CHAPTER FOUR.
THE FAMILY AT KINLOSSIE.
Serenity was the prevailing feature in the character of old AllanGordon, the laird of Kinlossie; but when that amiable, portly, grand,silver-headed old gentleman suddenly met an unknown young man of fineproportions carrying his favourite niece, wrapped up as a bundle in hisarms, all his serenity disappeared, and he stared, glared, almostgasped, with mingled astonishment and consternation.
A very brief explanation, however, quickly sufficed to charge hissusceptible spirit to overflowing with a compound of grave anxiety andheartfelt gratitude.
"Come in, my dear sir, come in; luckily our doctor is spending the daywith me. But for you, my poor dear Milly might have been--This way, toher own room. Are you sure the arm is broken?"
"I fear so," replied Barret, entering the mansion; but before he couldproceed farther his words were drowned in a shriek of surprise from fourlittle Gordons, aged from sixteen to four, who yelled rather thandemanded to know what ailed their cousin--ranging from Archie's, "What'swrong with Cousin Milly," to Flora's, "Wass wong wid Cuzn Miwy?"
By that time Mrs Gordon, a pleasant-voiced lady, with benignity in her,looks, appeared on the scene, followed quickly by a man and several maidservants, all of whom added to the confusion, in the midst of whichCousin Milly was conveyed to her room and deposited on her bed. Thefamily doctor, a rotund little man of fifty-five, was speedily inattendance.
"So fortunate that the doctor happens to be here," said the laird, as heled Barret to the library and offered him a glass of wine. "No! youdon't drink? Well, well, as you please. Here, Duncan, fetch milk,lemonade, coffee, hot, at once. You must be tired after carrying her sofar, even though she _is_ a light weight. But, forgive me; in myanxiety about my poor niece I have quite forgotten to ask either yourname or how you came here, for no steamer has been to the island for aweek past. Pray be seated, and, wherever you may be bound forultimately, make up your mind that my house is to be your home for aweek at least. We suffer no visitor ever to leave us under thatperiod."
"You are very kind," returned the young man, smiling, "and I accept yourproffered hospitality most gladly. My name is John Barret. I came tothe other side of the island in a yacht, and swam on shore in my clotheswith six companions, spent the night at Cove, and have walked over hereto make known these facts to you."
"You speak in riddles, my young friend," returned the laird, with anamused look.
"Yet I speak the truth," returned Barret, who thereupon gave acircumstantial account of the disaster that had befallen himself and hisfriends.
"Excuse me," said Mr Gordon, rising; throwing up the window he shoutedto a man who was passing at the moment, "Roderick, get the bigwaggonette ready to go to Cove, and bring it round here as fast as youcan. You see," he added to Barret, "the road is considerably longerthan the short cut by which you came, and we must have them all overhere without delay. Don't distress yourself about room. We have plentyof accommodation. But come, I'll take you to your own room, and whenyou have made yourself comfortable, we will talk over your future plans.Just let me say, however, to prevent your mind running away on wrongideas, that in the circumstances we won't allow you to leave us for twomonths. The post goes out to-morrow, so you can write to your fatherand tell him so."
Thus running on in a rich hearty voice, the hospitable Allan Gordonconducted Barret to a room in the southern wing of the rambling oldedifice, and left him there to meditate on his good fortune, and enjoythe magnificent prospect of the island-studded firth, or fiord, fromwhich the mansion derived its name.
While the waggonette was away for the rest of the wrecked party, thelaird, finding that Milly's arm was not actually broken, though severelybruised, sat down to lunch with restored equanimity, and afterwardsdrove Barret in his dog-cart to various parts of his estate.
"Your friends cannot arrive for several hours, you see," he said onstarting, "and we don't dine till seven; so you could not be betterengaged than in making acquaintance with the localities of our beautifulisland. It may seem a little wild to you in its scenery, but there arethousands of picturesque points, and what painters call `bits' about it,as my sweet little Milly Moss will tell you when she recovers; for sheis an enthusiastic painter, and has made innumerable drawings, both inwater-colour and oils, since she came to stay here. I cannot tell youhow grateful I am to you, Mr Barret, for rescuing the poor girl fromher perilous position."
