Robert Michael Ballantyne - Freaks on the Fells - Three Months' Rustication

Now, it must be known that Mr Sudberry knew as much about trout and salmon-fishing as that celebrated though solitary individual, “the man in the moon.” Believing that bright, dry, sunny weather was favourable to this sport, his heart failed him when the barometer became so prophetically depressed, and he moved about the parlour with quick, uneasy steps, to the distress of his good wife, whose work-box he twice swept off the table with his coat-tails, and to the dismay of George, whose tackle, being spread out for examination, was, to a large extent, caught up and hopelessly affixed to the same unruly tails.

Supper and repose finally quieted Mr Sudberry’s anxious temperament; and when he awoke on the following morning, the sun was shining in unclouded splendour through his window. Awaking with a start, he bounced out of bed, and, opening his window, shouted with delight that it was a glorious fishing-day.

The shout was addressed to the world at large, but it was responded to only by Hobbs.

“Yes, sir, it is a hexquisite day,” said that worthy; “what a day for the Thames, sir! It does my ’art good, sir, to think of that there river.”

Hobbs, who was standing below his master’s window, with his coat off, and his hands in his waistcoat-pockets, meant this as a happy and delicate allusion to things and times of the past.

“Ah! Hobbs,” said Mr Sudberry, “you don’t know what fishing in the Highlands is, yet; but you shall see. Are the rods ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the baskets and books?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, ah! I forgot—the flasks and sandwiches—are they ready, and the worms?”

“Yes, sir; Miss Lucy’s a makin’ of the san’wiches in the kitchen at this moment, and Maclister’s a diggin’ of the worms.”

Mr Sudberry shut his window, and George, hearing the noise, leaped out of bed with the violence that is peculiar to vigorous youth. Fred yawned.

“What a magnificent day!” said George, rubbing his hands, and slapping himself preparatory to ablutions; “I will shoot.”

“Will you—a–ow?” yawned Fred: “I shall sketch. I mean to begin with the old woman’s hut.”

“What! do you mean to have your nose plucked off and your eyes torn out at the beginning of our holiday?”

“Not if I can help it, George; but I mean to run the risk—I mean to cultivate that old woman.”

“Hallo! hi!” shouted their father from below, while he tapped at the window with the end of a fishing-rod. “Look alive there, boys, else we’ll have breakfast without you.”

“Ay, ay, father!” Fred was up in a moment.

About two hours later, father and sons sallied out for a day’s sport, George with a fowling-piece, Fred with a sketch-book, and Mr Sudberry with a fishing-rod, the varnish and brass-work on which, being perfectly new, glistened in the sun.

“We part here, father,” said George, as they reached a rude bridge that spanned the river about half a mile distant from the White House. “I mean to clamber up the sides of the Ben, and explore the gorges. They say that ptarmigan and mountain hares are to be found there.”

The youth’s eye sparkled with enthusiasm; for, having been born and bred in the heart of London, the idea of roaming alone among wild rocky glens up among the hills, far from the abodes of men, made him fancy himself little short of a second Crusoe. He was also elated at the thought of firing at real wild birds and animals—his experiences with the gun having hitherto been confined to the unromantic practice of a shooting-gallery in Regent Street.

“Success to you, George,” cried Mr Sudberry, waving his hand to his son, as the latter was about to enter a ravine.

“The same to you, father,” cried George, as he waved his cap in return, and disappeared.

Five minutes’ walk brought them to the hut of the poor old woman, whose name they had learned was Moggy.

“This, then, is my goal,” said Fred, smiling. “I hope to scratch in the outline of the interior before you catch your first trout.”

“Take care the old woman doesn’t scratch out your eyes, Fred,” said the father, laughing. “Dinner at five— sharp , remember.”

Fred entered the hovel, and Mr Sudberry, walking briskly along the road for a quarter of a mile, diverged into a foot-path which conducted him to the banks of the river, and to the margin of a magnificent pool where he hoped to catch his first trout.

And now, at last, had arrived that hour to which Mr Sudberry had long looked forward with the most ardent anticipation. To stand alone on a lovely summer’s day, rod in hand, on the banks of a Highland stream, had been the ambition of the worthy merchant ever since he was a boy. Fate had decreed that this ambition should not be gratified until his head was bald; but he did not rejoice the less on this account. His limbs were stout and still active, and his enthusiasm was as strong as it was in boyhood. No one knew the powerful spirit of angling which dwelt in Mr Sudberry’s breast. His wife did not, his sons did not. He was not fully aware of it himself, until opportunity revealed it in the most surprising manner. He had, indeed, known a little of the angler’s feelings in the days of his youth, but he had a soul above punts, and chairs, and floats, and such trifles; although, like all great men, he did not despise little things. Many a day had he sat on old Father Thames, staring, with eager expectation, at a gaudy float, as if all his earthly hopes were dependent on its motions; and many a struggling fish had he whipped out of the muddy waters with a shout of joy. But he thought of those days, now, with the feelings of an old soldier who, returning from the wars to his parents’ abode, beholds the drum and pop-gun of his childhood. He recalled the pleasures of the punt with patronising kindliness, and gazed majestically on crag, and glen, and bright, glancing stream, while he pressed his foot upon the purple heath, and put up his fishing-rod!

Mr Sudberry was in his element now. The deep flush on his gladsome countenance indicated the turmoil of combined romance and delight which raged within his heaving chest, and which he with difficulty prevented from breaking forth into an idiotic cheer. He was alone, as we have said. He was purposely so. He felt that, as yet, no member of his family could possibly sympathise with his feelings. It was better that they should not witness emotions which they could not thoroughly understand. Moreover, he wished to surprise them with the result of his prowess—in regard to which his belief was unlimited. He felt, besides, that it was better there should be no witness to the trifling failures which might be expected to occur in the first essay of one wholly unacquainted with the art of angling, as practised in these remote glens.

The pool beside which Mr Sudberry stood was one which Hector Macdonald had pointed out as being one of the best in the river. It lay at the tail of a rapid, had an eddy in it, and a rippling, oily surface. The banks were in places free from underwood, and only a few small trees grew near them. The shadow of the mountain, which reared its rugged crest close to it, usually darkened the surface, but, at the time we write of, a glowing sun poured its rays into the deepest recesses of the pool—a fact which filled Mr Sudberry, in his ignorance, with delight; but which, had he known better, would have overwhelmed him with dismay. In the present instance it happened that “ignorance was bliss,” for as every fish in the pool was watching the angler with grave upturned eyes while he put up his rod, and would as soon have attempted to swallow Mr Sudberry’s hat as leap at his artificial flies, it was well that he was not aware of the fact, otherwise his joy of heart would have been turned into sorrow sooner than there was any occasion for.