.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 43052
   :PG.Title: Donald Ross of Heimra (Volume I of 3)
   :PG.Released: 2013-06-28
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: William Black
   :DC.Title: Donald Ross of Heimra (Volume I of 3)
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1891
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

================================
DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA (VOLUME I)
================================

.. clearpage::

.. pgheader::

.. container:: titlepage center white-space-pre-line

   .. class:: x-large

      DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA

   .. vspace:: 2

   .. class:: small

      BY

   .. class:: medium

      WILLIAM BLACK

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. class:: medium

      *IN THREE VOLUMES.*
      VOL. I.

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. class:: medium

      LONDON:
      SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY
      *LIMITED.*
      St. Dunstan's House
      FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
      1891.

   .. class:: small

      (*All rights reserved.*)

   .. vspace:: 4

.. container:: verso center white-space-pre-line

   .. class:: small

      LONDON:
      PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.
      STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

   .. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center medium

   CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   CHAPTER

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   I.  `Godiva`_
   II.  `Young Donald`_
   III.  `The Cave of the Crowing Cock`_
   IV.  `The Baintighearna`_
   V.  `The Meall-na-Fearn Bog`_
   VI.  `Gilleasbuig Mòr`_
   VII.  `The Pirate's Lair`_
   VIII.  `Face to Face`_
   IX.  `The Battle of Ru-Minard`_

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`GODIVA`:

.. class:: center x-large

   DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER I.

.. class:: center medium

   GODIVA.

.. vspace:: 2

"Well, Mary, it is a pretty plaything to have
given you—a Highland estate!—and no doubt
all your fine schemes will come right.  But you
will have to change three things first."

"Yes?"

"And these are human nature and the soil
and climate of Scotland."

"Avaunt, Mephistopheles!—and go and give
that porter a shilling."

The two speakers were on the platform of
Invershin station, on the Highland line of
railway.  One of them was a tall young woman
of distinguished presence and somewhat
imperious carriage, as you could gather at a
first glance; but the next second, if she
happened to turn her face towards you, you would
have perceived that her expression meant
nothing but a bland gentleness and a
prevailing and excellent good-humour.  Perhaps
it was the dimple in her cheek that did it—a
dimple that came there readily whenever she
regarded any one, and that seemed to say she
was very willing to be pleased and to please:
at all events, she found it easy, or had hitherto
found it easy, to make friends.  For the rest,
she was of an erect and elegant figure; her
complexion fair; her eyes grey-green, and full
of light; her abundant hair of a sunny brown;
her features regular enough and fine enough
for all practical purposes.  It was of this young
woman that her friend and now her travelling
companion, Kate Glendinning, was in the habit
of saying—

"There's one thing I will confess about Mary
Stanley: she's not quite honest.  She is too
happy.  She is so happy in herself that she
wants every one she meets to share in her
content; and she is apt to say clever and flattering
little things that are not quite true.  It is for
no selfish purpose; quite the reverse: still—you
mustn't believe all that Mary says to you."

Thus Kate Glendinning of her dearest friend;
but if any one else had ventured to say similar
things in her presence—then, and right swiftly,
there would have been pretty tempests and
flashes of eye-lightning.

And now there came up to Miss Stanley a
short, stumpy, red-haired and red-bearded man
of extraordinary breadth of shoulder and bulk
of frame.  He had a massive head despite his
diminutive height; his mouth, drawn heavily
down at each end, betokened a determined
will, not to say a dogged obstinacy; and his
small, clear, blue eyes, besides being sharp and
intelligent, had a curious kind of cold
aggressiveness in them—that is to say, when he was
not talking to one whom it was his interest
to propitiate, for then he could assume a sort
of clumsy humility, both in manner and speech.
This was Mr. David Purdie, solicitor, of
Inverness.  *An Troich Bheag Dhearg*—that is to
say, the Little Red Dwarf—the people out at
Lochgarra called him; but Mr. Purdie did not
know that.

"The carriage is quite ready, Miss Stanley,"
said he, in his slow, deliberate, south-country
accent; and therewithal the three of them
passed round to the back of the station and
entered the waggonette, Mr. Purdie modestly
taking a seat by the driver.  The two young
ladies were well wrapped up, for it was in the
beginning of April, and they had fifty miles
before them, out to the Atlantic coast.  Kate
Glendinning, in looking after her companion's
abundant furs and rugs, rather affected to play
the part of maid; for this shrewd and sensible
lass, who was in rather poor circumstances, had
consented to accept a salary from her friend
who was so much better off; and she performed
her various self-imposed duties with a tact and
discretion beyond all praise.

And as they drove away on this clear-shining
afternoon, Mary Stanley's face was something
to study.  She was all eagerness and
impatience; the colour mantled in her cheeks; her
brain was so busy that she had scarcely a word
for her neighbour.  For she had heard a good
deal and read much more, in Parliamentary
debates and elsewhere, of the sufferings of the
crofters, of the iniquities that had been practised
on them by tyrannical landlords and factors, of
the lamentations of the poor homeless ones
thrust forth from their native shores; and now,
in this little bit of the world that had so
unexpectedly become hers, and in as far as she
was able, wrong was to be put right, amends
were to be made, and peace and amity, and
comfort and prosperity were to be established
for ever and ever.  Perhaps the transcendental
vision of the prophet Isaiah was hunting her:
"The wilderness and the solitary place shall be
glad ... and the desert shall rejoice, and
blossom as the rose."  And if she were to
summon back the poor exiles who had been
banished—banished to the slums of Glasgow,
perchance, or to the far plains of Manitoba?...
"And the ransomed of the Lord shall
return, and come to Zion with songs and
ever-lasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain
joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall
flee away."  To be sure, as they now drove
along the wide and fertile valley that is
penetrated by the Kyle of Sutherland, she did not
meet with much evidence of the destitution she
had been led to expect.  She had heard of
bleak wastes and sterile altitudes, of ruined huts
and dismantled steadings; but here, under the
softly-wooded hills, were long and level stretches
of arable land, the ploughmen busy at their
work; the occasional crofts were very far
indeed from being hovels; and the people whom
they saw, in the bits of gardens, or tending the
cattle, looked well-clothed and well-fed.  She
ventured to hint something of this to her
companion; and Kate, glancing at her, began to
giggle.

"I really believe you are disappointed, Mary!
Is there not enough misery for you?  But
never fear.  If it's misery you're in search of,
you have seldom far to go for it, in this world.
Only I must tell you this—if you're so eager to
relieve distress—that there is more of wretchedness,
and crime, and squalor, and piteous human
suffering in a single square mile of the slums
of London or New York than you'll find in the
whole of the Highlands of Scotland."

"That may be," said Miss Stanley, in her
calm and equable fashion.  "But you see,
Käthchen, I have no call that way.  I do not feel a
direct responsibility, as I do in this case—

"It is a responsibility you are making for
yourself," her friend said.  "You know very
well it was not for that your uncle left you the
property.  It was merely to spite your father
and your brothers."

"There was a little more," was the good-natured
reply (for she did not seem to resent
this reference to her amiable relative).  "I
think it was to spite the people out there as
well.  My uncle and they never could get on;
and he was not a man who liked to be thwarted.
And of course he imagined that I, being a
woman, would not interfere; that I would
leave the estate to be managed by Mr. Purdie,
and simply receive the rents.  Well," she
continued, and here she lowered her voice
somewhat, and there was a touch of colour in
her face that was perhaps the expression of
some definite resolve, "I may allow Mr. Purdie
to manage the estate, or I may not.  But if
he does continues to manage the estate, it will
be under my direction."

Käthchen looked at her, and laughed a little.

"I don't think Mr. Purdie knows whom he
has got to deal with," said she, under her breath.

They stopped that night at Oykel Bridge.
Miss Stanley invited Mr. Purdie to dine with
them; but he declined on the ground that he
had business in the neighbourhood—an odd
excuse, for the inn and its dependencies
constitute the remote little hamlet.  The two young
women passed the evening by themselves, and
talked: the one with generous ardour entering
into all her wonderful schemes, the other (who
knew the country, and the people) interposing
now and again with a little modifying
information.  But really Käthchen was not
unsympathetic.  Her eyes, which were the attractive
feature of her face, sometimes expressed a trifle
of demure amusement; but she was not a
quarrelsome or argumentative creature; and
besides there is something about all fine
humanitarian projects that one would rather believe
in and welcome.

Next morning they resumed their drive,
and very soon entered a much wilder country
than that of the preceding day.  Wilder but
nevertheless beautiful—with its range upon
range of russet hills, wine-stained here and
there with shadow; its woods of leafless birch
of a soft dark rose-lilac; its long undulations
of waste moorland, yellow and brown; with
now and again the sudden blue scythe-sweep
of the river.  For now they were traversing
the lonely district of upper Strath-Oykel.  Far
ahead of them rose the giant bulk of Ben More,
Assynt, its higher shoulders a solid mass of
white.  The sunlight around them was
cheerful, no doubt; and yet there was a strange
sense of solitariness, of voicelessness; and
Mary, who was less concerned about the beauty
of the landscape than about certain problems
haunting her mind, called out to Mr. Purdie,
who was again up beside the driver—

"Mr. Purdie, why are there no people living
in this country?"

"Because there's nothing for them to live
on," was the laconic answer.  "It's fit for
nothing but grazing sheep—and for grouse."

"Yes—the hills, perhaps," said she.  "But
look along the valley—by the side of the river."

"Ay, it's fine land, that," said he, grimly,—"for
a wheen pesewepes!"  And indeed the
plovers were the only visible living things,
jerking about in the air, dipping suddenly to
the ground and swiftly rising again, with their
curious squeaking call, and the soft velvet
fluffing of their wings.

However, all that was nothing.  By and by
they had left the Oykel strath, and had entered
upon a far higher and bleaker region, the
desolation of which appalled her.  There was
not even the solitary shepherd's cottage they
had seen down in the other valley; here was
nothing but a wilderness of brown and ragged
moorland, with deep black clefts of peat, and
an occasional small tarn, without a bush along
its shores, its waters driven a deep blue by the
wind.  Away in the west they could make out
the spectral shapes of the Assynt mountains—Coul
Beg, Coul More, and Suilven—remote
and visionary through the universal haze of
the heather-burning; but here, all around them,
were these endless and featureless and
melancholy undulations; and the silence was now
unbroken even by the curious bleating of the
plovers: once, and once only, they heard the
hoarse and distant croak of a raven.

"Käthchen," said Mary, in a sort of piteous
dismay, as she looked abroad over those sombre
solitudes, "you have been all along the Ross
and Cromarty coast; is it like *that*?"

"Plenty of it is worse," was the reply.

"And—and—my place: is it like that?"

"I have never been in to Lochgarra."

"But—but if it is like that—what am I to
do for my people?"

"The best you can," said Käthchen, cheerfully.

It seemed an interminable drive.  And then,
in the afternoon, a premature darkness came
slowly over; the mountains in the north
gradually receded out of sight; and heavy, steady
rain began to fall.  The two girls sat huddled
underneath one umbrella, listening to the
pattering footfalls of the horses and the grinding
of the wheels on the road; and when they
ventured to peep forth from their shelter they
beheld but the same monotonous features in the
landscape: masses of wet rock and dark russet
heather, black swamps, low and bare hills, and
now and again the grey glimmer of a stream or
tarn.  It was a cheerless outlook; continually
changing, and yet ever the same; and hour
after hour the rain came down wearily.  There
was hardly a word said between those two:
whither had fled Mary Stanley's dreams of a
shining blue sea, a sunny coastline, and a happy
peasantry busy in their fields and gardens, their
white cottages radiant in the morning light?
Käthchen, on the other hand, was inclined to
laugh ruefully.

"Isn't it a good thing, Mary, that duty
brought us here?  If it had been pleasure, we
should be calling ourselves awful fools."

But quite of a sudden this hopeless resignation
vanished, and a wild excitement took
its place.

"Miss Stanley," Mr. Purdie called to her,
"we've come to the march."

"The what?"

"The march—the boundary of your estate."

Instantly she had the carriage stopped, and
nothing would do but that she must get out and
set foot on her own land: moreover, when
Käthchen took down the umbrella, they found
that the rain had ceased, and that the western
skies were lightening somewhat.

"That is the march," said Mr. Purdie,
pointing to a low, irregular, moss-grown
wall—obviously a very ancient landmark; "and it
goes right over the hill and down again to the
Garra."

Leaving the highway, she stepped across the
ditch, and stood on the moist, soft peat land.

"And this is mine!" she said to Käthchen,
with an odd expression of face.  "This is
absolutely mine.  Nobody can dispute my possession
of it.  This piece of the solid world actually
belongs to me."

"And I suppose your rights extend as deep
as ever you like," said Käthchen.  "You
might go all the way through, and have a walk
in the streets of Melbourne, and get dry, and
come back."

But Mary's quick eye had caught sight of
what was to her the most important feature
of the surrounding landscape.  It was a cottage
perched on a knoll above a burn—or, rather,
it was the ruins of a cottage, the gables
standing roofless, the thatch long ago blown
away by the winds, the beams and fallen stones
lying among the withered nettles, altogether
a melancholy sight.

"Now, isn't it shameful!" she exclaimed, in
hot indignation.  "Look at that!  The very
first thing I meet with!  Do you wonder that
people should talk about the Highland
landlords?  Some poor wretch has been driven
away—perhaps at this very moment, in Canada
or in Australia, he is thinking of the old home,
and forgetting all the rain and discomfort there
used to be, Mr. Purdie!"

"Yes, ma'am?" said he, coming a bit
nearer; and Käthchen looked on, wondering
if his doom was about to be pronounced.

"Who lived in that house?" Miss Stanley demanded.

"The schoolmaster," was the reply.

"The schoolmaster?  And where is he now?"

"He's in his own house," the factor said.
"We built him a new one and a better one, to
be nearer the school and the village; and when
he moved it was hardly worth while keeping
the old one in repair."

"Oh," said she, a little disconcerted.  "Oh,
really.  Then no one was sent away—from
that cottage?"

"No, no—not at all—not at all," said he;
and he followed her to the waggonette and
politely shut the door after her—while
Käthchen's face maintained an admirable gravity.

As the drove on again, the afternoon seemed
inclined to clear; the skies were banking up;
and there were faint streaks of lemon-yellow
among the heavy purple clouds in the west.
And very soon the road made a sweep to the
left, bringing them in sight of the Connan, a
small but turbulent tributary of the Garra.
Here, also, they encountered the first signs
of the habitations of men—little clumps of
buildings clustered together just over a stretch
of flat land that had clearly been recovered
from the river-bed.  Crofts, no doubt: each
slated cottage surrounded by its huddled
dependency of thatched barns and byres.

As the waggonette drew near to the first of
these rude little settlements, the women
disappeared into the outhouses, and the children
hid behind the peat-stack; but there remained
standing at the door of the cottage an elderly
man, who regarded the strangers with a grave
and perhaps rather sullen curiosity.

"Mr. Purdie," said Mary, in an undertone,
"is that one of my tenants?"

"Yes, certainly—that is James Macdonald."

"I wish to make his acquaintance," said she;
and she stopped the carriage, and got out.

There was no sort of fear, or unnecessary
bashfulness, about this young woman.  She
walked right up the bank to the door of the
cottage.  The short thick-set man standing
there had something of a Russian cast of
countenance, with a heavy grey beard, shaggy
eyebrows, and small, suspicious eyes.  His
clothes were weather-worn as to colour and
much mended; but they were not in the least
squalid; and he had a red woollen comforter
round his neck.

"Good evening!" said she, with a most
winning smile.

But the propitiating dimple, that had hitherto
been all-conquering, was of no avail here.
He looked at her.  He did not raise his cap.

"*Cha 'n 'eil beurla agam*," said he, with a
sort of affected indifference.

She was taken aback only for a moment.

"What does he say?" she asked of Mr. Purdie,
who had followed her.

"He says he has no English," the factor
answered; and then he added, vindictively:
"But he would have plenty of English if he
wanted to tell you of his grievances—oh, ay,
plenty!  Start him on that, and he'll find plenty
of English!  He's one of the most ill-condeetioned
men in the whole place—and I suppose
he has enough English to understand that!"

"Tell him who I am," said she, rather
disappointedly; for she had set out with the
determination to get to know all the
circumstances and wants and wishes of her tenants,
especially of the poorer ones, without the
intervention of any factor.

Hereupon Mr. Purdie, in unnecessarily severe
tones, as it seemed to her, addressed a few
sentences in Gaelic to the stubborn-looking old
man, who, in turn—and with no abatement
of his hostile attitude—replied in the same
tongue.  But to Mary's surprise, he suddenly
added—fixing morose eyes upon her—

"She—no my laird!  Ross of Heimra—my
laird.  Young Donald—he my laird.  She no
my laird at ahl!"

"Oh, but that is absurd, you know," Mary
said, eagerly, and with a quick delight that she
could enter into direct communication with
him.  "You forget—you are mistaken—my
uncle bought the estate from the late Mr. Ross
of Heimra.  Surely you understand that?
Surely you know that?  The whole place was
bought in open market.  Mr. Ross sold the
land, and all the rights belonging to it—yes,
and the obligations, too; and my uncle bought
it.  Don't you understand?"

The man turned away his eyes, and sulkily
muttered something in Gaelic.

"What is it?" asked Mary, compelled to
appeal once more to the factor.

"Like the scoundrel's impertinence!" said
the Little Red Dwarf, darting an angry look at
the crofter.  "He says the Englishman—that
is your uncle, Miss Stanley—the Englishman
bought the land but not the hearts of the
people."

"And that is quite right!" Mary exclaimed.
"That is quite right and true.  Tell him I
quite agree with him.  But tell him this—tell
him that if my uncle did not buy the hearts of
the people, I mean to win them——"

"Oh, Mary," Käthchen struck in, rather
shamefacedly, "don't talk like that!  They
won't understand you.  Be practical.  Ask him
what complaint he has to make about his
farm—ask him what he wants——"

"I can tell ye that beforehand!" said
Mr. Purdie, in his irascible scorn.  "He wants more
arable land, and he wants more pasture; and
both for nothing.  And no doubt he would like
a steam plough thrown in, and maybe a score
or two o' black-faced wethers——"

But Mary interrupted.  She had formed for
herself some idea, before she came to this
country, as to how she meant to proceed.

"Mr. Purdie," said she, in her clear, firm
way, "I wish you to ask this man if he has
anything to complain of; and I wish you to
tell me precisely what he says."

The Troich Bheag Dhearg, being thus
ordered, obeyed; but he scowled upon the
stubborn crofter—and it was apparent there was
no love lost on the other side either.  At the
end of their brief, and unwilling, conversation,
the factor made his report.

"Well, there are many things he would like—who
could doubt that?—but in especial he
wants the pasture of Meall-na-Cruagan divided
amongst the crofters of this district, and the tax
for the dyke taken off the rent.  But
Meall-na-Cruagan never did belong to the crofters at any
time; and it is part of Mr. Watson's sheep-farm—he
has it under lease."

"I will look into that afterwards," said she.
"What is the tax you mentioned?"

"Well, when the dyke along there—the
embankment," said the factor, "was built to
keep the river from flooding the land, the
interest of the money expended was added on
to the rents of the crofts, as was natural—and
that's what they call a tax!"

"How long have they been paying that
tax?" she asked.

"It is about thirty years since the dyke was
built."

"Thirty years!" she said.  "Thirty years!
These poor people have been paying a tax all
this time for an embankment built to improve
the property?  Really, Mr. Purdie!——"

"They get the value of it!" he said, as testily
as he dared.  "The land is no longer flooded——"

"Tell this man," said she, with some colour
mounting to her face, "that the tax for the
dyke is abolished—here and now!"

"Godiva!" said Käthchen, in an undertone,
with a bit of a titter.

And the factor would have protested from his
own point of view.  But this young woman's
heart was all aflame.  She cared nothing for
ridicule, nor for any sort of more practical
opposition.  Here was some definite wrong that
she could put right.  She did not want to hear
from Mr. Purdie, or from anybody else, what
neighbouring landlords might think, or what
encouragement it might give the crofters to
make other and more impossible demands.

"I don't care what other landlords may say!"
said she with firm lips: "You tell me that
I improve my property—and then charge these
poor people with the cost!  And for thirty
years they have been paying?  Well, I wish
you to say to this man that the tax no longer
exists—from this moment it no longer
exists—it is not to be heard of again!"

The factor made a brief communication: the
taciturn crofter answered not a word—not a
word of recognition, much less of thanks.  But
Mary Stanley was not to be daunted by this
incivility: as she descended to the waggonette,
her face wore a proud look—right and justice
should be done, as far as she was able, in this
her small sphere: the rest was with the gods.

And again they drove on; but now was
there not some subtle softening of the air, some
moist odour as of the sea, some indication of the
neighbourhood of the Atlantic shores?  Clearly
they were getting down to the coast.  And
unhappily, as they went on, the land around them
seemed to be getting worse and worse—if there
could be a worse.  A wilderness of crags and
knolls—of Hebridean gneiss mostly; patches of
swamp, with black gullies of peat; sterile hills
that would have threatened a hoodie crow with
starvation: such appeared to be Miss Stanley's
newly found property.  But a very curious
incident now occurred to withdraw her attention
from these immediate surroundings—an incident
the meaning of which she was to learn
subsequently.  They had come in sight of a level
space that had evidently at one time been a lake,
but was now a waste of stones, with a touch of
green slime and a few withered rushes here
and there; and in the middle of this space, on
a mound that had apparently been connected
with the mainland, was a heap of scattered
blocks that looked like the tumbled-down ruins
of some ancient fort.

"What is that, Mr. Purdie?" she called
out, still anxious for all possible information.

A malignant grim came over the face of the
Little Red Dwarf.

"That," said he, "was once Castle Heimra;
and then it was Castle Stanley; and now it is
nothing!"

He had scarcely uttered the words when the
driver slashed at the neck of one of the horses;
and both animals sprung forward with a jerk—a
jerk so sudden and violent that Mr. Purdie
was nearly pitched headlong from his seat.  He
threw a savage glance at the driver; but he
dared not say anything—the two ladies were
within hearing.  Later on that evening Mary
recalled this little incident—and seemed to
understand.

Behold, at last, the sea!—a semi-circular bay
sheltered by long black headlands; beyond that
the wide grey plain, white-tipped with flashing
and hurrying waves; and out towards the
horizon a small but precipitous island, a heavy
surge springing high along its southern crags.
But she had time only for the briefest glance,
for here was the village—her own village!—with
its smithy, its schoolroom, its inn, its
grocery store that was also a post-office, and
thereafter a number of not very picturesque
cottages scattered about amid bits of poor
garden, just above the shore.  Nay, at the
same moment she caught sight of Lochgarra
House—her home that was to be: an
odd-looking building that seemed half a jail and
half a baronial castle, but was prettily situated
among some larch-woods on a promontory on
the other side of the bay.  Of course they had
driven through the little township almost
directly; and now she could turn to the sea
again—that looked strangely mournful and
distant in the wan twilight.

"But where's the yacht?" she exclaimed.

"What yacht?" her companion asked, with
some surprise.

"Why, the yacht I saw a minute ago—just
before we came to the village: it was out
yonder—close to the island——"

"Oh, nonsense, Mary!" said Kate Glendinning.
"You may have seen a fishing-smack,
or a lobster-boat—but a yacht at this
time of the year!——"

"I declare to you I saw a yacht—for I
noticed how white the sails were, even in the
twilight," Mary insisted; and then she appealed
to the factor: "Mr. Purdie, didn't you see a
yacht out there a minute or two ago?"

"No, I did not," he made answer; and then
he in his turn addressed the driver: "Did
you, John?"

"No," said the driver, looking straight ahead
of him, and with a curiously impassive
expression of face—an expression of face that
convinced Mr. Purdie, who was prone to suspicion,
that the man had lied.

It was a kind of bewilderment to her, this
taking possession: the going up the wide stone
steps, the gazing round the lofty oak hall, the
finding herself waited upon by those shy-eyed
soft-spoken Highland maids.  But when she
was in the retirement of her own room, whither
she had been accompanied by the faithful
Kate, one thing stood out clear to her mind
from amid all the long day's doings.

"Käthchen," said she—and she was pacing
up and down the room—or going from window
to window without looking out—as was
some-times her habit when she was excited—"I
mean to have my own way in this.  It is not
enough that the tax should be abolished—it is
not enough.  No doubt those poor people were
saved from the risk of floods; but on the other
hand the property was permanently improved;
and it is monstrous that they should be expected
to go on paying for ever.  I tell you they have
paid too much already; and I mean to see
things made right.  What do I care for
Mr. Purdie, or the neighbouring landlords?  If
Mr. Purdie has any business to talk of when he
comes along this evening—well, my little piece
of business must take precedence.  I am going
to give Mr. Purdie the first of his instructions."

She paused for a second—and then she spoke
with rather a proud and determined air:
"Fifteen years of that tax to be remitted and
returned!"

"Godiva!" said Käthchen, again; but there
was not much sarcasm in her smiling eyes.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`YOUNG DONALD`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER II.


.. class:: center medium

   YOUNG DONALD.

.. vspace:: 2

"And if I am not the laird," said Miss Stanley,
as the three of them took their places at table—for
Mr. Purdie had accepted an invitation,
and had come along from the inn to dine with
the two young ladies—"if I am not the laird, I
want to know who is the laird: I mean, I want
to know all about my rival.  What was it
the stubborn old crofter called him?  Young
Donald—Young Ross of Heimra—well, tell
me all about him, Mr. Purdie!"

But to Mary's surprise, the Little Red Dwarf
remained sternly mute.  Yet there was no one
in the room besides themselves except the maid
who was waiting at table—a tall and
good-looking Highland lass, whose pretty way of
speech, and gentle manner, and shy eyes had
already made a pleasant impression on her
young mistress.  All the same, the factor
remained silent until the girl had gone.

"I would just advise ye, Miss Stanley," said
he, rather moderating his voice, which
ordinarily was inclined to be aggressive and
raucous, "I would just advise ye to have a
care what ye say before these people.  They're
all in a pact; and they're sly and cunning—just
beyond belief; ay, and ready to do ye a
mischief, the thrawn ill-willed creatures!"

"Oh, Mr. Purdie!" Mary protested, in her
good-humoured way, "you mustn't try to
prejudice me like that!  I have already had a
little talk with Barbara; and I could not but
think of what Dr. Johnson said—that every
Highland girl is a gentlewoman."

"And not a word they utter is to be believed—no,
not with a Bible in their hands," the
factor went on, in spite of her remonstrance.
"Miss Stanley, did ye hear me ask the driver
as we came through the village if he had seen
the yacht out by Heimra island—the yacht
that ye saw with your own eyes?  He said
no—he had not seen it—and I knew by his face
he was lying to me."

"But, Mr. Purdie," said Mary, again, "you
did not see the yacht either.  And I may have
been mistaken."

"Ye were not mistaken," said the factor,
with vicious emphasis.  "For well I know
what that was.  That was nothing else than
young Ross coming back from one of his
smuggling expedeetions—the thieving, poaching
scoundrel!—and little thinking that I would
be coming out to Lochgarra this very afternoon.
But I'll be even with my gentleman yet!—for
it's all done to thwart me—it's all done to
thwart me——"

The factor's small clear eyes sparkled with
malice; but he had perforce to cease speaking,
for at this moment Barbara came into the
room.  When she had gone again, he resumed:

"I will just tell ye how I came to get on his
track," Mr. Purdie said, with something of a
triumphant air.  "And first of all ye must
understand, Miss Stanley, I take some little
credit to myself for having routed out the illicit
stills in this country-side; ay, I'm thinking
they're pretty well cleared out now; indeed
I'll undertake to say there's not a hidden
worm-tub or a mash tun within twenty miles
around.  There was some trouble; oh, yes; for
they're cunning creatures; and they stand by
one another in lying and concealment; but I
managed to get some information for the
Preventive Staff all the same—from time to time,
that was—and then I had a good knowledge
o' the place—ye see, Miss Stanley, I was factor
at Lochgarra before your uncle gave me back
my post again; and so, with keeping the
gaugers busy, we got at one after another of
the black bothies, as they call them, until I
doubt whether there's a *bothan dubh* between
here and Strathcarron.  Yes, I may admit I
take some credit for that.  I've heard folk
maintain that speerits are a necessary of life
in a bad climate like this; but what I say is,
let people pay their rent before comforting
themselves wi' drams.  My business is with
the rent.  I'm not a doctor.  Temperance, ay,
and even total abstinence, is a fine thing for
everybody."

"Won't you help yourself, Mr. Purdie?"
said Kate Glendinning, with grave eyes, and
she pushed the sherry decanter towards him.
Mr. Purdie filled his glass—for the fifth
time—and drained it off.  Then he proceeded.

"However, this is my story.  One day I had
finished wi' my business here, and had set out
to ride over to Ledmore, when the toothache
came into my head just terrible, and I was like
to be driven mad.  I was passing Cruagan at
the time—where ye spoke to James Macdonald,
Miss Stanley—indeed, it was at James's house
I stopped, and tied up the beast, and went in
to see if I could get a drop of whiskey to put
in the side of my cheek, for the pain was just
fearful.  Well, there was nobody in but James's
old mother—an old, old woman—she could
hardly move away from the fire—and says I,
'For God's sake, woman, give me some whiskey
to drive away this pain.'  Of course she
declared and better declared there was none in
the house; but at last, seeing I was near out
o' my senses, she hobbled away and brought
me—what do ye think?—a glass of brandy—and
fine brandy, too.  'Hallo!' says I to the
old cailleach, when the brandy had burned in
my mouth for a while, and the pain was not so
bad, 'where did ye get this fine stuff?'  Would
ye believe it, she declared and better declared
that she found it!  'Find it, woman!  Where
did ye find it?'  But no; that was all; she had
found it.  And then I began to think.  Where
was an old woman like that to get brandy?
So says I all of a sudden, 'This is smuggled
stuff.  Ye need not deny it; and unless ye tell
me instantly where ye got it, and how ye
got it, the Supervisor will be here to-morrow
morning, and in twenty-four hours ye'll be in
Dingwall Jail!——'"

"Mr. Purdie," said Käthchen, interrupting—and
with rather a cold manner—"was that
your return for the old woman's kindness to
you in your trouble?"

But he did not heed the taunt.  He was
exulting in his having trapped his enemy.