"I count myself fortunate indeed in having been led to the spot soopportunely," said Barret; "and I sincerely hope that no evil effectsmay result from her injuries. May I ask if she resides permanently withyou at Kinlossie?"
"I wish she did," said the laird, fervently; "for she is like a sunbeamin the house. No, we have only got the loan of her, on very strictconditions too, from her mother, who is a somewhat timid lady of ananxious temperament. I've done my best to fulfil the conditions, butthey are not easy."
"Indeed! How is that?"
"Well, you see, my sister is firmly convinced that there is deadlydanger in wet feet, and one of her conditions is that Milly is not to beallowed to wet her feet. Now you know it is not easy for a Londoner tounderstand the difficulty of keeping one's feet dry while skipping overthe mountains and peat-hags of the Western Isles."
"From which I conclude that Mrs Moss is a Londoner," returned Barret,with a laugh.
"She is. Although a Gordon, and born in the Argyll Highlands, she wassent to school in London, where she was married at the age of seventeen,and has lived there ever since. Her husband is dead, and nothing that Ihave been able to say has yet tempted her to pay me a visit. Sheregards my home here as a wild, uninhabitable region, though she hasnever seen it, and besides, is getting too old and feeble to venture, asshe says, on a long voyage. Certes, she is not yet feeble in mind,whatever she may be in body; but she's a good, amiable, affectionatewoman, and I have no fault to find with her, except in regard to hersevere conditions about Milly, and her anxiety to get her home again.After all, it is not to be wondered at, for Milly is her only child; andI am quite sure if I had not gone to London, and made all sorts ofpromises to be extremely careful of Milly and personally take her homeagain, she never would have let her come at all. See, there is one ofMilly's favourite views," said the laird, pulling up, and pointing withhis whip to the scene in front, where a range of purple hills formed afine background to the loch, with its foreground of tangle-coveredstones; "she revels in depicting that sort of thing."
Barret, after expressing his thorough approval of the young girl's tastein the matter of scenery, asked if Milly's delicate health was the causeof her mother's anxiety.
"Delicate health!" exclaimed the laird. "Why, man, sylph-like thoughshe appears, she has got the health of an Amazon. No, no, there'snothing wrong with my niece, save in the imagination of my sister. Wewill stop at this cottage for a few minutes. I want to see one of mymen, who is not very well."
He pulled up at the door of a little stone hut by the roadside, whichpossessed only one small window and one chimney, the top of whichconsisted of an old cask, with the two ends knocked out. A bare-leggedboy ran out of the hut to hold the horse.
"Is your brother better to-day?" asked the laird.
"No, sir; he's jist the same."
"Mind your head," said the laird, as he stooped to pass the low doorway,and led his friend into the hut.
The interior consisted of one extremely dirty room, in which theconfined air was further vitiated by tobacco smoke, and the fumes ofwhisky. One entire side of it was occupied by two box-beds, in one ofwhich lay a brawny, broad-shouldered man, with fiery red hair andscarcely less fiery red eyes, which seemed to glare out of the dark denin which he lay.
"Well, Ivor, are ye not better to-day, man?"
There was a sternness in Mr Gordon's query, which not only surprisedbut grieved his young companion; and the surprise was increased when thesick man replied in a surly tone--
"Na, laird, I'm not better; an' wh
at's more, I'll not be better till myheed's under the sod."
"I'm afraid you are right, Ivor," returned the laird, in a somewhatsofter tone; "for when a man won't help himself, no one else can helphim."
"Help myself!" exclaimed the man, starting up on one elbow, and gazingfiercely from under his shaggy brows. "Help myself!" he repeated. Andthen, as if resolving suddenly to say no more, he sank down and laid hishead on the pillow, with a short groan.
"Here, Ivor, is a bottle o' physic that my wife sends to ye," said MrGordon, pulling a pint bottle from his pocket, and handing it to theman, who clutched it eagerly, and was raising it to his mouth when hisvisitor arrested his hand.
"Hoot, man," he said, with a short laugh, "it's not whisky! She bid mesay ye were to take only half a glass at a time, every two hours."
"Poor't oot, then, laird--poor't oot," said the man, impatiently."Ye'll fin' a glass i' the wundy."
Fetching a wine-glass from the window Mr Gordon half filled it with aliquid of a dark brown colour, which the sick man quaffed with almostfierce satisfaction, and then lay down with a sigh.
