WHITE HEATHER (VOL. II) (continued 4)

'Man, I could have driven ye out every morning in the dog-cart! and welcome. I'm no for having young folk waste the best years of their life, and find out how little use the rest o't's to them—no that I consider mysel' one o' the auld folk yet——'

'You, Katie dear!' whined old mother Paterson from her millinery corner. 'You—just in the prime o' youth, one micht say! you one o' the auld folk?—ay, in thirty years' time maybe!'

'Take my advice, Ronald, my lad,' said the widow boldly. 'Dinna slave away for naething—because folk have put fancy notions into your head. Have a better opinion o' yoursel'! Take your chance o' life when ye can get it—books and books, what's the use o' books?'

'Too late now—I've made my bed and maun lie on it,' he said gloomily; but then he seemed to try to shake off this depression. 'Well, well, lass, Rome was not built in a day. And if I were to throw aside my books, what then? How would that serve? Think ye that that would make it any the easier for me to get a three-weeks' shooting wi' Jimmy Laidlaw?'

'And indeed ye might have had that in any case, and welcome,' said Kate Menzies, with a toss of her head. 'Who is Jimmy Laidlaw, I wonder! But it's no use arguin' wi' ye, Ronald, lad; he that will to Cupar maun to Cupar;' only I dinna like to see ye looking just ill.'

'Enough said, lass; I didna come here to torment ye with my wretched affairs,' he answered; and at this moment the maidservant entered to lay the cloth for supper, while Mrs. Menzies withdrew to make herself gorgeous for the occasion.

He was left with old mother Paterson.

'There's none so blind as them that winna see,' she began, in her whining voice.

'What is't?'

'Ay, ay,' she continued, in a sort of maundering soliloquy, 'a braw woman like that—and free-handed as the day—she could have plenty offers if she liked; But there's none so blind as them that winna see. There's Mr. Laidlaw there, a good-looking man, and wan wi' a good penny at the bank; and wouldna he just jump at the chance, if she had a nod or a wink for him? But Katie was aye like that—headstrong; she would aye have her ain way—and there she is, a single woman, a braw, handsome, young woman—and weel provided for—weel provided for—only it's no every one that takes her fancy. A prize like that, to be had for the asking! Dear me—but there's nane so blind as them that winna see.'

It was not by any means the first time that mother Paterson had managed to drop a few dark hints—and much to his embarrassment, moreover, for he could not pretend to ignore their purport. Nay, there was something more than that. Kate Menzies's rough-and-ready friendliness for her cousin had of late become more and more pronounced—almost obtrusive, indeed. She wanted to have the mastery of his actions altogether. She would have him pitch his books aside and come for a drive with her whether he was in the humour or no. She offered him the occupancy of a room which, if it was not actually within the tavern, communicated with it. She seemed unable to understand why he should object to her paying £15 to obtain for him a share in a small bit of conjoint shooting out at the Mearns. And so forth in many ways. Well, these things, taken by themselves, he might have attributed to a somewhat tempestuous good-nature; but here was this old woman, whenever a chance occurred, whining about the folly of people who did not see that Katie dear was so handsome and generous and so marvellous a matrimonial prize. Nor could he very well tell her to mind her own business, for that would be admitting that he understood her hints.

However, on this occasion he had not to listen long; for presently Mrs. Menzies returned, smiling, good-natured, radiant in further finery; and then they all had supper together; and she did her best to console her cousin for being cooped up in the great city on the eve of the Twelfth. And Ronald was very grateful to her; and perhaps, in his eager desire to keep up this flow of high spirits, and to forget what was happening at Inver-Mudal and about to happen, he may have drunk a little too much; at all events, when Laidlaw and Jaap and the skipper came in they found him in a very merry mood, and Kate Menzies equally hilarious and happy. Songs?—he was going to no Harmony Club that night, he declared—he would sing them as many songs as ever they liked—but he was not going to forsake his cousin. Nor were the others the least unwilling to remain where they were; for here they were in privacy, and the singing was better, and the liquor unexceptionable. The blue smoke rose quietly in the air; the fumes of Long John warmed blood and brain; and then from time to time they heard of the brave, or beautiful, or heart-broken maidens of Scotch song—Maggie Lauder, or Nelly Munro, or Barbara Allan, as the chance might be—and music and good fellowship and whisky all combined to throw a romantic halo round these simple heroines.

'But sing us one o' your own, Ronald, my lad—there's none better, and that's what I say!' cried the widow; and as she happened to be passing his chair at the time—going to the sideboard for some more lemons, she slapped him on the shoulder by way of encouragement.

'One o' my own?' said he. 'But which—which—lass? Oh, well, here's one.'

He lay back in his chair, and quite at haphazard and carelessly and jovially began to sing—in that clearly penetrating voice that neither tobacco smoke nor whisky seemed to affect—

Roses white, roses red,

Roses in the lane,

Tell me, roses red and white,

Where is——

And then suddenly something seemed to grip his heart. But the stumble was only for the fiftieth part of a second. He continued:

Where is Jeannie gane?

And so he finished the careless little verses. Nevertheless, Kate Menzies, returning to her seat, had noticed that quick, instinctive pulling of himself up.

'And who's Jeannie when she's at home?' she asked saucily.

'Jeannie?' he said, with apparent indifference. 'Jeannie? There's plenty o' that name about.'

'Ay; and how many o' them are at Inver-Mudal?' she asked, regarding him shrewdly, and with an air which he resented.

But the little incident passed. There was more singing, drinking, smoking, talking of nonsense and laughing. And at last the time came for the merry companions to separate; and he went away home through the dark streets alone. He had drunk too much, it must be admitted; but he had a hard head; and he had kept his wits about him; and even now as he ascended the stone stairs to his lodgings he remembered with a kind of shiver, and also with not a little heartfelt satisfaction, how he had just managed to save himself from bringing Meenie's name before that crew.

CHAPTER XIV.

ENTANGLEMENTS.

And then came along the great evening on which the first of Ronald's songs that Mr. Jaap had set to music was to be sung at the Harmony Club. Ronald had unluckily got into the way of going a good deal to that club. It was a relief from weary days and vain regrets; it was a way of escape from the too profuse favours that Kate Menzies wished to shower upon him. Moreover, he had become very popular there. His laugh was hearty; his jokes and sarcasms were always good-natured; he could drink with the best without getting quarrelsome. His acquaintanceship rapidly extended; his society was eagerly bid for, in the rough-and-ready fashion that prevails towards midnight; and long after the club was closed certain of these boon-companions would 'keep it up' in this or the other bachelor's lodgings, while through the open window there rang out into the empty street the oft-repeated chorus—

'We are na fou', we're nae that fou',

But just a drappie in our e'e;

The cock may craw, the day may daw,

And aye we'll taste the barky bree!'

