Story 1—Chapter 3.
First Impressions

Next morning the Sudberrys were awakened to a sense of the peculiar circumstances into which they had plunged, by the lowing of cattle, the crowing of cocks, and the furious barking of collie dogs, as the household of Donald McAllister commenced the labours of a new day.

Of course every member of the Sudberry Family, with the exception of “mamma,” rushed to his or her respective window.

“Oh! how beautiful!” gushed from the heart and lips of Lucy, as she gazed in wonder through the casement, and a shriek burst from Jacky, as he stared in wild delight upon the gorgeous scene that met his view.

We have said that the White House was embedded among the blue hills. It was an old and extremely simple building, having an oblong front, two sides, and a back; two stories, six windows, and one door; which last, imbued, apparently, with a dislike to being shut, was always open. The house appeared to have an insatiable thirst for mountain air, and it was well supplied with this fresh and exhilarating beverage; for it stood in an elevated position on the slope of a mountain, and overlooked a wide tract of flood and fell, on which latter there was little wood, but a luxuriant carpet of grass and heather.

The weather had evidently resolved to make amends for its surly reception of the strangers the previous evening, by greeting them with one of its sweetest Highland smiles in the morning.

When Mr Sudberry, in the exuberance of his delight, ran without hat or coat to a neighbouring knoll, accompanied by all his children, the scene that met his eye was one of surpassing grandeur and beauty. The mists of early morning were rolling up from the loch in white, fleecy clouds, which floated over and partly concealed the sides of the mountains. The upper wreaths of these clouds, and the crags and peaks that pierced through them were set on fire by the rising sun. Great fissures and gorges in the hills, which at other times lay concealed in the blue haze of distance, were revealed by the mists and the slanting rays of the sun, and the incumbent cliffs, bluff promontories, and capes, were in some places sharply defined, in others luminously softened, so that the mountains displayed at once that appearance of solid reality, mingled with melting mystery, which is seen at no period of the day but early morning. The whole scene—water, earth, and sky—was so involved, that no lines of demarcation could be traced anywhere; only bold startling points, melting into blue and white masses that mingled with each other in golden and pearly greys of every conceivable variety. Having said thus much, we need scarcely add that the scene cannot be adequately described.

A light fragrant air met the stout Englishman as he crested the hill, and filled his unaccustomed nostrils with sensations that could not have been excelled had he been greeted by one of “Afric’s spicy gales.” The same air, with telegraphic speed, conveyed to the collie dogs of the place the information that the Sudberrys were abroad; whereupon the whole pack—nine in number—bounded open-mouthed up the hill, with noise and ferocity enough to have alarmed the bravest of the brave. No wonder then that poor Jacky rushed into his father’s knees, being too small to run into his arms. But these seemingly ferocious dogs were in reality the gentlest and meekest of animals.

“Down, Topper, down! down, Lively, lass; come into heel, Swaney,” cried Donald McAllister, as he approached his tenants. “Good-mornin’, miss; mornin’, gentlemen. The Ben has on its nightcap, but I’m thinkin’ it’ll soon take it off.”

Donald McAllister’s English was excellent, but he spoke in a slow, deliberate manner, and with a slightly nasal drawl, which sounded very peculiar in the ears of the Sudberrys,—just as peculiar, in fact, as their speech sounded in the ears of McAllister.

“Ah! you call the white cloud on the mountain-top a nightcap?—good, very good,” cried Mr Sudberry, rubbing his hands. “What a charming place this is, a paradisaical place, so to speak. The dogs won’t bite, will they?” said he, patting the alarmed Jacky on the head.

“No fear o’ the dogs, sir,” returned McAllister; “they’re like lambs. It’s just their way. Ye’ll be for a row on the loch the day, no doot.” The Highlander addressed this remark to George and Fred.

“What!” exclaimed the former, “is there a boat that we can have the use of?”

“’Deed is there, a good safe boat too, that can hold the whole of ye. I’ll show you where the oars lie after breakfast.”

“Capital,” cried Mr Sudberry, rubbing his hands.

“Charming,” exclaimed Lucy, with sparkling eyes.

Master Jacky expressed his glee with a characteristic cheer or yell, that at once set fire to the easily inflamed spirits of the dogs, causing them to resume their excited gambols and furious barking. This effectually stopped the conversation for five minutes.

“I delight in boating,” observed Fred, when McAllister had quelled the disturbance.

“So do I,” said his father; “but fishing is the thing for me. There’s nothing like fishing. You have fine trout in the lake, I believe?”

“Ay, an’ salmon too,” answered McAllister.

“So I’ve heard, so I’ve heard,” said Mr Sudberry, with a glow of excitement and pleasure on his round visage. “We must get our rods and tackle unpacked at once, George. You are a great fisher, no doubt, Mr McAllister?”

“Well, not just that, but I do manage to fill a basket now and then, an’ whiles to land a g’ilse.”

“A gilse!” cried George in surprise, “what is that?”

“It is a small salmon—”

“Oh! you mean a grilse,” interposed Mr Sudberry.

