Chapter III: Part 3

Something was tickling the side of her face. She shifted the grip of the rod, and passed the back of her right hand across her ear; a brief glance showed her that her knuckles were stained with blood. But she took no further heed; for she had to get both hands on the rod again.

'She has pluck, that one,' Ronald said to himself; but he said nothing aloud, he wanted her to remain as self-possessed as possible.

'And what if he goes down to the footbridge, Ronald?' she said presently.

'But ye must not let him.'

'But if he will go?'

'Then ye'll give me the rod and I'll take it under the bridge.'

The fish lay there as heavy and dead as a stone; nothing they could do could stir him an inch.

'The beast has been at this work before,' Ronald said. 'That jagging to get the hook out is the trick of an old hand. But this sulking will never do at all.'

He left her and went farther up the stream to the place where the river ran over the wide bed of shingle. There he deliberately walked into the water--picking up a few pebbles as he went--and, with a running leap, crossed the channel and gained the opposite bank. Then he quickly walked down to within a yard or two of the spot where the 'dour' salmon lay.

She thought this was very foolish child's play that he should go and fling little stones at a fish he could not see. But presently she perceived that he was trying all he could to get the pebbles to drop vertically and parallel with the line. And then the object of this device was apparent. The salmon moved heavily forward, some few inches only. Another pebble was dropped. This time the fish made a violent rush up stream that caused Miss Carry's reel to shriek; and off she set after him (but with more circumspection this time as regards her footing), getting in the line as rapidly as possible as she went. Ronald now came over and joined her, and this was comforting to her nerves.

Well, long before she had killed that fish she had discovered the difference between loch-fishing and river-fishing; but she did kill him in the end; and mightily pleased she was when she saw him lying on the sere wintry grass. Ronald would have had her try again; but she had had enough; it was past lunch time, and she was hungry; moreover, she was tired; and then again she did not wish that he should waste the whole day. So, when she had sate down for a while, and watched him tie the salmon head and tail, they set out for the village again, very well content; while as for the slight wound she had received by her ear catching on a twig of heather when she fell, that was quite forgotten now.

'And ye are to have the fish,' said he. 'I told his lordship this morning you were going to try your hand at the casting; and he said if you got one you would be proud of it, no doubt, and ye were to keep it, of course.'

'Well, that is very kind; I suppose I must thank him if I see him?'

And she was very curious to know all about Lord Ailine; and why he should come to Inver-Mudal merely for these few hours; and what kind of people he brought with him in the autumn. He answered her as well as he could; and then they went on to other things--all in a very gay and merry mood, for he was as proud as she was over this achievement.

At the same moment Meenie Douglas was in her own little room, engaged on a work of art of a not very ambitious kind. She had lying before her on the table a pencil-sketch in outline of such features of the landscape as could be seen from the window--the loch, the wooded promontories, Ben Clebrig, and the little clump of trees that sheltered the inn; and she was engaged in making a smaller copy of this drawing, in pen and ink, on a paper-cutter of brown wood. She was not much of an artist, perhaps; but surely these simple outlines were recognisable; and if they were to be entitled '_A Souvenir_,' and carried away to the south as a little parting present, might they not in some idle moment of the future recall some brief memory of these northern wilds? So she was at work on this task--and very careful that the lines should be clear and precise--when she heard the sound of voices without--or rather one voice, which presently she recognised to be Ronald's: she could not easily mistake it. And if she were to go to the window and get him to stop for a minute, at the gate, and show him the sketch that she had just about finished--perhaps he would be pleased?

She went to the window--but instantly drew back. She had just caught a glimpse: it was the American young lady he was walking with--at a time when he was supposed to be so busy; and he was carrying her rod for her and her ulster as well as the salmon; and they were laughing and gaily talking together, like a pair of lovers almost on this clear spring day. Meenie went slowly back to the table--her face perhaps a trifle paler than usual; and she sate down, and began to look at the little drawing that she had been rather proud of. But her lips were proud and firm. Why should she give a drawing to any one--more especially to one who was so ready with his friendship and so quick to consort with strangers? The lines on the brown wood seemed cold and uninteresting; she was no longer anxious that they should suggest an accurate picture; nay, she pushed the thing away from her, and rose, and went back to the window, and stood idly gazing out there, her lips still proud, her mien defiant.