The night-time seemed to go by so easily; the daytime was so slow. He still did his best, it is true, to get on with this work that had so completely lost all its fascination for him; and he tried hard to banish dreams. For one thing, he had gathered together all the fragments of verse he had written about Meenie, and had added thereto the little sketch of Inver-Mudal she had given him; and that parcel he had resolutely locked away, so that he should no longer be tempted to waste the hours in idle musings, and in useless catechising of himself as to how he came to be in Glasgow at all. He had forborne to ask from Maggie the answer that Meenie had sent to her letter. In truth, there were many such; for there was almost a constant correspondence between these two; and as the chief subject of Maggie's writings was always and ever Ronald, there were no doubt references to him in the replies that came from Inver-Mudal. But he only heard vaguely of these; he did not call often at his brother's house; and he grew to imagine that the next definite news he would hear about Meenie would be to the effect that she had been sent to live with the Stuarts of Glengask, with a view to her possible marriage with some person in their rank of life.

There was a goodly to-do at the Harmony Club on the evening of the production of the new song; for Ronald, as has been said, was much of a favourite; and his friends declared that if Jaap's music was at all up to the mark, then the new piece would be placed on the standard and permanent list. Mr. Jaap's little circle, on the other hand, who had heard the air, were convinced that the refrain would be caught at once; and as the success of the song seemed thus secure, Mrs. Menzies had resolved to celebrate the occasion by a supper after the performance, and Jimmy Laidlaw had presented her, for that purpose, with some game which he declared was of his own shooting.

'What's the use o' making such a fuss about nothing?' Ronald grumbled.

'What?' retorted the big skipper facetiously. 'Naething? Is bringing out a new poet naething?'

Now this drinking song, as it turned out, was a very curious kind of drinking song. Observe that it was written by a young fellow of eight-and-twenty; of splendid physique, and of as yet untouched nerve, who could not possibly have had wide experience of the vanities and disappointments of human life. What iron had entered into his soul, then, that a gay and joyous drinking song should have been written in this fashion?—

Good friends and neighbours, life is short,

And man, they say, is made to mourn;

Dame Fortune makes us all her sport,

And laughs our very best to scorn:

Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,

A merry glass before we go.

The blue-eyed lass will change her mind,

And give her kisses otherwhere;

And she'll be cruel that was kind,

And pass you by with but a stare:

Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,

A merry glass before we go.

The silly laddie sits and fills

Wi' dreams and schemes the first o' life;

And then comes heap on heap o' ills,

And squalling bairns and scolding wife:

Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,

A merry glass before we go.

Come stir the fire and make us warm;

The night without is dark and wet;

An hour or twa 'twill do nae harm

The dints o' fortune to forget:

So now will have, come weal or woe,

Another glass before we go.

To bonny lasses, honest blades,

We'll up and give a hearty cheer;

Contention is the worst of trades—

We drink their health, both far and near:

And so we'll have, come weal or woe,

Another glass before we go.

And here's ourselves!—no much to boast;

For man's a wean that lives and learns;

And some win hame, and some are lost;

But still—we're all John Thomson's bairns!

So here, your hand!—come weal or woe,

Another glass before we go!

'And some win hame, and some are lost'—this was a curious note to strike in a bacchanalian song; but of course in that atmosphere of tobacco and whisky and loud-voiced merriment such minor touches were altogether unnoticed.

'Gentlemen,' called out the rubicund chairman, rapping on the table, 'silence, if you please. Mr. Aikman is about to favour us with a new song written by our recently-elected member, Mr. Ronald Strang, the music by our old friend Mr. Jaap. Silence—silence, if you please.'

Mr. Aikman, who was a melancholy-looking youth, with a white face, straw-coloured hair, and almost colourless eyes, stepped on to the platform, and after the accompanist had played a few bars of prelude, began the song. Feeble as the young man looked, he had, notwithstanding, a powerful baritone voice; and the air was simple, with a well-marked swing in it; so that the refrain—at first rather uncertain and experimental—became after the first verse more and more general, until it may be said that the whole room formed the chorus. And from the very beginning it was clear that the new song was going to be a great success. Any undercurrent of reflection—or even of sadness—there might be in it was not perceived at all by this roaring assemblage; the refrain was the practical and actual thing; and when once they had fairly grasped the air, they sang the chorus with a will. Nay, amid the loud burst of applause that followed the last verse came numerous cries for an encore; and these increased until the whole room was clamorous; and then the pale-faced youth had to step back on to the platform and get through all of the verses again.

'So here, your hand!—come weal or woe,

Another glass before we go!'

roared the big skipper and Jimmy Laidlaw with the best of them; and then in the renewed thunder of cheering that followed—

'Man, I wish Kate Menzies was here,' said the one; and—

'Your health, Ronald, lad; ye've done the trick this time,' said the other.

'Gentlemen,' said the chairman, again calling them to silence, 'I propose that the thanks of the club be given to these two members whom I have named, and who have kindly allowed us to place this capital song on our permanent list.'

'I second that, Mr. Chairman,' said a little, round, fat man, with a beaming countenance and a bald head; 'and I propose that we sing that song every night just afore we leave.'

But this last suggestion was drowned amidst laughter and cries of dissent. 'What?—instead of "Auld Lang Syne"?' 'Ye're daft, John Campbell.' 'Would ye hae the ghost o' Robbie Burns turning up?' Indeed, the chairman had to interpose and suavely say that while the song they had just heard would bring any such pleasant evenings as they spent together to an appropriate close, still, they would not disturb established precedent; there would be many occasions, he hoped, for them to hear this production of two of their most talented members.

In the interval of noise and talk and laughter that followed, it seemed to Ronald that half the people in the hall wanted him to drink with them. Fame came to him in the shape of unlimited proffers of glasses of whisky; and he experienced so much of the delight of having become a public character as consisted in absolute strangers assuming the right to make his acquaintance off-hand. Of course they were all members of the same club; and in no case was very strict etiquette observed within these four walls; nevertheless Ronald found that he had immediately and indefinitely enlarged the circle of his acquaintance; and that this meant drink.

