The Lilac Sunbonnet: A Love Story
heritage of the woman to be the stronger in the crises which
inevitably wait upon love and love's achievement.
Winsome bent to kiss, with a touch like a benediction, not his
lips now but his brow, as he stood beneath her on the hill slope.
"Go," she said; "go quickly, while I have the strength. I will be
brave. Be thou brave also. God be with thee!"
So Ralph turned and fled while he could. He dared not trust
himself to look till he was past the hill and some way across the
moor. Then he turned and looked back over the acres of heather
which he had put between himself and his love.
Winsome still stood on the hill-top, the sun shining on her face.
In her hand was the lilac sunbonnet, making a splash of faint pure
colour against the blonde whiteness of her dress. Ralph could just
catch the golden shimmer of her hair. He knew but he could not see
how it crisped and tendrilled about her brow, and how the light
wind blew it into little cirrus wisps of sun-flossed gold. The
thought that for long he should see it no more was even harder
than parting. It is the hard things on this earth that are the
easiest to do. The great renunciation is easy, but it is
infinitely harder to give up the sweet, responsive delight of the
eye, the thought, the caress. This also is human. God made it.
The lilac sunbonnet waved a little heartless wave which dropped in
the middle as if a string were broken. But the shining hair blew
out, as a waft of wind from the Bennan fretted a moving patch
across the loch.
Ralph flung out his hand in one of the savage gestures men use
when they turn bewildered and march away, leaving the best of
their lives behind them.
So shutting his eyes Ralph plunged headlong into the green glades
of the Kenside and looked no more. Winsome walked slowly and
sedately back, not looking on the world any more, but only twining
and pulling roughly the strings of her sunbonnet till one came
off. Winsome threw it on the grass. What did it matter now? She
would wear it no longer. There was none to cherish the lilac
sunbonnet any more.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWA'.
Winsome came back to a quiet Craig Ronald. The men were in the
field. The farmsteading was hushed, Meg not to be seen, the dogs
silent, the bedroom blind undrawn when she entered to find the key
in the door. She went within instantly and threw herself down upon
the bed. Outside, the morning sun strengthened and beat on the
shining white of the walls of Craig Ronald, and on Ralph far
across the moors.
Winsome must wait. We shall follow Ralph. It is the way of the
world at any rate. The woman always must wait and nothing said.
With the man are the keen interests of the struggle, the grip of
opposition, the clash of arms. With the woman, naught worth
speaking of--only the silence, the loneliness, and waiting.
Ralph went northward wearing Winsome's parting kiss on his brow
like an insignia of knighthood. It meant much to one who had never
gone away before. So simple was he that he did not know that there
are all-experiencing young men who love and sail away, clearing as
they go the decks of their custom-staled souls for the next
action.
He stumbled, this simple knight, blindly into the ruts and pebbly
water courses down which the winter rains had rushed, tearing the
turf clean from the granite during the November and February
rains.
So he journeyed onward, heedless of his going.
To him came Jock Gordon, skipping like a wild goat down the Bennan
side.
"Hey, mon, d'ye want to drive intil Loch Ken? Ye wad mak' braw
ged-bait. Haud up the hill, breest to the brae."
Through his trouble Ralph heard and instinctively obeyed. In a
little while he struck the beautiful road which runs north and
south along the side of the long loch of Ken. Now there are fairer
bowers in the south sunlands. There are Highlands and Alp-lands of
sky-piercing beauty. But to Galloway, and specially to the central
glens and flanking desolations thereof, one beauty belongs. She is
like a plain girl with beautiful eyes. There is no country like
her in the world for colour--so delicately fresh in the rain-
washed green of her pasture slopes, so keen the viridian
[Footnote: Veronese green] of her turnip-fields when the dew is on
the broad, fleshy, crushed leaves, so tender and deep the blue in
the hollow places. It was small wonder that Ralph had set down in
the note-book in which he sketched for future use all that passed
under his eye:
"Hast thou seen the glamour that follows
The falling of summer rain-
The mystical blues in the hollows,
The purples and greys on the plain?"
It is true that all these things were but the idle garniture of a
tale that had lost its meaning to Ralph this morning; but yet in
time the sense that the beauty and hope of life lay about him
stole soothingly upon his soul. He was glad to breathe the
gracious breaths of spraying honeysuckle running its creamy riot
of honey-drenched petals over the hedges, and flinging daring
reconnaissances even to the tops of the dwarf birches by the
wayside.
So quickly Nature eased his smart, that--for such is the nature of
the best men, even of the very best--at the moment when Winsome
threw herself, dazed and blinded with pain, upon her low white bed
in the little darkened chamber over the hill at Craig Ronald,
Ralph was once more, even though with the gnaw of emptiness and
loss in his heart, looking forward to the future, and planning
what the day would bring to him on which he should return.
Even as he thought he began to whistle, and his step went lighter,
Jock Gordon moving silently along the heather by his side at a
dog's trot. Let no man think hardly of Ralph, for this is the
nature of the man. It was not that man loves the less, but that
with him in his daring initiative and strenuous endeavour the
future lies.
