Chapter 7

'Green grow the rashes, O,Green grow the rashes, O,The sweetest hours that e'er I spent,Were spent among the lasses, O.'and that was repeated:'Green grow the rashes, O,Green grow the rashes, O,The sweetest hours that e'er I spen',Were spent among the lasses, O.'Then there was silence. The skipper now opened the door; and, as they entered, Ronald found himself near the head of a long and loftily-ceilinged apartment, the atmosphere of which was of a pale blue cast, through the presence of much tobacco smoke. All down this long room were twin rows of small tables, at which little groups of friends or acquaintances sate—respectable looking men they seemed, many of them young fellows, more of them of middle age, and nearly all of them furnished with drinks and pipes or cigars. At the head of the room was a platform, not raised more than a foot from the floor, with a piano at one end of it; and in front of the platform was a special semicircular table, presided over by a bland rubicund gentleman, to whom Ronald was forthwith introduced. Indeed, the newcomers were fortunate enough to find seats at this semicircular table; and when beverages were called for and pipes lit, they waited for the further continuance of the proceedings.These were of an entirely simple and ingenuous character, and had no taint whatsoever of the ghastly make-believe of wit, the mean swagger, and facetious innuendo of the London music hall. Now a member of the Club, when loudly called upon by the general voice, would step up to the platform and sing some familiar Scotch ballad; and again one of the professional singers in attendance (they did not appear in swallow-tail and white tie, by the way, but in soberer attire) would 'oblige' with something more ambitious; but throughout there was a prevailing tendency towards compositions with a chorus; and the chorus grew more universal and more enthusiastic as the evening proceeded. Then occasionally between the performances there occurred a considerable interval, during which the members of the Club would make brief visits to the other tables; and in this way Ronald made the acquaintance of a good number of those moderately convivial souls. For, if there was a tolerable amount of treating and its corresponding challenges, there was no drunkenness apparent anywhere; there was some loud talking; and Captain M'Taggart was unduly anxious that everybody should come and sit at the President's table; but the greatest hilarity did not exceed bounds. It was to be observed, however, that, as the evening drew on, it was the extremely sentimental songs that were the chief favourites—those that mourned the bygone days of boyhood and youth, or told of the premature decease of some beloved Annie or Mary.Ronald was once or twice pressed to sing; but he good-naturedly refused.'Some other time, if I may have the chance, I will try to screw up my courage,' he said. 'And by that time ye'll have forgotten what Mrs. Menzies said: the East Lothian folk are wonderful for praising their own kith and kin.'As to letting old Mr. Jaap have a song or two to set to music, that was another and simpler matter; and he promised to hunt out one or two of them. In truth, it would not be difficult, as he himself perceived, to find something a little better than the 'Caledonia's hills and dales' which was sung that night, and which was of a very familiar pattern indeed. And Ronald looked forward with not a little natural satisfaction to the possibility of one of his songs being sung in that resounding hall; a poet must have his audience somewhere; and this, at least, was more extensive than a handful of farm lads and lasses collected together in the barn at Inver-Mudal.At about half-past eleven the entire company broke up and dispersed; and Ronald, after thanking his three companions very heartily for their hospitality during the evening, set off for his lodgings in the north of the city. He was quite enlivened and inspirited by this unusual whirl of gaiety; it had come into his sombre and lonely life as a startling surprise. The rattle of the piano—the resounding choruses—the eager talk of these boon-companions—all this was of an exciting nature; and as he walked away through the now darkened thoroughfares, he began to wonder whether he could not write some lilting verses in the old haphazard way. He had not even tried such a thing since he came to Glasgow; the measurement of surface areas and the classification of Dicotyledons did not lead him in that direction. But on such a gala-night as this, surely he might string some lines together—about Glasgow lads and lasses, and good-fellowship, and the delights of a roaring town? It would be an experiment, in any case.Well, when he had got home and lit the gas, and sate down to the jingling task, it was not so difficult, after all. But there was an undernote running through these verses that he had not contemplated when he set out. When the first glow of getting them together was over, he looked down the page, and then he put it away; in no circumstances could this kind of song find its way into the Harmony Club; and yet he was not altogether disappointed that it was so.O Glasgow lasses are fair enough,And Glasgow lads are merry;But I would be with my own dear maid,A-wandering down Strath-Terry.And she would be singing her morning song,The song that the larks have taught her;A song of the northern seas and hills,And a song of Mudal-Water.The bands go thundering through the streets,The fifes and drums together;Far rather I'd hear the grouse-cock crowAmong the purple heather;And I would be on Ben Clebrig's brow,To watch the red-deer stealingIn single file adown the glenAnd past the summer sheiling.O Glasgow lasses are fair enough,And Glasgow lads are merry;But ah, for the voice of my own dear maid,A-singing adown Strath-Terry!CHAPTER XIII.INDUCEMENTS.Ronald's friendship with the hospitable widow and his acquaintanceship with those three boon-companions of hers grew apace; and many a merry evening they all of them had together in the brilliant little parlour, Ronald singing his own or any other songs without stint, the big skipper telling elaborately facetious Highland stories, the widow bountiful with her cigars and her whisky-toddy. And yet he was ill, ill at ease. He would not admit to himself, of course, that he rather despised these new acquaintances—for were they not most generous and kind towards him?—nor yet that the loud hilarity he joined in was on his part at times a trifle forced. Indeed, he could not very well have defined the cause of this disquietude and restlessness and almost despair that was present to his consciousness even when the laugh was at its loudest and the glasses going round most merrily. But the truth was he had begun to lose heart in his work. The first glow of determination that had enabled him to withstand the depression of the dull days and the monotonous labour had subsided now. The brilliant future the Americans had painted for him did not seem so attractive. Meenie was away; perhaps never to be met with more; and the old glad days that were filled with the light of her presence were all gone now and growing ever more and more distant. And in the solitude of the little room up there in the Port Dundas Road—with the gray atmosphere ever present at the windows, and the dull rumble of the carts and waggons without—he was now getting into a habit of pushing aside his books for a while, and letting his fancies go far afield; insomuch that his heart seemed to grow more and more sick within him, and more and more he grew to think that somehow life had gone all wrong with him.There is in Glasgow a thoroughfare familiarly known as Balmanno Brae. It is in one of the poorer neighbourhoods of the town; and is in truth rather a squalid and uninteresting place; but it has the one striking peculiarity of being extraordinarily steep, having been built on the side of a considerable hill. Now one must have a powerful imagination to see in this long, abrupt, blue-gray thoroughfare—with its grimy pavements and house-fronts, and its gutters running with dirty water—any resemblance to the wide slopes of Ben Clebrig and the carolling rills that flow down to Loch Naver; but all the same Ronald had a curious fancy for mounting this long incline, and that at the hardest pace he could go. For sometimes, in that little room, he felt almost like a caged animal dying for a wider air, a more active work; and here at least was a height that enabled him to feel the power of his knees; while the mere upward progress was a kind of inspiriting thing, one always having a vague fancy that one is going to see farther in getting higher. Alas! there was but the one inevitable termination to these repeated climbings; and that not the wide panorama embracing Loch Loyal and Ben Hope and the far Kyle of Tongue, but a wretched little lane called Rotten Row—a double line of gloomy houses, with here and there an older-fashioned cottage with a thatched roof, and with everywhere pervading the close atmosphere an odour of boiled herrings. And then again, looking back, there was no yellow and wide-shining Strath-Terry, with its knolls of purple heather and its devious rippling burns, but only the great, dark, grim, mysterious city, weltering in its smoke, and dully groaning, as it were, under the grinding burden of its monotonous toil.As the Twelfth of August drew near he became more and more restless. He had written to Lord Ailine to say that, if he could be of any use, he would take a run up to Inver-Mudal for a week or so, just to see things started for the season; but Lord Ailine had considerately refused the offer, saying that everything seemed going on well enough, except, indeed, that Lugar the Gordon setter was in a fair way of being spoilt, for that, owing to Ronald's parting injunctions, there was not a man or boy about the place would subject the dog to any kind of chastisement or discipline whatever. And it sounded strange to Ronald to hear that he was still remembered away up there in the remote little hamlet.On the morning of the day before the Twelfth his books did not get much attention. He kept going to the window to watch the arrivals at the railway station opposite, wondering whether this one or that was off and away to the wide moors and the hills. Then, about mid-day, he saw a young lad bring up four dogs—a brace of setters, a small spaniel, and a big brown retriever—and give them over in charge to a porter. Well, human nature could not stand this any longer. His books were no longer thought of; on went his Glengarry cap; and in a couple of minutes he was across the road and into the station, where the porter was hauling the dogs along the platform.'Here, my man, I'll manage the doggies for ye,' he said, getting hold of the chains and straps; and of course the dogs at once recognised in him a natural ally and were less alarmed. A shambling, bow-legged porter hauling at them they could not understand at all; but in the straight figure and sun-tanned cheek and clear eye of the newcomer they recognised features familiar to them; and then he spoke to them as if he knew them.'Ay, and what's your name, then?—Bruce, or Wallace, or Soldier?—but there'll no be much work for you for a while yet. It's you, you two bonnie lassies, that'll be amongst the heather the morn; and well I can see ye'll work together, and back each other, and just set an example to human folk. And if ye show yourselves just a wee bit eager at the beginning o' the day—well, well, well, we all have our faults, and that one soon wears off. And what's your names, then?—Lufra, or Nell, or Bess, or Fan? And you, you wise auld chiel—I'm thinking ye could get a grip o' a mallard that would make him imagine he had got back into his mother's nest—you're a wise one—the Free Kirk elder o' the lot'—for, indeed, the rest of them were all pawing at him, and licking his hands, and whimpering their friendship. The porter had to point out to him that he, the porter, could not stand there the whole day with 'a wheen dogs;' whereupon Ronald led these new companions of his along to the dog-box that had been provided for them, and there, when they had been properly secured, the porter left him. Ronald could still talk to them however, and ask them questions; and they seemed to understand well enough: indeed, he had not spent so pleasant a half-hour for many and many a day.There chanced to come along the platform a little, wiry, elderly man, with a wholesome-looking weather-tanned face, who was carrying a bundle of fishing-rods over his shoulder; and seeing how Ronald was engaged he spoke to him in passing and began to talk about the dogs.'Perhaps they're your dogs?' Ronald said.'No, no, our folk are a' fishing folk,' said the little old man, who was probably a gardener or something of the kind, and who seemed to take readily to this new acquaintance. 