Scene: Glen Alva in a winter garb. A morning in December. A glorious
morning and yet how great a change from the day before. For on the west
coast of Scotland changes do come soon and sudden.
Last night, ere gloaming fell, Kenneth had stood at his mother's cottage
door for hours watching the sunset and the weird but splendid
after-glow.
The sun had gone down rosy red and large behind a grey-blue bank of
rock-and-tower clouds that bounded the horizon above the hills. But so
strange and beautiful was the colour that soon spread over the
firmament, with its tints of lavender, yellow, pink, and pale sea-green,
that even Kenneth's mother must hold up her hands and cry,--
"Oh! dear laddie, a sky like that, I fear, bodes no good to the glen."
For uppermost in every one's mind in Glen Alva, at the present time, was
the threatened eviction.
Then, just one hour afterwards, the pink colour had disappeared from the
sky, and the yellow had changed to one of the reddest, fieriest orange
hues ever eyes had looked upon; while away farther round towards the
north the sky was an ocean of darkest green. The trees, ashes and elms,
that bordered a field adjoining the kail-yard, stood strangely out
against this glow; every branchlet and twig seemed traced in ink--the
blackest of the black.
Above this orange, or rather through its upper edge, where it went
melting into the zenith's blue, the stars glimmered green.
But looking earthward, all around the hills and fields were dark and
bare, for winter had not yet donned her mantle of snow.
And now Kenneth has come out of doors almost before the sun is risen,
for there are fowls to be fed, and rabbits and guinea-pigs, and the cow
herself to be seen to, before he takes his own breakfast and starts to
meet Dugald to enjoy a day among the hills.
What a change! The hoar frost has been falling gently all the livelong
night. The good fairies seem to have been at work while others slept,
changing the world to what he now sees it, and so silently too. And
this is what strikes Kenneth as so wonderful: while shrub, and tree, and
weeds, and grass, and heather, are transformed, as it were, into
powdered ice, there is neither loss of shape nor form; not a branch
bends down; not a leaf or twig is out of place. And the very commonest
of objects, too, are turned to marvels of beauty.
The trees point heavenwards with fingers of coral. But to look lower
down. Surely there could be no romance or beauty about a cabbage leaf.
Glance at these then fringed all round with needles and spiculae inches
long; the leaf itself is a shimmering green, dusted over with a frosty
down. The wire-netting around the poultry run, and the cobwebs that
depend from outhouse eaves, are shiny silver lace-work all. A glorious
morning, a wondrous scene; why, even the humble clothes line is changed
into a white and feathery cable, and the tufts of grass that grow on the
pathways are tufts of grass no longer, but radiant bunches of snow-white
feathers.
Adown the glen, where Kenneth wanders at last, everything around him is
of the same magical beauty, a beauty that is increased tenfold when he
reaches the woods. Here, too, all is silence, only the murmur of the
rippling stream, or the peevish twitter of birds, or the complaining
notes of a throstle as she flies outwards from a thicket, scattering the
silvery powder all around her.
But down here in the wood, through the dazzling white of the pine trees,
the cypresses, and spruces and holly, comes a shade, a shimmer of green,
brighter among the pines themselves, darker among the ivy that clings to
their stems. And the seed balls on the ivy itself are globes of
feathery snow, and every spine on the holly leaves is a fairy plume.
Hark! the sound of ringing footsteps on frost-hard road, and a manly
merry voice singing,--
"Cam' ye by Athol, lad wi' the philibeg,
Down by the Tummel and banks o' the Garry?
Saw ye the lad wi' his bonnet and white cockade,
Leaving his mountains to follow Prince Charlie?"
--And next moment, gun on shoulder, sturdy Dugald the keeper stalks
round the corner.
"The top of the mornin' to ye, man," said Dugald. "Have you seen
Archie?"
"No, not yet."
But even as they spoke Archie, bare-headed as usual, is seen coming up
from the side of the stream, with a string of beautiful mountain trout
in his hand.
He climbed up through the icy ferns, leapt the fence, and stood before
them.
"I set twenty lines last night," he said, in joyful accents, "and caught
thirteen trout."
Back the trio went to Mrs McAlpine's cottage, and those fish were fried
for breakfast, with nut-brown tea, cream, and butter and cakes; and if
there be anything in this world better for breakfast than mountain trout
fresh from a stream, I trust some kind soul will send me a hamper of it.
What a day of it they had among the hills, to be sure!
Young as he was, Kenneth had a gun, while Archie did duty as ghillie;
they went miles and miles away up among the mountains where the heather
grew high as their waists--Kenneth's waist and Dugald's, I mean; it was
often over Archie's head. But they came out of this darkness at last,
and shook the snow off their jackets and kilts, and walked on over the
moorland.
Gorcocks stretched their red necks and stared at them in wonder.
Ptarmigans, too cold to fly, ran and hid in the heather, the black cock
and the grey hen often flew past them with a wild whirr-r-r, while far
above, circling round and round in the blue sunny sky, was the bird of
Jove himself.
But it was not the gorcock, nor black cock, nor the ptarmigan, nor the
great golden eagle itself they were after, but the white or mountain
hare.
And the sport was good. They took time to dine, though, for the air was
bracing and keen; then they shot again till nearly sunset, and Kenneth's
cheek flushed redder than usual as Dugald praised him for his skill as a
marksman. But at the same time Dugald praised himself indirectly, for
he added, "But no thanks to you, lad; sure, haven't you had Dugald
McCrane himself to teach you this many a long day?"
Archie was wonderfully strong, but he couldn't carry half the hares, so
Dugald and Kenneth had to help him as well as carry their own and their
guns, and even Shot carried a white hare all the way to the glen below.
