We sat down to a meal of roasted fowl, very tasty, and a very good drop of spirits to it, and I would be laughing inside of myself because of the boldness of McKinnon to be praising his wife's cooking before his ain mother, and Mirren was greatly pleased too; indeed, many's the time I will be thinking that the road to a quiet la.s.s's heart will be to praise her cooking. When we had made an end of the eating I gave McKinnon the story of the stranger that came whistling at uncanny hours, and asked him where I would be like to find McGilp, for it appeared the man wanted speech with me.

"You are on the right tack," says he, "for I am waiting for his hand on the sneck any time this two hours past," and the dishes were hardly cleared away when the smuggler bent his head to be coming in the door, for in these days there were no locks in the Isle of the Peaks.

There came in with the man a kind of waft of the sea as he threw off his great-coat and clattered his cutla.s.s in a corner--a fine figure of a man, towering up to the rafters, and his voice held in as though it would be more comfortable to hurl an order in the teeth of a gale.

"Ha!" says he, looking from McKinnon to his wife; "she has brought you to port finely." But he was mightily complimentary, and gave many good wishes with his gla.s.s in his great hand.

"And how are you, Mister Hamish?" says he. "Every plank sailing--in fine trim--and that's good hearing these days."

With that McKinnon got his fiddle, and played us many sprightly airs, for he was a very creditable performer, and the smuggler would be asking for this or that one, and nodding his head with great spirit.

"You would have speech with the Pagan," said he, when the night was wearing on. "An' cold eneuch he was when I picked him up at the mouth o' the Rouen river, for I had an express from a compatriot, Mr Hamish, serving overseas"--this with a very grand air.

"Were you wanting speech with me?" said I, for I could see the drink was going to his head.

"It's a wee thing private," says he; "but tak' up your dram. I canna thole a man that loiters wi' drink till the pith is out of it."

At that we drew our chairs close before the fire.

"Many's the time we would be talking about ye, Mr Hamish," says he, "Dan and myself; yon time we left ye in the haar at Loch Ranza--a senseless job, too, by all accounts, and Alastair rowing to the suthard, and us creeping out to the nor'west; he'll be hard to find now, by Gully--ay, Dan will be hard to find.

"I am hoping you are not close-hauled for time," says he, "for it's hard to come at my tale, Mr Hamish; but ye see, Dan McBride had some notion o' what might occur--I am thinking ye will see with me there.

"I am giving you the man's words, ye see, for he had great faith in ye.

"'Ye'll say to Hamish,' says he, and I'm telling you he was a sober man--'ye'll say, I am not wanting the wean to grow up like a cadger's dog, to be running from kicks and whining for a bone.'

"I am no' great hand at this wean business, Mr Hamish, but McBride was a fine man."

At that I made mention of the wean he had taken to the convent in France.

"I'm with you there," says he. "I was paid good money for that job, and I ken what I ken, and mair--what I've found out. Ye'll no' hiv great mind o' Scaurdale's son? No? Aweel, he was a bog-louper, and wild, wild at that, but he fell in wi' some south-country lady--a cousin o' his ain, that stopped for years at Scaurdale--a young thing that was feart to haud the man, but fond o' him too. I canna mind the name o' her. The long and short of it was jeest this--she married on an Englishman, a landed man and weel bred--Stockdale they ca'ed him--but he turned oot ill after a', and the first wean was a la.s.s instead o' a boy. And I'm jalousin' she would be getting her keel-haulings for that, poor lady. Ye ken weel that young Scaurdale broke his neck, and ye ken where.

"'I'll be in h.e.l.l or hame,' says he, 'in forty minutes.' At the Quay Inn it was, and his horse lathered and foaming and wild wi' fear.

Aweel, Mr Hamish, he's no _hame_ yet.

"Things were going from bad to worse with the la.s.s he lost, and her man aye at the bottle, and sometimes she would be finding him lookin' at the wean and cursing, so what does she do but get word to the old Laird o' Scaurdale, who was fond o' her and a just man. I'll wager ye, he did not hang long in irons. The thing was done circ.u.mspectly, mind you--nae high-handedness--but Belle's folk were about Glen Scaur, a droll wandering band, claiming great descent from Eastern folk, and with horses and dogs and spaewife among them; and Belle (as they will be calling her) was the daughter o' the Chief, a very proud man.

"They were a wandering tribe, Mr Hamish, and they wandered into the south country, and I'm thinking ye saw the bonny spaewife coming back her lane, except for a wean, on a morning ye ploughed stubble.

"But here's the droll bit," says he. "Stockdale was kilt an his horse, too, in his ain park, for he scoured the place like a madman after the wean was lost. Weel, weel, that finished the lady, poor body. Ye'll see how things are now, Mr Hamish," says he.

"Yon's an heiress. An' that's a' I'll be saying," says he, for McKinnon came in from his stable, "but the Laird, your uncle, was in the ploy," says he, "or I'm sair mistaken, and the Mistress too."

With that we rose to be going, and had a gla.s.s, and the captain's last words were--"Ye'll mind yon: 'I'm not wanting the wean to grow up like a cadger's dog.'"

As I was walking home that night the thought came into my head of the wisdom of Betty at the big house.

I minded her saying to me on the Sunday that Belle took the wean in the tartan shawl to the Mistress--her very words came back to me--

"The wean has the look o' John o' Scaurdale."

