As a lover of beauty, he could not help being charmed by the scenery through which he passed: the purple heather, which was now in its glory, made the wild moorlands wondrous for their beauty, while the valleys through which the rushing streams passed simply enchanted him.
Presently he came to a lonely valley in a district which seemed almost entirely uninhabited. Not a soul was in sight, and scarcely a sound disturbed the silence. On each side of him, great heather-covered hills sloped up to the sky, while at his feet a stream coiled its way down the valley. Tramping along the narrow road which skirted the stream, he presently saw some cattle rushing wildly around, and he judged by the cries he heard that someone was greatly distressed. It was not long before he saw what this meant. A young girl was trying to keep some cattle together, but they, being in a turbulent mood, refused to go the way she wished. Vainly she went hither and thither, seeking to guide them into a path which led over the hills. For two or three minutes Douglas Graham watched her, and then, seeing her dilemma, went up to her.
She was evidently a Scotch peasant girl, as indicated by the clothes she wore and by her hard, toilworn hands. Nevertheless, at first sight of her Douglas was attracted, and for good reason—the face of the girl, once seen, was not soon forgotten. During the time he had been in Scotland it had seemed to him that the Scotch women were hard-featured, uninteresting, and altogether unlovely; but this girl was different. There was something of the savage in her, and yet she possessed a charm which fascinated the young man. Her black hair hung in curling and tangled tresses over her shoulders; her eyes were almost as black as her hair and shone brightly. A kind of gipsy beauty she possessed, and her eyes, her sensitive mouth, her square chin spoke of a nature out of the ordinary.
"If you will tell me what you wish," he said, "I will help you."
She looked at him with a start of surprise, and for a moment he thought she shrank from him. She seemed as shy as a young colt, and was apparently frightened at his sudden appearance. As she looked at him, however, her confidence came back. He was different from the raw Scottish youths to whom she was accustomed. His pleasant smile and laughing eyes reassured her. "I am trying to take the kine home," she said, "but I think the witches have got hold of them. I never saw them like this before." She spoke with a strong Scotch accent, and was evidently what she seemed, either a servant at a farmhouse or, perhaps, the daughter of some small tenant farmer who lived in the district.
"We'll see if we can't destroy the witches' power," laughed Douglas, and set to work to gather the cattle. It took some little time, but the feat was accomplished at last. Then the two walked side by side, driving the beasts before them.
The romance in the young man's nature was aroused. There, amidst the wild moorland scenery and in the light of the setting sun, it was vastly pleasant to be walking beside this young creature, so instinct with life.
"Is your home far away?" he asked.
"It must be more than two miles," she replied.
"And do you know the house called 'Highlands'?"
"It will be where Mr. Graham lives, I expect."
"Yes," he said.
"Then it will be only a mile beyond my father's farm," was her reply.
"Oh, that is capital!" laughed Graham. "I shall get there before dark, and be able to help you with the cattle at the same time."
"But you are not the son at 'Highlands,'" she said, looking at him curiously.
"Oh, no," he replied. "The Grahams are distant relatives of mine, that is all. There is just a little Scotch in me, that is why I love Scotland so. Of course, you love Scotland too?"
A far-away look came into her eyes. "I don't know," she said.
"Not know if you love your own country?" And he laughed as he spoke.
"I am not sure that it is my own country," was her reply. "You see——" And then she stopped. "It will be nothing to you," she added after a minute, and for some time they walked along together in silence.
"It must be just lovely to live amid such surroundings as these; still, I should find it lonely sometimes," he ventured at length.
"You would, if—if—" And then the girl looked at him curiously. "But I expect you'll not be understanding what I mean," she added.
Again they walked on in silence, Douglas longing to ask her what she meant, and yet shrinking from taking what he felt might be a liberty, for there was something about the girl that kept him from speaking freely. Dressed like a peasant as she was, he instinctively felt that here was no ordinary farmer's drudge. She had uttered nothing beyond commonplaces, but the look in her eyes, the tremor of her lips suggested romance and mystery and poetry.
"You see," she said a minute later, as if talking to herself, "I have no mother. I never saw her; at least, I cannot remember ever seeing her, and she was not Scotch."
"No?" said Douglas. "Then we have something in common: my people on my father's side were Scotch, but all my mother's people belong to the South."
"And mine, too," said the girl. "But what can it be to you?" And again she seemed to be thinking of something far away.
"Do you know," said the young man, "you are the first person I have spoken to since morning? I have been on the tramp all the day. I had my lunch by the side of a stream, and I have kept away from every house. I wanted to be alone. I expect that is why I want you to tell me why you don't seem happy."
Again the girl looked at him curiously. "I think I should go mad sometimes," she said, "if I did not think my dead mother was near me. I do not mean when I am out here alone on the moors, but it's home that makes it so hard."
"Tell me," said the young fellow. It did not seem to him as though he were talking to a stranger at all. The girl did not belong to his class, and evidently her associations and education removed her far from him, yet he had an instinctive sympathy with her. After all, I suppose every young fellow is attracted by a young pretty face, wild, longing eyes, and beautiful features suggestive of romance and poetry and unsatisfied yearnings.
"You see," said the girl, "my father was a fisherman. Years ago, when he was a young man, he sailed down the West of England, and his boat harboured at a little Cornish village called St. Ives. There he met my mother, and I have heard him say that she had Spanish blood in her veins. Anyhow, they fell in love with each other and got married.
"I suppose her father and mother were very angry, and so he took her away from St. Ives altogether, and came back here to Scotland. Just at that time his father died, and left our farm to him. So my father gave up fishing, and brought mother here, but I had not been born long before mother died, so you see I never knew her. My father did not remain unmarried long: the second time he married a Scotswoman, and I hate the Scotch."
"Why?" asked Graham.
"Oh, well, my father says that the Cornish people are wild and imaginative, and my stepmother hasn't any imagination. Years ago I used to read Burns's poems and Sir Walter Scott's stories, but mother took the books from me. She says a farmer's daughter has no time for poetry and romance, but I love it all the same. That is why I am only happy when I am out on the moors alone."
A few minutes later a lonely farmhouse appeared to view. It was little more than a cottage, and Graham judged that the farm consisted of only about fifty acres of stony and barren land.
"Good night," she said presently, "and thank you for helping me with the kine."
"Perhaps I shall be seeing you again," said the young man. "I am sure I shall come round this way in the hope that you may be visible." And he laughed almost nervously