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Tea is over—the
large eggs, snowy scones, and home-made cheese, that loaded the table half
an hour ago, have been satisfactorily demolished; the full-bodied brown
teapot has yielded its final drop, and the crofter’s warm-hearted wife is
at last assured that her hospitality has received ample justice. It is
time to go, for there is a nine miles’ tramp across the island yet to be
done. Wait a little! The good woman and her husband will see us to the
hill by a short path through their fields. She will "just put a peat on
the fire first." Sweet the air is in the doorway, and peaceful is the
hour! The sun is just setting beyond the Cantyre hills, and out there,
over the water, the lonely peaks of Arran are purple in the evening light.
Scarcely a cloud lingers in the clear green sky, and the calm sea stirs
but at intervals with the incoming of the tide. The tan-brown sails of the
fishing-boats that came out of Loch Ranza an hour ago have hardly moved a
mile yet up Kilbrannan Sound. The rooks have gone home to the Mount Stuart
woods, the whirr of the reaping-machine in the cornfield over there has
ceased, all the air is still. The grey smoke rising from thatched roofs
here and there in the little strath tells that the evening meal is being
prepared. Presently the darkness will come down, and the simple crofter
hamlet by the shore will sink to rest. And the weary and the disappointed,
soiled with the dust of the far-off city, striving all their lives after
what they will never win, have forgotten that sweet bread may be earned on
the cornlands, and fair fish caught in the sea; that there is music for
listening, here by the murmuring brooks, and rest in the setting of the
sun.
Soft shadows are gathering
in the hollows of the hills, and the road rising inland through the quiet
moors shows its white winding line among the heather. This wandering
by-path, too, among the fields, is pleasant. Fitches are flowering yet,
purple and yellow, in the hedges, as well as the delicate
harebell—bluebell of Scotland—on the bank below. The wild poppies have
mostly seeded now, but here and there a spot of flame tells where a late
bloom lingers. Among the feathery grasses in this untouched corner of the
field rich heads of the pink clover are still to be seen, and creamy
tufted clouds of meadowsweet rise on their dark stems. Above, amid the
prickly sprays of wild brier, the glossy hips are already a bright yellow,
and on the uncut branches of the thorn clustering bunches of haws are
becoming brown. Along the straight "rigs" of the cornfield here, where the
crofter was shearing to-day, the dusky stooks of oats stand in long rows.
The good man casts a pleased glance along their lines, for the straw is
long this year, and the heads are heavy. There is a quiet satisfaction in
the completion of a day’s work among the fields which never comes to the
mere mercantile toiler. The ploughman strolls forth at night to gaze at
the broad acres he has furrowed, and the eye of the reaper is rewarded
with fair stooks of winnowing grain.
Healthy as could be the
crofter’s children look as they pick their way with bare feet along the
grassy edge of the stubble-field. No one need wonder that their cheeks and
legs are so chubby and brown; for they get their school holidays in
harvest-time, and have been helping their father, all day long, to bind
his sheaves. Both boy and girl have caught the clear blue of heaven in
their eyes; and the straying locks of their bonnetless hair are just the
yellow colour of the corn. Donald, here, will make a sturdy ploughman some
day; and that wild Lizzie will soon be a strapping lass. Theirs are the
free air of the mountain, the lusty bowl of porridge, and thick broth of
stalwart kale.
The road lies close beyond
this plantation. But, take care! the ground is boggy here, and one may
sink over the boot-head in the soft peat. Step on the hussocks of grass,
though, and the footing will be firm enough. In the late light, the higher
branches of the pines up there among their dark green foliage shine as red
as copper: it is the colour of the rich new bark. Not a blade of grass
springs beneath the firs, and the floor of the wood is soft and dry under
foot with its carpet of brown fallen needles. Only the green feathery
fronds of solitary bracken rise here and there in the spaces.
The wood ends at the road,
and our little friendly escort need come no further. A hearty hand-shake
from the crofter; a kindly God-speed from his wife; a laugh and retreat by
Lizzie at suggestion of a kiss; and as we scale the mossy dyke, they turn
back among the trees. A comfortable, contented couple they are, rearing
children that will be healthy and strong as themselves. After all, is not
this the existence that best fulfils life’s real ends? As he cares for the
patient beast and reaps the autumn corn, a man need not be told to glorify
God; and here, under sunshine and starshine, where the fruitful earth
smells fresh with the rainfall and the dew, he cannot help enjoying Him.
The winding lines of
telegraph-poles that mark the road can be seen stretching away for miles
among the hills. The sun has set now, and night, falling earlier in the
late autumn, is coming down. It is the gloaming hour. Out of the
grass-field here by the roadside the trailing-footed kine, with patient
eyes and deep udders, are turning down the hill towards their byre. Their
satisfied breathing fills the air as they pass with the warm sweet scent
of clover. The red-cheeked farm lass fastens the gate-hurdle to its post
when the last beast has gone, and slowly follows it homewards. A comely
lass she is, with eyes like the sloe, and teeth like milk, and doubtless
her sweetheart knows she has a soft voice and a dewy lip. This is the
traditional courting time in the country—
‘Tween the gloamin’ and the mirk,
When the kye come hame.
Not another creature is to
be seen on the upland road; only now and again the lonely cry of the
curlew is still to be heard far off upon the moor. The last field is
passed, and the last shieling lies behind in the valley. The air is full
of the honeyscent of the heather, but the last belated bee hummed
homewards half an hour ago.
The summit of the climb at
last! Look! Down there on the left, dark and silent under the hills, lies
Loch Fad with, on the far edge of it, a glimmer of silver, the reflection
of the full-orbed moon. Could the birth of Aphrodite be fairer, as she
rose from the soft sea of the south? Hark! too, there is the sound of
lingering footfalls on the road in front, and the murmur of a deep bass
voice. The voice suddenly ceases, and two figures linked together drift
past in the dusk. Just a glimpse of shy, happy eyes can be seen—a glimpse
worth remembering—and the outline of a modest face. It is the old, old
story. The lovely Pagan goddess of the far AEgaean has worshippers still
among these simple-hearted people of the hills. Happy rustic dreamers! —
gamekeeper’s lad and gardener’s lass, maybe. Sweet is their courting-place
and courting-time, with the deep woods to listen to their whispers and the
stars to look down in kindly sympathy. Other lovers there are, alas! whose
feet do not tread among the blue forget-me-nots, and for whom no blackbird
warbles the vesper song.
Civilisation, however, is
approaching, and cultivated fields begin to occupy the strath. A hawk,
beating about with broken wing, has alarmed the birds here; peeweets are
startling the night with their untimely cries, and their white breasts
ever and anon glance by the roadside. Was that faint sound the first bell
of the steamer? There is little time to linger. Below, however, shine the
clustered lights of Rothesay; presently the bright firepoints of the
yachts at anchor in the bay appear; the old chapel and its graveyard of
stones mouldering within their wall is passed—a somewhat eerie place under
these dark trees by the roadside;--then, half-way among the quaint houses
of the old town, with their jutting gables, the ancient castle—grey,
silent, moated—where old King Robert III. died of grief at the news that
his son James I. was taken by the English. With threatening clamour the
second bell rings up from the steamer, and, with a wild rush down through
the newer town and across the fashionable esplanade amid the dazzling
lights and fair promenaders of a seaside resort, there is only time to
reach the pier and get on board before the last bell rings and the
moorings are thrown off. |