"She was frightened out of her wits, the
wretched old creature.  'Donuil Og,' she
says—Young Donald—it was from young Ross that
she had got it.  And now the case was clear
enough!  I had been suspecting something of
the kind.  And here was a fine come-down for
the Rosses of Heimra;—the Rosses of Heimra,
that in former days made such a flourish at
the English court—dancing at Almacks, and
skelping about wi' the Prince Regent; and
now the last of the family come down to selling
smuggled brandy to old women and a parcel of
crofters and cottars!  A fine way of earning
a living!  But it's all he's fit for—an idle
ne'er-do-weel, that never did a turn of work in
his life beyond poaching and thieving and
stirring up ill-will behind one's back.  But I'll
be even with my gentleman!  I'll have the
Supervisor of Excise on to him; his fine little
trips to the Channel Islands—I suppose it's the
Channel Islands, where you get brandy for
next to nothing—we'll soon put a stop to
them; and when he finds himself before the
Sheriff at Dingwall, he'll be singing another
tune!"

A tap at the door—then Barbara entered;
and the factor looked up quickly and
suspiciously.  But if the tall Highland lass had
been listening her face said nothing.

"And the young man you speak of," Mary
asked, "does he live all by himself—out on
that island?"

"It's fit that he should live by himself," said
Mr. Purdie, with his eyes beginning to twinkle
fiercely again: for any reference to this young
man seemed to completely turn his head.  "He's
nothing but a savage—brought up as a
savage—amongst the rocks and crags—like a
wild-goat—from his earliest years.  What else could
ye expect?  There was his mother—a proud
woman—proud and vindictive as ever was born—and
she hears how her husband is gallivanting
from this capital to that—throwing away
his money on Italian countesses and
riff-raff—indeed there was the one public scandal, but
I cannot give ye particulars, Miss Stanley, the
story is not for a young lady's ears at all: but
the mother, she determines to go away and live
in that island, and bring up her only child
there; and there the two o' them live, like two
savages, the laddie growing up as a wild goat
would, clambering about the rocks and the shore
and the hills.  What could ye expect but that
he should turn out a poaching, thieving,
smuggling rascal, especially with every man,
woman, and child in the place—on the mainland
here, I mean—ready to serve him and screen
him?  Truly it is a debasing thing to think
of—such supersteetion; but these poor ignorant
creatures—a name's enough for them—any
Ross of Heimra, because he's a Ross of Heimra,
is a little God Almighty to them; I think they
would perjure their immortal souls for that
impudent and brazen-faced young scoundrel
out there.  Brandy?  Oh, ay, brandy!  And
I dare say he gets them tobacco, too; and
makes a good profit on't; for what else can he
live on?  Heimra island is the last of all their
possessions; if you go scattering your money
among Italian countesses, you've got to cut up
the estate, and fling it into the market, bit by
bit, until you come to the final solid lump of
it—which your uncle bought, Miss Stanley; and
then the deserted wife, left to herself on that
island out there, can live on whelks and mussels
if she likes!  Well, a fine lonely place to nurse
pride!  Plenty of time to think!  The great
estate gone—her husband at length dead and
buried without ever having come near her—and
this young whelp to look after—a wild
goat among the rocks!  No more grandeur
now—though at times Lord This or Lord That,
or even a Duke or Duchess, would come in
their steam-yacht, or send her presents of game
in the autumn—"

"Poor woman!" said Mary.  "Is she out
there still?"

"No, no—her troubles are over," said the
factor, with some expression of relief.  "There's
one the less for these ignorant, supersteetious
creatures hereabouts to fall down and worship,
as if they were golden images.  She died near
a year ago; and would ye believe it, this son
o' hers, instead of having her put into a
Christian graveyard, had her buried on the
western coast of the island, up on the top of the
cliff, and there's a great white marble slab
there, that ye might see for miles off.  A nice
kind of thing, that!  Refusing Christian burial
for his own mother!  He's just a Pagan,
neither more nor less—a wild savage—fearing
neither God nor man—getting drunk every
night, I'll be bound, on that smuggled brandy;
and I'm no sure he would scruple to take your
life if he found ye in a convenient place.  It's
a terrible thing to think of, a human being
brought up like that, in a country of law and
order and releegion.  But I've no pity for him,
not one jot!  He and his have done me
sufficient harm; but I'll be even with him
yet—the cheat-the-gallows!"

Mary Stanley, though not much of a coward,
seemed to shrink back a little in unconscious
dismay.  She had never seen such venomous
rage working in any human creature's face;
and it was rather an appalling kind of thing.
But presently Mr. Purdie seemed to recollect
himself; this exhibition of overmastering hate
was not the best means of propitiating his new
mistress; and so, making a determined effort to
control himself (and helping himself to another
glass of sherry at the same time) he proceeded
to talk of business, with a certain constrained,
matter-of-fact air.

"You said before we came in to dinner, Miss
Stanley," he began, in his slow and deliberate
way, "that you wished fifteen years' of the
dyke tax to be remitted and returned to the
Cruagan crofters.  Very well.  Whatever is
your pleasure.  But have you considered what
the result will be?"

"No," said Mary, "I do not wish to consider.
I wish to have the thing done, because I think
it is right."

"For one matter," said he, "they will take
it, and not thank you."

"I do not care about that," she made answer.
"We will see about the thanks, or no thanks, later on."

"But there's more," said the factor, rousing
himself from his forced restraint of manner.
"They'll just begin to think that the time for
the universal getting of everything for nothing
has come at last; and where will there be
an end to their outrageous demands?  The
ignorant creatures!—they do not know what
they want—they're like children crying for the
moon; and they're encouraged by a set of
agitators more ignorant than themselves—people
in Parliament, and out of it, that never
saw a peat-moss, and don't know the difference
between a hog and a stirk——"

"But wait a moment, Mr. Purdie," said she,
with some touch of calm authority.  "I can
hardly tell you yet what I intend to do; I have
all kinds of enquiries to make.  But every one
is well enough aware that, whatever the cause
or causes may be, there is great distress among
the crofters—great poverty—and, naturally,
discontent; and when I hear of them almost
starving for want of land—and such immense
tracts given over to deer—-I know that a
great wrong is being done.  And that is not
going to exist wherever I have a word to say."

"It cannot exist on this estate, Miss Stanley,"
the factor said, with confidence.  "For we have
not a single acre of forested land."

"What did I hear my brother say, then,
about eleven stags in one season?" she
demanded.  "Why, he asked me to ask him
up here this next autumn for the very purpose
of going stalking!"

"Yes, yes, very likely," said the Little Red
Dwarf, with the magnanimity born of superior
knowledge.  "The fact is that when the deer
begin to get restless about the end of September
and the beginning of October, a few stags and
hinds come wandering on to our ground,
between the Meall-na-Fearn and the Corrie-Bhreag
mostly.  But that is not forest; that is
all under sheep; that belongs to Mr. Watson's
sheep-farm: the stags the gentlemen get in the
autumn are mere chance shots; we have not
a bit of forested land.  Indeed, Miss Stanley,
ye'll rarely hear the crofters, in any part of the
country, clamouring to have a deer forest split
up amongst them; they know well enough
what wretched and hopeless kind of stuff it is;
they're wiser than the havering folk in
Parliament.  No, no; it's slices off the big arable
and pasture farms they want.  And I can tell
ye this," he went on, in quite a reasonable way
(for young Ross of Heimra was off his mind
now), "there's many a proprietor in the
Highlands would be willing and even glad to break
up his big sheep-farms into small holdings; but
where is either landlord or tenant to find the
money to pay for the housing, and steading,
and fencing; and where is the new tenant to
find stock?  To change the crofters into small
farmers would be a fine thing, no doubt—an
excellent thing, a great reform; and it would
pay the landlords well if it were practicable.
But how is it practicable?  Before the scheme
would work, the crofter would have to be given
land worth at least £20 a year; and where is
the capital to come from for stock and steading?"

Mary listened, a little uneasily, but not much
daunted; for this was merely the professional
view; this was an advocacy of the existing
state of things; and it was the existing state of
things, in this small possession of hers, that she
hoped to amend, if it was within her power.
Nor could she argue with him, seeing she had
no facts at her fingers' ends as yet, or, at least,
none that she could rely on; for it was personal
inquiry and observation that this young woman
meant to trust.

"If they can make the small crofts pay——"
said she, vaguely.

"But they cannot," said he, with south
country bluntness.  "The land is too poor; and
there are too many of them wanting to live on
it.  Over there at Cruagan the crofters manage
to earn a little money by serving as gillies in
the autumn, and hiring their ponies to the
sportsmen; and along the coast here they eke
out a living with the fishing; but they would
fairly starve on the crofts, if that was all.  And
then, besides the poor soil, I do believe they're
the idlest and laziest creatures on God's earth!
I'll undertake to say there has not been a
boat put off from shore this last week past,
though there must be plenty of stenlock in the
bay——"

But here Käthchen struck in, a little
indignantly.  She had Highland blood in her veins;
and she did not like to hear her countrymen
and countrywomen traduced by an *Albannach*.

"Stenlock?  You mean big lythe?" said she.
"But you know very well, Mr. Purdie, there is
no market for lythe.  They're no use to send
away.  And even if they were—even if there
were a market for them—how could the people
get them sent?  How often does the steamer
call in here?"

"Oh, well, not very often at this time of the
year," he said.

"But how often?" she persisted.

"Once in three weeks," said the factor.

And now it was Mary's turn to interpose,
which she did eagerly and gladly, for she was
ever on the alert for some actual and definite
thing to tackle.

"Oh, really, Mr. Purdie, that is too bad!
How can you expect them to be diligent with
the fishing, if the steamer only calls in once in
three weeks?  That must be put right, and at
once!" said she, in her generous ardour.  "I
will appeal to the Government.  I will appeal
to the Treasury."

"You'd better appeal to Mr. MacBrayne,"
said Käthchen, drily; and therewithal that
subject was laid aside for the moment.

Unfortunately this reasonable mood on the
part of the Little Red Dwarf—if he could
properly be called little whose great breadth of
frame caused him to look like a compressed
giant—did not last very long.  His
half-smothered hatred of the house of Heimra broke
into flame again; and it is possible that a glass
of whiskey which he took at the end of dinner,
combined with the previous sherry, may have
added fuel to the fire.

"I've warned ye, Miss Stanley, not to say a
word about the Ross family, or what I've told
ye, or about any of your plans, before that lass
Barbara."

"Why all this mystery and suspicion!" said
Mary, with a touch of impatience.  "The girl
seems a very obliging and good-natured girl
indeed."

"She's a sister o' the head keeper," said the
factor, with a watchful glance towards the
door; "and that scoundrel of a young Ross
is just hand-in-glove with every man-jack o'
them.  Do ye think they've got any eyes in
their head if my young gentleman is after a
salmon on the Garra, or lying in wait for a
stag in the Corrie Bhreag?  They would swear
themselves black in the face that they did not
see him if he was standing staring at them
within twenty yards!"

"Very well, then; if you cannot trust the
keepers, why not get others in their place?"
she said, promptly.  "Not that I care much
about the game.  I propose to give the crofters,
big and little, free right to trap, or snare, or
shoot all the hares and rabbits they can get
hold of; I do not wish their little bits of
holdings to be plundered by useless beasts.
But grouse do no harm; and whether my own
people come here next autumn, or whether I let
the shooting, all the same there will be the
employment of gillies' labour, and the hiring of
the ponies."

"Yes!" said the factor.  "The only money
that ever finds its way into their pocket; and
yet you'll find the idjuts declaring amongst
themselves that not a single stranger should be
allowed to come into the country!"

"That is foolishness," said Mary, calmly.
"That is the idle talk of people who are poor
and suffering, and do not know why they are
poor and suffering.  And I, for one, mean to
take no heed of it; though, to be sure, it would
be pleasanter to think I was a little more
welcome.  However, about those keepers: if
they do not attend to their duty, if they allow
poaching, why not get others in their place?"

"That would be worse," said Mr. Purdie,
emphatically.  "The strange keepers would be
helpless; they would be outwitted at every
turn.  If ye knew the folk about here better,
their clannishness, their cunning——"

"But are you sure this poaching goes on,
Mr. Purdie," she interposed, "or is it only
guesswork on your part?  I presume Mr. Ross
calls himself a gentleman."

"A gentleman!" said the factor, with that
malevolent look coming into his eyes again.
"A gentleman that earns his living by selling
smuggled brandy to a wheen crofters!  A fine
gentleman, that!  I suppose when the Duke's
yacht sails into the bay out there, my
gentleman makes haste to hide away the bottles, and
takes care to say nothing about the five shillings
a gallon profit!  Ay, ay, a remarkable change
for the great family!—no playactoring about
with the Prince Regent now, but selling
contraband speerits to a lot of old women!
And snuff, maybe?  And tobacco?  Penny
packets!—a noble trade!"  He laughed aloud,
to conceal the vehemence of his hatred.  "A
fine come-down for high birth and ancient
gentility—buried alive in an island, not daring
to show his head even in Edinburgh, let alone
in London, his only companions a wheen
thieving gillies and scringe-net fishermen!
But plenty of pride all the same.  Oh, yes;
pride and concealment, they go together in the
Highland character: would ye believe it, when
he denied his mother Christian burial, and
made the grave up there on the hill, would he
put up a respectable monument in the ordinary
way, so that people could see it?  No, no; it's
on the sea-ward side of the island.  Pride again,
ye observe; a scorn of the common people;
pride and concealment together."

"I should think it was a great deal more
likely," said Käthchen, with some touch of
anger, "that the mother chose where her own
grave was to be."  But Mary, with thoughtful
eyes, only said: "Poor woman!"

"Ay, ay, pride enough," continued Mr. Purdie,
in a more triumphant strain.  "But
their pride had a famous fall before your uncle
and myself were done with them——"

At this Mary started somewhat.

"My uncle?" said she.  "Why, what cause
of offence could there have been between him
and them?  What injury could they possibly
have done him?"

"Injury?  Plenty of injury: in stirring up
ill-will and rebellion among the tenants.  It's
yourself, Miss Stanley, will find that out ere
long; oh, yes, wait till ye come to have dealings
with these people, ye'll find out what they are,
I'm thinking!  A stubborn and stiff-necked
race; and cunning as the very mischief; and
revengeful and dark.  But we broke their
obstinacy that time!"  He laughed again:
a malignant laugh.

"I saw ye noticed it, Miss Stanley, as we
came along this afternoon—the dried-up place
that was once a loch, and the pile of stones——"

She remembered well enough; and also she
recollected the vicious slash the driver had
made at his horses when the factor was
grinningly answering her question.

"Yes, but I did not quite understand what
it meant," said she.

"I'll just tell ye."

Mr. Purdie poured himself out a little drop
of whiskey—a very little drop—in an inadvertent
way.  There was quite a happy look on
his face when he began his tale.

"Ay; it's a fine story when people of
obstinate nature meet their match; and your
uncle, Miss Stanley, could hold his own—when
there was proper counsel behind his back,
if I may say so.  And what had Mrs. Ross
and her son to do with anything on the land?
Heimra island out there had been reserved for
them all the way through, as the estate was
going bit by bit; and when Lochgarra went as
well, there was still the island to preserve the
name of the family, as it were.  And was not
that enough?  What did they want—what
could any one want—with Loch Heimra and
Castle Heimra, when they had been sold into
other hands?  If they wanted the name kept
in perpetuity, there was the island—which
undoubtedly belonged to the Rosses; but the
loch and the castle on the mainland, they were
gone; they had been sold, given up, cut adrift.
And so, says your uncle, 'we'll cut adrift the
name too.  They have their Heimra Island;
that is sufficient: the loch and the castle are
mine, and that must be understood by all and
sundry.'  Natural, quite natural.  Would ye
have people giving themselves a title from
things not belonging to them at all, but to
you?  And what was the castle but a heap
of old stones, with about six or seven hundred
years of infamy, and bloodshed, and cruelty
attached to it?  Ay; they could show ye a
red patch on the earthen floor of the dungeon
that was never dry summer or winter.  Many's
the queer thing took place in that stronghold
in the old days.  'Well, well,' says your
uncle, 'if they will call themselves "of Heimra,"
let it be of Heimra Island.  The loch and the
castle are not theirs, but mine; and, being
mine, I am going to give my own name to
them.  Loch Stanley—Castle Stanley—that's
what they are to be.  I'm not going to have
strangers calling themselves after my property.
Let them keep the island if they like——"

"Why, what did it matter?" said Mary.
"They did not claim either the castle or the
loch.  It was merely the old association—the
historical association; and what harm did that
do to any one?  And an interesting place like
that, that has been in possession of the same
family for centuries——"

"But, surely, a man has the right to do
what he likes with his own?" said the Troich
Bheag Dhearg, with the corners of his mouth
drawn down, and his small eyes looking forth
a challenge.  "I can tell ye, Miss Stanley,
your uncle was a man not to thwarted——"

"I dare say!" said Mary, coldly.

"Castle Stanley—Loch Stanley—that was
now established; let them take their title from
what belonged to them, which was the island.
Ay; but do ye think the people about here
would follow the change?"  Mr. Purdie went
on, with something more of vindictiveness
coming into his tone.  "Would they?  Not
one o' them, the stubborn deevils!  There was
not an old bedridden woman, there was not a
laddie on his way to school, ye could get to say
'Castle Stanley' or 'Loch Stanley'; it was
Loch Heimra and Castle Heimra from every
one; and they held on to it as if it had been
the Westminster Confession of Faith—the dour
and bigoted animals they are!  Even the very
gamekeepers, that ye might think would be
afraid o' losing their situation, they were just
like the rest, though they had their plausible
and cunning excuses.  'You see, Mr. Stanley,'
they would say, 'if we tell the gillies about
Castle Stanley they will think it is Lochgarra
House we mean; and if we send them to Loch
Stanley, they will be going down to the
seashore.'  But well I know who was at the back
of all their stubbornness," the factor continued,
with a scowling face.  "Well I know: it was
that idling, mischievous, thrawn-natured,
impudent ne'er-do-weel, egging them on, and egging
them on, and keeping himself in the
background all the time.  The dignity of his
family!  I suppose that was what he was after—the
old castle and the old name; so that
strangers might think that his mother and he
had still property on the mainland!  And I
warned your uncle about it.  I warned him.  I
told him that as long as that graceless scoundrel
was in the neighbourhood there would be
nothing but spite and opposition on the part
of the tenantry.  'Well, then,' said he, 'for
spite there will be spite, if it comes to
that!'  Miss Stanley, your uncle was not a man to be
defied."

"I know," said Mary, with downcast face:
she foresaw what was coming—and did not at
all share in the savage glee the factor was
beginning to betray.

"'Give them time, Mr. Purdie,' says he.  'If
I buy a dog, or a horse, or a house, I can
call it by what name I please; and so I can
with a piece of water and an old ruin.  But
not too much time, Mr. Purdie—not too much
time.  If they have a will of their own, so have
I.  If there's to be neither Loch Stanley nor
Castle Stanley, I'll make pretty well sure there
will be neither Loch Heimra nor Castle Heimra.
I'll put an end to those Rosses calling
themself after any part of my property.  I'll soon
wipe out the last trace of them from the
mainland, anyway; and they're welcome to the
island out there, for anything I mind.  The
seven centuries of history can follow them
across the water; I've no room for such things
on my estate.'  And that's just how it came
about, Miss Stanley.  Not one creature in the
whole of the district but would stick to the old
name; crofter, cottar, shepherd, fisher-laddie,
they were all alike.  There was no help for it;
Your uncle was a determined man.  Anyone
that contended with him was bound to get the
worst of it; and here he was dealing with his
own.  'Very well,' said he, 'if there's to be
no Castle Stanley, I'll take care there shall be
no Castle Heimra.  Mr. Purdie, get the loch
drained of its last drop of water, and have
every stone of the useless old ruin hauled to
the ground!'  And that's precisely what ye
saw this afternoon, Miss Stanley!"

Her reply somewhat astonished the vain-glorious
factor, who had perhaps been expecting approval.

"It was shamelessly done!" said she—but
as if she were not addressing him at all.

And then she rose, and Kate Glendinning
rose also; so that Mr. Purdie practically found
himself dismissed—or rather he dismissed
himself, pleading that it was late.  He made some
appointment for the next morning, and
presently left: no doubt glad enough to get a
chance of lighting his pipe and having a
comfortable smoke on his way home to the inn.

When the two girls went into the
drawing-room—which was a large hexagonal room in
the tower, with windows looking north, west,
and south—they found that the lamps had not
yet been brought in, and also perceived, to
their surprise, that the night outside had
cleared and was now brilliant with its
thousands of throbbing stars.  They went to one
of the windows.  The heavily-moaning sea
was hardly visible, but the heavens were
extraordinarily lustrous; they were even aware
of a shimmer of light on the grey stone terrace
without: perhaps it was from the gleaming
belt of Orion that hung above a dark headland
jutting out towards the west; while there,
also, was the still more fiery Sirius, that burned
and palpitated behind the black birch-woods in
the south.  And then they turned to seek the
island of Heimra—out there on the mystic and
sombre plain—under that far-trembling and
shining canopy.

"Well," said Käthchen, with some vehemence
of indignation (for her Highland blood had
mounted to her head) "I know this, Mary:
scapegrace or no scapegrace, if I were the
young fellow living out there, I know what I
should do—I would kill that factor!  Isn't it
perfectly clear it was he who goaded your
uncle into pulling down the old castle and
draining the loch?"

Mary was silent for a second or two.  Then
she said, in an absent kind of way—

"There are wrongs and injuries done that
can never be undone.  I can never rebuild
Castle Heimra."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CAVE OF THE CROWING COCK`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium

   THE CAVE OF THE CROWING COCK.

.. vspace:: 2

Mary Stanley's eyes had not deceived her;
the boat of which she had caught a momentary
glimpse was a smart little yawl of twenty tons
or so, that was making in for Heimra Island;
and there were three men on deck—two redcaps
forward, the master at the helm.  This last was
a young fellow of about six and twenty, a little,
not much, over middle height, of somewhat
pale complexion, and with singularly dark eyes
and hair.  The curious thing was this: though
you could not say that any of his features were
particularly fine (except, perhaps, his coal-black
eyes, which were clearly capable of flame, if
the occasion demanded) the general effect of
them was striking; they seemed to convey an
impression of strength—of a certain lazy
audacity of strength; while the forehead revealed
by the peaked cap being pushed carelessly
backward denoted at once intelligence and resolution.
But indeed at this moment the young man's
attitude was one of merely quiescent indifference—though
there was an occasional quick scrutiny
of the neighbouring coast; all the graver perils
of the voyage were over; they were running
easily before a steady wind; and they would
get safely to their anchorage ere the light had
wholly died out of the western skies.

"Down foresail!" he called to the men.  For
now they were passing a headland that formed
one of two arms encircling a sheltered little
bay—a strangely silent and solitary-looking place
it seemed in this mysterious light.  Sterile, too;
tumbled masses of rock with hardly a scrap of
vegetation on them; a few clumps of birches
here and there; an occasional dark green pine
higher up the cliffs.  But at all events it was
quiet and still; the water lapped clear and crisp
along the shingle; while the murmur of the
outer sea was still everywhere around, and also,
on the northern side of the bay, there was a long
out-jutting reef where there was a continuous
surge of white foam over the saw-toothed edge.

"Down jib!"  The sound of a human voice
was so strange in this solitude—far stranger
than the mere rattle of blocks and tackle.

"Main sheet!"

The two men came aft: the steersman jammed
down his helm; the vessel slowly rounded into
the wind—the boom being hauled in meanwhile—the
mainsail flapping and shivering in the
light breeze.

"Stand by to let go!" was the next order;
and the hands went forward again—the vessel
gradually losing the way that was on her, until
she seemed absolutely motionless.

"Let go!"

There was a splash and a roar that sent a
thousand shuddering echoes through the silence.
A heron uttered a hoarse croak and rose on
heavy and slow-moving wings to make for
some distant shelter.  A pair of dunlins—unseen
in the dusk—added their shrill piping cry.
Then all was still again, save for the
continual moaning of the surge on the distant
reef.

"Give a haul at the topping-lift, lads!"  This
was the final direction; and then, with another
keen look round the little bay, young Ross of
Heimra—or Donuil Og Vich Iain Vich Ruari,
as some were proud to call him—went down
into the cabin to put a few things together
before going ashore.

Of the two sailors now left on the deck one
was a powerfully built man of about thirty,
with a close-clipped brown beard, bushy brown
eyebrows, and eyes of a clear Celtic grey.  His
name was Kenneth Macleod; but he was more
generally known as *Coinneach Breac*—that is to
say, Kenneth of the small-pox marks.  His
companion was younger than himself—a lad of
twenty or two-and-twenty; long and loutish of
figure; but with a pleasant expression of face.
This was Malcolm, or rather, Calum, as they
called him.  Probably he had some other name;
but it was never heard of; the long, lumpish,
heavily-shouldered lad was simply known
throughout this neighbourhood as Calum, or
Calum-a-bhata, Calum of the Boat.

"It is I who will have a sound sleep this
night," said he, in Gaelic, as he stretched his
hands above his head and yawned.

"And I, too, when the work is over," said his
neighbour, pulling out a short black pipe.  "And
now you see what it is to have many friends.
Oh, I know you, Calum; you are a young lad:
and you are strong: you think of nothing but
fighting, like the other young lads.  But let me
tell you this, Calum; it is not a good thing,
fighting and quarrelling, and making enemies;
it is easier to make enemies than to make friends:
and many times you will be sorry when it is too
late, and when that has been put wrong which
you cannot put right.  For you know what the
wise man of Islay said.  Calum; he said—'*He
who killed his mother a few moments ago would
fain have her alive now!*'"

"But who was talking about fighting, Coinneach—tell
me that?" said the youth, angrily.

"I was giving you advice, Calum, my son,"
said Coinneach—lighting his pipe and pulling
away, though there appeared to be very little
tobacco inside.  "I was telling you that it was
a good thing to have many friends, as the
master has.  Oh, he is the one to make friends,
and no doubt about that!  For look you at this,
Calum; you know what is stowed in the cabin;
and here we come into the bay, without waiting
for the night at all, and just as if there was
nothing on board but a few tins of meat for our
own use and a loaf or two.  That is the wisdom
of having many friends, as I am telling you.
Why, if there was any one after us, if there
was any one wishing to put trouble upon us, do
you know what would have happened this
evening?—there would have been a bonfire on
every headland between Ru Gobhar and the
Black Bay.  And that is what I tell you, Calum,
that it is a very good thing to have plenty of
friends ashore, who are as your own kinspeople
to you, and will come between you and the
stranger, and will see that the stranger does not
harm you.  The master, he is the one to make
friends with old and young; and believe me as
far as that goes, Calum.  Ay, you are a young
lad; and you do not know what the world is;
and you do not know what it is to go sailing
with a hard skipper; and if you are an
apprentice, a bucket of water in your bunk to wake
you in the morning.  But the master—oh, well,
now, look at this: if there is bad weather, and
there is something difficult to be done, and you
do it smartly, why, then he calls out to you
'Fhir mo chridhe!'[#] and that is a far more
welcome thing to you than cursing and swearing;
it is a far more welcome thing, and a good thing
to comfort you."  He shook the ashes out of his
pipe, and put it in his pocket.  "Well, now,
see to the tackle, Calum, and we'll get the boat
hoisted out, for the master will be going
ashore."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Fhir mo chridhe!*—Man of my heart!

.. vspace:: 2

The boat—a twelve-footer or thereabouts—had
been stowed on deck; but they soon had
her launched over the side, and everything put
ship-shape and in readiness.  And presently
the young man who had gone down into the
cabin re-appeared again; he threw some things
into the boat, and took his place in the
stern-sheets; the men shoved off, and presently they
were well on their way to the beach, where
there was a rudely-formed slip.  By this time
the streaks of lemon-hued light that had
appeared in the west were dying away;
darkness was coming over land and sea; already,
in the east, one or two stars were visible
between the thinning and breaking clouds.
Young Ross landed at the slip, and made his
way up to a level plateau on which stood a
long, rambling, one-storeyed building mostly
of timber: a sort of bungalow, with a slated
porch, and with some little pretence of a
garden round it, though at this time of the
year nothing, of course, was visible in it but
a few leafless bushes.  At the door stood an
old woman neatly and smartly dressed, whose
eyes were still expressive enough to show how
pleased she was.

"Good evening to you, Martha," said he in
Gaelic, "and I hope you are well."

"Indeed I am all the better for seeing you
back, sir," replied the old woman, with many
smiles.  "The house is no house at all when
you are away."

She followed him obsequiously into the
narrow hall.  He only glanced at the newspapers
and letters on the table.  But there
was something else there—a brace of grouse.

"Will I cook one of the birds for Mr. Ross's
dinner?" she asked, her Highland politeness
causing her to address him in the third
person.

A quick frown came over his face.

"Who brought these here?" he demanded.

"Oh, well—they were left," said old Martha,
evasively.

"Yes, yes, left; but who left them?" he
asked again.

"Oh, well; maybe it was the Lochgarra
keepers," said she.

"The keepers?  Nonsense!" he said angrily.
"Do you tell me the keepers would shoot grouse
at this time of the year, when the birds have
paired, and soon will be nesting?  It was
Gillie Ciotach,[#] I'll be bound.  Now you will
tell the Gillie Ciotach, Martha, that if he does
not stop his tricks I will have him sent across
the land to go before the Sheriff at Dingwall;
and how will he like that?"


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Gillie Ciotach*—the left-handed young man.

.. vspace:: 2

"Oh, well, indeed, sir," said Martha, in a
deprecating way, "the poor young lad meant
no harm.  He was coming over here anyway,
because he lost a dog, and he was wishing to
find the dog."

At this the young master burst out laughing.

"The Gillie Ciotach is an excellent one for
lies, and that is certain!" said he.  "His dog?
And how could his dog swim across from
Lochgarra to Eilean Heimra?  Tell Gillie
Ciotach from me that when he comes over here
he may look after the lobsters, but he will be
better not to tell lies about a dog, and also he
will do well to leave the Lochgarra grouse
alone.  And now, Martha, if there is any
dinner for me, let me have it at once; for
I am going back to the yacht by-and-bye."

He went into the simply-furnished dining-room,
where there was a lamp on the table and
likewise a magnificent peat-fire ablaze in the
big iron grate—a welcome change from the
little stove in the cabin of the *Sirène*.  He had
brought his letters with him in his hand.  He
drew in a wickerwork lounging-chair towards
the fireplace, and idly began to tear the
envelopes open: here were tidings, various
hushed voices, as it were, from the busy world
that seemed so distant to him, living in these
remote solitudes.  It is true he had been away
for a time from Eilean Heimra; but during
that interval there had not been much of
human companionship for him; nay, there was
for the most part a greater loneliness than
ever, especially when he took his watch on
deck at night, sending the two men below for
much-needed rest.  Indeed these letters and
newspapers seemed almost to make a stir
and noise!—so used had he been to silence
and the abstraction of his own thoughts.