'I've just been in to Glasgow to get a rod mended, and to bring out a new one that the laird has bought for himself.'He grinned in a curious sarcastic way.'He's rather a wee man; and this rod—Lord sakes, ye never saw such a thing! it would break the back o' a Samson—bless ye, the butt o't's like a weaver's beam; and for our gudeman to buy a thing like that—well, rich folk hae queer ways o' spending their money.'He was a friendly old man; and this joke of his master having bought so tremendous an engine seemed to afford him so much enjoyment that when Ronald asked to be allowed to see this formidable weapon he said at once—'Just you come along outside there, and we'll put it thegither, and ye'll see what kind o' salmon-rod an old man o' five foot five thinks he can cast wi'——''If it's no taking up too much of your time,' Ronald suggested, but eager enough he was to get a salmon-rod into his fingers again.'I've three quarters of an hour to wait,' was the reply, 'for I canna make out they train books ava.'They went out beyond the platform to an open space, and very speedily the big rod was put together. It was indeed an enormous thing; but a very fine rod, for all that; and so beautifully balanced and so beautifully pliant that Ronald, after having made one or two passes through the air with it, could not help saying to the old man, and rather wistfully too—'I suppose ye dinna happen to have a reel about ye?''That I have,' was the instant answer, 'and a brand new hundred-yard line on it too. Would ye like to try a cast? I'm thinking ye ken something about it.'It was an odd kind of place to try the casting-power of a salmon-rod, this dismal no-man's-land of empty trucks and rusted railway-points and black ashes; but no sooner had Ronald begun to send out a good line—taking care to recover it so that it should not fray itself along the gritty ground—than the old man perceived he had to deal with no amateur.'Man, ye're a dab, and no mistake! As clean a line as ever I saw cast! It's no the first timeyou'vehandled a salmon-rod, I'll be bound!''It's the best rod I've ever had in my hand,' Ronald said, as he began to reel in the line again. 'I'm much obliged to ye for letting me try a cast—it's many a day now since I threw a line.'They took the rod down and put it in its case.'I'm much obliged to ye,' Ronald repeated (for the mere handling of this rod had fired his veins with a strange kind of excitement). 'Will ye come and take a dram?''No, thank ye, I'm a teetotaller,' said the other; and then he glanced at Ronald curiously. 'But ye seem to ken plenty about dogs and about fishing and so on—what are ye doing in Glasgow and the morn the Twelfth? Ye are not a town lad?''No, I'm not; but I have to live in the town at present,' was the answer. 'Well, good-day to ye; and many thanks for the trial o' the rod.''Good-day, my lad; I wish I had your years and the strength o' your shouthers.'In passing Ronald said good-bye again to the handsome setters and the spaniel and the old retriever; and then he went on and out of the station, but it was not to return to his books. The seeing of so many people going away to the north, the talking with the dogs, the trial of the big salmon-rod, had set his brain a little wild. What if he were to go back and beg of the withered old man to take him with him—ay, even as the humblest of gillies, to watch, gaff in hand, by the side of the broad silver-rippling stream, or to work in a boat on a blue-ruffled loch! To jump into a third-class carriage and know that the firm inevitable grip of the engine was dragging him away into the clearer light, the wider skies, the glad free air! No wonder they said that fisher folk were merry folk; the very jolting of the engine would in such a case have a kind of music in it; how easily could one make a song that would match with the swing of the train! It was in his head now, as he rapidly and blindly walked away along the Cowcaddens, and along the New City Road, and along the Western Road—random rhymes, random verses, that the jolly company could sing together as the engine thundered along—Out of the station we rattle away,Wi' a clangour of axle and wheel;There's a merrier sound that we knew in the north—The merry, merry shriek of the reel!O you that shouther the heavy iron gun,And have steep, steep braes to speel—We envy you not; enough is for usThe merry, merry shriek of the reel!When the twenty-four pounder leaps in the air,And the line flies out with a squeal—O that is the blessedest sound upon earth,The merry, merry shriek of the reel!So here's to good fellows!—for them that are not,Let them gang and sup kail wi' the deil!We've other work here—so look out, my lads,For the first, sharp shriek of the reel!He did not care to put the rough-jolting verses down on paper, for the farther and the more rapidly he walked away out of the town the more was his brain busy with pictures and visions of all that they would be doing at this very moment at Inver-Mudal.'God bless me,' he said to himself, 'I could almost swear I hear the dogs whimpering in the kennels.'There would be the young lads looking after the panniers and the ponies; and the head-keeper up at the lodge discussing with Lord Ailine the best way of taking the hill in the morning, supposing the wind to remain in the same direction; and Mr. Murray at the door of the inn, smoking his pipe as usual; and the pretty Nelly indoors waiting upon the shooting party just arrived from the south and listening to all their wants. And Harry would be wondering, amid all this new bustle and turmoil, why his master did not put in an appearance; perhaps scanning each succeeding dog-cart or waggonette that came along the road; and then, not so blithe-spirited, making his way to the Doctor's house. Comfort awaited him there, at all events; for Ronald had heard that Meenie had taken pity on the little terrier, and that it was a good deal oftener with her than at the inn. Only all this seemed now so strange; the great dusk city lay behind him like a nightmare from which he had but partially escaped, and that with tightened breath; and he seemed to be straining his ears to catch those soft and friendly voices so far away. And then later on, as the darkness fell, what would be happening there? The lads would be coming along to the inn; lamps lit, and chairs drawn in to the table; Mr. Murray looking in at times with his jokes, and perhaps with a bit of a treat on so great an occasion. And surely—surely—as they begin to talk of this year and of last year and of the changes—surely some one will say—perhaps Nelly, as she brings in the ale—but surely some one will say—as a mere word of friendly remembrance—'Well, I wish Ronald was here now with his pipes, to play usThe Barren Rocks of Aden? Only a single friendly word of remembrance—it was all that he craved.He struck away south through Dowanhill and Partick, and crossed the Clyde at Govan Ferry; then he made his way back to the town and Jamaica Street bridge; and finally, it being now dusk, looked in to see whether Mrs. Menzies was at leisure for the evening.'What's the matter, Ronald?' she said instantly, as he entered, for she noticed that his look was careworn and strange.'Well, Katie, lass, I don't quite know what's the matter wi' me, but I feel as if I just couldna go back to that room of mine and sit there by myself—at least not yet; I think I've been put a bit daft wi' seeing the people going away for the Twelfth; and if ye wouldna mind my sitting here for a while with ye, for the sake o' company——''Mind!' she said. 'Mind! What I do mind is that you should be ganging to that lodging-house at a', when there's a room—and a comfortable room, though I say it that shouldn't—in this very house at your disposal, whenever ye like to bring your trunk till it. There it is—an empty room, used by nobody—and who more welcome to it than my ain cousin? I'll tell ye what, Ronald, my lad, ye're wearing yoursel' away on a gowk's errand. Your certificate! How do ye ken ye'll get your certificate? How do ye ken ye will do such great things with it when ye get it? You're a young man; you'll no be a young man twice; what I say is, take your fling when ye can get it! Look at Jimmy Laidlaw—he's off the first thing in the morning to the Mearns—£15 for his share of the shooting—do ye think he can shoot like you?—and why should ye no have had your share too?''Well, it was very kind of you, Katie, woman, to make the offer; but—but—there's a time for everything.''Man, I could have driven ye out every morning in the dog-cart! and welcome. I'm no for having young folk waste the best years of their life, and find out how little use the rest o't's to them—no that I consider mysel' one o' the auld folk yet——''You, Katie dear!' whined old mother Paterson from her millinery corner. 'You—just in the prime o' youth, one micht say! you one o' the auld folk?—ay, in thirty years' time maybe!''Take my advice, Ronald, my lad,' said the widow boldly. 'Dinna slave away for naething—because folk have put fancy notions into your head. Have a better opinion o' yoursel'! Take your chance o' life when ye can get it—books and books, what's the use o' books?''Too late now—I've made my bed and maun lie on it,' he said gloomily; but then he seemed to try to shake off this depression. 'Well, well, lass, Rome was not built in a day. And if I were to throw aside my books, what then? How would that serve? Think ye that that would make it any the easier for me to get a three-weeks' shooting wi' Jimmy Laidlaw?''And indeed ye might have had that in any case, and welcome,' said Kate Menzies, with a toss of her head. 'Who is Jimmy Laidlaw, I wonder! But it's no use arguin' wi' ye, Ronald, lad; he that will to Cupar maun to Cupar;' only I dinna like to see ye looking just ill.''Enough said, lass; I didna come here to torment ye with my wretched affairs,' he answered; and at this moment the maidservant entered to lay the cloth for supper, while Mrs. Menzies withdrew to make herself gorgeous for the occasion.He was left with old mother Paterson.'There's none so blind as them that winna see,' she began, in her whining voice.'What is't?''Ay, ay,' she continued, in a sort of maundering soliloquy, 'a braw woman like that—and free-handed as the day—she could have plenty offers if she liked; But there's none so blind as them that winna see. There's Mr. Laidlaw there, a good-looking man, and wan wi' a good penny at the bank; and wouldna he just jump at the chance, if she had a nod or a wink for him? But Katie was aye like that—headstrong; she would aye have her ain way—and there she is, a single woman, a braw, handsome, young woman—and weel provided for—weel provided for—only it's no every one that takes her fancy. A prize like that, to be had for the asking! Dear me—but there's nane so blind as them that winna see.'It was not by any means the first time that mother Paterson had managed to drop a few dark hints—and much to his embarrassment, moreover, for he could not pretend to ignore their purport. Nay, there was something more than that. Kate Menzies's rough-and-ready friendliness for her cousin had of late become more and more pronounced—almost obtrusive, indeed. She wanted to have the mastery of his actions altogether. She would have him pitch his books aside and come for a drive with her whether he was in the humour or no. She offered him the occupancy of a room which, if it was not actually within the tavern, communicated with it. She seemed unable to understand why he should object to her paying £15 to obtain for him a share in a small bit of conjoint shooting out at the Mearns. And so forth in many ways. Well, these things, taken by themselves, he might have attributed to a somewhat tempestuous good-nature; but here was this old woman, whenever a chance occurred, whining about the folly of people who did not see that Katie dear was so handsome and generous and so marvellous a matrimonial prize. Nor could he very well tell her to mind her own business, for that would be admitting that he understood her hints.However, on this occasion he had not to listen long; for presently Mrs. Menzies returned, smiling, good-natured, radiant in further finery; and then they all had supper together; and she did her best to console her cousin for being cooped up in the great city on the eve of the Twelfth. And Ronald was very grateful to her; and perhaps, in his eager desire to keep up this flow of high spirits, and to forget what was happening at Inver-Mudal and about to happen, he may have drunk a little too much; at all events, when Laidlaw and Jaap and the skipper came in they found him in a very merry mood, and Kate Menzies equally hilarious and happy. Songs?