'Another glass?' he said, to one of those strangers who had thus casually strolled up to the table where he sate. 'My good friend, there was nothing said in that wretched song about a caskful. I've had too many other ones already.'

However, relief came; the chairman hammered on the table; the business of the evening was resumed; and the skipper, Jaap, Laidlaw, and Ronald were left to themselves.

Now there is no doubt that this little circle of friends was highly elated over the success of the new song; and Ronald had been pleased enough to hear the words he had written so quickly caught up and echoed by that, to him, big assemblage. Probably, too, they had all of them, in the enthusiasm of the moment, been somewhat liberal in their cups; at all events, a little later on in the evening, when Jimmy Laidlaw stormily demanded that Ronald should sing a song from the platform—to show them what East Lothian could do, as Kate Menzies had said—Ronald did not at once, as usual, shrink from the thought of facing so large an audience. It was the question of the accompaniment, he said. He had had no practice in singing to a piano. He would put the man out. Why should he not sing here—if sing he must—at the table where they were sitting? That was what he was used to; he had no skill in keeping correct time; he would only bother the accompanist, and bewilder himself.

'No, I'll tell ye what it is, Ronald, my lad,' his friend Jaap said to him. 'I'll play the accompaniment for ye, if ye pick out something I'm familiar wi'; and don't you heed me; you look after yourself. Even if ye change the key—and that's not likely—I'll look after ye. Is't a bargain?'

Well, he was not afraid—on this occasion. It was announced from the chair that Mr. Ronald Strang, to whom they were already indebted, would favour the company with 'The MacGregors' Gathering,' accompanied by Mr. Jaap; and in the rattle of applause that followed this announcement, Ronald made his way across the floor and went up the couple of steps leading to the platform. Why he had consented he hardly knew, nor did he stay to ask. It was enough that he had to face this long hall, and its groups of faces seen through the pale haze of the tobacco smoke; and then the first notes of the piano startled him into the necessity of getting into the same key. He began—a little bewildered, perhaps, and hearing his own voice too consciously—

'The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,

And the clan has a name that is nameless by day.'

'Louder, man, louder!' the accompanist muttered, under his breath.

Whether it was this admonition, or whether it was that he gained confidence from feeling himself in harmony with the firm-struck notes of the accompaniment, his voice rose in clearness and courage, and he got through the first verse with very fair success. Nay, when he came to the second, and the music went into a pathetic minor, the sensitiveness of his ear still carried him through bravely—

'Glenorchy's proud mountains, Colchurn and her towers,

Glenstrae and Glen Lyon no longer are ours—

We're landless, landless, landless, Gregalach.'

All this was very well done; for he began to forget his audience a little, and to put into his singing something of the expression that had come naturally enough to him when he was away on the Clebrig slopes or wandering along Strath-Terry. As for the audience—when he had finished and stepped back to his seat—they seemed quite electrified. Not often had such a clear-ringing voice penetrated that murky atmosphere. But nothing would induce Ronald to repeat the performance.

'What made me do it?' he kept asking himself. 'What made me do it? Bless me, surely I'm no fou'?'

'Ye've got a most extraordinarily fine voice, Mr. Strang,' the chairman said, in his most complaisant manner, 'I hope it's not the last time ye'll favour us.'

Ronald did not answer this. He seemed at once moody and restless. Presently he said—

'Come away, lads, come away. In God's name let's get a breath o' fresh air—the smoke o' this place is like the bottomless pit.'

'Then let's gang down and have a chat wi' Kate Menzies,' said Jimmy Laidlaw at once.

'Ye're after that supper, Jimmy!' the big skipper said facetiously.

'What for no? Would ye disappoint the woman; and her sae anxious to hear what happened to Strang's poetry? Come on, Ronald—she'll be as proud as Punch. And we'll tell her about "The MacGregors' Gathering"'—she said East Lothian would show them something.'

'Very well, then—very well; anything to get out o' here,' Ronald said; and away they all went down to the tavern.

The widow received them most graciously; and very sumptuous indeed was the entertainment she had provided for them. She knew that the drinking song would be successful—if the folk had common sense and ears. And he had sung 'The MacGregors' Gathering' too?—well, had they ever heard singing like that before?

'But they have been worrying you?' she said, glancing shrewdly at him. 'Or, what's the matter—ye look down in the mouth—indeed, Ronald, ye've never looked yoursel' since the night ye came in here just before the grouse-shooting began. Here, man, drink a glass o' champagne; that'll rouse ye up.'

Old mother Paterson was at this moment opening a bottle.

'Not one other drop of anything, Katie, lass, will I drink this night,' Ronald said.

'What? A lively supper we're likely to have, then!' the widow cried. 'Where's your spunk, man? I think ye're broken-hearted about some lassie—that's what it is! Here, now.'

She brought him the foaming glass of champagne; but he would not look at it.

'And if I drink to your health out o' the same glass?'

She touched the glass with her lips.'

'There, now, if you're a man, ye'll no refuse noo.'

Nor could he. And then the supper came along; and there was eating and talking and laughing and further drinking, until a kind of galvanised hilarity sprang up once more amongst them. And she would have Ronald declare to them which of the lasses in Sutherlandshire it was who had broken his heart for him; and, in order to get her away from that subject, he was very amenable in her hands, and would do anything she bade him, singing first one song and then another, and not refusing the drinking of successive toasts. As for the others, they very prudently declined having anything to do with champagne. But Ronald was her pet, her favourite; and she had got a special box of cigars for him—all wrapped up in silverfoil and labelled; and she would have them tell her over and over again how Ronald's voice sounded in the long hall when he sang—

'Glenstrae and Glen Lyon no longer are ours?

and she would have them tell her again of the thunders of cheering that followed—

'Well, well; we'll have, if that be so,

Another glass before we go.'