Meanwhile Coinneach and Calum had returned
to the yacht, had got some supper, and
were now up at the bow, contemplatively
smoking, and chatting to each other in their
native tongue.  Night had fallen; but the
skies were becoming clearer and more clear;
the starlit heavens were gradually revealing
themselves.  There was not a sound—since the
rattle of the anchor had disturbed the quietude
of the little bay.

"The work is not over yet," Coinneach was
saying, in somewhat low tones, "and it is the
part of the work that I have no liking for.
Anything else I shrink not back from, when
the master wishes; he is the one to follow, and
I will go with him wherever he desires; and
that in safety, too—for who knows the
navigation like himself, yes, and speaking every
language that is known upon the earth?  I
will go with him wherever he wishes; I will
do whatever he wishes.  But, Calum, I have no
liking for the Uamh coilich na glaodhaich."[#]


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Uamh coilich na glaodhaich*—The Cave of the Crowing
Cock.

.. vspace:: 2


"Nor I, Coinneach," said his companion.
"Especially in the night-time."

"Day-time or night-time: what is the
difference in the Uamh coilich na glaodhaich, when
it is so dark that no man has ever been to the
end of it, or knows to what it leads?  Nor is
any man likely to try to discover, since the one
that went on and on, until he heard a cock
crowing.  Oh, God, that must have been a
terrible thing, to be so near the edge of another
world that you could hear a cock crowing
there.  And if the people had caught him and
kept him—they would have taken him away
to the place where the piper went when he
played Cha till mi tuilich;[#] and that is a tale
that is told of many caves; and it may be this,
Calum, that all the great caves lead to that
other world; but who can tell about such
fearful things?  A cock crowing—that is
nothing—when you are in your own home,
with the daylight around you; but to hear the
crowing of a cock after you have gone away
into the earth, then that tells you of wonderful
things, for you know the saying, '*Deep is the
low of a cow upon strange pasture.*'  Well, well,
what the master says must be done; but
many's the time I am wishing that when the
kegs have to be hidden, it was some other
place we had for the hiding of them than
the Cave of the Crowing Cock."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Cha till mi tuilich*—I shall never more return.

.. vspace:: 2


"Coinneach," said the lad, and he also spoke
in a hushed kind of way, "how long ago is it
since that one heard the cock crowing?"

"How long?  Who can answer such questions?
Can you tell me when the Macarthurs
came into the world?  For you have heard the
saying, Calum: '*The hills and the streams and
the Macalpines came together; but who can say
when the Macarthurs came?*'  It is a long time
ago: it is not any use asking.  Ay, and there
was something before all of these."  He paused
for a second: then he said darkly—"That
was—that was when the Woman was in these
islands."

"What woman?" said Calum, with the
eager curiosity of youth.

But Coinneach seemed disinclined to answer.

"Have you not heard?" said he.  "But it
is wise not to speak of such things."

"What woman was that, Coinneach?" his
companion persisted, fixing his eyes on
Coinneach's face, that was full of a sombre
meditation.

"Did you never hear of her—the Woman
that was here before there were any people in
these islands or in the mainland either?  But
it is not prudent to speak."

"Who was she, Coinneach?" said Calum.
"Surely she cannot hurt you if she was dead
these many thousands of years?"

"Do not say that," he responded rather
gloomily.  "Who can tell?—for there are
strange things.  You know I am not a coward,
Calum."

"That is what I know well!" said Calum,
confidently.  "How many days is it since you
stood up against the French skipper, and he
with four of them at his back?"

"Ay, but there are things that are more
terrible than blows; and it is of these that I am
afraid.  Or perhaps not quite afraid; but I
think.  And that is the difference between one
man and another man, Calum.  There is always
ill-luck happening; but one man will suffer it
and not inquire, while the other man will ask
what caused it or who it was that did him the
harm.  And if it is not always prudent to speak
of such affairs, at least the truth is the safest:
you know the saying '*Speak the truth as if you
were in the presence of kings*.'  And now I will
tell you this, Calum, of a strange thing that
happened to me when I was a boy."

He abated his voice, as if afraid of being
overheard.  Calum's eyes 'glowered' in the dusk.

"I had been over to Ru-Gobhar, where I had
a sister married then; and I was returning
home.  It was a moonlight night; the sea very
calm; there was no wind.  Well, when I was
at the highest point of the road, above the
Black Bay, do you know what happened?  But
I will tell you what happened.  And this is
what I saw: the sea began to move, although
there was not a breath of wind, and there was
no noise either; only it moved and heaved in
a terrible way; and there was a line of white,
but it was more like white fire than white foam,
all along the land, from Ru-Gobhar in to
Minard, and all round the headlands to where
I was.  For I was standing looking, and very
much afraid to see so strange a thing; and
then this is what happened: I got to know that
there was someone behind me; and then I got
to know it was the Woman, and I durst not
look round, for I was shaking with terror.
May you never have such an experience in
your life, Calum, as was mine that night.  I
knew that she had come across the sea, from
the islands, noticing that I was alone and no
one to help me; and now I knew that she was
not only behind me, but in front of me, and all
around me, though I could not see anything,
for I was in such terror.  She did not speak to
me, nor touch me; but I felt myself choking at
the throat as if she had a grip of me; and I
gave myself up for dead—for I could not run
away from her—and I knew it was the Woman
who had a grip of my throat.  Well, well, I
gave myself up for dead; but all of a sudden it
entered my mind that she would carry me away
out to the islands and bury me in one of the
caves; and with that I made a great effort, and
cried out 'God on the cross, save me, save
me!'  That was the last I knew of it; when I came
to myself I was lying in the road, cold as
a stone; and the sea was quite smooth again.
May you never have an experience like my
experience of that night, Calurn!"

Calum was silent for a little while.  Then he
said, slowly—

"Coinneach, do you suppose the Woman
came from the cave where the cock was heard
crowing?"

"How can I tell?" was the answer.
"Perhaps I have said too much.  But what
I have said to you, that is the least part of
what happened to me that night, for it is not
to be spoken of."  And then he rose; and put
his pipe in his pocket.  "Come, Calum, my
son, we must take the boat ashore now, for the
master will be coming down to the slip.  But
do not you speak of such things as I have told
you; for it is not good to speak of them."

And to this Calum merely replied—

"What the master wishes is enough for you
and me, Coinneach; but I would rather not be
going into the Uamh coilich na glaodhaich this
night."

They rowed the boat in to the shore—they
could see their way well enough, for now the
heavens were quite clear, and a universe of
white worlds was shining down on them; and
there they ran her bow into the soft seaweed
by the side of the slip.  They had not long to
wait.  There was a sound of footsteps on the
gravel-path; then from out of the shadow
emerged a figure into the open space above the
beach; they knew who this was.  Young Ross
of Heimra seemed to be in no great hurry; his
hands were in his pockets; he came down
towards the boat with long, lounging, leisurely
strides; and he was whistling a gay air that
was unfamiliar to them—for Coinneach and
Calum could hardly be expected to recognise
'*La Noce de Jeanne*.'

"It is the master who is not afraid of
anything," said the elder of the two men, under
his breath.

"Indeed you may say that," rejoined Calum,
as he, too, put his pipe in his pocket.  "I think
he would face old Donas[#] himself, and not ask
for any allowance."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Donas*—the Devil.

.. vspace:: 2


Young Ross came down the beach.

"Lend a hand here, lads," he sung out, "and
we'll take the other boat with us.  Maybe we'll
be able to do it in one trip; and I'm sure it's
a good long sleep both of you will be wanting
this night."

They speedily had the second boat launched
and shoved along to the slip; then they
attached the painter to the one in which they
had come ashore; and presently they were
pulling both boats quietly out to the *Sirène*.
The gangway was open.  Ross and the elder
of the two men stepped on board; and proceeded
to remove the skylight of the chief cabin—Calum
securing the boats by the side of the
yacht.  And then began the final business of
the expedition—the hoisting up on deck and
the transferring to the boats alongside of a
considerable number of kegs that were small
enough to be handled with comparative ease.
Young Ross, who was down in the cabin,
worked just like the others: slim as his figure
seemed, there was plenty of strength about his
arms and shoulders.  There was no lamp in the
cabin, nor yet on deck; nor was there need of
any; the black figures labouring away there
did very well with the faint illumination shed
by those thousands of tremulous stars.  And in
course of time the operation was complete; the
casks that had been skilfully stowed in the
main cabin of the *Sirène* were now ranged as
tightly as might be in the boats alongside;
then the men stepped in and took to the oars;
while the young master went to the tiller.
Calum had been told to put a couple of candles
in his pocket; and he was not likely to forget
that—for they were going to the Cave of the
Crowing Cock.

It was a long and laborious pull—the boat
astern acting as a heavy drag; moreover, even
with this clear starlight, they dared not go
anywhere near that saw-toothed reef that guarded
the next small bay whither they were bound.
They could hear each successive thud of the
surge, and the long receding roar; and they
could even descry in a kind of way the line of
white foam that boiled and churned incessantly
along the almost invisible rocks.  But once
they were round this dangerous point—giving
it a significantly wide berth—they found
themselves in smooth water again.  Not a word
was spoken.  The two men toiled away at the
oars—most likely thinking of the welcome sleep
awaiting them when all was done.  The land
ahead seemed to grow darker as they
approached, even as the black precipitous cliffs
appeared to soar higher and higher into the
clear starlit skies.  Then there was a
whispering of water: the beach was near.  Young
Ross bade them pull more gently now: he was
trying to make out the most suitable
landing-place—in amongst those mysterious shadows.

Eventually the two boats were grounded,
and dragged up to be secure from the tide;
while the work of getting the kegs out began.

"Calum," said the young master, "take the
candles now and get them lighted; and mind
you do not light them until you are well inside
the cave."

Calum appeared to receive this commission
very unwillingly; at all events he hesitated.

"It is asking for your pardon I am, sir,"
said he; "but—I have brought a pistol with me."

"A pistol?  And why so?" said Donald Ross.

"It is the pistol that I would like to be firing
into the cave," said Calum, rather timidly,
"before any of us went into it."

"And what is your reason for that, Calum?"

Calum rather hung his head; but he said all
the same—

"If there would be wild beasts in the cave,
it will scare them before we go in."

"Wild beasts?  And what wild beasts are
there in Eilean Heimra?"  Then the young
man laughed.  "Calum, is it a badger, or a
wild cat, or an otter that you fear?  Or is it
not rather the Dark Person you are afraid of,
who used to come every night to Lochgarra to
ask Mr. Stanley if he was not ready yet?  Did
you believe that story, Calum; and did you not
think the Dark Person very foolish to talk
Gaelic to Mr. Stanley, when he was not
understanding a word of it?"

Calum did not answer: he was shamefacedly
awaiting permission to fire into that dreaded
place.

"Well, well, Calum," young Ross said,
good-naturedly, "you are not long from your mother's
apron-string: if you are afraid, give me the
candles, and keep the pistol in your pocket.
Give me the candles—and lend Coinneach here
a hand with the kegs."

But at this Calum raised his head.

"Indeed that will I not do," said he, "for it
is not Mr. Ross that must go first into the cave,
when I am here, or when Coinneach is here.  If
I am not to fire the pistol, then I will not fire
the pistol.  But it's myself that am going to
light the candles in the cave."

"And a lucifer-match, Calum," said the
young master, turning away from him, "will
frighten wild beasts as well as any
pistol—besides making a great deal less noise."

The Uamh coilich na glaodhaich was only a
few yards distant; but the entrance to it was
concealed by a huge mass—a perpendicular
pinnacle—of rock; and when Calum had got
behind this gigantic natural screen, there were
no more cheerful stars to guide him; he was
confronted by darkness and unknown terrors.
And yet he scrupulously obeyed his instructions.
His trembling fingers, it is true, grasped
the pistol, but he kept it in his pocket
nevertheless; while with his left hand he groped his
way well into the cave—dreading at every
moment to see two fiery eyes glaring on
him—before he set to work to light the candles.
And how feeble and ineffectual were the
small red flames in this vast cavern!  Their
flickering hardly showed the roof at all; but
it was not the roof that Calum was regarding;
it was the far-reaching and black abyss in front
of him, that led—whither?  Perhaps the
inhabitants of that other world could see better
than himself, and were now regarding him?—that
other world in which the dawn began in
the middle of the night, and where there were
cocks crowing when all the natural universe
was asleep.  He had to fasten each lighted
candle into the neck of a bottle that had been
left there for the purpose; but all the while he
did so he was staring into that vague and awful
space that the feeble, dull red glow did not
seem to penetrate at all—staring into it as if he
expected to find two white eyes and a ghastly
countenance suddenly become visible.  And
then again, when he had placed the bottles on a
shelf of rock that ran along one side of the
cave, a few feet from the ground, he did not
instantly turn and go.  He retreated
backward—cautiously, for the shelving shingle was loose
and slippery—keeping his face towards that
hollow darkness, so that he might guard himself
against any strange thing, or be warned by
hearing any strange noise.  Then a colder
stirring of air told him that he was outside; he
made his way past the over-looming rock and
into the clear star-light again; and with a
beating heart—but a thankful heart withal—he
went quickly along the beach and rejoined his
companions.

By this time the kegs had been all got out;
so that in case of any sudden danger, of which
they appeared to have but little dread, the three
of them could have jumped into one of the
boats and made off.  There remained, therefore,
only the task of carrying along the casks and
stowing them in the cave; and this work young
Ross left to the two men.  He remained on
watch—if watch were needed—pacing up and
down the shingle, looking at the far resplendent
heavens and the darker sea, and listening to
the continuous murmur of the distant surf.  He
had lit his pipe, too; he did not seem to have
much apprehension of being interfered with.
And indeed all went well; and in due course of
time the two dark figures came along the beach
with the intelligence that all the kegs had been
safely stowed, and that they were now ready to
row the master back to his own home.

"Coinneach," said Donald Ross, seated at the
helm, when they were some way out on the
black and tumbling water, that glanced and
quivered here and there with the reflections of
the stars, "they were telling me before we left
in the yacht that the lady was shortly coming
to Lochgarra House."

"And indeed I heard the same thing myself,"
said Coinneach, "and they were making ready
at the big house for the coming of the
Englishwoman."[#]


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Ban-sassunnach* was the term he used.  But young
Ross had referred to her as *Baintighearna*, or
lady-proprietor—a much more respectful appellation.

.. vspace:: 2


"And I have no doubt," the master continued,
"that Purdie will come with her, to show her
the property, and introduce her to the people."

"The Little Red Dwarf," said Coinneach;
and then he muttered to himself: "It is the
lowermost floor of hell that I am wishing
for him, and for every one of his accursed house!"

Young Ross of Heimra took no notice of this
pious ejaculation.

"Now listen," said he.  "This is what I wish
to say to you, Coinneach.  When Purdie comes
to Lochgarra with the lady who is the new
proprietor, that would be a very good time
indeed for widow Mac Vean to ask them to give
her a cow in place of the one that she lost in
the Meall-na-Fearn bog.  Maybe they will give
the poor woman a cow; and she will pay them
back bit by bit if they allow her time."

"It is of no use asking the Little Red Dwarf
for anything," said Coinneach, sullenly.  "There
is no goodwill in his heart towards the people.
Nor is there any goodwill in their hearts
towards him—God forbid that there should be
any such thing.  Indeed, now, there is
something I could say about the Little Red
Dwarf—But it does not serve to talk."

"What were you going to say, Coinneach?"
the young master demanded—knowing Coinneach's ways.

"Oh, perhaps Mr. Ross would not like to
hear," said Coinneach, evasively.

"Indeed, but I wish to hear.  Now what is it
you have to tell me about the Troich Bheag
Dhearg?"

Coinneach was silent for a second or two.

"Well," said he, slowly, "it was some of the
young lads they were saying that it only
wanted a word from Mr. Ross.  Yes; they
were saying that.  It was just a word from
Mr. Ross; and they would see that the Little Red
Devil did not trouble anyone any more, neither
in this nor in any other country."

"Oh, indeed," said the master, placidly.
"Then it is a murder the Gillie Ciotach and the
rest of them are for planning—is that what you
have to tell me?"

"I would not give a thing a bad name," said
Coinneach, as he laboured at the oar.  "No, no;
they were not talking of a murder, or any bad
thing like that.  But—but there might be an
accident; and a very good thing, too, if an
accident happened to the Little Red Dwarf!"

"And what kind of an accident?"

"Oh well," said Coinneach, looking away out
to the horizon as if the suggestion might come
from any quarter.  "Maybe he would be riding
home on a dark night; and maybe there might
be a wire stretched across the road; and if he
was to break his neck, who could help that?
And it is I who would laugh to hear that he
had broken his neck; indeed I would laugh!"
said Coinneach, though there was little laughter
in his sombre tones.

"And that is what you call an accident,
Coinneach?  It is an accident that might end in
your finding yourself with a hempen collar
round your neck.  And what was it set the
young men talking like that?"

"Oh well, indeed, they were talking about
the draining of the loch and the pulling down
of Castle Heimra; and they were saying that
nowadays the law was being altered by the
people themselves, and that right and justice
could be done without waiting for the courts.
They were saying that.  And they were saying
that we have come into a new time, which is
the truth.  They were speaking of the people
over there in the Lews; and the last that was
heard was that the people would not wait any
longer for more pasture to be given them; they
would not wait for the courts; they were going
to take the deer-forest to themselves, and
hamstring every one of the stags—them that they
could not eat; and they had got their tents and
baggage ready, to go into the forest and take
possession.  In former times they would not
have dared to do so; but times are different
now; and people have not to wait for justice;
it is they themselves who must say what is right,
whether about the Little Red Dwarf, or
anything else.  They were telling me that.  And
who was to put the crofters and cottars out of
the deer-forest over there in the Lews?  Not
all the policemen in the island: there are not
enough.  And if they were to send soldiers, the
Queen's soldiers dare not fire on the Queen's
subjects, or the officer would be hanged.  That
was what they were telling me."

"Coinneach," said the young master, "if the
Gillie Ciotach and his companions are talking
like that, they will be getting themselves into
trouble one of these days.  They'd better let the
Little Red Dwarf alone; for one thing, I dare
say he is safe enough; the devil looks after his
own brats.  But do not forget what I am telling
you now—about Mrs. Mac Vean.  Old Martha
will be wanting you to go over to the mainland
to-morrow; and when you are there, you can
seek out Mrs. Mac Vean, and bid her tell the
factor how her cow was lost in the Meall-na-Fearn
bog.  She can do no harm by asking."

"It's very little she will get from the Troich
Bheag Dhearg," said Coinneach, gloomily,
"whether by asking or any other way."

At last the long pull was over; and the men,
having landed the master at the slip, set out
again for the yacht.  Young Ross of Heimra
went up to the house.  But before going in, he
paused at the porch, to have a final look at the
wonderful glories of that vast firmament—the
throbbing Sirius low down in the south, the
gleaming belt and sword of Orion, the powdered
diamond-dust of the Pleiades, the jewelled head
of Medusa, Cassiopeia's silver throne.  And
perhaps he was not thinking so much of those
distant and shining worlds as of her who had
first taught him their various names—of the
worse than widowed woman who had shut herself
up here in proud isolation, himself her only
care.  Well, she was at peace now; her wrongs
and sufferings and bitter memories all come to
an end; surely there was nothing but quiet and
sweet slumber around that white grave-stone,
far up there on the top of the cliff, overlooking
the wide and lonely western seas.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BAINTIGHEARNA`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium

   THE BAINTIGHEARNA.

.. vspace:: 2

Next morning Mary went eagerly and joyously
to the window, for here indeed was a welcome
change: no more louring heavens and streaming
roads, but a vast expanse of wind-driven
sea, blue as the very heart of a sapphire, and
yet with innumerable sudden flashes of white
from the crest of its swift-hurrying waves.
The sky cloudless; the fresh breeze blowing
straight in from the Atlantic; the world all
shining around her; even those long spurs and
headlands, sterile as they were, looked quite
cheerful in the prevailing sunlight.  And out
yonder, too, was the island of Heimra, to which
her eyes would go back again and again
with a curious interest.  She thought of the
lone mother, and of the boy brought up like a
wild goat among the rocks.  And if he had
turned out a reckless and unscrupulous
ne'er-do-well, an Ishmael with his hand against
every man, well, that was a deplorable thing,
though perhaps not to be wondered at;
moreover it could matter little to her what such an
outcast might think of her or of her family;
but, nevertheless, deep down in her heart, there
was an odd and ever-recurring feeling of
compunction.  She wished to be able to say "I am
sorry."  Certainly it was not she who had
destroyed the last relic and monument of the
ancient name—who had drained the loch and
levelled the old stronghold with the ground;
and he must know that; but she wished him to
know more; she wished him to know how
indignant she had been when she first heard of
that monstrous and iniquitous act of vandalism.
And then again (as she still stood gazing at the
island out there in the wide blue waters, with
the white foam springing high in the sunlight
along its southern coasts) it seemed to her that
she rather feared meeting this man.  Rude and
lawless and mannerless, might he not laugh at
her stumbling apologies?  Or in his Highland
pride he might scorn her southern birth, and
vouchsafe no word in reply?  Well, being
sorry was all that remained for her; what was
done could not be undone; it was not within
her power to bring back Castle Heimra from
that waste of ruin.

She had got up very early, but she did not
care to waken Kate, who was no doubt tired
with the long drive of yesterday; she thought
instead she would quietly slip outside and have
some little investigation of her surroundings.
So she quickly finished dressing; went down
and through the lofty oak hall; passed out upon
the stone terrace, and from thence descended
into the garden, where she found herself quite
alone.  The air was sweet and soft; there was
a pleasant scent of newly-delved earth; and
everywhere there was abundant evidence that
the Spring had already come to this sheltered
space—for there were masses of daffodils and
primroses and wallflower all aglow in the
warm sunlight, and there were bunches of
blossom on the cherry-trees trained up the high
stone wall.  She went away down to the end
of the garden, opened a door she found there,
and, passing through, entered the wilder
solitude of the woods.  And ever as she wandered
idly and carelessly along, the sense that she was
the mistress and owner of all these beautiful
things around her seemed to grow on her and
produce a certain not unnatural joy and pride.
For the moment she had forgotten all the
problems in human nature and in economics
that lay ahead of her; here she had all the
world to herself—this picturesque world of
silver-grey rock, and golden gorse, and taller
larch and spruce, all dappled with sun and
shadow, while the fresh odours of the Spring
were everywhere around, and a stirring of the
new life of the year.  And then, when she had
fought her way through the thick underwood
to the summit of one of the westward-looking
cliffs—behold! the dark blue sea, and the
sunny headlands, and Eilean Heimra, with its
thunder-shocks of foam.  Heimra island again;
it seemed to be always confronting her; but
however long she might gaze in that direction,
there was no sign of any white-winged yacht
coming sailing out into the blue.

And then she scrambled down from this
height to the water's edge; and here she
discovered a most sequestered little haven—a
small, semicircular bay sheltered from the
land-winds by rocks and trees, while the pellucid
green sea broke in ripples of silver along the
cream-white and lilac pebbles.  A most solitary
spot—quiet, and sunny, and peaceful: she
began to think that whatever might be done
with other portions of her property, she would
keep this little bit of picturesque seclusion
entirely for herself.  This, surely, could be of
no use to anybody—the pebbly beach, the rocks
purple-black with mussels or olive-green with
seaweed, the clear water whispering along the
shore.  Political economy should not follow
her hither; here would be her place of
rest—her place of dreaming—when she was done
with studying the wants of others, and wished
to commune with her own soul.

But all of a sudden she found she was not
alone: an apparition had become visible—a
solitary figure that had quietly come round the
rocky point, and was now regarding her with
dumb apprehension.  This was a girl of about
five-and-twenty, who had something of an
Irish cast of face: fair-complexioned, freckled, a
tilted nose, grey eyes wide-apart and
startled-looking, and curly light-brown hair that was
mostly concealed by the scarlet shawl she wore
round her head and shoulders.  She regarded
Miss Stanley with obvious fear, and did not
advance; her eyes, that had the timidity of a
wild animal in them, had something more than
that; they seemed to say that the poor creature
was but half-witted.  Nevertheless the young
proprietress instantly concluded that this was
one of "her people," and that, therefore, she
was bound to make friends.

"Good morning!" said Mary, and she
brought her wonder-working smile and dimple
into play, as well she knew how.

A quick light, of wonder and pleasure,
sprang into the girl's eyes.  She came forward
a little way, timidly.  She smiled, in a
pleading sort of fashion.  And then she ventured
to hold out her hand, timidly.  Mary went
forward at once.

"I am very glad to make your acquaintance,"
she said, in her bland tones, "and you must
tell me who you are."

But the girl, taking the hand that was offered
to her, bent one knee and made a humble and
profound curtsy (where she could have learnt
this trick it is hard to say), and then she uplifted
her smiling and beseeching eyes to the great
lady (who was considerably taller than she),
and still held her hand, and repeated several
times something that sounded like *Bentyurna
veen—Bentyurna veen*.[#]


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Baintighearna mhin*—the gentle lady.

.. vspace:: 2


"I am very sorry I don't know Gaelic,"
said Mary, rather disappointedly.  "Don't you
know a little English?"

The girl still held her hand, and patted it;
and looked into her face with pleased and
wistful eyes; and again she was addressed as
*Bentyurna veen*.  And then, in this unknown
tongue, something more was said, of which
Mary could only make out the single word Heimra.

"Oh, do you come from Heimra island?"
she asked, quickly.

But of the girl's further and rapid speech
she could make nothing at all.  So she said—

"I am really very sorry; but I don't know
any Gaelic.  Come with me to the house, and
I will get some one to speak between us.  Come
with me, to Lochgarra House, do you understand?"

The girl smiled, as if in assent; and
thereupon the two of them set out, following a
winding path through the woods that
eventually brought them to the garden gate.  But
here a curious incident occurred.  Mary opened
the gate, and held it for her unknown friend
to follow; but at the same moment the girl
caught sight of Mr. Purdie, who had come
along for instructions, and was now in the
garden awaiting Miss Stanley's return.  The
instant that this stranger girl beheld the Little
Red Dwarf, she uttered a quick cry of terror,
and turned and fled; in a moment she was out
of sight in the thick underwood.  Mary stood
still, astounded.  It was no use her trying to
follow.  And so, after a second or two of
bewilderment, she turned and went on to the house,
saying a few words to Mr. Purdie in passing,
but not with reference to this encounter.  Some
instinct suggested that she ought to seek for
information elsewhere.

When she went into the dining-room she
found that Käthchen had come down, and also
that Barbara was bringing in breakfast.

"Barbara," said she, "do you know of a girl
about here who seems to be not quite in her
right mind, poor thing?  A fair-complexioned
girl, who wears a red shawl round her head
and shoulders——"

"Oh, that was just Anna Chlannach[#] that
Miss Stanley would be seeing," said Barbara,
in her soft-spoken way.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Anna Chlannach*—Anne of the many curls.

.. vspace:: 2


"And does she come from Heimra Island?"
was the next question.

"Oh, no, she is not from Eilean Heimra,"
said Barbara.  "Maybe she would be speaking
to Miss Stanley, and it is about her mother she
would be speaking.  Her mother died about
two years ago; but Anna thinks she has been
changed into one of the white sea-birds that
fly about Eilean Heimra, and that she is
coming back, and so she goes along the shore
and watches for her.  That is what she would
be saying to Miss Stanley."

"Barbara, can you tell me why the girl
should be afraid of Mr. Purdie?"

"Oh, well, indeed, ma'am, they were saying
that Mr. Purdie was for having her sent away
to an asylum; and it is no doubt Anna would
rather be among her own people."

"To an asylum?" Mary demanded sharply.
"For what reason?  She does no harm?"

"There is no harm about Anna Chlannach,"
said Barbara, simply and seriously, as she
busied herself with the table things.  "There
is no harm at all about Anna Chlannach, poor
girl.  But when Mr. Purdie wishes a thing to
be done, then it has to be done."

The hot blood mounted to Mary Stanley's face.

"Oh, do you think so?" said she.  "For I
do not think so—not at all!  It is not
Mr. Purdie who is to be the master here—when I
am here.  I will let Mr. Purdie understand
that he is not to—to interfere with my
people——"

"Mary!" said Kate Glendinning, in an undertone.

Mary was silent; she knew she had been
indiscreet.  But presently she said—

"Well, Käthchen, I see I must learn Gaelic."

"Gaelic," observed Kate, sententiously, "is
a very intricate key; and then when you've
got it, and put it in the lock, and turned it,
you find the cupboard empty."

"Perhaps so with regard to literature—I
do not know; but I want to be able to talk
to the people here, without the intervention of
an interpreter.  Barbara," said she, to the
parlour-maid, who had come into the room
again, "do you know what *bentyurna veen* is?"

"*Baintighearna mhin*?" said Barbara, with
a smile.  "Oh, that is 'the gentle lady,'  And
that is what Anna Chlannach would be calling
Miss Stanley, I have no doubt of that."

"Well, now, Barbara," Mary continued,
"you must tell me how to say this in Gaelic—'*Am
I welcome?*'  What is that in Gaelic?"

But here Barbara became very much embarrassed.

"I am sure it is not necessary that Miss
Stanley should say that—oh no, indeed," she
answered with averted eyes.

"I am not so sure," said Mary, in her direct
way.  "I hope the time will come when I shall
not have to ask such a question in going into
any one's cottage; but at present I am a
stranger, and I must make my way gradually.
Now, Barbara, what is the Gaelic for 'Am
I welcome?"

But still Barbara hesitated.

"If you would ask Mr. Purdie, ma'am, he
would give you the good Gaelic."

"No, I will not," said the imperative young
mistress.  "I dare say your Gaelic is quite as
good as Mr. Purdie's."

"And you would be saying 'Am I welcome?'
in going into a house?" said Barbara, slowly—for
translation is a serious difficulty to the
untutored mind.  "Oh, I think you would just
say '*An e mo bheatha?*'; but why would Miss
Stanley be saying such a thing as that?"

"'*An e mo bheatha?*'—is that right?  Very well!"

"And how will you understand their answer,
Mamie?" Kate Glendinning asked.

"I will read that in their faces," was the reply.

It was quite clear that the young proprietress
had in no wise been disheartened by that first
interview with one of her tenants on the
previous evening.  This fair-shining morning
found her as full of ardent enthusiasm, of
generous aspirations, as ever; and here was
the carriage awaiting them; and here was
Mr. Purdie, obsequious; and even Käthchen looked
forward with eagerness to getting a general
view of the estate.  Then their setting forth
was entirely cheerful; the Spring air was sweet
around them; the sunlight lay warm on the
larches and on the tall and thick-stemmed bushes
of gorse that were all a blaze of gold.  But it
was not of landscape that Mary Stanley was
thinking; it was of human beings; and the
first human being she saw was a little old
woman who was patiently trudging along with
a heavy creel of peats strapped on her back.

