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.
Had there been one to see, he might have wondered what freak of fate had led the present travellers to a spot so lonely and obscure, and again, what chances had combined in fellowship two men outwardly quite incompatible. Each of them had the hall-mark of the public school upon him, but there their likeness ended. For the elder was of the type which willingly pays a guinea to advertise its arrivals and departures in the Morning Post; while the younger was a mere boy, whose heart as yet stirred only to the love of sport. Explorers, shooters of big game, men who had dared and done, were Cummings' models. Where Brand, his companion, was hourly handicapped by ill-health, the young man's greatest trial as yet was his total inability to achieve what could be called a moustache by any but the most biassed relative.
Brand was indeed insignificant, one degree only removed from actual deformity. His mouth twisted uncontrollably when he smiled, and one shoulder was higher than the other, although a well-known tailor had done his best to remedy the defect. His eyes, set close together, were unusually light in tone, and apt to evade the glance direct. He had a trim Vandyke beard, and was dressed neatly and well. His complexion was pale, and he bore his single eye-glass as one who tolerates the defects it magnifies, because he is convinced that his Creator's designs are generally crude. Some women found him interesting; the more refined shrank back from him instinctively, and wondered why. On the other hand, his knowledge of great cities and their haunts at nightfall, and an unusual memory and gift of tongues lent him an air of distinction which was admired and imitated by younger men within his circle. Cummings, for instance, thought he leaned upon a stick rather from choice than necessity, and would have given a fortune to exchange his own stereotyped courtesies for Brand's easy assurance.
For the lad, tall and athletic, with a trick of blushing, had yet to find himself. The pages of his life, so far, were singularly blank. He had the sensitive nostrils and frank gaze of a man susceptible—almost too susceptible—to influence and impressions, yet good breeding had often made him elude opportunities which less artistic natures coveted.
That beauty of any kind would sway him you saw at a glance; beauty of soul and shape, Divine and human. Had he not in certain instances been kept back by the fitness of things, he would have invariably given himself joyously to its influence, as a swimmer to the sea, playing with it, while knowing that it had the power to drown. His eyes were a dreamer's eyes, able to see the Beatific Vision on Clapham Common—a faculty not often met with in a man so broad of chest and lean of flank. So far as personal courage went, Cummings' might have carried him through almost any form of mediæval torture, except the deprivation of his means of washing. At Eton and Sandhurst he had passed through many dubious escapades unscathed, delightfully blind to "scum and rot," as he mentally summed up certain vagaries of his companions.
But he was now of the age which believes worldly experience to be a necessary factor of life. In the last few days he had begun to be ashamed of his own ignorance of inessential things.
It diverted Brand to play with, some said corrupt, such natures. He had won the lad as tactfully as a woman might have done, luring him step by step until confidence was established. Once that was done, the rest was easy. Little by little the sanctuary of Cummings' thoughts was invaded; his circumstances, his surroundings, his hopes betrayed, until his soul lay naked in the day. Another man, with so definite an end in view as Brand had, might have hastened matters and spoilt all. He made no such mistake.
"Looks and means," he said now dreamily, in the quiet high-bred voice, which was one of his most valuable assets. "You ought to do well in life, with both in your grasp. Few women withstand either, and none both; and later on you'll realize that success in life nearly always augurs a swish of frills and furbelows in the background." He looked at Cummings critically. "Remember what wins women wins fame. She's wanton too. You have more than your share of good things, my dear fellow. The only point you really lack is confidence, the recognition that you can hold your own as well in a crowd as in a tête-à-tête. If a man doesn't believe in himself he'll never get even a woman to believe in him."