“John be it,” said the cleric, smiling warmly. “I like you, truly, and I wish you well.”
M’Iver stooped and took the proffered hand. “Master Gordon,” he said, “I would sooner be liked and loved than only admired; that’s, perhaps, the secret of my life.”
It was not the fishing season, but the street thronged with fishers from Kenmore and Cairndhu and Kilcatrine and the bays of lower Cowal. Their tall figures jostled in the causeway, their white teeth gleamed in their friendliness, and they met this companion of numerous days and nights, this gentleman of good-humour and even temper, with cries as in a schoolboy’s playground. They clustered round the horse and seized upon the trappings. Then John Splendid’s play-acting came to its conclusion, as it was ever bound to do when his innermost man was touched. He forgot the carriage of his shoulders; indifferent to the disposition of his reins, he reached and wrung a hundred hands, crying back memory for memory, jest for jest, and always the hope for future meetings.
“O scamps! scamps!” said he, “fishing the silly prey of ditches when you might be with me upon the ocean and capturing the towns. I’ll never drink a glass of Rhenish, but I’ll mind of you and sorrow for your sour ales and bitter aqua!”
“Will it be long?” said they—true Gaels, ever anxious to know the lease of pleasure or of grief.
“Long or short,” said he, with absent hands in his horse’s mane, “will lie with Fate, and she, my lads, is a dour jade with a secret It’ll be long if ye mind of me, and unco short if ye forget me till I return.”
I went up and said farewell. I but shook his hand, and my words were few and simple. That took him, for he was always quick to sound the depth of silent feeling.
“Mo thruadh! mo thruadh! Colin,” said he. “My grief! my grief! here are two brothers closer than by kin, and they have reached a gusset of life, and there must be separation. I have had many a jolt from my fairy relatives, but they have never been more wicked than now. I wish you were with me, and yet, ah! yet——. Would her ladyship, think ye, forget for a minute, and shake an old friend’s hand, and say good-bye?”
I turned to Betty, who stood a little back with her father, and conveyed his wish. She came forward, dyed crimson to the neck, and stood by his horse’s side. He slid off the saddle and shook her hand.
“It is very good of you,” said he. “You have my heart’s good wishes to the innermost chamber.”