Nay, she would have them try a verse or two of it there and then—led by Mr. Jaap; and she herself joined in the chorus; and they clinked their glasses together, and were proud of their vocalisation and their good comradeship. Indeed, they prolonged this jovial evening as late as the law allowed them; and then the widow said gaily—

'There's that poor man thinks I'm gaun to allow him to gang away to that wretched hole o' a lodging o' his, where he's just eating his heart out wi' solitariness and a wheen useless books. But I'm not. I ken better than that, Ronald, my lad. Whilst ye've a' been singing and roaring, I've had a room got ready for ye; and there ye'll sleep this night, my man—for I'm not going to hae ye march away through the lonely streets, and maybe cut your throat ere daybreak; and ye can lock yourself in, if ye're feared that any warlock or bogle is likely to come and snatch ye; and in the morning ye'll come down and have your breakfast wi' auntie Paterson and me—and then—what then? What do ye think? When the dog-cart's at the door, and me gaun to drive ye oot to Campsie Glen? There, laddie, that's the programme; and wet or dry is my motto. If it's wet we'll sing "Come under my plaidie"; and we'll take a drop o' something comfortable wi' us to keep out the rain.'

'I wish I was gaun wi' ye, Mistress,' the big skipper said.

'Two's company and three's none,' said Kate Menzies, with a frank laugh. 'Is't a bargain, Ronald?'

'It's a bargain, lass; and there's my hand on't,' he said. 'Now, where's this room—for I don't know whether it has been the smoke, or the singing, or the whisky, or all o' them together, but my head's like a ship sailing before the wind, without any helm to steer her.'

'Your head!' she said proudly. 'Your head's like iron, man; there's nothing the matter wi' ye. And here's Alec—he'll show you where your room is; and in the morning ring for whatever ye want; mind ye, a glass o' champagne and angostura bitters is just first-rate; and we'll have breakfast at whatever hour ye please—and then we'll be off to Campsie Glen.'

The little party now broke up, each going his several way; and Ronald, having bade them all good-night, followed the ostler-lad Alec along one or two gloomy corridors until he found the room that had been prepared for him. As he got to bed he was rather sick and sorry about the whole night's proceedings, he scarcely knew why; and his thinking faculty was in a nebulous condition; and he only vaguely knew that he would rather not have pledged himself to go to Campsie Glen on the following morning. No matter—'another glass before we go,' that was the last of the song they had all shouted: he had forgotten that other line—'and some win hame, and some are lost.'

CHAPTER XV.

CAMPSIE GLEN.

The next morning, between nine and ten o'clock, there was a rapping at his door, and then a further rapping, and then he awoke—confused, uncertain as to his whereabouts, and with his head going like a threshing machine. Again there came the loud rapping.

'Come in, then,' he called aloud.

The door was opened, and there was the young widow, smiling and jocund as the morn, and very smartly attired; and alongside of her was a servant-lass bearing a small tray, on which were a tumbler, a pint bottle of champagne, and some angostura bitters.

'Bless me, woman,' he said, 'I was wondering where I was. And what's this now?—do ye want to make a drunkard o' me?'

'Not I,' said Kate Menzies blithely, 'I want to make a man o' ye. Ye'll just take a glass o' this, Ronald, my lad; and then ye'll get up and come down to breakfast; for we're going to have a splendid drive. The weather's as bright and clear as a new shilling; and I've been up since seven o'clock, and I'm free for the day now. Here ye are, lad; this'll put some life into ye.'

She shook a few drops of bitters into the tumbler, and then poured out a foaming measure of the amber-coloured wine, and offered it to him. He refused to take it.

'I canna look at it, lass. There was too much o' that going last night.'

'And the very reason you should take a glass now!' she said. 'Well, I'll leave it on the mantelpiece, and ye can take it when ye get up. Make haste, Ronald, lad; it's a pity to lose so fine a morning.'

When they had left, he dressed as rapidly as possible, and went down. Breakfast was awaiting him—though it did not tempt him much. And then, by and by, the smart dog-cart was at the door; and a hamper was put in; and Kate Menzies got up and took the reins. There was no sick-and-sorriness about her at all events. She was radiant and laughing and saucy; she wore a driving-coat fastened at the neck by a horse-shoe brooch of brilliants, and a white straw hat with a wide-sweeping jet-black ostrich feather. It was clear that the tavern was a paying concern.

'And why will ye aye sit behind, Mr. Strang?' old mother Paterson whined, as she made herself comfortable in front. 'I am sure Katie would rather have ye here than an auld wife like me. Ye could talk to her ever so much better.'

'That would be a way to go driving through Glasgow town,' he said, as he swung himself up on the back seat; 'a man in front and a woman behind! Never you fear; there can be plenty of talking done as it is.'

But as they drove away through the city—and even Glasgow looked quite bright and cheerful on this sunny morning, and there was a stirring of cool air that was grateful enough to his throbbing temples—it appeared that the buxom widow wanted to have most of the talking to herself. She was very merry; and laughed at his penitential scorn of himself; and was for spurring him on to further poetical efforts.

'East Lothian for ever!' she was saying, as they got away out by the north of the town. 'Didna I tell them? Ay, and ye've got to do something better yet, Ronald, my lad, than the "other glass before we go." You're no at that time o' life yet to talk as if everything had gone wrong; and the blue-eyed lass—what blue-eyed lass was it, I wonder, that passed ye by with but a stare? Let her, and welcome, the hussy; there's plenty others. But no, my lad, what I want ye to write is a song about Scotland, and the East Lothian part o't especially. Ye've no lived long enough in the Hielans to forget your ain country, have ye? and where's there a song about Scotland nowadays? "Caledonia's hills and dales"?—stuff!—I wonder Jaap would hae bothered his head about rubbish like that. No, no; we'll show them whether East Lothian canna do the trick!—and it's no the Harmony Club but the City Hall o' Glasgow that ye'll hear that song sung in—that's better like! Ye mind what Robbie says, Ronald, my lad?—

'E'en then a wish, I mind its power—

A wish that to my latest hour

Shall strongly heave my breast—

That I for poor auld Scotland's sake,

Some usefu' plan or book could make,

Or sing a sang at least.'

That's what ye've got to do yet, my man.'

And so they bowled along the wide whinstone road, out into this open landscape that seemed to lie behind a thin veil of pale-blue smoke. It was the country, no doubt; but a kind of sophisticated country; there were occasional grimy villages and railway-embankments and canals and what not; and the pathway that ran alongside the wide highway was of black ashes—not much like a Sutherlandshire road. However, as they got still farther away from the town matters improved. There were hedges and woods—getting a touch of the golden autumn on their foliage now; the landscape grew brighter; those hills far ahead of them rose into a fairly clear blue sky. And then the brisk motion and the fresher air seemed to drive away from him the dismal recollections of the previous night; he ceased to upbraid himself for having been induced to sing before all those people; he would atone for the recklessness of his potations by taking greater care in the future. So that when in due course of time they reached the inn at the foot of Campsie Glen, and had the horse and trap put up, and set out to explore the beauties of that not too savage solitude, he was in a sufficiently cheerful frame of mind, and Kate Menzies had no reason to complain of her companion.