And then--well, Ronald was going away. Was it worth while to let pride or self-love come between them and becloud these last few days, when perhaps they might never see each other again? For well she knew of her mother's aims and hopes with regard to herself; and well she knew that--whatever she may have guessed from the verses of Ronald's which assuredly had never been meant for her to see--it was neither for him nor for her to expect that the harsh facts and necessities of the world should give place and yield to a passing fancy, a dream, a kind of wistful, half-poetic shadow of what otherwise might have been. But at least Ronald and she might part friends; nay, they should part friends. And so she returned to the table--overmastering her momentary pride; and she took up the discarded little drawing and regarded it with gentler eyes. For, after all (as she could not forget) Ronald was going away.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*POETA ... NON FIT.*

It soon became obvious that the salmon-fishers from the other side of the Atlantic had got into a long spell of deplorably fine weather; and a gentle melancholy settled down upon the souls of the gillies. In vain, morning after morning, the men searched every quarter of the heavens for any sign of even a couple of days' deluge to flood the rivers and send the kelts down and bring the clean salmon up from the sea. This wild and bleak region grew to be like some soft summer fairyland; the blue loch and the yellow headlands, and the far treeless stretches of moor lay basking in the sunlight; Ben Loyal's purples and browns were clear to the summit; Ben Clebrig's snows had nearly all melted away. Nor could the discontented boatmen understand how the two strangers should accept this state of affairs with apparent equanimity. Both were now provided with a book; and when the rods had been properly set so as to be ready for any emergency, they could pass the time pleasantly enough in this perfect stillness, gliding over the smooth waters, and drinking in the sweet mountain air. As for Miss Carry, she had again attacked the first volume of Gibbon--for she would hot be beaten; and very startling indeed it was when a fish did happen to strike the minnow, to be so suddenly summoned back from Palmyra to this Highland loch. In perfect silence, with eyes and attention all absented, she would be reading thus--

'_When the Syrian queen was brought into the presence of Aurelian, he sternly asked her, how she had presumed to rise in arms against the Emperor of Rome? The answer of Zenobia was a prudent mixture of respect and firmness_'--when sharp would come the warning cry of Malcolm--'There he is, Miss!--there he is!'--and she would dash down the historian to find the rod being violently shaken and the reel screaming out its joyous note. Moreover, in this still weather, the unusual visitor not unfrequently brought some other element of surprise with him. She acquired a considerable experience of the different forms of foul-hooking and of the odd manoeuvres of the fish in such circumstances. On one occasion the salmon caught himself on the minnow by his dorsal fin; and for over an hour contented himself with rolling about under water without once showing himself, and with such a strain that she thought he must be the champion fish of the lake: when at last they did get him into the boat he was found to be a trifle under ten pounds. But, taken altogether, this cultivation of literature, varied by an occasional 'fluke' of a capture, and these placid and dreamlike mornings and afternoons, were far from being as satisfactory as the former and wilder days when Ronald was in the boat, even with all their discomforts of wind and rain and snow.

By this time she had acquired another grievance.

'Why did you let him go, pappa, without a single word?' she would say, as they sate over their books or newspapers in the evening. 'It was my only chance. You could easily have introduced yourself to him by speaking of the shooting----'

'You know very well, Carry,' he would answer--trying to draw her into the fields of common sense--'I can say nothing about that till I see how mother's health is.'

'I am sure she would say yes if she saw what the place has done for you, pappa; salmon-fishing has proved better for you than bromide of potassium. But that's not the trouble at all. Why did you let him go? Why did you let him spend the evening at the Doctor's?--and the next morning he went about the whole time with Ronald! My only chance of spurning a lord, too. Do they kneel in this country, pappa, when they make their declaration; or is that only in plays? Never mind; it would be all the same. "No, my lord; the daughter of a free Republic cannot wed a relic of feudalism; farewell, my lord, farewell! I know that you are heart-broken for life; but the daughter of a free Republic must be true to her manifest destiny."'

'Oh, be quiet!'

'And then the girls at home, when I got back, they would all have come crowding around: "Do tell, now, did you get a British nobleman to propose, Carry?" "What do you imagine I went to Europe for?" "And you rejected him?" "You bet your pile on that. Why, you should have seen him writhe on the floor when I spurned him! I spurned him, I tell you I did--the daughter of a free Republic"----'

'Will you be quiet!'

'But it was really too bad, pappa!' she protested. 'There he was lounging around all the morning. And all I heard him say was when he was just going--when he was on the mail-car, "Ronald," he called out, "have you got a match about you?"--and he had a wooden pipe in his hand. And that's all I know about the manners and conversation of the British nobility; and what will they say of me at home?'

'When does Ronald go?' he would ask; and this, at least, was one sure way of bringing her back to the paths of sanity and soberness; for the nearer that this departure came, the more concerned she was about it, having some faint consciousness that she herself had a share of the responsibility.

