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

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 43054
   :PG.Title: Donald Ross of Heimra (Volume III 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 III of 3)
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1891
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA (VOLUME III)
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      DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA

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      BY

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      WILLIAM BLACK

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      *IN THREE VOLUMES.*
      VOL. III.

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

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      [*All rights reserved.*]  

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

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   CONTENTS OF VOL. III.

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   I.  `Smoke and Flame`_
   II.  `A Summons`_
   III.  `A Forecast`_
   IV.  `Slow but Sure`_
   V.  `A Pious Pilgrimage`_
   VI.  `Habet!`_
   VII.  `"'Twas when the Seas were roaring"`_
   VIII.  `A Mission`_
   IX.  `The Banabhard`_

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.. _`SMOKE AND FLAME`:

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   DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA.

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   CHAPTER I.

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   SMOKE AND FLAME.

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But that was not at all the view that Fred
Stanley took of this amazing and
incomprehensible incident.

"There's some trick in it, Frank," he said
vehemently, as he hurried his friend along
with him, on their way back to the house.
"There's some underhand trick in it, and I
want to know what it means.  I tell you, we
must get the keepers, and go up the hill at
once, and see what is going on.  There's
something at the bottom of all this jugglery."

"Jugglery or no jugglery," his companion
said, with much good-humour, "it has come in
very handy.  If a riot had been started, who
knows what the end might have been?  It
wasn't the raid into the Glen Orme forest that
concerned me, nor yet the driving of the sheep
off Meall-na-Fearn; but I confess I was anxious
about your sister.  If she had been denounced
before an angry and excited meeting——"

"Oh, we should have been able to take care
of ourselves!" the younger man said,
dismissing that matter contemptuously.

"And if it was Ross of Heimra who stepped
in to prevent all this," Meredyth continued,
"I, for one, am very much obliged to him."

"Oh, don't be an ass, Frank!" the other
said, with angry impatience.  "If it is Donald
Ross who has done all this, I'll swear he has
done it for his own purposes.  And I want to
know.  I want to find out.  I want to see
what the trick means.  And of one thing I am
absolutely certain, and that is, that Donald
Ross is up on the moor at this very moment.
Oh, yes," the young man went on, seeing that
his wild suspicions received no encouragement
from his more cautious companion, "a fine
stratagem, to keep us idling and kicking our
heels about here all the morning—and on the
Twelfth, too!  I thought it was odd that the
meeting should be fixed for the Twelfth; but
now I begin to see.  Now I begin to
understand why Donald Ross came over from
Heimra yesterday afternoon."

"Well, what do you imagine?" Meredyth asked.

"Why, it's as clear as daylight!" the
younger man exclaimed—jumping from vague
surmises to definite conclusions.  "Here have
we been hanging about all the morning, like a
couple of simpletons, waiting for a general riot
or some nonsense of that kind, while Ross and
his gang of poachers have been up on the
moor, sweeping the best beats clean of every
bird!  That has been the little programme!—and
a fine consignment of game to be sent away
to Inverness to-night, as soon as the dark
comes down.  But they may not be off the hill
yet; and we'll hurry up Hector and Hugh, and
have a look round."  And then he added,
vindictively: "I'd let the Twelfth go—I
shouldn't mind a bit having had the Twelfth
spoilt—if only I could catch those scoundrels—and
the chief of them—red-handed."

"All I have to say is," observed the more
phlegmatic Meredyth, "that if we are going up
the hill we may as well take our guns with us
and a brace of dogs.  We can have an hour or
two.  The fag-end of the Twelfth is better
than no Twelfth; and your sister says she
wants some birds."

"Birds?" the other repeated.  "What do
you expect to find on the ground after those
poaching thieves have been over it?"

However, in the end he consented; and as
they found that Hector—undisturbed by all
those alarming rumours of riot and pillage—had
kept everything in readiness for them, the
two young men snatched a hasty sandwich and
set forth.  It was not a very eager shooting
party.  There was a sensation that the great
possibilities of the Twelfth had been ruined for
them.  Nevertheless, there would be some
occupation for the afternoon, and the mistress
of the household wanted some grouse.

But, indeed, it soon became evident that it
was not shooting that was uppermost in Fred
Stanley's mind.  He overruled Hector's plan
for taking the nearest beats.  He would have
his companions hold away up the Corrie
Bhreag, which leads to the Glen Orme forest;
and ever he was making for the higher
ranges—scanning the ground far ahead of him, and
listening intently in the strange silence; while
he was clearly unwilling to have the dogs
uncoupled.

"Look here, man," at length said Meredyth,
who, though new to the place, had a trained
eye for the features of a moor; "surely we
have come down wind far enough?  It will
take us all our time to get back before
dinner, even if we pick the beats on the way
home——"

The answer was unexpected—a half-smothered
exclamation of mingled anger and triumph.

"Didn't I tell you so?" young Stanley
exclaimed, with his eyes fixed on a small, dark
object a long distance up the glen.  "Didn't
I tell you we should find him here?  Don't
you see him—away up yonder?  My lad,
when you come poaching, you shouldn't put
on sailor's clothes; they're too conspicuous.
What do you say, Hector: can you make him
out?  Well, whether you can or not, I will tell
you his name.  That is Mr. Donald Ross, if
you want to know—and I guessed we should
find him here or hereabouts!"

"I am not sure," said Hector, slowly, also
with his eyes fixed on the distant and dark
figure.

"But I am!" Fred Stanley went on.  "And
perhaps you can tell me what he is doing up on
our shooting?"

"Mebbe," said the serious-visaged keeper,
with a little hesitation, "mebbe he was waiting
to see that none of the lads would be for going
into the forest.  Or mebbe he was up at Glen Orme."

"Oh, stuff and nonsense!" the young man
cried, scornfully.  "Do you think we are
children!  I tell you, we have caught him at
last; and wherever the rest of the gang have
sneaked off to, he is bound to come along here
and face it out.  Yes, he is coming: I can
see he is moving this way.  Very well, Frank,
you have the dogs uncoupled now, and begin
to shoot back home: I'm going to meet my
gentleman—and I will take my gun with me,
just to keep a wholesome check on insolence."

"You will not," said Meredyth, with decision—for
he knew not whither this young man's
obvious wrath and enmity might not lead him.
"I will wait here with you: whoever that is,
he is clearly coming this way."

"Why, of course he must!" was the
rejoinder.  "He sees he is caught: what else is
there left for him but to come along and try to
put some kind of face on it?"  Then presently
he exclaimed: "Well, of all the effrontry that
I ever beheld!  He is carrying a gun under
his arm!—how's that for coolness?"

