The Trail of 98 | Page 4

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."
CHAPTER III
It was on a day of early Autumn when I stood knee-deep in the heather
of Glengyle, and looked wistfully over the grey sea. 'Twas but a month
later when, homeless and friendless, I stood on the beach by the Cliff
House of San Francisco, and gazed over the fretful waters of another

ocean. Such is the romance of destiny.
Consigned, so to speak, to my cousin the sheep-raiser of the
Saskatchewan, I found myself setting foot on the strange land with but
little heart for my new vocation. My mind, cramful of book notions,
craved for the larger life. I was valiantly mad for adventure; to fare
forth haphazardly; to come upon naked danger; to feel the
bludgeonings of mischance; to tramp, to starve, to sleep under the stars.
It was the callow boy-idea perpetuated in the man, and it was to lead
me a sorry dance. But I could not overbear it. Strong in me was the