They got ashore at last, and Mr. Hodson at once started off for the inn; and when the two men had got the rods taken down, and the fish tied head and tail for the better carrying of it, they set out too. But Ronald seemed unusually depressed and silent. Where was the careless joke—the verse of an idle song—with which he was wont to brave the discomforts of wind and weather? The two men strode along without a word; and it was not likely that Duncan the dismal should be the first to break the silence. Nay, when they got to the inn, Ronald would not go in for a minute or two, as was his custom, to see the fish weighed and have a chat. He went on to his own cottage; got the key of the kennel; and presently he and the dogs were leaving the little scattered hamlet, taking the lonely moorland road that led away up the Mudal valley.
He knew not why he was so ill at ease; but something had gone wrong. Had his mind been disturbed and disquieted by the American gentleman's plainly hinting to him that he was living in a fool's paradise; and that old age, and illness, and the possible ingratitude of his master were things to be looked forward to? Or was it that the sudden meeting with Meenie, with this stranger looking on, seemed to have revealed to him all at once how far away she was from him? If she and he had met, as every day they did, and passed with the usual friendly greeting, it would all have been quite simple and ordinary enough; but with this stranger looking on,—and she appearing so beautiful and refined and neatly dressed, and wearing moreover the present given her by Glengask and Orosay—while he, on the other hand, was carrying the gentleman's waterproof and a bundle of rods—well, that was all different somehow. And why had she said 'Good-morning!' with such a pointed friendliness? He did not wish this stranger to imagine that Miss Douglas and he were even acquaintances. And then he thought that that very night he would burn all those stupid verses he had written about her; that secret and half-regretful joy of his—of imagining himself in a position that would entitle him to address her so—was all too daring and presuming. It is true, she wore the ptarmigan's wing she had begged him to get for her (and never in all the years had he so gladly sped up the Clebrig slopes as when she sent him on that errand), but that was a trifle; any young lady, if she wanted such a thing, would naturally ask the nearest gamekeeper. And then the other young lady—the American young lady—when she came, and made Meenie's acquaintance: would not they be much together? Meenie would be still farther and farther away then. He would himself have to keep studiously aloof, if in the generosity of her heart she wished to be as friendly as ever.
Well, these were not very bitter or tragic thoughts; and yet—and yet—there was something wrong. He scarcely knew what it was, but only that the little hamlet—as he returned to it after a long and solitary wandering—did not seem to be the simple and natural and happy place that it used to be. But one thing he was glad of. The second gillie had now arrived from Tongue. Consequently his services would no longer be needed in the coble; he would return to his own ways; and be his own master. And as for companions?—well, Clebrig and he had long been friends.
CHAPTER VI.
A PROGRAMME.
That same evening little Maggie, having made herself as smart and neat as possible, went along the dark road to the doctor's house, was admitted, and forthwith passed upstairs to Miss Douglas's own room. It was an exceedingly small apartment; but on this cold winter night it looked remarkably warm and snug and bright, what with the red peats in the fireplace, and the brilliant little lamp on the table; and it was prettily decorated too, with evidences of feminine care and industry everywhere about. And Meenie herself was there—in her gown of plain blue serge; and apparently she had been busy, for the table was littered with patterns and designs and knitting-needles and what not, while a large mass of blue worsted was round the back of a chair, waiting for the winding.
'Help me to clear the table, Maggie,' she said good-naturedly, when her visitor entered, 'and then we will get tea over: I declare I have so many things to think of that I am just driven daft.'
And then she said—with some touch of anger—
'Do you know that I saw your brother—on a cold, wet day like this—and he was walking along the road, with his jacket open, and paying no heed at all to the weather? Maggie, why do you not make him take some care of himself? In January—and he goes about as if it were June! How would you like it if he were to catch a bad cold and have to take to his bed? Why do you not make him take care of himself?'
'He would only laugh at me,' the little Maggie said ruefully. 'He doesna mind anything. I do my best to get his clothes dried when he comes in wet; but he doesna like to be bothered—especially if he's writing or reading; he says that a pipe keeps the harm away. I'm sure if you would speak to him, Meenie, he would take a great deal more care.'