"I am not thinking it is a gun, sir," said the
tall, brown-bearded keeper; "it is more like a
steeck."

"Yes, it is a stick, Fred," Meredyth put in,
after a moment.

"Oh, why should he have a gun?  What
does he want with a gun?" the young man
said, without being disconcerted for a moment.
"He has only to direct the operations of his
confederates.  A stick?—very likely!—the
master-poacher doesn't want to be encumbered
with a gun!"

And so they waited.  It was a singular
scene for the Twelfth of August on the side of
a Highland hill: no ranging of dogs, no
cracking of breechloaders, no picking up of a
bird here and there from the thick heather,
but a small group, standing silent and
constrained, and dimly aware that pent-up human
passions were about to burst forth amid these
vast and impressive solitudes.  Young Ross
of Heimra—for it was unmistakably he—came
leisurely along; his attention was evidently
fixed on the sportsmen; perhaps he was
wondering that they did not let loose the dogs
and get to work.  But as he drew nearer he
must have perceived that they were awaiting
his approach; and so—with something of
interrogation and surprise in his look—he came
up to them.

"I hope you have had good sport," said Fred
Stanley.

Donald Ross stared: there was something
in the young man's tone that seemed to strike
him.

"I—I don't quite understand," said he.

"Oh, well, it's only this," replied the other,
striving to keep down his rising rage, and
speaking in a deliberately taunting fashion,
"that when you find anyone on a Highland
moor on the Twelfth of August you naturally
suppose that he has come for grouse.  And
why not?  I am sorry we have interrupted
you.  When you have the fishing and the
stalking, why shouldn't you have the shooting
as well?  I am sorry if we have disturbed
you——"

They formed a curious contrast, those two:
the tall, handsome, light-haired youth, with his
fair complexion and his boyish moustache
causing him to look almost effeminate, and yet
with his nostrils dilated, his haughty grey
eyes glistening with anger, a tremor of passion
about the lines of his lips; the other, though
hardly so tall, of more manly presence, his pale,
proud, clear-cut features entirely reticent, his
coal-black eyes, so far, without flame in them,
an absolute self-possession and dignity
governing his manner.

"I hardly know what you mean," said he,
slowly, fixing those calmly observant black
eyes on the young lad.  "What is it all about?
Do I understand you to accuse me of shooting
over your moor—here—now?—do you
imagine——"

"Oh, it isn't that only!—it is half-a-dozen
things besides!" the young man exclaimed,
letting his passion get entirely the mastery of
him.  "Who has this place?  Not those who
bought it!  It is you who have the shooting
and fishing and everything; and not content
with that but you play dog-in-the-manger as
well—heaving stones into the pools when
anyone else goes down to the river.  And who
does the scringeing about here?—answer me
that!—do you think we don't know well
enough?  Let us have an end of hypocrisy——"

"Let us have an end of madness!" said
Donald Ross, sternly; and for a second there
was a gleam of fire in his black eyes.  But
that sudden flame, and a certain set expression
of the mouth, almost instantly vanished; this
young fellow, with the girlish complexion, was
even now so curiously like his sister.  "I do
not answer you," Donald Ross went on, with a
demeanour at once simple and austere.  "You
have chosen to insult me.  I do not answer
you.  You are in my country: it is the same
as if you were under my roof."

"Your country!" the hot-headed young man
cried, in open scorn, "What part of the
country belongs to you!  That rock of an
island out there!—and I wish you would keep
to it; and you'd better keep to it; for we
don't mean to have this kind of thing going on
any longer.  We mean to have an end of all
this scringeing and poaching!  We have been
precious near getting hold of those scringe-nets:
we'll make sure of them the next time.
And I want once for all to tell you that we
mean to have the fishing for ourselves, and the
shooting, too; and we want you to understand
that there is such a thing as the law of trespass.
What right have you to be here, at this
moment, on this moor?" he demanded.  "How
can you explain your being here?  What are
you doing here—on the Twelfth?  Do you
know to whom this moor belongs?  And by
what right do you trespass on it?"

"Fred," interposed Frank Meredyth, who
was painfully conscious that the two keepers—though
they had discreetly turned away—must
be hearing something of this one-sided altercation,
"enough of this: if there is any dispute,
it can be settled another time—not before third
persons."

"One moment," said Donald Ross, turning
with a grave courtesy to this intervener.  "You
have heard the questions I have just been asked.
Well, I do not choose to account for my actions
to any one.  But this I wish to explain.  I
have no right to be where I am, I admit; I
have trespassed some dozen yards on to this
moor, in order to come up and speak to you.
When you saw me first I was on the old
footpath—there it is, you can see for yourself—that
leads up this corrie, and through the Glen
Orme forest to Ledmore; it is an old hill road
that everyone has the right of using."

"Oh, yes, thieves' lawyers are always clever
enough!" Fred Stanley said, disdainfully.

Donald Ross regarded him for a moment—with
a strange kind of look, and that not of
anger: then he quietly said, "Good afternoon!"
to Meredyth, and went on his way.
Hector got out of the prevailing embarrassment
by uncoupling the dogs; and Frank Meredyth
put cartridges in his gun.  This encounter did
not augur well for steady shooting.

Meanwhile Donald Ross was making down
for the coast, slowly and thoughtfully.  What
had happened had been a matter of a few swift
seconds; it had now to be set in order and
considered; the scene had to be conjured up
again—with all its minute but vivid incidents.
And no longer was there any need for him to
affect a calm and proud indifference; phrases
that he had seemed to pass unheeded began to
burn; the rapid glances and tones of those brief
moments, now that they were recalled, struck
deep.  Indeed, the first effect of a blow is but
to stun and bewilder—the pain comes
afterwards; and there are words that cause more
deadly wounds than any blows.  Taunt and
insult: these are hard things for a Highlander
to brook—and yet—and yet—that handsome,
headstrong boy, even in the white-heat of
his passion, had looked so curiously like his sister.

"Ah, well," said Ross, aloud, and there was
a kind of smile on his face, "it is, perhaps, a
wholesome lesson.  Hereafter I'd better mind
my own business.  And if I have been ordered
off the mainland—sent back to my little
island—very well: the sea-gulls and gannets won't
accuse me of trespass."

In time he drew near the village.  But as
he went down the hill from Minard, and had
to pass Lochgarra House, he did not turn his
eyes in that direction.  He held straight on;
and at length encountered a small boy who had
just been engaged in hauling a dinghy up on
the beach.

"Alan," said he, "have you seen Big Archie
anywhere about?"

"Ay," said the boy, "he was at the inn to
look at the people driving aweh."