"The poor old woman!" she exclaimed, with
an infinite compassion in her eyes.  "Doesn't
it seem hard she should have to work at her
time of life?"

"She's a good deal better off than if she
were in Seven Dials or the Bowery," said
Käthchen.  "But perhaps you would like to
give her a seat in the carriage?"

"You may laugh if you like," said Mary,
quite simply, "but it seems to me it would be
more becoming if that poor old woman were
sitting here and I were carrying the creel.
However, I suppose we shall have to begin
with something more practicable."

But was it more practicable?—that was the
question she had speedily to put to herself.
For no sooner had they left the wooded
'policies' and surroundings of Lochgarra
House than they entered upon a stretch of
country the sterility of which might have
appalled her if only she had fully comprehended
it.  Land such as the poorest of Galway
peasants would have shunned—an Arabia
Petræa—rocks, stones, and heather—wave upon
wave of Hebridean gneiss, the ruddy-grey
knolls and dips and heights showing hardly
a trace of vegetation or of soil.  And yet
there were human beings here, busy on their
small patches; and there were hovels, some of
them thatched, others covered over with turf
tied down by ropes; while now and again
there appeared a smarter cottage, with a slated
roof, and lozenge-panes of glass in the window.
Moreover, they had now come in sight of the
sea again; yonder was a far-stretching bay of
silvery sand; and out at the margin of the
water, which was at lowest ebb, there were
a number of people, mostly women and young
lads and girls, stooping at work; while an
occasional small dark figure, with a hump on
its back, was seen to be crossing the expanse
of white.

"What are they doing, Mr. Purdie?" Mary asked.

"They're cutting seaware for manure to put
on their crofts," was the answer.

And at the same moment her attention was
drawn to a man not far from the roadside who,
in his little bit of rocky ground, was making
use of an implement the like of which she had
never seen or heard of.

"What is that, Mr. Purdie?  Is it some kind
of spade?"

"Oh, just a foot-plough—there's no other kind
of plough would be of any use in this district."

And nothing would do but that she must
descend and examine this novel method of
tillage.  She went boldly up to the man: he
was a tall, lean, swarthy person, severe of
aspect, who kept a pair of hawk-like eyes fixed
on the factor all the time he rather unwillingly
answered her questions.  For Mary, to her
great delight, discovered that this man could
speak English; and she wanted information at
first hand; and indeed she immediately showed
a very definite knowledge of what she was
after.  The man clearly did not like being
cross-examined; again and again he resumed
his delving operations with that long-coultered
instrument that he worked with foot and arms;
but she would take no heed of his sullen
humour.  What stock had he?—two cows, two
stirks, eight sheep up on the common pasture,
and a pony.  What potatoes did he raise?—well,
he would plant about two barrels, and
maybe get ten or twelve barrels.  Did he make
any meal?—hardly any; the cows and stirks
did not let his crops come to the threshing.
And so forth, until Mary said—

"But I don't see where you get any capital
to work the croft, or to increase the stock if we
could give you more land.  You don't seem to
be getting any money."

"No, no money at ahl," said the crofter.

"Listen to him!" interposed Mr. Purdie,
with an angry frown.  "Let me tell you this,
Miss Stanley: that man gets twenty-five
shillings a week, gillie's wages, when the
gentlemen are here for the shooting, and besides
that he hires his pony to them at twenty-three
shillings a week; and I suppose he's just the
one to cry out that not a sportsman should be
allowed to come into the country."

"Is it true that you get that money?" said
Mary, calmly.

"Ay, that is true," he admitted, in rather a
sulky fashion; "but it is not from the croft
I get the money."

"Well, I am only making enquiries at
present," said Miss Stanley.  "I wish to know
what improvements are possible—I wish to
know what the people want——"

But here, to her surprise, she was interrupted.

"A railway," said the tall, black-a-vised
crofter.

"A railway?" she repeated.

"Ay—a railway to Bonar."

"A railway to Bonar Bridge?" she said,
staring at the man.  "Why, what good would
that do you?  Take your own case.  You say
you have nothing to sell.  Even if there were
a railway to Bonar Bridge—and there couldn't
be, for the cost would be enormous, and there
would be no traffic to speak of—but supposing
there were a railway, how would that benefit you?"

He made no reply; he merely worked away
with the long and narrow coulter, turning up
the poor soil.  So she saw it was no use arguing
with him; she bade him a cheerful
"Good-morning!" and came away again.

And with a right gallant courage did she
continue her house-to-house visitation,
desperately trying to win friends for herself, and
wondering more and more that she was so
ill received.  She was not accustomed to sour
looks and sullen manners; and in casting about
for some possible reason for this strange
behaviour she began to ask herself whether she
might not get on better with these people if
Mr. Purdie were well away back in his office in
Inverness.  One point struck her as being very
peculiar; not a single man or woman of them
asked for a reduction of rent.  She thought
that would have been the first thing for them
to demand, and the simplest for her to consider;
but it was never mentioned.  They asked for
all kinds of other things—when they would
speak at all.  They wanted herring-nets from
the Government; they wanted more boats from
the Government—and the instalments of
repayment to be made smaller; they wanted the
steamer to call in thrice a week, during the ling
season; they wanted their arrears of debt to
the curers to be wiped off; they wanted more
pasture land; they wanted more arable land.

"As for pasture land," said Käthchen, in an
undertone, as they were leaving one of these
poor steadings, "I don't know whether you
will be able to persuade Mr. Watson to give up
a slice of his sheep-farm; but as regards arable
land, Mary, you should tell those people they
have made a mistake about you.  You are not
the Creator of the Universe: you can't make
arable land out of nothing."

"Don't be profane," said Mary, severely.
"And mind, I'm not going to have any
giggling disparagement of my work: I can tell
you, it promises to be very serious."

Serious enough!  When they got back to
Lochgarra House in the afternoon, her head
was fairly in a whirl with conflicting statements
and conflicting demands.  She knew not how
or where to begin; the future seemed all in a
maze; while the personal reception accorded
her (though she tried to think nothing of that
for the moment) had been distinctly repellent.
And yet, not satisfied with this long day's
work, she would go down to the village in the
evening, to see what was expected of her there.

"I suppose I can interfere?" she said, to
Mr. Purdie, who was having tea with them.

"Beg pardon?"

"I suppose I can interfere?  The village
belongs to me, does it not?" she demanded.

"In a measure it does," said the factor.  "Of
course you are the Superior; but where feus
have been granted, they have the land in
perpetuity, while you have only the rent——"

"Oh, I can't interfere, then?" said she,
with some disappointment that her sphere of
activity seemed limited in that direction.

"You can step in to see that the conditions
of the leases have been respected——"

"But I can't do things?

"They'll let you do whatever ye like—so
long as it means spending money on them,"
said Mr. Purdie, with grim sarcasm.

"The inn, for example?"

"The inn is different.  We built the inn.
The landlord is only a yearly tenant."

"We will go down and see him at once, if
you please, Mr. Purdie," said Mary, with
promptitude.  "I have a scheme in my head.
Käthchen, are you tired?"

Kate laughed, and dragged herself from her
chair.  Indeed, she was dead tired; but none
the less she was determined to see this thing
out.  So the three of them proceeded along to
the village as far as the inn—which was a
plain little two-storeyed building, with not
even a sign hanging over the door; and there
they went into the stuffy little parlour, and
sate down, Mr. Purdie ringing the bell and
sending for the landlord.

"Aren't those things dreadful?" said Mary,
glancing around at the hideous stone and china
ornaments on the mantelshelf and elsewhere—pink
greyhounds chasing a yellow hare; bronze
stags that could only have been designed in
wild delirium; impossible white poodles on a
ground of cobalt blue, and the like; while on
the walls were two gaudy lithographs—German-looking
nymphs with actual spangles in their
hair and bits of gold and crimson tinsel round
their neck.  "I must have all this altered
throughout the cottages——"

"Oh, yes, Mamie," said Käthchen; "Broussa
silks—Lindos plates—a series of etchings——"

But here was the landlord, a rather youngish
and shortish man, who seemed depressed and
dismal, and also a little apprehensive.

"Well, Peter," said Mr. Purdie, in his merry
way, "what are ye frightened for?  Ye've got
a face as if ye'd murdered somebody.  We're
not going to raise your rent."

"It would be little use that—for I could not
pay it," said the sad-looking young man with
the cadaverous grey face and grey eyes.

"Won't you take a seat?" said Miss Stanley,
interposing.  "I have a proposal to make to you."

Peter Grant did not answer: he remained
standing, stolidly and in silence.

"It seems to me," she went on, "that
something should be done to bring visitors here in
the spring, as well as the few that come
through this way in the autumn.  It would be
a benefit all round—to the inn, and to the
gillies who would be required, I mean for the
salmon-fishing in the Garra.  Now I don't
particularly want the salmon-fishing in the
spring months; and it seems to me if you were
enterprising you would rent it from me, and
advertise it, and let it to two or three
gentlemen, who would come and live in your house,
and give you a good profit.  Do you see?"

He answered not a word; he kept his eyes
mostly fixed on the carpet; so she continued—

"Gentlemen will go very far for salmon-fishing
now-a-days, so I am told; and you
might give them quiet quarters here, and make
them comfortable, and every year they would
come back.  And I should not be hard upon
you in fixing the rent.  Indeed, I would rather
the proposal came from you.  What do you
think you could afford to give me for the
spring fishing in the Garra?"

"Oh, as for that," said the young landlord,
rather uncivilly, "I do not see that there
should be any rent.  For the people about here
were saying that no one has a right to the
salmon more than anyone else."

"Now you know you're talking nonsense,"
said Mary, with decision.  "For if everyone
had a right to the salmon, in a fortnight's time
there would not be a single fish left in the
river.  And besides, do you forget that there
is the law?"

"Oh, yes, Peter knows there is the law,"
interposed Mr. Purdie, who seemed to be in a
most facetious mood.  "Not more than two
months ago Peter found that out when the
Sheriff at Dingwall fined him ten shillings and
ten shillings expenses for having carried and
used a gun without a license.  There is quite
sufficient of law in the land, as Peter has just
found out."

The young man's eyes were filled with a
sullen fire; but he said nothing.

"However," continued Miss Stanley, not
heeding this interruption, "I would not insist
much on rent: I might even give you the
spring fishing for nothing, if you thought it
would induce the gentlemen to come and occupy
the inn.  It is an out-of-the-way place; but
perhaps you would not be charging them very
much either—not very much—I don't quite
know what would be a fair rent to ask—"

"I would charge them £30 a month," said he.

She looked up, a trifle indignant.

"Oh, I see.  The fishing is worth nothing
while I have it; but it's worth £30 a month
when you have it: is that how the matter
stands?  Do you call that fair dealing?  Well,
I haven't given you the fishing yet—not on
those terms."  She rose—rather proudly.
"Come, Käthchen, I think we might go and
have a look at this fishing that seems to alter
in value so remarkably the moment it changes
hands.  We need not trouble you, Mr. Purdie.
Good evening!"  This last salutation was
addressed to the landlord, who seemed to have
no word of explanation to offer: then the two
girls went out from the inn, and walked off in
the direction of the river, which they had seen
in passing on the previous evening.

Mary was no doubt considerably hurt and
offended; and there were still further trials in
store for her before the end of this arduous
and disappointing day.  She had proposed this
excursion to the river chiefly in order to get
rid of Mr. Purdie; but when she and Käthchen
found themselves by the side of the Garra, a
vague curiosity drew them on, until they had
penetrated into solitudes where the stream for
the most part lay still and dark under the gloom
of the steep overhanging banks.  There was
something strangely impressive in the silence
and in the dusk; for while a distant range of
hill flamed russet in the western light—an
unimaginable glory—the stealthily creeping river
was here almost black in shadow, under the thick
birchwoods.  And then suddenly she caught
Käthchen by the arm.  Surely there was some
one there—a figure out in the stream—a faint
grey ghost in the mysterious twilight?  And
then a startling thing occurred.  The figure
moved; and instantly, on the black and oily
surface of the water there was a series of vivid
blue-white circles widening out and out, and
slowly subsiding into the dark again.  Each time
the grey ghost moved onward (and the two
girls stood motionless, watching this strange
phenomenon) there was this sudden gleam (the
reflection of the clear-shining heavens
overhead) that lasted for a moment or two; then
the vague obscurity once more encompassed
the unknown person, and he became but an
almost imperceptible phantom.  And was there
not some sound in the all-pervading stillness?—an
occasional silken 'swish' through the
air?  Mary understood what this was well enough.

"That man is poaching," said she, calmly—and
she took no pains to prevent herself being
overheard.  "And I suppose you and I,
Käthchen, have no means of arresting him,
and finding out who he is."

Her voice was clear, and no doubt carried a
considerable distance in this perfect silence.
Immediately after she had spoken there were
two or three further series of those flashing
rings—nearing the opposite bank: then darkness
again, and stillness; the spectral
fisherman, whoever he was, had vanished into the
thick birchwood.

But Mary Stanley made no doubt as to who
this was.

"Now I understand," she said, bitterly, as
she and her companion set out for home again,
"why the salmon-fishing isn't worth £30 a
month to me—when it does not belong to me!
And now I understand what Mr. Purdie said
about the poaching—and the connivance of
everybody around.  And yet I suppose Mr. Ross
of Heimra calls himself a gentleman?
I suppose he would not like to be called a thief?
Well, I call him a thief!  I call poaching
thieving—and nothing but thieving—whatever
the people about here may think.  And I say
it is not the conduct of a gentleman."

She was very angry and indignant; and the
moment she got back to Lochgarra House she
sent for the head-keeper.  In a few minutes
the tall and bushy-bearded Hector presented
himself at the door of the room, cap in hand
a handsome man he was, with a grave and serious face.

"Is any one allowed to fish in that river
who pleases?" she demanded.

"I was not aware of any one fishing, ma'am,"
said the keeper, very respectfully.

"But is there no one watching?" she demanded,
again.  "Can any poacher who chooses
have the run of the stream?  Does it belong
to everybody?  Is it common property?
Because—because I merely wish to know."

She was somewhat perturbed and excited;
she did not think she was being dealt with
justly; and she saw in the grave and reticent
manner of the head-keeper only an intention
of screening the culprit whom she herself had
by accident detected a little while before.

"The fishing in the Garra is not very good
in the spring," said the weather-browned
Hector, "and we were not thinking it was
much use to have a water-bailiff whatever."

"But surely it is your business to see that
no poaching goes on, either on the river or
anywhere else?  Surely that is your duty?
And if there were no fishing, would anyone
fish?—you may trust a poacher to know!  I'm
sure," she went on, with something of a hurt
manner, "it is very little I ask.  I only want
to be treated fairly.  I am trying to do my
best for every one in the place—I wish to do
what is right by every one.  But then I want
to be treated fairly in return.  And poaching
is not fair; nor do I think it fair that you, as
a keeper, should make excuses for it, or try
to screen anyone, whoever he may be."

The man's face became rather pale—even
under the weather tan.

"If Miss Stanley would be wanting to get
another gamekeeper," he said, slowly and
respectfully, "I would not be asking to stay."

"Oh, you would rather leave than interfere
with Mr.——"  She did not complete the
sentence.  She turned away and walked to the
window.  The fact is, it had been a long and
harassing day; her nerves had got unstrung;
and all of a sudden a fit of helplessness and
despair came over her; it seemed impossible.
she could ever struggle against this
misconstruction and opposition and dislike.

Kate Glendinning turned to the keeper.

"You need not wait, Hector," said she, in
an undertone.

Then she went to her friend.  Mary had broken
down completely—and was sobbing bitterly.

"Mamie!"

"I—I am not used to it," she said, between
her sobs.  "All day long, it has been nothing
but hatred—and—and I am not used to being
hated.  What have I done to deserve it?  I
wish to—to do what is right by every
one—and—and I tried my—my very hardest to make
friends with every one.  It is not fair—"

"No, it is not," said Käthchen, and she took
her companion by the hand and led her back
into the room.  "But you must not be
disheartened all at once.  Give them time.  They
don't understand you yet.  And I will back
you to win over people against any one I ever
knew: the fact is, Mary, you have always
found it so easy, that when you meet with a
little trouble you are terribly disappointed.
They don't hate you, those people; they don't
know you—that is all."

And indeed the girl's naturally sunny
temperament soon broke through these bitter
mortifications.

"After all, Käthchen," she said, "I have
not quite lost a day: I was forgetting that I
made one friend."  There was an odd smile
shining from behind her tears.  "It is true she
is half-witted; but all the same I am glad that
Anna Chlannach seemed to approve of me."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MEALL-NA-FEARN BOG`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium

   THE MEALL-NA-FEARN BOG.

.. vspace:: 2

And once again a wild, clear, breezy morning;
the sea a more brilliant blue than ever; the
heavy surge bursting like a bombshell on the
rocks of Eilean Heimra, and springing some
sixty or seventy feet in the air.  Altogether
a joyous and gladdening sight—from the
several windows of this spacious room in the
tower; but nevertheless Kate, who was far
from being a foolish virgin, observed that the
wind must have backed during the night to
the south, and therefore she began to talk
about waterproofs.  For Mr. Purdie was
leaving to-day; and the two girls, thrown
upon their own resources, had planned an
excursion to those portions of the estate they
had not yet visited—the higher moorland
districts; and of course that had to be
accomplished on foot.  They did not propose
to take a guide with them; they would simply
go along to the 'march' beyond the little
hamlet of Cruagan, and follow the boundary
line across the hills.  Sooner or later they
would strike either the Corrie Bhreag or Glen
Orme, with the lower parts of which they were
acquainted.

And so, with some snack of luncheon in their
pocket and a leather drinking-cup, and with
their waterproofs over their arm, they set
out—the sunlight pleasant around them, an odour
of seaweed in the air.  This was to be a little
bit of a holiday: for this one day, at least,
there were to be no persistent and patient
questions met by sullen replies, no timid
proffers of friendship answered by obdurate
silence.  And yet as they neared the village,
Mary was reminded of her perplexities, and
griefs, and disappointments; for here was the
solitary policeman of the place, standing
outside the small building that served him for
both police-office and dwelling-house.  John,
as he was simply called—or more generally,
Iain—was not at all a terrible-looking person;
on the contrary he was quite a young man,
very sleek and fat and roseate, with rather a
merry blue eye, and a general appearance of
good-nature: a stout, wholesome-complexioned,
good-humoured young man, who was evidently
largely acquainted with the virtues of porridge
and fresh milk.  When Mary saw him, she said,—

"Well, Käthchen, if they're all in league
against me, even my own gamekeepers, to
screen the poaching that is going on, I will
appeal to the policeman.  He is bound to put
down thieving of every kind."

"You'd better not, Mamie," was the instant
rejoinder.  "It would be very awkward if a
question were asked in the House of
Commons—about a Highland proprietor who had the
shameless audacity to ask Her Majesty's own
representative to watch a salmon-river in place
of the ordinary keepers."

However, this project came to nothing in the
present case; for as they drew near they found
that the belted guardian of the peace was
himself in dire trouble.  An elderly woman—no
doubt his mother—had opened an upper
window in the small two-storeyed building;
and she was haranguing and scolding him with
an unheard-of volubility.  What it was all
about, neither Käthchen nor Mary had the
least idea, for the old woman was rating him
in Gaelic; but John, seeing the young ladies
approach, grew more and more roseate and
embarrassed.  Of course he pretended not to
hear.  He gazed out towards Heimra Island.
Then with his stick he prodded at the mass of
seaweed by the roadside that was waiting there
to be carted away.  And then he smiled in a
tolerant manner, as if all this tempest were
rather amusing; and finally, not being able, in
such humiliating circumstances, to face the two
ladies, the upholder of the majesty of the law
turned and beat a speedy retreat, hiding
himself in the lower floor of the house until they
should pass.  So that on this occasion Mary
had no chance of asking Iain whether he would
catch poachers for her.

"I am sure," said she, as they were passing
through the town, and over the Garra bridge,
and up into the country beyond, "I do not care
to preserve the game, if it were for myself
alone.  If I thought it would be really for the
good of the people here, I would have every
head of game on the estate destroyed, and
every salmon netted out of the river.  But
you hear what they say themselves—many of
them would never see money at all if it weren't
for the gillies' wages, and the hiring of the
ponies, and so on, in the autumn.  Then the
few deer that stray on to the ground, from the
Glen Orme forest, they don't come near the
crofts—they do no harm whatever, except,
perhaps, to Mr. Watson's pasture, and he can
easily get rid of them, if he likes, by saying a
word to his shepherds.  So that the shooting
and the fishing are nothing but an advantage,
and a very great advantage, to the people; and
I tell you this, Käthchen, that I mean to
preserve them as well as ever I can.  And
really it seems shameful that a gentleman in
Mr. Ross's position should have so little
self-respect as to become a common poacher—"

"You forget how he has been brought
up—according to Mr. Purdie's account," Käthchen
put in.

But Mary did not heed the interruption.
She was very indignant on this point.

"It is quite excusable," said she, "for the
poor, ignorant people about here to believe that
the Rosses of Heimra are still the rightful
owners of the land.  They know nothing
about the law courts and agent's offices in
London.  They only know that as far back as
they have heard of, and down to their own
day, the land has belonged to the Rosses; and
their Highland loyalty remains staunch and
true; it is not to be bought over by the
stranger; and perhaps it is not even to be
acquired by kindness—but we'll see about that
in time.  However, what I say is this, that I
don't complain of these poor people having
such mistaken ideas; but Mr. Ross knows
better; he knows well enough that he has not
the least shadow of right to anything
belonging to the Lochgarra estate; and that if he
takes a grouse, or a hare, or a salmon, he is
constituting himself a common thief."

But now, and for an instant, she was stricken
dumb.  They had come in sight of the dried-up
loch and the waste heap of stones that once
was Castle Heimra; and this sad spectacle seemed
to put some strange fancies into her head.

"Käthchen," said she, "do you think he does
it out of revenge?"

Now Kate Glendinning herself was of
Highland blood; and she made answer boldly—

"I have told you already, Mary, that if I
were young Ross of Heimra, and such an
injury had been done to me and mine—well, I
should not like to say what I should be inclined
to do in return.  A sentimental grievance!—yes;
but it is sentimental grievances that go
deepest down into the Highland nature, and
that are longest remembered.  But then on the
other hand it seems to me that shooting game
or killing salmon is a very paltry form of
revenge.  That is not how I should try to have
it out with Mr. Purdie—for who can doubt
that it was Mr. Purdie destroyed the loch and
the castle?—I saw his air of triumph when he
told the story.  No; poaching wouldn't be my
revenge—"

"There is more than that, Käthchen," Mary
said, absently.  "It isn't merely defying the
keepers, or being in league with them.  There
is more than that.  I wonder, now, if it is he
who has set those people against us, so that
they will never regard us but as strangers and
enemies?  It is not natural, their sullen refusal
of kindness.  There is something hidden—something
behind—that I don't understand."  She
was silent for a second or two: then she
said—"I wonder if he thinks he can drive me
out of the place by stirring up this bitter ill-will."

"There is one way to get over the difficulty,"
said Käthchen, lightly.  "Ask him to
Lochgarra House.  He is a Highlander: if he has
once sate down at your table, he cannot be
your enemy afterwards."

A touch of colour rose to Mary's face.

"You forget the character he bears," she
said, somewhat proudly.

And here they were at the Cruagan crofts;
and the people were all busy in the wide
stretch of land enclosed by a dilapidated fence
of posts and wire.  James Macdonald, the
elderly crofter who had complained of the
dyke-tax, was ploughing drills for potatoes;
two or three women and girls were planting;
and a white-haired old man was bringing out
the seed-potatoes in a pail.  The plough was
being drawn by two horses wearing huge black
collars—what these were for the two visitors
could not imagine.

"Are you going to speak to him, Mary?"
Kate asked in an undertone—as the plough
was coming towards the end of the field.

"Yes, I am," said the young lady.  "I want
to see if the remission of the tax has had no
effect on him.  Perhaps he will have a little
more English now."

There was no time to be lost—the horses
were turning.  She stepped across from the
road.

"May I interrupt you for a moment?  I
want to ask you—"

Well, the grey-bearded man with the shaggy
eyebrows did check the horses—perhaps he had
meant to give them a rest at the end of the
drill.

"Oh, thank you," said Mary, in her most
gracious and friendly way.  "I only wished
to ask you whether Mr. Purdie had told you
that there was to be no more tax for the dyke,
and that there was to be fifteen years' of it
given back."

The Russian-looking crofter regarded the
shafts of the plough without removing his
hands; and then he said—

"Yes—he was saying that."

Not a word of thanks; but perhaps—she
generously thought—his English did not go
so far.

"It is good dry weather for ploughing, is
it not?" she remarked at a venture.

There was no reply.

"That very old man," she asked, "who is
he—is he your father?"

"Yes."

"It seems a pity he should be working at
his age," she went on, wishing to show
sympathy.  "He ought to be sitting at the cottage
door, smoking his pipe."

"Every one will have to work," said the
elderly crofter, in a morose sort of way; and
then he looked at his horses.

"Oh well," said Mary, blithely, "I hope to
be able to make it a little easier for you all.
This land, now, how much do you pay for
it?  What is your rent?"

"It—thirty shillings an acre."

"Thirty shillings an acre?  That is too
much," said she, without a moment's hesitation.
"Surely thirty shillings an acre is too much
for indifferent land like that!"

The small, suspicious eyes glanced at her
furtively.

"I not saying it too mich," he made answer, slowly.

"Oh, but I will consult Mr. Purdie about
it," said she, in her pleasantest way.  "My
own impression is that thirty shillings an acre
is only asked for good land.  But I will
inquire; and see what can be done.  Well,
good morning!—I mustn't take up your time."

She was coming away when he looked after her.

"I not saying—it—too mich rent," said he;
and then he turned to his plough; and his
laborious task was resumed.

"Isn't that odd?" said Mary, as they were
going along the highway again.  "None of
them seem anxious to have their rents reduced.
All day yesterday—not a single complaint!"

"Well, Mamie," said Käthchen, "I don't
know; but I can guess at a reason—perhaps
they are afraid to complain."

This set Mary thinking; and they went on
in silence.  She wished she knew Gaelic.

When they came within sight of the ancient
boundary line, they left the road, struck
across a swampy piece of land where there
were a few straggling sheep, and then set to
work to climb the bare and rocky hill-side.
It was an arduous climb; but both the young
women were active and lithe and agile; and
they made very fair progress—stopping now
and again to recover their breath.  Indeed, it
was not the difficulty of the ascent that was
present to their mind; it was the terribly
bleak and lonely character of this domain they
were entering.  Higher and higher as they
got, they seemed to be leaving the living world
behind them; and then, when they reached a
level plateau, and could look away across this
new world, there was nothing but an endless
monotony of brown and purple knolls and
slopes, covered with heather and withered
grass, and then a series of hills along the
horizon, with one or two lofty mountain-peaks,
dark and precipitous, and streaked here and
there with snow.  There was no sign of life;
nor any sound.  As they advanced further and
further into this wilderness, a strange sense of
intrusion came over them; it was as if they
had come into a land peopled by the dead—who
yet might be regarding them; they looked
and listened, as if expecting something, they
knew not what.  They did not speak the one
to the other; indeed, they were some little way
apart—those two small figures in this vast
moorland solitude.  Then they came to a
tarn—the water black as night—not a bush nor
the stump of a tree along its melancholy shores.
Nor even here was there the call of a curlew,
or the sudden whirr of a wild-duck's wings.
At this point the girls had come together again.

"Who can wonder at the superstitions of the
Highlanders?" said Käthchen, half absently.

Mary's answer was a curious one.  She was
looking at the black and oozy soil around her,
with its scattered knobs of yellow grass.

"I suppose," she said, meditatively, "they
send the sheep up here later on?  But it must
be wretched pasture even at its best."

All this time they had been shut out of sight
of the sea by the higher ranges on their right;
but by and by, when they had surmounted the
ridge in front of them, they came in view of at
least one new feature in the landscape—the
river Garra, lying far below them, in a wide
and empty valley.  No hanging birch woods
here, or deep pools sheltered by lofty banks, as
in the neighbourhood where they had surprised
the ghostly fisherman; but a treeless expanse of
rather swampy-looking ground, with the river
for the most part rushing over stony shallows.

"Did it occur to you, Käthchen, that we
should have to cross that stream?" Mary asked,
as they were descending the hill.

"Where is the difficulty?" said Käthchen,
coolly.  "We shall simply have to do as the
country girls do, take off our shoes and
stockings, wade over, and put them on again on the
other side."

However, this undertaking they postponed
for the present; for it was now mid-day; and
they thought they might as well have luncheon
when they got down to the side of the Garra.
They chose out a rock wide enough to afford
them seats; opened their small packages, and
filled the leather drinking-cups at the stream.
Up in these altitudes the water was not at all of
a peaty-brown; it was quite clear, with
something of a pale greenish hue; it had come from
rocky regions, and from melting snow.

"It seems very odd to me," said Mary, as
they contentedly munched their biscuits and
sliced hard-boiled eggs, "that I should find
myself in a place like this—a place that looks as
if no human being had ever been here before—and
yet be the actual owner of it.  I suppose
there never were any people living here?"

"They must have been clever if they did,"
said Käthchen.  "To tell you the truth, Mary,
the most part of the Lochgarra estate that I
have seen is only fit for one thing, and
that is to make heather brooms for sweeping
kitchens."

"Ah, but wait," said the young proprietress,
confidently.  "Wait a little while, and you will
see.  Wait till you hear of all the improvements——"

"A railway to Bonar Bridge?" said Kate
Glendinning, carefully lifting the leather cup.

"Now look here, Mephistopheles," said Mary,
seriously.  "I could murder you, without the
least trouble.  I am stronger than you; I could
kill you, and hide you in a hole in the rocks,
and you'd never be heard of again.  So you'd
better have a little discretion in flouting at my
schemes.  Ah, if you only knew!  Why, listen
to this, now: are you aware that there is a far
greater demand for the Harris homespun cloth
than the people can supply?  I discovered that
at Inverness.  I was told that half the
home-spun sold in London is imitation, made in
Manchester.  Well, I propose to let them have the
real homespun—yes, and plenty of it!  And
more than that; I'm going to have homespun
druggets, and homespun plaids; and blankets,
and shawls, and patch-work quilts; and all the
carding and spinning and weaving, and all the
knitting of the stockings, to be done by my own
people.  And I'll have a sale-room in London;
and advertise in the papers—that they're the
real things, and not sham at all; and if I have
any friends in the South, well, let them show
themselves my friends by coming forward and
helping us!  No charity—far from it; they get
value, and more than value, for their money;
why, where is there any such stuff as homespun
for gentlemen's shooting costumes, or for ladies
ulsters; and where can you get such warmth in
winter from any other kind of stockings?  I
don't like to see so many women working in the
fields—especially the old women—and carrying
those heavy creels of seaweed; I'm going to get
them lighter work—that will pay them better;
and when their sons or husbands are away at
the East Coast fishing, they will be earning
almost as much at home.  What do you think of
this now?  For a good web of homespun I can
get 5*s.* a yard from the clothiers themselves;
and they will do very well when they get 1*s.* or
1*s.* 6*d.* a yard profit; but when I sell in my own
store at 6*s.* 6*d.* a yard, then that is all the more
coming back to us here at home.  Oh, I tell you,
you will soon hear plenty of spinning-wheels
going, and shuttles clacking, at Lochgarra!"

