Lyle reading —
“Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battle-fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
“In our isle’s enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
“Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil nor night of waking.”
Lyle looked up. There were tears in his wife’s blue eyes.
“Is it not beautiful, Ethel?” he said. “There is the true ring of martial poesy about every line that Walter writes.”
“Yes,” said Ethel, with a sigh, “it is beautiful; but oh, dear Arnold! I wish you were not quite so fond of warlike verses.”
“Ethel, I am a soldier.”
“Yes, poor boy, and must soon go away to the wars again. I cannot bear to think of it, Arnold. When last you were gone, how slowly went the time. The days and weeks and months seemed interminable. I do not wish to think of it. Let us be happy while we may. Put away that book.”
Lyle did as he was told. He took one of his wife’s fair tresses in his hand and kissed it, and looked into her face with a fond smile.
Man and wife – but lovers yet.
“Heigho!” he said, getting up and pulling aside the heavy crimson curtains to look out, “heigho! these partings must come. It must be sad sometimes to be a soldier’s wife.”
“It would be less sad, Arnold, if I could share your wanderings.”
“What, Ethel! you, my tender, too fragile wife? Think what you say, child.”
She let the work that she had resumed drop once more in her lap, and gazed up at him as he bent over the high-backed chair.
“Why not I as well as others?”
“Our children, dear one. My beautiful Effie and bold Leonard.”
“They have your blood and mine in their veins, Arnold. They are wise and they are brave.”
Arnold mused for a little.
“And we,” he said, “have few friends, and hardly a relative living.”
“All the more reason, Arnold, I should be near you, that we should be near each other. No, dear, I have thought of it all, planned it all; and if your colonel will but permit Captain Lyle’s wife to be among the chosen few who accompany their gallant husbands to the seat of war, I shall rejoice, and you may believe me when I say our children shall not be unhappy.”
Captain Lyle put his arm around her, and drew her closer towards him.
“I never refused any request you made, Ethel, and if the colonel, as you say, will but permit, I will not refuse you this.”
“Oh, thank you, Arnold! thank your kind and good unselfish heart. You have indeed taken a load off mine. I feel happy now, I feel younger, Arnold; for truly I was beginning to grow old.”
She laughed a half-hysteric laugh of joy.
“You may read to me now,” she added, re-seating herself in the high-backed chair, “and it can be all about war if you like.”
He took up the book and commenced at random —
“’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in Fairyland,
When fairy birds are singing,
When the court doth ride by their monarch’s side,
With bit and bridle ringing.
And gaily shines the Fairyland.”
Captain Lyle got no further just then. Hurried steps were heard in the hall, the door was thrown unceremoniously open, and in rushed old Peter the butler, pale as death, and wringing his shining hands.
“Augh!” he gasped, clutching at the wall, “they’ve done it noo! They’ve done it noo! Oh that I should hae lived to see this day o’ wreck and ruin to the old hoose o’ Lyle. Ochone! ochone! o-chrie!”
“In the name of goodness, Peter, are you crazy, or is the house on fire? Speak, man!” cried Captain Lyle.
“Hoose on fire? Na, na; it’s waur and waur than that. But still there’s hope, sir. I have him in a tub, and though he is lying on his side he’s gasping yet. Hallo! there they come.”
In rushed Effie and Leonard, bright-eyed and rosy with joy and excitement.
Effie ran to her father’s arms.
Leonard ran to his mother.
“We’ve caught Joe!” they both cried at once.
“I hooked him,” cried Effie.
“I hauled him up,” cried Leonard.
“And we both hauled him out.”
“Dool1 on the day for the hoose o’ Glen Lyle,” exclaimed Peter, rolling his eyes.
“Come, father, come. Peter put him in a tub.”
Captain Lyle followed Effie. There, sure enough, in the tub of water lay Joe, the monarch of the loch. Peter pointed to the animal’s tail.
“How strange!” said Captain Lyle, as well he might, for a huge gold ring ran through the last vertebrae, and attached to this a plate, with the letters L.L., and the date 17 – plainly visible.
A few minutes afterwards Joe seemed to recover all of a sudden, and began tearing round and round the tub, his huge jaws snapping and his eyes glaring like a demon’s.
Every one started back astonished, but old Peter’s antics were a sight to see.
He seized a big wooden lid and clapped it over the tub, and set himself on top thereof. Then he addressed himself to the cook —
“Run, ye auld roodas,” he roared; “run to the kitchen, and fetch the biggest kettle-pot ye can lay yer claws on!”
The pot was duly fetched, and clapped upside down on top of the lid on the tub.
Then Peter flung his cap to the roof of the hall, and shouted, “Saved, saved! The auld hoose is saved yet.”
Now after that Captain Lyle drew old Peter aside. What the old man communicated to his young master the reader may learn in good time; but certain it is, that in less than half an hour Joe found himself back once more in his old quarters, not very much the worse for his singular adventure, and that within a week a high wooden palisade was placed all round the lake, with only one gate, and that padlocked. Leonard wondered, and so did his
Dool,