"What people?  The strangers who were at
the church this morning?"

"Ay, chist that.  There was many a one
laughing at them," said Alan, with a bit of a
grin.

"Well, run along now, and see if you can
find Big Archie, and tell him I am going out
to Heimra.  Then you can come back with him,
and pull us out to the lugger."

And away went Alan, with a will, eager to
earn the sixpence that he foresaw awaiting his
return, while the young laird of Heimra,
having nothing else to do until Big Archie
should put in an appearance, seated himself on
the gunwale of the dinghy, with his eyes turned
towards the sea.  Not once had he glanced in
the direction of Lochgarra House.

But Lochgarra House had taken notice of
him.  Mary Stanley chanced to be passing one
of the windows, when of a sudden her face
grew animated, and her eyes—those liquid
grey-green eyes that were at all times so clear
and radiant—those bland, good-humoured, kind
eyes—shone with a quick interest and delight.

"Käthchen!  Käthchen!" she called.  "There
is Mr. Ross just gone by—tell Barbara to run
after him—quick! quick!—and—and my
compliments—and I want to see him most
particularly.  He must not go out to Heimra
before I have seen him—tell her not to lose a
minute—I'm afraid he may be going along now
to get Big Archie's boat."

But at such a crisis Kate Glendinning did
not choose to wait for any servant.  She flew
into the hall, snatched a straw hat from the
table, tripped down the wide stone steps, and
made her way as quickly as might be round
the sea-wall and along the beach.  He did
not hear her approach; he seem plunged in a
profound reverie.

"Mr. Ross!" she said, rather breathlessly
and timidly, to attract his attention.

He started to his feet; and, when he saw
who this was, his naturally pale, dark face
grew suddenly suffused—an almost school-boyish
constraint visible there for a moment!
Käthchen was surprised; but she made haste to
deliver Miss Stanley's message.

"She happened to see you from the window;
and she is most anxious you should not go
back to Heimra before she has a chance of
thanking you for your great kindness.  For
she quite understands it was you who prevented
all the mischief that might have arisen from
those people coming here; and she is very
grateful; and wishes to say so to yourself.
And I was to give you her compliments, and
say that she wished particularly to see
you—if you wouldn't mind coming along for a few
moments."

This time he did throw a brief glance in the
direction of Lochgarra House—perhaps
thinking of what otherwise might have been.  But
now, how could he ever again be under that roof?

"Will you tell Miss Stanley," said he—and
though that temporary confusion had gone,
there was still a curious reserve in his
manner—"that I am very glad if I have been of any
service to her—very glad that she should think
so, I mean; but it isn't worth speaking about;
and she must not say anything more about it."

"But she wishes to see you!" exclaimed
Käthchen, who naturally had expected an
instant acquiescence.  "Surely she is the best
judge as to whether she ought to thank you, or
not.  And that was the message I was to take
to you, that she wished most particularly to see
you, before you went out to Heimra.  A few
moments only—she will not detain you——"

"If you will excuse me, I would rather not
go along," said he, looking uneasily towards
the cottages and the inn.  "I have just sent for
Big Archie."

Käthchen was astounded.  What kind of a
young man was this, to refuse the invitation of
a beautiful young woman—one, indeed, who had
shown herself singularly interested in him,
even as he had gone out of his way to render
friendly little services to her?  Käthchen's
secret conjectures, founded on what she had
recently observed as between these two, seemed
to have been suddenly and rudely stultified.
What was the key to this enigma?  Jealousy?
Was it the presence of Frank Meredyth that
interposed?  Would he decline to visit the
house until that possible rival had been
removed?  She could not understand; she was
bewildered; but still she had her commission to
execute; and the faithful Kate was staunch.

"Miss Stanley will be disappointed," said
she.  "She is most anxious to see you.  A
couple of minutes would be enough.  And
surely you could let Big Archie wait."

"Thank you," said he—and it was clear
that it was with the greatest reluctance he
was forcing himself to refuse—"but I would
rather not.  I am very sensible of Miss Stanley's
kindness; but—but she must not make too
much of this trifling thing."

Käthchen paused irresolute.  But, after all,
she had no more to say.  She could not appeal
to him, she could not beg of him, as a favour,
to accept Miss Stanley's invitation: Käthchen
also had a little pride; so she civilly bade him
good afternoon, and hoped he would have a
pleasant voyage home; and set out on her way
back to the house.

"Well?" said Mary, when Käthchen came
into the room.  But she had already seen, from
the window, that her messenger was returning
alone.

"Oh," said Käthchen, in an indifferent sort
of fashion—and she began to gather up some
samples of homespun that were strewn on the
table—"he says he is going out to Heimra at
once.  He has sent for Big Archie.  He says—he
says—that he is glad if he has rendered
you any little service—but you are not to
think of it."

Mary's eyes had grown full of wonder.  For
out of these windows she could plainly see that
he was still waiting on the beach: the fact
being that the boy Alan had failed to find Big
Archie at the inn, and had gone off to seek him
throughout the cottages.

"But did you tell Mr. Ross that I wished to
speak with him?" she asked.

"I said that you most particularly wished to
speak with him."

"Yes—and then?"

"Then he—he begged to be excused," said
Käthchen, bluntly.

Mary turned sharply away from the window,
and for a second or two she was silent.

"Why did you say 'most particularly'?
What right had you to give him any such
message?" she demanded, with something of
a cold and dignified air, but not looking
towards Käthchen.

"Those were your very words, Mamie!"
Käthchen protested.

"I may have said something like that—in
the hurry of calling to you," Mary said, with
flushed face.  "But you ought to have known.
You might have known it was not a message
I wanted given to anyone—not to anyone.
However, it is of little consequence."  She
advanced to the table—her head somewhat erect.
"I suppose," she said, in a matter-of-fact way,
"you will be writing about those samples to
the Frasers, in Inverness?"

"Yes, Mamie—you told me to."

"Very well," she continued, still with that
air of unconcern; "you might say to them at
the same time that we can get patchwork quilts
made for them at from ten to twelve shillings
the piece, if they send us the materials.  That
is the price I promised to the women here.
And if they prefer the stockings made longer,
I will have them made longer; only they must
give me a little more for them—there is so
much more wool and so much more work."

She glanced furtively over her shoulder: it
was only now that Big Archie had made his
appearance—coming down the beach to the spot
at which young Ross was idly walking about.