They had brought a luncheon basket with them; and as he had refused the proffered aid of a stable-lad, he had to carry this himself, and Kate Menzies was a liberal provider. Accordingly, as they began to make their way up the steep and slippery ascent—for rain had recently fallen, and the narrow path was sloppy enough—he had to leave the two women to look after themselves; and a fine haphazard scramble and hauling and pushing—with screams of fright and bursts of laughter—ensued. This was hardly the proper mood in which to seek out Nature in her sylvan retreats; but the truth is that the glen itself did not wear a very romantic aspect. No doubt there were massive boulders in the bed of the stream; and they had to clamber past precipitous rocks; and overhead was a wilderness of foliage. But everything was dull-hued somehow, and damp-looking, and dismal; the green-mossed boulders, the stems of the trees, the dark red earth were all of a sombre hue; while here and there the eye caught sight of a bit of newspaper, or of an empty soda-water bottle, or perchance of the non-idyllic figure of a Glasgow youth seated astride a fallen bough, a pot-hat on his head and a Manilla cheroot in his mouth. But still, it was more of the country than the Broomielaw; and when Kate and her companion had to pause in their panting struggle up the slippery path, and after she had recovered her breath sufficiently to demand a halt, she would turn to pick ferns from the dripping rocks, or to ask Ronald if there were any more picturesque place than this in Sutherlandshire. Now Ronald was not in the least afflicted by the common curse of travellers—the desire for comparison; he was well content to say that it was a 'pretty bit glen'; for one thing his attention was chiefly devoted to keeping his footing, for the heavy basket was a sore encumbrance.

However, after some further climbing, they reached certain drier altitudes; and there the hamper was deposited, while they looked out for such trunks or big stones as would make convenient seats. The old woman was speechless from exhaustion; Kate was laughing at her own breathlessness, or miscalling the place for having dirtied her boots and her skirts; while Ronald was bringing things together for their comfort, so that they could have their luncheon in peace. This was not quite the same kind of a luncheon party as that he had attended on the shores of the far northern loch—with Miss Carry complacently regarding the silver-clear salmon lying on the smooth, dry greensward; and the American talking in his friendly fashion of the splendid future that lay before a capable and energetic young fellow in the great country beyond the seas; while all around them the sweet air was blowing, and the clear light shining, and the white clouds sailing high over the Clebrig slopes. Things were changed with him since then—he did not himself know how much they had changed. But in all circumstances he was abundantly good-natured and grateful for any kindness shown him; and as Kate Menzies had projected this trip mainly on his account, he did his best to promote good-fellowship, and was serviceable and handy, and took her raillery in excellent part.

'Katie dear,' whimpered old mother Paterson, as Ronald took out the things from the hamper, 'ye jist spoil every one that comes near ye. Such extravagance—such waste—many's the time I wish ye would get married, and have a man to look after ye——'

'Stop your havering—who would marry an auld woman like me?' said Mrs. Menzies with a laugh. 'Ay, and what's the extravagance, noo, that has driven ye oot o' your mind?'

'Champagne again!' the old woman said, shaking her head. 'Champagne again! Dear me, it's like a Duke's house——'

'What, ye daft auld craytur? Would ye have me take my cousin Ronald for his first trip to Campsie Glen, and bring out a gill o' whisky in a soda-water bottle?'

'Indeed, Katie, lass, ye needna have brought one thing or the other for me,' he said. 'It's a drop o' water, and nothing else, that will serve my turn.'

'We'll see about that,' she said confidently.

Her provisioning was certainly of a sumptuous nature—far more sumptuous, indeed, than the luncheons the rich Americans used to have carried down for them to the lochside, and a perfect banquet as compared with the frugal bit of cold beef and bread that Lord Ailine and his friends allowed themselves on the hill. Then, as regards the champagne, she would take no refusal—he had to submit. She was in the gayest of moods; she laughed and joked; nay, at one point, she raised her glass aloft, and waved it round her head, and sang—

'O send Lewie Gordon hame,

And the lad I daurna name;

Though his back be at the wa',

Here's to him that's far awa'!'

'What, what, lass?' Ronald cried grimly. 'Are ye thinking ye're in a Highland glen? Do ye think it was frae places like this that the lads were called out to follow Prince Charlie?'

'I carena—I carena!' she said; for what had trivial details of history to do with a jovial picnic in Campsie Glen? 'Come, Ronald, lad, tune up! Hang the Harmony Club!—give us a song in the open air!'

'Here goes, then—

'It was about the Martinmas time,

And a gay time it was then, O,

That our guidwife had puddins to mak',

And she boiled them in the fan, O'—

and then rang out the chorus, even the old mother Paterson joining in with a feeble treble—

'O the barrin' o' our door, weel, weel, weel,

And the barrin' o' our door, weel!'

'Your health and song, Ronald!' she cried, when he had finished—or rather when they all had finished. 'Man, if there was just a laddie here wi' a fiddle or a penny whistle I'd get up and dance a Highland Schottische wi' ye—auld as I am!'

After luncheon, they set out for further explorations (having deposited the basket in a secret place) and always Kate Menzies's laugh was the loudest, her jokes the merriest.

'Auld, say ye?' mother Paterson complained. 'A lassie—a very lassie! Ye can skip about like a twa-year-auld colt.'

By and by they made their devious and difficult way down the glen again; and they had tea at the inn; and then they set out to drive back to Glasgow—and there was much singing the while. That is, up to a certain point; for this easy homeward drive, as it turned out, was destined to be suddenly and sharply stopped short, and that in a way that might have produced serious consequences. They were bowling merrily along, taking very little heed of anything on either side of them, when, as it chanced, a small boy who had gone into a field to recover a kite that had dropped there, came up unobserved behind the hedge, and threw the kite over, preparatory to his struggling through himself. The sudden appearance of this white thing startled the cob; it swerved to the other side of the road, hesitated, and was like to rear, and then getting an incautious cut from Kate's whip, away it tore along the highway, getting completely the mastery of her. Ronald got up behind.

'Give me the reins, lass,' he called to her.

'I'll manage him—the stupid beast!' she said; with her teeth shut firm.

But all her pulling seemed to make no impression on the animal—nay, the trap was now swaying and jolting about in a most ominous manner.

