Kitobni o'qish: «White Heather: A Novel (Volume 2 of 3)»

CHAPTER I
A FURTHER DISCOVERY

It can hardly be wondered at that these suddenly presented ambitious projects – this call to be up and doing, and getting forward in the general race of the world – should add a new interest and fascination, in his eyes, to the society of the American father and daughter who had wandered into these distant wilds. And perhaps, after all, he had been merely wasting his time and throwing away his life? That solitary, contented, healthy and happy existence was a mistake – an idle dream – an anachronism, even? The common way of the world was right; and that, as he heard of it in the echoes brought by these strangers from without, was all a pushing and striving and making the most of opportunities, until the end was reached – independence and ease and wealth; the power of choosing this or that continent for a residence; the radiant happiness and glow of success. And then it all seemed so easy and practicable when he heard these two talking about their friends and the fortunes they had made; and it seemed still more easy – and a far more desirable and beautiful thing – when it was Miss Carry herself who was speaking, she seated alone in the stern of the boat, her eyes – that had a kind of surface darkness and softness, like blackberries wet with rain – helping out her speech, and betraying an open friendliness, and even conferring a charm on her descriptions of that far-off pork-producing city of the west. Mr. Hodson, as he sate upright in his easy-chair before the fire, spoke slowly and sententiously, and without any visible enthusiasm; Miss Carry, in the stern of the coble, her face all lit up with the blowing winds and the sunlight, talked with far greater vivacity, and was obviously deeply interested in the future of her companion. And it had come to this now, that, as she sate opposite him, he quite naturally and habitually regarded her eyes as supplementing her meaning; he no longer rather shrank from the directness of her look; he no longer wished that she would sit the other way, and attend to the tops of the salmon-rods. As for their speech together, the exceeding frankness of it and lack of conventionality arose from one or two causes, but no doubt partly from this – that during their various adventures on the loch there was no time for the observance of studied forms. It was 'Do this' and 'Do that,' on his part – sometimes with even a sharp word of monition; and with her it was 'Will that do, Ronald?' or again, – when she was standing up in fell encounter with her unseen enemy, both hands engaged with the rod – 'Ronald, tie my cap down, or the wind will blow it away – No, no, the other strings – underneath!'

Indeed, on the morning after the evening on which they had been urging him to make a career for himself, there was not much chance of any calm discussion of that subject. The proceedings of the day opened in a remarkably lively manner. For one thing the wind had backed still farther during the night, and was now blowing briskly from the north, bringing with it from time to time smart snow showers that blackened the heavens and earth for a few minutes and then sped on, leaving the peaks and shoulders and even the lower spurs of the hills all a gleaming white in the wintry sunlight.

'Salmon-fishing in a snow-storm – well, I declare!' said she, as she stood on the shore of the lake, watching him putting the rods together.

'The very best time,' said he, in his positive way (for he had assumed a kind of authority over her, whereas with Meenie he was always reserved and distant and timidly gentle). 'None better. I would just like to find a foot of snow on the ground, right down to the edge of the loch; and the flakes falling so thick ye couldna see a dozen yards ahead of ye.'

'Do you know where I should be then?' she retorted. 'I should be warming my toes in front of Mrs. Murray's peat-fire.'

'Not one bit,' said he, just as positively. 'If ye heard the salmon were taking, ye'd be down here fast enough, I'm thinking.'

And presently it seemed as if this early start of theirs was to be rewarded, for scarcely were both lines out – and Miss Carry was just settling herself down for a little quiet talk, and was pulling the collar of her ulster higher over her ears (for the wind was somewhat cold) – when a sudden tugging and straining at one of the rods, followed by a sharp scream of the reel, upset all these little plans. She made a dash at the rod and raised it quickly.

'That's a good fish – that's a good fish!' Ronald cried, with his mouth set hard. 'Now let's see if we canna hold on to this one. Let him go, lassie! – I beg your pardon – let him go – let him go – that's right – a clean fish, and a beauty!'

