AUTHOR OF 'THE ALTAR OF LIFE,' 'THE GLOW-WORM,' ETC.
Sole Agents for India and the British Colonies HODDER & STOUGHTON 1908
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
"I have not, as some do, bought penitence with pleasure!"--SHELLEY.
"When the soul arms for battle she goes forth alone."--LYTTON.
"The potter, also tempering soft earth, with labour fashioneth every vessel for our service, and of the same clay he maketh both vessels that are for clean uses, and likewise such as serve to the contrary; but what is the use of these, the potter is the judge."--_Wisdom_ (Douay Version).
Two men, leisurely climbing a steep moor in the north of Perthshire, stopped near the summit to read a sign-post which pointed out the way to Glune.
No one was in sight. Poverty held Glune in bondage, and such attractions as she yet could offer were not of the type which appeal to casual trippers and excursionists, eager for gossip and refreshment after a stiff walk up-hill. For a solitary shop, from which emerged the pervading smells of leather, peppermint and onions, represented all that local enterprise could compass, even at Bruchill, the nearest village. Cottage upon cottage was empty, and those that were still inhabited, showed evidence of neglect. Women standing at their doors, stared dully at the unaccustomed travellers; children playing in the ill-kept gardens were heavy-eyed and pallid. No joy of life, no hospitality was offered. The most persevering Bohemian or antiquarian, drawn to the desolate spot by love of adventure or tradition, was eventually pulled up short at sight of the empty lodge, the impenetrable castle gates, high and with narrow grilles, which shut in the vast wilderness of tangled growth and ruin.
Grief and sorrow had concentrated about Glune, until, for Scotsmen, it had become a second Escorial. Inanimate things are as tragic in their way as human beings. A man or woman, however crushed and broken, has moments of quickened vitality in which hope springs, even if mockingly. Otherwise brains would snap. But a room which a strong personality has made vital with its presence, becomes temporarily as a place of the dead. The Escorial does not depend on shape or colouring for its impression of gloom; its air breathes tragedy on the tenderest April morning. Glune had something of that same relentless force of character which makes the Escorial one with the relentless character of its founder. But whereas jolting trains and the pitiless volubility of Cook's guides bring the palace in view a full hour before you reach it, there was but a single point from which Glune actually could be seen, so sheltered was it from inquisitive eyes by the reserve and mystery of wood and hill.