'If ye meet anything, we're done for, Kate—run the wheel into the hedge.'

It was excellent advice, if it could have been properly followed; but unluckily, just at the very moment when, with all her might and main, she twisted the head of the cob to the side of the road, there happened to be a deep ditch there. Over the whole thing went—Ronald and Mrs. Menzies being pitched clean into the hedge; mother Paterson, not hanging on so well, being actually deposited on the other side, but in a gradual fashion. Oddly enough, the cob, with one or two pawings of his forefeet, got on to the road again, and the trap righted itself; while a farm-lad who had been coming along ran to the beast's head and held him. As it turned out, there was no harm done at all.

But that, at first, was apparently not Kate Menzies's impression.

'Ronald, Ronald,' she cried, and she clung to him frantically, 'I'm dying—I'm dying—kiss me!'

He had got a grip of her, and was getting her on to her feet again.

'There's nothing the matter wi' ye, woman,' he said, with unnecessary roughness.

'Ronald, Ronald—I'm hurt—I'm dying—kiss me!' she cried, and she would have fallen away from him, but that he gathered her up, and set her upright on the road.

'There's nothing the matter wi' ye—what? tumbling into a hawthorn hedge?—pull yourself together, woman! It's old mother Paterson that may have been hurt.'

He left her unceremoniously to get over to the other side of the hedge, and as he went off she darted a look of anger—of violent rage, even—towards him, which happily he did not see. Moreover, she had to calm herself; the farm lad was looking on. And when at length mother Paterson—who was merely terrified, and was quite uninjured—was hoisted over or through the hedge, and they all prepared to resume their seats in the trap, Kate Menzies was apparently quite collected and mistress of herself, though her face was somewhat pale, and her manner was distinctly reserved and cold. She gave the lad a couple of shillings; got up and took the reins; waited until the others were seated, and then drove away without a word. Mother Paterson was loud in her thankfulness over such a providential escape; she had only had her wrists scratched slightly.

Ronald was sensible of her silence, though he could not well guess the cause of it. Perhaps the fright had sobered down her high spirits; at all events, she was now more circumspect with her driving; and, as her attention was so much devoted to the cob, it was not for him to interfere. As they drew near Glasgow, however, she relaxed the cold severity of her manner, and made a few observations; and when they came in sight of St. Rollox, she even condescended to ask him whether he would not go on with them to the tavern and have some supper with them as usual.

'I ought to go back to my work,' said he, 'and that's the truth. But it would be a glum ending for such an unusual holiday as this.'

'Your prospects are not so very certain,' said Kate, who could talk excellent English when she chose, and kept her broad Scotch for familiar or affectionate intercourse. 'An hour or two one way or the other is not likely to make much difference.'

'I am beginning to think that myself,' he said, rather gloomily.

And then, with a touch of remorse for the depressing speech she had made, she tried to cheer him a little; and, in fact, insisted on his going on with them. She even quoted a couplet from his own song to him—

'An hour or twa 'twill do nae harm,

The dints a' fortune to forget';

and she said that, after the long drive, he ought to have a famous appetite for supper, and that there would be a good story to tell about their being shot into a hawthorn hedge, supposing that the skipper and Laidlaw and Jaap came in in the evening.

Nevertheless, all during the evening there was a certain restraint in her manner. Altogether gone was her profuse friendship and her pride in East Lothian, although she remained as hospitable as ever. Sometimes she regarded him sharply, as if trying to make out something. On his part, he thought she was probably a little tired after the fatigues of the day; perhaps, also, he preferred her quieter manner.

Then again, when the 'drei Gesellen' came in, there was a little less hilarity than usual; and, contrary to her wont, she did not press them to stay when they proposed to adjourn to the club. Ronald, who had been vaguely resolving not to go near that haunt for some time to come, found that that was the alternative to his returning to his solitary lodging and his books at a comparatively early hour of the evening. Doubtless he should have conquered his repugnance to this later course; but the temptation—after a long day of pleasure-making—to finish up the last hour or so in the society of these good fellows was great. He went to the Harmony Club, and was made more welcome than ever; and somehow, in the excitement of the moment, he was induced to sing another song, and there were more people than ever claiming his acquaintance, and challenging him to have 'another one.'

CHAPTER XVI.

THE DOWNWARD WAY.

With a fatal certainty he was going from bad to worse; and there was no one to warn him; and if any one had warned him, probably he would not have cared. Life had come to be for him a hopeless and useless thing. His own instinct had answered true, when the American was urging him to go and cast himself into the eager strife of the world, and press forward to the universal goal of wealth and ease and independence. 'I'd rather be "where the dun deer lie,"' he had said. Kingsley's poem had taken firm root in his mind, simply because it found natural soil there.

'Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben,

Scrabbling ower the sheets o' parchment with a weary, weary pen:

Looking through the lang stane windows at a narrow strip o' sky,

Like a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die.

Ye'll bury me 'twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen far away,

Where I may hear the heathcock craw and the great harts bray;

And gin my ghaist can walk, mither, I'll go glowering at the sky,

The livelong night on the black hillsides where the dun deer lie.'

His way of existence up there on the far hillsides—unlike that of the luckless outlaw—had been a perfectly happy and contented one. His sound common sense had put away from him that craving for fame which has rendered so miserable the lives of many rustic verse writers; he was proud of his occupation, grateful to the good friends around him, and always in excellent health and spirits. Another thing has to be said—to pacify the worthy folk who imagine that ambition must necessarily fill the mind of youth: had he come away from that sphere of careless content with a sufficient aim to strive for, perhaps affairs might have gone differently. If it could have been said to him: 'Fight your way to the worldly success that the Americans have so liberally prophesied for you; and then come back, and you will find Meenie Douglas awaiting you; and you shall win her and wear her, as the rose and crown of your life, in spite of all the Stuarts of Glengask'—then the little room in Port Dundas Road would no longer have been so gray; and all the future would have been filled with light and hope; and the struggle, however arduous and long, would have been glad enough. But with no such hope; with increasing doubts as to his ultimate success; and with a more dangerously increasing indifference as to whether he should ever reach that success, the temptations of the passing hour became irresistibly strong. And he became feebler to resist them. He did not care. After all, these gay evenings at the Harmony Club were something to look forward to during the long dull days; with a full glass and a good-going pipe and a roaring chorus the hours passed; and then from time to time there was the honour and glory of hearing one of his own songs sung. He was a great figure at these gatherings now; that kind of fame at least had come to him, and come to him unsought; and there were not wanting a sufficiency of rather muddle-headed creatures who declared that he was fit to rank with very distinguished names indeed in the noble roll-call of Scotland's poets; and who, unfortunately, were only too eager to prove the faith that was in them by asking him to drink at their expense.