And in another direction, moreover, she was becoming a little anxious. No message of any kind had arrived from the _Chicago Citizen_. Now she had written to Miss Kerfoot before she left for Paris; her stay in the French capital had extended to nearly three weeks; there was the space occupied in going and returning; so that if Jack Huysen meant to do anything with the verses it was about time that that should appear. And the more she thought of it the more she set her heart on it, and hoped that Ronald's introduction to the reading public would be a flattering one and one of which he could reasonably be proud. Her father had it in his power to secure his material advancement; and that was well enough; but what if it were reserved for her to confer a far greater service on him? For if this first modest effort were welcomed in a friendly way, might he not be induced to put forth a volume, and claim a wider recognition? It need not interfere with his more practical work; and then, supposing it were successful? Look at the status it would win for him--a thing of far more value in the old country, where society is gradated into ranks, than in her country, where every one (except hotel clerks, as she insisted) was on the same plane. He would then be the equal of anybody--even in this old England; she had at least acquired so far a knowledge of English society. And if he owed the first suggestion and impulse to her?--if she were to be the means, in however small and tentative a fashion, of his ultimately establishing his fame? That he could do so if he tried, she never thought of doubting. She saw him every day, and the longer she knew him the more she was certain that the obvious mental force that seemed to radiate from him in the ordinary conversation and discussion of everyday life only wanted to be put into a definite literary channel to make its mark. And was not the time ripe for a poet? And it was not Edinburgh, or Glasgow, or London that had nowadays to decide on his merits, but two great continents of English-speaking people.

At length came the answer to her urgent prayer--a letter from Miss Kerfoot and a copy of the _Chicago Citizen_. The newspaper she opened first; saw with delight that a long notice--a very long notice indeed--had been accorded to the verses she had sent; and with a proud heart she put the paper in her pocket, for careful reading when she should get down to the lake. Miss Kerfoot's letter she glanced over; but it did not say much; the writer observed that Mr. Jack Huysen had only seemed half pleased when informed of Carry's extraordinary interest in the phenomenal Scotch gamekeeper; and, referring to the article in the _Citizen_, she said Jack Huysen had entrusted the writing of it to Mr. G. Quincy Regan, who was, she understood, one of the most cultured young men in Chicago, and likely to make quite a reputation for himself ere long. There were some other matters mentioned in this letter; but they need not detain us here.

Miss Carry was in very high spirits as she set forth from the inn with her father to walk down to the boats. They met Ronald, too, on their way; he was accompanied by the man who was to take his place after his leaving; and Miss Carry could not help comparing the two of them as they came along the road. But, after all, it was not outward appearance that made the real difference between men; it was mental stature; she had that in her pocket which could show to everybody how Ronald was a head and shoulders over any of his peers. And she took but little interest in the setting up of the rods or the selection of the minnows; she wanted to be out on the lake, alone, in the silence, to read line by line and word by word this introduction of her hero to the public.

The following is the article:

'A REMARKABLE LITERARY DISCOVERY--OUR FELLOW-CITIZENS ABROAD--ANOTHER RUSTIC POET--CHICAGO CLAIMS HIM. It may be in the recollection of some of our readers that a few years ago a small party of American tourists, consisting of Curtis H. Mack, who was one of our most distinguished major-generals in the rebellion, and is now serving on the Indian frontier; his niece, Miss Hettie F. Doig, a very talented lady and contributor to several of our best periodicals; and John Grimsby Patterson, editor of the Baltimore _Evening News_, were travelling in Europe, when they had the good fortune to discover an Irish poet, Patrick Milligan, who had long languished in obscurity, no doubt the victim of British jealousy as well as of misrule. Major-General Mack interested himself in this poor man, and, in conjunction with William B. Stevens, of Cleveland, Ohio, had him brought over to this country, where they were eventually successful in obtaining for him a postmastership in New Petersburg, Conn., leaving him to devote such time as he pleased to the service of the tuneful nine. Mr. Milligan's Doric reed has not piped to us much of late years; but we must all remember the stirring verses which he wrote on the occasion of Colonel George W. Will's nomination for Governor of Connecticut. It has now been reserved for another party of American travellers, still better known to us than the above, for they are no other than our esteemed fellow-citizen, Mr. Josiah Hodson and his brilliant and accomplished daughter, Miss Caroline Hodson, to make a similar discovery in the Highlands of Scotland; and in view of such recurring instances, we may well ask whether there be not in the mental alertness of our newer civilisation a capacity for the detection and recognition of intellectual merit which exists not among the deadening influences of an older and exhausted civilisation. It has sometimes been charged against this country that we do not excel in arts and letters; that we are in a measure careless of them; that political problems and material interests occupy our mind. The present writer, at least, is in no hurry to repel that charge, odious as it may seem to some. We, as Americans, should remember that the Athenian Republic, with which our western Republic has nothing to fear in the way of comparison, when it boasted its most lavish display of artistic and literary culture, was no less conspicuous for its moral degeneracy and political corruption. It was in the age of Pericles and of Phidias, of Socrates and Sophocles, of Euripides and Aristophanes and Thucydides, that Athens showed herself most profligate; private licence was unbridled; justice was bought and sold; generals incited to war that they might fill their pockets out of the public purse; and all this spectacle in striking contrast with the manly virtues of the rude and unlettered kingdom of Sparta, whose envoys were laughed at because they had not the trick of Athenian oratory and casuistry. We say, then, that we are not anxious to repel this charge brought against our great western Republic, that we assign to arts and letters a secondary place; on the contrary, we are content that the over-cultivation of these should fatten on the decaying and effete nations of Europe, as phosphorus shines in rotten wood.'