—he was going to no Harmony Club that night, he declared—he would sing them as many songs as ever they liked—but he was not going to forsake his cousin. Nor were the others the least unwilling to remain where they were; for here they were in privacy, and the singing was better, and the liquor unexceptionable. The blue smoke rose quietly in the air; the fumes of Long John warmed blood and brain; and then from time to time they heard of the brave, or beautiful, or heart-broken maidens of Scotch song—Maggie Lauder, or Nelly Munro, or Barbara Allan, as the chance might be—and music and good fellowship and whisky all combined to throw a romantic halo round these simple heroines.'But sing us one o' your own, Ronald, my lad—there's none better, and that's what I say!' cried the widow; and as she happened to be passing his chair at the time—going to the sideboard for some more lemons, she slapped him on the shoulder by way of encouragement.'One o' my own?' said he. 'But which—which—lass? Oh, well, here's one.'He lay back in his chair, and quite at haphazard and carelessly and jovially began to sing—in that clearly penetrating voice that neither tobacco smoke nor whisky seemed to affect—Roses white, roses red,Roses in the lane,Tell me, roses red and white,Where is——And then suddenly something seemed to grip his heart. But the stumble was only for the fiftieth part of a second. He continued:Where is Jeannie gane?And so he finished the careless little verses. Nevertheless, Kate Menzies, returning to her seat, had noticed that quick, instinctive pulling of himself up.'And who's Jeannie when she's at home?' she asked saucily.'Jeannie?' he said, with apparent indifference. 'Jeannie? There's plenty o' that name about.''Ay; and how many o' them are at Inver-Mudal?' she asked, regarding him shrewdly, and with an air which he resented.But the little incident passed. There was more singing, drinking, smoking, talking of nonsense and laughing. And at last the time came for the merry companions to separate; and he went away home through the dark streets alone. He had drunk too much, it must be admitted; but he had a hard head; and he had kept his wits about him; and even now as he ascended the stone stairs to his lodgings he remembered with a kind of shiver, and also with not a little heartfelt satisfaction, how he had just managed to save himself from bringing Meenie's name before that crew.CHAPTER XIV.ENTANGLEMENTS.And then came along the great evening on which the first of Ronald's songs that Mr. Jaap had set to music was to be sung at the Harmony Club. Ronald had unluckily got into the way of going a good deal to that club. It was a relief from weary days and vain regrets; it was a way of escape from the too profuse favours that Kate Menzies wished to shower upon him. Moreover, he had become very popular there. His laugh was hearty; his jokes and sarcasms were always good-natured; he could drink with the best without getting quarrelsome. His acquaintanceship rapidly extended; his society was eagerly bid for, in the rough-and-ready fashion that prevails towards midnight; and long after the club was closed certain of these boon-companions would 'keep it up' in this or the other bachelor's lodgings, while through the open window there rang out into the empty street the oft-repeated chorus—'We are na fou', we're nae that fou',But just a drappie in our e'e;The cock may craw, the day may daw,And aye we'll taste the barky bree!'The night-time seemed to go by so easily; the daytime was so slow. He still did his best, it is true, to get on with this work that had so completely lost all its fascination for him; and he tried hard to banish dreams. For one thing, he had gathered together all the fragments of verse he had written about Meenie, and had added thereto the little sketch of Inver-Mudal she had given him; and that parcel he had resolutely locked away, so that he should no longer be tempted to waste the hours in idle musings, and in useless catechising of himself as to how he came to be in Glasgow at all. He had forborne to ask from Maggie the answer that Meenie had sent to her letter. In truth, there were many such; for there was almost a constant correspondence between these two; and as the chief subject of Maggie's writings was always and ever Ronald, there were no doubt references to him in the replies that came from Inver-Mudal. But he only heard vaguely of these; he did not call often at his brother's house; and he grew to imagine that the next definite news he would hear about Meenie would be to the effect that she had been sent to live with the Stuarts of Glengask, with a view to her possible marriage with some person in their rank of life.There was a goodly to-do at the Harmony Club on the evening of the production of the new song; for Ronald, as has been said, was much of a favourite; and his friends declared that if Jaap's music was at all up to the mark, then the new piece would be placed on the standard and permanent list. Mr. Jaap's little circle, on the other hand, who had heard the air, were convinced that the refrain would be caught at once; and as the success of the song seemed thus secure, Mrs. Menzies had resolved to celebrate the occasion by a supper after the performance, and Jimmy Laidlaw had presented her, for that purpose, with some game which he declared was of his own shooting.'What's the use o' making such a fuss about nothing?' Ronald grumbled.'What?' retorted the big skipper facetiously. 'Naething? Is bringing out a new poet naething?'Now this drinking song, as it turned out, was a very curious kind of drinking song. Observe that it was written by a young fellow of eight-and-twenty; of splendid physique, and of as yet untouched nerve, who could not possibly have had wide experience of the vanities and disappointments of human life. What iron had entered into his soul, then, that a gay and joyous drinking song should have been written in this fashion?—Good friends and neighbours, life is short,And man, they say, is made to mourn;Dame Fortune makes us all her sport,And laughs our very best to scorn:Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,A merry glass before we go.The blue-eyed lass will change her mind,And give her kisses otherwhere;And she'll be cruel that was kind,And pass you by with but a stare:Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,A merry glass before we go.The silly laddie sits and fillsWi' dreams and schemes the first o' life;And then comes heap on heap o' ills,And squalling bairns and scolding wife:Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,A merry glass before we go.Come stir the fire and make us warm;The night without is dark and wet;An hour or twa 'twill do nae harmThe dints o' fortune to forget:So now will have, come weal or woe,Another glass before we go.To bonny lasses, honest blades,We'll up and give a hearty cheer;Contention is the worst of trades—We drink their health, both far and near:And so we'll have, come weal or woe,Another glass before we go.And here's ourselves!—no much to boast;For man's a wean that lives and learns;And some win hame, and some are lost;But still—we're all John Thomson's bairns!So here, your hand!—come weal or woe,Another glass before we go!'And some win hame, and some are lost'—this was a curious note to strike in a bacchanalian song; but of course in that atmosphere of tobacco and whisky and loud-voiced merriment such minor touches were altogether unnoticed.'Gentlemen,' called out the rubicund chairman, rapping on the table, 'silence, if you please. Mr. Aikman is about to favour us with a new song written by our recently-elected member, Mr. Ronald Strang, the music by our old friend Mr. Jaap. Silence—silence, if you please.'Mr. Aikman, who was a melancholy-looking youth, with a white face, straw-coloured hair, and almost colourless eyes, stepped on to the platform, and after the accompanist had played a few bars of prelude, began the song. Feeble as the young man looked, he had, notwithstanding, a powerful baritone voice; and the air was simple, with a well-marked swing in it; so that the refrain—at first rather uncertain and experimental—became after the first verse more and more general, until it may be said that the whole room formed the chorus. And from the very beginning it was clear that the new song was going to be a great success. Any undercurrent of reflection—or even of sadness—there might be in it was not perceived at all by this roaring assemblage; the refrain was the practical and actual thing; and when once they had fairly grasped the air, they sang the chorus with a will. Nay, amid the loud burst of applause that followed the last verse came numerous cries for an encore; and these increased until the whole room was clamorous; and then the pale-faced youth had to step back on to the platform and get through all of the verses again.'So here, your hand!—come weal or woe,Another glass before we go!'roared the big skipper and Jimmy Laidlaw with the best of them; and then in the renewed thunder of cheering that followed—'Man, I wish Kate Menzies was here,' said the one; and—'Your health, Ronald, lad; ye've done the trick this time,' said the other.'Gentlemen,' said the chairman, again calling them to silence, 'I propose that the thanks of the club be given to these two members whom I have named, and who have kindly allowed us to place this capital song on our permanent list.''I second that, Mr. Chairman,' said a little, round, fat man, with a beaming countenance and a bald head; 'and I propose that we sing that song every night just afore we leave.'But this last suggestion was drowned amidst laughter and cries of dissent. 'What?—instead of "Auld Lang Syne"?' 'Ye're daft, John Campbell.' 'Would ye hae the ghost o' Robbie Burns turning up?' Indeed, the chairman had to interpose and suavely say that while the song they had just heard would bring any such pleasant evenings as they spent together to an appropriate close, still, they would not disturb established precedent; there would be many occasions, he hoped, for them to hear this production of two of their most talented members.In the interval of noise and talk and laughter that followed, it seemed to Ronald that half the people in the hall wanted him to drink with them. Fame came to him in the shape of unlimited proffers of glasses of whisky; and he experienced so much of the delight of having become a public character as consisted in absolute strangers assuming the right to make his acquaintance off-hand. Of course they were all members of the same club; and in no case was very strict etiquette observed within these four walls; nevertheless Ronald found that he had immediately and indefinitely enlarged the circle of his acquaintance; and that this meant drink.'Another glass?' he said, to one of those strangers who had thus casually strolled up to the table where he sate. 'My good friend, there was nothing said in that wretched song about a caskful. I've had too many other ones already.'However, relief came; the chairman hammered on the table; the business of the evening was resumed; and the skipper, Jaap, Laidlaw, and Ronald were left to themselves.Now there is no doubt that this little circle of friends was highly elated over the success of the new song; and Ronald had been pleased enough to hear the words he had written so quickly caught up and echoed by that, to him, big assemblage. Probably, too, they had all of them, in the enthusiasm of the moment, been somewhat liberal in their cups; at all events, a little later on in the evening, when Jimmy Laidlaw stormily demanded that Ronald should sing a song from the platform—to show them what East Lothian could do, as Kate Menzies had said—Ronald did not at once, as usual, shrink from the thought of facing so large an audience. It was the question of the accompaniment, he said. He had had no practice in singing to a piano. He would put the man out. Why should he not sing here—if sing he must—at the table where they were sitting? That was what he was used to; he had no skill in keeping correct time; he would only bother the accompanist, and bewilder himself.'No, I'll tell ye what it is, Ronald, my lad,' his friend Jaap said to him. 'I'll play the accompaniment for ye, if ye pick out something I'm familiar wi'; and don't you heed me; you look after yourself. Even if ye change the key—and that's not likely—I'll look after ye. Is't a bargain?'Well, he was not afraid—on this occasion. It was announced from the chair that Mr. Ronald Strang, to whom they were already indebted, would favour the company with 'The MacGregors' Gathering,' accompanied by Mr. Jaap; and in the rattle of applause that followed this announcement, Ronald made his way across the floor and went up the couple of steps leading to the platform. Why he had consented he hardly knew, nor did he stay to ask. It was enough that he had to face this long hall, and its groups of faces seen through the pale haze of the tobacco smoke; and then the first notes of the piano startled him into the necessity of getting into the same key. He began—a little bewildered, perhaps, and hearing his own voice too consciously—