"Of course," said Kenneth, "you'll come up the glen, Dugald, to our
cottage, and let us show my mother our game; she will be so pleased."
"'Deed, and I will, then," replied Dugald, "and there will be a pair of
hares for the old lady, too, and one for Nancy the witch--goodness be
about us--for the laird wrote me to say if I killed more than a dozen
and a half to-day, I was to do what I liked with the rest."
"Dear old laird!" said Kenneth; "why doesn't he come down from London
and stay among his people? We all love him so much."
"Ah! Kennie, he has ruined himself, like mony mair Highland lairds, by
stoppin' in the big city, and it's myself that is sorry. But see, wha
comes here?"
It was a tall stranger, dressed in knickerbockers, a broad-brimmed soft
felt hat, and a surtout coat, a very ridiculous association of garments.
He carried a gun over his shoulder, and two beautiful Irish setters
walked behind him. Both dogs were lame.
"Hullo, fellows!" he said. "Glad I've met some one at last. How far
have I to walk to the little inn at the klakkin?"
Dugald threw down his game-bag, so did the others their burdens. No one
was sorry to rest a bit, so they leant against the dyke and quietly
surveyed the stranger. Meanwhile Shot was standing defiantly in front
of the setters.
Shot wanted to know if either of these dogs would oblige him by
fighting, singly or the two at once. But they did not seem inclined to
accept the challenge.
"My good fellow," said the stranger, "when you have stared sufficiently
to satisfy you, perhaps you will be good enough to answer my question."
"Well," said Dugald, "I'm staring because it's astonished I am."
"You'd be more astonished if you knew who I am. But never mind. I've
been travelling all day among these tiresome hills and only managed to
kill one brown hare. I was told at the inn that the white hares were in
hundreds."
"Very likely," said Dugald, "but it's no' in the glen you'll find them.
"You're two miles from the clachan," continued Dugald. "I'm McGregor's
keeper--his chief keeper. I'll trouble you, sir, to show your permit."
"You're a saucy fellow. I'm the future owner of these glens and all the
estate, and lord of Castle Alva."
"I'll believe it when I see it. You're neither lord nor laird yet.
Your permit, please. I believe nobody since two students poached all
over the hills here and called themselves friends of the laird's."
"As to my permit, fellow, I did not trouble to bring it from C--."
"Then you'll consider yourself my prisoner till you can produce it."
The stranger was a man about forty-five, tall and wiry and haughty. He
looked at Dugald up and down for a moment.
"Dare you, fellow?" he shouted.
Dugald quietly laid down his gun and threw off his jacket. He then took
off his scarf, and stretched it out in front of the stranger. It
measured fully a yard and a half.
"I've tied the hands and feet of a poacher before," he said, "a bigger
man than you. And I mean to do my duty by you."
"Dugald," said Kenneth, "this gentleman may really be what he says."
"Let him come quietly, then," replied Dugald. "No stranger that ever
walked will lead Dugald McCrane into trouble again. Is it going to
surrender you are, sir? Consider while I count ten. One--two--three--"
"Enough, enough. I'm your prisoner, fellow. It is very ridiculous.
Perhaps you'll live to rue this day. Come on with me to the inn."
Dugald laughed.
"Not just yet," he answered; "it's the other way; you come with me."
The stranger bit his lip and frowned.
Then he put his hand in his pocket and produced a gold piece.
"This is yours," he said, "if you come at once."
Fire seemed to flash from Dugald's eyes. He clenched his fists
convulsively, and looked for a moment as if he meant to spring at the
stranger's neck.
"Put up your bawbees," he said at length. "If Highlanders are poor,
they are also proud, and the gold isn't dug yet that would tempt Dugald
McCrane to neglect his duty. And if the auld laird himsel' was standing
there, he'd tell you it's the truth I'm speaking. Right about face, my
man, and march with us to the glen-head, or it may be the worse for
you."
The stranger gave a sigh and a sickly kind of smile, but he shouldered
his gun and prepared to follow.
"One minute," said Dugald, for Kenneth had beckoned him aside.
Kenneth and he conversed for a moment; then Dugald returned.
"You look tired," he said, shortly; "we'll go your road. Archie," he
continued, "pick the ice-balls from the feet of those twa poor dogs.
Your dogs, sir, are but little used to our Hielan' hills."
"And indeed, my fine fellow," replied the stranger, "am but little used
to your Highland manners, but grateful to you, young sir,"--he was
addressing Kenneth--"for saving me a longer journey than needful."
In half an hour's time the future laird of Alva, for it was no other,
found himself a prisoner at the little inn of the clachan. This for a
night; next day he produced a letter from McGregor himself--he had
despatched a messenger to C--for it--which quite satisfied Dugald
McCrane.
Dugald was satisfied of something else as well, namely, that he had done
his duty without exceeding it.
Kenneth and Dugald visited Nancy Dobbell's next day and told her the
story.
"Och! och!" she said, "it will be a sore day for the folks of the
clachan, when a stranger steps into the shoes of poor auld Laird
McGregor.
"But a cloud is rising o'er the hills, my laddies; there will be little
more peace in Glen Alva. A cloud is rising o'er the hills, and that
cloud will burst, and wreck and ruin will fall on the poor people. My
dreams have told me this many and many a day since. Heigho! but Nancy's
time is wearin' through. She'll never live to see it."
Kenneth took the old thin hand that lay in her lap in both his, and
looked into her face, while the tears gathered in his eyes.
He was going to say something. But he did not dare trust himself to
speak. He simply petted the poor wrinkled hand.
Is Campbell the poet right, I wonder?
"_Does_ the sunset of life give us mystical lore?
_Do_ coming events cast their shadows before?"