Now she had determined to read every sentence of this article conscientiously, as something more than a mere intellectual treat; but, as she went on, joy did not seem to be the result. The reference to Patrick Milligan and the postmastership in Connecticut she considered to be distinctly impertinent; but perhaps Jack Huysen had not explained clearly to the young gentleman all that she had written to Emma Kerfoot? Anyhow, she thought, when he came to Ronald's little Highland poem, he would perhaps drop his Athenians, and talk more like a reasonable human being.

'That the first strain from the new singer's lyre should be placed at the services of the readers of the _Citizen_, we owe to the patriotism of the well-known and charming lady whose name we have given above; nor could the verses have fallen into better hands. In this case there is no need that Horace should cry to Tyndaris--

_O matre pulchra filia pulchrior,_
_Quem criminosis cunque voles modum_
_Pones iambis, sive flamma_
_Sive mari libet Hadriano._

Moreover, we have received a hint that this may not be the last piece of the kind with which we may be favoured; so that we have again to thank our fair fellow-townswoman for her kindly attention. But lest our readers may be growing weary of this _prolegomenon_, we will at once quote this latest utterance of the Scottish muse which has come to us under such favourable auspices:'

Here followed Ronald's poor verses, that perhaps looked insignificant enough, after this sonorous trumpet-blaring. The writer proceeded:

'Now certain qualities in this composition are so obvious that we need hardly specify them; we give the writer credit for simplicity, pathos, and a hearty sympathy with the victims of the tyrannical greed of the chase-loving British landlord. But it is with no intent of looking a gift-horse in the mouth (which would be a poor return for the courtesy of the lady who has interested herself in the rustic bard) if we proceed to resolve this piece into its elements, that we may the more accurately cast the horoscope of this new applicant for the public applause. To begin with, the sentiment of nostalgia is but a slender backbone for any work of literary art. In almost every case it is itself a fallacy. What were the conditions under which these people--arbitrarily and tyrannically, it may have been--were forced away from their homes? Either they were bad agriculturists or the land was too poor to support them; and in either case their transference to a more generous soil could be nothing but a benefit to them. Their life must have been full of privations and cares. _Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit_; but the pleasure ought to lie in thinking of the escape; so that we maintain that to base any piece of literary work on such a false sentiment as nostalgia is seen to be, leads us to suspect the _veracity_ of the writer and calls upon us to be on our guard. Moreover, we maintain that it is of the essence of pastoral and idyllic poetry to be cheerful and jocund; and it is to be observed that sadness prevails in poetry only when a nation has passed its youth and becomes saturated with the regret of old age. We prefer the stories told

_Where Corydon and Thyrsis met_ _Are at their savoury dinner set;_

and the lyrist when he sings

_Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,_
_Dulce loquentem;_

and we hold that when the poets of a nation are permeated by a lackadaisical sentiment--when they have the candour to style themselves the idle singers of an empty day--when the burden of their song is regret and weariness and a lamentation over former joys--then it is time for such poets and the nation they represent to take a back seat in the lecture halls of literature, and give way to the newer and stronger race that is bound to dominate the future.'

She read no farther; and it is a great pity that she did not; for the writer by and by went on to say some very nice things about these unlucky verses; and even hinted that here was a man who might be benefited by coming to stay in Chicago,--'the future capital of the future empire of the world,'--and by having his eyes opened as to the rate of progress possible in these modern days; and wound up with a most elaborate compliment to the intellectual perspicacity and judgment of Miss Carry herself. She did not read beyond what is quoted above for the simple reason that she was in a most violent rage, and also extremely mortified with herself for being so vexed. She tore the newspaper into shreds, and crushed these together, and flung them into the bottom of the boat. Her cheeks were quite pale; her eyes burning; and through all the anger of her disappointment ran the shame of the consciousness that it was she who had exposed Ronald to this insult. What though he should never know anything about it? Her friends in Chicago would know. And it was the man whom she wanted to glorify and make a hero of who had, through her instrumentality, been subjected to the pedantic criticism, the pretentious analyses, and, worst of all, the insulting patronage of this unspeakable ass. Suddenly she regretted the destruction of the newspaper; she would like to have looked at it again, to justify her wrath. No matter; she could remember enough; and she would not forget Jack Huysen's share in this transaction.

She was very silent and reserved at lunch time; and her father began to believe that, after all, in spite of her repeated assurances, their ill-luck with the fishing was weighing on her spirits.

'You know, Carry,' said he, 'it is not in the nature of things that weather like this can last in the Highlands of Scotland. It is notoriously one of the wettest places in the world. There _must_ be rain coming soon; and then think of all the fish that will be rushing up in shoals, and what a time we shall have.'

'I am not disappointed with the fishing at all, pappa,' she said. 'I think we have done very well.'

'What is the matter, then?'

