Kenneth McAlpine Part 5

"Well, laddies, the Mill House was found deserted one day. The smugglers had gone as quietly as they had come. But the house kept its bad name, and so did the hills above it; and so my story ends."

"Not quite," said Dugald. "Did the brownie never come again, or the kelpie? Were the dead candles seen nae mair?"

"No," said Kenneth; "don't you understand? The brownie was the poor boy, Corbie; the kelpie was a smuggler; and the dead candles the lights seen at night near the cave in the fairy knoll. That was the place where they carried on their sinfu' trade."

"I see things clearly enough noo," said Dugald; "and I'll no' be feared to cross the muir. Ah, well, Grannie, you have relieved my mind."

"I'm glad o' it, laddie. Now will Grannie take down the good Book and read a bit?"

Grannie did.

The talk now took a cheerier turn. Old Nancy, knowing how painfully superst.i.tious Dugald was, refrained from introducing anything more in the shape of either brownie or s.p.u.n.kie. And so a pleasant hour was spent, till the old "wag-at-the-wa'" pointed to the hour of twelve, and warned Kenneth and his friend it was high time to commence retracing their steps across the moor.

CHAPTER FOUR.

GLOAMING IN THE GLEN--KENNIE'S CAVE.

"Gloaming o'er the glen is falling; Little birds have ceased to sing, Flowerets now their petals faulding As night descends on dewy wing."

Anon.

Scene: Half-way down the glen, where heather and patches of tilled land end, and woodland commences. Where the stream goes wimpling and swirling round the boulders, underneath the rustic bridge.

At the corner, where, after crossing the bridge, the road takes a bend, and is soon lost in the gloom of overhanging foliage, Kenneth is seated on a stone.

At his feet lies Kooran, looking very knowing, because he has got his ears p.r.i.c.ked up, and his eyes very wide open, and his head thoughtfully turned a little on one side.

Kooran knows that his master has come there to meet his friend the Highland keeper, and that the retriever Shot will be with him, but the keeper may come down from the brae-land on the right, or up the road from the wood, or he may suddenly appear on the cliff top, after fording the stream and climbing the rocks.

No need for Kenneth to listen; he has only to watch Kooran.

No sound can deceive Kooran. He will not move from that position till the right moment.

Not far from Kooran's extended tail, a field-mouse begins to sing a little song. She is hidden in under the dry moss, through which she has driven all sorts of smooth round tunnels, for quite an engineer is the field-mouse, and the only wonder is she ever finds her way back again to her nest, through such a labyrinthic network of half-lighted lanes.

"Beet-ee-beet-ee-beet-ee-ee-beet-ee." So goes her song.

Kooran never moves his head; all he does is to turn one ear back towards his tail for a moment, but _only_ one ear.

"I hear you," he seems to say. "Sing away, my pretty one you know I'm busy, but wait a wee till Shot comes. Shot and I will soon have you out of there. My eyes! won't we make the turf fly!"

A great bird flies right over a tree, but turns sharply in the air and flies back affrightedly. It was a moor-c.o.c.k, but he didn't know any one was there. He has to take another road home.

A twig snaps; Kenneth looks in that direction. The dog never moves. He knows it is only the polecat trying to reach out to a branch where a thrush has gone to sleep.

The stream makes music in drowsy monotone, but hark! there is a plash.

It is an otter. Kooran knows it, and does not move. Then presently there are close beside them apparently, two sharp dull thuds. It is only mother rabbit beating her heels on the ground to drive her over-bold little ones back into their holes, and to warn every rabbit within hearing that danger is near, and that there are a live dog and a live boy not far off, who can't be after any good.

Sometimes the distant bleating of sheep or the pleasant lowing of kine falls on Kenneth's ear, and anon, far up among the mountains, there is a strange shout, half whoop, half whistle, prolonged and mournful. At first it is repeated about every two seconds; then Quicker and quicker it comes, and wilder and wilder, till it ends in one long quavering scream.

"Whoo-oop, whoo-oop, whoo-oop, whoop, whoop-oop-oop-oop-oo-oo-oo!"

It is the shriek of the curlew as he sails round and round in the air.

"Why, Kooran," says the boy at last, "what can be keeping them?"

Kooran beats his tail twice on the ground, but does not move his body.

"I hope they won't be long, dear doggie."

Kooran beats his tail once against the ground.

This means, "Have patience, master."

The sun goes down behind the hills.

Then comes still Evening on.

In the bonnie Scottish Highlands, reader, in sweet summer-time, or in riper autumn, we cannot say with truth that night falls; no, rather "Evening steals down."

Oh! how gently she is stealing down now on the peaceful scene around Kenneth and Kooran. Far down the glen yonder, where the river broadens out in the valley, there lie long clouds of grey mist, with the tall spruce pines glimmering green and ghost-like through them. They are the trailing garments of Evening. Gradually they change to crimson as the sun's parting rays fall on them.

But day lingers long on the hill-tops, among the steel-grey rocks, among boulders that stand boldly out from the dark background like blocks of snow, and among patches of purple heather. Evening sees that day must go at last, so she hies away to put the flowers to sleep.

"Sleep, sleep, my gentle flowers," she says, "for the day is dying fast, and the dews will fall and blight you."

She whispers to the gowans [mountain daisies] first, and the "wee modest crimson-tipped flowers" fold their petals like sea-anemones, and go softly to sleep. She lightly touches the pimpernels, the crimson and the pink-eyed, and they curl their flower-leaves and sink to rest. She breathes upon the wild convolvulus that trails among the gra.s.s, and it twists up its silken blossoms till they look like little wisps of calico, pink and white. Even the hardy heather bells creep closer together, and the star-like blossoms of the bramble that clothe the banks shrink smaller as she brushes them with her wings.

Then Evening speaks to the west wind.

"Blow softly, gentle west wind," she says; "blow softly through the feathery larches and the needled pines; make the leaves of the russet oaks and the silvery drooping birches sing soft lullabies, that my children the flowers may sleep."

And the west wind obeys her, and goes sighing through the trees, and all the flowerets nod and sleep.

The linnet has long gone to bed, close hidden under the whin bush. The tom-t.i.t creeps closer against a patch of lichen that grows on the stem of an old ash tree. The cushat in the thicket of spruce hears the west wind's lullaby, and ceases to croodle. The blackbird and thrush hide themselves in the hawthorn tree; only the robin still sings on the top rail of the old bridge.

"I will sing all night," the robin says. "I will sing with the trees and the west wind till the sun returns."

"Twhoo-hoo-hoo!" shrieks the owl, and Robin flies away.

Then Evening goes to the hedgehog, to the fox, to the foumart, the whitterit, the bat, and the vole.

"Come out now, come out now," she cries to these, "for the moon is coming, and danger has fled with the daylight far over the hills."

But the lithe green snake, and the deadly adder, and the toad have heard the invitation too, and lie closer under cover or creep into their holes, for enemies are abroad.