Oranges and lemons

by Mary C. E. Wemyss

XV

Before ever men were Christians they were fishermen.

Let men now be first Christians, then fishermen, so

shall they not forget the gillie who stands and waits.

One evening in August there went out from Euston, bound for Scotland, two men, each with his heart full of Diana. There went also yet another and his heart, too, was full of Diana. Her address he had learnt was Glenbossie, and to Glenbossie he was going, although he had no invitation. Nevertheless he did not despair. God is ever on the side of youth, and—if youth had not been asked to the Lodge he was going to the station, and where a Loch Bossie station is there is bound to be a Glenbossie Lodge. Wandering along the platform at Euston, seeing again all the things—familiar things—of which abroad he had dreamed every August and onwards—men and dogs, gun cases and fishing-rod cases—he came upon a prodigiously long fishing-rod case. It must belong, he thought, to a renowned fisherman, or to one who had fished little. Guarding the rod case, almost jealously, he saw what he guessed to be a parson, with a light in his eyes, not of this world.

No one knew better than Miles Hastings what starting for Scotland meant, but he had learnt to keep his face in order, whatever liberties his heart might take. Approaching the owner of the long rod case he read the label attached—“Watkins, Loch Bossie.”

Now Miles Hastings was a lucky young man, but this was more than even he could have expected. Here was one who could tell him all he wanted to know, so he set about to make friends with Watkins, of Loch Bossie; but he found it was with one Pease he made friends, who but guarded the treasure of Watkins.

Miles had a genius for making friends, and a charming frankness that endeared him at sight to old ladies, old men, men and women generally, and children in particular. He was devoted to all animals especially if they were young, and as to puppies, he was as putty in their paws. There was nothing he would not give a puppy if “asked for it” properly. In winter-time he would rescue little birds in the snow: take them home and revive them. He would go out of his way to help anything that could not help itself. In addition to this he was good to look at, a wholesome, fine young Englishman, and in all this there lay danger, Sir Eustace thought, danger to Diana: and against it he would have protected her. Also he wanted to protect himself against the possibility of having to say No, if Hastings should ask him for Diana, which if he met her he was bound to do. Sir Eustace would have liked to be able to say, “My dear boy, there is no one in the world to whom I would rather give her!” “And why not say it?” thought Sibyl Carston, who was one of those who held strongly the belief that things must turn out all right in the end, and so strong was her faith in the good that must come to those who look for it that it generally did come. It had come to her, why not to Diana? Life had been very good to Miles Hastings: the world had treated him very kindly, surely it would go on being kind. His was a nature that only expected what it gave in overflowing measure itself—just kindness—surely there should be no difficulty about that.

So he made friends with Pease, thinking to himself: “Here is a nice young thing, devoted to his mother”—he looked like that—“who is going off to fish, to catch bigger fish than he has ever caught, bigger fish than the world has ever seen, and better fish”; he hoped he might catch them. But, by the way, where was Pease going, exactly? Deep guile this, for Hastings knew, but Pease knew not that Hastings knew. So he explained—with an indifference assumed—that he was going to the inn at Loch Bossie where the fishing was excellent—quite excellent! Yes, it was near Glenbossie Lodge—yes, quite near!

Here Pease pulled at his pipe, giving pause to think.