Beauty or no, the salmon had no hesitation about showing himself, at least; for now he began to lash the surface of the water, some fifty yards away, not springing into the air, but merely beating the waves with head and body and tail to get rid of this unholy thing that he had pursued and gripped. Then down he went with a mighty plunge – the reel whirring out its shrill cry, and Miss Carry's gloves suffering in consequence – and there he sulked; so that they backed the boat again, and again she got in some of the line. What was the sound that came across the lake to them, in the face of the northerly wind?

'They're waving a handkerchief to ye, Miss Hodson,' said he, 'from the other boat.'

'Oh, bother,' said she (for the strain of a heavy salmon and forty yards of line was something on her arms), 'here, take the handkerchief from this breast-pocket, and wave it back to them – stand up beside me – they won't see the difference – '

He did as he was bid; apparently she paid little attention; she seemed wholly bent on getting the fish. And clearly the salmon had somewhat exhausted himself with his first escapades; he now lay deep down, not stirring an inch; so that she got in her line until there was not more than twenty yards out: then they waited.

And meanwhile this strange thing that was overtaking them? The bright, windy, changeable day – with its gleaming snow-slopes and sunlit straths and woods darkened by passing shadows – seemed to be slowly receding from them, and around them came a kind of hushed and stealthy gloom. And then the wind stirred again; the gusts came sharper and colder; here and there a wet particle stung the cheek or the back of the hand. Of course, she was in a death-struggle with a salmon; she could not heed. And presently the gathering blackness all around seemed to break into a soft bewilderment of snow; large, soft, woolly flakes came driving along before the wind; all the world was shut out from them; they could see nothing but a short space of livid dark water, and feel nothing but this choking silent thing in the air. And then again, with a magical rapidity, the heavens and the earth seemed to open above and around them; the clouds swept on; there was a great deep of dazzling blue suddenly revealed in the sky overhead; and all the dancing waters of the lake, from the boat to the farthest shores, were one flashing and lapping mass of keen, pure cobalt, absolutely bewildering to the eyes. The joy of that radiant colour, after the mystery and the darkness! And then the sunlight broke out; and Clebrig had a touch of gold along his mighty shoulders; and Ben Loyal's snow-slopes were white against the brilliant blue; and it seemed as if the fairest of soft summer skies were shining over Bonnie Strath-Naver.

To her it meant that she could see a little more clearly. She shook the snowflakes from her hair.

'Ronald, you are sure it is not a kelt?'

'Indeed I am. There's nothing of the kelt about that one.'

'If it is,' said she, 'I'll go home and tell my ma.'

She was clearly feeling a little more secure about this one. And she did capture the creature in the end, though it was after a long and arduous struggle. For he was a strong fish – fresh run up from the sea, and heavy for his size; and again and again, and a dozen times repeated, he would make rushes away from the boat just as they thought he was finally showing the white feather. It was the toughest fight she had had; but practice was hardening her muscles a little; and she had acquired a little dexterity in altering her position and shifting the strain. By this time the other boat was coming round.

'Stick to him, Carry!' her father cried. 'No Secesh tactics allowed: hold on to him!'

The next moment Ronald had settled all that by a smart scoop of the clip; and there in the bottom of the boat lay a small-headed deep-shouldered fish of just over sixteen pounds – Ronald pinning him down to get the minnow out of his jaw, and the lad Johnnie grinning all over his ruddy face with delight.

Miss Carry looked on in a very calm and business-like fashion; though in reality her heart was beating quickly – with gladness and exultation. And then, with the same business-like calmness, she took from the deep pocket of her ulster a flask that she had borrowed from Mr. Murray.

'Ronald,' said she, 'you must drink to our good luck.'

She handed him the flask. She appeared to be quite to the manner born now. You would not have imagined that her heart was beating so quickly, or her hands just a little bit nervous and shaky after that prolonged excitement.

Good luck seemed to follow the Duke's boat this morning. Within the next three quarters of an hour they had got hold of another salmon – just over ten pounds. And it was barely lunch time when they had succeeded in landing a third – this time a remarkably handsome fish of fifteen pounds. She now thought she had done enough. She resumed her seat contentedly; there was no elation visible on her face. But she absolutely forbade the putting out of the lines again.

'Look here, Ronald,' she said seriously. 'What do you think I came here for? Do you think I came here to leave my bones in a foreign land? I am just about dead now. My arms are not made of steel. We can go ashore, and get lunch unpacked; the other boat will follow quickly enough. I tell you my arms and wrists have just had about enough for one morning.'