"Käthchen," she said of a sudden, with
something of piteous vexation in her tone,
"are you certain you said 'most particularly'?—are
you quite certain?—I—I did not mean
it—I was in a hurry—you did not say 'most
particularly,' did you?  At the same time,"
she went on, with an abrupt affectation of
carelessness, "it is of very little consequence—no
consequence whatever: the only thing is that
the Highlanders appear to have odd manners—and
that again, as I say, is a matter of
perfect indifference.  Don't forget to mention
the patchwork quilts and the stockings."

But Kate Glendinning rose and went to the
window.  By this time Donald Ross, Big Archie,
and the young lad were all in the dinghy, on
their way out to the lugger.

"There is something strange, Mamie,"
Käthchen said, thoughtfully.  "I cannot imagine
what made him refuse to come along to this
house—and refuse with such embarrassment.
And these are not Highland manners at all.  But
sometimes a Highlander is too proud to speak."

They were soon to learn what all this meant.
When the two young men returned from their
afternoon expedition, it appeared that they had
got thirteen and a half brace of grouse, and a
few odds and ends—a very fair bag, considering
the size of the moor and the length of time
they had been out.  But it was not the success
of the shooting that caused Fred Stanley to
come into the drawing-room with something of
a gay and triumphant air.

"Well, we have caught your poaching friend
at last," he said to his sister, "and I think we
have sent him home with a flea in his ear.  I
knew we should corner him sooner or later, in
spite of his cunning.  And a very pretty trick
it was—to plan this insurrectionary meeting
for the Twelfth, so that we should be kept away
from the hill, keepers and all.  But it didn't
work, you see; for we lost no time in getting
up to the Corrie Bhreag, and there he was, sure
enough.  And very little he had to say for
himself—not a word!—but I had something to
say to him; and I don't think we shall be
troubled with his presence about Lochgarra for
some little time to come."

"Are you speaking of Mr. Ross?" said Mary,
with a certain calmness of manner that did not
quite conceal her alarm.

"I should think I was!"

"And what did you find him doing?"

"I found him on the moor—where he had no
right to be; and if the rest of the gang
managed to hide themselves or to get safe away,
well, I did not care much about that; he was
there to answer for them; and so we had it
out.  Yes, I may say we had it out."

Mary turned to Frank Meredyth.

"Mr. Meredyth, what is all this about?
What happened?  Did you find Mr. Ross
shooting on the moor?"

"Well, no," said Meredyth, with something
of disquiet, for he was now placed in a most
unenviable position.  "The fact is, it would be
difficult to bring any definite charge against
him; for he was coming down from the direction
of the Glen Orme forest, and when we first
saw him he was following an old hill-path that
everybody has the right to use—so he says.
No, he wasn't shooting—not then, certainly;
nor did we see any one with him: but as
regards Fred's suspicions—well, you know, I
have said before, that when you imagine there
is poaching going on, you see it in every
circumstance."

"What was he doing up there at all?" the
younger man broke in.  "Why, he had no
defence to make.  He had not a word to say
for himself.  It's all very well to be high and
mighty: you won't account for your actions
to any body—no, of course not, when you can't
without convicting yourself!"

"I suppose he had a gun with him?" said
she, still addressing Frank Meredyth.

"Well, no; he had not," Meredyth confessed,
looking somewhat anxious and disconcerted.

"A game-bag, at least? and a dog?" she
went on; "or something that entitled you to
suspect him?"

"Oh, no, not at all.  The truth is, he was
simply coming down the strath, and he had
nothing under his arm but a walking-stick."

"Oh, indeed," said she; and she drew
herself up a little proudly.  "Very well.  You
meet a stranger—no, not a stranger—but one
of my friends, whom you have seen under my
roof, and he is walking along a public footpath
carrying a stick in his hand.  Well, and then?
I want to know what happens then?"

Meredyth was grievously embarrassed.

"I am afraid there were a few hard words
said—and—and I must say for Mr. Ross that
he showed great forbearance and self-control.
Yes, I must admit that; and also that Fred was
rather too—too outspoken.  I must say I rather
admired Mr. Ross because of his composure;
for, indeed, I thought at one time—well, it was
a very awkward meeting.  When there is bad
blood, you see—when one suspects
poaching—everything points that way."

"Oh, I am responsible for everything that
occurred!" Fred Stanley broke in again,
impetuously.  "Meredyth had nothing to do
with it—nothing at all!  And I tell you I
spoke plainly.  I thought the time for pretence
and hypocrisy had gone by; I thought it was
time my gentleman-poacher should understand
we weren't going to be made fools of any longer.
Oh, I spoke plainly enough, if that is what you
want to find out!" continued this confident lad,
who seemed to be rather vain of his achievement.
"I told him we had had quite enough
of him about Lochgarra—quite enough of him,
and his scringe-nets, and his thieving of salmon,
and heaving of stones into the pools.  I told
him we wanted this place to ourselves now.  I
recommended him to keep to that small island
out there——"

"It is infamous—it is shameless!" said
Mary Stanley—and the beautiful, proud face
had grown suddenly pale, and there was a
curious indignant vibration in her voice.  "Do
you know what that man has done for me, this
very day?  What does he value most in the
world—what remains to him of all the
possessions which his family used to hold—what
but the devotion and affection with which these
people about here regard him?  And he risked
it all—for my sake!  He took my side—against
his own people!  They were appealed to by
everything that could tempt them; and they
had been taught to regard me as their enemy;
and who knows what might have happened if
he had not stepped in, and confronted them,
and said—'No.'  He has forgiven the injuries,
the irreparable injuries, my family have done
him and his; he has met me with friendliness
at every turn—and always keeping out of the
way and claiming no thanks for it; and now
the return he gets is—insult!—and insult that
he would scorn to answer."  She went on,
with increasing indignation: "Shooting and
fishing!  What do I care for the shooting and
fishing!  I would rather have every fish in
the river and every bird on the hill destroyed
than that the disgrace of such ingratitude
should have fallen on this house!"  She
paused—hesitated—her lips began to quiver.
"I—I beg your pardon, Mr. Meredyth—I am
sorry you should have met with any annoyance
to-day."  And the next second, and in despite
of herself, she had burst into a passionate fit of
weeping; while with the proud head bent, her
handkerchief covering her eyes, and her frame
shaken with sobbing, she left the room.  Instantly
Käthchen went with her—leaving silence behind.

It was about half an hour thereafter that the
dinner-gong sounded upward from the big,
empty, echoing hall.  Käthchen came down to
the drawing-room.

"Miss Stanley would rather that you did
not wait for her," said she to the two gentlemen.
And therewith Käthchen also withdrew.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A SUMMONS`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER II.


.. class:: center medium

   A SUMMONS.

