Bab Bab 2 · BOOK I CHAPTER II

So in serenity and sunshine the days of my youth went past. I still

maintained my character as a drone and a dreamer. I used my time

tramping the moorland with a gun, whipping the foamy pools of the burn

for trout, or reading voraciously in the library. Mostly I read books of

travel, and especially did I relish the literature of Vagabondia. I had

come under the spell of Stevenson. His name spelled Romance to me, and

my fancy etched him in his lonely exile. Forthright I determined I too

would seek these ultimate islands, and from that moment I was a changed

being. I nursed the thought with joyous enthusiasm. I would be a

frontiersman, a trail-breaker, a treasure-seeker. The virgin prairies

called to me; the susurrus of the giant pines echoed in my heart; but

most of all, I felt the spell of those gentle islands where care is a

stranger, and all is sunshine, song and the glowing bloom of eternal

summer.

About this time Mother must have worried a good deal over my future.

Garry was now the young Laird, and I was but an idler, a burden on the

estate. At last I told her I wanted to go abroad, and then it seemed as

if a great difficulty was solved. We remembered of a cousin who was

sheep-ranching in the Saskatchewan valley and had done well. It was

arranged that I should join him as a pupil, then, when I had learned

enough, buy a place of my own. It may be imagined that while I

apparently acquiesced in this arrangement, I had already determined that

as soon as I reached the new land I would take my destiny into my own

hands.

I will never forget the damp journey to Glasgow and the misty landscape

viewed through the streaming window pane of a railway carriage. I was in

a wondrous state of elation. When we reached the great smoky city I was

lost in amazement not unmixed with fear. Never had I imagined such

crowds, such houses, such hurry. The three of us, Mother, Garry and I,

wandered and wondered for three days. Folks gazed at us curiously,

sometimes admiringly, for our cheeks were bright with Highland health,

and our eyes candid as the June skies. Garry in particular, tall, fair

and handsome, seemed to call forth glances of interest wherever he went.

Then as the hour of my departure drew near a shadow fell on us.

I will not dwell on our leave-taking. If I broke down in unmanly grief,

it must be remembered I had never before been from home. I was but a

lad, and these two were all in all to me. Mother gave up trying to be

brave, and mingled her tears with mine. Garry alone contrived to make

some show of cheerfulness. Alas! all my elation had gone. In its place

was a sense of guilt, of desertion, of unconquerable gloom. I had an

inkling then of the tragedy of motherhood, the tender love that would

hold yet cannot, the world-call and the ruthless, estranging years, all

the memories of clinging love given only to be taken away.

"Don't cry, sweetheart Mother," I said; "I'll be back again in three

years."

"Mind you do, my boy, mind you do."

She looked at me woefully sad, and I had a queer, heartrending prevision

I would never see her more. Garry was supporting her, and she seemed to

have suddenly grown very frail. He was pale and quiet, but I could see

he was vastly moved.

"Athol," said he, "if ever you need me just send for me. I'll come, no

matter how long or how hard the way."

I can see them to this day standing there in the drenching rain, Garry

fine and manly, Mother small and drooping. I can see her with her

delicate rose colour, her eyes like wood violets drowned in tears, her

tender, sensitive lips quivering with emotion.

"Good-bye, laddie, good-bye."

I forced myself away, and stumbled on board. When I looked back again

they were gone, but through the grey shadows there seemed to come back

to me a cry of heartache and irremediable loss.

"Good-bye, good-bye."