So the King of Borva was quietly overruled, and his dominions invaded in spite of himself. Sheila could not go out with the gentlemen just then; she was to follow in about an hour’s time. Meanwhile they buttoned their coats, pulled down their caps tight, and set out to face the grey skies and the Wintry wind. Just as they were passing away from the house, Mackenzie, who was walking in front with Lavender, said in a cautious sort of way, “You will want a deal of money to build this house you wass speaking about, for it will hef to be all stone and iron, and very strong whatever, or else it will be a plague to you from the one year to the next with the rain getting in.”
“Oh, yes,” Lavender said, “it will have to be done well once for all; and what with rooms big enough to paint in and play billiards in, and also a bedroom or two for friends who may come to stay with us, it will be an expensive business. But I have been very lucky, Mr. Mackenzie. It isn’t the money I have, but the commissions I am offered, that warrant my going in for this house. I’ll tell you about all these things afterward. In the meantime I shall have twenty-four hundred pounds, or thereabouts, in a couple of months.”
“But you hef more than that now,” Mackenzie said, gravely. “This is what I wass going to tell you. The money that your aunt left, that is yours, every penny of it – oh, yes, every penny and every farthing of it is yours, sure enough. For it wass Mr. Ingram hass told me all about it; and the old lady, she wanted him to take care of the money for Sheila; but what wass the good of the money to Sheila? My lass, she will hef plenty of money of her own; and I, wanted her to hef nothing to do with what Mr. Ingram said; but it wass all no use, and there iss the money now for you and for Sheila, every penny and every farthing of it.”
Mackenzie ended by talking in an injured way, as if this business had seriously increased his troubles.
“But you know,” Lavender said, with amazement – you know as well as I do that this money was definitely left to Ingram, and – you may believe me or not – I was precious glad of it when I heard it. Of course it would have been of more use to him if he had not been about to marry this American lady.”
“Oh, you hef heard that, then?” Mackenzie said.
“Mosenberg brought me the news. But are you quite sure about this affair? Don’t you think this is merely a trick of Ingram’s to enable him to give the money to Sheila? That would be very like him. I know him of old.”
“Well, I cannot help it if a man will tell lies,” said Mackenzie. “But that is what he says is true. And he will not touch the money – indeed, he will hef plenty, as you say. But there it is for Sheila and you, and you will be able to build whatever house you like. And if you was thinking of having a bigger boat than the Maighdean-mhara – ” the old man suggested.
Lavender jumped at that notion directly. “What if we could get a yacht big enough to cruise anywhere in the Summer months?” he said. “We might bring a party of people all the way from the Thames to Loch Roag, and cast anchor opposite Sheila’s house. Fancy Ingram and his wife coming up like that in the Autumn; and I know you could go over to Sir James, and get us some shooting.”
Mackenzie laughed grimly: “We will see – we will see about that. I think there will be no great difficulty about getting a deer or two for you, and as for the salmon, there will be one or two left in the White Water. Oh yes, we will have a little shooting and a little fishing for any of your friends. And as for the boat, it will be ferry difficult to get a good big boat for such a purpose without you was planning and building one yourself; and that will be better, I think, for the yachts nowadays they are all built for the racing, and you will have a beat fifty tons, sixty tons, seventy tons, that hass no room in her below, but is nothing but a big heap of canvas and spars. But if you was wanting a good, steady boat, with good cabins below for the leddies, and a good saloon that you could have your dinner in all at once, then you will maybe come down with me to a shipbuilder I know in Glasgow – oh, he is a ferry good man – and we will see what can be done. There is a gentleman now in Dunoon – and they say he is a ferry great artist, too – and he hass a schooner of sixty tons that I hef been in myself, and it wass just like a steamer below for the comfort of it. And when the boat is ready I will get you ferry good sailors for her, that will know every bit of the coast from Loch Indaal to the Butt of Lewis, and I will see that they are ferry cheap for you, for I hef plenty of work for them in the Winter. But I was no saying yet,” the old man added, “that you were right about coming to live in Borva. Stornoway is a good place to live in; and it is a fine harbor for repairs, if the boat was wanting repairs.”
“If she were, couldn’t we send her around to Stornoway?”
“But the people in Stornoway – it iss the people in Stornoway,” said Mackenzie, who was not going to give in without a grumble.