It was a pretty enthusiasm; and Käthchen
did not like to say anything.  Indeed it was
Mary herself who paused in this dithyrambic
forecast.  She had chanced to look at the
gathering skies overhead.

"Käthchen," said she, "it was a good thing
we brought our waterproofs."

Kate Glendinning followed the direction
of her glance.

"Yes," she answered, "and I think we'd
better be getting on."

Then here was the business of getting over
the stream.  Mary went down to the edge
of the river; pulled off her shoes and stockings
covertly (covertly, in this solitude, where there
was not even a hawk poised on wing!) and
then put one foot cautiously into the swift-running
water.  The consequence was a shrill shriek.

"No," she said, "I can't do it.  It's like ice,
Käthchen!  I'm going to put my shoes and
stockings on again; and find some stones or
rocks somewhere that I can get across."

"You'll fall in, then," said the matter-of-fact
Käthchen, who was by this time over the
ankles, and making good progress—with her teeth clenched.

But Mary did not fall in.  She sought out
shallows; and made zig-zag experiments with
the shingle and with bigger stones; and if she
did get her feet wet before reaching the other
side, it was gradually.  Very soon it was not
of wet feet they were thinking.

For when they ascended the opposite
hill—entering upon a still wilder region than any
they had as yet traversed—they became aware
that all the world had grown much darker;
and when at length they beheld the far line
of the sea, it was of a curiously livid, or leaden,
hue.  The wind was blowing hard up on these
heights; now and again there was a sting of
moisture in it—the flying precursor of the rain.
But the most ominous thing that met their
gaze was a series of sickly-looking, formless
clouds that seemed rising all along the western
horizon; while the sea underneath was growing
unnaturally black.  Rising and spreading those
clouds were, and swiftly; with a strange and
alarming appearance—as if the earth were
about to be overwhelmed: they looked close
and near, moreover, though necessarily they
must have been miles away.  At first the two
girls did not mind very much; all their
strength was needed to withstand the buffetings
of the wind; indeed, there was a kind of
joyance in driving forward against the
ever-increasing gale, though it told on their panting
chests.  They had to shout to each other, if
they wished to be heard.

"Where is the 'march,' Mary?"

"I haven't seen any trace of it ... this
side of the Garra ... But of course we're
in the right direction ... We must get into
the Corrie Bhreag sooner or later."

Then came the rain—at first in flying
showers, but very soon in thin gauze veils that
swept along between them and the distant hills.
Waterproofs were donned now; but they
proved to be of little use—they were blown
every kind of way, with an immensity of
ballooning and flapping and clapping; while
they materially impeded progress.  But
nevertheless the two wanderers struggled on bravely,
hurling themselves, as it were, against these
rude shocks and gusts, until their wet hair was
flying all about their faces, and their eyes were
smarting with the rain.  Sometimes they
paused to take breath—and to laugh, in a
rueful way.

"There's nothing so horrid as wet wrists!"
Mary called to her companion, on one of these
occasions, as she shook her arms and hands.

"It won't be wrists only, very soon," said
Käthchen, in reply, as they started on again.

The gale increased in violence, so that on
the higher slopes ahead of them the heather was
beaten and driven into long waves of motion;
while even through those whirling veils of
rain they could see the torn shreds and tatters
of lurid cloud that crossed the greyer sky.
The moaning of the wind rose and fell in
remote and plaintive cadence; and then again
it would mount up into a shrill and
long-continued scream, that struck terror to the
heart.  For there was no more laughter now.
All their dogged, half-blind struggle against
the storm did not seem to lead them any
nearer to any practicable way of getting down
to the coast; and they were afraid to leave the
line they had conceived to be the march—the
imaginary line which they had hoped would
bring them to the Corrie Bhreag, or, at
furthest and worst, to some portion of Glen
Orme.  And if the dusk were to come down
and find them in these trackless solitudes?
During one of their pauses to recover breath,
and to get their wet hair out of their eyes and
lips, Mary took off her waterproof, and her
companion followed her example; the worse
than useless garments were secured by a lump
of rock, and left to be searched for by a
shepherd on the following day.  Then forward
again—with the wind moaning and howling
across these desert wastes—with the driving
rain at once blinding and stifling them—and
a dim unspoken fear of the coming darkness
gradually taking possession of their mind.

One odd thing was that though Mary
Stanley was the taller and much the more
strongly built of the two, she could not hold
on as well as her smaller companion, who was
in a measure familiar with the work of getting
over heather-tufts and across peat-hags.  Mary
complained that the wind and the rain choked
her—she could not breathe.  And at last she
stopped, panting, breathless, entirely exhausted
with the terrible strain.

"Käthchen," she said, in a despairing sort
of way, "I'm done.  But don't mind me.  I
will stay here, until the storm goes over.  If
you think you can push on until you find some
valley to take you down to the coast, then you
will be able to get home——"

"Mamie, what are you talking about!" said
Käthchen, indignantly.  "I am going to keep
by you, if both of us stay here all night.  But
we mustn't do that.  Come, have courage!!

"Oh, I've a fearful amount of courage, but
no strength," said Mary, with a very dolorous
sort of smile.  "Whenever I begin, I get
caught by the throat.  Well, here goes once more!"

And again they set forth with a desperate
resolution, forcing themselves against the gale,
though their own saturated clothes were
dragging heavily upon them.  But they had
not gone on thus for many minutes when it
somehow seemed as though this laborious
stepping from one heather-tuft to another was
becoming easier.  Surely the land was trending down?

"Käthchen," Mary called out, brushing
away the rain from her eyelashes, "here is a
valley, and surely it must lead down to the
sea.  I don't know which it is——"

"Oh, never mind; we must take our
chance," said Kate; "if we can get down to
the coast-line anywhere, we shall be all right."

And so, notwithstanding their dire fatigue,
they kept on now with lighter hearts; their
progress becoming more and more easy, being
all down hill.  Not that this valley was
anything in the nature of a chasm, but rather a
hollow plain gradually sloping down to the
west.  And then again, the further they got
away from the wild heights they had left
behind them, the violence of the storm seemed
to diminish; they were better able to breathe;
and if the rain did continue to fall, they were
about as wet as they well could be, so that
did not matter.

Suddenly Kate Glendinning uttered a joyful cry.

"Look!  Look!"

Far away down the wide valley, and through
the mists of the rain, they could make out a
small cottage or hut; and there were signs of
life, too—wavering smoke that the wind blew
level as it left the chimney.  This welcome
sight put new animation into their exhausted
frames; and they pushed forward right
cheerfully now, little thinking that they were
walking into a far more deadly peril than any
they had encountered among the hills.

For when they got further down the valley,
they found that there intervened between them
and the cottage a circular plain; and although
it certainly looked marshy, it never occurred to
them that they ought to go round by the side
of it.  How could their feet be wetter?  So
they made straight across, Käthchen leading
the way, and jumping from clump to clump of
heather, so as to avoid the little channels
where the black ooze and water might be deep.

But by and by she was forced to go more
cautiously; and had to hesitate before choosing
her course.  For those oozy channels had
grown broader; and not only that, but the land
she had reached was very far from being solid—it
trembled in a mysterious way.  She still
held on, nevertheless, hoping to reach securer
foundation; and now she was not following
any straight line whatever, but seeking
anywhere and everywhere for a safe resting-place
for her foot.  Matters speedily grew worse and
worse.  She could not make the slightest
movement without seeing the earth vibrate
for twenty yards around her—an appalling
phenomenon; and at last she dared hardly stir,
for a sickening feeling had come over her that
a single step might plunge her into an
unfathomable abyss.

"Käthchen," said Mary, in a low voice (she
was close behind), "don't you think we should
try to go back?"

But the girl seemed absolutely paralyzed with
terror.  She turned an inch or two, and looked
helplessly around.

"I—I don't know the way we came," she
said—and her eyeballs were contracted as if
with pain.  "Will you try, Mary?"

And then she made a strenuous effort to pull
herself together.

"No, no!—let me go first!" she said in a
kind of desperation, "I am lighter than you."

"No," Mary made answer, quite calmly, "I
will go first."

Yes, outwardly she was quite calm; but dismay
had possession of her too.  For the whole
world underneath felt so strangely unstable; it
shivered even as she stood; and as for going
back the way they came—why, it seemed to
her that the smallest movement in any one
direction must necessarily cause this quaking
morass to open like the sea and engulf them for
ever.  She had undertaken to go first; but
whither was she to go?  When she put out a
foot tentatively, the solid earth seemed to slide
away from her in billows.  Again and again
she tried; and again and again she instinctively
drew back—her whole frame trembling like
the trembling soil beneath her; until at last
she stood speechless and motionless, turning
strange eyes towards Käthchen—eyes that
asked a question her white lips could not
utter.  And the dusk was now coming over
the world.

But help was near.  They were suddenly
startled by a sound—a distant cry—and at the
same moment they caught sight of a man who
had come running from the direction of the
cottage.  As soon as he perceived he was seen,
he held up both arms: it was a signal to them
not to move—as if movement were possible to
them in this prostration of fear!  He came
along with an incredible rapidity, by the
outskirts of the morass, until he was opposite
them, and then he ventured in a little distance.
But he did not attempt to approach them;
with his hand he directed them which way to
go; and they—their heart in their mouth the
while—obeyed him as well as they could.  By
the time they got near to where he was
waiting, they found themselves with some firmer
consistency under their feet; and then,
without a word, he turned and led the way
off the morass, they following.  There he
paused for a second, to give them a brief
direction.

"You must keep along the side; it is very
dangerous," he said, in a somewhat cold manner.

But in an instant Mary had divined who
this was.  The young man with the pale, clear-cut
features and coal-black eyes belonged to no
shepherd's hut.

"I—I want to thank you, sir," she said,
breathlessly (he had raised his cap to them
slightly, and was going away).  "If it had not
been for you, what should we have done?  It
is a dreadful place—we were afraid to move—"

He glanced at her and her companion with
some swift scrutiny.

"You are wet," said he, in the same distant
and reserved fashion.  "You will find a fire
in the widow's cottage."

"You might show us the way," said Käthchen,
half-piteously.  "We are frightened."

After that he could not well leave them;
though, to be sure, the way to the cottage was
plain and easy enough, so long as they kept
back from the dangerous Meall-na-Fearn bog.
He walked ahead of them, slowly; he did not
attempt to speak to them.  His demeanour had
not been unfriendly; on the contrary, it had
been courteous; but it was courtesy of a
curiously formal and reticent kind.  Perhaps
he had not known who these strangers were
when he came so quickly to their help.

And in truth the two girls could hardly
follow him; for now all the enfeeblement of
the terror they had suffered had come upon
them; they were no longer strung up by a
shuddering apprehension of being entombed
in that hideous morass; and the previous
fatigue, physical and nervous, that they had
fought against so heroically, was beginning to
tell now, especially upon Mary.  At length she
did stop; she said "Käthchen!  Käthchen!"
in a low voice; her figure swayed, as if she
would fall to the earth; and then she sank to
her knees, and burst into a wild fit of hysterical
weeping, covering her face with her hands.
Their guide did not happen to notice: he was
going on: and it was becoming dark.

"Stay a moment, sir!" said Käthchen, in
tones of indignant remonstrance.  "My friend
is tired out."

He came back at once.

"I beg your pardon," said he, gravely.
"Tell her it is only a little way further.  I
am going on to get something ready for you."

And he did go on; so that it was left for
Käthchen to encourage her companion, and
subdue this nervous agitation.

"It is only the cold, Käthchen," said Mary,
who was trembling from head to foot.  "I
suppose you are wet through, too."

But indeed the cottage was quite close by
now; they made their way slowly; when they
reached it, the door was open; and here was
the young man, with his sailor's cap in his hand,
giving a few further directions, in Gaelic, to
an old woman and a young girl of thirteen or
fourteen who appeared to be the sole occupants
of the earthen-floored hut.  There was a
peat-fire burning, and a pannikin slung over it.
The old woman went into the other apartment—the
"ben" of the cottage—and returned with
a black bottle, and some sugar; and presently
she had brewed a most potent liquor which, in
two tea-cups, she presented to the young ladies,
and insisted on their swallowing.  They were
seated on a rude bench by the grateful warmth
of the peat; they were made to finish this fiery
draught; and here were oat-cakes and milk
besides.  Life seemed slowly to come back to
them—to stir in their veins.  But the young
man who had guided them hither?  Well, he
had disappeared.

After some little time Käthchen happened to
turn and look round.

"Where has the gentleman gone?" she asked.

It was the young girl with the jet-black hair
and the wild, timid eyes who made answer.

"I was told to take the ladies to Lochgarra
House," said she, in excellent English, and
with a very pretty pronunciation.

"You?  It is nearly dark!" Käthchen
exclaimed.  "Why did he leave us?"

But here Mary interposed in her mild, suave
fashion; and she regarded the girl with kindly
eyes.

"Yes, I am sure you will be able to show us
the way very well," said she.  "Only you
must tell your mother—is she your mother?"

"My grandmother, lady," was the answer.

"Well, tell your grandmother that you must
stay the night at Lochgarra House; you cannot
come back here so late.  We will send you
along in the morning; or I will come with
you myself."

But the old grandmother knew a little
English too.

"Yes, yes, indeed, indeed," said she.  "Whatever
the ladies will be pleased."

And by and by they set out; the sure-footed
young mountaineer acting as their guide.
Night had fallen now, and there were no
stars; but after they had gone on some time
they could make out the sound of the sea—and
it was a welcome sound, for it told them they
were nearing the road that here runs all along
the coast.  And indeed it was not until they
were actually in the highway that it occurred
to Kate Glendinning to ask how far they had
still to go before they got to Lochgarra.

"It will be about seex miles, or more than
five miles whatever," was the answer.

"Six miles!" said Käthchen, faintly.  "I
wish we had stayed at your grandmother's
cottage.  Mamie, shall you ever be able to
manage it?"

"I hope so, Käthchen," Mary said, though
not very joyfully.  "I am a little warmer now;
and there is less wind blowing."

And so they went on—the unseen sea
thundering beneath them in the dark, along
the iron-bound coast—the wind sometimes
rising into a mournful moan, but bringing no
rain with it now.  It was a long and weary
tramp; but they were on a good road; and
their brave little guide, whatever she may have
thought of the darkness, went forward unhesitatingly.

Then of a sudden they beheld two points of
fire away ahead of them; and presently there
was a sound of wheels.

"I will give £20 for the loan of that
carriage," said Mary, "whosesoever it is!"

"Why," said Käthchen joyfully, "in this
neighbourhood, whose can it be but your own?"

And indeed it was.  And not only that,
but here was the gentle-spoken Barbara,
profuse of compassion and pretty speeches; and
she had brought with her an abundance of
blankets—not shawls and wraps, or any
feminine knickknackery—but substantial and
capacious blankets, along with many smaller
comforts and cordials.  And when they had all
four got into the shut landau (for the girls
would not allow their young guide to go on
the box) Mary said,—

"But who took the news to Lochgarra
House, Barbara?  Who told you to bring the
carriage?"

"Oh, just the young master himself," said
Barbara, with smiling eyes, as she was busy
with her ministrations.  And then she corrected
herself.  "It was just young Mr. Ross of
Heimra.  And did Miss Stanley not know who
he was?"

But Miss Stanley had known very well.  And
Käthchen had guessed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`GILLEASBUIG MÒR`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium

   GILLEASBUIG MÒR.

.. vspace:: 2

Käthchen was standing at the window,
looking out upon the wild and wayward sea,
that was all brilliantly dappled with sun and
cloud, while Mary was at her dressing-table,
preparing to go down to breakfast.  It was
a blowy and blusterous morning, after the
storm; but the welcome sunlight was abroad
again; and the heavens shone serene and fair.

"Never no more," Käthchen was solemnly
remarking, as she regarded the wide plain
of hurrying waves and the white sea-birds that
dipped and sailed and circled in the light,
"never no more shall I have a word to say
against smuggled brandy.  By rights, Mary,
you and I ought both to be in a raging fever
this morning; and you look as well as ever you
did in your life, and I have only a little bit
of a headache.  Nor against poaching: I have
nothing to say against poaching—when it
suddenly produces somebody to get you out
of a hideous and horrible morass, worse than
any quicksand that ever I heard of.  Do you
know, I hardly dared put my foot to the floor
this morning: I was afraid that frightful
sensation would come back, as if I were
standing on nothing, and just about to sink.
Wasn't it terrible?  I know I shall dream
about it to my dying day."  And then she said:
"I wonder what took young Ross of Heimra
up to that out-of-the-way place?  Not poaching;
for he had neither rod nor gun."

"More likely selling brandy to that old
woman," said Mary; and then she added, with
a touch of scorn: "A pretty occupation for
a Highland gentleman!"

"Well, Mary," said Käthchen, reflectively.
"I confess that story does not sound to me
true.  I should like to have some proof before
believing it.  No doubt it is just possible he
may have wanted to make up to these poor
people for Mr. Purdie having banished the
illicit stills; and perhaps he could not afford
to get them spirits for nothing; and so he may
charge them what he himself has paid.  But
it is not like what a Highland laird would
do, however poor he might be—and in a kind
of way he still stands in the position of laird
towards these people.  No, it does not sound
probable; but anyhow I mean to find out—if
we are going along to-day to thank the old
woman for her kindness of last night.  And
whether it was poaching, or smuggling, or
whatever it was, that took young Mr. Ross
up to that hut, it was a very lucky thing for us:
we should never have seen the morning if we
had been left there."

"That is true enough," Mary admitted; but
then she went on to say, with some asperity:
"At the same time, a favour is twice a favour
when it is graciously conferred.  He seemed
to me a most ill-mannered young man.  I doubt
whether he would have come near us at all
if he had known who we were."

"Oh, I don't agree with you—not in the
least!" said Käthchen, warmly.  "I thought
he was most courteous, and—and respectful.
Remember, we were entirely strangers to him.
And just think of his going all the way to
Lochgarra to get the carriage sent for us—and
very quickly he must have done it, too."

But Mary had not a word in favour of this
young man whom she suspected of far worse
offences (in her eyes) than killing salmon or
bringing smuggled brandy into the district:
she suspected him, in truth, of stirring up
wrath and ill-will, and setting these people
against her.

"I suppose," she said, rather coldly, "we
must thank him, if we should see him."

"I, for one, mean to do so, and very heartily,"
Käthchen said at once.  "I think he was most
kind and considerate—if—if a little—a little
reserved.  And not at all the wild savage
I had expected—most distinguished-looking,
I should call him——"

"Come away down to breakfast, Käthchen,"
said Mary, taking her friend by the arm: she
would hear no more on that subject.

In the hall they encountered the little
Highland lass who had been their guide on
the previous night; and she, looking up with
timid eyes towards this tall and beautiful lady
whose smile was so gracious and winning,
said—

"Am I to be going home now?"

"Home?" said Mary.  "Have you had your
breakfast?"

"Oh, yes, indeed."

"Very well, you need not go yet; you may
as well wait and come with us in the carriage—for
we want to thank your grandmother for
her kindness to us.  You can amuse yourself
in the garden, if you like, until we are ready."

She was obediently going away, but
Käthchen stopped her.

"I don't think you ever told us your name."

"Just Isabel," said the little maid, in her
pretty fashion.

"Of course you know Mr. Ross?" was the
next question.

"Oh, yes."

"What was he doing up at your cottage last
night?"

"Käthchen!" said Mary; but the little
girl did not notice the interruption: she
answered quite simply,—

"He came up to ask about the cow."

"What cow?"

But here Isabel did begin to look a little
frightened; and she glanced anxiously at Miss
Stanley.

"Perhaps the lady will be angry—" she
said, with shrinking eyes.

"Oh, no, she won't be angry," Käthchen
interposed at once.  "What about the cow?
Tell me about the cow."

"It was my mother's cow that got into the
bog and was drowned—'

"The bog we strayed into?" Käthchen
exclaimed.  "Do you mean to say that cattle
have been swallowed up in that place?"

"Ay, many and many a one," said the little girl.

"I'll have it fenced round at once," said
Mary, in her usual prompt and emphatic way,
"no matter what it costs!"

"And the cow?" said Käthchen, encouragingly,
to the little Highland lass.  "What did
Mr. Ross want to know about the cow?"

"Mr. Ross," continued Isabel, "he was
sending a message that my mother would ask
Mr. Purdie and the lady for a cow in place
of that one, and the money to be paid back
bit by bit as we could do it; yes, and
Mr. Purdie was to be asked for the cow; and
Mr. Ross he came up last night to see if we were
to get the cow.  But we were not hearing
about it from any one."

Mary's face flushed with vexation.

"Why was I not told about this?" she
said, turning indignantly to Käthchen.  "What
right had Mr. Purdie to decide—and go away
without saying a word?  I suppose he refused?—and
that was to be all of it!"

But the little girl, hearing the lady talk in
these altered tones, grew frightened; and tears
started to her eyes.

"Please, I was not asking for the cow," she
said, piteously; for she knew not what terrible
mischief she had done.  "I was not intending
to make the lady angry——"

Mary turned to the girl, and put her hand
in a kindly way on the raven-black hair.

"Don't you be alarmed, Isabel," she said,
with a reassuring smile.  "You have done no
harm; you were quite right to tell me the
story.  And you need not be afraid; your
mother shall have the cow; perhaps even two
of them, if the byre is big enough.  Now go
into the garden and amuse yourself, until you
hear the carriage come round."

However, it may here be said that in this
instance Mr. Purdie was in no wise culpable.
It appeared that the widow MacVean had two
days before gone over to Cruagan, where she
had a married daughter, in order to help in
the fields; and her only chance of presenting
the petition was by intercepting the factor on
his way homeward.  Whether she did or did
not present the petition was of no immediate
consequence: Mary had resolved upon offering
up this cow, or perhaps even two cows, as a
sort of sacrificial thanksgiving for her
deliverance from the Meall-na-Fearn bog.

After breakfast they set out, Isabel seated
beside the driver.  And once again they came
in sight of the Minard township, with its poor
little crofts on the rocky soil, and the long
sweep of white sand where, the tide being out,
the people were busy with their sickles cutting
the seaweed from the rocks.

"I wonder," said Mary, meditatively, "if
I couldn't revive the kelp-burning?"

"Oh, no," said Käthchen (who did not quite
understand how indefatigable the young
proprietress had been in qualifying herself for
her new position).  "That is all over now.
Those were the grand days for the Highlands—for
both the landlords and the people; but
modern chemistry has spoiled all that."

"You don't know, then," said Mary, quietly,
"that kelp-burning is carried on in some places
at this moment?  It is, though.  Over in South
Uist the crofters get from £2 10s. to £3 a
ton for kelp.  But perhaps they need all the
seaweed they can get here for their crofts, or
perhaps it isn't the right kind of tangle: I
must find out about that."

They drove as far as they could along the
road; and they had to descend from the
carriage, to make the rest of their way on foot.
And strange it was that the moment the two
girls left the highway, and found themselves
upon the yielding heather, they betrayed an
unmistakeable alarm—looking all around them
as if they feared to be betrayed into some
hidden quagmire.  But indeed at this point the
land consisted chiefly of rocks and peat and
stones; and gradually they got accustomed to
following their sure-footed young guide who
was going up the hill-side with the lightest of
steps.  Long before they had climbed to the
cottage, they saw the old woman come out to
scatter some remains of porridge to the hens:
a pleasant-looking old dame she was, with
silvery-grey hair and a rennet complexion;
moreover (whether she had expected them or
not) she was very tidily dressed—a clean white
"mutch," a short-skirted blue gown, a white
apron, and red stockings.  When she saw the
strangers, she remained outside; and when
they came toiling up she saluted them with a
grave and gentle "good moarning!"  But
beyond returning that salutation, Mary did not
enter into further talk just then.  Her eyes
were drawn with a morbid fascination to the
black morass that had so nearly proved fatal
to her and her companion.  She seemed to feel
herself once more standing on that trembling
soil, unable to move in any one direction, the
darkness coming down.  And had the darkness
fallen, what would the morning have seen?
The morning would have dawned upon that
level waste just as it was now—silent, empty,
all its secrets sucked down and buried for
ever and ever.  A hideous and lingering death:
the slow torture of the long and sombre hours,
before utter exhaustion came, and despair, and
a swooning into the unknown.  She shivered
a little: then she turned to the old
grandmother, who was talking to Käthchen with
such English as she could muster.

"Yes," she was saying, "my daughter, she
over at Cruagan——"

"And so perhaps she did not speak to
Mr. Purdie about the cow?" Mary interposed.
"Very well.  That's all right.  Little Isabel
was telling me about the cow that was lost.
Well, I will see that you have one in its place."

The old woman could not speak; the
withered, weather-wrinkled face wore a pained
look, as if she were trying not to cry; and she
furtively wiped her hand on her apron and
timidly held it out—it was by shaking hands
that she could best express her thanks.  And
here was an extraordinary thing!—here was
actual gratitude, the very first symptom of it
that Mary Stanley had encountered since she
came to the place.  But the next moment she
was saying to herself bitterly:

"Why?  Why is this old woman friendly?
Because she saw that Mr. Ross of Heimra
condescended to be civil to me yesterday evening.
If he throws a word to me, then I am to be
tolerated!  But if I had come here by myself,
I might have offered to double the size of her
byre, and give her two cows instead of one,
and there would have been nothing but sullen
looks and silence.  Was I not warned the
moment I set foot in the place?  It's Donald
Ross of Heimra who is their laird.  I am a
stranger, and an enemy."

And now it was Kate Glendinning's turn
to make a few discreet inquiries: for the
allegation that a Highland gentleman would
condescend to sale and barter was still rankling
in her soul.

"Well, Mrs. MacVean," said she pleasantly,
"that was very excellent brandy you gave us
last night, and very welcome, too: I suppose
we should have died of the cold and wet if you
had not given us the hot drink.  But where did
you get brandy in an out-of-the-world place
like this?"

An alarmed expression came into the old
woman's face, though she endeavoured to
conceal it.  She looked away down the hill-side,
and said vaguely:

"It was—in the house.  Oh, ay—in the house."

"Yes; but where did you get it?" Kate asked.

There was a moment of silence—and distress.

"The brandy?—Mr. Ross—he ordering me
to give it to you."

"Oh, yes," said the young lady, in the same
off-hand sort of way, "and it was very thoughtful
of him—and very kind of you.  It seemed
to bring us back to life again.  I don't know
what we should have done without it.  I was
only wondering where you got such good
brandy in this part of the Highlands."

The old woman looked anxiously from the
one to the other: were they trying to entrap
her?—even after their generous promise that
she should have the cow.

"Oh, ay," she said, still clinging desperately
to those evasive phrases, "the brandy—it in
the house—and—and Mr. Ross, he ordering me
to give it—and any one very pleased, whatever
he wishes.  And the ladies—very, very wet and
cold—and a long weh home to Lochgarra—"

"Come, come, Mrs. MacVean," Käthchen said,
"you ought to know that we don't want to
make any trouble—is it likely, just after Miss
Stanley has promised to give you the cow?  I
am asking only out of curiosity; and I can
keep a secret as well as any one.  And of course
we are quite aware that it is Mr. Ross who
brings the brandy into the neighbourhood—and
very properly, too, for good brandy is better
than bad whisky, and you must have something
in the house in case of sickness.  Very
well: tell me what he charges you for it."

"Charges?" the old woman repeated, with a
puzzled air.

"Yes," said Käthchen, encouragingly.  "I
only want to know for—for information; and I
am not likely to tell any one.  What do you pay
him for it?"

Then the old grandmother understood; and
though she did not say much, there was
something in her tone that showed how keenly she
resented this imputation.

"Pay—Mr. Ross of Heimra—for the brandy?"
said she, as if it was herself who had been
insulted; and she was turning angrily away.
"You think—the young master—tekkin money
from the like of me?"

"Then he gives you the brandy for nothing?"
said Kate,—and this question at once arrested
the old dame, who made answer somewhat
sulkily—

"I not saying that—I not saying that at ahl."

"Of course not," said Käthchen, with cheerful
good humour.  "It is not necessary for you to
say anything.  But now I understand; and I
am glad of it; for I have Highland blood in
my veins myself, and I did not like to think of
a Highland gentleman taking money for little
kindnesses of that sort.  And indeed I did not
believe it; and I am very pleased indeed that
you have made it possible for me to contradict
such a ridiculous story."

Shortly thereafter—the old grandmother
having been won into something of a more
conciliatory mood by reiterated expressions of
thanks and a circumstantial promise with regard
to the cow—the two young women left; and as
they descended the hill, Kate Glendinning was
most triumphant about this refutation of what
she considered a malignant slander.  Mary, on
the other hand, was inclined to be coldly severe
in her judgment wherever young Ross of Heimra
was concerned—though neither coldness nor
severity formed part of her ordinary temperament.

"I don't see anything to be proud of, Käthchen,"
said she.  "He is cheating the revenue,
for one thing."

"Cheating the revenue," said Käthchen, in
her matter-of-fact way, "is not likely to trouble
a Highlander's conscience much.  But I dare
say he thinks the Government can get along
well enough without taking any more taxation
from these poor people; and I have no doubt
he says to himself that if he pays for a bottle of
good brandy for some poor woman with ague or
rheumatism in her old joints, the Government
can afford to let her have it without the duty.
In a climate like this you must have spirits
of some kind; and as I was saying to
Mrs. MacVean, good brandy is better than bad
whisky filled with fusel oil."

"I know perfectly well what his object is,"
Mary said, proudly and indignantly.  "His
object is simply to steal away the hearts of the
people—and to stir up ill-will between them and
whoever happens to be at Lochgarra House.
They are all his friends—and my enemies.  He
can shoot and fish wherever he pleases; he has
the run of the whole estate; he is welcome at
every fireside; whilst I, when I want to lower
the rents, and better the condition of the people
in every way, and be their friend—well, I am
kept outside at the door, and if I say 'Am I
welcome?' there is no answer.  For him—everything:
for me—nothing.  And I think it is hardly fair."