.. vspace:: 2

"What can I do, Käthchen?  What can I do?"
she was saying, in accents almost of despair;
and in her agitation she was walking up and
down before the windows, glancing out from
time to time towards the far island that was
now shining in the morning sunlight, while the
driven blue sea was springing white along its
rocky shores.  "What can I do?  What atonement
can I make?  Or is it quite hopeless?  Is
he to be sent away as a stranger, without a
word of excuse, or apology, or appeal?"  And
then she said: "Käthchen, surely there is some
fatality in it, that this young man, who has
heaped kindness on me since ever I came to this
place—but always keeping aloof in a strange,
proud way, as if to avoid the possibility of
thanks—surely there is some fatality that he should
receive nothing but insult and wrong at our
hands.  First, my uncle—now, my brother——"

"At all events," said Kate Glendinning,
boldly, "I don't see why you should torture your
mind about it, Mamie.  It has been none of
your doing.  You are not responsible for what
your uncle may have done; and if Fred has
spoken in a moment of anger, well, I don't
suppose Mr. Ross will prove to be so unforgiving."

"It is the whole family he must think
of, Käthchen!" Mary broke in bitterly.  "I
shouldn't wonder if he hated the very name
of Stanley!  What a despicable race he must
think us!  But I suppose there is an end now.
He has borne too much already: this puts a
climax to it.  Unforgiving?  Why, even if I
could persuade Fred to go out to Heimra and
offer him an apology, he would treat it with
scorn—and rightly too.  I know he would!"

The shrewd Käthchen, though she did not
say so, had her doubts on this score.  In the
dim recesses of her consciousness there was an
echo of two lines from 'Maud'—

   |  'Peace, angry spirit, and let him be!
   |  Has not his sister smiled on me?'

And she fancied, for reasons of her own, that if
the headstrong lad could be brought to ask for
pardon, the somewhat haughty features of the
young owner of Heimra would not long remain
stern and implacable.  But she dared not reveal
those reasons, even as she dared not repeat
those two lines.  She was a prudent lass; and
careful not to presume unwarily.

Of a sudden Mary said, in her impetuous way—

"Käthchen, I will take the sheep off Meall-na-Fearn!"

Kate Glendinning looked up, startled.

"Yes," the young proprietress said, with
decision.  "After breakfast you and I must
drive away out and see Mr. Watson.  If he
will give up Meall-na-Fearn on the same terms
as Meall-na-Cruagan, good and well; the sheep
must go; and the crofters can have the
pasturage divided amongst them.  I suppose,"
she added, with something of embarrassment in
the clear-shining eyes, "some one would be
sure to—to carry the news—out to Heimra?
Or a line, perhaps—you might have occasion to
send out to him——"

"Mamie!" said Käthchen, in warm protest.
"What are you thinking of?  Is that the
atonement you want to make?  Do you mean
to cut down Mr. Watson's farm still further just
to please Donald Ross?  Why, it is madness!
To begin with, it would not please him—not in
the least; he has told you that you have already
been far too generous; and I don't know what
he would think of such a needless and useless
sacrifice."

"Oh, you think he would not approve?"
said Mary, slowly.  She was now standing at
one of the windows, looking out towards the
distant island beyond the wide blue plain of the sea.

"I am pretty sure he would not," Käthchen
responded, "especially if he fancied it was done
to propitiate him: it would put him in a very
awkward position.  But I'll tell you what I
should do if I were in your place, Mamie——"

"Yes," she said, instantly turning from the
window.  "What is it?  Is there anything
I can do, Käthchen?  It seems so terrible—and
so shameful; and here am I helpless.  And
then he is so proud—yes, proud and disdainful;
I have said it before; only this time he
has an ample right to be."

"Well, Mamie, if I were you, I would simply
take no notice of what happened yesterday
afternoon;" this was Käthchen's advice.  "I
would assume that the friendly relations
between him and you were precisely as they
always had been."

"Yes, but how to let him know that that
is what I am thinking?" said Mary eagerly—and
rather piteously withal.

"I would send him a note," said the intrepid Käthchen.

"About what?"

"About anything!"

"Shall I ask him to come over and dine
with us?" Mary asked, rather nervously.

"Well, no: that would be useless; he
would not accept—at present," Käthchen made
answer.  "But indeed, Mamie, I would not
send him any invitation, nor would I say
anything that needed an answer: I should
write so that he might answer or not just
as he pleased."

"Yes, yes," said Mary, with some animation.
"Your advice is excellent, Käthchen.
I will write at once.  And about what?  Oh,
about kelp.  I have got all the information
I wanted about the burning of kelp; and I
will tell him that any time he comes over
to the mainland I should like to show him
the report."  And then as abruptly she
discarded this idea.  "No.  Kelp is too
common-place.  It would be like asking for his advice
about something connected with the estate;
and I want him to understand that I can get
on by myself.  Oh, I'll tell you, Käthchen!—the
photographs!—the photographs I promised
to send to Mrs. Armour.  You know how
proud he was of the old woman's coming all
the way from Canada to have but a glimpse
of Young Donald; and I could see how he
was pleased by the little attentions I was able
to show her—quite grateful he seemed—though
you know he doesn't say much."

She was all excitement now, and as happy
and sanguine as hitherto she had been
despondent.  She went and got writing materials
forthwith, and hastily, and yet with some
consideration, penned this note:—

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

   "Lochgarra House, Tuesday Morning.

"Dear Mr. Ross,—I do not know whether
I told you that, before Mrs. Armour left to
return to Canada, I promised to send her a
series of photographs of Lochgarra and the
neighbourhood.  I am arranging to have a
photographer come through from Inverness,
and any time that you happen to be over
here I should be exceedingly obliged if you
would spare me a few minutes to let me
know what places would be likely to prove
most interesting to her.

.. vspace:: 1

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

"Yours sincerely,
    "MARY STANLEY."

.. vspace:: 2

"Now, you see," she said, as she rather
triumphantly handed the letter to Käthchen,
"that demands nothing.  He does not need
to reply unless he happens to have plenty of
time and nothing else to do.  It merely shows
that, as far as I am concerned, I don't
consider that anything has occurred to disturb
our friendly relations.  It was so clever of
you to think of it, Käthchen!  And I must
send word to Big Archie that I shall want
him and his boat.  I'm afraid it's too rough
to try the steam-launch.  I'm so much obliged
to you, Käthchen, for thinking about it!"