Well, they did not fix on a site for the house that afternoon. Sheila did not make her appearance. Lavender kept continually turning and looking over the long undulations of rock and moorland; and at length he said, “Look here, Johnny, would you mind going on by yourselves? I think I shall walk back to the house.”
“What is keeping that foolish girl?” her father said, impatiently. “It is something about the dinner now, as if any one was particular about a dinner in an island like this, where you can expect nothing. But at Stornoway – oh, yes, they hef many things there.”
“But I want you to come and dine with us on board the Phœbe to-night, sir,” Johnny said. “It will be rather a lark, mind you; we make up a tight fit in that cabin. I wonder if Mrs. Lavender would venture; do you think she would, sir?”
“Oh, no, not this evening, anyway,” said her father; “for I know she will expect you all to be up at the house this evening; and what would be the use of tumbling about in the bay when you can be in a house? But it is very kind of you. Oh, yes, to-morrow night, then, we will go down to the boat, but this night I know Sheila will be ferry sorry if you do not come to the house.”
“Well, let’s go back now,” Johnny said, “and if we’ve time we might go down for our guns and have a try along the shore for an hour or so before the daylight goes. Fancy that chance at those wild duck!”
“Oh, but that is nothing,” Mackenzie said. “To-morrow you will come with me up to the loch, and there you will hef some shooting; and in many other places I will show you you will hef plenty of shooting.”
They had just got back to the house when they found Sheila coming out. She had, as her father supposed, been detained by her preparations for entertaining their guests; but now she was free until dinner-time, and so the whole party went down to the shore to pay a visit to the Phœbe and let Mackenzie have a look at the guns on board. Then they went up to the house, and found the tall and grim keeper with the baby in his arms, while Scarlett and Mairi were putting the finishing touches on the gleaming white table and its show of steel and crystal.
How strange it was to Sheila to sit at dinner there, and listen to her husband talking of boating and fishing and what not as he used to sit and talk in the olden time to her father, on the Summer evenings, on the high rocks over Borvapost! The interval between that time and this seemed to go clean out of her mind. And yet there must have been some interval, for he was looking older and sterner and much rougher about the face now, after being buffeted about by wind and rain and sun during that long and solitary stay in Jura. But it was very like the old times when they went into the little drawing-room, and when Mairi brought in the hot water and the whisky, the tobacco and the long pipes, when the old King of Borva sat himself down in his great chair by the table, and when Lavender came to Sheila and asked her if he should get out her music and open the piano for her.
“Madam,” young Mosenberg said to her, “it is a long time since I heard one of your strange Gaelic songs.”
“Perhaps you never heard this one,” Sheila said, and she began to sing the plaintive “Farewell to Glenshalloch.” Many a time, indeed, of late had she sung its simple and pathetic air as a sort of lullaby, perhaps because it was gentle, monotonous and melancholy, perhaps because there were lines here and there that she liked. Many a time had she sung —
Sleep sound, my sweet babe, there is naught to alarm thee,
The sons of the valley no power have to harm thee,
I’ll sing thee to rest in the balloch untrodden,
With a coronach sad for the slain of Culloden.
But long before she had reached the end of it her father’s patience gave way, and he said, “Sheila, we will hef no more of those teffles of songs! We will hef a good song; and there is more than one of the gentlemen can sing a good song, and we do not wish to be always crying over the sorrows of other people. Now be a good lass, Sheila, and sing us a good cheerful song.”
And Sheila, with great good nature, suddenly struck a different key, and sang with a spirit that delighted the old man.
The standard on the braes o’ Mar
Is up and streaming rarely;
The gathering pipe on Lochnagar
Is sounding lang and clearly;
The Highlandmen from hill and glen,
In martial hue, with bonnets blue,
Wi’ belted plaids and burnished blades,
Are coming late and early.
“Now, that is a better kind of song – that is a teffle of a good song,” Mackenzie cried, keeping time to the music with his right foot, as if he were a piper playing in front of his regiment. “Wass there anything like that in your country, Mr. Mosenberg?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said the lad meekly, “but if you like, I will sing you one of our soldiers’ songs. They have plenty of fire in them, I think.”
Certainly, Mackenzie had plenty of brilliant and cheerful and stirring music that evening, but that which pleased him most, doubtless, was to see, as all the world could see, the happiness of his good lass. Sheila, proud and glad, with a light on her face that had not been there for many a day, wanted to do everything at once to please and amuse her guests, and most of all to wait upon her husband; and Lavender was so abashed by her sweet service and her simple ways that he could show his gratitude only by some furtive and kindly touch of the hand as Sheila passed.