The sooner, then, that he could compass and overpass his
difficulties the more swiftly would his face be again set to the
south, and the aching emptiness of his soul be filled with a
strange and thrilling expectancy. The wind whistled in his face as
he rounded the Bennan and got his first glimpse of the Kells
range, stretching far away over surge after surge of heather and
bent, through which, here and there, the grey teeth of the granite
shone. It is no blame to him that, as he passed on from horizon to
horizon, each step which took him farther and farther from Craig
Ronald seemed to bring him nearer and nearer to Winsome. He was
going away, yet with each mile he regained the rebounding spirit
of youth, while Winsome lay dazed in her room at Craig Ronald. But
let it not be forgotten that he went in order that no more she
might so lie with the dry mechanic sobs catching ever and anon in
her throat. So the world is not so ill divided, after all. And,
being a woman, perhaps Winsome's grief was as dear and natural to
her as Ralph's elastic hopefulness.
Soon Ralph and Jock Gordon were striding across the moors towards
Moniaive. Ralph wished to breakfast at one of the inns in New
Galloway, but this Jock Gordon would not allow. He did not like
that kind o' folk, he said.
"Gie's tippens, an' that'll serve brawly," said Jock.
Ralph drew out Winsome's purse; he looked at it reverently and put
it back again. It seemed too early, and too material a use of her
love-token.
"Nae sillar in't?" queried Jock. "How's that? It looks brave and
baggy."
"I think I will do without for the present," said Ralph.
"Aweel," said Jock, "ye may, but I'm gaun to hae my breakfast a'
the same, sillar or no sillar."
In twenty minutes he was back by the dykeside, where he had left
Ralph sitting, twining Winsome's purse through his fingers, and
thinking on the future, and all that was awaiting him in Edinburgh
town.
Jock seemed what he had called Winsome's purse--baggy.
Then he undid himself. From under the lower buttons of his long
russet "sleeved waistcoat" with the long side flaps which, along
with his sailor-man's trousers, he wore for all garment, he drew a
barn-door fowl, trussed and cooked, and threw it on the ground.
Now came a dozen farles of cake, crisp and toothsome, from the
girdle, and three large scones raised with yeast.
Then followed, out of some receptacle not too strictly to be
localized, half a pound of butter, wrapped in a cabbage-leaf, and
a quart jug of pewter.
Ralph looked on in amazement.
"Where did you get all these?" he asked.
"Get them? Took them!" said Jock succinctly. "I gaed alang to
Mistress MacMorrine's, an' says I, 'Guid-mornin' till ye,
mistress, an' hoo's a' wi' ye the day?' for I'm a ceevil chiel
when folks are ceevil to me."
"'Nane the better for seein' you, Jock Gordon,' says she, for
she's an unceevil wife, wi' nae mair mainners nor gin she had just
come ower frae Donnachadee--the ill-mainnered randy.
"'But,' says I, 'maybes ye wad be the better o' kennin' that the
kye's eatin' your washin' up on the loan. I saw Provost Weir's
muckle Ayreshire halfway through wi' yer best quilt,' says I.
"She flung up her hands.
"'Save us!' she cries; 'could ye no hae said that at first?'
"An' wi' that she ran as if Auld Hornie was at her tail, screevin'
ower the kintra as though she didna gar the beam kick at twa
hunderweicht guid."
"But was that true, Jock Gordon?" asked Ralph, astounded.
"True!--what for wad it be true? Her washin' is lyin' bleachin',
fine an' siccar, but she get a look at it and a braw sweet. A race
is guid exercise for ony yin that its as muckle as Luckie
MacMorrine."
"But the provisions--and the hen?" asked Ralph, fearing the worst.
"They were on her back-kitchen table. There they are now," said
Jock, pointing with his foot, as though that was all there was to
say about the matter.
"But did you pay for them?" he asked.
"Pay for them! Does a dowg pay for a sheep's heid when he gangs
oot o' the butcher's shop wi' yin atween his teeth, an' a twa-pund
wecht playin' dirl on his hench-bane? Pay for't! Weel, I wat no!
Didna yer honour tell me that ye had nae sillar, an' sae gaed it
in hand to Jock?"
Ralph started up. This might be a very serious matter. He pulled
out Winsome's purse again. In the end he tried first there was
silver, and in the other five golden guineas in a little silken
inner case. One of the guineas Ralph took out, and, handing it to
Jock, he bade him gather up all that he had stolen and take his
way back with them. Then he was to buy them from Luckie MacMorrine
at her own price.
"Sic a noise aboot a bit trifle!" said Jock. "What's aboot a bit
chuckle an' a heftin' o' cake? Haivers!"
But very quickly Ralph prevailed upon him, and Jock took the
guinea. At his usual swift wolf's lope he was out of sight over
the long stretches of heather and turf so speedily that he arrived
at the drying-ground on the hillside before Luckie MacMorrine,
handicapped by her twenty stone avoirdupois, had perspired
thither.
Jock met her at the gate.
"Noo, mistress," exclaimed Jock, busily smoothing out the wrinkles
and creases of a fine linen sheet, with "E. M. M." on the corner,
"d'ye see this? I juist gat here in time, and nae mair. Ye see,
thae randies o' kye, wi' their birses up, they wad sune hae seen
the last o' yer bonny sheets an' blankets, gin I had letten them."
Mistress MacMorrine did not waste a look on the herd of cows, but
proceeded to go over her washing with great care. Jock had just
arrived in time to make hay of it, before the owner came puffing
up the road. Had she looked at the cows curiously it might have
struck her that they were marvellously calm for such ferocious
animals. This seemed to strike Jock, for he went after them,
throwing stones at them in the manner known as "henchin'" [jerking