'Oh, nothing.'

And then she said--

'Well, I will tell you, pappa. I asked Jack Huysen to do me a very particular favour; and he did not do it; and when I next see Jack Huysen, I think he will find it a very cold day.'

The words were mysterious; but the tone was enough.

And all the afternoon she sate in the stern of the coble and brooded, composing imaginary letters to the editor of the _New York Herald_, to the editor of the _Nation_, to the editor of the Chicago _Tribune_, to the editor of _Puck_, and a great many other journals, all of these phantom epistles beginning 'As an American girl I appeal to you,' and proceeding to beg of the editor to hold up to merciless scorn a certain feeble, shallow, and impertinent article (herewith enclosed) which had appeared in the _Chicago Citizen_. And on the way home, too, in the evening, she began to question her father as to his personal acquaintance with editors and journalists, which seemed to be of the slightest; and she at length admitted that she wanted some one to reply--and sharply--to an article that had been written about a friend of hers.

'You let that alone,' her father said. 'It's not very easy for any one to meddle in the politics of our country without coming out more or less tattooed; for they don't mind what they say about you; and you are very well to be out of it.'

'It isn't politics at all,' she said. 'And--and--the article is written about a friend of mine--and--I want to have the writer told what a fool he is.'

'But probably he would not believe it,' her father said quietly.

'He would see that some one else believed it.'

'I am not sure that that would hurt him much,' was the unsatisfactory answer.

When they drew near to Inver-Mudal she found herself quite afraid and ashamed at the thought of their possibly meeting Ronald. Had she not betrayed him? He had sought for no recognition; probably he was too proud or too manly and careless about what any one might write of him; it was she who had put him into that suppliant attitude, and brought upon him the insolent encouragement of a microcephalous fool. This was the return she had made him for all his kindness to her father and to herself. Why, he had told her to burn the verses! And to think that she should have been the means of submitting them to the scrutiny and patronage of this jackanapes--and that Mr. J. C. Huysen should as good as say 'Well, this is what we think of your prodigy'--all this was near bringing tears of rage to her eyes. For Miss Carry, it must be repeated, was 'a real good fellow,' and very loyal to her friends, and impatient of injustice done them; and perhaps, unconsciously to herself, she may have felt some of the consternation of the wild animal whose duty it is to protect her mate with her superior feminine watchfulness, and who, through neglect or carelessness, allows the destroyer to come in and slay. In any case, it certainly promised to be 'a very cold day' for Mr. Jack Huysen when these two should meet in Chicago.

That night, after dinner, father and daughter went out for a stroll; for by this time the moon was drawing to its full again; and all the world lay peaceful and silent in the wan clear light. They had not emerged from the trees in front of the inn on to the white pathway of the road when a sound in the distance caught Miss Carry's ears, and instantly she touched her father's arm and drew him back into the shadow. She wanted to hear what song this was that Ronald was singing on his homeward way.

At first she could make out nothing but fragments of the air--clear and soft and distant--

but as he drew nearer the words become more distinct:

And kiss'd her ripe ros-es, and blest her black e'e;
And aye since whene'er we meet, sing, for the sound is sweet,
"I was a-sleep but ye've wak-en'd me.'

So clear and penetrating and careless and joyous was this singing!--her heart was stirred with pride as she listened; this was not the voice of a man who would trouble himself with any whipper-snapper criticism;--nay, she began to wonder that she had wasted so much indignation on so trivial a thing. Then there was a sudden silence, except for his footfall; and presently the dark figure appeared out there on the white road--his shadow a sharp black in front of him, the little terrier trotting behind him--and in a minute or so the long swinging stride had carried him past their ambush on his homeward way to the cottage.

'What a splendid voice that fellow has got!' her father said, as they also now went out on to the white highway, and took the opposite direction.

'He seems to be very well contented with himself,' she said, rather absently.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*A LAST DAY ON THE LOCH.*

Ronald came down to the loch-side the next morning just as she was about to get into the coble--her father having started a few minutes before.

'I hear you have not been doing very well with the fishing,' said he, in that brisk, business-like fashion of his.

'The salmon appear to have gone away somewhere,' she replied.

'Oh, but that will never do,' said he cheerfully. 'We must try and make some alteration.'

He took the key of the kennels from his pocket.

'Here, Johnnie lad, ye may go and take the dogs out for a run.'

Was Ronald, then, coming with her? Her eyes brightened with anticipation; there was a welcome in the look of her face that ought to have been sufficient reward for him. Nor had she the courage to protest--though she knew that his time was drawing short now. As for the salmon--well, it was not about salmon she was thinking exclusively.

'They say a change of gillie sometimes brings a change of luck,' said he good-naturedly; and he began to overhaul the tackle, substituting smaller minnows for those already on. 'And I think we will try down at the other end of the loch this time. We will make sure of some trout in any case.'

'But it is so far away, Ronald; are you certain you can afford the time?' she was bound, in common fairness, to ask.