It seemed to him she had never looked so beautiful, and never, indeed since they left Stornoway together had he heard her quiet, low laugh so full of enjoyment. What had he done, he asked himself, to deserve her confidence, for it was the hope in her proud and gentle eyes that gave that radiant brightness to her face. He did not know. He could not answer. Perhaps the foregiveness she had so freely and frankly tendered, and the confidence she now so clearly showed in him, sprang from no judgment or argument, but were only the natural fruit of an abounding and generous love. More than once that night he wished that Sheila could read the next half-dozen years as though in some prophetic scroll, that he might show her how he would endeavor to prove himself, if not unworthy – for he could scarcely hope that – at least conscious of her great and unselfish affection, and as grateful for it as a man could be.
They pushed their enjoyment to such a late hour of the night that when they discovered what time it was, Mackenzie would not allow one of them to venture out into the dark to find the path down to the yacht, and Duncan and Scarlett were forthwith called on to provide the belated guests with some more or less haphazard sleeping accommodation.
“Mr. Mackenzie,” said Johnny, “I don’t mind a bit if I sleep on the floor. I’ve just had the jolliest night I ever spent in my life. Mosenberg, you’ll have to take the Phœbe back to Greenock by yourself; I shall never leave Borva any more.”
“You will be sober in the morning, Mr. Eyre,” young Mosenberg said; but the remark was unjust, for Johnny’s enthusiasm had not been produced by the old king’s whisky, potent as that was.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE PRINCESS SHEILA
“I SHOULD like,” said Mrs. Edward Ingram, sitting down and contentedly folding her hands in her lap – I should so much like, Edward, to have my own way for once, it would be so novel and so nice.”
Her husband was busy with a whole lot of plans all stretched out before him, and with a pipe which he had some difficulty in keeping alight. He did not even turn around as he answered. “You have your own way always. But you can’t expect to have mine also, you know.”
“Do you remember,” she said, slowly, “anything your friend Sheila told you about your rudeness to people? I wish, Edward, you would leave those ragged children and their school-houses for three minutes. Do! I so much want to see some places when we go to Scotland, for who knows when we may be there again? I have set my heart on the Braes of Yarrow. And Loch Awe by moonlight. And the Pass of Glencoe – ”
“My dear child,” he said at last, turning around in his chair, “how can we go to those places? Sheila says Oban on the fifteenth.”
“But what Sheila says isn’t an Act of Parliament,” said the young American lady, plaintively and patiently. “Why should you regulate all your movements by her? You are always looking to the North: you are like the spires of the churches that are said to be always telling us that Heaven is close by the Pole Star.”
“The information is inaccurate, my dear,” Ingram said, looking at his pipe, “for the spires of the churches on the other side of the world point the other way. However, that does not matter. How do you propose to go rampaging all over Scotland, and still be at Oban on the fifteenth?”
“Telegraph to Mr. and Mrs. Lavender to come on to Edinburgh, and leave the trip to Lewis until we have seen those places. For, once we have got to that wild island, who knows when we shall return? Now, do, like a good boy. You know this new house of theirs will be all the drier in a month’s time. And their yacht will be all the more ship-shape. And both Sheila and her husband will be the better for coming down among civilized folks for a week’s time – especially just now, when numbers of their friends must be in the Highlands; and, of course, you get better attention at the hotels when the season is going on, and they have every preparation made; and I am told the heather and fern on the hills look very fine in August; and I am sure Mr. and. Mrs. Lavender will enjoy it very much if we get a carriage somewhere and leave the railways altogether, and drive by ourselves all through the prettiest districts.”
She wished to see the effect of her eloquence on him. It was peculiar. He put his pipe down and gravely repeated these lines, with which she was abundantly familiar:
“Sez vather to I, ‘Jack, rin arter him, du!’
Sez I to vather, ‘I’m darned if I du!’ ”
“You won’t?” she said.
“The proposal comes too late. How can you expect Sheila to leave her new house, and that boy of hers, that occupies three-fourths of her letters, just at this time. I think it was very kind of her, mind you, to come away down to Oban to meet us; and Lavender, too, is giving up the time out of the best working season of the year. Bless you! you will see far more beautiful things as we go from Oban to Lewis than any you have mentioned. For we shall probably cut down by Scarba and Jura before going up to Skye; and then you will see the coast that you admired so much in Lavender’s pictures.”
