Freaks on the Fells | Page 4

near as possible," observed his wife, languidly.
"Never mind the cups, my dear, but listen to me. The air of the Highlands is salubrious and bracing--"
"And piercingly cold, my dear John," interrupted Mrs Sudberry.
"In summer," pursued her husband, regardless of the interruption, "it is sometimes as clear and warm as it is in Italy--"
"And often foggy, my dear."
"The mountain scenery is grand and majestic beyond description--"
"Then why attempt to describe it, dear John?"
"The hotels in most parts of the Highlands, though rather expensive--"
"Ah! think of that, my dear."
"Though rather expensive, are excellent; the food is of the best quality, and the wines are passable. Beds--"
"Have they beds, my dear?"
"Beds are generally found to be well aired and quite clean, though of course in the poorer and more remote districts they are--"
"Hush! pray spare my feelings, my dear John."
"Remote districts, they are not so immaculate as one would wish. Then there are endless moors covered with game, and splendid lakes and rivers full of fish. Just think, Mary, what a region for our dear boys to revel in! Think of the shooting--"
"And the dreadful accidents, my dear."
"Think of the fishing--"
"And the wet feet, and the colds. Poor darling Jacky, what a prospect!"
"Think of the glorious sunrises seen from the mountain-tops before breakfast--"
"And the falling over precipices, and broken necks and limbs, dear John."
"Think of the shaggy ponies for our darling Lucy to ride on--"
"Ah! and to fall off."
"And the dew of early morning on the hills, and the mists rolling up from the lakes, and the wild uncultivated beauty of all around us, and the sketching, and walking, and driving--"
"Dreadful!"
"And bathing and boating--"
"And drowning!"
"Not to mention the--"
"Dear John, have pity on me. The pros are too much for me. I cannot stand the thought--"
"But, my dear, the place is taken. The thing is fixed," said Mr Sudberry, with emphasis. Mrs Sudberry was a wise woman. When she was told by her husband that a thing was fixed, she invariably gave in with a good grace. Her powers of dissuasion having failed,--as they always did fail,--she arose, kissed Mr Sudberry's forehead, assured him that she would try to make the most of it, since it was fixed, and left the room with the comfortable feeling, of having acted the part of a dutiful wife and a resigned martyr.
It was towards the close of a doubtful summer's evening, several weeks after the conversation just detailed, that a heavy stage-coach, of an old-fashioned description, toiled slowly up the ascent of one of those wild passes, by which access is gained into the highlands of Perthshire.
The course of the vehicle had for some time lain along the banks of a turbulent river, whose waters, when not brawling over a rocky bed in impetuous velocity, or raging down a narrow gorge in misty spray, were curling calmly in deep pools or caldrons, the dark surfaces of which were speckled with foam, and occasionally broken by the leap of a yellow trout or a silver salmon.
To an angler the stream would have been captivating in the extreme, but his ardour would have been somewhat damped by the sight of the dense copsewood which overhung the water, and, while it added to the wild beauty of the scenery, suggested the idea of fishing under difficulties.
When the coach reached the narrowest part of the pass, the driver pulled up, and intimated that, "she would be obleeged if the leddies and gentlemen would get down and walk up the brae."
Hereupon there descended from the top of the vehicle a short, stout, elderly gentleman, in a Glengarry bonnet, green tartan shooting-coat, and shepherd's-plaid vest and pantaloons; two active youths, of the ages of seventeen and fifteen respectively, in precisely similar costume; a man-servant in pepper and salt, and a little thin timid boy in blue, a sort of confidential page without the buttons. All of them wore drab gaiters and shoes of the thickest conceivable description. From the inside of the coach there issued a delicate elderly lady, who leaned, in a helpless manner, on the arm of a young, plain, but extremely fresh and sweet-looking girl of about sixteen, whom the elder lady called Lucy, and who was so much engrossed with her mother, that some time elapsed before she could attend to the fervent remarks made by her father and brothers in regard to the scenery. There also came forth from the interior of the coach a large, red-faced angry woman, who dragged after her a little girl of about eight, who might be described as a modest sunbeam, and a little boy of about five, who resembled nothing short of an imp incarnate. When they were all out, the entire family and household of Mr Sudberry stood in the centre of that lovely Highland pass, and the coach, which