“Yes, I mean that, an’ I said that,” returned McAllister, slowly and with emphasis. “Scienteefic men are not agreed whether the g’ilse is a small salmon or not; I’m of opeenion that it is. But whether or not, it’s a famous fish on the table, and lively enough on the line to delight the heart of every true disciple of Isaac Walton.”

“What, you have read that charming book?” exclaimed Mr Sudberry, looking at the rugged Highlander in some surprise.

“Yes,” replied the other, in the grave quiet manner that was peculiar to him; “I took to it one winter as a sort o’ recreation, after readin’ through ‘Paley’s Evidences.’”

“What!” cried Mr Sudberry, “whose Evidences did you say?”

“Paley’s; ye’ve heard o’ him, dootless.”

“Why, yes,” replied Mr Sudberry, “I have heard of him, but I—I must confess that I have not read him.”

At this point, Jacky’s eye fell on a shaggy little cow which had strayed near to the party, and stood regarding him with a stern inquisitive glance. Remembering the fright he had received so recently from a similar creature, he uttered a tremendous roar, and again sought refuge in his father’s knees. The discussion on Paley was thus cut short; for the dogs—whose chief delight was to bark, though not to bite, as has been libellously asserted of all dogs by Dr Watts—sprang to their feet, divided their forces, and, while two of the oldest kept frisking round and leaping upon the party in a promiscuous manner, as if to assure them of protection in the event of danger, the remainder ran open-mouthed and howling at the cow. That curly-headed, long-horned creature received them at first with a defiant look and an elevated tail, but ultimately took to her heels, to the immense delight of Jacky, whose soul was imbued with a deep and altogether unutterable horror of cattle, especially black cows.

The service which the dogs rendered to him on this occasion induced the boy to make advances of a friendly nature, which were met more than halfway, and the result was the establishment of a good understanding between the Sudberrys and the collie dogs, which ultimately ripened into a lasting friendship, insomuch that when the family quitted the place, Lucy carried away with her a lock of Lively’s hair, cut from the pendent tip of her right ear.

Presently Mr Sudberry pulled out his watch, and, exclaiming that it was breakfast-time, trotted down the hill, followed by his family and escorted by the dogs.

We will pause here to describe Mr Sudberry’s family briefly.

George was the merchant’s eldest son. He was bold, stout, active, middle-sized, and seventeen years of age; full of energy and life, a crack rower, a first-rate cricketer, and generally a clever fellow. George was always jolly.

Fred was about the same height as his brother, two years younger, slender in form, and gentle in disposition, but active, too, when occasion required it. His forte was drawing and painting. Fred was generally quiet and grave. Both brothers were musical.

Lucy had reached the interesting age of sixteen. She was plain, decidedly, but sweet-tempered in the extreme. Her mouth was good, and her eyes were good, and her colour was good, but her nose was a snub,—an undeniable and incurable snub. Her mother had tried to amend it from the earliest hours of Lucy’s existence by pulling the point gently downwards and pinching up the bridge,—or, rather, the hollow where the bridge ought to have been,—but all in vain; the infant turned up its eyes when the operation was going on, and still turned up its nose when it was over. Yes, although there were many of the elements of beauty about Lucy, she was plain—but sweet; always bear that in mind. She was funny too. Not that she made fun of her own free will; but she appreciated fun in others so intensely that she looked funny herself; and she giggled. This was her only fault, she giggled. When the spirit of fun was roused, nothing could stop her. But don’t suppose that she was always giggling; by no means. She was always good and amiable, often grave, and sometimes deeply serious.

Matilda, commonly called Tilly, was a meek, delicate, pretty little girl of eight years old. She was charmingly innocent and ignorant. In the last respect she resembled her mother, who was the only other stupid member of Mr Sudberry’s family. Being deeply impressed with the fact of her ignorance and stupidity, Mrs Sudberry went on the tack of boldly admitting the same, and holding, or affecting to hold, ability and general acquirements in contempt.

Mrs Brown was a female dragon, nurse to Master Jacky and Miss Tilly; she tormented the former, whom she disliked, and spoiled the latter, whom she loved.

Hobbs was the man-servant of the family. He was characterised chiefly by a tendency to drop his h’s in conversation, out of words to which they naturally belonged, and to pick them up and insert them in the most contradictory manner in words with which they had no connection whatever. He was also marked by the strong regard and esteem which he had for his master and family; the stronger regard and esteem which he had for himself; and the easy, good-humoured way in which he regarded the remainder of the world at large as an inferior order of beings.

As for Peter, he has already been described as the timid clerk of humble origin, whose chief duties, while in London, were to wipe up ink and clear away débris. He had been taken with the family to act the part of a page in buttons without the buttons—and to make himself generally useful. Hitherto the page’s bosom had, since leaving London, been a chamber of indescribable terrors. Truly, if, as is said, the anticipation of death be worse than the reality, poor Peter must have suffered a prolonged and continuous death during the last few days. Never having been on a railway before, the first shriek of the whistle pierced him like a knife, the shock of starting rent him, (figuratively), like a thunderbolt. Thereafter, every passing train was an excruciating arrow in his quivering heart, every tunnel was a plunge into the horrible anticipation that “here it was coming at last!” But Peter’s trials were now, for a time, he fondly hoped, at an end. Poor boy! he little knew what was in store for him.