“Is the yacht a large one, Edward?” his wife asked, somewhat timidly.
“Oh, big enough to take our party a dozen times over.”
“Will she tumble about much, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Ingram said with an unkindly grin. “But as you are a weak vessel, Lavender will watch the weather for you, and give it you as smooth as possible. Besides, look at the cleanliness and comfort of a smart yacht! You are thinking of one of those Channel steamers, with their engines and oil.”
“Let us hope for the best,” said his wife, with a sigh.
They not only hoped for it, but got it. When they left the Crinan and got on board the big steamer that was to take them up to Oban, all around them lay a sea of soft and shining blue, scarcely marred by a ripple. Here and there sharp crags that rose out of the luminous plain seemed almost black, but the farther islands lay soft and hazy in the heat, with the beautiful colors of August tinting the great masses of rock. As they steamed northward through the shining sea, new islands and new channels appeared until they came in sight of the open Atlantic, and that, too, was as calm and as still as a summer night. There was no white cloud in the blue vault of the sky, there was no crisp curl of a wave on the blue plain of the sea, but everywhere a clear, radiant, salt-smelling atmosphere, the drowsy haze of which was only visible when you looked at the distant islands and saw the fine and pearly vail of heat that was drawn over the soft colors of the hills. The sea-birds dipped and disappeared as the big boat churned its way onward. A white solan, far away by the shores of Mull, struck the water as he dived, and sent a jet of spray into the air. Colonsay and Oronsay became as faint clouds on the Southern horizon, the jagged coast of Lorne drew near. And then they went up through the Sound of Kerrara and steamed into the broad and beautiful bay of Oban, and behold! here was Sheila on the pier, already waving a handkerchief to them, while her husband held her arm, lest in her excitement she should go too near the edge of the quay.
“And where is the boat that we have heard so much of?” said Mrs. Kavanagh, when all the kissing and handshaking was over.
“There!” said Sheila, not without some shamefaced pride, pointing to a shapely schooner that lay out in the bay, with her white decks and tall spars shining in the afternoon sun.
“And what do you call her?” asked Mrs. Kavanagh’s daughter.
“We call her Princess Sheila,” said Lavender. “What do you think of the name?”
“You couldn’t have got a better,” Ingram said, sententiously, and interposing as if it was not within his wife’s province to form an opinion of any sort. “And where is your father, Sheila? In Borva?”
“Oh, no, he is here,” the girl said, with a smile. “But the truth is, he has driven away to see some gentlemen he knows, to ask if he can have some grouse for you. He should have been back by this time.”
“I would not hurry him, Sheila,” Ingram said, gravely. “He could not have gone on a more admirable errand. We must await his return with composure. In the meantime, Lavender, do make your fellows stop that man; he is taking away my wife’s trunk to some hotel or other.”
The business of getting the luggage on board the yacht was entrusted to a couple of men whom Lavender left on shore, whereupon the newly-arrived travelers put off in a little pinnace and were conveyed to the side of the handsome schooner. When they were on board an eager exploration followed; and if Sheila could only have undertaken to vouch for the smoothness of the water for the next month, Mrs. Ingram was ready to declare that at last she had discovered the most charming and beautiful and picturesque fashion of living known to civilized man. She was delighted with the little elegancies of the state-rooms; she was delighted with the paintings on the under skylights, which had been done by Lavender’s own hand; she was delighted with the whiteness of the decks and the height of the tapering spars; and she had no words for her admiration of the beautiful sweep of the bay, the striking ruins of the old castle at the point, the rugged hills rising behind the white houses, and out there in the West the noble panorama of mountain and island and sea.
“I am afraid, Mrs. Ingram,” Lavender said, “you will have cause to know Oban before we leave it. There is not a breath of wind to take us out of the bay.”
“I am content,” she said, “with a gracious calm.”
“But we must get you up to Borva, somehow. There it would not matter how long you were becalmed, for there is plenty to see about the island. But this is a trifle commonplace, you know.”
“I don’t think so at all. I am delighted with the place,” she said. “And so are you, Edward.”
Ingram laughed. He knew she was daring him to contradict her. He proposed he should go ashore and buy a few lines with which they might fish for young saithe or lythe over the side of the yacht, but this project was stopped by the appearance of the King of Borva, who bore triumphant proof of the success of his mission in a brace of grouse held up in each hand as a small boat brought him out to the yacht.