'Oh yes, I can afford the time,' said he, 'even if this should have to be my last day on the loch. Besides, if we do not treat you well, maybe you'll never come back.'

'And what is the use of our coming back, when you won't be here?' she was on the point of saying, but she did not say it, fortunately.

Then they set forth, on this still summer-like day; and they hailed the other boat in passing, and told them of their intended voyage of exploration. Indeed their prospects of sport at the setting out were anything but promising; the long levels of the lake were mostly of a pale glassy blue and white; and the little puffs of wind that stirred the surface here and there into a shimmer of silver invariably died down again, leaving the water to become a mirror once more of rock and tree and hill. But she was well content. This was an unknown world into which they were now penetrating; and it was a good deal more beautiful than the upper end of the lake (where the best fishing ground was) with which they had grown so familiar. Here were hanging woods coming right down to the water's edge; and lofty and precipitous crags stretching away into the pale blue sky; and winding bays and picturesque shores where the huge boulders, green and white and yellow with lichen, and the rich velvet moss, and the withered bracken, and the silver-clear stems of the birch trees were all brilliant in the sun. The only living creatures that seemed to inhabit this strange silent region were the birds. A pair of eagles slowly circled round and round, but at so great a height that they were but a couple of specks which the eye was apt to lose; black-throated divers and golden-eyed divers, disturbed by these unusual visitors, rose from the water and went whirring by to the upper stretches of the lake; a hen-harrier hovered in mid-air, causing a frantic commotion among the smaller birds beneath; the curlews, now wheeling about in pairs, uttered their long warning whistle; the peewits called angrily, flying zig-zag, with audible whuffing of their soft broad wings; the brilliant little redshanks flew like a flash along the shore, just skimming the water; and two great wild-geese went by overhead, with loud, harsh croak. And ever it was Ronald's keen eye that first caught sight of them; and he would draw her attention to them; and tell her the names of them all. And at last--as they were coming out of one of the small glassy bays, and as he was idly regarding the tall and rocky crags that rose above the birchwoods--he laughed lightly.

'Ye glaiket things,' said he, as if he were recognising some old friends, 'what brings ye in among the sheep?'

'What is it, Ronald?' she asked--and she followed the direction of his look towards those lofty crags, but could make out nothing unusual.

'Dinna ye see the hinds?' he said quietly.

'Where--where?' she cried, in great excitement; for she had not seen a single deer all the time of her stay.

'At the edge of the brown corrie--near the sky-line. There are three of them--dinna ye see them?'

'No, I don't!' she said impatiently.

'Do ye see the two sheep?'

'I see two white specks--I suppose they're sheep.'

'Well--just above them.'

But the boat was slowly moving all this time; and presently the gradual change in their position brought one of the hinds clear into view on the sky-line. The beautiful creature, with its graceful neck, small head, and upraised ears, was evidently watching them, but with no apparent intention of making off; and presently Miss Carry, whose eyes were becoming better accustomed to the place, could make out the other two hinds, one of them lying on the grass, the other contentedly feeding, and paying no heed whatever to the passing boat.

'I thought you said the sheep drove them away,' she said to him.

'It's the men and the dogs mostly,' he answered. 'Sometimes they will come in among the sheep like that, if the feeding tempts them. My word, that would be an easy stalk now--if it was the season.'

Very soon they found that the three hinds were no longer in view; but there were plenty of other things to claim their attention on this solitary voyage. What, for example, was this great circular mass of stones standing on a projecting promontory? These were the remains, he explained to her, of a Pictish fort. Another, in better preservation, was on the opposite shore; and, if she cared to visit it, she might make her way into the hollow passages constructed between the double line of wall, if she were not afraid of adders, nor yet of some of the uncemented stones falling upon her.

'And what are these?' she said, indicating the ruins of certain circles formed on the hill-plateaux just above the loch.

'They're down in the Ordnance Survey as "hut-circles,"' he said, 'but that is all I know about them.'

'At all events, there must have been plenty of people living here at one time?'

'I suppose so.'

'Well, I don't think I ever saw any place in our country looking quite so lonely as that,' she said, regarding the voiceless solitudes of wood and hill and crag. 'Seems as if with us there was always some one around--camping out, or something--but I dare say in Dacotah or Idaho you would get lonelier places than this even. Well, now, what do they call it?' she asked, as an afterthought.

'What?--the strath here?'

'Yes.'

'I suppose they would call it part of Strath-Naver.'

The mere mention of Strath-Naver struck a chill to her heart. It recalled to her how she had betrayed him by sending those harmless verses across the Atlantic, and subjecting them to the insolence of a nincompoop's patronage. And if Ronald should ever get to know? Might not some busybody send him a copy of the paper? These Scotch people had so many relatives and friends all through the States. Or perhaps his brother in Glasgow might have some correspondent over there? She dared not look him in the face, she felt so guilty; and once or twice she was almost on the point of confessing everything, and begging for his forgiveness, and getting him to promise that he would not read the article should it ever be sent to him.