In this rhyming direction there was one very curious point: when he began to turn over the various pieces that might be made available for Mr. Jaap, he was himself astonished to find how little melody there was in them. Whatever little musical faculty he had seemed to be all locked up in the love-verses he had written about Meenie. Many of the fragments had other qualities—homely common sense; patriotism; a great affection for dumb animals; here and there sometimes a touch of humour or pathos; but somehow they did not sing. It is true that the following piece—

SHOUTHER TO SHOUTHER.

From Hudson's Bay to the Rio Grand',

The Scot is ever a rover;

In New South Wales and in Newfoundland,

And all the wide world over;

Chorus: But it's shouther to shouther, my bonnie lads,

And let every Scot be a brither;

And we'll work as we can, and we'll win if we can,

For the sake of our auld Scotch mither.

She's a puir auld wife, wi' little to give;

And she's rather stint o' caressing;

But she's shown us how honest lives we may live,

And she's sent us out wi' her blessing.

Chorus: And it's shouther to shouther, etc.

Her land's no rick; and her crops are slim;

And I winna say much for the weather;

But she's given us legs that can gaily clim'

Up the slopes o' the blossoming heather.

Chorus: And it's shouther to shouther, etc.

And she's given us hearts that, whatever they say

(And I trow that we might be better)

There's one sair fault they never will hae—

Our mither, we'll never forget her!

Chorus: And it's shouther to shouther, my bonnie lads,

And let every Scot be a brither;

And we'll work as we can, and we'll win if we can,

For the sake of our auld Scotch mither!

had attained a great success at the Harmony Club; but that was merely because Mr. Jaap had managed to write for it an effective air, that could be easily caught up and sung in chorus; in itself there was no simple, natural 'lilt' whatever. And then, again, in his epistolary rhymes to friends and acquaintances (alas! that was all over now) there were many obvious qualities, but certainly not the lyrical one. Here, for example, are some verses he had sent in former days to a certain Johnnie Pringle, living at Tongue, who had had his eye on a young lass down Loch Loyal way:

O Johnnie, leave the lass alane;

Her mother has but that one wean;

For a' the others have been ta'en,

As weel ye ken, Johnnie.

'Tis true her bonnie e'en would rive

The heart o' any man alive;

And in the husry[#] she would thrive—

I grant ye that, Johnnie.

[#] 'Husry,' housewifery.

But wad ye tak' awa the lass,

I tell ye what would come to pass,

The mother soon would hae the grass

Boon her auld head, Johnnie.

They've got some gear, and bit o' land

That well would bear another hand;

Come down frae Tongue, and take your stand

By Loyal's side, Johnnie!

Ye'd herd a bit, and work the farm,

And keep the widow-wife frae harm:

And wha would keep ye snug and warm

In winter-time, Johnnie?—

The lass hersel'—that I'll be sworn!

And bonnier creature ne'er was born:

Come down the strath the morrow's morn,

Your best foot first, Johnnie!

Well, there may be wise and friendly counsel in verses such as these; but they do not lend themselves readily to the musician who would adapt them for concert purposes. No; all such lyrical faculty as he possessed had been given in one direction. And yet not for one moment was he tempted to show Mr. Jaap any of those little love-lyrics that he had written about Meenie—those careless verses that seemed to sing themselves, as it were, and that were all about summer mornings, and red and white roses, and the carolling of birds, and the whispering of Clebrig's streams. Meenie's praises to be sung at the Harmony Club!—he could as soon have imagined herself singing there.

One wet and miserable afternoon old Peter Jaap was passing through St. Enoch Square when, much to his satisfaction, he ran against the big skipper, who had just come out of the railway station.

'Hallo, Captain,' said the little old man, 'back already?'

'Just up frae Greenock; and precious glad to be ashore again, I can tell ye,' said Captain M'Taggart. 'That Mary Jane 'll be my grave, mark my words; I never get as far south as the Mull o' Galloway without wondering whether I'll ever see Ailsa Craig or the Tail o' the Bank again. Well, here I am this time; and I was gaun doon to hae a glass on the strength o't—to the widow's——'

'We'll gang in some other place,' Mr. Jaap said. 'I want to hae a word wi' ye about that young fellow Strang.'

They easily discovered another howf; and soon they were left by themselves in a little compartment, two big tumblers of ale before them.

'Ay, and what's the matter wi' him?' said the skipper.

'I dinna rightly ken,' the little old musician said, 'but something is. Ye see, I'm feared the lad has no' muckle siller——'

'It's a common complaint, Peter!' the skipper said, with a laugh.

'Ay; but ye see, the maist o' us hae some way o' leevin. That's no the case wi' Ronald. He came to Glasgow, as I understand it, wi' a sma' bit nest-egg; and he's been leevin on that ever since—every penny coming out o' his capital, and never a penny being added. That's enough to make a young fellow anxious.'

'Ay?'

'But there's mair than that. He's a proud kind o' chiel. It's just wonderfu' the way that Mrs. Menzies humours him, and pretends this and that so he'll no be at any expense; and when they gang out driving she takes things wi' her—and a lot o' that kind o' way o' working; but a' the same there's sma' expenses that canna be avoided, and deil a bit—she says—will he let her pay. And the sma' things maun be great things to him, if he's eating into his nest-egg in that way.'

'It's easy getting out o' that difficulty,' said the big skipper, who was of a less sympathetic nature than the old musician. 'What for does he no stay at hame? He doesna need to gang driving wi' her unless he likes.'

