Seven o’clock, and a glorious morning! The sun is shining brightly on
the coral-clustered rowan-tree outside, and the sky already is dazzling
blue. A gentle air, too, just stirs the muslin curtain of the window
left open overnight. With it comes in the scent of honey and the hum of
bees at work in the garden below. No morning is this for laziness and a
late breakfast. The impulse to be abroad is born of the sunshine; and
a few minutes serve, after a hurried toilet, to snatch a towel, bound
down stairs, and go tramping across the heather to the well-known pool.
A magnificent day indeed it promises to be. The wreathing night-mists
have already risen from the Bens, and the loch below gleams like
melted sapphire round sylvan island and far-set promontory. Everywhere
the mountains are clad in purple, and from the moor-bloom spreading
its springy carpet underfoot rises a fragrance that fills air and
heart alike with delight. And the river pool--never was found more
delightful bathing-place. Hidden deep between overhanging banks of
heather in flower, with a clean brown ledge of rock to dive from, the
depth of dark, clear water, like amber wine, sparkles with foam-bells,
and the waterfall tosses from the rock above great showers of silver
spray. No more invigorating plunge could be had. For a moment, as he
breasts the brown depths, the bather feels something of the salmon’s
exultant pride; and a dip like that sets one off high-hearted for the
day.
Breakfast is a delight after such an appetiser; and fresh eggs and thin
oatcakes, creamy porridge, golden marmalade, and all the wealth of
Highland fare, disappear with startling despatch. There is no time to
be wasted either, for Archie was to have the boat ready at half-past
nine, and there is a Highland half-mile of road between the house and
the loch. Archie would by no means scruple about expressing his candid,
and perhaps not very complimentary, opinion if the party chanced to be
late; and there is a kind of unwritten law in the house that the old
servant is to be humoured as much as possible. So already the ladies
are concerning themselves with the making and packing of sandwiches,
the due stowage of cold provender, jellies, fruit, milk, _et cetera_,
and the apportioning to each his load. For the luncheon is to be, _bonâ
fide_, a true Robinson Crusoe affair, no servants interfering; and each
man must make himself useful.
“’Deed, and ye’re no that late, efter a’!” is Archie’s magnanimous
reply to a deprecating remark of his mistress on reaching the
loch-side. The sunshine has evidently thawed his usual crustiness.
“Aye, mem,” he replies further, “it’ll be a fine mornin’, a very fine
mornin’; the hills is quite clear.” After which deliverance he holds
the boat steady alongside the little wooden landing-place, while
provisions, kettles, and rugs are stowed away in the bow; and his grey
eyes twinkle with pleased humour under their shaggy brows when the heir
of the house whispers some bit of sly badinage in his ear. “Aye he iss
a fine lad that, a fine lad!” the old fellow will be saying to himself
when the boat has been pushed off, and he watches from the pier the
stalwart object of his remark bestirring himself to haul up the sail.
[Illustration]
There is just enough breeze to curl the water gently; and when the
snowy sheet is hoisted the boat bends away gracefully before it,
leaving a swirling track of foam and eddies in her wake. When the
morning is so fine as this there is little fear of danger; but on these
Highland lochs one never can foretell the moment when a sudden gust may
come down from some hillside corrie; and cool nerves and a steady hand
are needed to control sheet and tiller. The man who loses his wits on
an emergency, who cannot slacken out sail or bring the boat’s head up
to wind when a squall strikes her, is no fit pilot for these waters,
and many a fair freight has gone to the bottom from such an one holding
the helm. A strong and ready hand is in charge to-day, however, and
“black care” is a thing impossible on board, as the little craft goes
bounding out upon the bosom of the loch.
And fair as a romance is the scene--the clear lake winding away among
the mountains, its surface broken only by bosky islets that float in
their own reflections--while the sunny air is full of the awe and
silence of the Bens.
