The Trail of 98 | Page 3

Roman
soldier of fortune; I was a Highland outlaw of the Rebellion. Always I
fought for a lost cause, and always my sympathies were with the rebel.
I feasted with Robin Hood on the King's venison; I fared forth with
Dick Turpin on the gibbet-haunted heath; I followed Morgan, the
Buccaneer, into strange and exotic lands of trial and treasure. It was a
wonderful gift of visioning that was mine in those days. It was the
bird-like flight of the pure child-mind to whom the unreal is yet the
real.
Then, suddenly, I arrived at a second phase of my mental growth in
which fancy usurped the place of imagination. The modern equivalents
of Romance attracted me, and, with my increasing grasp of reality, my
gift of vision faded. As I had hitherto dreamed of knight-errants, of
corsairs and of outlaws, I now dreamed of cowboys, of gold-seekers, of
beach-combers. Fancy painted scenes in which I, too, should play a
rousing part. I read avidly all I could find dealing with the Far West,
and ever my wistful gaze roved over the grey sea. The spirit of
Romance beaconed to me. I, too, would adventure in the stranger lands,
and face their perils and brave their dangers. The joy of the thought
exulted in my veins, and scarce could I bide the day when the roads of
chance and change would be open to my feet.
It is strange that in all these years I confided in no one. Garry, who was
my brother and my dearest friend, would have laughed at me in that
affectionate way of his. You would never have taken us for brothers.
We were so different in temperament and appearance that we were
almost the reverse of each other. He was the handsomest boy I have
ever seen, frank, fair-skinned and winning, while I was dark, dour and
none too well favoured. He was the best runner and swimmer in the
parish, and the idol of the village lads. I cared nothing for games, and
would be found somewhere among the heather hills, always by my lone
self, and nearly always with a story book in my pocket. He was clever,
practical and ambitious, excelling in all his studies; whereas, except in
those which appealed to my imagination, I was a dullard and a dreamer.
Yet we loved each others as few brothers do. Oh, how I admired him!

He was my ideal, and too often the hero of my romances. Garry would
have laughed at my hero-worship; he was so matter-of-fact, effective
and practical. Yet he understood me, my Celtic ideality, and that shy
reserve which is the armour of a sensitive soul. Garry in his fine clever
way knew me and shielded me and cheered me. He was so buoyant and
charming he heartened you like Spring sunshine, and braced you like a
morning wind on the mountain top. Yes, not excepting Mother, Garry
knew me better than any one has ever done, and I loved him for it. It
seems overfond to say this, but he did not have a fault: tenderness,
humour, enthusiasm, sympathy and the beauty of a young god--all that
was manfully endearing was expressed in this brother of mine.
So we grew to manhood there in that West Highland country, and
surely our lives were pure and simple and sweet. I had never been
further from home than the little market town where we sold our sheep.
Mother managed the estate till Garry was old enough, when he took
hold with a vigour and grasp that delighted every one. I think our little
Mother stood rather in awe of my keen, capable, energetic brother.
There was in her a certain dreamy, wistful idealism that made her
beautiful in my eyes, and to look on she was as fair as any picture.
Specially do I remember the delicate colouring of her face and her eyes,
blue like deep corn-flowers. She was not overstrong, and took much
comfort from religion. Her lips, which were fine and sensitive, had a
particularly sweet expression, and I wish to record of her that never
once did I see her cross, always sweet, gentle, smiling.
Thus our home was an ideal one; Garry, tall, fair and winsome; myself,
dark, dreamy, reticent; and between us, linking all three in a perfect
bond of love and sympathy, our gentle, delicate Mother.
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