a Ganymede and his attendants had served every one, they fetched in their own plates, and sat down; and time was allowed them; for the evening was young yet, and no one in a hurry.

Now if Mr. Hodson had been rather doubtful lest his presence might produce some little restraint, he was speedily reassured, to his own great satisfaction, for he was really a most good-natured person and anxious to be friendly with everybody. In the general fun and jollity he was not even noticed; he could ask Mrs. Murray any questions he chose without suspicion of being observant; the young lady next him—who was Jeannie Macrae herself, and to whom he strove to be as gallant as might be—was very winsome and gentle and shy, and spoke in a more Highland fashion than he had heard yet; while otherwise he did not fare at all badly at this rustic feast, for there were boiled fowls and roast hares after the soup, and there was plenty of ale passed round, and tea for those who wished it. Nay, on the contrary, he had rather to push himself forward and assert himself ere he could get his proper share of the work that was going on. He insisted upon carving for at least half a dozen neighbours; he was most attentive to the pretty Highland girl next him; and laughed heartily at Mrs. Murray's Scotch stories, which he did not quite understand; and altogether entered into the spirit of the evening. But there was no doubt it was at the other end of the table that the fun was getting fast and furious; and just as little doubt that Ronald the keeper was suffering considerably at the hands of those ungrateful lasses for whom he had done so much. Like a prudent man, he held his tongue and waited his opportunity; taking their teasing with much good humour; and paying no heed to the other young fellows who were urging him to face and silence the saucy creatures. And his opportunity came in the most unexpected way. One of the girls, out of pure mischief, and without the least notion that she would be overheard, rapped lightly on the table, and said: 'Mr. Ronald Strang will now favour us with a song.' To her amazement and horror there was an almost instant silence; for an impression had travelled up the table that some announcement was about to be made.

'What is it now? What are you about down there?' their host called to them—and the silence, to her who had unwittingly caused it, was terrible.

But another of the girls, still bent on mischief, was bold enough to say.

'Oh, it's Ronald that's going to sing us a song.'

'Sing ye a song, ye limmer, ere ye're through with your supper?' Ronald said sharply. 'I'd make ye sing yourself—with a leather strap—if I had my will o' ye.'

But this was not heard up the table.

'Very well, then, Ronald,' the innkeeper cried, graciously. 'Come away with it now. There is no one at all can touch you at that.'

'Oh, do not ask him,' the pretty Nelly said—apparently addressing the company, but keeping her cruel eyes on him. 'Do not ask Ronald to sing. Ronald is such a shy lad.'

He glanced at her; and then he seemed to make up his mind.

'Very well, then,' said he, 'I'll sing ye a song—and let's have a chorus, lads.'

Now in Sutherlandshire, as in many other parts of the Highlands, the chief object of singing in company is to establish a chorus; and the audience, no matter whether they have heard the air or not, so soon as it begins, proceed to beat time with hand and heel, forming a kind of accompanying tramp, as it were; so that by the time the end of the first verse is reached, if they have not quite caught the tune, at least they can make some kind of rhythmic noise with the refrain. And on this occasion, if the words were new—and Ronald, on evil intent, took care to pronounce them clearly—the air was sufficiently like 'Jenny dang the Weaver' for the general chorus to come in, in not more than half a dozen keys. This was what Ronald sang—and he sang it in that resonant tenor of his, and in a rollicking fashion—just as if it were an impromptu, and not a weapon that he had carefully forged long ago, and hidden away to serve some such chance as the present:

O lasses, lasses, gang your ways,And dust the house, or wash the claes,Ye put me in a kind o' blaze—Ye'll break my heart among ye!

O lasses, lasses, gang your ways,

And dust the house, or wash the claes,

Ye put me in a kind o' blaze—