Indeed, she was quite joyous and radiant.
Her keen remorse, and shame, and piteous
despair seemed wholly to have fled; she was
possessed with an audacious confidence; a sort
of gratitude towards all the world shone in
her eyes.  And Käthchen, who had studied
this young woman closely, and who was
capable of drawing conclusions, knew perfectly
the origin of this buoyancy of spirit: the
letter Mary had just written demanded no
answer, it is true, but none the less was
she in her heart convinced that an answer—an
answer confirming all her best anticipations—would
be forthcoming, and that without
delay.  Big Archie was bidden to haste
and get his lugger ready: he was to set out
for Heimra at once.

Kate Glendinning was not the only one in
this house who could draw conclusions, or at
least form suspicions.  When the two gentlemen
returned that evening from the hill, they
found the letters and newspapers that had
arrived by the mid-day post spread out on the
hall-table; and they began to glance at addresses
and tear open envelopes.  Fred Stanley was soon
satisfied; he went off to his room to change for
dinner; but his elder companion remained—holding
a letter in his hand, and apparently
much concerned about something.  At this
moment Käthchen appeared, passing across to
the door leading out into the garden; and the
instant he caught sight of her his eyes seemed to
light up with interest.  Here was a friend in need.

"Miss Glendinning," said he, in something
of an anxious undertone, "could you give me
a couple of minutes?  Are you going into the
garden?  May I come with you?  I want to
ask you to do me a great service—how great I
can hardly tell you."

Käthchen was surprised; for this trim,
brisk, bronze-cheeked, shrewd-eyed sportsman
generally took things in a very happy-go-lucky,
imperturbable fashion.  But her instant
conjecture was a natural one: "Be sure this is
about Mamie!" she said to herself.

Well, he accompanied her down the stone
steps and into the garden, where she began to
employ herself in cutting flowers for the dining-room
table, while she listened attentively enough.

"The fact is," said he, "I have just had a
letter from home, with no very good news.
My father, who is an old man, has been an
invalid for a great many years, varying in
health from time to time; but now it seems he
has had a very bad attack of asthma along with
his other ailments, and the doctors have ordered
him off to Bournemouth——"

"I am very sorry," said Käthchen, as in duty bound.

"And—I have received an intimation that
I may be telegraphed for—I might have to
leave here at a moment's notice almost."  He
hesitated for a second or so.  "Miss
Glendinning," he said, "you see how I am
situated: I may be called away at any moment—with
something that is of great importance to
me left unsettled.  I have been living in a fool's
paradise; I thought there was plenty of time.
And then, again, I did not care to confide in
any one.  But now I am going to appeal to
you.  Will you tell me something in strictest
confidence—something you are likely to know?
It might save your friend—you can guess
whom I mean—much embarrassment, even
pain; and it would be the greatest favour you
could possibly confer on me."

And now Käthchen knew her surmise was
correct; and perhaps she may have been inclined
to think that there was something incongruous,
something even humorous, in this ordinarily
cool and firm-nerved person appearing to be
afflicted by the hesitation of an anxious lover,
only that she was also aware of the gravity of
the situation.  For tragic things may happen
even to the steeled.

"Miss Glendinning," said he, "I want you
to tell me if there is anything between Mr. Ross
and Miss Stanley?"

Well, this was a frank challenge; and she
answered it as frankly.

"I do not think there is," she said; "but I
think there might be at any moment.  That is
only my impression; and I may be quite wrong;
and indeed I have no right to say so——"

"But I have appealed to you as a friend, to
do me this great favour," said he; and then he
paused for a second.  "The fact is," he went
on, as if with some unwillingness, "I have
noticed one or two odd things—Miss Stanley's
indignation with her brother if he said anything
against Mr. Ross—and the painful scene of
yesterday evening—these things might lead
one to conjecture——"

"Oh, but I'm sure there is nothing between
them—nothing at present, at least," said
Käthchen, with some earnestness; for this assurance
she could honestly give him; and when did
a perplexed and troubled lover ever appeal
in vain to a woman's heart?  "There is nothing
between them at present, I am certain of that;
and whether there ever may be, who can tell?
Both of them have peculiar natures.  Both of
them are proud; and she, besides that, is wilful
and impulsive; while he is reserved—and—and
you might almost think cold—only that
I imagine his studiously keeping away from
her, and treating her with a kind of distant
civility, has some meaning and intention in it.
I don't think he would like to become the slave
of any woman; and she—well, she is very
independent, too.  And then both of them are
very peculiarly situated: there is the
old-standing feud between the two families; it
must have been hard on him and on his mother
to have strangers coming into the neighbourhood,
tearing down the old landmarks.  There
are things that the Highland nature can never
forget; and Mary knows that well; more than
once she has said to me, 'Käthchen, there are
wrongs that can never be undone; I can never
rebuild Castle Heimra.'"

"Yes, yes, I quite understand," said he,
rather absently; "and yet Ross does not seem
to bear any resentment—not against her.  No,
nor against any one belonging to her.  I must
say for him that his forbearance yesterday
towards Fred Stanley was most remarkable:
that was another thing that struck me as
peculiar.  And yet you say there is nothing
between him and Miss Stanley?"

"Nothing, I am certain," Käthchen assured
him again.

"I am so awfully obliged to you!" he said,
with some little expression of relief; and yet
he was thoughtful and silent as they walked
back to the house—Käthchen having got all
the flowers she wanted.

That night, after dinner, when the two
young ladies retired to the drawing-room, Mary
seemed somewhat disturbed.

"Don't you think it rather strange, Käthchen,"
she said, "that Big Archie brought no
message back from Heimra?  I don't mean an
answer.  I don't mean an answer to my note.
That was not necessary—it was hardly to be
expected.  But why has he not come to say
he delivered my letter?"

She went to one of the windows, and pulled
aside part of the blind.  The night had turned
out rather dark and squally; and there were
spots of rain on the glass that caught the light
of the lamps within.

"I should like to see Big Archie," said she,
with a vague restlessness.  And then of a
sudden she made this abrupt proposal:
"Käthchen, won't you come down with me into the
village?  Barbara says the gentlemen have
gone into the billiard-room, for there is a
threatening of rain; but we could put on
waterproofs, and run away down there and
back, without anything being known of it."

"Is it worth while, Mamie?" Käthchen
remonstrated.  "He must have delivered your note!"

"Yes; but it is so strange there should be
no message of any kind!" said Mary.  And
then she instantly added, changing her tone:
"Of course, it is not at all strange.  Only—only,
Big Archie sometimes takes a glass of
whisky, you know; and he might have got
some answer that he has forgotten—perhaps
a note that he has left in his pocket——"

"Oh, if you like, I will go with you," said
Käthchen at once, rather welcoming a little
bit of adventure; and forthwith both of them
hurried away to get their waterproofs.

