When Mr Sudberry, in the exuberance of his delight, ran without hat or coat to a neighbouring knoll, accompanied by all his children, the scene that met his eye was one of surpassing grandeur and beauty. The mists of early morning were rolling up from the loch in white, fleecy clouds, which floated over and partly concealed the sides of the mountains. The upper wreaths of these clouds, and the crags and peaks that pierced through them were set on fire by the rising sun. Great fissures and gorges in the hills, which at other times lay concealed in the blue haze of distance, were revealed by the mists and the slanting rays of the sun, and the incumbent cliffs, bluff promontories, and capes, were in some places sharply defined, in others luminously softened, so that the mountains displayed at once that appearance of solid reality, mingled with melting mystery, which is seen at no period of the day but early morning. The whole scene—water, earth, and sky—was so involved, that no lines of demarcation could be traced anywhere; only bold startling points, melting into blue and white masses that mingled with each other in golden and pearly greys of every conceivable variety. Having said thus much, we need scarcely add that the scene cannot be adequately described.
A light fragrant air met the stout Englishman as he crested the hill, and filled his unaccustomed nostrils with sensations that could not have been excelled had he been greeted by one of “Afric’s spicy gales.” The same air, with telegraphic speed, conveyed to the collie dogs of the place the information that the Sudberrys were abroad; whereupon the whole pack—nine in number—bounded open-mouthed up the hill, with noise and ferocity enough to have alarmed the bravest of the brave. No wonder then that poor Jacky rushed into his father’s knees, being too small to run into his arms. But these seemingly ferocious dogs were in reality the gentlest and meekest of animals.
“Down, Topper, down! down, Lively, lass; come into heel, Swaney,” cried Donald McAllister, as he approached his tenants. “Good-mornin’, miss; mornin’, gentlemen. The Ben has on its nightcap, but I’m thinkin’ it’ll soon take it off.”
Donald McAllister’s English was excellent, but he spoke in a slow, deliberate manner, and with a slightly nasal drawl, which sounded very peculiar in the ears of the Sudberrys,—just as peculiar, in fact, as their speech sounded in the ears of McAllister.
“Ah! you call the white cloud on the mountain-top a nightcap?—good, very good,” cried Mr Sudberry, rubbing his hands. “What a charming place this is, a paradisaical place, so to speak. The dogs won’t bite, will they?” said he, patting the alarmed Jacky on the head.
“No fear o’ the dogs, sir,” returned McAllister; “they’re like lambs. It’s just their way. Ye’ll be for a row on the loch the day, no doot.” The Highlander addressed this remark to George and Fred.
“What!” exclaimed the former, “is there a boat that we can have the use of?”
“’Deed is there, a good safe boat too, that can hold the whole of ye. I’ll show you where the oars lie after breakfast.”
“Capital,” cried Mr Sudberry, rubbing his hands.
“Charming,” exclaimed Lucy, with sparkling eyes.
Master Jacky expressed his glee with a characteristic cheer or yell, that at once set fire to the easily inflamed spirits of the dogs, causing them to resume their excited gambols and furious barking. This effectually stopped the conversation for five minutes.
“I delight in boating,” observed Fred, when McAllister had quelled the disturbance.
“So do I,” said his father; “but fishing is the thing for me. There’s nothing like fishing. You have fine trout in the lake, I believe?”
“Ay, an’ salmon too,” answered McAllister.
“So I’ve heard, so I’ve heard,” said Mr Sudberry, with a glow of excitement and pleasure on his round visage. “We must get our rods and tackle unpacked at once, George. You are a great fisher, no doubt, Mr McAllister?”
“Well, not just that, but I do manage to fill a basket now and then, an’ whiles to land a g’ilse.”
“A gilse!” cried George in surprise, “what is that?”
“It is a small salmon—”
“Oh! you mean a grilse,” interposed Mr Sudberry.
“Yes, I mean that, an’ I said that,” returned McAllister, slowly and with emphasis. “Scienteefic men are not agreed whether the g’ilse is a small salmon or not; I’m of opeenion that it is. But whether or not, it’s a famous fish on the table, and lively enough on the line to delight the heart of every true disciple of Isaac Walton.”
“What, you have read that charming book?” exclaimed Mr Sudberry, looking at the rugged Highlander in some surprise.
“Yes,” replied the other, in the grave quiet manner that was peculiar to him; “I took to it one winter as a sort o’ recreation, after readin’ through ‘Paley’s Evidences.’”
“What!” cried Mr Sudberry, “whose Evidences did you say?”
“Paley’s; ye’ve heard o’ him, dootless.”
“Why, yes,” replied Mr Sudberry, “I have heard of him, but I—I must confess that I have not read him.”
At this point, Jacky’s eye fell on a shaggy little cow which had strayed near to the party, and stood regarding him with a stern inquisitive glance. Remembering the fright he had received so recently from a similar creature, he uttered a tremendous roar, and again sought refuge in his father’s knees. The discussion on Paley was thus cut short; for the dogs—whose chief delight was to bark, though not to bite, as has been libellously asserted of all dogs by Dr Watts—sprang to their feet, divided their forces, and, while two of the oldest kept frisking round and leaping upon the party in a promiscuous manner, as if to assure them of protection in the event of danger, the remainder ran open-mouthed and howling at the cow. That curly-headed, long-horned creature received them at first with a defiant look and an elevated tail, but ultimately took to her heels, to the immense delight of Jacky, whose soul was imbued with a deep and altogether unutterable horror of cattle, especially black cows.
The service which the dogs rendered to him on this occasion induced the boy to make advances of a friendly nature, which were met more than halfway, and the result was the establishment of a good understanding between the Sudberrys and the collie dogs, which ultimately ripened into a lasting friendship, insomuch that when the family quitted the place, Lucy carried away with her a lock of Lively’s hair, cut from the pendent tip of her right ear.
Presently Mr Sudberry pulled out his watch, and, exclaiming that it was breakfast-time, trotted down the hill, followed by his family and escorted by the dogs.
We will pause here to describe Mr Sudberry’s family briefly.
George was the merchant’s eldest son. He was bold, stout, active, middle-sized, and seventeen years of age; full of energy and life, a crack rower, a first-rate cricketer, and generally a clever fellow. George was always jolly.
Fred was about the same height as his brother, two years younger, slender in form, and gentle in disposition, but active, too, when occasion required it. His forte was drawing and painting. Fred was generally quiet and grave. Both brothers were musical.
Lucy had reached the interesting age of sixteen. She was plain, decidedly, but sweet-tempered in the extreme. Her mouth was good, and her eyes were good, and her colour was good, but her nose was a snub,—an undeniable and incurable snub. Her mother had tried to amend it from the earliest hours of Lucy’s existence by pulling the point gently downwards and pinching up the bridge,—or, rather, the hollow where the bridge ought to have been,—but all in vain; the infant turned up its eyes when the operation was going on, and still turned up its nose when it was over. Yes, although there were many of the elements of beauty about Lucy, she was plain—but sweet; always bear that in mind. She was funny too. Not that she made fun of her own free will; but she appreciated fun in others so intensely that she looked funny herself; and she giggled.