The Family at Kinlossie.  
Serenity was the prevailing feature in the character of old Allan Gordon, the laird of Kinlossie; but when that amiable, portly, grand, silver-headed old gentleman suddenly met an unknown young man of fine proportions carrying his favourite niece, wrapped up as a bundle in his arms, all his serenity disappeared, and he stared, glared, almost gasped, with mingled astonishment and consternation.
 
A very brief explanation, however, quickly sufficed to charge his susceptible spirit to overflowing with a compound of grave anxiety and heartfelt gratitude.
 
“Come in, my dear sir, come in; luckily our doctor is spending the day with me. But for you, my poor dear Milly might have been— This way, to her own room. Are you sure the arm is broken?”
 
“I fear so,” replied Barret, entering the mansion; but before he could proceed farther his words were drowned in a shriek of surprise from four little Gordons, aged from sixteen to four, who yelled rather than demanded to know what ailed their cousin—ranging from Archie’s, “What’s wrong with Cousin Milly,” to Flora’s, “Wass wong wid Cuzn Miwy?”
 
By that time Mrs Gordon, a pleasant-voiced lady, with benignity in her, looks, appeared on the scene, followed quickly by a man and several maid servants, all of whom added to the confusion, in the midst of which Cousin Milly was conveyed to her room and deposited on her bed. The family doctor, a rotund little man of fifty-five, was speedily in attendance.
 
“So fortunate that the doctor happens to be here,” said the laird, as he led Barret to the library and offered him a glass of wine. “No! you don’t drink? Well, well, as you please. Here, Duncan, fetch milk, lemonade, coffee, hot, at once. You must be tired after carrying her so far, even though she is a light weight. But, forgive me; in my anxiety about my poor niece I have quite forgotten to ask either your name or how you came here, for no steamer has been to the island for a week past. Pray be seated, and, wherever you may be bound for ultimately, make up your mind that my house is to be your home for a week at least. We suffer no visitor ever to leave us under that period.”
 
“You are very kind,” returned the young man, smiling, “and I accept your proffered hospitality most gladly. My name is John Barret. I came to the other side of the island in a yacht, and swam on shore in my clothes with six companions, spent the night at Cove, and have walked over here to make known these facts to you.”
 
“You speak in riddles, my young friend,” returned the laird, with an amused look.
 
“Yet I speak the truth,” returned Barret, who thereupon gave a circumstantial account of the disaster that had befallen himself and his friends.
 
“Excuse me,” said Mr Gordon, rising; throwing up the window he shouted to a man who was passing at the moment, “Roderick, get the big waggonette ready to go to Cove, and bring it round here as fast as you can. You see,” he added to Barret, “the road is considerably longer than the short cut by which you came, and we must have them all over here without delay. Don’t distress yourself about room. We have plenty of accommodation. But come, I’ll take you to your own room, and when you have made yourself comfortable, we will talk over your future plans. Just let me say, however, to prevent your mind running away on wrong ideas, that in the circumstances we won’t allow you to leave us for two months. The post goes out to-morrow, so you can write to your father and tell him so.”
 
Thus running on in a rich hearty voice, the hospitable Allan Gordon conducted Barret to a room in the southern wing of the rambling old edifice, and left him there to meditate on his good fortune, and enjoy the magnificent prospect of the island-studded firth or fiord from which the mansion derived its name.
 
While the waggonette was away for the rest of the wrecked party, the laird, finding that Milly’s arm was not actually broken, though severely bruised, sat down to lunch with restored equanimity, and afterwards drove Barret in his dog-cart to various parts of his estate.
 
“Your friends cannot arrive for several hours, you see,” he said on starting, “and we don’t dine till seven; so you could not be better engaged than in making acquaintance with the localities of our beautiful island. It may seem a little wild to you in its scenery, but there are thousands of picturesque points, and what painters call ‘bits’ about it, as my sweet little Milly Moss will tell you when she recovers; for she is an enthusiastic painter, and has made innumerable drawings, both in water-colour and oils, since she came to stay here. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you, Mr Barret, for rescuing the poor girl from her perilous position.”
 
“I count myself fortunate indeed in having been led to the spot so opportunely,” said Barret; “and I sincerely hope that no evil effects may result from her injuries. May I ask if she resides permanently with you at Kinlossie?”
 
“I wish she did,” said the laird, fervently; “for she is like a sunbeam in the house. No, we have only got the loan of her, on very strict conditions too, from her mother, who is a somewhat timid lady of an anxious temperament. I’ve done my best to fulfil the conditions, but they are not easy.”
 
“Indeed! How is that?”
 
“Well, you see, my sister is firmly convinced that there is deadly danger in wet feet, and one of her conditions is that Milly is not to be allowed to wet her feet. Now you know it is not easy for a Londoner to understand the difficulty of keeping one’s feet dry while skipping over the mountains and peat-hags of the Western Isles.”
 