She spoke in a proud and hurt way, and her
lips trembled for an instant: it was clear that
she considered she had not deserved this ill-usage.

"No, no, no, Mary," her friend protested.
"You are unjust, as far as Mr. Ross is
concerned anyway.  For one thing it is very
likely that the poor people about here were
accustomed to look to his mother for little
comforts when they fell ill; and he may be trying
to carry out the same kind of thing, in the only
way that would occur to a man."  Then a
demure smile came into Käthchen's eyes.  "But
I will be honest with you, Mary.  I don't think
it is done to spite you at all: although your
family have wrought him and his sufficient
wrong.  But if you were to ask me if it wasn't
done with a determination to spite Mr. Purdie—in
return for the destruction of the illicit
stills—well, you see, people may act from
various motives, and I shouldn't be surprised
if that had something to do with it.  As for
stealing the hearts of the people—if you knew
the curious loyalty and devotion of the
Highlanders towards the old families, you would
hardly think it necessary that Mr. Ross should
have to make use of any bribe——"

"But why should they hate me?" Mary
exclaimed—and Käthchen had no answer.

However, if Miss Stanley had on one or two
occasions suspected that the presence of the
detested factor might have something to do
with the failure of her efforts to cultivate
amicable relations with her tenants, here was
an opportunity of seeing what she could do by
herself; for on their way back they again came
to the small township of Minard, where the
amphibious population were busy in the crofts
and along the shore.  She dismissed the
carriage; and proceeded to make a few friendly
little calls—guarding carefully against any
appearance of intrusion, and, indeed, almost
humbly begging for something of consideration
and good-will.  And she was resolved to take
no heed of any surly manners or uncivil speech;
for she was of a large, bland, magnanimous
nature; and she had a considerable fund of
patience, and gentleness, and sweetness, to draw
upon.  Then she had to remember that her
uncle had been unpopular, and had no doubt
amply earned his unpopularity.  Moreover, a
factor who stands between a wilful and
domineering landlord and a tenantry not in the
happiest condition, is most invidiously situated:
he is the universal scapegoat, and is bound to
be hated as well as feared.  But here was she
willing to make what atonement was possible;
ready to sacrifice her own interests for the
general good; and above all things anxious to
make friends.  With gifts in both hands, ought
she not to have been welcome at every door?
Then she was pleasant to look upon; her
manner was gracious and winning; her eyes
were kind.  With the small children she could
get on well enough: they knew nothing of any
deep-slumbering feud.

But her charm of manner, her wonder-working
smile, her unfailing good-humour, that had
made life easy for her elsewhere, seemed to be
of no avail here—with the grown-up folk, at all
events.  Not that they were rude: they were
merely obdurate and silent.  Of course, when
she got this one or that pinned by a direct
question, he did not absolutely refuse to reply;
but their answers were so contradictory, and
their demands in most cases so impossible, that
no practical enlightenment was possible.  One
man wanted more boats from the Government;
another said that more boats were of no use
unless the Government supplied nets as well;
a third said boats and nets were valueless unless
they had a steamer calling daily.  There was
also a demand that the Government should
build more harbours; and when Mary said, in
reply to this, that she understood the harbours
they had got—Lochgarra, that is to say, and
Camus Bheag—to be about as excellent as any
in the West Highlands, she was answered that
the harbours were perhaps good enough—if
there was a railway.  Then there were some
who did not seem to have any occupation at all.

"Don't you have anything to work at?" she
said, to one tall and rather good-looking young
fellow, who was standing looking on at the
women and girls gathering the sea-tangle.

"My father has a croft," he made answer, in a listless way.

"But wouldn't you," she said, in a very
gentle and hesitating manner, so as not to seem
impertinent, "wouldn't you rather go away and
find some work for yourself?"

"Aw, well, I was at Glasgow, and I was
getting twenty shillings a week there."

"And you did not stay?"

"Well, I could not live there," he said,
simply enough.  "It is no use getting twenty
shillings a week if you cannot live in a place;
and in a few years I would be dead, if I was
living in Glasgow.  I am better to be alive
here than dead in Glasgow."

"Then perhaps you go to the East Coast
fishing?" she suggested.

"No, I am not going there now.  I was
there one or two years, but it did not pay me."

"And don't you do anything?" she asked again.

"Well, in January I am in the Naval Reserve."

"And the rest of the year you don't do anything?"

"Well, my father has a croft"—and that was
about all the information she could extract from
him.

As a final attempt she said to him, timidly—

"If I were to try to get you a boat and nets
from the Government, would it be of service
to you?"

"It would need eight of a crew," said he,
with an obvious lack of interest, "and I would
not be knowing where to find them."

However, a great surprise was in store for
her: before getting back to Lochgarra on this
occasion she actually encountered a human
being who received her proffered friendliness
and good-will with cheerful and unhesitating
gratitude, and responded with a frank comradeship
that quite won her heart.  It is true the
man was drunk; but at first she did not
perceive that; and indeed she was ready to make
ample allowances in her eager desire to establish
pleasant relations with anybody, after the
disheartening coldness she had just experienced at
Minard.  This man whom she and Käthchen
overtook on their homeward way was a huge,
lumbering, heavy-shouldered giant, with a
prodigious brown beard and thick eyebrows, whose
deep-set grey eyes (though a little bemused)
looked at once intelligent and amiable.  On his
shoulder he had hoisted a rough wooden box;
and as he trudged along he smoked a small
black clay pipe.

"Good-day to you!" said Mary to the giant.

"Aw, good-deh, good-deh, mem!" said he,
with a broad grin of welcome, and he instantly
put the pipe in his pocket.

"That is a heavy box you are carrying,"
said she; "I wish I were driving, and I would
take it along for you."

"Aw, it's glad I am I hef something to
carry," said he, in a strong Argyllshire accent,
"and I wass thinking that mebbe Miss Stanley
herself would be for tekkin a lobster or two
from me, for the house.  Aw, I'll not be
charging Miss Stanley mich for them—no, nor
anything at ahl, if Miss Stanley would be for
tekkin a lobster or two from me——"

"Oh, these are lobsters?" said she, with the
most friendly interest.

"Ay, chist that," said the giant.

"And you will be sending them away by the
mail-cart?" she asked.

"Ay, chist that—it's to London I am sending
them."

"Oh, really," she said.  "All the way to
London?  Well, now, I wonder if you would
think me inquisitive or impertinent if I asked
you how much you get for them?"

"How much?  Aw, chist two-and-sixpence
the dissen," said he, in a good-natured fashion,
as if he hardly expected to get anything.

But Mary was most indignant.

"What?" she said.  "Two-and-sixpence the
dozen?  It's monstrous!  Why, it's downright
robbery!  I will write to the London papers.
Two-and-sixpence a dozen?—and a single
lobster selling in London for eighteenpence or
two shillings, and that a small one, too.  Isn't
it too bad, Käthchen?  I will write to the
newspapers—I will not allow such robbery."

"It is a long weh of communigation," said
the big, heavy-shouldered, good-humoured-looking
man; "and Mr. Corstorphine he paying
ahl the carriage, and sending me the boxes."

"I will get you twice as much as that for the
lobsters," said Mary, with decision, "if I sell
them among my own friends.  I will guarantee
you twice as much as that, and I will pay the
carriage, and get you the boxes.  What is your
name?"

"Archie MacNicol, mem," said he; but the
whisky had made him talkative, and he went
on: "I am from Tarbert on Loch Fyne; I am
not from among these people here at ahl.
These people, they are not proper fishermen—aw,
they are afraid of the sea—they will not go
far out—I hef seen the East Coast men coming
along here and tekkin the herring from under
their very eyes.  There is one of the Government
boats that they got; and it is not paid for
yet; and it is lying half-covered with sand at
Achnacross, and no one using it at ahl.  Ay,
and the curers willing to give elevenpence a
piece for ling.  Ay, and I wass into Loch
Hourn, and I got fifty crans of herring, and I
wass curing them myself—

"But wait a moment," said Mary, to whom
this information seemed a little confused.  "If
you are not tired, won't you keep on your way
to the village, and we will walk with you?
You see, I am anxious to get all the information
I can about this place; and the people here
don't seem to be very communicative—although
it is altogether in their own interests that I
should like to make inquiries.  But they appear
to be afraid of me—or there is some quarrely
or ill-will, that I don't understand——"

"A quarrel with Miss Stanley?" said the
lobster-fisherman, deprecatingly—for he was in
a mellow and generous mood.  "No, no—he
would be a foolish man that would be saying
that!"

"Very well," said Mary, as they were all
three going on to the village, "tell me about
your own circumstances.  I want to know how
I can be of help to the people about here.  I
have not come to Lochgarra to raise rents, and
collect money, and take it away and spend it
in London.  I want to live here—if the people
will let me; but I don't want to live among
continuous enmity and ill-will."

"Aw, yes, yes, to be sure, to be sure now!"
said Archie, in the most amiable way, and Mary
was entirely grateful to him for his sympathy—it
was so unexpected.

"Tell me about your own circumstances,"
she went on.  "Is there anything I can do
for you and the other lobster-fishermen?"

"Aw, Cosh!" he cried (but it was the
whisky that was responsible: Archie himself
meant to be most polite).  "Would Miss
Stanley be doing this for us, now—would she be
writing a letter for us to the Fishery Board?"

"Oh, certainly," she answered with promptitude,
"if that will be of any service to you.
What about?"

And here Big Archie (Gilleasbuig Mòr, as
they called him) in his eagerness to tell his
tale, stopped short, and deposited the
lobster-box in the road.

"It's this way now—that there will be many
a brokken head before long if something is not
done.  For they are coming from ahl quarters
to the lobster-fishing—stranchers that hef no
business here at ahl; and they are building
huts; and where there is a hut there will
soon be a house; and it does not require the
wise man of Mull to tell any one the truth of
that.  Yes, and they will be saying they hef
the right from the Fishery Board; but as I
am thinking that is nothing but lies; for how
can the Fishery Board give stranchers the right
to come here and build huts on the crofts
above the shore—ay, and going on, and paying
no rent, either to Miss Stanley, or the crofter,
or to any one?  And Gillie Ciotach and me,
ay, and two or three of the young lads, we
were saying we would tek sticks and stones,
and drive them into the sea—ay, though there
might be a bluidy nawse here and there; and
others would be saying no, that it was dancherous
to do anything against the Fishery Board.
And would Miss Stanley be for sending a letter
to the Board, to ask if it is lies those people
are telling us, and whether they can come and
build a hut whenever they like?"

"Certainly I will," said she.  "Only, there
is to be no fighting and bloodshed, mind.  Of
course, the space occupied by a hut is a very
trifling matter: I suppose what you really
object to is those strangers coming to your
lobster-ground?"

"Ay, chist that!" said Big Archie, eagerly.

"Very well.  It seems to me quite absurd
to think that the Fishery Board should have
given any one the right to build huts;
however, I will inquire; and then, if I get the
answer I expect, you must go peaceably and
quietly to those people, and tell them they are
mistaken, that they have no right from the
Fishery Board or from any one else, and that
they must leave——"

"Evictions!" said Käthchen, under her
breath: she saw trouble coming.

"Quite peaceably and quietly, you understand,"
Mary continued; "there must be no
broken heads or anything of that kind; you
must tell the people what the Fishery Board
says, and then they will see that they are bound
to go."

"Ay, ay, chist whatever Miss Stanley
pleases," said Big Archie; and therewith he
shouldered the heavy lobster-box again, and
resumed his patient trudge, while he proceeded
to give Miss Stanley some further information
about those marauding fishermen and their evil ways.

But when they were nearing Lochgarra,
Mary, who had been rather silent and
abstracted for some little time back, said to
him,—

"I suppose you have a boat, Mr. MacNicol?"

"Aw, ay, and a fine boat too," said Archie.
"And if Miss Stanley herself would be wishing
for a sail, I would bring the boat round from
Camus Bheag."

"That is just what I have been thinking of,"
Mary said: they were now come in sight of
the sea, and she was absently looking out
towards the horizon.

"Ay, chist any time that Miss Stanley pleases,
and I will not be charging anything," said the
good-natured giant with the friendly (and
bemused) eyes.  "Aw, naw, there would be no
charge at ahl—but chist a gless of whisky
when we come ashore."

"Oh, I must pay you for your time, of
course," said she, briefly.  "I suppose you
could bring your boat round this evening so
that my friend and myself might start pretty
early to-morrow morning?  We should be
ready by ten."

Käthchen turned wondering eyes upon her.

"But where are you going, Mamie?"

"I am going out to Heimra Island," she said.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PIRATE'S LAIR`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium

   THE PIRATE'S LAIR.

.. vspace:: 2

It was a bold undertaking; and Käthchen
hardly concealed her dismay; but Mary Stanley
was resolute.

"I must see my enemy face to face," she
said.  "I want to know what he means.  Why
should he stir up enmity and malignity against
me?  If he had any thought for those people
who seem to regard him with such devotion,
he would be on my side, for I wish to do
everything I can for them.  He ought to
welcome me, instead of trying to drive me out
of the place.  And if he fishes and shoots
over the Lochgarra estate simply to spite me,
suppose I refuse to be spited?  Suppose I
present him with the shooting and fishing, on
condition that he allows me to be kind to these
people?  How would that do, Käthchen?
Wouldn't that be a fine revenge?  I think
that ought to make his face burn, if he has
anything of gentle blood left in him!"

There was a vibrant chord of indignation
in her tone, as there generally was when she
spoke of this young man; for she did not
think she was being fairly treated.  But
Käthchen, ignoring the true sources of her
dismay, began to urge objections to this
proposed visit, on the ground of social observances.

"I do really think, Mamie, it will look
strange for two unmarried girls to go away
out and pay such a visit—and—to that lonely
island.  Now if you would only wait until the
Free Church Minister comes home, he might
go with us, and then it would be all right.
Not that the Free Church Minister is certain
of a welcome—if the young man is what he is
said to be; but at all events he would be a
chaperon for us."

But Mary would not hear of waiting; she
would challenge her secret antagonist forthwith.

"Very well, then," said Kate Glendinning,
more seriously than was her wont, "if we do go,
we must have some excuse; and you must tell
him you have come to thank him for having
got us out of that frightful bog."

Nor did the uninviting look of the next
morning cause Miss Stanley to alter her
resolve.  It was hardly a day for a pleasure
sail.  The wind, it is true, had abated during
the night; and there was not much of a sea
on; but the skies were heavy and lowering;
and dark and sombre were those long
headlands running out into the leaden-hued main.
But there was the lobster-boat lying at anchor,
in charge of a young lad; and the dinghy was
drawn up on the beach; and a message had
just come in that Big Archie was waiting
below to carry wraps and rugs.

"Käthchen," said Mary, sitting hastily down
to her writing-desk, "I have discovered that
the Fishery Board sits at Edinburgh; but I
can't find out who are the members.  Do you
think I should begin 'My Lords and Gentlemen'
or only 'Gentlemen'?"

"I don't know," said Käthchen; "I should
think 'Gentlemen' would be safer."

So, in happy singleness of purpose, Mary
proceeded to write her letter about the alien
lobster-fishermen—little thinking to what that
innocent action was to lead; then she went and
quickly got ready; and by and by the two
girls were on their way down to the beach,
accompanied by the gigantic and
massive-shouldered Gilleasbuig Mòr.  Big Archie, if
the truth must be told, was moodily silent this
morning: the fact being that on the previous
evening he had wound up the day's promiscuous
indulgence by "drinking sore," as they say
in those parts; and now his physical conscience
was troubling him.  But if his conversation
was limited to monosyllables, and if he wore
a sad and depressed look, he was, nevertheless,
most kind and assiduous in his attentions to
the two ladies; and when he had rowed them
out in the dinghy, and got them ensconced in
the stern of the bigger boat, he did everything
he could for their comfort, considering the
rudeness of their surroundings.  And presently,
when the anchor was got up, Big Archie came
aft to the tiller; the young lad lay prone on
the bit of deck forward, to keep a look-out;
and Mary and her companion knew they were
now pledged to the enterprise, whatever might
come of it.

Indeed the two girls were themselves rather
inclined to silence.  It was a gloomy sort of
morning; there was even a threatening of rain
brooding over the distant headlands; and the
dark sea lapped mournfully around them, with
not a single swift-glancing flash of white.  But
the light breeze was favourable, and they made
steady progress, unfamiliar features of the
coast-line becoming visible on right hand and
on left as they made further and further out
to sea.

It seemed a long and weary time—given
over to dreamings, and doubtings, and
somewhat anxious forecasts.  But all of a sudden
Mary was startled by the voice of the skipper.

"Will Miss Stanley be for going in to Heimra?"

And then for the moment her courage failed her.

"What do you say, Käthchen?  Do you
think—we should send a message—before
calling——?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," said Käthchen, with
eagerness.  "That is certainly what we ought to do."

"Oh, very well, then," said Mary, turning
to the steersman (but there was a flush of
self-conscious shame on her cheeks), "you need not
take us to the house—we will merely have a
look at the island—and some other day we
will come out, when we have told Mr. Ross
beforehand."

"Very well, mem," said Big Archie, holding
on the same course, which was taking them by
the south side of the island.

It was an angry-looking coast—steep and
sheer—a long, low, heavy surge breaking
monotonously along the black rocks.  But
when they got round the westward-trending
headland, they gradually came in sight of the
sheltered waters of the little bay, and of the
sweep of silver beach, and the solitary cottage
perched on its small plateau.  And of course
Käthchen's eyes were full of intensest interest,
with something, too, of apprehension; for this
(according to Mr. Purdie) was the pirate's den;
this was the home of the outlaw whose deeds
by night and day, by sea and shore, had gained
him so dark a renown.  But Mary's attention
had been attracted elsewhither.  She was
regarding a white marble slab, placed high on
the top of the cliff, facing the western seas.

"Look, Käthchen," she said, in rather a low
voice.  And then she turned to the silent little
bay before her.  "Poor woman!" she said.
"It was a lonely place to live all those years."

Presently Mary bethought her of the errand
that had brought her so far; and she repented
of her irresolution.

"Can you take us into the bay, Mr. MacNicol?"
said she, without staying to consult
Käthchen.

"Aw, yes, mem, zurely."

"For it is a long way to have come—and—and
I am anxious to see Mr. Ross."

"Aw, very well, mem," said Archie, at once
altering his course.

And then she said, looking all round the bay:

"But where is the yacht?"

"Is it Mr. Ross's yat, mem?  It wass lying
in Camus Bheag when I wass coming aweh
last evening."

"And was Mr. Ross on board?" Käthchen
asked, with a quick sense of relief.

"Indeed I am not zure of that," said Archie.
"For mebbe he wass sending the men over
to the mainland, and himself staying on the
island."

"In any case, Käthchen, that need not matter
to you," Mary interposed.  "You can remain
where you are, and I will go up to the house
by myself.  Why should you bother about my
business affairs?"

This was a view of the case that was not
likely to commend itself to Kate Glendinning,
who could nerve herself on occasion.  When the
lobster-boat had come to anchor, and they had
gone ashore in the dinghy, she proceeded to
walk up to the house along with her friend
just as if nothing unusual was happening to
her.  She kept watch—furtively; but her
outward air was one of perfect self-possession.
As for Mary, she was too deeply engaged in
thinking how her complaints and demands
were to be framed to heed anything else at
this moment.

They knocked at the door, and again knocked;
after a little while the old woman Martha
appeared—the surprise in her face being obvious
testimony to the rarity of visitors to this remote
island.

"Is Mr. Ross at home?" Mary asked.

It was a second or so before Martha recovered
from her amazement—for she had not seen the
lobster-boat appear in the bay, nor yet the
strangers come ashore.

"Oh, no—he is over on the mainland," said
the trimly-dressed old woman.  "What a
peety—what a peety!"

Mary was rather taken aback; however, she said:

"It is not of much consequence, for, if he is
on the mainland—or if he is in the neighbourhood—I
daresay I shall be able to see him
before he returns to Heimra."

And then she was about coming away when
Martha interposed, with Highland courtesy.

"But would not the leddies come in and sit
down for a little while—and hef some tea, or a
little milk, or something of that kind?
Mr. Ross very sorry when he knows—to be
sure—and a great peety him not here—"

"Oh, thank you," said Käthchen (whose face
had lightened considerably when she heard of
Donald Ross being absent), "it is very kind of
you; and I am sure I shall be very glad to
have a glass of milk, if you will be so kind."

Käthchen wanted no milk; but she suddenly
saw before her a chance of having her curiosity
satisfied without risk: she would be allowed to
see what kind of lair this was in which the
savage outlaw lived.  And so the unsuspecting
Martha led the way; and the two young ladies
followed her into the passage, and into the first
room leading therefrom, which was a kind of
morning-apartment and study combined.  They
seated themselves, and she left to get them such
refreshment as the out-of-the-world cottage could
afford.

The two girls were silent; but their eyes
were busy.  The first thing that attracted their
notice was a portrait over the mantelpiece—the
portrait of a very beautiful woman, pale
somewhat and dark, with refined and impressive
features, and of a simple yet dignified bearing.
A sad face, perhaps; but a face full of character
and distinction: the first glance told you this
was no common person who looked at you so
calmly.  Mary said nothing; Käthchen said
nothing; but they knew who this was—the
likeness was too obvious.

And as for the other contents of the room?—well,
there were neither guns, nor rods, nor
splash-nets, nor anything else connected with
fishing or shooting, legal or illegal; but there
was an abundance of books in the shelves that
lined three walls of the apartment.  Moreover,
there was one volume lying on the table before
them—beside a wooden pipe.  They regarded
this for some little time; but it was Käthchen
who spoke first.

"Mary, would it be very impertinent if I looked?"

Mary Stanley laughed.

"I don't know," she said.  "Most people do
pick up things when they are left in a room.
But we are in a peculiar position.  We are
here without the consent of the owner."

"Yes, that is so," said Käthchen, resignedly,
and she remained still.

But she continued looking towards the book
in a wistful way.

"It's only the title I should like to see," she
began again.  "What harm can there be in
that?  If Mr. Ross were here himself, I would
take up the book in a minute—yes, I would!
What do you say, Mary?"

"Well," said Mary, frankly, "I really should
like to know what kind of literature commends
itself to any one living in a strange place such
as this.  But at the same time we are not his
guests—we are intruders—or if we are guests,
we are the housekeeper's guests, and it is but
fair to her we shouldn't pry into secrets."

Käthchen had risen and gone across to the
table: perhaps it would not be breaking the
laws of hospitality if she could get a glimpse
of the title of the book without actually laying
hands on it?  But the back of it was away
from the light.  In these desperate
circumstances, Käthchen yielded to temptation; she
hastily snatched up the volume, glanced at the
title, and as quickly returned to her seat again.

"Good gracious!" said she.  "That is fine
entertainment for a lonely island—Joshua
Williams's 'Real Property'!"

"A law book?" said Mary, with her face
becoming suddenly grave.  "I hope there is
not going to be—any trouble—a lawsuit is such
a dreadful thing——"

"Oh, no; I understand what that means,"
said Käthchen, "I know quite well.  That is
one of the books my brother had when he was
reading up for the bar—I remember it because
I spilt some ink over it, and he made me buy
him another.  I wonder, now, if Mr. Ross is
reading up for the bar?  Wouldn't that be a
blessed dispensation of Providence for you,
Mamie—if he were to go away and shut himself
up in the Temple, and leave you Lochgarra
entirely in your own hands, shooting, and
fishing, and everything?  Only," she added,
"I don't quite understand how such a wild
savage as Mr. Purdie described to us would
be likely to get on with the Judges.  I am
afraid there would be scenes in court.  What
do they call dismissing a barrister?—not
cashiering?—unfrocking?——"

Käthchen had suddenly to cease; for here was
the elderly Martha, carrying a large tray amply
provided with homely and wholesome fare—oatmeal
cake, soda scones, marmalade, strawberry
jam, fresh butter, and a jug of milk.  And
Mary did not pause before breaking bread in
the house of her enemy; for she saw that the
old housekeeper was anxious that her bounties
should be appreciated; and besides, oat-cake
and marmalade and fresh milk ought to
recommend themselves to any healthily-constituted
young woman.  By and by, when Martha had
left the room, Miss Stanley said—

"What shall I give her as we are going
away, Käthchen?  Half-a-sovereign?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Mamie, don't think
of such a thing!" Käthchen exclaimed.  "At
any other time give her anything you like; but
you must not pay for food in this house; you
cannot imagine how offended she would be.
She would take it as an insult offered to her
master: she represents Mr. Ross in his
absence—it is Mr. Ross who is entertaining us now——"

"Oh, it is Mr. Ross who is entertaining us?—yes
of course," said Mary, thoughtfully; and—perhaps
without noticing the coincidence—she
put down the piece of oat-cake she held in
her hand, nor did she take it up again.

And furthermore, as they were going down
to the boat—having made due acknowledgments
to Martha for her hospitality—Mary
walked as one in a dream; while Käthchen,
rejoiced to have come through this dreaded ordeal
with such unexpected ease, was in the gayest
of humours.  She did not notice her friend's
reverie; she was chattering away about their
foolhardiness in entering the savage's lair—about
her surprise in finding no skulls and bones
lying in corners—about the quiet and studious
aspect of the place being a pretty cover for all
kinds of dark and lawless deeds.  Mary did not
reply; once or twice she looked up to the white
grave on the hill—she was thinking of other things.

But when they had all got into the larger
boat again, and set out on their return voyage,
Käthchen found a companion more of her own
mood.  The truth is that while the young
ladies were being entertained in the front part
of the house, Big Archie had slipped up to the
back, had paid his respects to Martha, and had
been presented, as is the custom in the west,
with his morning dram.  This welcome
mitigation of his *Katzenjammer* had made a new
man of him; and he was now disposed to be
as talkative as hitherto he had been morose; so
that, as he sate with his arm on the tiller, he was
cheerfully telling the young lady all about
himself, and his doings, and circumstances.  And
Käthchen, finding him thus sociable, and friendly,
affected much interest, and plied him with
appropriate questions.

"Do you keep a cow, Mr. MacNicol?" said she.

"Aw, now," said he, deprecatingly, "the
young leddy will be mekkin me ashamed.  It's
chist Archie they'll be calling me."

"Very well, Archie—do you keep a cow?"

"I starve one," said Archie, with ironical
humour.

"And a kitchen garden?"

"Aw, is it a garden?  And you will not
know that I wass tekken the prize for the
garden, ay, more as three or four years?  Well,
well, now, there is no longer a prize given for
the best garden, and it's a peety, too——"

"But tell me," said Käthchen, with some astonishment,
"why was the prize stopped?  It seems
a very reasonable thing, a prize for the best
kitchen garden among the crofters and
fishermen—I'm quite sure Miss Stanley would give
such a prize.  Why was it stopped?"

Big Archie hesitated for a second or two;
then he said, with a grin of confession—

"Well, now, I will tell you the God's truth,
mem; for there's two ways about every story;
and there's my way of it, and there's
Mr. Purdie's way of it; and mebbe the one is true
or the other.  And this is my way of it: I wass
gettin the prize—oh, yes, I will not deny
that—year by year, and very proud I wass, too, of
the cabbages, and the scarlet beans, and the like
of that, and the thirty shullins of the prize a
very good thing for me.  And then kem the
time the Minard crofters they were for sending
an appligation to Mr. Stanley for to have the
rents revised, and I put my name to the paper
too; but Mr. Stanley he would do nothing at
ahl—he said 'Go to Mr. Purdie.'  Then Mr. Purdie
he sees my name on the paper; and he
says, 'Very well, there will be no more prize
for the garden, and you can do without your
thirty shullins.'  It wass a punishment for me,
that I wass putting my name on the paper.
Now, mem, that is my story about the
prize——"

"I think it was very shabby treatment!"
Käthchen exclaimed.

"And that is the way I see my side of it,"
continued Big Archie, honestly; "but I am not
denying there may be another way.  Aw naw,
mem, I want to tell you fair; and Mr. Purdie
he would hef another version for you, if you
were to believe it——"

"Well, then, what is his version?" said
Käthchen—for the time being rather priding
herself on playing Mary Stanley's part.

"Well, I wass speaking to Mr. Pettigrew, the
minister, and he wass speaking to Mr. Purdie,
about getting the prize back, and Mr. Purdie he
says to Mr. Pettigrew 'No, I will not give
the prize back; for there was not enough
competition, and Archie MacNicol he wass always
tekkin the prize, and it wass the same as thirty
shullins a year off his rent.  The prize,' he wass
saying, 'wass to encourache ahl the people to
attend to their gardens, and not to give Archie
MacNicol thirty shullins a year.'  And that's
the God's truth, mem, and both ways of the
story; but what I will be thinking to myself is
that there wass no talk of stopping the prize
till Mr. Purdie found my name on the paper.
That's what I would be thinking to myself sometimes."

Käthchen glanced rather timidly at her friend.
But Mary was still in that curiously abstracted
reverie—her eyes turned wistfully towards the
now receding Eilean Heimra—her thoughts
remote.  So Käthchen merely said in an undertone—

"Very well, Archie, I will put both versions
of the story before Miss Stanley, and I have no
doubt she will do what is right.  For my own
part, I don't see why you should be deprived
of the prize simply because you keep a smarter
garden than the other people."

A great event happened this afternoon—nothing
less than the arrival from the South of
Mr. Watson, the sheep-farmer, Miss Stanley's
principal tenant.  The two girls had landed
from the boat, walked along the shore, and were
just about turning off towards Lochgarra House,
when they were overtaken by some one riding
a stout and serviceable little cob; and Mary
instantly guessed who this must be—for persons
on horseback are rare at Lochgarra.  The
stranger lifted his hat, but did not draw rein.

"Mr. Watson," said she—looking towards
him with a plain intimation that she desired to
speak with him.

Mr. Watson immediately pulled up, dismounted,
and came towards her, leading the
cob by the bridle.  He was a middle-aged man
with a fresh complexion, grizzled hair, short
whiskers, and shrewd blue eyes—looking
prosperous and well-satisfied with himself, and with
some little turn for jocosity about his firmly-set
lips.

"I beg your pardon," she said, with a little
embarrassment, "but—I wished to speak with
you——"

"Miss Stanley?—I am glad to make your
acquaintance," said he, in a marked south-country
accent.  And he bowed to Miss Stanley's
companion.

"Won't you come into the house for a moment
or two?" said Mary, with a vague notion that
she ought to be polite to a tenant who paid her
£1400 a year: moreover, she had ulterior ends
in view.  Mr. Watson consented; Mary went
and called a gardener, who took charge of the
cob; and then the two young ladies and the
farmer proceeded up the stone steps, and through
the hall, and into the wide hexagonal drawing-room
in the tower.  Then she asked him to be
seated, adding some vague suggestion about a
glass of wine and a biscuit after his ride.

