It was a splendid day of bright sunshine in a tenderly blue sky, with a pure, soft breeze hardly rippling the lake. We all took our seats inside the roomy, open carriage, my husband leaving the management of the horses to the driver that he might be free to enjoy the scenery. M. Souverain remarked that if the Highlanders were a strong race, their horses hardly deserved the same epithet; and indeed the pair harnessed to our carriage appeared very lean and somewhat shaky, but the driver affirmed that they were capital for hill-work, though he would not swear to their swiftness, and as we did not want to go fast, it was again "all right" from M. Souverain when the explanation had been translated to him.
Fast we certainly did not go, and, moreover, we often stopped to admire the changing views, but the poor starved beasts did not pick up any more spirit during their frequent rests; they painfully resumed their dull jog-trot for a short time, which soon dwindled to slow, weary paces that even the whip in no way hastened. However, with plenty of time before us, we only turned it into a joke, pretending to be terrified by the ardor of our steeds.
My husband had to tell M. Souverain all the legends of the places we were passing, and as he himself "courtisait la Muse," he listened with rapt attention, so as to be able to treat the subjects in French verse. "This country is a mine for a poet!" he frequently exclaimed.
Luckily we had packed some provisions in the carriage, for the sun was already declining,—like the pace of the horses,—and we were not yet at the end of the drive by a good distance.
The fresh air had sharpened our appetites, and Gilbert proposed that we should have something to eat whilst the horses were taken out of harness and given a feed to refresh them and give them a little more vigor for the rest of the journey.
By the time we had finished our collation the air had freshened, and it was twilight; we agreed that now it was desirable to get within shelter as soon as possible, although the charm of the hour was indescribable; but the thin white mist was beginning to float over the lake, and the last remnants of the afterglow had entirely died out. What was our dismay when we found that all my husband's efforts, joined to those of the driver, to make the horses get up were ineffectual; there they lay on the grass, and neither expostulations, pulls, cracks of the whip, or even kicks, I am sorry to say, seemed to produce the slightest effect upon their determination to remain stretched at full length on the ground. What were we to do? The driver vociferated in Gaelic, but the poor brutes did not mind, and they would have been cruelly maltreated if we had not interfered to protect them. Gilbert said to the man: "You see well enough that they have no strength to work, therefore allow them to rest till they are able to go back. I leave you here, and as I have ladies with me I must try to find some sort of shelter for the night." The man was almost frantic when he saw us go, but we all agreed with my husband, and in the hope of finding a cottage set forth resolutely on foot.
It was now almost dark, but our spirits were not damped yet, and, as M. Souverain remarked, it was "une véritable aventure." Still, I was beginning to find my baby somewhat heavy after walking for three-quarters of an hour, when the gentlemen in front of us cheerily encouraged our exertions by calling out, "A cottage, a cottage!" and when we came up to them they were loudly knocking at the door, unable to obtain a sign of life from within; however, the smell of burning peat clearly indicated that the cottage was inhabited, and my husband shouted our story, begging that the door might be opened and the ladies allowed to rest. Then on the other side of the door, which remained closed, a voice answered in Gaelic we knew not what, except that the tone of it was unmistakably angry, and unbroken silence ensued.
There was nothing left to us but to resume our walk, enlivened by M. Souverain singing the celebrated song, "Chez les montagnards Écossais l'hospitalité se donne," etc. Every one in turn offered to hold the baby; but Aunt Mary, I knew, had enough to do for herself, Anne was not strong, and my confidence in the fitness of the gentlemen for the function of nurse was very limited. My husband kept up our courage by affirming that we were not far from Ardhonnel, and consequently within a short distance of the inn; indeed, he called us to the side of the road, from which we could see the noble ruin with our own eyes, now that the new moon had risen and was peeping between the clouds occasionally. It was a welcome sight, for by this time we were really weary; but alas! the inn was on the other side of the lake, and we had no boat; still, Gilbert felt sure there must be one not very far off, to take the people across, and after surveying the shore for a while he discovered a little pier, with a rowing-boat chained to it, and a very small cottage almost close to where we stood; so he went to knock at the door, and again Gaelic was given in answer. But this time the door was opened by a woman who had only taken time to put on a short petticoat, and to throw a small shawl over her head; her feet, legs, and arms were bare, and she looked strong and placid; her English was scanty, but she understood pretty well what we wanted, and declared herself willing to row our party to the other side if any one could steer, for her "man" was asleep in bed and too tired for work; so my husband took a pair of oars, the woman another, and I steered from indications frequently given. At last we stood in front of the inn, and it was past midnight. Not a light was visible, not a sound was heard, and there was no sign of life except a faint blue wreath of peat-smoke; but it was enough to revive our energies and hopes. In response to our united appeals a dishevelled head of red hair cautiously looked down from a half-opened window, and our story had to be told again. Well, this time we were let in and allowed to sit down, whilst the ostler's wife was being roused as well as the servant, for we were told that the tourists' season, being already over, the inn was no longer in trim for customers. This was bad news, for the good effects of the luncheon had passed off, and as soon as we could rest and forget our fatigue we became sensible of ravenous hunger. The good innkeeper and his wife were so obliging and good-hearted that they kept deprecating the absence of all the comforts they would have liked to give us. However, my husband had brought a large basket of dry peat, and M. Souverain heaped it up dexterously, and blew upon what remained of red ashes under his pile, whilst a kettle was placed upon the glowing embers. "I am afraid I can't offer you the same cheer that you would give me at the maison Dorée," Gilbert said to his friend. "Ça serait gâter la couleur locale; oh! some bread-and-cheese, with a bottle of beer, will do very well for me." But there was neither bread nor cheese nor beer; and no kind of abode, however miserable, had M. Souverain ever known to be without bread. "What do they live upon then?" he asked. "Porridge, and they occasionally make scones," was the reply. Luckily for us there happened to be an ample supply of them, freshly made, and with these, boiled eggs, and fried bacon, we had one of the best appreciated meals we ever tasted. It was followed by hot whiskey-toddy and cigars for the gentlemen, by tea and clotted cream for the ladies, and for a while we quite revived; but sleep would have its way, and there being only two beds, occupied by the owners of the inn, they charitably yielded them to us; and when the sheets had been changed, Aunt Mary and Anne shared one, whilst I thankfully retired to the other with baby. The gentlemen remained near the fire in the dining-room, one of them stretched on the sofa, and the other using its cushions as a mattress.
On the following morning I learned the meaning of the word "smart" for the first time, it being so frequently repeated by our good hostess, who had made room for me by the kitchen fire to dress my child. "How smart is the sweet baby!" she constantly exclaimed with honest admiration, as she made him laugh by tickling his little feet or chucking his chin.
Our breakfast was a repetition of the supper in every detail, and our enjoyment of it more limited. My husband soon went out to hire a boat and a couple of men to row us back again. They took us first to Ardhonnel, of which he has given a description in "The Isles of Loch Awe,"—