"It seems to have done ye good already, man," said the laird, puttingthe bottle and glass on that convenient shelf--the window-sill. "I'veno idea what the physic is, but my good wife seems to know, and that'senough for me; and for you, too, I think."
"Ay, she's a good wumin. Thank her for me," responded Ivor.
Remounting the dog-cart the old gentleman explained, as they drovealong, that Ivor Donaldson's illness was the result of intemperance.
"He is my gamekeeper," said the laird; "and there is not a better ormore trustworthy man in the island, when he is sober; but when he takesone of his drinking fits, he seems to lose all control over himself, andgoes from bad to worse, till a fit of _delirium tremens_ almost killshim. He usually goes for a good while after that without touching adrop, and at such times he is a most respectful, painstaking man,willing to take any amount of trouble to serve one, but when he breaksdown he is as bad as ever--nay, even worse. My wife and I have donewhat we could for him, and have tried to get him to take the temperancepledge, but hitherto without avail. My wife has even gone the length ofbecoming a total abstainer, in order to have more influence over him;but I don't quite see my way to do that myself."
"Then _you_ have not yet done all that you could for the man, thoughyour wife has," thought Barret; but he did not venture to say so.
At this point in the conversation they reached a place where the roadleft the shores of the loch and ascended into the hills. Being rathersteep at its lower end, they alighted and walked; the laird pointingout, as they ascended, features in the landscape which he thought wouldinterest his young guest.
"Yonder," he said, pointing to a wood on the opposite side of thevalley, "yonder is a good piece of cover for deer. The last time we hada drive there we got three, one o' them a stag with very fine antlers.It was there that a young friend of mine, who was not much accustomed tosporting, shot a red cow in mistake for a deer! The same friend knockedover five or six of my tame ducks, under the impression that they werewild ones, because he found them among the heather! Are you fond ofsport?"
"Not particularly," answered Barret; "that is, I am not personally muchof a sportsman, though I have great enjoyment in going out with mysporting friends and watching their proceedings. My own tastes arerather scientific. I am a student of natural history--a botanist andgeologist--though I lay no claim to extensive knowledge of science."
"Ah! my young friend, then you will find a powerful sympathiser in myniece Milly--that is, when the poor child gets well--for she is half madon botany. Although only two weeks have passed since she came to us,she has almost filled her room with specimens of what she calls rareplants. I sometimes tease her by saying it is fortunate that brackendoes not come under that head, else she'd pull it all up and leave nocover for the poor rabbits. She has also half-filled several huge bookswith gummed-in specimens innumerable, though I can't see that she doesmore than write their names below them."
"And that is no small advance in the science, let me tell you," returnedBarret, who was stirred up to defend his co-scientist. "No one cansucceed in anything who does not take the first steps, and undergo thedrudgery manfully."
"Womanfully, in this case, my friend; but do not imagine that Iunderrate my little niece. My remark was to the effect that I do notsee that she _does_ more, though I have no manner of doubt that herpretty little head _thinks_ a great deal more. Now we will get up here,as the road is more level for a bit. D'you see the group of alders downin the hollow yonder, where the little stream that runs through thevalley takes a sudden bend? There's a deep pool there, where a goodmany sea-trout congregate. You shall try it soon--that is, if you carefor fishing."
"Oh, yes, I like fishing," said Barret. "It is a quiet, contemplativekind of sport."
"Contemplative!" exclaimed the old gentleman with a laugh; "well, yes,it is, a little. Sometimes you get down into the bed of the stream withconsiderable difficulty, and you have to contemplate the banks a longtime, occasionally, before deciding as to which precipice is leastlikely to give you a broken neck. Yes, it is a contemplative sport. Asto quiet, that depends very much on what your idea of quietude may be.Our burn descends for two or three miles in succession of leaps andbounds. If the roaring of cataracts is quieting to you, there is no endof it down there. See, the pool that I speak of is partly visible now,with the waterfall above it. You see it?"
"Yes, I see it."
"We call it Mac's pool," continued the laird, driving on, "because it isa favourite pool of an old school companion of mine, named MacRummle,who is staying with us just now. He tumbles into it about once a week."
