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 corn-field
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 corn-field 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, with its carpet of brown fallen needles, is
soft and dry under foot. 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 farther. A hearty handshake 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 these 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 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 gloaming and the mirk,
When the kye comes hame.
Not another creature is to be seen on the upland road; only, now and
again, the lonely cry of the curlew can still be heard far off upon the
moor. The last field is passed, and the last shieling lies behind in
the valley. The air up here is full of the honey-scent of the heather.
The last belated bee, however, 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 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 Ægæan has worshippers
yet 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 snipe, beating about in the darkness, 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. Close below, however, shine the clustered lights of
Rothesay; presently the bright fire-points 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 had been 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.