The Lilac Sunbonnet: A Love Story
from the side], much practised in Galloway, and at which Jock was
a remarkable adept. Soon he had them excited enough for anything,
and pursued them with many loud outcryings till they were
scattered far over the moor.
When he came back he said: "Mistress MacMorrine, I ken brawly that
ye'll be wushin' to mak' me some sma' recompense for my trouble
an' haste. Weel, I'll juist open my errand to ye. Ye see the way
o't was this: There is twa gentlemen shooters on the moors, the
Laird o' Balbletherum an' the Laird o' Glower-ower-'em-twa
respectit an' graund gentlemen. They war wantin' some luncheon,
but they were that busy shootin' that they hadna time to come, so
they says to me, 'Jock Gordon, do ye ken an honest woman in this
neighbourhood that can supply something to eat at a reasonable
chairge?' 'Yes,' says I, 'Mistress MacMorrine is sic a woman, an'
nae ither.' 'Do ye think she could pit us up for ten days or a
fortnight?' says they. 'I doot na', for she's weel plenisht an'
providit,' I says. 'Noo, I didna ken but ye micht be a lang time
detained wi' the kye (as indeed ye wad hae been, gin I hadna come
to help ye), an' as the lairds couldna be keepit, I juist took up
the bit luncheon that I saw on your kitchie table, an' here it is,
on its way to the wames o' the gentlemen--whilk is an honour
till't.'"
Mistress MacMorrine did not seem to be very well pleased at the
unceremonious way in which Jock had dealt with the contents of her
larder, but the inducement was too great to be gainsaid.
"Ye'll mak' it reasonable, nae doot," said Jock, "sae as to gie
the gentlemen a good impression. There's a' thing in a first
impression."
"Tak' it till them an' welcome--wi' the compliments o' Mrs.
MacMorrine o' the Blue Bell, mind an' say till them. Ye may
consider it a recognition o' yer ain trouble in the matter o' the
kye; but I will let the provost hear o't on the deafest side o'
his heid when he ca's for his toddy the nicht."
"Thank ye, mistress," said Jock, quickly withdrawing with his
purchases; "there's nocht like obleegements for makin' freends."
At last Ralph saw Jock coming at full speed over the moor.
He went forward to him anxiously.
"Is it all right?" he asked.
"It's a' richt, an' a' paid for, an' mair, gin ye like to send
Jock for't; an' I wasna to forget Mistress MacMorrine's
compliments to ye intil the bargain."
Ralph looked mystified.
"Ye wadna see the Laird o' Balbletherum? Did ye?" said Jock,
cocking his impudent, elvish head to the side.
"Who is he?" asked Ralph.
"Nor yet the Laird o' Glower--ower--'em?"
"I have seen nobody from the time you went away," said Ralph.
"Then we'll e'en fa' to. For gin thae twa braw gentlemen arena
here to partake o' the guid things o' this life, then there's the
mair for you an' Jock Gordon."
Jock never fully satisfied Ralph's curiosity as to the manner in
which he obtained this provender. Luckie Morrine bestowed it upon
him for services rendered, he said; which was a true, though
somewhat abbreviated and imperfect account of the transaction.
What the feelings of the hostess of the Blue Bell were when night
passed without the appearance of the two lairds, for whom she had
spread her finest sheets, and looked out her best bottles of wine,
we have no means of knowing. Singularly enough, for some
considerable time thereafter Jock patronized the "Cross Keys" when
he happened to be passing that way. He "preferred it to the Blue
Bell," he said.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
UNDER THE BED HEATHER.
So refreshed, Ralph and Jock passed on their way. All the forenoon
they plodded steadily forward. From Moniaive they followed the
windings of a flashing burn, daching and roaring in a shallow
linn, here and there white with foam and fretting, and again
dimpling black in some deep and quiet pool. Through the ducal
village of Thornhill and so northward along the Nithside towards
the valley of the Menick they went. The great overlapping purple
folds of the hills drew down about these two as they passed. Jock
Gordon continually scoured away to either side like a dog fresh
off the leash. Ralph kept steadily before him the hope in his
heart that before long the deep cleft would be filled up and that
for always.
It so happened that it was night when they reached the high summit
of the Leadhills and the village of Wanlockhead gleamed grey
beneath them. Ralph proposed to go down and get lodgings there;
but Jock had other intentions.
"What for," he argued, "what for should ye pay for the breadth of
yer back to lie doon on? Jock Gordon wull mak' ye juist as
comfortable ablow a heather buss as ever ye war in a bed in the
manse. Bide a wee!"
Jock took him into a sheltered little "hope," where they were shut
in from the world of sheep and pit-heads.
With his long, broad-bladed sheath-knife Jock was not long in
piling under the sheltered underside of a great rock over which
the heather grew, such a heap of heather twigs as Ralph could
hardly believe had been cut in so short a time. These he compacted
into an excellent mattress, springy and level, with pliable
interlacings of broom.
"Lie ye doon there, an' I'll mak' ye a bonnie plaidie," said Jock.
There was a little "cole" or haystack of the smallest sort close
at hand. To this Jock went, and, throwing off the top layer as
possibly damp, he carried all the rest in his arms and piled it on
Ralph till he was covered up to his neck.
"We'll mak' a' snod [neat] again i' the mornin'!" he said. "Noo,
we'll theek [thatch] ye, an' feed ye!" said Jock comprehensively.
So saying, he put other layers of heather, thinner than the
mattress underneath, but arranged in the same way, on the top of
the hay.
"Noo ye're braw an' snug, are ye na'? What better wad ye hae been
in a three-shillin' bed?"