“And I was seeing Mr. Hutcheson,” Mackenzie said to Lavender, as he stepped on board, “and he is a ferry good-natured man whatever, and he says if there is no wind at all he will let one of his steamers take the yacht up to Loch Sunart, and if there is a breeze at all we will get it there.”
“But why should we go in quest of a breeze?” Mrs. Ingram said, petulantly.
“Why, mem,” said Mackenzie, taking the matter seriously, “you was not thinking we could sail a boat without wind? But I am no sure that there will not be a breeze before night.”
Mackenzie was right. As the evening wore on and the sun drooped in the West, the aspect of affairs changed somewhat, and there was now and again a sort of shiver apparent on the surface of the lake-like bay. When, indeed, the people on board came up on deck, just before dinner they found a rather thunderous-looking sunset spreading over the sky. Into the clear saffron glory of the Western sky some dark and massive purple clouds had risen. The mountains of Mull had grown light and milk-like, and yet they seemed near. The glass-like bay began to move, and the black shadow of a ship that lay on the gleaming yellow plain began to tremble as the water cut lines of light across the reflection of the masts. You could hear voices afar off. Under the ruins of the castle and along the curves of the coast the shadows of the water were a pure green, and the rocks were growing still more sharp and distinct in the gathering dusk. There was a cold smell of the sea in the air. And then swiftly the pale colors of the West waxed lurid and fierce, the mountains became of a glowing purple, and then all the plain of the sea was dashed with a wild glare of crimson, while the walls of Dunolly grew black, and overhead the first scouts of the marshaling forces of the clouds came up in flying shreds of gold and fire.
“Oh, ay, we may hef a breeze the night,” Mackenzie said.
“I hope we shan’t have a storm,” Mrs. Ingram said.
“A storm? Oh, no; no storm at all. It will be a ferry good thing if the wind lasts till the morning.”
Mackenzie was not at all sure that there would be storm enough, and went down to dinner grumbling over the fineness of the weather. Indeed, when they came on deck again later on in the night, even the slight breeze that he had hoped for seemed impossible. The night was perfectly still. A few stars had come out overhead, and their light scarcely trembled on the smooth waters of the bay. A cold, fresh scent of seaweed was about, but no wind. The orange lights in Oban burned pale and clear, the red and green lamps of the steamers and yachts in the bay did not move. And when Mrs. Ingram came up to take Sheila forward to the bow of the boat, to sit down there to have a confidential talk with her, a clear and golden moon was rising over the sharp black ridge of Kerrara into the still and beautiful skies, and there was not a ripple of the water along the sides of the yacht to break the wonderful silence of the night.
“My dear,” she said, “you have a beautiful place to live in.”
“But we do not live here,” Sheila said, with a smile. “This is to me as far away from home as England can be to you when you think of America. When I came here for the first time I thought I had got into another world, and that I should never be able to get back again to the Lewis.”
“And is the island you live in more beautiful than this place?” she asked, looking around on the calm sea, the lambent skies and the far mountains beyond, which were gray and ghost-like in the pale glow of the moon.
“If you see our island on such a night as this, you will say it is the most beautiful place in the world. It is the Winter-time that is bad, when we have rain and mist for weeks together. But after this year I think we shall spend all the Winters in London, although my husband does not like to give up the shooting and boating; and that is very good amusement for him when he is tired with his work.”
“That island life certainly seems to agree with him,” said Mrs. Ingram, not daring even to hint that there was any further improvement in Sheila’s husband than that of mere health: “I have never seen him look so well and strong. I scarcely recognized him on the pier, he was so brown; and – and – and I think his sailor clothes suit him so well. They are a little rough, you know; indeed, I have been wondering whether you made them yourself.”
Sheila laughed: “I have seen you look at them. No, I did not make them. But the cloth, that was made on the island, and it is very good cloth whatever.”
“You see what a bad imitation of your costume I am compelled to wear. Edward would have it, you know. I think he’d like me to speak like you, if I could manage it.”
“Oh, no, I am sure he would not like that,” Sheila said, “for many a time he used to correct me; and when he first came to the island I was very much ashamed, and sometimes angry with him.”
“But I suppose you got accustomed to his putting everybody right?” said Mr. Ingram’s wife, with a smile.
“He was always a very good friend to me,” Sheila said, simply.
