Part 1 (1/2)

Up in Ardmuirland.

by Michael Barrett.

I

PERSONAL

Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and suns.h.i.+ne.

(_Longfellow--”Miles Standish”_)

Val and I, being twins, have always been looked upon as inseparables.

True, we have been often forced apart during life's course; yet, somehow, we have always managed to drift back again into the old companions.h.i.+p which Nature seems to have intended in bringing us into the world together.

Boyhood and youth, as long as school life lasted, slipped by with never a parting. The crux came when we were old enough to choose our respective paths in life. It appeared that Val, although he had never before breathed a word to me--whatever he may have done to Dad--had thoroughly determined to be a priest if he could. I had never felt the ghost of a vocation in that direction, so here came the parting of the ways. Val went to college, and I was left inconsolable.

But I was not allowed to nurse my griefs; plans had been made in my regard also, it appeared.

”Ted,” said Dad quite abruptly one day, ”you'll have to go to Bonn.

That'll be the best place for you, since Oxford is out of the question.

You've got to take my place some day, and you mustn't grow up an absolute dunce. Atfield” (an old school-chum of his) ”is well pleased with the place for his boy, Bill, so you may get ready to travel back with him next week, when the vacation finishes.”

In those days (how long ago I almost blush to record) Catholics were not allowed access to our own universities as they now are, and we Flemings were Catholics to the core, and of old staunch Jacobites, as befitted our Scottish race and name.

So Bill Atfield took me under his wing, and to Bonn I went the very next week. There I remained until the end of my course, returning home for vacations, as a rule, but ending up with a week or two, in company with Dad, in Paris, whither Val had gone for his philosophy. But such rare meetings became rarer still when Val went off to Rome, and I had to take up a profession; and our separation was apparently destined to last indefinitely when Val had been ordained, and I went out to India after a civil service appointment.

And yet so kindly at times is Fate that, quite beyond my most ardent hopes, I have been thrown together with Val, in daily companions.h.i.+p, as long as life permits.

For, as it fell out, I was invalided home at quite an early stage of my public career, and, contrary to all family traditions, disgraced my kin by contracting lung disease--at least, so the doctors have declared, though I have experienced very little inconvenience thereby, except that of being condemned to act the invalid for the rest of my life.

For years I was forced by arbitrary decrees to winter in clement climes, as the only means of surviving till the spring; but now that I am fifty I have emanc.i.p.ated myself from such slavery, and insist on spending winter as well as summer in ”bonnie Scotland.” So far I have found no difference in health and strength. Thus it came about that a long visit to Val lengthened out indefinitely, and is not likely to terminate until one or other of us is removed hence.

The _ego_ appears rather prominently in these introductory paragraphs, it is true, but it was almost unavoidable; for my presence had to be accounted for in Ardmuirland before I could give reminiscences of this delightful spot. Now, however, I am free to speak of other folks; and first of dear old Val.

It was a long and arduous apprentices.h.i.+p (if it is not irreverent so to style it) which Val had to pa.s.s in order to fit himself for priestly work; he was curate for I know not how many years in a large and extremely poor mission in one of our big towns. He worked well and thoroughly, as any one who knows Val will be ready to affirm; but his health would not stand the hard work and close confinement of a town, and he was forced against his will to relinquish his post. His attraction had always been toward a studious life, so it came about that he was sent up here, where he has time to study to his heart's content, since his flock will never be anything but small. Moreover, his share of poor old Dad's worldly substance enables him to live, for the emoluments here would scarcely support a canary-bird.

Yet it must not be supposed that Val is rolling in riches. In the first place, poor Dad had to sell a good deal of property to make good his losses from unfortunate investments, and he had not overmuch to leave us. His worldly wisdom, too, taught him to be sparing with Val.

”He would spend his half in a month, Ted,” said the old Pater shrewdly, when he came to settle his worldly affairs. ”I shall therefore leave the bulk of everything to you, and trust to you to provide liberally for the dear boy.”

Dad's remark is the best possible clue to Val's character. Had he nothing else to give, Val would strip the very coat off his own back, when it was a question of relieving distress. So it is a part of my duty to see that he is clothed and fed as he ought to be, and a difficult job it is at times.

I suppose I ought to give some idea of Val's appearance, if this is to be a proper literary turn-out. When we both were younger, it was commonly said by aunts, uncles, and such like, that one was the image of the other. That would be scarcely a fair description now. I am thin; Val is inclined to become chubby. I have a beard and he is necessarily shaven; he needs gla.s.ses always, and I only for reading.

With these preliminary observations I may say that Val is about five feet six in his shoes, of dark complexion, and with hair inclining to gray. He is quiet in manner, yet withal a charming companion when called upon to talk. The people wors.h.i.+p him; that is the best testimonial of a country priest, and all that I need say about his interior man.

If I did not know for certain that Longfellow never set eyes on Ardmuirland, I should maintain that the lines at the head of this chapter were meant for a description of it. For ”the steel-blue rim of the ocean” is but three miles distant from this heather-clad, wind-swept height, which rises some seven hundred feet above it.