'Green grow the rashes, O,Green grow the rashes, O,The sweetest hours that e'er I spent,Were spent among the lasses, O.'

'Green grow the rashes, O,

Green grow the rashes, O,

The sweetest hours that e'er I spent,

Were spent among the lasses, O.'

and that was repeated:

'Green grow the rashes, O,Green grow the rashes, O,The sweetest hours that e'er I spen',Were spent among the lasses, O.'

'Green grow the rashes, O,

Green grow the rashes, O,

The sweetest hours that e'er I spen',

Were spent among the lasses, O.'

Then there was silence. The skipper now opened the door; and, as they entered, Ronald found himself near the head of a long and loftily-ceilinged apartment, the atmosphere of which was of a pale blue cast, through the presence of much tobacco smoke. All down this long room were twin rows of small tables, at which little groups of friends or acquaintances sate—respectable looking men they seemed, many of them young fellows, more of them of middle age, and nearly all of them furnished with drinks and pipes or cigars. At the head of the room was a platform, not raised more than a foot from the floor, with a piano at one end of it; and in front of the platform was a special semicircular table, presided over by a bland rubicund gentleman, to whom Ronald was forthwith introduced. Indeed, the newcomers were fortunate enough to find seats at this semicircular table; and when beverages were called for and pipes lit, they waited for the further continuance of the proceedings.