And a very snug and merry little luncheon-party they made there – down by the side of the lapping water, and under the shelter of a wood of young birch-trees. For the other boat had brought ashore two salmon; so that the five handsome fish, laid side by side on a broad slab of rock, made an excellent show. Miss Carry said nothing about her arms aching; but she did not seem to be in as great a hurry as the others to set to work again. No; she enjoyed the rest; and, observing that Ronald had finished his lunch, she called to him, under the pretext of wanting to know something about sending the fish south. This led on to other things; the three of them chatting together contentedly enough, and Ronald even making bold enough to light his pipe. A very friendly little group this was – away by themselves there in these wintry solitudes – with the wide blue waters of the lake in front of them, and the snows of Clebrig white against the sky. And if he were to go away from these familiar scenes, might he not come back again in the after days? And with the splendid power of remaining or going, just as he pleased? – just as these friendly folk could, who spoke so lightly of choosing this or that quarter of the globe for their temporary habitation? Yes, there were many things that money could do: these two strangers, now, could linger here at Inver-Mudal just as long as the salmon-fishing continued to amuse them; or they could cross over to Paris, and see the wonders there; or they could go away back to the great cities and harbours and lakes and huge hotels that they spoke so much about. He listened with intensest interest, and with a keen imagination. And was this part of the shore around them – with its rocks and brushwood and clear water – really like the shores of Lake George, where she was so afraid of rattlesnakes? She said she would send him some photographs of Lake Michigan.

Then in the boat in the afternoon she quite innocently remarked that she wished he was going back home with them; for that he would find the voyage across the Atlantic so amusing. She described the people coming out to say good-bye at Liverpool; and the throwing of knives and pencil-cases and what not as farewell gifts from the steamer to the tender, and vice versâ; she described the scamper round Queenstown and the waiting for the mails; then the long days on the wide ocean, with all the various occupations, and the concerts in the evening, and the raffles in the smoking-room (this from hearsay); then the crowding on deck for the first glimpse of the American coast-line; and the gliding over the shallows of Sandy Hook; and the friends who would come steaming down the Bay to wave handkerchiefs and welcome them home. She seemed to regard it as a quite natural and simple thing that he should be of this party; and that, after landing, her father should take him about and 'see him through,' as it were; and if her fancy failed to carry out these forecasts, and to picture him walking along Dearborn Avenue or driving out with them to Washington Park, it was that once or twice ere now she had somehow arrived at the notion that Ronald Strang and Chicago would prove to be incongruous. Or was it some instinctive feeling that, however natural and fitting their friendship might be in this remote little place in the Highlands, it might give rise to awkwardness over there? Anyhow, that could not prevent her father from seeing that Ronald had ample introductions and guidance when he landed at New York; and was not that the proper sphere for one of his years and courage and abilities?

When they got ashore at the end of the day it was found that each boat had got two more salmon, so that there was a display of nine big fish on the grass there in the gathering dusk.

'And to think that I should live to catch five salmon in one day,' said Miss Carry, as she contemplated her share of the spoil. 'Well, no one will believe it; for they're just real mean people at home; and they won't allow that anything's happened to you in Europe unless you have something to show for it. I suppose Ronald would give me a written guarantee. Anyway, I am going to take that big one along to the Doctor – it will be a good introduction, won't it, pappa?'

But a curious thing happened about that same salmon. When they got to the inn the fish were laid out on the stone flags of the dairy – the coolest and safest place for them in the house; and Miss Carry, who had come along to see them, when she wanted anything done, naturally turned to Ronald.

'Ronald,' said she, 'I want to give that big one to Mrs. Douglas, and I am going along now to the cottage. Will you carry it for me?'

He said something about getting a piece of string and left. A couple of minutes thereafter the lad Johnnie appeared, with a stout bit of cord in his hand; and he, having affixed that to the head and the tail of the salmon, caught it up, and stood in readiness. She seemed surprised.

'Where is Ronald?' said she – for he was always at her bidding.

'He asked me to carry the fish to the Doctor's house, mem,' said the lad. 'Will I go now?'

