“Ay, she’s a good wumin. Thank her for me,” responded Ivor.
Remounting the dog-cart the old gentleman explained, as they drove along, that Ivor Donaldson’s illness was the result of intemperance.
“He is my gamekeeper,” said the laird; “and there is not a better or more trustworthy man in the island, when he is sober; but when he takes one of his drinking fits, he seems to lose all control over himself, and goes from bad to worse, till a fit of delirium tremens almost kills him. He usually goes for a good while after that without touching a drop, and at such times he is a most respectful, painstaking man, willing to take any amount of trouble to serve one, but when he breaks down he is as bad as ever—nay, even worse. My wife and I have done what we could for him, and have tried to get him to take the temperance pledge, but hitherto without avail. My wife has even gone the length of becoming 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, though your wife has,” thought Barret; but he did not venture to say so.
At this point in the conversation they reached a place where the road left the shores of the loch and ascended into the hills. Being rather steep at its lower end, they alighted and walked; the laird pointing out, as they ascended, features in the landscape which he thought would interest his young guest.
“Yonder,” he said, pointing to a wood on the opposite side of the valley, “yonder is a good piece of cover for deer. The last time we had a 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 to sporting, shot a red cow in mistake for a deer! The same friend knocked over five or six of my tame ducks, under the impression that they were wild ones, because he found them among the heather! Are you fond of sport?”
“Not particularly,” answered Barret; “that is, I am not personally much of a sportsman, though I have great enjoyment in going out with my sporting friends and watching their proceedings. My own tastes are rather scientific. I am a student of natural history—a botanist and geologist—though I lay no claim to extensive knowledge of science.”
“Ah! my young friend, then you will find a powerful sympathiser in my niece Milly—that is, when the poor child gets well—for she is half mad on botany. Although only two weeks have passed since she came to us, she has almost filled her room with specimens of what she calls rare plants. I sometimes tease her by saying it is fortunate that bracken does not come under that head, else she’d pull it all up and leave no cover for the poor rabbits. She has also half-filled several huge books with gummed-in specimens innumerable, though I can’t see that she does more than write their names below them.”
“And that is no small advance in the science, let me tell you,” returned Barret, who was stirred up to defend his co-scientist. “No one can succeed in anything who does not take the first steps, and undergo the drudgery manfully.”
“Womanfully, in this case, my friend; but do not imagine that I underrate my little niece. My remark was to the effect that I do not see that she does more, though I have no manner of doubt that her pretty 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 down in the hollow yonder, where the little stream that runs through the valley takes a sudden bend? There’s a deep pool there, where a good many sea-trout congregate. You shall try it soon—that is, if you care for fishing.”
“Oh, yes, I like fishing,” said Barret. “It is a quiet, contemplative kind 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 with considerable difficulty, and you have to contemplate the banks a long time, occasionally, before deciding as to which precipice is least likely to give you a broken neck. Yes, it is a contemplative sport. As to 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 and bounds. If the roaring of cataracts is quieting to you, there is no end of 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 is a 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?” asked Barret.
“No, it may rather be regarded as an eccentric addition peculiar to MacRummle. The fact is, that my good friend is rather too old to fish now; but his spirit is still so juvenile, and his sporting instincts are so keen, that he is continually running into dangerous positions and getting into scrapes. Fortunately he is very punctual in returning to meals; so if he fails to appear at the right time, I send off one of my men to look for him. I have offered him a boy as an attendant, but he prefers 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 to scramble a little.”
Leaping the ditch that skirted the road, the youth soon crossed the belt of furze and heather that lay between him and the river, about which he and his host had been conversing. Being unaccustomed to the nature of the Western Isles, he was a little surprised to find the country he had to cross extremely rugged and broken, and it taxed all the activity for which 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 slip landed him knee-deep in a bog of brown mud, out of which he dragged his legs 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 in brown tweed garments, with a dirty white wideawake, the crown of which was richly decorated with casting-lines and hooks, ranging from small brown hackle to salmon-fly. But the striking thing about him was that his whole person was soaking wet. Water dripped from the pockets of his shooting coat, dribbled from the battered brim of his wideawake, and, flowing from his straightened locks, trickled off the end of his Roman nose.
“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 of good-humoured sarcasm.
The youth burst into a laugh at this, and the old fisherman’s mouth expanded into a broad grin, which betrayed the fact that age had failed to damage his teeth, though it had played some havoc with his legs.
“These are what I style Highland boots,” said the old man, pointing to the 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. I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Mr MacRummle?”
“You have that pleasure, Mr Barret; and now, if you will do me the kindness to carry my rod and basket, I will lead you back to the dog-cart by a path which will not necessitate an additional pair of native boots! I would not have hailed you, but having tumbled into the river, as you see, I thought it would be more prudent to get driven home as quickly as possible.”
“You have a good basket of fish, I see, or rather, feel,” remarked Barret, as he followed the old man, who walked rather slowly, for his physical strength