“From which I conclude that Mrs Moss is a Londoner,” returned Barret, with a laugh.
 
“She is. Although a Gordon, and born in the Argyll Highlands, she was sent to school in London, where she was married at the age of seventeen, and has lived there ever since. Her husband is dead, and nothing that I have been able to say has yet tempted her to pay me a visit. She regards my home here as a wild, uninhabitable region, though she has never seen it, and besides, is getting too old and feeble to venture, as she says, on a long voyage. Certes, she is not yet feeble in mind, whatever she may be in body; but she’s a good, amiable, affectionate woman, and I have no fault to find with her, except in regard to her severe conditions about Milly, and her anxiety to get her home again. After all, it is not to be wondered at, for Milly is her only child; and I am quite sure if I had not gone to London, and made all sorts of promises to be extremely careful of Milly and personally take her home again, she never would have let her come at all. See, there is one of Milly’s favourite views,” said the laird, pulling up, and pointing with his whip to the scene in front, where a range of purple hills formed a fine background to the loch, with its foreground of tangle-covered stones; “she revels in depicting that sort of thing.”
 
Barret, after expressing his thorough approval of the young girl’s taste in the matter of scenery, asked if Milly’s delicate health was the cause of her mother’s anxiety.
 
“Delicate health!” exclaimed the laird. “Why, man, sylph-like though she appears, she has got the health of an Amazon. No, no, there’s nothing wrong with my niece, save in the imagination of my sister. We will stop at this cottage for a few minutes. I want to see one of my men, who is not very well.”
 
He pulled up at the door of a little stone hut by the roadside, which possessed only one small window and one chimney, the top of which consisted of an old cask, with the two ends knocked out. A bare-legged boy ran out of the hut to hold the horse.
 
“Is your brother better to-day?” asked the laird.
 
“No, sir; he’s jist the same.”
 
“Mind your head,” said the laird, as he stooped to pass the low doorway, and led his friend into the hut.
 
The interior consisted of one extremely dirty room, in which the confined air was further vitiated by tobacco smoke and the fumes of whisky. One entire side of it was occupied by two box-beds, in one of which lay a brawny, broad-shouldered man, with fiery red hair and scarcely less fiery red eyes, which seemed to glare out of the dark den in which he lay.
 
“Well, Ivor, are ye not better to-day, man?”
 
There was a sternness in Mr Gordon’s query, which not only surprised but grieved his young companion; and the surprise was increased when the sick man replied in a surly tone—
 
“Na, laird, I’m not better; an’ what’s more, I’ll not be better till my heed’s under the sod.”
 
“I’m afraid you are right, Ivor,” returned the laird, in a somewhat softer tone; “for when a man won’t help himself, no one else can help him.”
 
“Help myself!” exclaimed the man, starting up on one elbow, and gazing fiercely from under his shaggy brows. “Help myself!” he repeated. And then, as if resolving suddenly to say no more, he sank down and laid his head on the pillow, with a short groan.
 
“Here, Ivor, is a bottle o’ physic that my wife sends to ye,” said Mr Gordon, pulling a pint bottle from his pocket, and handing it to the man, who clutched it eagerly, and was raising it to his mouth when his visitor arrested his hand.
 
“Hoot, man,” he said, with a short laugh, “it’s not whisky! She bid me say ye were to take only half a glass at a time, every two hours.”
 
“Poor’t oot, then, laird—poor’t oot,” said the man, impatiently. “Ye’ll fin’ a glass i’ the wundy.”
 
Fetching a wine-glass from the window Mr Gordon half filled it with a liquid of a dark brown colour, which the sick man quaffed with almost fierce satisfaction, and then lay down with a sigh.
 
“It seems to have done ye good already, man,” said the laird, putting the bottle and glass on that convenient shelf—the window-sill. “I’ve no idea what the physic is, but my good wife seems to know, and that’s enough for me; and for you, too, I think.”
 
“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 was not equal to his spirits.
 
“Ay, it is not so bad; but I lost the best one. Fishers always do, you know! He was a grilse, a six-pounder at the least, if he was an ounce, for I had him within an inch of my gaff when I overbalanced myself, and shot into the stream head foremost with such force, that I verily believe I drove him to the very bottom of the pool. Strange to say the rod was not broken; but when I scrambled ashore, I found that the grilse was gone!”
 
“How unfortunate! You were not hurt, I hope?”
 
“Not in the least. There was plenty of depth for a dive; besides, I’m used to it.”
 