The only spot in all the scene where silence reigns not is on board the
little boat herself; and a continuous ripple of merry chat and joyous
laughter floats away astern with her foam. From wild little islets
passed by the way come breaths of pinewood and of heather in bloom,
faint and delicious as the gales which drifted leeward of old from
homeward-bound spice-argosies of the East. But the bright eyes on board
are an inspiration themselves, independent of the sunshine and the
pure and scented air; and the gladness of youth has broken forth--the
contagion of happy and hopeful hearts. A sweet strain of melody floats
once and again from the bow, where the singing throats are:
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing!
--the Skye Boat Song, a farewell to Prince Charlie, that old-time idol
of the Highland hearts. A sad melody it is, amid its sweetness, as are
all the old Jacobite songs, with their breathing of hopes that were
never to be fulfilled; and somehow, strains like that come to the ear
with more real tenderness when sung as to-day by clear young voices
among their native mountains.
Too soon, almost, the boat’s keel grates upon the island beach--the
strip of silver shingle under the green-fringing trees. One would
fain have prolonged especially the last part of the voyage, through
the straits between the islands--straits like the miniature narrows of
fairy-land, between whose near and bosky shores the fragile shallop
of Oberon and Titania might almost be expected to appear, flying a
web of the woodland gossamers for its sail. But other attractions
enough lie within the island greenwood. There are delicate groups of
birches to be sketched by those who have brought block and colours.
In the rivulet dells some of the young ladies have been promised the
discovery of the much-sought hart’s-tongue fern. And for those who
wish to recall to fancy the place’s romance of the past, there are the
remains of a ruined monastery to explore. But the merriest party of
all, perhaps, is that retained for the preparation of luncheon; and it
is wonderful in how short a time those dainty-fingered damsels have the
tasteful display of linen and crystal and silver spread on a grassy
plot, the clumsy-handed males being retained, after the fashion of the
knights-errant of old, for the opening of baskets and boxes, and the
seeking of leaves wherewith to decorate fruit-salvers, napkins, and the
tablecloth’s centre.
A merry meal it is, too, which follows, _al fresco_--“all in the
greenwood free”--with the contortions of carvers on their knees,
the popping of corks, and continual little explosions of mysterious
laughter from the various groups perched on cloaks and rugs wherever
a seat-hold offers round the roots of some gnarled oak or ash. Never
more gallant do young men appear than when attending the wants of their
fair comrades amid such a scene; and thrice happy is he who has such an
opportunity of laying siege to the heart that he desires.
Then away again over the island they go, in parties of two and three;
and the flutter of a light dress is to be seen and the joyous ripple
of merry laughter to be heard in many a nook and dell hitherto invaded
only by the antlered and timid deer. Many a pleasant word is spoken,
and many a heart mayhap lightened of its care on such an afternoon;
for the anxieties of civilised life come not to a sylvan retreat like
this, and it is impossible to be aught but joyous-spirited when the
surroundings are all of gladness.
But hark! they have caught a piper on the mainland, and have brought
him over, and there is to be a dance on the grass. Yonder he goes,
under the edge of the trees, pouring forth a torrent of Highland
reels. A brave sound that, setting the blood on fire and making
it impossible to sit still. And merrily go the twinkling feet on
the greensward--“figures of eight,” and Reel o’ Tulloch, Highland
Schottische and Highland Fling. Wilder and faster grows the music,
as the piper catches the spirit of the scene, and faster and faster
the dancers foot it, with swirling tartans and flying skirts, till,
at a final blast of the screaming chanter, the last partners throw
themselves panting on the grass. Then a cup of tea makes a kindly
refreshment and prevents heated throats from catching cold, and the
boat has to be got ready, and the furniture of the feast stowed away.
Afterwards, as the clear young moon begins to sparkle in the sky, the
sail is set once more and the prow pointed for home. And if the wind
fails, and some rowing has to be done, the exercise is good for keeping
off the chill; and with song after song floating out across the water
under the stars, a fitting end is made of a day without regrets.