The Heather-Moon
cottages in the suburbs would have looked Irish if they had not been too
preternaturally clean. In the streets of Newton-Stewart there was not so
much as a stray stick or bit of paper. It looked to me a deeply
religious place, and Basil said perhaps it was trying to be worthy of
St. Ninian, who first brought Christianity to Scotland. He was a native
of the Solway shore, but went to Rome, where they liked him very much
and made him a bishop. Then he felt impelled to convert his own people,
so he sailed from France and landed at the island of Whithorn, which is
now an excursion place from Newton-Stewart. That sounds irreverent, but,
after all, an excursion is only a kind of pilgrimage; and even if people
are catching fish or eating them, they can be pleased to be at the one
place in Scotland where Christianity has gone on without interruption by
Vikings or others for fifteen hundred years.
Then, besides, Newton-Stewart has a monument of Samuel Rutherford to
live up to. And they ought to have one of his namesake, Samuel
Rutherford Crockett, who has done so much for Galloway.
It was in honour of his "Raiders" that we took the longest way to Ayr.
Some of the best things in that book happened near Loch Trool, so we
wanted to see Loch Trool. Bruce was there too; but this was a Crockett
tour. We should have gone perhaps, even if the run had been dull, for
it's only thirteen miles from Newton-Stewart, paradise of fishermen, to
the hidden lake; but the thirteen miles turned out to be a panorama of
beauty. Sir S. was surprised by its loveliness, though he knew by heart
Burns's poem, "The Banks of the Cree." We did not come at once to the
river; but from House o' Hill (delicious name!) we plunged into a wild,
forgotten paradise. The road lay under an arbour of trees like an
emerald tunnel, with a break here and there in the green wall to show a
blue shimmer of mountains and hills in the distance. We seemed to have
slipped into the hole leading to fairyland and pulled the hole in after
us; but I knew I was not going to enjoy getting there as much as if my
gray bonnet and coat had been on the front seat instead of Mrs. West's
purple beauties. It was suddenly that we came into sight and sound of
the river, and so deep was the stillness that we might have strayed into
the haunt of a sleeping nymph. Nothing moved but the rushing brown
water, and there was no sound, when we stopped to listen, but its joyous
song and the humming of bees in bracken and heather.
Basil can "make believe" more easily and less stiffly than Sir S.,
because he is an author, and used to stringing whimsies together. He and
I "pretended" that the bees were a fairy band, playing to a hidden
audience in a theatre roofed with the silver sheen of arching ferns.
Wafts of perfume came to us, cooled in woodsy dells, or warmed on
sunshiny banks of flowers; but not a soul could be seen anywhere, nor a
house. We knew that this was an inhabited world only by the wires
stretched across the river for the sending of letters and parcels.
Sunset-time had not nearly come yet, but already a silver slit was torn
in the blue of the sky; and for the second time the heather moon was
smiling its bright semicircular smile, as if to say, "Make the most of
me, Barrie, _your_ time is short!" Yet how could I make the most of her
when I could see only my knight's back, with a purple shoulder as close
to his as possible, and the heather moon was _ours_?
Suddenly Basil said, "Oh, there's your heather moon! I thought of you
yesterday after it rose until it set, and wondered what you were doing.
I do believe this _is_ different from other moons. Don't you see, young
as it is, how it has power to change the yellow of the sunlight, seeming
to alloy it with silver?"
I did see, but thought I must have fancied the effect, until he saw it
too. (We often think and see and say the same things, which is nice, but
not so exciting as the society of a man who thinks different things and
makes you argue.) The silver pouring down from that small crescent
seemed to sift through the strong golden light in a separate and
distinct radiance. It shimmered on the sea of waving hills and billowing
mountains that opened out before us, as if sprinkling a glitter of
sequins over the vivid green and amber and purple. Wherever there was
shadow this pale glimmer painted it with ethereal colours, like the
backs of rainbow fish moving under water. I might have jumped out of the
car and found the rainbow key, but nobody wanted it now!
"Just as that young, young moon has power to shine through the strong
afternoon sunlight, so a girl may all in a moment throw her influence
over a group of people older and more experienced than herself," said
Basil, smiling at me, and then at Mrs. James, as if he didn't mind her
hearing the flowery compliment.
"I don't know any such girl in real life," said I; "but you might work
her up for your book."
"I shall have to put her in, if the book's to be written," said he.
By and by we came to the lake, or, rather, far above it; and Sir S.
stopped the car to let us get out and look down. The water was a clear
green with glints of purple, as if beds of heather grew underneath.
There were jagged, bare rocks, and rocks whose shoulders were half
covered as if with torn coats of faded brocade, dim silver of lichen,
and pale pink of wild flowers. I hoped that Sir S. might join me for a
look at the heather moon lying deep in the lake like a broken bracelet,
but he didn't come. He looked at me very kindly from a distance, not
coldly, yet not warmly, and he stayed with Mrs. West.
It was Basil who told me about Robert Bruce and his men hiding here, and
rolling huge stones on the heads of the English soldiers who marched
along the bank of the lake in search of the "outlaws." It seemed as if
nothing terrible could have happened in so sweet a wilderness; but that
was not the only horror. There were other wild deeds in history, and in
the story of the "Raiders," memories of hunts for Covenanters, and great
killings. But now all is peace, and I should have thought Loch Trool
forgotten by the world if, in a dell of birch, rowan, hazel trees, and
great pines like green umbrellas, I had not spied a roof.
