A pretty sight they are, these two, this fair summer morning, among
the dewy branches of the rose-garden, all unconscious that anyone is
looking at them, Minna, the daughter of the house, her white hands wet
with flowers, is cutting fresh blossoms for the breakfast-table, and
that tall fellow, the Professor, who at home used to get up only when
the college bell was ringing, has actually risen half an hour earlier
than he need have done in order to hold the basket for her. He is not
looking at the costly little circlet of diamonds sparkling upon her
finger, but at the bright dark eyes swimming under the edge of that
delightful straw hat, where, doubtless, he is getting some fresh light
upon the Greek particles. For they are engaged, Minna and he, and he
is coming back in the autumn to carry her off and transplant her, like
some bright-petalled flower, in his dim old college city.
But there is the voice of our host greeting them from the porch below,
and the Professor comes forward eagerly to shake hands with him. Young
Rossdhu has driven down to say that some friends arrived at their house
last night, and his mother will be glad if we can go up to tennis
and luncheon there this morning. No other engagement will be broken
by this, and a day on that velvet lawn among the pine-woods will be
delightful; so the carriage has been ordered for eleven o’clock. The
day promises to be very warm here by the sea, but more air will perhaps
be moving up among the hills, and there will always be the shadow of
the old beeches to rest under. When breakfast is over, then, it will
just be time to get ready, though it is tempting to linger in the
quiet cool little room, at the white-spread table with its freshness
of flowers--the full-blowing Maréchal Niel and the languorous yellow
tea-roses set there by dainty fingers.
Outside, the sunshine is very hot already, and the last dewdrop has
long ago dried from the scarlet petals of the geraniums in the urns.
The ponies at the door, too, are impatiently whisking their tails and
twitching their ears to keep off the flies.
There could be no more enjoyable drive than that along this road
of the far North, running a mile or two first within sight of the
blue glistening sea, and then turning inland. The road itself, of
that dazzling sandy whiteness peculiar to the district, is perfectly
dry and smooth; and while from the deep grasses of the bank on each
side, and from the warren beyond, come the hot passion-breath of the
golden-flowered whin, and the soft amorous sigh of the milky-clouded
thorn, there is ever in sight the broad country, rich in old forests,
showing here and there the grey tower of some ancient castle, and
stretching away to the mountains beyond, purple under the speckless
sky. Then it turns off suddenly into the pine-woods of Rossdhu, and the
wheels roll noiseless upon the soft bed of fir needles.
Forty years ago, when old Rossdhu found that, owing to the repeal
of the Corn Laws, it would no longer be profitable to grow wheat,
like many another proprietor in the North he planted his lands with
trees. And so, while the country buys its bread with the riches of
ore and fossil stored up æons ago in Nature’s grim treasure-caverns
underground, the soil, at rest from plough and harrow, is growing
young again amid the forests, under the brown depth of mouldering leaf
and cone.
Deep quiet reigns among these warm pine-woods, a sort of enchanted
stillness amid the yellow sunshine. In the bosky hollow where the brown
butterfly is hovering, old Pan might be asleep among the fern. The
feathery grasses everywhere are in flower, as high as a man’s shoulder;
above them shimmers the great green dragon-fly, two inches long, with
his gossamer wings; and from among their clouds at places little
ladybird beetles, like pin-heads, spotted scarlet and black, fall into
the carriage in their flight. The wild strawberry, with its tiny white
blossom, is growing on the sunny banks of the road, and wild rasps
spread their tangle in the undergrowth beyond.
In the narrow meadow amidst the woods a lonely mower is at work, and
the air is sweet with the scent of new-mown hay. He lifts his cap
respectfully as the carriage passes, for the manners of the district
have not been corrupted yet by contact with rude railway navvies, nor
by the shortcomings of Board schools; and the peasant still exchanges a
recognition with his superior. Much more real kindliness might exist
between the social classes if in our schools there were a Government
grant for manners. All store nowadays seems to be set upon the three
“Rs”--reading, writing, and arithmetic--as if the whole sum of human
felicity lay in a knowledge of the “black art” of books.
The mower was singing to himself as we came up, a soft Gaelic song
that kept time to the sweep of his scythe, and Minna blushes a little
as she promises to translate it in the evening, for it is a song of
confessed love. The man is happy, surely, singing as he sees the
glistening, swathes fall by his side to ripen in the sun: and well he
may be, for has he not, like the happy birds, a nest, too, somewhere in
these woods, and a blue-eyed brood that will greet his home-coming at
nightfall.
[Illustration]
But the manor-house stands close by now, and there, on the smooth green
lawn among the trees, the tennis nets are spread, and the courts marked
with lines on the grass. A beautiful old place it is, its grey stone
walls hot with the sunshine, and, among the thick-climbing jessamine
and fuchsia, the open windows revealing tempting depths of shadow
within. The sound of the wheels on the gravel brings out old Rossdhu
himself, the soul of hospitality, with half a dozen of his dogs barking
a welcome after their fashion, and wagging their tails. Shaggy-bearded
as some of his own peasants, the old gentleman is the pink of Highland
courtesy, and he assists “Miss Minna” to alight as if she were a
princess. “Alec,” that is his son, he explains, “is busy inside,” and
the frequent popping of corks heard there intimates his occupation.
The dark cool drawing-room is bright with the light dresses of young
girls, and musical with the murmur of happy laughter, while the air
that just stirs the creamy gossamer of the curtains brings in with
it the fragrance of the dark velvety wallflower still flowering
outside in the sunshine before the window. The lady of the house is an
invalid, and Rossdhu begs that Minna will give her just one song before
everybody goes out to the game. So Minna draws off her gloves, and the
piano is opened. And it is very pleasant to sit in the deep shadow
by the open casement, looking out upon the sunny lawn and woods, and
listening to the melody of that sweet young voice. It is a Jacobite
song she sings, “The Auld House”--some other such place as this, with
low-roofed rooms, dark-panelled and oaken-raftered, where the hopes
of gentle hearts blossomed and withered long ago with the fortunes of
their fair, ill-fated Prince. The plaintive words linger with their air
in the memory, how “the auld ladye”--
Here sheltered Scotland’s heir,
And clipped a lock wi’ her ain hand
Frae his lang yellow hair.
Then, afterwards, when everybody has had enough of the ices and the
claret cup, there is the tennis. And though it is somewhat warm work
for those actually playing, there are seats under the leafy beeches and
chestnut-trees, where a quiet _tête-à-tête_ can be enjoyed, and a lazy
glance cast at the lithe, light-clad figures of the players out in the
sunshine, and the white balls that fly to and fro across the nets.