The night was dark and blustering; the
ordinarily clear twilight of these northern
regions was obscured by heavy clouds; and
the wind that blew in from the sea brought
with it a sense of moisture that promised to
become actual rain.  The two black figures
made their way with little difficulty in the
direction of the orange lights of the village,
the unseen sea washing up on the beach close
by them.  Neither spoke; but both walked
quickly; perhaps they wanted to be back at
Lochgarra House before their absence should
be known.

Then, just as they were getting near to the
inn, Kate suddenly put her hand on her friend's
arm.  Ahead of them were two other figures,
as black as themselves, but looming larger
through the dusk.

"That is Big Archie," said Käthchen, in a
whisper, "and isn't the other Hector?—yes, I
am sure that is Hector!"

At this moment the two men disappeared.

"I know where they have gone," Mary said
promptly.  "They have gone into the tap-room
behind.  Well, we will follow, in case the
people in the inn should deny them.  Come
along, Käthchen, I know the way."

The two young women left the main street,
crossed a stable-yard, and, guided by the dull
glow of a window, went up to a door, which
Mary entered.  The next moment they were
gazing into a small sanded parlour, where
Gilleasbuig Mor and his friend the keeper were
standing: indeed, the two men had not had
time to sit down nor yet to order anything
to drink.  The oil-lamp on the table shed a
feeble light, but it was quite sufficient to show
that Hector, thus caught, was looking terribly
guilty; while the great, heavy-shouldered
fisherman, whose deep-set grey eyes under the
bushy eyebrows seemed to say that he had
already had a glass, instantly came to his
companion's help.

"Aw, well now," Archie said, in his plaintive
Argyllshire accent, "iss it Miss Stanley herself
that would be coming in here—indeed, indeed!—and
Hector, the honest lad, chist feenished up
with ahl his work—oh, aye—the guns ahl
cleaned, and the dogs fed, and everything ready
for the chentlemen to-morrow—and me coming
bye from the Camus Bheag, and says I, 'Hector,
will you come along with me and hef a dram
when your work is feenished?'  And Miss
Stanley need not be thinking there wass any
more in our minds than that; for Hector is a
fine lad, and a fine keeper, and what harm will
a dram do to anyone when ahl the work is done?"

"Sit down, Archie—sit down, Hector!" said
Mary, quite good-naturedly.  "I saw you come
in this way, Archie, and I merely wished to
ask you what happened at Heimra."

"Aw, Heimra," said Archie, collecting his
thoughts—and his English.  "Iss it at Heimra?
Aw, well, now, Martha is a ferry nice woman,
and she wass giving me some bread and cheese,
ay, and a glass of spirits the like of it is not
ahlways—a good woman Martha——'

"Yes, but my note, Archie," said Mary.
"The note you took out: I suppose you gave
it to Mr. Ross?  And he did not say anything?
Well, there was no need for an answer—none
in the least——"

"Aw, the letter?" said Archie.  "Well, I
wass not seeing Mr. Ross at ahl, for he wass
aweh up on the north side of the island, setting
snares for the rabbits."

"Oh, you did not see Mr. Ross?" said Mary,
quickly.  "He could not possibly have sent
any answer?"  She seemed greatly pleased—as
Käthchen observed.  "No, of course, he
could not send an answer if he was away at
the other end of the island."  Then she turned
to Hector; and the tall, swarthy, brown-bearded
keeper perceived that the fair young
Englishwoman—the Baintighearna—had no
mind to rebuke him or to be in any way angry
with him.  "Why, Hector," she said, quite
pleasantly, "that is a very strange thing, that
he should go snaring rabbits: why doesn't he
shoot them?"

"Mr. Ross, mem," said Hector, in his grave
and respectful fashion, "he does not care much
about shooting.  And the rabbits, if they are
not kept down, would do a dale of mischief on
a smahl island like that."

"He is not fond of shooting, then?  No; I
think he told me so himself."  Then, with one
of her sudden impulses, she said—"Come,
Hector, let me know what all this is about
poaching on this place.  Ever since I came here
I have heard of all kinds of rumours and
charges and suspicions; and I want to know
the truth.  I shan't blame anybody.  I want
to know the actual truth.  Tell me frankly.  It
isn't such an important thing, after all.  I only
want to know what is happening around us."

The tall keeper looked concerned—not to say
alarmed: the violent scene of the day before
was fresh in his mind.  But the big,
good-natured giant from Cantire broke in.

"Aw, he is a fine lad, Hector, Miss Stanley
may be sure of that; and there's no mich
poaching going on about this country-side—at
least, not about Lochgarra whatever.  It's myself
that wass hearing Hector seh that if he
wass catching the Gillie Ciotach with a gun,
he would brek the gun over his head."

"Gillie Ciotach?" said Mary.  "I know him—a
wild-looking young fellow, with a mark
across his forehead.  Well, is he a poacher,
Hector?"

"It is in this way, mem," Hector said, slowly
and carefully; "there's very little poaching
about Lochgarra, as Archie says, and Hugh
and myself we know it well; but there's some
of the young lads, ay, and some of the older
men, too, that if they came across a salmon, or
a few sea-trout, or a hare, they would be for
taking it out to Heimra, and slipping round by
the back-door, and Martha there to take the
present.  Mr. Ross, he does not pay attention
to such things; for he is ahlways having a
salmon, or a capercailzie, or a box of grouse
sent him by the big families that he knows,
when their friends are up for the shooting; and
he will believe anything that Martha says; and
he pays no more heed to such things."

"Yes, but, Hector, what I want you to tell
me is this," she interposed—and she spoke with
a certain air of proud confidence—"what I want
you to tell me distinctly is this: do you mean
to say that Mr. Ross himself would take a gun
or a fishing-rod and go where he had no right
to go, either fishing or shooting?"

It was a challenge; and Hector met it
unflinchingly.  He said, in his serious way—

"Oh, no, mem—no, no: there is not anyone
about here that would think such a thing of
Mr. Ross."

Mary turned to Käthchen, with a quick,
triumphant glance.  Then she addressed
herself again to Hector.

"Well, sit down, and have a chat with your
friend, Hector," said she, very pleasantly.  "We
shan't interrupt you any longer.  And if now
and again one of the lads about here should be
taking out a little present of fish or game to old
Martha, for the housekeeping, well, that is a
trifling matter; and I dare say she gives them
a glass of whiskey for their trouble.  And,
Archie, any other time you go out to Heimra
with a message from me, mind you come back
and tell me whether there is an answer or not,
even when I am not expecting an answer,
because that makes everything certain and
correct.  So good-night to you
both—good-night!—good-night!"  And therewith the two
young ladies, who, even in the dull light of this
little sanded parlour, had formed such a curious
contrast to those two big, swarthy, heavily-bearded
men, withdrew, and shut the door after
them, and set out for home through the
darkness and the drizzling rain.