These were of an entirely simple and ingenuous character, and had no taint whatsoever of the ghastly make-believe of wit, the mean swagger, and facetious innuendo of the London music hall. Now a member of the Club, when loudly called upon by the general voice, would step up to the platform and sing some familiar Scotch ballad; and again one of the professional singers in attendance (they did not appear in swallow-tail and white tie, by the way, but in soberer attire) would 'oblige' with something more ambitious; but throughout there was a prevailing tendency towards compositions with a chorus; and the chorus grew more universal and more enthusiastic as the evening proceeded. Then occasionally between the performances there occurred a considerable interval, during which the members of the Club would make brief visits to the other tables; and in this way Ronald made the acquaintance of a good number of those moderately convivial souls. For, if there was a tolerable amount of treating and its corresponding challenges, there was no drunkenness apparent anywhere; there was some loud talking; and Captain M'Taggart was unduly anxious that everybody should come and sit at the President's table; but the greatest hilarity did not exceed bounds. It was to be observed, however, that, as the evening drew on, it was the extremely sentimental songs that were the chief favourites—those that mourned the bygone days of boyhood and youth, or told of the premature decease of some beloved Annie or Mary.

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

'Some other time, if I may have the chance, I will try to screw up my courage,' he said. 'And by that time ye'll have forgotten what Mrs. Menzies said: the East Lothian folk are wonderful for praising their own kith and kin.'

As to letting old Mr. Jaap have a song or two to set to music, that was another and simpler matter; and he promised to hunt out one or two of them. In truth, it would not be difficult, as he himself perceived, to find something a little better than the 'Caledonia's hills and dales' which was sung that night, and which was of a very familiar pattern indeed. And Ronald looked forward with not a little natural satisfaction to the possibility of one of his songs being sung in that resounding hall; a poet must have his audience somewhere; and this, at least, was more extensive than a handful of farm lads and lasses collected together in the barn at Inver-Mudal.

At about half-past eleven the entire company broke up and dispersed; and Ronald, after thanking his three companions very heartily for their hospitality during the evening, set off for his lodgings in the north of the city. He was quite enlivened and inspirited by this unusual whirl of gaiety; it had come into his sombre and lonely life as a startling surprise. The rattle of the piano—the resounding choruses—the eager talk of these boon-companions—all this was of an exciting nature; and as he walked away through the now darkened thoroughfares, he began to wonder whether he could not write some lilting verses in the old haphazard way. He had not even tried such a thing since he came to Glasgow; the measurement of surface areas and the classification of Dicotyledons did not lead him in that direction. But on such a gala-night as this, surely he might string some lines together—about Glasgow lads and lasses, and good-fellowship, and the delights of a roaring town? It would be an experiment, in any case.

Well, when he had got home and lit the gas, and sate down to the jingling task, it was not so difficult, after all. But there was an undernote running through these verses that he had not contemplated when he set out. When the first glow of getting them together was over, he looked down the page, and then he put it away; in no circumstances could this kind of song find its way into the Harmony Club; and yet he was not altogether disappointed that it was so.

O Glasgow lasses are fair enough,And Glasgow lads are merry;But I would be with my own dear maid,A-wandering down Strath-Terry.And she would be singing her morning song,The song that the larks have taught her;A song of the northern seas and hills,And a song of Mudal-Water.The bands go thundering through the streets,The fifes and drums together;Far rather I'd hear the grouse-cock crowAmong the purple heather;And I would be on Ben Clebrig's brow,To watch the red-deer stealingIn single file adown the glenAnd past the summer sheiling.O Glasgow lasses are fair enough,And Glasgow lads are merry;But ah, for the voice of my own dear maid,A-singing adown Strath-Terry!

O Glasgow lasses are fair enough,

And Glasgow lads are merry;

But I would be with my own dear maid,

A-wandering down Strath-Terry.

And she would be singing her morning song,

The song that the larks have taught her;

A song of the northern seas and hills,

And a song of Mudal-Water.

The bands go thundering through the streets,

The fifes and drums together;

Far rather I'd hear the grouse-cock crow

Among the purple heather;

And I would be on Ben Clebrig's brow,

To watch the red-deer stealing

In single file adown the glen

And past the summer sheiling.

O Glasgow lasses are fair enough,

And Glasgow lads are merry;

But ah, for the voice of my own dear maid,

A-singing adown Strath-Terry!

CHAPTER XIII.

INDUCEMENTS.

Ronald's friendship with the hospitable widow and his acquaintanceship with those three boon-companions of hers grew apace; and many a merry evening they all of them had together in the brilliant little parlour, Ronald singing his own or any other songs without stint, the big skipper telling elaborately facetious Highland stories, the widow bountiful with her cigars and her whisky-toddy. And yet he was ill, ill at ease. He would not admit to himself, of course, that he rather despised these new acquaintances—for were they not most generous and kind towards him?—nor yet that the loud hilarity he joined in was on his part at times a trifle forced. Indeed, he could not very well have defined the cause of this disquietude and restlessness and almost despair that was present to his consciousness even when the laugh was at its loudest and the glasses going round most merrily. But the truth was he had begun to lose heart in his work. The first glow of determination that had enabled him to withstand the depression of the dull days and the monotonous labour had subsided now. The brilliant future the Americans had painted for him did not seem so attractive. Meenie was away; perhaps never to be met with more; and the old glad days that were filled with the light of her presence were all gone now and growing ever more and more distant. And in the solitude of the little room up there in the Port Dundas Road—with the gray atmosphere ever present at the windows, and the dull rumble of the carts and waggons without—he was now getting into a habit of pushing aside his books for a while, and letting his fancies go far afield; insomuch that his heart seemed to grow more and more sick within him, and more and more he grew to think that somehow life had gone all wrong with him.

There is in Glasgow a thoroughfare familiarly known as Balmanno Brae. It is in one of the poorer neighbourhoods of the town; and is in truth rather a squalid and uninteresting place; but it has the one striking peculiarity of being extraordinarily steep, having been built on the side of a considerable hill. Now one must have a powerful imagination to see in this long, abrupt, blue-gray thoroughfare—with its grimy pavements and house-fronts, and its gutters running with dirty water—any resemblance to the wide slopes of Ben Clebrig and the carolling rills that flow down to Loch Naver; but all the same Ronald had a curious fancy for mounting this long incline, and that at the hardest pace he could go. For sometimes, in that little room, he felt almost like a caged animal dying for a wider air, a more active work; and here at least was a height that enabled him to feel the power of his knees; while the mere upward progress was a kind of inspiriting thing, one always having a vague fancy that one is going to see farther in getting higher. Alas! there was but the one inevitable termination to these repeated climbings; and that not the wide panorama embracing Loch Loyal and Ben Hope and the far Kyle of Tongue, but a wretched little lane called Rotten Row—a double line of gloomy houses, with here and there an older-fashioned cottage with a thatched roof, and with everywhere pervading the close atmosphere an odour of boiled herrings. And then again, looking back, there was no yellow and wide-shining Strath-Terry, with its knolls of purple heather and its devious rippling burns, but only the great, dark, grim, mysterious city, weltering in its smoke, and dully groaning, as it were, under the grinding burden of its monotonous toil.

As the Twelfth of August drew near he became more and more restless. He had written to Lord Ailine to say that, if he could be of any use, he would take a run up to Inver-Mudal for a week or so, just to see things started for the season; but Lord Ailine had considerately refused the offer, saying that everything seemed going on well enough, except, indeed, that Lugar the Gordon setter was in a fair way of being spoilt, for that, owing to Ronald's parting injunctions, there was not a man or boy about the place would subject the dog to any kind of chastisement or discipline whatever. And it sounded strange to Ronald to hear that he was still remembered away up there in the remote little hamlet.

On the morning of the day before the Twelfth his books did not get much attention. He kept going to the window to watch the arrivals at the railway station opposite, wondering whether this one or that was off and away to the wide moors and the hills. Then, about mid-day, he saw a young lad bring up four dogs—a brace of setters, a small spaniel, and a big brown retriever—and give them over in charge to a porter. Well, human nature could not stand this any longer. His books were no longer thought of; on went his Glengarry cap; and in a couple of minutes he was across the road and into the station, where the porter was hauling the dogs along the platform.

'Here, my man, I'll manage the doggies for ye,' he said, getting hold of the chains and straps; and of course the dogs at once recognised in him a natural ally and were less alarmed. A shambling, bow-legged porter hauling at them they could not understand at all; but in the straight figure and sun-tanned cheek and clear eye of the newcomer they recognised features familiar to them; and then he spoke to them as if he knew them.

