CHAPTER I.
THE HERMIT OF KILMARA.
There was something in the reply given by young Creggan M'Vayne to Elliott Nugent, Esq., that this gentleman did not altogether relish. He could not have complained of any want of respect in the boy's utterance or in his manner, but there was an air of independence about the lad that jarred against his feelings, and made him a trifle cross—for the time being, that is.
For Nugent was a great man,—in his own country at all events. He was an ex-secretary from one of the Colonies, and at home in Australia he had been like the centurion we read of in the New Testament, and had had many men under him to whom he could say "Do this" with the certainty of finding it done, for in his own great office his word had been law.
But here stood this kilted ghillie with his collie dog by his side—stay, though, till I present my young hero to you, reader. You will then know a little more of the merits of the case.
Than young Creggan M'Vayne, then, no boy was better known on land or at sea, all along the wild rocky shores that stretch from Loch Snizort to the very northernmost cape of Skye, well-named in the Gaelic "The Island of Wings". At any time of the day or by moonlight his little skiff of a boat might be met by sturdy fishermen speeding over the waves of the blue Minch, or lazily floating in some rock-guarded bay, while its solitary occupant lured from the dark, deep water many a silvery dancing fish. But inland, too, he was well-known, on lonely moor and on mountain brow.
And Creggan was welcome wherever he went. Welcome when he appeared at the doors of the rude huts that were huddled along the sea-shore, welcome in the shepherd's shieling far away on the hills, and welcome even at the firesides of gamekeepers themselves.
Up to the present time, at all events, Creggan's life had been a half-wild one, to say the least of it. Though tall for his years, which barely numbered fourteen, he was as strong and well-knit as the sinewy deer of the mountains. Good-looking he certainly was, with a depth of chin that pronounced him more English than Scotch; the bluest of eyes, a sun-kissed face, and fair, curly hair of so self-assertive a nature that Creggan's Highland bonnet never by any chance got within three inches of his brow.
From that same bonnet, then, down to his boots, or rather brogues, the lad looked every inch a gentleman. He was just a trifle shy in presence of his elders and those who moved in a superior walk of life to him; but every really good honest-hearted lad is so. Among the peasantry, however, he was always his own manly self.
There was one thing concerning Creggan's wild life that he did not care for anyone to know, not even his best friend, M'Ian the minister. And it was this: he was kind to the very poor. The fact is, that the lad was always either in pursuit of game, as he chose to call even rabbits, or fishing from his skiff or from the rocks, so that he had generally more than sufficed for his own needs and those of his guardian, whom I shall presently introduce to you. So when he appeared at the door of widow M'Donald, M'Leod, or M'Rae, as the case might be—for they were nearly all Macs thereabout,—you couldn't have guessed that he was carrying a beautiful string of codling or a "sonsy" rabbit, so carefully was it concealed in his well-worn and somewhat tattered plaid.
I am quite sure that Creggan's faithful collie, whose name was Oscar, quite approved of what his master did; he always looked so pleased, and sometimes even barked for joy, when Creggan presented those welcome gifts, and while the recipients called blessings down from heaven on the boy's curly head.