Then Jock made a fire of broken last year's heather. This he
carefully watched to keep it from spreading, and on it he roasted
half a dozen plover's eggs which he had picked up during the day
in his hillside ranging. On these high moors the moor-fowls go on
laying till August. These being served on warmed and buttered
scones, and sharpened with a whiff of mordant heather smoke, were
most delicious to Ralph, who smiled to himself, well pleased under
his warm covering of hay and overthatching of heather.
After each egg was supplied to him piping hot, Jock would say:
"An' isna that as guid as a half-croon supper?"
Then another pee-wit's egg, delicious and fresh--
"Luckie Morrine couldna beat that," said Jock.
There was a surprising lightness in the evening air, the elastic
life of the wide moorland world settling down to rest for a couple
of hours, which is all the night there is on these hill-tops in
the crown of the year.
Jock Gordon covered himself by no means so elaborately as he had
provided for Ralph, saying: "I hae covered you for winter, for
ye're but a laddie; the like o' me disna need coverin' when the
days follow yin anither like sheep jumpin' through a slap."
Ralph was still asleep when the morning came. But when the young
sun looked over the level moors--for they were on the very top of
the heathery creation--Jock Gordon made a little hillock of dewy
heather to shelter Ralph from the sun. He measured at the same
time a hand's breadth in the sky, saying to himself, "I'll wakken
the lad when he gets to there!" He was speaking of the sun.
But before the flood of light overtopped the tiny break-water and
shot again upon Ralph's face, he sat up bewildered and astonished,
casting a look about him upon the moorland and its crying birds.
Jock Gordon was just coming towards him, having scoured the face
of the ridge for more plover's eggs.
"Dinna rise," said Jock, "till I tak' awa' the beddin'. Ye see,"
continued the expert in camping out on hills, "the hay an' the
heather gets doon yer neck an' mak's ye yeuk [itch] an' fidge a'
day. An' at first ye mind that, though after a while gin ye dinna
yeuk, ye find it michty oninterestin'!"
Ralph sat up. Something in Jock's bare heel as he sat on the grass
attracted his attention.
"Wi', Jock," he said, infinitely astonished, "what's that in yer
heel?"
"Ou!" said Jock, "it's nocht but a nail!"
"A nail!" said Ralph; "what are ye doin' wi' a nail in yer foot?"
"I gat it in last Martinmas," he said.
"But why do you not get it out? Does it not hurt?" said Ralph,
compassionating.
"'Deed did it awhile at the first," said Jock, "but I got used to
it. Ye can use wi' a'thing. Man's a wunnerful craitur!"
"Let me try to pull it out," said Ralph, shivering to think of the
pain he must have suffered.
"Na, na, ye ken what ye hae, but ye dinna ken what ye micht get. I
ken what I hae to pit up wi', wi' a nail in my fit; but wha kens
what it micht be gin I had a muckle hole ye could pit yer finger
in? It wadna be bonny to hae the clocks howkin' [beetles digging]
and the birdies biggin' their nests i' my heel! Na, na, it's a
guid lesson to be content wi' yer doon-settin', or ye may get
waur!"
It was in the bright morning light that these two took the
Edinburgh road, which clambered down over the hillsides by the
village of Leadhills into the valley of the Clyde. Through
Abingdon and Biggar they made their way, and so admirable were
Jock's requisitioning abilities that Winsome's green purse was
never once called into action.
When they looked from the last downward step of the Mid-Lothian
table-land upon the city of Edinburgh, there was a brisk starting
of smoke from many chimneys, for the wives of the burgesses were
kindling their supper fires, and their husbands were beginning to
come in with the expectant look of mankind about meal-time.
"Come wi' me, Jock, and I'll show ye Edinburgh, as ye have showed
me the hills of heather!" This was Ralph's invitation.
"Na," said Jock, "an' thank ye kindly a' the same. There's muckle
loons there that micht snap up a guid-lookin' lad like Jock, an'
ship him ontill their nesty ships afore he could cry 'Mulquarchar
and Craignell!' Jock Gordon may be a fule, but he kens when he's
weel aff. Nae Auld Reekies for him, an' thank ye kindly. When he
wants to gang to the gaol he'll steal a horse an' gang daicent!
He'll no gang wi' his thoom in his mooth, an' when they say till
him, 'What are ye here for?' be obleeged to answer, 'Fegs, an' I
dinna ken what for!' Na, na, it wadna be mensefu' like ava'. A'
the Gordons that ever was hae gaen to the gaol--but only yince.
It's aye been a hangin' maitter, an' Jock's no the man to turn
again the rule an' custom o' his forebears. 'Yince gang, yince
hang,' is Jock's motto."
Ralph did not press the point. But he had some unexpected feeling
in saying good-bye to Jock. It was not so easy. He tried to put
three of Winsome's guineas into his hand, but Jock would have none
of them.
"ME wi' gowden guineas!" he said. "Surely ye maun hae an ill-wull
at puir Jock, that wusses ye weel; what wad ony body say gin I
poo'ed out sic a lump of gowd? 'There's that loon Jock been
breakin' somebody's bank,' an' then 'Fare-ye-weel, Kilaivie,' to
Jock's guid name. It's gane, like his last gless o' whusky, never
to return."
"But you are a long way from home, Jock; how will you get back?"
"Hoots, haivers, Maister Ralph, gin Jock has providit for you that
needs a' things as gin ye war in a graund hoose, dinna be feared
for Jock, that can eat a wamefu' o' green heather-taps wi' the dew
on them like a bit flafferin' grouse bird. Or Jock can catch the
muir-fowl itsel' an' eat it ablow a heather buss as gin he war a
tod [fox]. Hoot awa' wi' ye! Jock can fend for himsel' brawly.
Sillar wad only tak' the edge aff his genius."
"Then is there nothing that I can bring you from Edinburgh when I
come again?" said Ralph, with whom the coming again was ever
present.