'Ay, and what's your name, then?—Bruce, or Wallace, or Soldier?—but there'll no be much work for you for a while yet. It's you, you two bonnie lassies, that'll be amongst the heather the morn; and well I can see ye'll work together, and back each other, and just set an example to human folk. And if ye show yourselves just a wee bit eager at the beginning o' the day—well, well, well, we all have our faults, and that one soon wears off. And what's your names, then?—Lufra, or Nell, or Bess, or Fan? And you, you wise auld chiel—I'm thinking ye could get a grip o' a mallard that would make him imagine he had got back into his mother's nest—you're a wise one—the Free Kirk elder o' the lot'—for, indeed, the rest of them were all pawing at him, and licking his hands, and whimpering their friendship. The porter had to point out to him that he, the porter, could not stand there the whole day with 'a wheen dogs;' whereupon Ronald led these new companions of his along to the dog-box that had been provided for them, and there, when they had been properly secured, the porter left him. Ronald could still talk to them however, and ask them questions; and they seemed to understand well enough: indeed, he had not spent so pleasant a half-hour for many and many a day.

There chanced to come along the platform a little, wiry, elderly man, with a wholesome-looking weather-tanned face, who was carrying a bundle of fishing-rods over his shoulder; and seeing how Ronald was engaged he spoke to him in passing and began to talk about the dogs.

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

'No, no, our folk are a' fishing folk,' said the little old man, who was probably a gardener or something of the kind, and who seemed to take readily to this new acquaintance. 'I've just been in to Glasgow to get a rod mended, and to bring out a new one that the laird has bought for himself.'

He grinned in a curious sarcastic way.

'He's rather a wee man; and this rod—Lord sakes, ye never saw such a thing! it would break the back o' a Samson—bless ye, the butt o't's like a weaver's beam; and for our gudeman to buy a thing like that—well, rich folk hae queer ways o' spending their money.'

He was a friendly old man; and this joke of his master having bought so tremendous an engine seemed to afford him so much enjoyment that when Ronald asked to be allowed to see this formidable weapon he said at once—

'Just you come along outside there, and we'll put it thegither, and ye'll see what kind o' salmon-rod an old man o' five foot five thinks he can cast wi'——'

'If it's no taking up too much of your time,' Ronald suggested, but eager enough he was to get a salmon-rod into his fingers again.

'I've three quarters of an hour to wait,' was the reply, 'for I canna make out they train books ava.'

They went out beyond the platform to an open space, and very speedily the big rod was put together. It was indeed an enormous thing; but a very fine rod, for all that; and so beautifully balanced and so beautifully pliant that Ronald, after having made one or two passes through the air with it, could not help saying to the old man, and rather wistfully too—

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

'That I have,' was the instant answer, 'and a brand new hundred-yard line on it too. Would ye like to try a cast? I'm thinking ye ken something about it.'

It was an odd kind of place to try the casting-power of a salmon-rod, this dismal no-man's-land of empty trucks and rusted railway-points and black ashes; but no sooner had Ronald begun to send out a good line—taking care to recover it so that it should not fray itself along the gritty ground—than the old man perceived he had to deal with no amateur.

'Man, ye're a dab, and no mistake! As clean a line as ever I saw cast! It's no the first timeyou'vehandled a salmon-rod, I'll be bound!'

'It's the best rod I've ever had in my hand,' Ronald said, as he began to reel in the line again. 'I'm much obliged to ye for letting me try a cast—it's many a day now since I threw a line.'

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

'I'm much obliged to ye,' Ronald repeated (for the mere handling of this rod had fired his veins with a strange kind of excitement). 'Will ye come and take a dram?'

'No, thank ye, I'm a teetotaller,' said the other; and then he glanced at Ronald curiously. 'But ye seem to ken plenty about dogs and about fishing and so on—what are ye doing in Glasgow and the morn the Twelfth? Ye are not a town lad?'

'No, I'm not; but I have to live in the town at present,' was the answer. 'Well, good-day to ye; and many thanks for the trial o' the rod.'

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

In passing Ronald said good-bye again to the handsome setters and the spaniel and the old retriever; and then he went on and out of the station, but it was not to return to his books. The seeing of so many people going away to the north, the talking with the dogs, the trial of the big salmon-rod, had set his brain a little wild. What if he were to go back and beg of the withered old man to take him with him—ay, even as the humblest of gillies, to watch, gaff in hand, by the side of the broad silver-rippling stream, or to work in a boat on a blue-ruffled loch! To jump into a third-class carriage and know that the firm inevitable grip of the engine was dragging him away into the clearer light, the wider skies, the glad free air! No wonder they said that fisher folk were merry folk; the very jolting of the engine would in such a case have a kind of music in it; how easily could one make a song that would match with the swing of the train! It was in his head now, as he rapidly and blindly walked away along the Cowcaddens, and along the New City Road, and along the Western Road—random rhymes, random verses, that the jolly company could sing together as the engine thundered along—

Out of the station we rattle away,Wi' a clangour of axle and wheel;There's a merrier sound that we knew in the north—The merry, merry shriek of the reel!O you that shouther the heavy iron gun,And have steep, steep braes to speel—We envy you not; enough is for usThe merry, merry shriek of the reel!When the twenty-four pounder leaps in the air,And the line flies out with a squeal—O that is the blessedest sound upon earth,The merry, merry shriek of the reel!So here's to good fellows!—for them that are not,Let them gang and sup kail wi' the deil!We've other work here—so look out, my lads,For the first, sharp shriek of the reel!

Out of the station we rattle away,

Wi' a clangour of axle and wheel;

There's a merrier sound that we knew in the north—

The merry, merry shriek of the reel!

O you that shouther the heavy iron gun,

And have steep, steep braes to speel—

We envy you not; enough is for us

The merry, merry shriek of the reel!

When the twenty-four pounder leaps in the air,

And the line flies out with a squeal—

O that is the blessedest sound upon earth,

The merry, merry shriek of the reel!

So here's to good fellows!—for them that are not,

Let them gang and sup kail wi' the deil!

We've other work here—so look out, my lads,

For the first, sharp shriek of the reel!

He did not care to put the rough-jolting verses down on paper, for the farther and the more rapidly he walked away out of the town the more was his brain busy with pictures and visions of all that they would be doing at this very moment at Inver-Mudal.

'God bless me,' he said to himself, 'I could almost swear I hear the dogs whimpering in the kennels.'

There would be the young lads looking after the panniers and the ponies; and the head-keeper up at the lodge discussing with Lord Ailine the best way of taking the hill in the morning, supposing the wind to remain in the same direction; and Mr. Murray at the door of the inn, smoking his pipe as usual; and the pretty Nelly indoors waiting upon the shooting party just arrived from the south and listening to all their wants. And Harry would be wondering, amid all this new bustle and turmoil, why his master did not put in an appearance; perhaps scanning each succeeding dog-cart or waggonette that came along the road; and then, not so blithe-spirited, making his way to the Doctor's house. Comfort awaited him there, at all events; for Ronald had heard that Meenie had taken pity on the little terrier, and that it was a good deal oftener with her than at the inn. Only all this seemed now so strange; the great dusk city lay behind him like a nightmare from which he had but partially escaped, and that with tightened breath; and he seemed to be straining his ears to catch those soft and friendly voices so far away. And then later on, as the darkness fell, what would be happening there? The lads would be coming along to the inn; lamps lit, and chairs drawn in to the table; Mr. Murray looking in at times with his jokes, and perhaps with a bit of a treat on so great an occasion. And surely—surely—as they begin to talk of this year and of last year and of the changes—surely some one will say—perhaps Nelly, as she brings in the ale—but surely some one will say—as a mere word of friendly remembrance—'Well, I wish Ronald was here now with his pipes, to play usThe Barren Rocks of Aden? Only a single friendly word of remembrance—it was all that he craved.

He struck away south through Dowanhill and Partick, and crossed the Clyde at Govan Ferry; then he made his way back to the town and Jamaica Street bridge; and finally, it being now dusk, looked in to see whether Mrs. Menzies was at leisure for the evening.

'What's the matter, Ronald?' she said instantly, as he entered, for she noticed that his look was careworn and strange.