Moreover, this salmon was accidentally responsible for a still further discovery. When Miss Carry went along to call on the Douglases, little Maggie was with her friend Meenie; and they all of them had tea together; and when the little Maggie considered it fitting she should go home, Miss Carry said she would accompany her – for it was now quite dark. And they had a good deal of talk by the way, partly about schooling and accomplishments, but much more largely about Ronald, who was the one person in all the world in the eyes of his sister. And if Maggie was ready with her information, this pretty young lady was equally interested in receiving it, and also in making inquiries. And thus it came about that Miss Carry now for the first time learned that Ronald was in the habit of writing poems, verses, and things of that kind; and that they were greatly thought of by those who had seen them or to whom he had sent them.

'Why, I might have guessed as much,' she said to herself, as she walked on alone to the inn – though what there was in Ronald's appearance to suggest that he was a writer of rhymes it might have puzzled any one to determine.

But this was a notable discovery; and it set her quick and fertile brain working in a hundred different ways; but mostly she bethought her of one John C. Huysen and of a certain newspaper-office on Fifth Avenue, Chicago, 111.

'Well, there,' she said to herself, as the result of these rapid cogitations, 'if Jack Huysen's good for anything – if he wants to say he has done me a service – if he wants to show he has the spirit of a man in him – well, now's his chance.'

CHAPTER II
CONFESSIONS

It was but another instance of the curiously magnetic influence of this man's personality that she instantly and unhesitatingly assumed that what he wrote must be of value. Now every second human being, as well she knew, writes verses at one period of his life, and these are mostly trash; and remain discreetly hidden, or are mercifully burned. But what Ronald wrote, she was already certain, must be characteristic of himself, and have interest and definite worth; and what better could she do than get hold of some of these things, and have them introduced to the public, perhaps with some little preliminary encomium written by a friendly hand? She had heard from the little Maggie that Ronald had never sent any of his writings to the newspapers; might not this be a service? She could not offer him a sovereign because he happened to be in the boat when she caught her first salmon; but fame – the appeal to the wide-reading public – the glory of print? Nay, might they not be of some commercial value also? She knew but little of the customs of the Chicago journals, but she guessed that a roundabout hint conveyed to Mr. John C. Huysen would not be without effect. And what were the subjects, she asked herself, that Ronald wrote about? In praise of deerstalking, for one thing, and mountain-climbing, and out-of-door life, she felt assured: you could see it in his gait and in his look; you could hear it in his laugh and his singing as he went along the road. Politics, perhaps – if sarcastic verses were in his way; for there was a sharp savour running through his talk; and he took abundant interest in public affairs. Or perhaps he would be for recording the charms of some rustic maiden – some 'Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane' – some blue-eyed and rather silent and uninteresting young person, living alone in a glen, and tending cattle or hanging out things to dry on a hedge? Well, even a song would be something. The Chicago Citizen might not pay very much for it, but the great and generous public might take kindly to it; and if Jack Huysen did not say something friendly about it, then she would know the reason why.

But the stiffest struggle Miss Carry ever had with any salmon was mere child's play compared with the fight she had with Ronald himself over this matter. At first he was exceedingly angry that she should have been told; but then he laughed, and said to her that there were plenty of folk in Scotland as elsewhere who wrote idle verses, but that they had the common sense to say nothing about it. If she wanted a memento of her stay in the Highlands to take back with her to America, he would give her her choice of the deer-skins he had in the shed; that would be appropriate, and she was welcome to the best of them; but as for scribblings and nonsense of that kind – no, no. On the other hand she was just as persistent, and treated him to a little gentle raillery, wondering that he had not yet outgrown the years of shyness; and finally, when everything else had failed, putting her request as a grace and courtesy to be granted to an American stranger. This was hardly fair; but she was very anxious about the matter; and she knew that her demand was founded far less on mere curiosity than on an honest desire to do him a service.