“Yes, and I think he is now,” said her companion, taking the girl’s hand and forcing herself to say something of that which lay at her heart, and which had been struggling for utterance during all this beating about the bush. “I am sure you could not have a better friend than he is; and if you only knew how pleased we both are to find you so well and so happy – ”
Sheila saw the great embarrassment in her companion’s face, and she knew the good feeling that had driven her to this stammering confession. “It is very kind of you,” she said, gently. “I am very happy; yes, I do not think I have anything more to wish for in the world.”
There was no embarrassment in her manner as she made this simple avowal, her face was clear and calm in the moonlight, and her eyes were looking somewhat distantly at the sea and the island near. Her husband came forward with a light shawl and put it around her shoulders. She took his hand and for a moment pressed it to her lips. Then he went back to where Ingram and old Mackenzie were smoking, and the two women were left to their confidences. Mrs. Kavanagh had gone below.
What was this great noise next morning of the rattling of chains and the flapping of canvas overhead? There was a slight motion in the boat and a plashing of water around her sides. Was the Princess Sheila getting under weigh?
The various noises ceased, so also did the rolling of the vessel, and apparently all was silent and motionless again. But when the ladies had dressed and got up on deck, behold they were in a new world! All around them were the blue waters of Loch Linnhe, lit up by the brilliant sunshine of the morning. A light breeze was just filling the great white sails, and the yacht, heeling over slightly, was cutting her placid way through the lapping waves. How keen was the fresh smell of the air! Sea-gulls were swooping down and around the tall masts; over there the green island of Lismore lay bright in the sunshine; the lonely hills of Morven and the mountains of Mull had a thousand shades of color growing on their massive shoulders and slopes; the ruins of Duart Castle, out at the point, seemed too fair and picturesque to be associated with dark legends of blood. Were these faint specks in the South the far islands of Colonsay and Oronsay? Lavender brought his glass to Mrs. Ingram, and, with many apologies to all the ladies for having woke them up so soon, bade her watch the flight of two herons making in for the mouth of Loch Etive.
They had postponed for the present that Southward trip to Jura. The glass was still rising, and the appearance of the weather rendered it doubtful whether they might have wind enough to make such a cruise anything but tedious. They had taken advantage of the light breeze in the morning to weigh anchor and stand across for the Sound of Mull; if it held out, they would at least reach Tobermony, and take their last look at a town before rounding Ardnamurchan and making for the wild solitudes of Skye.
“Well, Cis,” Ingram said to his wife, as he busied himself with a certain long fishing-line, “what do you think of the Western Highlands?”
“Why did you not tell me of these places before?” she said, rather absently, for the mere height of the mountains along the Sound of Mull – the soft green woods leading up to the great bare shoulders of purple and gray and brown above – seemed to draw away one’s eyes and thoughts from surrounding objects.
“I have often. But what is the use of telling?”
“It is the most wonderful place I have ever seen,” she said. “It is so beautiful and so desolate at the same time. What lovely colors there are everywhere – on the sea, and on the shores there, and up the hills – and everything is so bright and gleaming! But no one seems to live here. I suppose you couldn’t; the loneliness of the mountains and the sea would kill you.”
“My dear child, these are town-bred fancies,” he said, in his usual calm and carelessly sententious manner. “If you lived there, you would have plenty to do besides looking at the hills and the sea. You would be glad of a fine day to let you go out and get some fish or go up the hills and get some blackcock for your dinner; and you would not get sad by looking at fine colors, as towns-folk do. Do you think Lavender and Sheila spend their time in mooning up in that island of theirs? and that, I can tell you, is a trifle more remote and wild than this is. They’ve got their work to do, and when that is done they feel comfortable and secure in a well-built house, and fairly pleased with themselves that they have earned some rest and amusement. I dare say if you built a cottage over there, and did nothing but look at the sea and the hills and the sky at night, you would very soon drown yourself. I suppose if a man were to give himself up for three months to thinking of the first formation of the world, and the condition of affairs before that happened, and the puzzle about how the materials ever came to be there, he would grow mad. But few people luckily have the chance of trying. They’ve got their bread to earn: if they haven’t, they’re bent on killing something or other – foxes, grouse, deer, and what not – and they don’t bother about the stars, or what lies just outside the region of the stars. When I find myself getting miserable about the size of a mountain, or the question as to how and when it came there, I know that it is time to eat something. I think breakfast is ready, Cis. Do you think you have the nerve to cut this hook out of my fingers? and then we can go below.”