And then it occurred to her as a very strange thing that from the moment of Ronald's appearance that morning at the loch-side until now she had never even given a thought to what had caused her so much annoyance the day before. His very presence seemed to bring with it an atmosphere of repose and safety and self-confidence. When she had seen him go stalking by on the previous night, she had instantly said to herself--'Oh, that is not the kind of man to worry about what is said of him.' And this morning, when he came down to the boat, she had never thought of him as a criticised and suffering poet, but as--well, as the Ronald that all of them knew and were familiar with--self-reliant, good-natured, masterful in his way, and ever ready with a laugh and a song and a jest, save when there was any young lady there, to make him a little more demure and respectful in his manner. Ronald a disappointed poet?--Ronald suffering agony because a two-for-a-quarter kind of a creature out there in Chicago did not think well of him? She ventured to lift her eyes a little. He was not looking her way at all. He was regarding the shore intently; and there was a quiet and humorous smile on the hard-set, sun-tanned face.

'There are six--seven--blackcocks; do ye see them?'

'Oh yes; what handsome birds they are!' she said, with a curious sense of relief.

'Ay,' said he, 'the lads are very friendly amongst themselves just now; but soon there will be wars and rumours of wars when they begin to set up house each for himself. There will be many a pitched battle on those knolls there. Handsome? Ay, they're handsome enough; but handsome is as handsome does. The blackcock is not nearly as good a fellow as the grousecock, that stays with his family, and protects them, and gives them the first warning cry if there's danger. These rascals there wander off by themselves, and leave their wives and children to get on as they can. They're handsome--but they're ne'er-do-weels. There's one thing: the villain has a price put on his head; for a man would rather bring down one old cock thumping on the grass than fill his bag with gray hens.'

A disappointed poet indeed! And she was so glad to find him talking in his usual half-bantering careless fashion (that he should talk in any other way was only a wild suggestion of her own conscience, struck with a qualm on the mention of Strath-Naver) that she made many inquiries about the habits of black game and similar creatures; and was apparently much interested; and all the while was vowing within herself that she would think no more of the mortifying disappointment she had met with, but would give up this last day on the loch wholly to such fancies and quiet amusements as she would like to look back upon in after hours.

And a very pleasant day they spent in this still, silent, beautiful region, cut off from all of the world, as it were. There were plenty of trout, and therefore there was plenty of occupation; moreover, one or two good-sized sea-trout added to the value of the basket. Nor was this solitary district quite so untenanted as she had supposed. About mid-day it occurred to her that she was becoming hungry and then the wild reflection flashed on her that the lunch was in the other boat--some eight miles away. She confided her perplexity--her despair--to Ronald.

'It is my fault,' he said, with vexation very visible in his face. 'I should have remembered. But--but--' he added timidly--for he was not accustomed to ministering to the wants of young ladies--'I could get ye some bread and a drink of milk, if that would do.'

'What, right here?'

'Yes.'

'Why, nothing could be better!'

They were rowing the boat ashore by this time; and when they had got to land, he leaped on to the beach, and presently disappeared. In little more than a quarter of an hour he was back again, bringing with him a substantial loaf of home-made bread and a large jug of milk.

'Well done!' she said. 'There's plenty for all of us. Lend me your knife, Ronald.'

'Oh no,' said he, 'it's for you.'

And a hard fight she had of it ere she could get the two men to accept a fair division; but she had her way in the end; and Ronald, seeing that she was determined they should share the milk also (she drank first, and handed the jug to him quite as a matter of course), swiftly and stealthily pulled off the cup from his whisky-flask, and old Malcolm and he drank from that, pouring the milk into it from the jug. It was a frugal picnic; but she was very happy; and she was telling him that when he came to Chicago, and they were showing him the beauties of Lake Michigan, they might give him a grander luncheon than this, but none more comfortable.

In the afternoon they set out for home, picking up a few more trout by the way; and when they at length drew near to the upper waters of the lake they found the other boat still pursuing its unwearied round. Moreover Mr. Hodson's strict attention to business had been rewarded by the capture of a handsome fish of sixteen pounds; whereas they had nothing but a miscellaneous collection of brown and white trout. But, just as they were thinking of going ashore, for the dusk was now coming on, a most extraordinary piece of luck befell them. Miss Carry was scarcely thinking of the rods when the sudden shriek of one of the reels startled her out of her idle contemplation.

'Surely that is a salmon, Ronald!' she cried, as she instantly grasped the rod and got it up.

He did not stay to answer, for his business was to get in the other line as fast as possible. But he had just got this second rod into his hand when lo! there was a tugging and another scream of a reel--there was now a salmon at each of the lines! It was a position of the direst danger--for a single cross rush of either of the fish must inevitably break both off--and how were they to be kept separate, with both rods confined to one boat? Ronald did not lose his head.