'Well, Katie, lass, I don't quite know what's the matter wi' me, but I feel as if I just couldna go back to that room of mine and sit there by myself—at least not yet; I think I've been put a bit daft wi' seeing the people going away for the Twelfth; and if ye wouldna mind my sitting here for a while with ye, for the sake o' company——'

'Mind!' she said. 'Mind! What I do mind is that you should be ganging to that lodging-house at a', when there's a room—and a comfortable room, though I say it that shouldn't—in this very house at your disposal, whenever ye like to bring your trunk till it. There it is—an empty room, used by nobody—and who more welcome to it than my ain cousin? I'll tell ye what, Ronald, my lad, ye're wearing yoursel' away on a gowk's errand. Your certificate! How do ye ken ye'll get your certificate? How do ye ken ye will do such great things with it when ye get it? You're a young man; you'll no be a young man twice; what I say is, take your fling when ye can get it! Look at Jimmy Laidlaw—he's off the first thing in the morning to the Mearns—£15 for his share of the shooting—do ye think he can shoot like you?—and why should ye no have had your share too?'

'Well, it was very kind of you, Katie, woman, to make the offer; but—but—there's a time for everything.'

'Man, I could have driven ye out every morning in the dog-cart! and welcome. I'm no for having young folk waste the best years of their life, and find out how little use the rest o't's to them—no that I consider mysel' one o' the auld folk yet——'

'You, Katie dear!' whined old mother Paterson from her millinery corner. 'You—just in the prime o' youth, one micht say! you one o' the auld folk?—ay, in thirty years' time maybe!'

'Take my advice, Ronald, my lad,' said the widow boldly. 'Dinna slave away for naething—because folk have put fancy notions into your head. Have a better opinion o' yoursel'! Take your chance o' life when ye can get it—books and books, what's the use o' books?'

'Too late now—I've made my bed and maun lie on it,' he said gloomily; but then he seemed to try to shake off this depression. 'Well, well, lass, Rome was not built in a day. And if I were to throw aside my books, what then? How would that serve? Think ye that that would make it any the easier for me to get a three-weeks' shooting wi' Jimmy Laidlaw?'

'And indeed ye might have had that in any case, and welcome,' said Kate Menzies, with a toss of her head. 'Who is Jimmy Laidlaw, I wonder! But it's no use arguin' wi' ye, Ronald, lad; he that will to Cupar maun to Cupar;' only I dinna like to see ye looking just ill.'

'Enough said, lass; I didna come here to torment ye with my wretched affairs,' he answered; and at this moment the maidservant entered to lay the cloth for supper, while Mrs. Menzies withdrew to make herself gorgeous for the occasion.

He was left with old mother Paterson.

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

'What is't?'

'Ay, ay,' she continued, in a sort of maundering soliloquy, 'a braw woman like that—and free-handed as the day—she could have plenty offers if she liked; But there's none so blind as them that winna see. There's Mr. Laidlaw there, a good-looking man, and wan wi' a good penny at the bank; and wouldna he just jump at the chance, if she had a nod or a wink for him? But Katie was aye like that—headstrong; she would aye have her ain way—and there she is, a single woman, a braw, handsome, young woman—and weel provided for—weel provided for—only it's no every one that takes her fancy. A prize like that, to be had for the asking! Dear me—but there's nane so blind as them that winna see.'

It was not by any means the first time that mother Paterson had managed to drop a few dark hints—and much to his embarrassment, moreover, for he could not pretend to ignore their purport. Nay, there was something more than that. Kate Menzies's rough-and-ready friendliness for her cousin had of late become more and more pronounced—almost obtrusive, indeed. She wanted to have the mastery of his actions altogether. She would have him pitch his books aside and come for a drive with her whether he was in the humour or no. She offered him the occupancy of a room which, if it was not actually within the tavern, communicated with it. She seemed unable to understand why he should object to her paying £15 to obtain for him a share in a small bit of conjoint shooting out at the Mearns. And so forth in many ways. Well, these things, taken by themselves, he might have attributed to a somewhat tempestuous good-nature; but here was this old woman, whenever a chance occurred, whining about the folly of people who did not see that Katie dear was so handsome and generous and so marvellous a matrimonial prize. Nor could he very well tell her to mind her own business, for that would be admitting that he understood her hints.

However, on this occasion he had not to listen long; for presently Mrs. Menzies returned, smiling, good-natured, radiant in further finery; and then they all had supper together; and she did her best to console her cousin for being cooped up in the great city on the eve of the Twelfth. And Ronald was very grateful to her; and perhaps, in his eager desire to keep up this flow of high spirits, and to forget what was happening at Inver-Mudal and about to happen, he may have drunk a little too much; at all events, when Laidlaw and Jaap and the skipper came in they found him in a very merry mood, and Kate Menzies equally hilarious and happy. Songs?—he was going to no Harmony Club that night, he declared—he would sing them as many songs as ever they liked—but he was not going to forsake his cousin. Nor were the others the least unwilling to remain where they were; for here they were in privacy, and the singing was better, and the liquor unexceptionable. The blue smoke rose quietly in the air; the fumes of Long John warmed blood and brain; and then from time to time they heard of the brave, or beautiful, or heart-broken maidens of Scotch song—Maggie Lauder, or Nelly Munro, or Barbara Allan, as the chance might be—and music and good fellowship and whisky all combined to throw a romantic halo round these simple heroines.

'But sing us one o' your own, Ronald, my lad—there's none better, and that's what I say!' cried the widow; and as she happened to be passing his chair at the time—going to the sideboard for some more lemons, she slapped him on the shoulder by way of encouragement.

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

He lay back in his chair, and quite at haphazard and carelessly and jovially began to sing—in that clearly penetrating voice that neither tobacco smoke nor whisky seemed to affect—

Roses white, roses red,Roses in the lane,Tell me, roses red and white,Where is——

Roses white, roses red,

Roses in the lane,

Tell me, roses red and white,

Where is——

And then suddenly something seemed to grip his heart. But the stumble was only for the fiftieth part of a second. He continued:

Where is Jeannie gane?

And so he finished the careless little verses. Nevertheless, Kate Menzies, returning to her seat, had noticed that quick, instinctive pulling of himself up.

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

'Jeannie?' he said, with apparent indifference. 'Jeannie? There's plenty o' that name about.'

'Ay; and how many o' them are at Inver-Mudal?' she asked, regarding him shrewdly, and with an air which he resented.

But the little incident passed. There was more singing, drinking, smoking, talking of nonsense and laughing. And at last the time came for the merry companions to separate; and he went away home through the dark streets alone. He had drunk too much, it must be admitted; but he had a hard head; and he had kept his wits about him; and even now as he ascended the stone stairs to his lodgings he remembered with a kind of shiver, and also with not a little heartfelt satisfaction, how he had just managed to save himself from bringing Meenie's name before that crew.

CHAPTER XIV.

ENTANGLEMENTS.

And then came along the great evening on which the first of Ronald's songs that Mr. Jaap had set to music was to be sung at the Harmony Club. Ronald had unluckily got into the way of going a good deal to that club. It was a relief from weary days and vain regrets; it was a way of escape from the too profuse favours that Kate Menzies wished to shower upon him. Moreover, he had become very popular there. His laugh was hearty; his jokes and sarcasms were always good-natured; he could drink with the best without getting quarrelsome. His acquaintanceship rapidly extended; his society was eagerly bid for, in the rough-and-ready fashion that prevails towards midnight; and long after the club was closed certain of these boon-companions would 'keep it up' in this or the other bachelor's lodgings, while through the open window there rang out into the empty street the oft-repeated chorus—

'We are na fou', we're nae that fou',But just a drappie in our e'e;The cock may craw, the day may daw,And aye we'll taste the barky bree!'

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

But just a drappie in our e'e;

The cock may craw, the day may daw,

And aye we'll taste the barky bree!'

The night-time seemed to go by so easily; the daytime was so slow. He still did his best, it is true, to get on with this work that had so completely lost all its fascination for him; and he tried hard to banish dreams. For one thing, he had gathered together all the fragments of verse he had written about Meenie, and had added thereto the little sketch of Inver-Mudal she had given him; and that parcel he had resolutely locked away, so that he should no longer be tempted to waste the hours in idle musings, and in useless catechising of himself as to how he came to be in Glasgow at all. He had forborne to ask from Maggie the answer that Meenie had sent to her letter. In truth, there were many such; for there was almost a constant correspondence between these two; and as the chief subject of Maggie's writings was always and ever Ronald, there were no doubt references to him in the replies that came from Inver-Mudal. But he only heard vaguely of these; he did not call often at his brother's house; and he grew to imagine that the next definite news he would hear about Meenie would be to the effect that she had been sent to live with the Stuarts of Glengask, with a view to her possible marriage with some person in their rank of life.

