The little boy began to wonder at once if his young cousins would speak in the same dry methodical way as their father. It was just like measuring off words by the yard. How very tiresome it would be to listen to all day.
And would all people in England be so clean and precise as this new uncle?
During the short railway journey up to London from the docks, Jeff watched Mr. Colquhoun with an uneasy stare that would have been embarrassing had the object of this attentive scrutiny become aware of it. Old Maggie's nudges and whispered remonstrance produced no effect.
By and by the travellers were taken to a big hotel near a railway station, and dinner was ordered for them in a great gilt coffee room. They were informed they would have to wait at the hotel till the night express started for Scotland. Jeff was much happier in his mind when Mr. Colquhoun drove away in a hansom to transact his business. Left alone with Maggie, he proposed a walk through those wonderful busy streets outside, and when he came back he sat down to write his Indian letter.
This was finished and posted before his uncle returned, and Jeff felt very much relieved that it was safe beyond recall. Those cold critical eyes might have glanced over the contents: and the little boy was aware that his candour regarding his newly found relative was not flattering. Maggie and Jeff slept in a Pullman car that night and arrived at Lossie Bridge early in the morning.
Tired and cold as was this delicate boy his mind was open to receive an impression of wild beauty in the surrounding country. He thought he had never seen or even dreamt of anything so beautiful and grand. His animated enthusiasm and undisguised pleasure seemed to warm something in his uncle's breast. He even smiled.
The tears rose to Jeff's eyes. Ah! yes, he could understand now why that dear mother, so far away, pined for her native hills and lakes.
The mists lifting from the rugged mountain sides, with the morning sun shining bravely on a glittering lake, was a sight most glorious. The sound of running brooks, the swish of cascades—sounds most strange to Jeff's ears—made music everywhere.
He was silent with wonder and enjoyment during the long drive from the station. Grandmother's house on Loch Lossie was a fine stone-built residence, facing the lake on the south.
It was backed up by the stern heather-clad hills, which sheltered it from rude north winds. A carriage drive wound along the side of the lake for nearly a mile, and Jeff was amazed at the orderly aspect of the shrubberies adjoining it. Everything was clipped and pruned. The wild luxuriant tangle of Indian jungles, the richly sweet smell of tropical growths, and the brilliant colouring of foreign flowers were all so different to this.