'Row ashore, Malcolm--row ashore, man!' he shouted--'fast as ever ye can, man!'

Nor did he wait until the bow had touched land; he slipped over the edge of the boat while as yet the water was deep enough to take him up to the waist; and away he waded, taking the one rod with him, and slowly increasing the distance between the two fish. By the time he got ashore there was a hundred yards or so between them, and he did not attempt to play this salmon at all; he gave it plenty of law; and merely waited to see the end of Miss Carry's struggle.

She hardly knew what had happened, except that Ronald's going away had left her very nervous and excited and helpless. How was she ever to land a fish unless he was at her shoulder directing her? But by this time old Malcolm had jammed the bow of the boat on to the beach, had got in the oars, and now sate patiently waiting, clip in hand.

The fish was not a very game one, though he was no kelt.

'Put a good strain on him, Miss,' said old Malcolm--who had been taking a sly look round. 'Ronald's keeping the other one for ye.'

'What do you say?' she called to him--rather breathlessly.

'Ronald will be wanting ye to play the other fish too,' said the old man. 'And a wonderful fine thing, if we can get them both--oh yes, indeed. It is not an ordinary thing to hook two salmon at once and land them both--I wass neffer seeing that done except once before.'

'Beast!' she said, between her teeth--for the fish made a desperate rush away out into the loch, with a magnificent flourish in the air as a finish. But no harm was done; indeed, it was about his last strong effort to free himself. Yard after yard of the line was got in again; his struggles to get away grew less and less vigorous; at last the old Highlander made an adventurous swoop with the clip, and was successful in landing the brilliant creature in the bottom of the boat.

'Now, Miss,' he cried, 'leave him to me--leave him to me. Quick, get ashore, and try for the other one. And will you take the clip?'

He was greatly excited by this unusual adventure; and so was she--and breathless, moreover; but she managed to do as she was bid. She got rather wet in getting ashore; for Ronald was not there to help her; but she had no time to mind that; she made her way as rapidly as she could along the bank, and there was Ronald awaiting her, with a quiet smile on his face.

'This is better work,' said he placidly, as he gave her the rod.

She was anxious no longer; she was triumphant. Ronald was with her; of course she would get this one also. And who but Ronald would have brought such a stroke of luck to the boat?

'I would get in some of the line now,' said he calmly. 'I have been letting him do as he liked; and he is a long way out. And mind, you'll have to watch him; he is quite fresh; there has been no fighting at all yet.'

'Oh, Ronald,' she said, with the pretty pale face grown quite rosy with the excitement and the hard work, 'won't it be just too splendid for anything if we can get them both!'

'I hope ye may,' he said, 'for it's not likely to happen again in your lifetime.'

The fish now began to rebel against the new strain that was being put on him, and indulged in a variety of audacious cantrips--apparently at a considerable distance out. By this time the other boat was also ashore, and Miss Carry's father came along to see how Ronald's pupil could play a salmon. Just as he drew near, there was a pretty lively scrimmage going on.

'Why, you want to have them all,' he complained. 'It is not fair sport to bag a brace of salmon right and left.'

She did not answer--in fact, she could not; she had enough to do. For now the salmon seemed wanting to get right out to the middle of the lake; and the length of line that lay between her and her enemy dragged heavily on her arms. And then he altered his tactics--coming rapidly to the surface and trying to break the suddenly slackened line by furious lashings of his tail. But all this was in vain; and now, as he seemed yielding a little, she put a heavier strain on him, and began to reel up. It was very well done, and without a word of admonition; for Ronald was proud of his pupil, and wished to show that he could leave her to herself.

By and by the fish began to show himself a little more amenable, and preparations were made for receiving him on shore. Miss Carry stepped back a few yards; her father got out of the way altogether; Ronald crouched down, clip in hand. Of course, when the salmon found himself being guided into the shallows, he was off like a bolt; and again and again he repeated these sullen rushes; but each time they were growing weaker; and at last, as the gleam of something white showed in the water, Ronald made a sudden plunge with the clip--and the salmon was ashore.

He laughed.

'I suppose this will be my last day on the loch, and a very good finish it is.'

The men brought along the other fish, and these were all laid out on the grass side by side, though it was now too dark to see much of them. As regards the three salmon, Mr. Hodson's, on being accurately weighed, was found to be sixteen and a half pounds, Miss Carry's two respectively fourteen pounds and eleven pounds. She was a very happy young woman as she walked home with her father and Ronald through the now rapidly gathering dusk.

His last day on the lake:--well, it would be something pleasant to look back upon in after times--the summer-like weather, the still water, the silent and sunlit crags and woods and bays. And perhaps, too, he would remember something of her bright society, her friendly disposition, and the frank good-comradeship with which she shared her meal of milk and bread with two common boatmen. Nay, he could not well help remembering that--and with a touch of gratitude and kindness, too--even though they should never meet again through the long years of life.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*THE PARTING.*