"Is that considered a necessary part of the process of fishing?" askedBarret.
"No, it may rather be regarded as an eccentric addition peculiar toMacRummle. The fact is, that my good friend is rather too old to fishnow; but his spirit is still so juvenile, and his sporting instincts areso keen, that he is continually running into dangerous positions andgetting into scrapes. Fortunately he is very punctual in returning tomeals; so if he fails to appear at the right time, I send off one of mymen to look for him. I have offered him a boy as an attendant, but heprefers to be alone."
"There seems to be some one down at the pool now," remarked Barret,looking back.
"No doubt it is MacRummle himself," said the laird, pulling up. "Ay,and he seems to be making signals to us."
"Shall I run down and see what he wants?" asked Barret.
"Do; you are active, and your legs are strong. It will do you good toscramble a little."
Leaping the ditch that skirted the road, the youth soon crossed the beltof furze and heather that lay between him and the river, about which heand his host had been conversing. Being unaccustomed to the nature ofthe Western Isles, he was a little surprised to find the country he hadto cross extremely rugged and broken, and it taxed all the activity forwhich the laird had given him credit, as well as his strength of limb,to leap some of the peat-hags and water-courses that came in his way.He was too proud of his youthful vigour to pick his steps round them!Only once did he make a slip in his kangaroo-like bounds, but that sliplanded him knee-deep in a bog of brown mud, out of which he dragged hislegs with difficulty.
Gaining the bank of the river at last, he soon came up to the fisher,who was of sturdy build, though somewhat frail from age, and dressed inbrown tweed garments, with a dirty white wideawake, the crown of whichwas richly decorated with casting-lines and hooks, ranging from smallbrown hackle to salmon-fly. But the striking thing about him was thathis whole person was soaking wet. Water dripped from the pockets of hisshooting coat, dribbled from the battered brim of his wideawake, and,flowing from his straightened locks, trickled off the end of his Romannose.
"You have been in the water, I fear," said Barret, in a tone of pity.
"And you have been in the mud, young man," said the fisher, in a tone ofgood-humoured sa
rcasm.
The youth burst into a laugh at this, and the old fisherman's mouthexpanded into a broad grin, which betrayed the fact that age had failedto damage his teeth, though it had played some havoc with his legs.
"These are what I style Highland boots," said the old man, pointing tothe muddy legs.
"Indeed!" returned Barret. "Well, you see I have put them on at once,for I have only arrived a few hours since. My name is Barret. Ibelieve I have the pleasure of addressing Mr MacRummle?"
"You have that pleasure, Mr Barret; and now, if you will do me thekindness to carry my rod and basket, I will lead you back to thedog-cart by a path which will not necessitate an additional pair ofnative boots! I would not have hailed you, but having tumbled into theriver, as you see, I thought it would be more prudent to get driven homeas quickly as possible."
"You have a good basket of fish, I see, or rather, feel," remarkedBarret, as he followed the old man, who walked rather slowly, for hisphysical strength was not equal to his spirits.
"Ay, it is not so bad; but I lost the best one. Fishers always do, youknow! He was a grilse, a six-pounder at the least, if he was an ounce,for I had him within an inch of my gaff when I overbalanced myself, andshot into the stream head foremost with such force, that I verilybelieve I drove him to the very bottom of the pool. Strange to say therod was not broken; but when I scrambled ashore, I found that the grilsewas gone!"
"How unfortunate! You were not hurt, I hope?"
"Not in the least. There was plenty of depth for a dive; besides, I'mused to it."
It became quite evident to John Barret that his new friend was "used to"a good many more things besides tumbling into the river, for as theywent slowly along the winding footpath that led them through thepeat-hags, MacRummle tripped over a variety of stumps, roots, and otherexcrescences which presented themselves in the track, and which onseveral occasions brought him to the ground. The old gentleman,however, had a fine facility in falling. Being slow in all hismovements, he usually subsided rather than fell; a result, perhaps, oflaziness as well as of unwillingness to struggle against fate. Hisfrequent staggerings, also, on the verge of dark peat holes, caused hiscompanion many a shock of alarm and many a start forward to prevent acatastrophe, before they gained the high road. They reached it at last,however, rather breathless, but safe.