It became quite evident to John Barret that his new friend was “used to” a good many more things besides tumbling into the river, for as they went slowly along the winding footpath that led them through the peat-hags, MacRummle tripped over a variety of stumps, roots, and other excrescences which presented themselves in the track, and which on several occasions brought him to the ground. The old gentleman, however, had a fine facility in falling. Being slow in all his movements, he usually subsided rather than fell; a result, perhaps, of laziness as well as of unwillingness to struggle against fate. His frequent staggerings, also, on the verge of dark peat holes, caused his companion many a shock of alarm and many a start forward to prevent a catastrophe, before they gained the high road. They reached it at last, however, rather breathless, but safe.
 
MacRummle’s speech, like his movements, was slow. His personal courage, considering the dangers he constantly and voluntarily encountered, was great.
 
“You’ve been in again, Mac, I see,” exclaimed the laird heartily, extending his hand to his old friend with the view of hauling him up on the seat beside him. “Mind the step. Now then!”
 
“Yes, I’ve been in, but the weather is warm! Stop, stop! Don’t pull quite so hard, Allan; mind my rheumatic shoulder. Give a shove behind, Mr Barret—gently—there. Thankee.”
 
The old man sat down with something of a crash beside his friend. Barret handed him his rod, put the basket under his feet, and sprang up on the seat behind.
 
Returning at a swift pace by the road they had come, they soon reached Kinlossie, where the laird drove into the back yard, so as to deliver the still dripping MacRummle at the back door, and thus prevent his leaving a moist track from the front hall to his bedroom. Having got rid of him, and given the dog-cart in charge to the groom, Mr Gordon led his young friend round to the front of the house.
 
“I see your friends have already arrived,” said the laird, pointing to the waggonette which stood in the yard. “No doubt we shall find them about somewhere.”
 
They turned the corner of the mansion as he spoke, and certainly did come on Barret’s friends, in circumstances, however, which seemed quite unaccountable at first sight, for there, in front of the open door, were not only Bob Mabberly, Giles Jackman, Skipper McPherson, James McGregor, Pat Quin, and Robin Tips, but also Mrs Gordon, the two boy Gordons—named respectively, Eddie and Junkie—Duncan, the butler, and little Flora, with a black wooden doll in her arms, all standing in more or less awkward attitudes, motionless and staring straight before them as if petrified with surprise or some kindred feeling.
 
Barret looked at his host with a slight elevation of his eyebrows.
 
“Hush!” said the laird, softly, holding up a finger of caution. “My boy Archie is behind that laurel bush. He’s photographing them!”
 
“That’ll do,” in a loud voice from Archie, disenchanted the party; and while the operator rushed off to his “dark closet,” the laird hurried forward to be introduced to the new arrivals, and give them hospitable greeting.
 
That evening the host and his wife entertained their guests to a genuine Highland feast in the trophied hall, and at a somewhat later hour Duncan, the butler, and Elsie, the cook, assisted by Roderick, the groom, and Mary, the housemaid, held their share of high revelry in the kitchen, with Quin, Tips, and “Shames” McGregor.
 
“You have come to the right place for sport, gentlemen,” said the laird, as he carved with vigour at a splendid haunch of venison. “In their seasons we have deer and grouse on the hills; rabbits, hares, partridges, and pheasants on the low grounds. What’ll you have, Mr Mabberly? My dear, what have you got there?”
 
“Pigeon pie,” answered Mrs Gordon.
 
“Mac, that will suit your taste, I know,” cried the host with a laugh.
 
“Yes, it will,” slowly returned MacRummle, whose ruddy face and smooth bald head seemed to glow with satisfaction now that he had got into dry garments. “Yes, I’m almost as fond of pie as my old friend Robinson used to be. He was so fond of it that, strange though it may seem to you, gentlemen, he had a curious predilection for pie-bald horses.”
 
“Come, now, Mac, don’t begin upon your friend Robinson till after dinner.”
 
“Has Archie’s photography turned out well?” asked Mabberly at this point. “I do a little in that way myself, and am interested as to the result of his efforts to-day.”
 
“We cannot know that before to-morrow, I fear,” replied Mrs Gordon.
 
“Did I hear you ask about Archie’s work, Mabberly?” said the laird, interrupting. “Oh! it’ll turn out well, I have no doubt. He does everything well. In fact, all the boys are smartish fellows; a little self-willed and noisy, perhaps, like all boys, but—”
 
A tremendous crash in the room above, which was the nursery, caused the laird to drop his knife and fork and quickly leave the room, with a look of anxiety, for he was a tender-hearted, excitable man; while his quiet and delicate-looking wife sat still, with a look of serenity not unmingled with humour.
 
“Something overturned, I suppose,” she remarked.
 
In a few minutes her husband returned with a bland smile.
 
“Yes,” he said, resuming his knife and fork; “it was Junkie, as usual, fighting with Flo for the black doll. No mischief would have followed, I daresay, but Archie and Eddie joined in the scrimmage, and between them they managed to upset the table. I found them wallowing in a sea of porridge and milk—that was all!”