"No, I thank ye," said Mr. Watson.  "I am a
teetotaller—not an ordinary thing in these parts.
Ay, and a vegetarian.  But I practise—I don't
preach," he explained, with a complacent smile;
"so I do no harm to other folk.  Both things
suit me; but I let other people alone.  That's the
fair way in the world."

"I wanted to ask you, Mr. Watson," said she,
with a certain timidity, "whether you would
be disposed to give up the pasturage of
Meall-na-Cruagan?"

In a second the shrewd and humorous blue
eyes had become strictly observant and business-like.

"To give it up?" he said, slowly.

"I mean," she interposed, "at a valuation.
I know it is yours under the lease; we cannot
disturb you; nor should I wish to do so, except
entirely with your own goodwill."

"Miss Stanley," said he, "I will ask ye a
plain question: what for do ye want me to give
up the Meall-na-Cruagan?"

"The crofters——"

"Ay, ay, just that," said he, without much
ceremony.  "They've been at ye, in the absence
of Mr. Purdie.  Well, let me tell ye this: I am
willing on my part to give up the Meall-na-Cruagan,
at a fair valuation; but I warn ye
that if ye hand it over to the crofters, they'll
be not one penny the better off, and you'll be
just so much the worse.  Where are they to
get the stock to put on it?  They've enough
grazing for what stock they've got."

"Yes, but it is not wholly that," said Mary.
"I want to have them satisfied."

"Ye'll never see them satisfied, though ye
gave them the whole Lochgarra estate for
nothing," said this very plain-spoken person.
"Surely ye are aware that the agents of the
Highland Land League have been here, as
they have been in every hole and corner of the
Highlands; and while some of them have been
making reasonable enough demands, others of
them have been showing themselves nothing
but irresponsible mischief-makers, firing the
brains of these poor creatures with revolutionary
nonsense, and trying to turn the whole
place into another Ireland.  Well, well, it's not
my business; it's not for me to speak; but I
warn ye, Miss Stanley, that giving up
Meall-na-Cruagan will not satisfy them.  What many
of them want—especially what the more
ignorant among them want—is for the landlords
to quit the country altogether, and leave
them the entire stock, lock, and barrel of the
estates—the land and all that belongs to it."

"I know," said Mary, quietly, "what the
Land League have been doing; but if there
had not been widespread discontent and distress
they could not have done anything at all.
And surely there was reason for the discontent;
look at the reductions the Crofters' Commission
have made—thirty and forty per cent. in some
places.  However, I am not concerned with the
economic question of the Highlands generally;
I am concerned merely with Lochgarra; and I
want to do what is fair by the tenants; I want
to see them satisfied, and as well-to-do and
comfortable as the circumstances will allow.
But what has been puzzling me since I came
here," she continued—for this seemed a frank
and well-wishing kind of man, and she was
glad to have any sort of help or advice—"is
that when I have spoken about lowering the
rent, they have had nothing to say in reply.
They seem rather to look to the Government
for aid.  Yet you would imagine that the
lowering of the rent would be the first and
all-important thing."

Mr. Watson smiled, in a condescending way.

"I think ye might understand why they
would not complain to you about the rent."

"Why?" she demanded.

He hesitated—and there was an odd look on his face.

"I do not wish to say anything against
friend Purdie," he observed.

"But I want to know the truth," she insisted.
"How am I to do anything at all unless I know
the exact and literal truth?"

"Well, well, let us put it this way," said
Mr. Watson, good-naturedly.  "There's some
that would call Mr. Purdie a hard man; and
there's some that would call him an excellent
factor, business-like, thoroughgoing, and skilled
in his work.  It's not a nice position to be in
at the best; it's not possible to please
everybody.  And there's different ways of dealing
with people."

All this sounded very enigmatic.  Mary
could not in the least understand what he
meant.

"I wish you to speak plainly, Mr. Watson,"
said she.  "You may be sure it will be in
absolute confidence."

He considered for a moment.  Then he said:

"It's of little consequence to me.  Friend
Purdie and I get on very well, considering;
and besides I have my lease.  But I'll just give
ye an instance of what has happened on this
estate, and you'll judge for yourself whether
it's likely the tenants would come to you for
a reduction of rent, or ask ye to interfere in
any way whatever.  It was about four years ago
that one of the crofts over at Cruagan fell
vacant.  Very well.  Then Mr. Purdie would
have it that the pasture of that croft should be
taken by the other Cruagan crofters, each one
paying his share of the rent; while the arable
land of the croft should be added to the Glen
Sanna farm, which was also vacant just then.
The Cruagan crofters objected to that
arrangement; Mr. Purdie insisted; and at last the
crofters sent a petition to Mr. Stanley, asking
to have the arable land of the croft as well, or
else to be let alone.  I am not saying anything
against your uncle, Miss Stanley."

"But I want to get at the truth of the story,
Mr. Watson," said Mary, firmly.  "That is the
main point.  What happened?"

"I may explain that your uncle never
interfered with Mr. Purdie," the farmer
continued, rather apologetically, "and that's no to
be wondered at.  Many landlords make it a
rule not to interfere with their factor, for of
course he's doing the best he can for the estate,
and knows about it better than they can know
themselves.  Then what happened, do ye say?
What happened was this—at the very next term
every crofter that had signed the petition was
served with a notice to quit; and that was only
withdrawn when they undertook to pay, each
man of them, £3 a year additional rent—that
is 15s. for their share of the added pasture, and
£2 5s. as a fine for having objected to
Mr. Purdie's arrangements.  That's just what
happened, Miss Stanley."

Mary was silent for a second or so—looking
towards Käthchen, her eyes full of indignation.

"Why, it is one of the most abominable
pieces of tyranny I ever heard of!" she
exclaimed.  And then she turned to Mr. Watson.
"If people are treated like that, can you wonder
if the Land League should find it easy to put
revolutionary ideas into their head?"

"At all events," said Mr. Watson, with a
shrewd and cautious smile, "ye will understand
that they are not likely to apply to you for any
lowering of rent.  They know the consequences."

"Ah, do they?" said she quickly.  "Well,
I must show them that they are mistaken.  I
must convince them they have nothing to fear.
They must learn that they can come to me,
without dread of Mr. Purdie or anyone else.
But," she added, with a bit of a sigh, "I suppose
it will take a long time."

Alter some little further conversation, of no
great moment, but marked by much civility on
both sides, the farmer rose.

"Any time ye're passing Craiglarig, Miss
Stanley, I should be proud if ye'd look in."

"Indeed I will," said she, going with him
to the door.  "But I must tell you now how
deeply I am indebted to you.  And of course
what you have said shall be kept in the strictest
confidence."

"I have told ye the truth," said he, "since
ye asked for it.  But just mind this, Miss
Stanley—good factors are no that common;
and friend Purdie understands his business.  He
drives a hard bargain; but it's on your behalf."

"Yes," said she, "and now I am beginning
to see why it is the people hate me."

That same evening the two girls, who had
been out for a long walk, were coming down
the Minard road towards Lochgarra.  The
twilight was deepening; the solemn inland hills
were growing slowly and slowly darker, and
losing their individual features; the softly lilac
skies overhead were waiting for the coming night.
Silence had fallen over the woods, where the
birches showed their spectral arms in the dusk,
and where the russet bracken and withered grey
grass were now almost indistinguishable.  It was
a still and tranquil hour; sleep stealing upon the
tired world; a little while, and the far, wide,
mysteriously-moving sea would be alone with
the stars.

But for Mary Stanley there was no sense of
soothing quiet, even amidst this all-prevailing
repose.  On the contrary, her heart was full of
turmoil and perplexity; insomuch that at times
her courage was like to give way; and she was
almost ready to abandon the task she had
undertaken, as something beyond her strength.  And
then again a voice seemed to say to her
"Patience—patience—hold on your way—dark as the
present hour may be, the day will dawn at last."  And
in Käthchen she had an excellent counsellor;
for Käthchen had an admirable habit of making
light of troubles—especially those that did not
concern herself; and she was practical, and
matter-of-fact, neither over-sanguine nor liable
to fits of black despondency.  On the present
occasion this was what she was saying, in her
cool and self-possessed way:

"You see, Mamie, I understand the Highland
character better than you do.  All that sullenness
and ill-will doesn't arise merely from high
rent and Mr. Purdie's tyranny—though that no
doubt has something to do with it.  There are
sentimental influences at work as well.  There is
the strong attachment towards the old family—very
unreasoning, perhaps, but there it is; and
there is resentment against those who have
displaced them.  Then there may be anger about
your uncle having destroyed the ancient
landmarks; and injuries of that kind are not easily
forgotten or forgiven.  But every hour that I
am in this place," continued Käthchen, as they
were making home through the strangely-silent
dusk, "I am more and more convinced that what
Mr. Purdie said was perfectly correct—that
young Donald Ross of Heimra is just everybody
and everything to those people.  He is
all-powerful with them.  Very well.  I cannot
believe that he has stirred up ill-will against
you, or even that he wishes it to continue.
He may do everything he can to thwart and
madden Mr. Purdie—-why not?—I would do
that myself, if I were in his place!—but how
can he have any wish to injure you?  Then
what I say is this: if you really mean to go
and see him, put entirely out of your mind what
you may have heard about his private character,
and his poaching and smuggling, and remember
only that his influence over those people could
make everything quite pleasant to you.  Don't
go to him as you did this morning, as an enemy
to be challenged and reproached: no, what you
have to do is just to lower your pride a little,
and tell him that you have come to beg for a
favour.  In fact, I am convinced that a word
from him would entirely change the situation.
Mamie, are you going to ask for it?"

Mary Stanley did not answer: she walked on
in silence.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FACE TO FACE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium

   FACE TO FACE.

.. vspace:: 2

She was out in the solitude of the woods, and
she was alone.  It was early morning, clear,
and calm, and still; the sun lay warm on the
silver-lichened boulders that were dappled with
velvet-green moss; the wandering air that
stirred the pendulous branches of the birches
brought with it a resinous odour, from the
innumerable millions of opening buds.  A
profound silence prevailed, save for the hushed
continuous murmur of an unseen rivulet, and
the occasional distant call of a curlew.

A vague restlessness, and something even
akin to despair, had brought her hither.  For
of course like other young people of the day
she had coquetted with the modern doctrine
that in times of trouble our great and gentle
Mother Nature is the true consoler and
comforter; she had read Wordsworth; and she had
read Matthew Arnold upon Wordsworth:

   |  "He too upon a wintry clime
   |  Had fallen—on this iron time
   |  Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
   |  He found us when the age had bound
   |  Our souls in its benumbing round—
   |  He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.
   |  He laid us as we lay at birth
   |  On the cool flowery lap of earth;
   |  Smiles broke from us and we had ease.
   |  The hills were round us, and the breeze
   |  Went o'er the sun-lit fields again;
   |  Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
   |  Our youth return'd; for there was shed
   |  On spirits that had long been dead,
   |  Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,
   |  The freshness of the early world."

And now if she wished to forget the untowardness
of human nature—if she wished to escape
from her bitter disappointment on beholding
her large and generous schemes met and
checked on every hand by a sullen ingratitude—surely
here was a seclusion that should have
brought balm to her wounded heart.  Moreover
the morning light was cheerful; April as it
was, a quiet warmth prevailed; she tried to
please herself by recollecting that this fairy
paradise actually belonged to her.  And if
human beings were so hard and unapproachable,
why, then, she could interest herself in
these harmless living creatures that were all
so busy around her, under the quickening
influences of the spring.  From the dusty pathway
in the opener glades the yellow-hammers were
picking up bits of withered grass for their
nest-building; black-caps swung back-downward
from the sprays, to wrench the buds off with
their bills; she stopped here and there to watch
a beautiful beetle—shining bronze, or opaque
green with a touch of scarlet on its legs; a
tiny grey lizard, with its small eye bright as a
diamond, lay basking on a shelf of rock, and
remained absolutely motionless, hoping to be
passed unnoticed.  Then she came upon a little
tuft of primroses—so shining pale—so full of
dim suggestions—and of associations with the
poets.  Well, she looked at the primroses.
They were very pretty.  But somehow she
could not keep thinking of them, nor of the fine
things the poets had said of them.  The fact
was, in her present straits her heart was craving
for human sympathy; she wanted to be of some
use in the world; she wished to see eyes
brighten when she appeared at the door,
however poor the cottage might be.  Primroses
were pretty, no doubt—the firstlings of the year
awoke pleasant and tender memories—but—but
why were those people so obdurate?  No,
there was no solace for her; the sweet and
soothing influences of nature were intruded
upon, were obliterated, by the harsh facts and
problems of human life.  With those men and
women almost openly declared her enemies,
and with all her grand schemes gone away,
what good could she get from primroses?  And
so, humiliating herself with the conviction that
she was nothing but another Peter Bell, she
passed on through the woods, and eventually
got down to the sheltered little bay where she
had first met Anna Chlannach.

And on this occasion also she was destined
to make a new acquaintance.  She was idly
walking up and down the lilac and cream-hued
beach—and trying to persuade herself
that she had found a refuge from the
perplexities and mortifications that seemed to
surround her in the busier world she had
left—when a sound she had distantly heard from
time to time now rose in tone until there could
be no doubt about its nature: it was a human
voice, proceeding from the neighbouring bay.
She went as close as she could to the
intervening promontory; then curiosity led her
stealthily to climb the heathery slope; she
made her way between rocks and under
birches; and at last she paused and listened.
It was a man's voice, of an unnaturally high
pitch, and curiously plaintive in its monotonous
sing-song.  In the perfect silence she distinctly
heard these words—

"Oh, my brethren, I charge you—I charge
you by all that you hold dearest—that you
keep the little children from the ruby wine!"

What could this mean?  She pushed her
way a little further through the thick
underwood, and peered over.  There was a small
boat drawn up on the shore.  Pacing slowly
backwards and forwards on the shingle was a
man of about twenty-eight or thirty, with a
long and lugubrious face, a shaggy brown
beard, and deep set eyes.  Sometimes his head
was bent down, as if in deep thought; and
then again he would raise it, and extend his
arm, as if addressing the opposite side of the
bay, or perhaps Eilean Heimra out at sea;
while ever and anon the curious feminine
falsetto came back to the admonition—"Oh,
my brethren, keep the little children from the
ruby wine!"

Mary began to guess.  Was this the Minister?
Had he returned home; and had he seized the
first opportunity to come away over to this
solitary place, to rehearse his sermon for the
following Sabbath, with appropriate intonation
and gesture?  She listened again:

"'Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who
hath contentions? who hath babbling? who
hath wounds without cause? who hath redness
of eyes?'  Ah, my friends, now that I have
addressed each section of the community, each
member of the family circle, now we come to
the little babes—those tender flowers—those
blossoms along the rough roadway of life—smiling
upon us like the rainbows of the morning—and
bedewing the earth with their consecrated
tears.  When I behold those gems of
purest ray serene," continued the Minister, in
his elevated chant, "my soul is filled with
misgivings and sad prognostications.  I observe in
my daily walk the example that is set before
them; the fathers in Israel are a stumbling-block
to their own children; nay, even of the
wisest it has been said, 'The priest and the
prophet have erred through strong drink, they
are swallowed up of wine, they are out of the
way through strong drink; they err in vision,
they stumble in judgment.'  My friends, is it
not a terrible thing to think of these blessed
babes—these innocent tendrils sprouting up
into glorious flowers, even as the Rose of
Sharon and the lily of the valley—to think of
them babbling with red mouths curses they
cannot comprehend?  Hold them back, I say!
Snatch the fatal goblet from them!  Let
pleasure wave her ambrosial locks when and
where she pleases—let mirth and joy prevail—but
when the timbrel sounds and the cymbal
is heard in the hall—then, at all events let
those innocent ones be restrained from the
deadly snare—keep, oh, keep the little children
from the ruby wine!"

Unluckily this last appeal was addressed to
Mary herself, or at least she thought so in her
fright when she found the Minister's eyes
turned towards her: instantly she bobbed her
head down in the heather, and remained hidden
there until the sermon—or perhaps it was a
temperance lecture?—was ended.  It did not
last much longer.  After the sonorous sentences
had ceased, there was a moment's silence; then
a grating on the beach; then a measured sound
of oars: she concluded that the Minister, his
flowery harangue rehearsed, was now making
for home again; and she was free to get up
from her concealment and return to Lochgarra
House.

"Käthchen," she said, "the Minister has
come back.  I have seen him—though I—I,
didn't speak to him.  Now don't you think we
ought to go along and make his acquaintance
at once?  He might help us: you say yourself
the Free Church Ministers have an enormous
influence in the Highlands."

Kate Glendinning did not receive this
proposal with any great enthusiasm.

"There is one thing he might do," said she,
"as I told you before, Mamie.  It would be
much easier for us to go and see Mr. Ross,
if the Minister would take us under his
escort."

"Mr. Ross!" said Mary, impatiently.  "It
is Mr. Ross, and Mr. Ross, with you from
morning till night, Käthchen!  You would
think he owned the whole place!"

"Yes," said Käthchen, demurely, "that is
just what he seems to do."

However, the interview to which both the
young ladies had looked forward with so much
anxiety came about in the most natural way in
the world; and that without any intervention
whatever.  Mary and Käthchen, being down
in the village, had gone into the post-office to
buy some packets of sweets—bribes for the
children, no doubt; and they were coming out
again from the little general store when, in
broad and full daylight, they met young Ross
of Heimra face to face.  There was no escape
possible on either side; he was going into the
post-office; they were coming out; and here
they were, confronted.  Well, it must be
admitted that at this crisis Mary Stanley's
presence of mind entirely forsook her.  Ten
hundred thousand things seemed to go through
her brain at once; she could not speak;
confusion burned red in her cheeks and on her
forehead.  And then he was so pale and calm
and collected; for a second he regarded them
both—and with no furtive glance; he slightly
raised his peaked cap, and would have passed
them without more ado.  It was Käthchen
who made bold to detain him.

"Oh, Mr. Ross," said she, breathlessly, "we
have never had an opportunity of thanking
you—you left the cottage before we
knew—and—and it was so kind of you to send the
carriage——"

And here for a moment Käthchen also lost
her head, for she had a horrible consciousness
that when a man has saved your life it is
ridiculous to thank him for sending a carriage.
And then those coal-black eyes were so calmly
observant; they were not generously
sympathetic; they seemed merely to await what
she had to say with a respectful attention.
But Käthchen bravely began again: "You—you
must not think us ungrateful—you see,
you had left the cottage before we knew—and
when we went out to Heimra, we did not find
you at home——"

"I am sorry I was not there," he said.

"And—and of course we knew quite well
what a dreadful position we were in—I mean
that night when we wandered into the morass,"
continued Käthchen.  "But for you we never
should have got out again—we dared not
move—and in the darkness what could we have done?"

"It is a dangerous place," he said.

"I—I am going to give Mrs. MacVean a
cow in place of the one that was lost," Mary
now ventured to put in; and here was she—the
bold, the dauntless, the proud-spirited
one!—here was she standing timidly there,
her face still suffused, her eyes downcast.
And this little speech of hers was like a
plea for merciful consideration!  He turned to her.

"The MacVeans have had a bad time of it
since the shepherd died," the young man said,
in a distant sort of way—but he was regarding
her curiously.

Then all of a sudden it occurred to Mary
that she ought not to stand there as a suppliant.
Some sense of her wrongs and her recent trials
came back to her; and here was the one whom
she suspected of being responsible—here was
her secret enemy—the antagonist who had
hitherto concealed himself in the dark.

"I hope the widow will condescend to accept
it, but who can tell?" said she, with greater
spirit.  "Really, they are the most
extraordinary people!  They seem to resent your
trying to do them a kindness.  I have been
offering them all sorts of things they stand in
need of; I am willing to lower their rents;
I am going to arrange for more pasture; I
propose to give prizes for the best homespun
materials; and I would pay for getting over
some of the Harris people, if instruction were
wanted in dyeing or weaving—but they seem
to suspect it is all for my own interest.  I
make them these offers—they will hardly look
at them!"

"You may teach a dog to love you by
feeding it," said young Donald Ross, coldly;
"but the Highlanders are not dogs."

At this she fired up—and there was no more
shamefaced girlish blushing in her cheeks.
Her eyes were as proud as his own.

"They are human beings, I suppose," said
she, "and a human being might at least say
'Thank you.'  But I do not know that I blame
them," she continued—to Käthchen's great
anxiety.  "It seems to me there must be secret
influences at work about here.  It is not
natural for people to be so ungrateful.
Self-interest would make them a little more—a
little more—amenable—if it were not for some
evil instigation at work among them.  And
what can any one gain by stirring up ill-will?
What can be the motive?  At any rate,
whatever the motive, and whoever he is, he might
consider this—he might consider the mischief
he is doing these poor people in making them
blind to their own welfare.  It seems a strange
thing that in order to gratify envy, or hatred,
or revenge, he should sacrifice the interests of
a number of poor people who don't know any better."

Käthchen glanced apprehensively from the
one to the other; but there was no flash of
anger in those dark eyes, nor any tinge of
resentment in the pale, olive-tinted face.  The
young man maintained a perfectly impassive
demeanour—respectful enough, but reserved
and distant.

"I wish them nothing but good," Mary went
on, in the same indignant way, "but how can
I do anything if they turn away from me?
Why do they not come and tell me what they want?"

"Come and tell you what they want?—when
they daren't call their souls their own!" he
said.

"Of whom are they afraid, then?" she demanded.

"Of your agent, Miss Stanley," said he (and
here indeed Käthchen did notice something
strange in his eyes—a gleam of dark fire in
spite of all his studied restraint).  "What do
they care about philanthropic schemes, or how
can you expect them to talk about their wants
and wishes, when what they actually know is
that Purdie has the face of every one of them
at the grindstone?"  He altered his tone.  "I
beg your pardon.  I have no right to interfere—and
no wish to interfere.  If you should
think of coming out again to Heimra, Miss
Stanley, to have a look over the island, I hope
I may be at home.  Good-morning!"

He again raised his cap—and passed on into
the office.  Mary stood undecided for a moment;
then moved slowly away, accompanied by
Käthchen.  Before them was the wide sweep of the
bay, with Lochgarra House at the point, and
its background of larches.  The sea was calm;
the skies clear; it was a peaceful-looking
morning.

Of a sudden Mary Stanley stopped—her eyes
full of disappointment and vexation.

"Everything is at sixes and sevens—and
worse than before!" she exclaimed to her
companion.  "What did I say, Käthchen?  What
did he say?  Wasn't he very insolent?—well,
not that, exactly—not exactly insolent—but—well,
I am not used to being treated with disdain.
Why did he break off like that—with
everything unsettled?  Wasn't he very
insolent?—or, at least, disdainful?—what did I say
that he should treat me like that?"

"I know this," said the frivolous Käthchen,
"that he has the most splendid eyes I ever saw
in a human creature.  I call him just distressingly
handsome!"

"There is nothing so contemptible as a
beauty man," said Mary, impatiently.  "What
has that got to do with it?  I want to know
why he treated me like that!"

"I thought he behaved with very great
courtesy and self-respect," Käthchen made
answer, "considering that you plainly
intimated to him that it was he who stirred up
all that ill-feeling against you."

"Very well: he had nothing to say for
himself!" Mary exclaimed.  "He made no defence.
And then, you see, I—I wasn't quite prepared—I
did not expect to see him—and I forgot
about the fishing and shooting, or that might
have made him a little ashamed of himself, and
a little less arrogant."  She turned and looked
towards the post-office.  "I wonder whether
that was a map that he had rolled up in his
hand or a chart?  If he is going on board his
yacht again, he must pass this way.  I cannot
have things left as they are—worse than ever!"

"I don't see how you are to mend them at
present," said Käthchen.  "If you had kept on
as you began, in that friendly way, it might
have been all very well; but then you grew
indignant, and almost charged him with being
the mischief-maker.  And I must say I think
he behaved with very great consideration and
courtesy."

"Do you really think so?" said Mary,
quickly—with her eyes still fixed on the
post-office.  And then she hesitated.  And then she
said: "Come, Käthchen, let us go back.  I
wish to make an apology to him——"

"Mary!" her friend protested.  "How can
you think of such a thing!"

"Oh, but you do not know.  It is not about
anything that has just happened.  It is about
the lake and the old castle.  I quite forgot.
And perhaps it is that that makes him so
unforgiving.  I must tell him that I am sorry."

But Käthchen shrank back.

"Make an apology for that?" said she.
"You don't seem to understand, Mary.  It is
too serious for an apology.  If you murder a
man's father or mother, you can't go to him
and say 'I am very sorry.'

"Will you go on to the house, then,
Käthchen?" said Mary, simply.  "I must put
myself right with him—and after that he can be
as disdainful as he chooses."

Of course Käthchen refused to be released;
she went back with her; and just as they
reached the little building, young Ross of
Heimra came out.  He had neither chart nor
map in his hand now; whichever it had been,
he had no doubt sent it away by post.

He seemed a little surprised; but was just
as attentive and respectful as before.

"There was something I forgot to say," she
began, with obvious embarrassment, "and—and
it is difficult to say it.  It was not till I
came here that I knew what my uncle had
done—about—about Loch Heimra—and Castle
Heimra.  Well, there are some injuries, my
friend here says, that can never be repaired.
I suppose that is so.  But at least you will
allow me to say that I am sorry—more deeply
sorry than you can imagine perhaps——"

"And there are some things that are best
not spoken of," he said, calmly.

"Yes, I daresay that is so," she made answer,
with a hopeless feeling at her heart that his
tone and manner were alike implacable.  "No
doubt that is so.  And yet—yet some little
consideration might be shown towards any one
who wishes to express regret.  It was none of
my doing; it never would have been of my
doing.  And though you, of course, would
rather hear no apology—would rather not have
the subject mentioned—still, there is another
thing.  The people about here—if they have
any resentment against me because of the
pulling down of Castle Heimra—then that is
not fair.  And any one having influence with
them—well, it would be ill done of him to stir
up anger against me on that account.  I had
nothing to do with it—I am very sorry it ever
happened."

"Miss Stanley," said he—for he plainly did
not wish to speak of this thing—"I think you
are mistaken in supposing that any one is
stirring up ill-will against you; and even the
most ignorant of the people must know that
you are not responsible for what happened
before you came here.  As regards myself, I
do not wish for any apology or expression of
regret; I wish for only one thing—forgetfulness.
I think in such a case silence is the only amends."

So they parted for the second time; and
when the two girls had gone some way towards
Lochgarra House, Mary said,—

"Yes; but all the same I told him I was sorry."

And then again she turned and looked.
Donald Ross had passed through the village,
and was now going up to the Free Church
minister's cottage.

"Käthchen," said she, rather absently, "there
are a good many of them about here who seem
to hate me; but I know there is not one of
them who hates me as he does.  And what
had I to do with the pulling down of Heimra
Castle?"

And that afternoon, as she stood at one of
the windows in the tower, looking away out
to sea, she saw the little white-winged yawl
making for Heimra Island.  She knew who
was at the tiller—the man before whom she
had abased herself, craving, and craving in
vain, for some word of consideration and sympathy.

"Proud and implacable," she said to herself;
and her wounded spirit was sore within her,
and perhaps a trifle indignant, too; but she
would make no further utterance.  He had
asked for silence and forgetfulness; and he
had the right to say what was to be.

Meanwhile the message that Mary had sent
to the Fishery Board in Edinburgh had been
duly received and considered; and when, after
two or three days' interval, the answer came
back to Lochgarra, it was to the effect that the
alien lobster fishermen had either been
misinformed or were making wilful mis-statements:
the Fishery Board had not given them the right
to build huts, and, indeed, had no power to
confer any such right.  At once Mary sent for
Hector the head-keeper; and bade him seek out
Archie MacNicol, and convey to him this news.

"And tell him from me," she said, "that all
he has to do is to explain to these men that they
have no right to come here and build huts and
use the fishing-grounds that naturally belong
to the crofters in possession; and that they
must go—and go peaceably."

"Would Miss Stanley be for having a sheriff's-officer
over from Dingwall?" suggested the tall
and handsome keeper, in his serious way.

"No, no, not at all!" she said.  "The men
must go, when they learn they have no right to
be here.  And if they refuse to go, haven't we
got our own policeman?"

"Very well, mem," said Hector, and he left.

It was towards the dusk of evening, and
raining heavily; but all the same Hector found
Big Archie at work in his little bit of a garden.
When Archie heard the news, he struck his
spade in the ground, and stood upright.

"Aw, that's the fine news!" he exclaimed,
joyfully, in Gaelic.  "And we will soon be
putting an end to the squatters now, Hector!  Was
I not saying it myself that they had no right to
come here?—but now there is the message from
the Fishery Board; and we will soon have the
devils away from the lobster-ground.  And when
there is good news coming, you will be for
taking a dram with me, Hector?"

Well, it is said there was once a Highland
keeper who refused a glass of whiskey; but his
name and neighbourhood are not known now.
Hector followed Big Archie into the cottage,
and there a black bottle was produced.  Thereafter,
the two men, having lit their pipes, set
out through the dark and wet again, for Hector
was returning to his own home, and Archie was
going a certain distance with him in search of
the Gillie Ciotach.

The stiff glass of whiskey had warmed Big
Archie's heart; and as he strode along, the huge
and heavy-shouldered giant grew garrulous.

"The young lady that has come here," said he,
in his native tongue, "you know as well as I do,
Hector, she means very well, but it is not the
place for her at all.  I say it is not the place for
her at all.  What can a young lady know about
the price of sheep and the price of lobsters?  It is
a foolish thing!  The place for her, now, Hector,
that place is London, at the court of the Queen,
among the great ladies, in their fine clothes and
jewels.  You think I do not know about such
things; but I do know; for I myself have
relations with London; and it is from London I am
hearing every fortnight, from Corstorphine.  And
the other day, when she was in my boat, I was
saying to myself 'There is a fine and beautiful
lady to be sitting in a coarse lobster-boat; and it
is at the court of the Queen she ought to be; and
not going about asking people to put in better
chimneys, and the like of that.  A woman—a
woman has no right to be at the head of an estate;
and I am not sure that the law allows it; maybe
she is here only through Purdie, and he the
master of the estate.  Just think of that, Hector—if
it is only Purdie that keeps out Young Donald
from the estate: would not that be a thing to be
considered?  Now you know I am not from this
place myself; I am from much farther south;
but I am a Gael; I have no love for any
Albannach or Sassunnach coming into this country
against the wishes of the people; and if it is
only Purdie, aw, God, it's myself that would
willingly give Purdie a crack on the head.  And
think of young Donald of Heimra coming into
the estates, would it not be a grand day that,
Hector?—ay, and many a gun fired off, and the
bagpipes, and flags, and taking the horses out of
the carriage.  Sure I am the Gillie Ciotach
would go mad that day."

