White Wings: A Yachting Romance, Volume I. Black William
says the Laird, who does not seem over pleased. "I have observed that young men who are too brilliant at the first, seldom come to much afterwards. Has he gained anything substantial? Has he a good practice? Does he keep his carriage yet?"
"No, no!" says our hostess, with a fine contempt for such things. "He has a higher ambition than that. His practice is almost nothing. He prefers to sacrifice that in the meantime. But his reputation – among the scientific – why – why, it is European!"
"Hm!" says the Laird. "I have sometimes seen that persons who gave themselves up to erudeetion, lost the character of human beings altogether. They become scientific machines. The world is just made up of books for them – and lectures – they would not give a halfpenny to a beggar for fear of poleetical economy – "
"Oh, how can you say such a thing of Angus Sutherland!" says she – though he has said no such thing of Angus Sutherland. "Why, here is this girl who goes to Edinburgh – all by herself – to nurse an old woman in her last illness; and as Angus Sutherland is in Edinburgh on some business – connected with the University, I believe – I ask him to call on her and see if he can give her any advice. What does he do? He stops in Edinburgh two months – editing that scientific magazine there instead of in London – and all because he has taken an interest in the old woman and thinks that Mary should not have the whole responsibility on her shoulders. Is that like a scientific machine?"
"No," says the Laird, with a certain calm grandeur; "you do not often find young men doing that for the sake of an old woman." But of course we don't know what he means.
"And I am so glad he is coming to us!" she says, with real delight in her face. "We shall take him away from his microscopes, and his societies, and all that. Oh, and he is such a delightful companion – so simple, and natural, and straightforward! Don't you think so, Mary?"
Mary Avon is understood to assent: she does not say much – she is so deeply interested in a couple of porpoises that appear from time to time on the smooth plain on the sea.
"I am sure a long holiday would do him a world of good," says this eager hostess; "but that is too much to expect. He is always too busy. I think he has got to go over to Italy soon, about some exhibition of surgical instruments, or something of that sort."
We had plenty of further talk about Dr. Sutherland, and of the wonderful future that lay before him, that evening before we finally put into Loch Buy. And there we dined; and after dinner we found the wan, clear twilight filling the northern heavens, over the black range of mountains, and throwing a silver glare on the smooth sea around us. We could have read on deck at eleven at night – had that been necessary; but Mary Avon was humming snatches of songs to us, and the Laird was discoursing of the wonderful influence exerted on Scotch landscape-art by Tom Galbraith. Then in the south the yellow moon rose; and a golden lane of light lay on the sea, from the horizon across to the side of the yacht; and there was a strange glory on the decks and on the tall, smooth masts. The peace of that night! – the soft air, the silence, the dreamy lapping of the water!
"And whatever lies before Angus Sutherland," says one of us – "whether a baronetcy, or a big fortune, or marriage with an Italian princess – he won't find anything better than sailing in the White Dove among the western islands."
CHAPTER IV
What fierce commotion is this that awakes us in the morning – what pandemonium broken loose of wild storm-sounds – with the stately White Dove, ordinarily the most sedate and gentle of her sex, apparently gone mad, and flinging herself about as if bent on somersaults? When one clambers up the companion-way, clinging hard, and puts one's head out into the gale, behold! there is not a trace of land visible anywhere – nothing but whirling clouds of mist and rain; and mountain-masses of waves that toss the White Doveabout as if she were a plaything; and decks all running wet with the driven spray. John of Skye, clad from head to heel in black oilskins – and at one moment up in the clouds, the next moment descending into the great trough of the sea – hangs on to the rope that is twisted round the tiller; and laughs a good-morning; and shakes the salt water from his shaggy eyebrows and beard.
"Hallo! John – where on earth have we got to?"
"Ay, ay, sir."
"I say WHERE ARE WE?" is shouted, for the roar of the rushing Atlantic in deafening.
"'Deed I not think we are far from Loch Buy," says John of Skye, grimly. "The wind is dead ahead of us – ay, shist dead ahead!"
"What made you come out against a headwind then?"
"When we cam' out," says John – picking his English, "the wind will be from the norse – ay, a fine light breeze from the norse. And will Mr. – himself be for going on now? it is a ferry bad sea for the leddies – a ferry coorse sea."
But it appears that this conversation – bawled aloud – has been overheard. There are voices from below. The skylight of the ladies' cabin is partly open.
"Don't mind us," calls Mary Avon. "Go on by all means!"
The other voice calls —
"Why can't you keep this fool of a boat straight? Ask him when we shall be into the Sound of Iona."
One might as well ask him when we shall be into the Sound of Jericho or Jerusalem. With half a gale of wind right in our teeth, and with the heavy Atlantic swell running, we might labour here all day – and all the night too – without getting round the Ross of Mull. There is nothing for it but to turn and run, that we may have our breakfast in peace. Let her away, then, you brave John of Skye! – slack out the main-sheet, and give her plenty of it, too: then at the same moment Sandy from Islay perceives that a haul at the weather topping-lift will clear the boom from the davits; and now – and now, good Master Fred – our much-esteemed and shifty Friedrich d'or – if you will but lay the cloth on the table, we will help you to steady the dancing phantasmagoria of plates and forks!
"Dear me!" says the Laird, when we are assembled together, "it has been an awful night!"
"Oh, I hope you have not been ill!" says his hostess, with a quick concern in the soft, clear eyes.
He does not look as if he had suffered much. He is contentedly chipping an egg; and withal keeping an eye on the things near him, for the White Dove, still plunging a good deal, threatens at times to make of everything on the table a movable feast.
"Oh, no, ma'am, not ill," he says. "But at my time of life, ye see, one is not as light in weight as one used to be; and the way I was flung about in that cabin last night was just extraordinary. When I was trying to put on my boots this morning, I am sure I resembled nothing so much as a pea in a bladder – indeed it was so – I was knocked about like a pea in a bladder."
Of course we expressed great sympathy, and assured him that the White Dove– famed all along this coast for her sober and steady-going behaviour – would never act so any more.
"However," said he thoughtfully, "the wakefulness of the night is often of use to people. Yes, I have come to a decision."
We were somewhat alarmed: was he going to leave us merely because of this bit of tossing?
"I dare say ye know, ma'am," says he slowly, "that I am one of the Commissioners of the Burgh of Strathgovan. It is a poseetion of grave responsibility. This very question now – about our getting a steam fire-engine – has been weighing on my mind for many a day. Well, I have decided I will no longer oppose it. They may have the steam fire-engine as far as I am concerned."
We felt greatly relieved.
"Yes," continued the Laird, solemnly, "I think I am doing my duty in this matter as a public man should – laying aside his personal prejudice. But the cost of it! Do ye know that we shall want bigger nozzles to all the fire-plugs?"
Matters were looking grave again.
"However," said the Laird cheerfully – for he would not depress us too much, "it may all turn out for the best; and I will telegraph my decision to Strathgovan as soon as ever the storm allows us to reach a port."
The storm, indeed! When we scramble up on