Of course he yielded; and a terrible time he had of it the night he set about selecting something to show to her. For how could she understand the circumstances in which these random things were written – these idle fancies of a summer morning – these careless love songs – these rhymed epistles in which the practical common sense and shrewd advice were much more conspicuous than any graces of art? And then again so many of them were about Meenie; and these were forbidden; the praise of Meenie – even when it was the birds and the roses and the foxgloves and the summer rills that sang of her – was not for alien eyes. But at last he lit upon some verses supposed to convey the sentiments of certain exiles met together on New Year's night in Nova Scotia; and he thought it was a simple kind of thing; at all events it would get him out of a grievous difficulty. So – for the lines had been written many a day ago, and came upon him now with a new aspect – he altered a phrase here or there, by way of passing the time; and finally he made a fair copy. The next morning, being a Sunday, he espied Miss Carry walking down towards the river; and he overtook her and gave her this little piece to redeem his pledge.

'It's not worth much,' said he, 'but you'll understand what it is about. Burn it when you've read it – that's all I ask of ye – ' Then on he went, glad not to be cross-questioned, the faithful Harry trotting at his heels.

So she sat down on the stone parapet of the little bridge – on this hushed, still, shining morning that was quite summer-like in its calm – and opened the paper with not a little curiosity. And well enough she understood the meaning of the little piece: she knew that the Mackays¹ used to live about here; and was not Strath-Naver but a few miles off; and this the very Mudal river running underneath the bridge on which she was sitting? But here are the verses she read – and he had entitled them

ACROSS THE SEA

 
In Nova Scotia's clime they've met
To keep the New Year's night;
The merry lads and lasses crowd
Around the blazing light.
 
 
But father and mother sit withdrawn
To let their fancies flee
To the old, old time, and the old, old home
That's far across the sea.
 
 
And what strange sights and scenes are these
That sadden their shaded eyes?
Is it only thus they can see again
The land of the Mackays?
 
 
O there the red-deer roam at will:
And the grouse whirr on the wing;
And the curlew call, and the ptarmigan
Drink at the mountain spring;
 
 
And the hares lie snug on the hillside:
And the lusty blackcock crows;
But the river the children used to love
Through an empty valley flows.
 
 
Do they see again a young lad wait
To shelter with his plaid,
When she steals to him in the gathering dusk.
His gentle Highland maid?
 
 
Do they hear the pipes at the weddings;
Or the low sad funeral wail
As the boat goes out to the island,
And the pibroch tells its tale?
 
 
O fair is Naver's strath, and fair
The strath that Mudal laves;
And dear the haunts of our childhood,
And dear the old folks' graves;
 
 
And the parting from one's native land
Is a sorrow hard to dree:
God's forgiveness to them that sent us
So far across the sea!
 
 
And is bonnie Strath-Naver shining,
As it shone in the bygone years? —
As it shines for us now – ay, ever —
Though our eyes are blind with tears.
 

Well, her own eyes were moist – though that was but for a moment; for when she proceeded to walk slowly and meditatively back to the inn, her mind was busy with many things; and she began to think that she had not got any way near to the understanding of this man, whom she had treated in so familiar a fashion, as boatman, and companion, and gillie – almost as valet. What lay behind those eyes of his, that glowed with so strange a light at times, and seemed capable of reading her through and through, only that the slightly tremulous eyelids came down and veiled them, or that he turned away his head? And why this strain of pathos in a nature that seemed essentially joyous and glad and careless? Not only that, but in the several discussions with her father – occasionally becoming rather warm, indeed – Ronald had been invariably on the side of the landlord, as was naturally to be expected. He had insisted that the great bulk of the land given over to deer was of no possible use to any other living creature; he had maintained the right of the landlord to clear any portion of his property of sheep and forest it, if by so doing he could gain an increase of rental; he had even maintained the right of the landlord to eject non-paying tenants from holdings clearly not capable of supporting the ever-increasing families; and so forth. But was his feeling, after all, with the people – he himself being one of the people? His stout championship of the claims and privileges of Lord Ailine – that was not incompatible with a deeper sense of the cruelty of driving the poor people away from the land of their birth and the home of their childhood? His natural sentiment as a man was not to be overborne by the fact that he was officially a dependant on Lord Ailine? These and a good many other curious problems concerning him – and concerning his possible future – occupied her until she had got back to the snug little parlour; and there, as she found her father seated in front of the blazing fire, and engaged in getting through the mighty pile of newspapers and illustrated journals and magazines that had come by the previous day's mail, she thought she might as well sit down and write a long letter to her bosom friend in Chicago, through whose intermediation these verses might discreetly be brought to the notice of Mr. Huysen. She had reasons for not asking any favour directly.

