Part 21 (1/2)

”You want to speak with me privately, I think, skipper?”

”Yes, sir, I do,” replied the seaman, with some embarra.s.sment. ”But it iss not fery easy nor pleesant to do so. A man does not like to speak of another man's failin's, you see, but as I am goin' away I'm obleeged to do it. You will hev noticed, sir, that Ivor Tonalson iss raither fond of his tram?”

”I'm afraid that I have observed that--poor fellow.”

”He is a goot man, sir, is Tonalson--a fery goot man--when he iss sober, but he hes got no power to resist the tram. An' whiles he goes on the spree, an' then he gits wild wi' D.T. you know, sir. Noo, ever since we cam' here, Ivor an' me hes been great friends, an' it hes been heavy on my mind to see him like that, for he's a fine man, a superior person, is Ivor, if he would only let alone the whusky. So I hev spoken to him wance or twice--serious like, you know. At first he was not pleased, but the last time I spoke, he took it kindly, an' said he would think aboot what I had been sayin'. Noo, it's heavy on me the thoucht o'

goin' away an' leavin' him in that state, so I thoucht that maybe ye would tak the metter up, sir, an' see what ye can do wi' him. Git him, if ye can, to become a total abstainer, nothin' less than that wull do wi' a man in that condeetion.”

Jackman was greatly surprised, not only at the tenor of the skipper's remarks, but at the evidently deep feeling with which he spoke, for up to that time the reticence and quiet coolness of the man had inclined him to think that his mind and feelings were in harmony with his rugged and sluggish exterior. It was, therefore, with something of warmth that he replied,--”I shall be only too happy to do as you wish, Captain; all the more that I have had some serious thoughts and feelings in that direction. Indeed, I have made up my mind, as it happens, to speak to Ivor on that very subject, not knowing that you were already in the field. I am particularly sorry for his poor old mother, who has suffered a great deal, both mentally and physically, on his account.”

”Ay, that's the warst o' it,” said the skipper. ”It wa.s.s the sicht o'

the poor wumin ailin' in body an' broken heart.i.t that first set me at Ivor.”

”But how comes it, Captain, that you plead so earnestly for _total_ abstinence?” asked Jackman with a smile. ”Have I not heard you defend the idea of moderate drinking, although you consented to sail in a teetotal yacht?”

”Mr Jackman,” said the skipper, with almost stern solemnity, ”it iss all fery weel for men to speak aboot moderate drinkin', when their feelin's iss easy an' their intellec's iss confused wi' theories an'

fancies, but men will change their tune when it iss brought home to themselves. Let a man only see his brither or his mither, or his faither, on the high road to destruction wi' drink, an' he'll change his opeenion aboot moderate drinkin'--at least for hard drinkers--ay, an'

he'll change his practice too, unless he iss ower auld, or his stamick, like Timothy's, canna git on withoot it. An' that minds me that I would tak it kind if ye would write an' tell me how he gets on, for I hev promised to become a total abstainer if _he_ wull.”

That very afternoon, while out shooting on the hills, Jackman opened the campaign by making some delicate approaches to the keeper on the subject, in a general and indirect way, but with what success he could not tell, for Ivor was respectfully reserved.

About the same time John Barret went off alone for a saunter in one of the nearest and most picturesque of the neighbouring glens. He had declined to accompany his comrades that day, for reasons best known to himself. After writing a few letters, to keep up appearances, and to prevent his being regarded as a mere idler, he went off, as we have said, to saunter in the glen.

He had not sauntered far when he came upon a sight which is calculated, whenever seen, to arouse sentiments of interest in the most callous beholder--a young lady painting! It would be wrong to say he was surprised, but he was decidedly pleased, to judge from the expression of his handsome face. He knew who the lady was, for by that time he had studied the face and figure of Milly Moss until they had been indelibly photographed on his--well, on the sensitive-plate of his soul, wherever that lay.

Milly had quite recovered from her accident by that time and had resumed her favourite pursuits.

”I'm very glad to have caught you at work at last, Miss Moss,” he said, on coming up to the picturesque spot on which her easel was erected. ”I wish much to receive that lesson which you so kindly promised to give me.”

”I thought it was just the other way. Did you not say that you would teach me some of those perplexing rules of perspective which my book lays down so elaborately--and, to me, so incomprehensibly?”

”I did, but did not you promise to show me how to manipulate oils--in regard to which I know absolutely nothing? And as practice is of greater importance than theory, you must be the teacher and I the pupil.”

Upon this point they carried on a discussion until Milly, declaring she was wasting her time and losing the effects of light and shade, went seriously to work on the canvas before her. Barret, whose natural colour was somewhat heightened, stood at a respectful distance, looking on.

”You are quite sure, I hope,” said the youth, ”that it does not disturb you to be overlooked? You know I would not presume to do so if you had not promised to permit me. My great desire, for many a day, has been to observe the process of painting in oils by one who understands it.”

How he reconciled this statement with the fact that he was not looking at the picture at all, but at the little white hand that was deftly applying the brush, and the beautiful little head that was moving itself so gracefully about while contemplating the work, is more than we can explain.

Soon the painter became still more deeply absorbed in her work, and the pupil more deeply still in the painter. It was a magnificent sweep of landscape that lay before them--a glen glowing with purple and green, alive with flickering sunlight and shadow, with richest browns and reds and coolest greys in the foreground; precipices, crags, verdant slopes of bracken, pine and birch woods hanging on the hillsides, in the middle distance, and blue mountains mingling with orange skies in the background, with MacRummle's favourite stream appearing here and there like a silver thread, running through it all. But Barret saw nothing of it. He only saw a pretty hand, a blus.h.i.+ng cheek and sunny hair!

The picture was not bad. There was a good deal of crude colour in the foreground, no doubt, without much indication of form; and there was also some wonderfully vivid green and purple, with impossible forms and amazing perspective--both linear and aerial--in places, and Turneresque confusion of yellow in the extreme distance. But Barret did not note that--though by means of some occult powers of comprehension he commented on it freely! He saw nothing but Milly Moss.

It was a glorious chance. He resolved to make the most of it.

”I had no idea that painting in oils was such a fascinating occupation,”

he remarked, without feeling quite sure of what he said.