The mention of the Gillie Ciotach recalled the
keeper to his own immediate affairs.

"If you see Gillie Ciotach, Archie," said he,
"perhaps you will give him a word of caution.
The other evening I heard a shot up by the
Crom-allt; and I did not look.  But the next
time I hear a shot, I will look; and if I catch
Gillie Ciotach, I will break his gun over his
head, yes, and I will shoot his thief of a dog,
too; for I am not going to get myself into trouble
on account of the Gillie Ciotach.  This you
know, Archie, that when old Mr. Stanley was
here, there was not much goodwill; and perhaps
some of us may have shut our eyes a little; but
things are different now; for here is my sister
Barbara telling me again and again that the
Baintighearna is the kindest lady she has ever
known in the world, and that it is not at all
what Purdie wishes to have done that she means
to have done.  Well, well, that is not my
business; but my business is to look after myself;
and I am not going to get into trouble on account
of Gillie Ciotach."

At this point the two parted; and Big
Archie went on to the inn.  But he did not
enter by the front-door; he passed round by
the stable-yard, and made his way to a small
lighted window that was partly open.  He
peeped in and listened at the same time—with
a grin of satisfaction on his face, for he had
found what he sought.

There were three men in this little sanded
parlour, which was a sort of adjunct to the inn.
They were seated round a table on which was
an oil-lamp; and in front of each man stood a
small pewter measure and also a glass.  Two
of the men were middle-aged, and of a
sailor-like type; the third was a young fellow of
about four-and-twenty, whose bronzed
complexion, regular features, and short-cropped
curly brown hair made him rather good-looking,
only that in regarding him one did not
notice these things so much as the dare-devil
expression of both eye and mouth.  He also
was dressed in something of sailor-like attire;
while his broad Balmoral bonnet, pushed far
back on his brown curls, revealed the fact that
in his earlier youth he must have received a
mighty slash along the side of his forehead.
This was the Gillie Ciotach; and the Gillie
Ciotach was singing—in high and nasal tones,
while his two companions listened solemnly.
Yet this was not really a melancholy song, this
*Linn an aigh*, for it described the happy state
of affairs that existed long ago, when the
heather yielded abundance of honey, and the
pastures abundance of milk, when there was
no rent to pay, when any one could fish or
shoot wherever he pleased, and when there was
neither hatred nor fighting, nor thirst of wealth.
Indeed, there was perhaps a touch of sarcasm
in the verses; for the refrain informed
whosoever might wish to know at what period of the
world's history this golden age existed that it
was *An uair bha Gàilig aig na h-eòin*—that is
to say, *When all the birds in Gaelic sang*.
However, whether the song was or was not
intended to be merry, the audience received it in
precisely the same fashion: when it ended, the
one said 'Ay, ay' in a sad tone; the other sighed
deeply; and then each mechanically proceeded to
pour out a glass of whiskey.  The Gillie Ciotach
did likewise; by all three the whiskey was
drank in absolute silence; there was a pause
of internal meditation—and at this point Big
Archie thought fit to open the door and enter,
for he had been long enough out in the rain.

And no sooner had he told his story than the
dare-devil leapt to his feet, a wild delight in
his eyes.

"Aw, *Dyeea*, this is a fine thing!" he cried,
sniffing the battle from afar.  "I tell you now
we will make short work of it—we will drive the
squatters into the Minch, and if the devils can
swim across the Minch, let them swim across the
Minch, and if they cannot swim across the Minch,
they can go down to their master below!  Come
away, boys, and make the preparation; for there
will be a gay dance to-morrow!"

The big giant caught him by both shoulders,
and threw him back into the chair.

"Did you hear me?" said he (but there was
an ominous mirth in his eyes too).  "Peaceably,
peaceably; the Baintighearna says
peaceably—they are to go peaceably."

"Aw, is it peaceably?" the Gillie Ciotach
cried, with a loud laugh.  "Well, if they will
go peaceably, that is very good; but if they
will not go peaceably, then we will make them
sing a little song to-morrow—by God, Archie
MacNicol, we will make them sing 'Farewell
to Fiunary,' and maybe it is on the wrong side
of their mouth they will be singing the
'Farewell to Fiunary!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BATTLE OF RU-MINARD`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium

   THE BATTLE OF RU-MINARD.

.. vspace:: 2

All that night there was marching and
counter-marching, and whipping up of recruits,
and drinking of whiskey, and singing of
*Gabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr*.[#]  Big Archie and
his peaceful, or pseudo-peaceful, counsels were
no longer heeded; the movement had been
taken up by the younger fellows, headed by the
mischievous Gillie Ciotach; and the belief
became general that orders had been received from
the Fishery Board in Edinburgh to the effect
that the Ru-Minard squatters were forthwith to
be driven into the sea.  And if the aliens should
refuse to be so driven—should stand up in
defence of their little bits of homesteads—what
then?


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] "We will take the highway."

.. vspace:: 2


"It is a lesson they will want," said the Gillie
Ciotach, gaily, to his comrades (they were
having a friendly glass together, in a barn lit
up by a solitary candle), "not to come thieving
on other people's lobster-ground, and building
huts wherever they like, and not a penny of
rent to the holder of the croft.  It is a lesson
they will want; and it is a lesson they will
get—to take back home with them, and keep the
others from coming here.  Well, now, this is
my opinion, that the best thing for giving a
man a rap over the head is a tiller.  A tiller with
a handle to it—aw, that is a fine convenient
thing!"

"I am going to take an oar over my shoulder,"
said a brawny young Hercules.

"And the more fool you, then," said the
Gillie Ciotach, who was a blunt-spoken youth.
"For I will tell you this, Feargus: if you strike
at a man with an oar, and he steps aside so that
you miss him, then he has you at his mercy—it
does not need a wise man to show you that.
Aw, God, a tiller is a fine thing, when the wood
is strong—it is a tiller that will be my
*orra-an-donais*[#] to-morrow."  He broke into a loud laugh.
"We will teach them to be telling lies about the
Fishery Board!—and it is little they are thinking
now that to-morrow they will be singing
*Farewell, farewell to Fiunary*!"


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Orra-an-donais*—an amulet for sending one's enemy to
perdition.  *Donas* is Satan.

.. vspace:: 2


In the morning it was found that the rain had
ceased; but worse than rain was threatening;
for all along the west the skies were of a heavy
and thunderous purple—a louring dark wall, as
it were—while torn shreds of grey cloud were
being blown along in advance, the precursors of
a gale.  Mary and Käthchen were both at the
window, looking out at the angry heavens and
the livid sea beneath, when the maid Barbara
came quickly into the room.  For the moment
Barbara had lost her pretty shyness of manner;
she was breathless and excited; her eyes were
full of apprehension.

"Oh, mem," she said, "do you know what is
happening?  They have gone aweh up the road,
a great many of the young lads, and others;
and they have sticks with them; and they are
singing *Gabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr*.  Oh, I
am sure there is harm coming of it!  They were
saying something of the strange fishermen out
at Ru-Minard—and there will be fighting."

A sudden dismay filled Mary's heart—dismay,
and a curious sense of helplessness.  To whom
could she turn for aid in such a crisis—and with
every moment a thing of value?

"Barbara," she said quickly, "I must have
some one to go with me.  Is Hector there?"

"No, mem, he went up the hill this morning."

"Or Hugh?"

"No, mem, he was going over to Cruagan,
to arrange about the heather-burning, so I was
hearing him say."

Then Mary turned to her friend.

"Käthchen, who is there?  Shall we ask the
Minister?"

"Of course, he is the very person to ask—if
you really mean to go, Mamie.  But do you
think you should?" Käthchen asked, with
serious eyes.  "It sounds like an open riot."

"I don't care—I must try what I can do—for
I fear I am responsible," Mary said, in a kind
of desperation; and then she turned to the
young Highland lass: "Barbara, we shall want
the carriage at once—as soon as ever the horses
can be put to.  Tell Sandy we are going over
to find Mr. Pettigrew; he can come along and
meet us.  Tell him not to lose a second."

And almost directly afterwards the two girls
were out-of-doors, hurrying along to the other
side of the village, where was the Minister's
cottage.  Käthchen was unmistakeably frightened;
but all the same she ventured to say—

"Well, Mamie, your friends in London have
almost given up asking when you are going to
marry your cousin—you have kept him at arm's
length so long.  But I think if Mr. Meredyth
were here just now, he would have a very good
chance."

"Why?" said Mary, with a certain coldness.

"Because you want a man's assistance and
advice," said Käthchen.  "Isn't it as clear as
daylight?  The moment this news comes, you
look round for some man to help you.  Is
the head keeper there?  No.  Or the under-keeper?
No.  Then you think of the Minister—anybody
so long as he is a man.  All quite
natural, of course.  Only I think if Mr. Frank
Meredyth were here—and you finding yourself
in constant trouble and perplexity—well, I
think he would soon take up a very important
position.  He might even persuade you to
let him send in to Inverness for a wedding-ring."

"People don't get married in order to make
peace among their tenantry!" said Mary, a
little proudly.

"Is he coming here in August?" asked the
shrewd Käthchen.

"Fred wants me to ask him," Mary said,
briefly; indeed, at such a time she was not
thinking of any suitor; she was thinking of
what might even now be going forward on the
shores of Minard Bay.

The Rev. Mr. Pettigrew received the intelligence
of the rising with a calm and gentle
compassion.

"Dear me, dear me!" he said, in his high-pitched,
unnatural voice, and he thoughtfully
stroked his long and straggling beard.  "What
a sad thing to think of, when brethren might
be living together in peace and ahmity!  The
heart of man is full of dangerous possibeelities—it
is a sad thing to think of—at this season
of the year, when all nature seems to know that
the verdant spring is around us—when all
is harmony and peace—to think that angry
passions should arise in the heart of man—"

"Yes, but won't you come at once,
Mr. Pettigrew?" said Mary, with distress in her
eyes.  "We may be able to do something to
prevent bloodshed.  The carriage will meet
us—we may be able to overtake them."

But the Minister paused to consider.

"No doubt," said he, reflectively, "to prevent
the shedding of blood is an admirable thing,
a commendable thing, and praiseworthy.  But
there are times and seasons when even the
wisest counsel is of no avail—when the heart
of man is as a fiery steed, untameable, not to
be bridled; and in these times and seasons,
what is demanded of us is a judeecious
sympathy, a constant sympathy, a sympathy
that does not take sides, but longs for the
return of peace and good will.  Strange, indeed,
that at this time of the year—"

"But won't you come with us at once,
Mr. Pettigrew!" Mary said, in her despair.  "The
carriage will meet us.  We must try what we
can do.  You see, I am in a measure responsible.
I told them what the Fishery Board had
said—that the stranger fishermen had no right to
build huts—and—and I hoped they would go
away quietly—but if there is to be fighting,
then surely it is the Minister who should come
and try to make peace."

"Ah, the carriage?" said Mr. Pettigrew,
thoughtfully, as he took down his hat from a
peg in the lobby.  "That is well considered—well
considered.  For if in their anger these
misguided craytures should take to throwing
of stons, the carriage could be closed.  Ay,
ay, that is very well now; and if their wrath
should be intemperate—for who can gauge the
stubbornness of man?—then the carriage can
be driven away at any moment.  But what a
sad thing to think of—sad thing!—when all
might be dwelling in peace and ahmity—in
peace and ahmity."

However, it was no consideration of personal
safety that was uppermost in Mary Stanley's
mind at this moment; indeed, so anxious was
she to overtake the rioters that she and her
two companions had very nearly got back to
Lochgarra House before they met the carriage.
Then the horses were turned round; and on
they drove—past the brawling stream—past
the larchwoods—and up to the height
commanding a view of Minard Bay.  And here, at
the top, they encountered the first human being
of whom they could ask the news.  It was
John the policeman.  The plump, roseate,
good-natured Iain was calmly seated on a low wall
by the roadside; and he was unconcernedly
regarding the wide stretch of white sand across
which some small black figures were now seen
to be in motion.

"What are you doing here, John?" said
Mary, indignantly.

"I was just looking," said Iain, with an
amiable smile—and he glanced in the direction
of the people crossing the white sands.

"Yes, but why are you waiting here?" said
she.  "Don't you know that there is likely to
be fighting?  And it is your duty to prevent that!"

"They will be telling me," said Iain, slowly
and comfortably, "that the strange fishermen
have no right to be in the place.  Very well,
then.  And if they are to be put out of the
place, it's not for me to interfere.  If they
are wrong, let them go aweh; and if they
will not go aweh, they will have to be put
aweh."

This seemed a sound argument—to John.

"But what did the Lochgarra people say to
you as they went by?" Mary demanded.
"Didn't you see they were armed with sticks?
Don't you know there will be fighting and
bloodshed?"

"Aw, there may be a brokken head or two,"
said John, with a demure smile.

"Well, it is your duty to prevent that!
These men have no right to take the law into
their own hand.  If the strangers will not go
peaceably, they must be removed by the law—not
by beating them with sticks.  And you are
standing back here—and letting them do what
they like!"

"And if they tek to fighting," said John,
"it's not me that can stop them."

This also seemed painfully true.

"But you can do something," she insisted.
"You can warn them.  You can take their
names.  You can threaten them with a prosecution.
You can tell them that—that—Mr. Pettigrew,
who is it that prosecutes here?—the
Sheriff at Dingwall?"

"Nay, but I am considering that there is
much of reason in what John says," observed
the Minister, in his lofty sing-song; "and
perhaps we should do well to follow his
example, and remain as spectators and witnesses.
I perceive that this carriage cannot be closed;
and therefore I do not think it would be
prudent—rather would it be rashness, and culpable
rashness—to go forward amid a storm of angry
passions.  Surely it would be more prudent for
us to remain here, with the constituted
representative of law and order?"

"But I am not going to remain here.  John."
she said, peremptorily, to the young policeman.
"get up in front.  Sandy, drive on quickly;
we may get between those people yet, before
the mischief has begun."

And so the horses went forward again—rattling
away down the stony hill until they
reached the soft and sandy road skirting the
bay.  The little township of Minard was quite
deserted, save for the women, who stood in
small groups in the fields or at the
cottage-doors, watching what was going forward out
there towards the long headland.  Not that
they could see very much, once the black figures
had crossed the white breadth of sand; for the
morning was dull and sombre; and the rocks
of Ru-Minard, along which the crofters and
fishermen were now making their way, were
dark.  But this much was obvious, that at a
certain point the crowd stopped; while two of
their number went forward—one of these being
of gigantic size.

"This is Big Archie," said Mary, almost to
herself, "and I warned him that he must get
them to go away peaceably."

And no doubt it was as a deputation carrying
peaceful proposals that Big Archie and his
companion were now going forward to certain
huts scattered just above the rocks, where also
a number of dark figures could be dimly
descried.  Peaceful or not peaceful, the
negotiations at all events involved delay; and this
delay enabled the party in the carriage to drive
along the road as far as was practicable; then
the horses were stopped, and Mary got down to
follow the rioters on foot.  It was in vain that
the Minister sought to dissuade her with
plaintive remonstrances; she intimated to him that
he could remain in the carriage if he chose.
Käthchen, on the other hand, though she was
thoroughly frightened, had but the one and
sole idea—to remain by Mary Stanley's side,
whithersoever she went.  As for the easy-going
Iain, he was distinctly inclined to hang back.

"What can I do?" said he, with occult
amusement in his eyes.  "If they will brek
one another's heads, how can I prevent it?  If
it is right that these men should go aweh, and
if they will not go aweh, they cannot complain
if they get their heads brokken for not going aweh."

But Iain's humorous indifference did not last
very long.  Mary, hurrying forward, and
with eyes anxiously straining, could make out
that the two men were now returning to their
friends; presently the blustering wind blowing
in from the sea brought a sound of confused
and prolonged cheering; and she now perceived
that the scattered assemblage was moving on.
At the same moment there was the sharp report
of a gun; and then it was that the policeman's
face grew grave.

"Is there going to be murder?" said he.

She did not answer him; she was running
now—and Käthchen by her side.

"We must—go right into the middle of it,"
she said, panting for breath, "and
then—perhaps they will stop."

At first the Lochgarra and Minard fishermen
advanced but slowly and cautiously upon the
huts, not knowing where the enemy might
mass himself.  The fact is the aliens had been
taken unawares; for while they were as
determined as men could be to defend their
homesteads, they had no time to seek for arms,
supposing they could have obtained any, while
up here on the rocky knolls there were no
stones.  They were running hither and thither
about the huts, picking up any bit of wood or
any broken oar they could find; but when they
made a sort of group of themselves, to await
the onset of their antagonists, it was clear that
timber had failed them, and other weapons
they seemed to have none.  But there they
stood, dauntless, sullen, silent—the sea behind
them—their outnumbering foes in front.

And now the invaders knew what was
expected of them.  It was a shrill cry from the
Gillie Ciotach that led the great hoarse volume
of their cheers; and then, with all kinds of
minatory exclamations, they rushed forward
on the devoted band.  Who could resist this
whirling, tempestuous, compacted shock?  For
two or three wild seconds there was
inextricable confusion; and snap here, snap there,
cudgel met cudgel, or descended on solid
crown; but it was all over directly; and the
next phase of the battle was that the aliens,
as if by one common impulse, had turned and
fled—fled pell-mell down the rocks and towards
the shore, their foes pursuing with fierce and
joyous cries.  And here it was that Mary
Stanley made her appearance—breathless,
dishevelled—trying to throw herself in the way
of Big Archie, who was leading the pursuit.

"Archie!" she called to him.  "How dare
you!  Let those men alone!  I command you!"

But very little indeed did Big Archie care
for her commands; it was another
consideration altogether that at this moment caused
himself and his companions to pause.  For the
fugitives, as soon as they gained the beach, had
taken refuge behind two boats drawn up there;
and as the boats, with their spars and sails
astern, and their lobster-creels and barrels at
the bow, offered excellent shelter, while the
beach afforded unlimited ammunition, the battle
was not yet over.  In truth, the stones that
were now flying through the air decidedly
checked the ardour of the pursuers; and it
was at this moment that Mary again got up to
Gilleasbuig Mòr.

"Archie!" she said, indignantly.

An accidental stone struck her on the
shoulder.  She did not mind.  But another
and a sharper one struck her on the wrist;
and inadvertently she drew up her hand with
a piteous little cry.  She had been cut over
the bone; blood was flowing profusely; and
at sight of that, Big Archie—his eyes blazing
with wrath—seemed to go mad altogether.

"Aw, *Dyeea*!" he cried; and he ran forward
and leapt into the boat, on to the middle
thwart; he sprang out on the other side; and
began to lay about him with his cudgel as
with the hammer of Thor, smiting and scattering
his enemies in all directions.  But she was
after him in a moment—nimbly getting round
the stern of the boat—and before he had
wholly wreaked his vengeance, she had him by
the arm.  And here her interposition did save
bloodshed; for the men, finding her between
Big Archie and themselves, refused to throw
the stones they had hastily picked up; quietude
was secured at least in this corner of the
battlefield.

But indeed the general interest had already
been attracted elsewhere.  When Mary turned
to see what was going on landwards, she
happened to notice certain small wavering
shreds of pink.  It was a very pale pink; on
a clear day, it would hardly have been visible;
but against the lurid sky it was distinct enough.

"What is that?" she said, with a sudden,
conscious fear, to Big Archie.

The huge, heavy-shouldered fisherman (who
was keeping an eye on his discomfited foes as
he led the way round the stern of the boats)
glanced towards the rocky knolls that had
been the scene of the first onslaught, and said
grimly,—

"It wass the Gillie Ciotaeh he wass bringing
a can of petroleum with him this morning, and
lobster-creels will be easy to set on fire."

"Do you mean to say they are burning down
those poor men's huts?" she demanded, in a
perfect agony of helplessness.  "Archie, what
is to be done?  Why does not the policeman interfere?"

"Aw, it is no use now," said Big Archie,
with much composure.  "They are ahl on fire
already—and a good job, too!—for we won the
fight, and that is a proper end to it."

"And this is how you have kept your
promise to me!" Mary said, in accents of
bitter reproach.

"As sure as death, mem," said the big
good-natured giant, "I wass doing everything Miss
Stanley said—peaceably, peaceably.  When I
went to them this morning, I wass saying to
them 'You hef no right here.'  They said, 'We
hef the right here.'  I said 'It is no use telling
lies; for Miss Stanley she has written to the
Fishery Board; and they hef given you no
right whatever.'  And then I says 'It is a fine
thing for you to come here and tek what piece
of land you want, and build your houses on it,
and you not paying a penny of rent to the man
that has the croft.'  Then they said 'The land
is not worth anything; it is only rock.'  Then
I says 'That is not your business, as you know
very well; and other people hef to pay rent for
it, whether it is rock or good land; and it is
impudent men you are to come and tek things
for nothing.  I am from Tarbert on Loch Fyne,'
says I, 'and it's stealing they would be calling
that down there.'  Well, mem, they were not
liking that—"

"I should think not!" said Mary.  "Is that
what you call asking them to go away civilly
and quietly?"

"But they would not go aweh at ahl, mem!"
Archie protested, still looking towards those
pink shreds of flame (and alas! for the poor
discomfited aliens—they had emerged from
their shelter, and gone a few yards up the
beach, and were also regarding, hopelessly
enough, the distant crowd and the work of
destruction).  "They were growing more and
more impudent, mem; and they said they
would not go aweh; and I said we would drive
them aweh; and they said we could not do it.
And then says I to them 'Do you see the
carriage yonder?—for if you can mek out
the people, it is the proprietor herself, and the
Minister, and the policeman, and they are come
down to see that you go aweh from this place
ahltogether, and, by God, if you do not go
aweh, we will drive you into the sea, and set
fire to your houses.'  'You cannot do it,' says
they—"

"But how dared you tell them that we had
come down for any such purpose," said Mary,
indignantly, "when we only came to prevent
violence?"

"And how wass I knowing that, mem?"
said he cunningly.  "But I am sure there wass
only the one end to it in any case, when they
began to pick up the sticks.  And we were not
going to hef the land stolen, and the lobster-ground
tekken up, and be beaten as well; for a
man cannot stand everything, and we had sticks
as well as they had sticks—"

"And so you began to fight in spite of all I
told you!" she said.  "And I do not know
what harm has been done or how many have
been hurt.  You yourself, you would have been
murdered if I had not come round by the boats
and dragged you away."

"Is it murdering, mem?" said Big Archie,
with a grin.  "Aw, Cosh, there would hef
been some murdering going before they
murdered me!"

And now they came upon Käthchen, who
was standing as one paralyzed, gazing upon the
excited crowd who were collected round the
burning huts, and listening to their shouts and
laughter.  The moment she turned, she caught
sight of Mary's hand, and uttered a quick cry
of alarm.

"It is nothing, Käthchen," her friend said,
"only I wish you'd tie this handkerchief round
my wrist—and pull it tight; it will hurt less
then."

"What made you go away down there,
Mamie?" said Käthchen, in her distress.
"I—wanted to stay by your side—but—but I
could not face the stones.  It was madness—"

"They did not intend to strike me," said
Mary (whose shoulder was aching cruelly, as
well as her wrist).  "These poor men, they
have nothing left now but their boats."  And
then she demanded: "But where was that
booby of a policeman?—why did he not
prevent them setting fire to the huts?  And
where is the Minister?"

Käthchen did not know; nor did she care
much; all her interests were engrossed by the
strange scene being enacted up there among
the rocky knolls.  For, despite the petroleum,
and the heaping-on of lobster-creels and
float-barrels, the huts did not burn well; the rain
of the previous night had soddened the thatch,
and perhaps the interiors were none too dry at
the best of times; so that the incendiaries had
to keep opening up draught-holes, or flinging
on more petroleum, in order to encourage the
flames.  And then again that proved too slow
work for their impatience.  They got poles
and broken oars to use as battering-rams; they
charged the ineffectual doors, and tore down
the smouldering roofs; and when the
demolition of this or that rude dwelling was
complete, there were loud and triumphant cheers.
Mary did not seek to interpose.  It was too
late now.  She looked on sadly, wondering
what the poor wretches down by the boats were
thinking, and not without some half-terrified
consciousness that she was answerable for all
this wreck and ruin.

"It is shameful!—it is shameful!" she
said—almost to herself.

"Well, mem," said Big Archie, who still
remained with the two young ladies, "I will
ask you this—when you will find a wasps'
nest in your garden, what will you do?  You
will not be for going forward and telling
them they were right in tekkin up the place,
and that you will not disturb them; aw, no!—I
think it is a bunch of straw you will be carrying
to the place, and setting a light to it, and
putting the nest on fire.  Aw, Cosh, that is
the sure weh to get rid of them—"

"But these were not wasps—these were men
like yourselves," said she, sharply.  "They
have as much right to live as you—"

"Ay," said Big Archie, scratching his head
in assumed perplexity, "mebbe they hef as
much right to live as we hef—but *not there*.
For it wass Miss Stanley herself that would
be saying that."

Mary's face flushed.

"I told you they were wrong in thinking
they had any right to be there; but I did not
tell you to go and break out into lawlessness
and set houses on fire with petroleum.  Do you
think that can be allowed?  Do you think there
is no government in this country?  Do you
think you can do just as you please?  I tell
you, the Sheriff from Dingwall will have to
inquire into this matter."

Gilleasbuig Mòr did not like the mention
of Dingwall.

"If it was brekkin the law," said he, rather
gloomily, "it wass not us that wass brekkin
it first.  It was them fishermen.  And now
they can go aweh hom; and if they ever think
of coming back here, they will remember the
day they sah their houses on fire at Ru-Minard."

The work of demolition was now complete.
Smouldering thatch and blackened rafters
strewed the ground; nothing remained erect
but the rude stone walls; the alien colony had
lost its habitation.  And then the invaders
formed once more into a sort of irregular
procession; they shouldered their staves and
clubs; three ringing cheers were given—as a
significant message to their vanquished
opponents, who still remained down by the boats;
and then the victors set out on their homeward
march, the Gillie Ciotach's shrill voice leading
off with "*Gabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr*"[#] while
a rough and ready chorus was volunteered by
the straggling ranks.  Mary Stanley and
Käthchen, accompanied by Big Archie, slowly
followed, some distance intervening.  In truth,
Mary's heart was as lead: all things seemed
to be going so ill—in spite of her most patient
and unselfish endeavours.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] The chorus of this gay ditty has been thus Englished:

.. class:: small

   |  "We will take the good old way,
   |  We will take the good old way,
   |  We will take the good old way,
   |    The way that lies before us;
   |  Climbing stiff the heathery ben,
   |  Winding swiftly down the glen,
   |  Should we meet with strangers then,
   |    Their gear will serve to store us!"

.. vspace:: 2


And now they came upon Iain the policeman—bland,
benign, complacent as usual.  Iain
had remained some little way apart, to let the
rioters go by; his share in the day's proceedings
had been limited to a discreet and not
unamiable observation.

"What are you doing here?" said Mary.
"Why did you not interfere before they had
set the huts on fire?  Don't you see the
mischief that has been done?"

There was a whimsical, demure smile in Iain's
eyes.

"I could not be tekkin up all them men,"
said he.

"Then what are you put here for at all?"
she demanded.  "Why did they send you to
Lochgarra if you have no authority?  What
use are you in the place?"

Iain was far too smooth-tempered to take any
umbrage.  He did not even claim to be of any use.

"Aw, well," said he—and he lifted up a bit
of dried seaweed and slowly pulled it to pieces,
"the people about Lochgarra, there is not much
harm in them."

"Do you call that no harm—setting fire to
houses?"

Iain hesitated—for he wished to be very
respectful.

"But if the fishermen had no right to build
the houses?" he ventured to say, with
down-cast eyes, and in the most propitiating tones.
"And it was Miss Stanley herself who was
telling them that."

"Did I tell them to set the houses on fire?
Did I tell them to go and fight with sticks and
stones?  I told them to go and try to get those
people away peaceably; and instead of that,
here they break out into open riot, and work
all the mischief they can, and you stand by and
look on!"

"Aw, well," said Iain, pulling away at the
seaweed, "there is not much harm done.
There is not more than one or two has got a
knock."

The hoarse, triumphant chorus—

   |  *"Gabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr*
   |  *Gabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr*
   |  *Gabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr*
   |  *Olc air mhath le càch e!"'*

was growing more distant now; the men were
ascending the hill, towards their own
homes—or still more likely they were going on to the
village, to have a good, solid dram after this
great exploit.  And here was the waggonette,
and Mr. Pettigrew therein, apparently
confining his attention to certain slips of paper.
When the two young ladies appeared and got
into the carriage, the Minister put away his
MS.; and when the horses had started for
home, he lifted up his high and feminine voice,
and said—

"It is a sad sight we have seen to-day—a
sad sight—angry passions surmounting what
should be the calm of the Christian soul—and
among those who might well be living in peace
and ahmity.  And it is well for us who can
keep apart, and view these things as a passing
vision, and comfort ourselves with pious thoats.
'For they that sleep sleep in the night; and
they that be drunken are drunken in the night.
But let us, who are of the day, be sober, putting
on the breastplate of faith and love: and for an
helmet, the hope of salvation.'  As for those
poor men out at Ru-Minard, I fear they will be
as the beasts of the field and the birds of the
air in the matter of habitation; but they must
seek for higher things; they must say to
themselves 'For here have we no continuing city,
but we seek one to come!'"

"You might have gone and tried to save
their houses for them!" Mary exclaimed,
bitterly.

But she would say no more.  Indeed, she
was silent all the way home.  A sense of
helplessness, of failure, of despair weighed upon
her; all her fine courage and heroic spirit
seemed to have fled.  When they got to the top
of the hill at Minard, she turned and looked
towards the long promontory beyond the bay;
and there was still a little smoke showing here
and there amongst the smouldering ruins.  In
spite of herself tears rose to her eyes.  This
was the climax of all her splendid schemes.
This was what she had been able to do for the
neighbourhood that had been entrusted to her.
Might it not be said of her—

   |  'The children born of thee are sword and fire,
   |  Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws'?

How long was it since she had come to
Lochgarra?—and this was the end.

But as they drove on, they came in sight of
Lochgarra Bay; and out there was Eilean
Heimra.  And no sooner had Mary Stanley's
eyes lit on the distant island than something
seemed to stir her heart with a proud indignation;
and if she had spoken, as she dared not
speak, she would have said—

"Ah, it is you, it is you out there who are
responsible.  It is not I.  It is you alone who
have control over these people; and yet you go
and shut yourself up in selfish isolation; and
leave me, a woman, to contend, and strive,—and
break down!"

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center medium

   END OF VOL. I.

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center small white-space-pre-line

   LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
   STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::