'DEAREST EM,' she wrote – after having studied a long while as to how she should begin – 'would it surprise you to know that I have at last found my fate in the very handsome person of a Scotch gamekeeper? Well, it aint so; don't break the furniture; but the fact is my poor brain has been wool-gathering a little in this land of wild storms and legends and romantic ballads; and to-morrow I am fleeing away to Paris – the region of clear atmosphere, and reasonable people, and cynicism; and I hope to have any lingering cobwebs of romance completely blown out of my head. Not that I would call it romance, even if it were to happen; I should call it merely the plain result of my father's theories. You know he is always preaching that all men are born equal; which isn't true anyhow; he would get a little nearer the truth if he were to say that all men are born equal except hotel clerks, who are of a superior race; but wouldn't it be a joke if I were to take him at his word, and ask him how he would like a gamekeeper as his son-in-law? But you need not be afraid, my dear Em; this chipmunk has still got a little of her senses left; and I may say in the words of the poet —

 
"There is not in this wide world a valet so sweet" —
 

no, nor any Claude Melnotte of a gardener, nor any handsome coachman or groom, who could induce me to run away with him. It would be "playing it too low down on pa," as you used to say; besides, one knows how these things always end. Another besides; how do I know that he would marry me, even if I asked him? – and I shouldhave to ask him, for he would never ask me. Now, Em, if you don't burn this letter the moment you have read it, I will murder you, as sure as you are alive.

'Besides, it is a shame. He is a real good fellow; and no such nonsense has got into his head, I know. I know it, because I tried him twice for fun; I got him to tie my cap under my chin; and I made him take my pocket-handkerchief out of my breast-pocket when I was fighting a salmon (I caught five in one day– monsters!), and do you think the bashful young gentleman was embarrassed and showed trembling fingers? Not a bit; I think he thought me rather a nuisance – in the polite phraseology of the English people. But I wish I could tell you about him, really. It's all very well to say he is very handsome and hardy-looking and weather-tanned; but how can I describe to you how respectful his manner is, and yet always keeping his own self-respect, and he won't quarrel with me – he only laughs when I have been talking absolute folly – though papa and he have rare fights, for he has very positive opinions, and sticks to his guns, I can tell you. But the astonishing thing is his education; he has been nowhere, but seems to know everything; he seems to be quite content to be a gamekeeper, though his brother took his degree at college and is now in the Scotch Church. I tell you he makes me feel pretty small at times. The other night papa and I went along to his cottage after dinner, and found him reading Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire– lent him by his brother, it appeared. I borrowed the first volume – but, oh, squawks! it is a good deal too stiff work for the likes of me. And then there is never the least pretence or show, but all the other way; he will talk to you as long as you like about his deerstalking and about what he has seen his dogs do; but never a word about books or writing – unless you happen to have found out.

'Now I'm coming to business. I have never seen any writing of his until this morning, when, after long goading, he showed me a little poem which I will copy out and enclose in this letter when I have finished. Now, darling Em, I want you to do me a real kindness; the first time you see Jack Huysen – I don't want to ask the favour of him direct – will you ask him to print it in the Citizen, and to say something nice about it? I don't want any patronage: understand – I mean let Jack Huysen understand – that Ronald Strang is a particular friend of both my father and myself; and that I am sending you this without his authority, but merely to give him a little pleasant surprise, perhaps, when he sees it in print; and perhaps to tempt him to give us some more. I should like him to print a volume, – for he is really far above his present station, and it is absurd he should not take his place, – and if he did that I know of a young party who would buy 500 copies even if she were to go back home without a single Paris bonnet. Tell Jack Huysen there is to be no patronage, mind; there is to be nothing about the peasant poet, or anything like that; for this man is a gentleman, if I know anything about it; and I won't have him trotted out as a phenomenon – to be discussed by the dudes who smoke cigarettes in Lincoln Park. If you could only talk to him for ten minutes it would be better than fifty letters, but I suppose there are attractions nearer home just at present. My kind remembrances to T.T.