MacRummle's speech, like his movements, was slow. His personal courage,considering the dangers he constantly and voluntarily encountered, wasgreat.
"You've been in again, Mac, I see," exclaimed the laird heartily,extending his hand to his old friend with the view of hauling him up onthe seat beside him. "Mind the step. Now then!"
"Yes, I've been in, but the weather is warm! Stop, stop! Don't pullquite so hard, Allan; mind my rheumatic shoulder. Give a shove behind,Mr Barret--gently--there. Thankee."
The old man sat down with something of a crash beside his friend.Barret handed him his rod, put the basket under his feet, and sprang upon the seat behind.
Returning at a swift pace by the road they had come, they soon reachedKinlossie, where the laird drove into the back yard, so as to deliverthe still dripping MacRummle at the back door, and thus prevent hisleaving a moist track from the front hall to his bedroom. Having gotrid of him, and given the dog-cart in charge to the groom, Mr Gordonled his young friend round to the front of the house.
"I see your friends have already arrived," said the laird, pointing tothe waggonette which stood in the yard. "No doubt we shall find themabout somewhere."
They turned the corner of the mansion as he spoke, and certainly didcome on Barret's friends, in circumstances, however, which seemed quiteunaccountable at first sight, for there, in front of the open door, werenot only Bob Mabberly, Giles Jackman, Skipper McPherson, James McGregor,Pat Quin, and Robin Tips, but also Mrs Gordon, the two boy Gordons--named respectively, Eddie and Junkie--Duncan, the butler, and littleFlora, with a black wooden doll in her arms, all standing in more orless awkward attitudes, motionless and staring straight before them asif petrified with surprise or some kindred feeling.
Barret looked at his host with a slight elevation of his eyebrows.
"Hush!" said the laird, softly, holding up a finger of caution. "My boyArchie is behind that laurel bush. He's photographing them!"
"That'll do," in a loud voice from Archie, disenchanted the party; andwhile the operator rushed off to his "dark closet," the laird hurriedforward to be introduced to the new arrivals, and give them hospitablegreeting.
That evening the host and his wife entertained their guests to a genuineHighland feast in the trophied hall, and at a somewhat later hourDuncan, the butler, and Elsie, the cook, assisted by Roderick, thegroom, and Mary, the housemaid, held their share of high revelry in thekitchen, with Quin, Tips, and "Shames" McGregor.
"You have come to the right place for sport, gentlemen," said the laird,as he carved with vigour at a splendid haunch of venison. "In theirseasons we have deer and grouse on the hills; rabbits, hares,partridges, and pheasants on the low grounds. What'll you have, MrMabberly? My dear, what have you got there?"
"Pigeon pie," answered Mrs Gordon.
"Mac, that will suit your taste, I know," cried the host with a laugh.
"Yes, it will," slowly returned MacRummle, whose ruddy face and smoothbald head seemed to glow with satisfaction now that he had got into drygarments. "Yes, I'm almost as fond of pie as my old friend Robinsonused to be. He was so fond of it that, strange though it may seem toyou, gentlemen, he had a curious predilection for pie-bald horses."
"Come, now, Mac, don't begin upon your friend Robinson till afterdinner."
"Has Archie's photography turned out well?" asked Mabberly at thispoint. "I do a little in that way myself, and am interested as to theresult of his efforts to-day."
"We cannot know that before to-morrow, I fear," replied Mrs Gordon.
"Did I hear you ask about Archie's work, Mabberly?" said the laird,interrupting. "Oh! it'll turn out well, I have no doubt. He doeseverything well. In fact, all the boys are smartish fellows; a littleself-willed and noisy, perhaps, like all boys, but--"
A tremendous crash in the room above, which was the nursery, caused thelaird to drop his knife and fork and quickly leave the room, with a lookof anxiety, for he was a tender-hearted, excitable man; while his quietand delicate-looking wife sat still, with a look of serenity notunmingled with humour.
"Something overturned, I suppose," she remarked.
In a few minutes her husband returned with a bland smile.
"Yes," he said, resuming his knife and fork; "it was Junkie, as usual,fighting with Flo for the black doll. No mischief would have followed,I daresay, but Archie and Eddie joined in the scrimmage, and betweenthem they managed to upset the table. I found them wallowing in a seaof porridge and milk--that was all!"