Sir S. said it was the roof of Lord Galloway's shooting-lodge, loved by
its owner because it was "out of tourist zone." So much the worse for
tourists! So much the better for Lord Galloway!
I should hate to think of the road to Loch Trool smoking with motor
dust. Of course our own Gray Dragon's pure dust is a different matter!
As we ran out of Crockett land into Ayrshire we came into Wallace land;
for every foot of Scotland is taken up twice over by something or
somebody wonderful. There isn't an inch left for new history-makers. If
we could see those "emanations" Sir S. talks of--those ghost
pictures--as far as the eye could reach we should see men marching,
splendid men and women, too, who have made the world shine with their
deeds, processions coming from every direction, out of the dim beginning
of things up to the present day.
After the wildness of Loch Trool we had a country of plenteousness and
peace. Basil said it was like a Surrey set down by the sea, so I suppose
Surrey has big trees and flowery hedges and rolling downs, purple with
heather. But surely no heather can be as purple as Scottish heather?
The sands of Girvan seemed to float like a golden scarf on the blue sea,
and the town looked a romantic, mediaeval place till we shot into it.
Then we were disillusioned as to its age; but Ailsa Craig was noble in
the distance, and a few members of the gull colony had flapped over to
give town dwellers and visitors a sad serenade. "Gulls, golfers, and
geologists all love Girvan," Basil said.
"Have you put that down in your notebook?" I inquired.
"Not in those words. But I jotted down something about this town in
advance from authorities I've looked up. I generally keep two books
going: one in which I put the things I want to see, and ideas for plots
sometimes tangled up with a sort of diary; and another book of thoughts
about places I have already seen--thoughts I can weave into a story in
one way or another."
"You haven't once written in either of your books to-day!" I accused
him.
"No. I told you I'd given up note-taking for the present. I'm all at
sea. But just now it's a beautiful if not very calm sea."
"When it quiets down you'll begin again," I consoled him. "How I should
love to see a real, live author's notebook! It would be so _useful_ to
know how you manage to--to----"
"Record impressions," Mrs. James helped me out.
Smiling, Basil took from a breast-pocket a small green morocco volume
with a pencil slipped into a loop. Compared to Mrs. West's pretty book,
his was a shabby thing; but it smelt of good cigarettes.
"I'm afraid this will disillusion you," he said, "if you expect
something interesting. I simply make notes of things I want to see, or
jot down thoughts to recall pictures to my mind. Reading over one's
notebook is like glancing over a lot of kodak films. Sometimes one
sticks in a lot of nonsense."
I opened the little volume, and ran my eyes down the short pages.
"Carlisle, Saturday, August Something or Other. Notes for Scotch Tour,"
I read aloud. "Story of honeymoon. English hero--American girl. Aline
wants her Canadian. I see her American. Dispute. Must decide soon.
Reading up Galloway makes me want to go there. Aline says rush straight
on to Ayr, and save time. Hate saving time! Worst economy. More time you
spend, more you have. Must go along coast of Ayr, anyhow. Once lined
with strongholds of great families. See Dunure, Crossaguel, and deuced
lot of others.
"Keats visited Burns's birthplace. Wrote sonnet there. Look this up.
"Burns sought out, along banks of Ayr, places where Wallace was supposed
to have hidden. Good stuff this. Wallace fought all over the place here.
At Irvine, one of his earliest exploits. Kindled big fire, neighbouring
village. When English soldiers marched forth to put fire out, jumped on
them and killed the lot. Stuffed bodies into dungeon of castle at
Irvine. Called 'Wallace Larder' after that. Nasty larders people had in
those days. Read up account Douglas Larder. Compare the two. See which
worse. Why not call Barns of Ayr Wallace Oven? Read up Blind Harry for
picturesque story Barns of Ayr. Far as I remember, English enticed all
neighbouring Scots to powwow of some sort. Wallace expected; delay on
way. Scots executed on some pretext. When Wallace turned up, niece
warned him. He routed up few followers, set fire to barns and burnt
English, who were celebrating triumph over Wallace and his men. When get
to Ayr look this up further.... Word 'Whig' comes first from Ayr. Wonder
why? Look up. Also get Burns glossary. Dialect difficult. Aline won't
read Burns. Fear she's going to fail in this book. Thinks only of one
thing. But no matter. Courage, mon brave!
"Sunday. Had batch bad notices of last book from America. Aline gone to
bed with headache as usual after bad reviews. Says we must economize.
She'll forget when we start and want best suites of rooms with baths
everywhere. I _know_ that book was good. Hang notices! Understand so
well what Job meant when said, 'Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!'
He wanted to criticise it. Each new boil would suggest scathing epithet.
"Monday. Everything changed. Old plot exploded in thousand pieces.
Mustn't be honeymoon couple. Heroine radiant young girl, eighteen, hair
red as Circe's, eyes of new-born angel, comes like bombshell into hero's
life. Not good simile, bombshell. Query, hero. Would she fall in love
with man of B. N.'s type? I see another type more probable, but don't
want that.