PART II.

CHAPTER XVII.

I TURN SCHOOLMASTER.

There were many things to be doing in these days--peats to be cutting and carted home and built into tidy stacks, just as you can see them to-day, and the sprits and bog hay to be saving, for we were not good at growing hay, and then, when the boys grew up, there was the schooling of them. It was the boys we would aye be calling them, Dan's boy and the Laird's son, and they were fine boys.

Bryde McBride, that was the name of Dan's son, and Hugh, with a wheen other names, was the young Laird, who was schooled in Edinburgh and was not long back to us, and there was a la.s.s Margaret, his sister. They would be with me everywhere on the long summer days, and me with the books by me; but mostly in the summer we would hold school at the Wee Hill, for there was a green place as level as the page of a book, and a little turf d.y.k.e enclosing it nearly, that we called the Wee Hill.

Wae's me, now they have hens scarting about the place, and the greenness is gone from it.

There was the stone of twenty-two snails close by, for that was the number we found on it, a thing I have many times thought about; and great games we had, Bryde with his black hair and swarthy skin and wild blue eyes, with laughter just ready in them, and the speed and grace of a wild cat; and Hugh, ruddy like his folks, and dour too and very loyal; and the la.s.s Margaret, who could turn Bryde with her little finger, and gloried in the doing of it. Ay, they grew up with me, and would be swimming with me in the sea, and every path in the hills we would be riding over, and we were happy together. These were the happiest hours of all, ochone; the sun shone more brightly and the days were longer.

And in his mother's eyes there was none like Bryde. The sun rose and set on him, his every little mannerism was a joy, and I have watched her gazing at him for long without speech, and suddenly rise and press his head against her heart, and her happiness was when he looked up from his task and smiled. I think never was a hand laid on him in anger.

There was something elemental about the lad. He would stand mother naked in the dim morning light below the little fall, and his pony awaiting him, and he kent every horse and dog within twenty miles.

Indeed, there was a time when he would have slept with his horses.

"They might be needing me in the night," said he.

In these days we grew hay in a droll fashion. If there was a field namely for good gra.s.s, we would be getting green divots from it and putting them in our own parks, and scattering good rich earth round the divots. And when the gra.s.s was blown about by the winds, the seeds would fall and strike on the loose scattered earth, so that these divots were the leaven that leavened the whole field. But when he was sixteen and man grown, a fair scholar and expert with the sword, Bryde would be laughing at the notion. And he was strong and tough like the mountain ash.

"Hill land," said he, "will only be growing hill gra.s.s," and he set his folk and he went himself and took the seeds from the hill gra.s.ses.

Guid kens how long it took him, but he sowed his hill gra.s.ses with his corn, and the seeds came, as we say, and he cut it and threshed it with the flails; and after that he had hay-stacks in his yard, and his beasts were well done by, so that at the fair he got great prices both for stots and back-calvers. And, indeed, it was at the fair that first I saw the mettle in the boy, although his eyes had always dancing devils in them. There was much drink in these days, and the mainland dealers had not the head for it that the boys from the glens had. The young boys would be holding saddle beasts from the early morning and making the easy money. Aweel, on this fair day, Margaret the maid, the sister of Hugh, had craked and craked to be seeing the beasts and the ferlies, and her mother, the Lady, and her father, the Laird, were sore against it.

"I will be with Bryde, my cousin," said she; "and who will meddle me."

(I was clean forgotten.)

"He is not a real cousin, Margaret," said the mother.

"He is a fine lad; you will go, my la.s.s," said the Laird, for blood was more to him than a stroke left-handed across a shield, and that day she rode with Hugh and me--Margaret, the Flower of Nourn. Tall she was and limber like a lance, her eyes like blue forget-me-nots that grow by the burn mhor, fearless and daring, with long black lashes. Her brown hair curled at her white neck, and her white chin was strong like a man's, but very soft and beautiful; her lips red, and her teeth like pearls.

She was silent for the most part on the road that day, though whiles she would be quizzing her brother about the la.s.sies in the college town, for he had two years of the College at St Andrews. He was the great hand with the la.s.sies by all accounts, Hugh, and many's the time his mother would be havering about them, but that man, my uncle, would wink as though he would be amused.

But when we pa.s.sed McKelvie's Inn and saw old McKelvie there, stout and hearty, but very white about the head, and had a salutation from Ronald McKinnon thrang with the dealers, and Mirren not far off still sonsy--when we pa.s.sed there I saw that Margaret was all trembling; and when we saw Bryde, tall and swarthy, coming to us, I saw the smiling in her eyes and her face aglow.

"What was that, my dear la.s.s?" said I, looking at her.

"That would be my heart leaping," said she, with a laugh and a blush.

And Bryde lifted her from her little horse, and her hands were never tired to be touching him. She was all tremulous with laughter and eager-eyed, and the red was flaming in her cheeks, and she would be ordering Bryde like a queen, but pleadingly withal.

"You will stable my little horse," said she, and when Bryde, smiling down at her, took the bridle, "But--but I will be coming with you," she cried, "or surely you will be forgetting to halter him, or letting him run off and leave me," and as those two with the proud little horse moved to the inn, I saw her look up at the boy with all her heart in her eyes and her lips smiling a little pitifully.