of his knowledge, and my fishing fared well that day. He dragged me up little streams to sequestered pools, where I had astonishing success; and then back to some great swirl in the Callowa where he had seen monstrous takes. And all the while he delighted me with his talk, of men and things, of weather and place, pitched high in his thin, old voice, and garnished with many tones of lingering sentiment. He spoke in a broad, slow Scots, with so quaint a lilt in his speech that one seemed to be in an elder time among people of a quieter life and a quainter kindliness.
Then by chance I asked him of a burn of which I had heard, and how it might be reached. I shall never forget the tone of his answer as his face grew eager and he poured forth his knowledge.
‘Ye’ll gang up the Knowe Burn, which comes doun into the Cauldshaw. It’s a wee tricklin’ thing, trowin’ in and out o’ pools i’ the rock, and comin’ doun out o’ the side o’ Caerfraun. Yince a merry-maiden bided there, I’ve heard folks say, and used to win the sheep frae the Cauldshaw herd, and bile them i’ the muckle pool below the fa’. They say that there’s a road to the Ill Place there, and when the Deil likit he sent up the lowe and garred the water faem and fizzle like an auld kettle. But if ye’re gaun to the Colm Burn ye maun haud atower the rig o’ the hill frae the Knowe heid, and ye’ll come to it wimplin’ among green brae faces. It’s a bonny bit, lonesome but awfu’ bonny, and there’s mony braw trout in its siller flow.’
Then I remembered all I had heard of the old man’s craze, and I humoured him.
‘It’s a fine countryside for burns,’ I said.
‘Ye may say that,’ said he gladly, ‘a weel-watered land. But a’ this braw south country is the same. I’ve traivelled frae the Yeavering Hill in the Cheviots to the Caldons in Galloway, and it’s a’ the same. When I was young, I’ve seen me gang north to the Hielands and doun to the English lawlands, but now that I’m gettin’ auld I maun bide i’ the yae place. There’s no a burn in the South I dinna ken, and I never cam to the water I couldna ford.’
‘No?’ said I. ‘I’ve seen you at the ford o’ Clachlands in the Lammas floods.’
‘Often I’ve been there,’ he went on, speaking like one calling up vague memories. ‘Yince, when Tam Rorison was drooned, honest man. Yince again, when the brigs were ta’en awa’, and the Back House o’ Clachlands had nae bread for a week. But oh, Clachlands is a bit easy water. But I’ve seen the muckle Aller come roarin’ sae high that it washed awa’ a sheepfauld that stood weel up on the hill. And I’ve seen this verra burn, this bonny clear Callowa, lyin’ like a loch for miles i’ the haugh. But I never heeds a spate, for if a man just kens the way o’t it’s a canny, hairmless thing. I couldna wish to dee better than just be happit i’ the waters o’ my ain countryside, when my legs fail and I’m ower auld for the trampin’,’
Something in that queer figure in the setting of the hills struck a note of curious pathos. And towards evening as we returned down the glen the note grew keener. A spring sunset of gold and crimson flamed in our backs and turned the pools to fire. Far off down the vale the plains and the sea gleamed half in shadow. Somehow in the fragrance and colour and the delectable crooning of the stream, the fantastic and the dim seemed tangible and present, and high sentiment revelled for once in my prosaic heart.
And still more in the breast of my companion. He stopped and sniffed the evening air, as he looked far over hill and dale and then back to the great hills above us. ‘Yon’s Crappel, and Caerdon, and the Laigh Law,’ he said, lingering with relish over each name, ‘and the Gled comes doun atween them. I haena been there for a twalmonth, and I maun hae another glisk o’t, for it’s a braw place.’ Some bitter thought seemed to seize him, and his mouth twitched. ‘I’m an auld man,’ he cried, ‘and I canna see ye a’ again. There’s burns and mair burns in the high hills that I’ll never win to.’ Then he remembered my presence, and stopped. ‘Ye maunna mind me,’ he said huskily, ‘but the sicht o’ thae lang blue hills makes me daft, now that I’ve faun i’ the vale o’ years. Yince I was young and could get where I wantit, but now I am auld and maun bide i’ the same bit. And I’m aye thinkin’ o’ the waters I’ve been to, and the green heichs and howes and the linns that I canna win to again. I maun e’en be content wi’ the Callowa, which is as guid as the best.’
I left him wandering down by the streamside and telling his crazy meditations to himself.
III
A space of years elapsed ere I met him, for fate had carried me far from the upland valleys. But once again I was afoot on the white moor roads; and, as I swung along one autumn afternoon up the path which leads from the Glen of Callowa to the Gled, I saw a figure before me which I knew for my friend. When I overtook him, his appearance puzzled and troubled me. Age seemed to have come on him at a bound, and in the tottering figure and the stoop of weakness I had difficulty in recognising the hardy frame of the man as I had known him. Something, too, had come over his face. His brow was clouded, and the tan of weather stood out hard and cruel on a blanched cheek. His eye seemed both wilder and sicklier, and for the first time I saw him with none of the appurtenances of his trade.
He greeted me feebly and dully, and showed little wish to speak. He walked with slow, uncertain step, and his breath laboured with a new panting. Every now and then he would look at me sidewise, and in his feverish glance I could detect none of the free kindliness of old. The man was ill in body and mind.
I asked him how he had done since I saw him last.
‘It’s an ill world now,’ he said in a slow, querulous voice. ‘There’s nae need for honest men, and nae leevin’. Folk dinna heed me ava now. They dinna buy my besoms, they winna let me bide a nicht in their byres, and they’re no like the kind canty folk in the auld times. And a’ the countryside is changin’. Doun by Goldieslaw they’re makkin’ a dam for takin’ water to the toun, and they’re thinkin’ o’ daein’ the like wi’ the Callowa. Guid help us, can they no let the works o’ God alane? Is there nae room for them in the dirty lawlands that they maun file the hills wi’ their biggins?’
I conceived dimly that the cause of his wrath was a scheme for waterworks at the border of the uplands, but I had less concern for this than his strangely feeble health.
‘You are looking ill,’ I said. ‘What has come over you?’
‘Oh, I canna last for aye,’ he said mournfully. ‘My auld body’s about dune. I’ve warkit it ower sair when I had it, and it’s gaun to fail on my hands. Sleepin’ out o’ wat nichts and gangin’ lang wantin’ meat are no the best ways for a long life’; and he smiled the ghost of a smile.
And then he fell to wild telling of the ruin of the place and the hardness of the people, and I saw that want and bare living had gone far to loosen his wits. I knew the countryside, and I recognised that change was only in his mind. A great pity seized me for this lonely figure toiling on in the bitterness of regret. I tried to comfort him, but my words were useless, for he took no heed of me; with bent head and faltering step he mumbled his sorrows to himself.
Then of a sudden we came to the crest of the ridge where the road dips from the hill-top to the sheltered valley. Sheer from the heather ran the white streak till it lost itself among the reddening rowans and the yellow birks of the wood. The land was rich in autumn colour, and the shining waters dipped and fell through a pageant of russet and gold. And all around hills huddled in silent spaces, long brown moors crowned with cairns, or steep fortresses of rock and shingle rising to foreheads of steel-like grey. The autumn blue faded in the far sky-line to white, and lent distance to the farther peaks. The hush of the wilderness, which is far different from the hush of death, brooded over the scene, and like