'It's no easy getting away frae Mrs. Menzies,' the old man said shrewdly, 'if she has a mind to take ye wi' her. And she hersel' sees that he canna afford to spend money even on little things; and yet she's feared to say anything to him. Man, dinna ye mind when she wanted him to take a room in the house?—what was that but that she meant him to have his board free? But no—the deevil has got some o' the Hielan pride in him; she was just feared to say anything mair about it. And at the club, too, it's no every one he'll drink wi' though there's plenty ready to stand Sam, now that Ronald is kent as a writer o' poetry. Not that but wi' ithers he's ower free—ay, confound him, he's getting the reputation o' a harum-scarum deil—if he takes a liking to a man, he'll gang off wi' him and his neighbours for the time being, and goodness knows when or where they'll stop. A bottle o' whisky in their pocket, and off they'll make; I heard the other week o' him and some o' them finding themselves at daybreak in Helensburgh—naught would do the rascal the night before but that he maun hae a sniff o' the saut sea-air; and off they set, him and them, the lang night through, until the daylight found them staring across to Roseneath and Kempoch Point. He's no in the best o' hands, that's the fact. If he would but marry the widow——'

'What would Jimmy Laidlaw say to that?' the skipper said, with a loud laugh.

'Jimmy Laidlaw? He hasna the ghost o' a chance so long as this young fellow's about. Kate's just daft about him; but he's no inclined that way, I can see—unless hunger should tame him. Weel, M'Taggart, I dinna like to see the lad being led away to the mischief. He's got into ill hands. If it's the want o' a settled way o' leevin that's worrying him, and driving him to gang wild and reckless at times, something should be done. I'm an auld man now; I've seen ower many young fellows like that gang to auld Harry; and I like this lad—I'm no going to stand by and look on without a word.'

'Ay, and what would ye hiv me dae, Peter? Take him as a hand on board the Mary Jane?'

'Na, na. The lad maun gang on wi' his surveying and that kind o' thing—though he seems less and less to think there'll be any solid outcome frae it. But what think ye o' this? There's Mr. Jackson paying they professionals from week to week; and here's a fellow wi' a finer natural voice than any o' them—if it had but a little training. Well, now, why shouldna Jackson pay the lad for his singing?'

'Not if he can get it for nothing, Peter!'

'But he canna—that's just the thing, man,' retorted the other. 'It's only when Ronald has had a glass and is in the humour that he'll sing anything. Why shouldna he be engaged like the others? It would be a stand-by. It would take up none o' his time. And it might make him a wee thing steadier if he kent he had to sing every night.'

'Very well, then, ask Tom Jackson about it,' the big skipper said. 'Ye may say it would please the members—I'll back ye up wi' that. Confound him, I didna ken the deevil had got his leg ower the trace.'

The old man answered with a cautious smile:

'Ye're rough and ready, M'Taggart; but that'll no do. Ronald's a camstrairy chiel. There's Hielan blood in his veins; and ye never ken when his pride is gaun to bleeze oot and be up the lum wi'm in a fluff.'

'Beggars canna be choosers, my good freen——'

'Beggars? They Hielan folk are never beggars; they'll rob and plunder ye, and fling ye ower a hedge, and rifle your pockets, but deil a bit o' them 'll beg. Na, na; we'll have to contrive some roundabout way to see how he'll take it. But I'll speak to Jackson; and we'll contrive something, I doubtna. Sae finish up your beer, Captain; and if ye're gaun doon to see Mrs. Menzies, I'll gang as far wi' ye; I havena been there this nicht or twa.'

Now that was an amiable and benevolent, but, as it turned out, most unfortunate design. That same night Ronald did show up at the Harmony Club; and there was a little more than usual of hilarity and good fellowship over the return of the skipper from the perils of the deep. Laidlaw was there too; and he also had been acquainted with the way in which they meant to approach Ronald, to see whether he could not be induced to sing regularly at these musical meetings for a stipulated payment.

Their first difficulty was to get him to sing at all; and for a long time he was good-humouredly obdurate, and they let him alone. But later on in the evening one of his own songs was sung—'The fisher lads are bound for hame'—and was received with immense applause, which naturally pleased him; and then there was a good deal of talking and laughing and conviviality; in the midst of which the skipper called to him—

'Now, Ronald, lad, tune up; I havena heard a song frae ye this three weeks and mair; man, if I had a voice like yours wouldna I give them—

'"The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry;

The ship rides by the Berwick Law,

And I maun leave my bonnie mary!"'

And indeed he did, in this loud and general hum, sing these lines, in tones resembling the sharpening of a rusty saw.

'Very well, then,' Ronald said. 'But I'll sing it where I am—once there's quietness. I'm not going up on that platform.'

Of course, the chairman was glad enough to make the announcement, for Ronald's singing was highly appreciated by the members; moreover there was a little experiment to be tried. So peace was restored; the accompanist struck a few notes; and Ronald, with a little indecision at first, but afterwards with a clear-ringing courage, sang that gayest of all parting songs. In the hubbub of applause that followed none but the conspirators saw what now took place. The chairman called a waiter, and spoke a few words to him in an undertone; the waiter went over to the table where Ronald was sitting and handed him a small package; and then Ronald, naturally thinking that this was merely a written message or something of the kind, opened the folded piece of white paper.

There was a message, it is true,—'with T. Jackson's compliments,'—and there was also a sovereign and a shilling. For an instant Ronald regarded this thing with a kind of bewilderment; and then his eyes blazed; the money was dashed on to the ground; and, without a word or a look to any one in the place, he had clapped on his hat and stalked to the door, his mouth firm shut, his lips pale. This glass door was a private door leading to an outer passage formerly described; the handle seemed stiff or awkward; so by main force he drove it before him, and the door swinging back into the lobby, smashed its glass panels against the wall. The 'breenge'—for there is no other word—caused by this violent departure was tremendous; and the three conspirators could only sit and look at each other.

'The fat's in the fire now,' said the skipper.

'I wonder if the guinea 'll pay for the broken glass,' said Jimmy Laidlaw.

But it was the little old musician, whose scheme this had been, who was most concerned.

'We'll have to get hold o' the lad and pacify him,' said he. 'The Hielan deevil! But if he doesna come back here, he'll get among a worse lot than we are—we'll have to get hold o' him, Captain, and bring him to his senses.'

Well, in the end—after a day or two—Ronald was pacified; and he did go back to the club, and resumed his relations with the friends and acquaintances he had formed there. And that was how it came about that Meenie's married sister—who happened to know certain members of the Rev. Andrew Strang's congregation, and who was very curious to discover why it was that Meenie betrayed such a singular interest in this mere gamekeeper, and was repeatedly referring to him in her correspondence—added this postscript to a letter which she was sending to Inver-Mudal:

'I don't know whether it may interest you to hear that Ronald Strang, Mr. Strang's brother, whom you have several times asked about, is drinking himself to death, and that in the lowest of low company.'

END OF VOL. II.