There was a goodly to-do at the Harmony Club on the evening of the production of the new song; for Ronald, as has been said, was much of a favourite; and his friends declared that if Jaap's music was at all up to the mark, then the new piece would be placed on the standard and permanent list. Mr. Jaap's little circle, on the other hand, who had heard the air, were convinced that the refrain would be caught at once; and as the success of the song seemed thus secure, Mrs. Menzies had resolved to celebrate the occasion by a supper after the performance, and Jimmy Laidlaw had presented her, for that purpose, with some game which he declared was of his own shooting.

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

'What?' retorted the big skipper facetiously. 'Naething? Is bringing out a new poet naething?'

Now this drinking song, as it turned out, was a very curious kind of drinking song. Observe that it was written by a young fellow of eight-and-twenty; of splendid physique, and of as yet untouched nerve, who could not possibly have had wide experience of the vanities and disappointments of human life. What iron had entered into his soul, then, that a gay and joyous drinking song should have been written in this fashion?—

Good friends and neighbours, life is short,And man, they say, is made to mourn;Dame Fortune makes us all her sport,And laughs our very best to scorn:Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,A merry glass before we go.The blue-eyed lass will change her mind,And give her kisses otherwhere;And she'll be cruel that was kind,And pass you by with but a stare:Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,A merry glass before we go.The silly laddie sits and fillsWi' dreams and schemes the first o' life;And then comes heap on heap o' ills,And squalling bairns and scolding wife:Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,A merry glass before we go.Come stir the fire and make us warm;The night without is dark and wet;An hour or twa 'twill do nae harmThe dints o' fortune to forget:So now will have, come weal or woe,Another glass before we go.To bonny lasses, honest blades,We'll up and give a hearty cheer;Contention is the worst of trades—We drink their health, both far and near:And so we'll have, come weal or woe,Another glass before we go.And here's ourselves!—no much to boast;For man's a wean that lives and learns;And some win hame, and some are lost;But still—we're all John Thomson's bairns!So here, your hand!—come weal or woe,Another glass before we go!

Good friends and neighbours, life is short,

And man, they say, is made to mourn;

Dame Fortune makes us all her sport,

And laughs our very best to scorn:Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,A merry glass before we go.

And laughs our very best to scorn:

Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,A merry glass before we go.

Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,

A merry glass before we go.

The blue-eyed lass will change her mind,

And give her kisses otherwhere;

And she'll be cruel that was kind,

And pass you by with but a stare:Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,A merry glass before we go.

And pass you by with but a stare:

Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,A merry glass before we go.

Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,

A merry glass before we go.

The silly laddie sits and fills

Wi' dreams and schemes the first o' life;

And then comes heap on heap o' ills,

And squalling bairns and scolding wife:Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,A merry glass before we go.

And squalling bairns and scolding wife:

Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,A merry glass before we go.

Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,

A merry glass before we go.

Come stir the fire and make us warm;

The night without is dark and wet;

An hour or twa 'twill do nae harm

The dints o' fortune to forget:So now will have, come weal or woe,Another glass before we go.

The dints o' fortune to forget:

So now will have, come weal or woe,Another glass before we go.

So now will have, come weal or woe,

Another glass before we go.

To bonny lasses, honest blades,

We'll up and give a hearty cheer;

Contention is the worst of trades—

We drink their health, both far and near:And so we'll have, come weal or woe,Another glass before we go.

We drink their health, both far and near:

And so we'll have, come weal or woe,Another glass before we go.

And so we'll have, come weal or woe,

Another glass before we go.

And here's ourselves!—no much to boast;

For man's a wean that lives and learns;

And some win hame, and some are lost;

But still—we're all John Thomson's bairns!So here, your hand!—come weal or woe,Another glass before we go!

But still—we're all John Thomson's bairns!

So here, your hand!—come weal or woe,Another glass before we go!

So here, your hand!—come weal or woe,

Another glass before we go!

'And some win hame, and some are lost'—this was a curious note to strike in a bacchanalian song; but of course in that atmosphere of tobacco and whisky and loud-voiced merriment such minor touches were altogether unnoticed.

'Gentlemen,' called out the rubicund chairman, rapping on the table, 'silence, if you please. Mr. Aikman is about to favour us with a new song written by our recently-elected member, Mr. Ronald Strang, the music by our old friend Mr. Jaap. Silence—silence, if you please.'

Mr. Aikman, who was a melancholy-looking youth, with a white face, straw-coloured hair, and almost colourless eyes, stepped on to the platform, and after the accompanist had played a few bars of prelude, began the song. Feeble as the young man looked, he had, notwithstanding, a powerful baritone voice; and the air was simple, with a well-marked swing in it; so that the refrain—at first rather uncertain and experimental—became after the first verse more and more general, until it may be said that the whole room formed the chorus. And from the very beginning it was clear that the new song was going to be a great success. Any undercurrent of reflection—or even of sadness—there might be in it was not perceived at all by this roaring assemblage; the refrain was the practical and actual thing; and when once they had fairly grasped the air, they sang the chorus with a will. Nay, amid the loud burst of applause that followed the last verse came numerous cries for an encore; and these increased until the whole room was clamorous; and then the pale-faced youth had to step back on to the platform and get through all of the verses again.

'So here, your hand!—come weal or woe,Another glass before we go!'

'So here, your hand!—come weal or woe,

Another glass before we go!'

roared the big skipper and Jimmy Laidlaw with the best of them; and then in the renewed thunder of cheering that followed—

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

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

'Gentlemen,' said the chairman, again calling them to silence, 'I propose that the thanks of the club be given to these two members whom I have named, and who have kindly allowed us to place this capital song on our permanent list.'

'I second that, Mr. Chairman,' said a little, round, fat man, with a beaming countenance and a bald head; 'and I propose that we sing that song every night just afore we leave.'

But this last suggestion was drowned amidst laughter and cries of dissent. 'What?—instead of "Auld Lang Syne"?' 'Ye're daft, John Campbell.' 'Would ye hae the ghost o' Robbie Burns turning up?' Indeed, the chairman had to interpose and suavely say that while the song they had just heard would bring any such pleasant evenings as they spent together to an appropriate close, still, they would not disturb established precedent; there would be many occasions, he hoped, for them to hear this production of two of their most talented members.

In the interval of noise and talk and laughter that followed, it seemed to Ronald that half the people in the hall wanted him to drink with them. Fame came to him in the shape of unlimited proffers of glasses of whisky; and he experienced so much of the delight of having become a public character as consisted in absolute strangers assuming the right to make his acquaintance off-hand. Of course they were all members of the same club; and in no case was very strict etiquette observed within these four walls; nevertheless Ronald found that he had immediately and indefinitely enlarged the circle of his acquaintance; and that this meant drink.

'Another glass?' he said, to one of those strangers who had thus casually strolled up to the table where he sate. 'My good friend, there was nothing said in that wretched song about a caskful. I've had too many other ones already.'

However, relief came; the chairman hammered on the table; the business of the evening was resumed; and the skipper, Jaap, Laidlaw, and Ronald were left to themselves.

Now there is no doubt that this little circle of friends was highly elated over the success of the new song; and Ronald had been pleased enough to hear the words he had written so quickly caught up and echoed by that, to him, big assemblage. Probably, too, they had all of them, in the enthusiasm of the moment, been somewhat liberal in their cups; at all events, a little later on in the evening, when Jimmy Laidlaw stormily demanded that Ronald should sing a song from the platform—to show them what East Lothian could do, as Kate Menzies had said—Ronald did not at once, as usual, shrink from the thought of facing so large an audience. It was the question of the accompaniment, he said. He had had no practice in singing to a piano. He would put the man out. Why should he not sing here—if sing he must—at the table where they were sitting? That was what he was used to; he had no skill in keeping correct time; he would only bother the accompanist, and bewilder himself.

'No, I'll tell ye what it is, Ronald, my lad,' his friend Jaap said to him. 'I'll play the accompaniment for ye, if ye pick out something I'm familiar wi'; and don't you heed me; you look after yourself. Even if ye change the key—and that's not likely—I'll look after ye. Is't a bargain?'

Well, he was not afraid—on this occasion. It was announced from the chair that Mr. Ronald Strang, to whom they were already indebted, would favour the company with 'The MacGregors' Gathering,' accompanied by Mr. Jaap; and in the rattle of applause that followed this announcement, Ronald made his way across the floor and went up the couple of steps leading to the platform. Why he had consented he hardly knew, nor did he stay to ask. It was enough that he had to face this long hall, and its groups of faces seen through the pale haze of the tobacco smoke; and then the first notes of the piano startled him into the necessity of getting into the same key. He began—a little bewildered, perhaps, and hearing his own voice too consciously—

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