Next morning Mary said, with a casual glance
out towards Eilean Heimra—

"Käthchen, don't you think, if you lived on
that island, you would rather have a good-sized
steam-launch than any sailing-boat?  It would
be so much more handy—ready at a moment's
notice almost—and taking up so much less time,
if you wanted to send a message to the
mainland.  I suppose Mr. Ross has to think twice
before telling his men to get the yacht ready,
or even that big lugsail boat."

But as the day wore on there was no sign
of either yacht or lugger coming away from
Heimra; the grey and squally sea remained
empty; indeed, towards the afternoon, the wind
freshened up into something like half a gale,
and it grew to be a matter of certainty that
Donald Ross would not seek to communicate
with the shore.  Mary was not disheartened.
On the contrary, her face wore the same happy
look—that Frank Meredyth could not quite
understand.  He had become observant and
thoughtful: not about grouse.

The following morning broke with a much
more cheerful aspect.

"Käthchen," said Mary, before they went
down to breakfast together, "don't you think
that any time Mr. Ross comes across to the
mainland he might as well walk along here for
lunch, instead of going to the inn?  Talking to
us should interest him as much as talking to
that soft-headed John, the policeman, or to the
sulky Peter Grant, or even to the sing-song
Minister.  And it would be very pleasant for
us, too, with the gentlemen away on the moor
all day."

But again the slow hours of the day passed;
and, whatever may have been her secret hopes,
her anxious fears, or even, at times, her
disposition to be proudly resentful, that width of
rough blue water gave no answer to her
surreptitiously questioning gaze.  There was
a fresh westerly breeze blowing; either the
smart little cutter or the more cumbrous lugger
could have made an easy and rapid passage.
However, neither brown sail nor white sail
appeared outside the distant headland; and
so the afternoon drew on towards evening;
and here were the sportsmen come down from
the hill, and the dressing-bell about to sound.

After dinner, when the two young ladies
were alone together, Mary said—with a curious
affectation of indifference—

"I did not ask for an answer, Käthchen.
Oh, certainly not.  There was no answer
needed—but still—it seems to me he might
have acknowledged the receipt of my note.
Of course I am rather anxious to know on
what terms we are—naturally—and—and
naturally I should like to know whether he
absolves me——"  She was silent for a
moment.  When she spoke again she was
more honest: there was something of a proud,
hurt feeling in her tone.  "I do think he
might have sent me a message.  Don't you,
Käthchen?  Either yesterday morning or
to-day—the whole of to-day has been fine weather.
I went out of my way to make the first
overtures—after—after what happened.  I held out
the olive-branch.  It seems to me that common
courtesy would suggest some little acknowledgment:
one is not used to being treated in
this way——"

"Perhaps to-morrow——" suggested Käthchen, vaguely.

"Oh, if he is not in a hurry, neither am I,"
said she, with a sudden air of haughty
unconcern; and she would have no more said.

Nay, from this moment she seemed to dismiss
Donald Ross from her mind.  When, on the
following day, Eilean Heimra remained as
mute and unresponsive as before, she made no
remark to Käthchen; she resolutely dismissed
an involuntary habit she had formed of
scanning the space of sea intervening between
the island and the coast; and if Käthchen
mentioned Mr. Ross's name, she would either
not reply at all, or reply with a cold
indifference, as much as to say, "Who is the stranger
whom you speak of?"  All the day long she
busied herself with her multifarious duties, and
was particularly cheerful; in the evening she
showed herself most complaisant towards the
two young men who were her guests.  She
talked of giving a ball to the keepers, the
gillies, and their friends; and wondered whether
there was anywhere a barn big enough for the
purpose.

So time went by; and these four young
people occupying Lochgarra House appeared
to be as merry and happy as though they had
belonged to a certain little band of Florentines
of the fourteenth century.  For Mary was not
always deep-buried in her industrial schemes.
Sometimes she and Kate Glendinning would go
away up to join the sportsmen at lunch-time;
and thereafter, perched high on these sterile
and lonely altitudes, she would set to work to
add to a series she was forming of sea-views
and coast-views—drawings in most of which
the horizon-line was close up to the top of the
sheet.  It is true that in these spacious sketches
she had sometimes to include the island of
Heimra; but no mention was made of Donald
Ross; it was as if he had gone away, and for
ever, into some unknown clime.  Even Fred
Stanley was almost ready to believe that the
poaching had ceased; and so there was peace
in the land.

But there came a thunder-clap into this
idyllic quiet.  One evening, when the two
young men returned from their long day on
the hill, there was a telegram among the letters
on the hall-table.  It was for Frank Meredyth.
He tore open the envelope.

"I was afraid of it," he said to his companion.
"I must be off, Fred, by the mail-car
to-morrow morning.  Very sorry, old chap, to
have to leave you."

"I hope it is nothing serious," young Stanley
put in, with his grey eyes grown grave.

"They don't say anything very definite,"
was the reply.  "Only I am summoned, and I
must go."

"Then I will go with you," said the other
promptly, "as far as London.  This just
decides it.  I'll accept Nugent's invitation, after
all; and if he has started, I'll pick him up at
Marseilles.  We've seen pretty well what the
moor is like; and perhaps some other time my
sister asks us down, we may wait on and have
a try for a stag or two.  Very sorry, though,
you must go."

Dinner that evening, in view of this
summons, was rather a sombre affair: it was
Käthchen who, when the young men subsequently
made their appearance in the drawing-room,
suggested they should all go out for a
stroll up to the top of the Minard road.  She
thought this little excursion would remove
some of the prevailing constraint.  Besides, it
promised to be a beautiful moonlight night;
and from the summit of the hill they would
have a view of the wide southern seas, with the
black headlands running out into the shimmering
pathway of silver.

Well, the expedition, so far as pictorial effects
were concerned, was entirely successful; but
it was not moonlight that was in Frank
Meredyth's mind.  He was going away on the
morrow; he did not know what might happen
in his absence; and he thought his departure
was a fair and reasonable excuse for his
revealing to Mary Stanley certain hopes and
aspirations that had gradually, and for some
long time back, been taking possession of him.
On their way back to the house Fred and
Käthchen were walking on in front; the night
was still, so that half-murmured words were
enough; the surroundings lent a certain charm.
And so it came about that Frank Meredyth
asked Mary to become his wife.

Now it cannot be said that the language in
which this proposition was couched was quite
in accordance with these poetical accessories of
moonlit vale, and larch wood, and hill; for
the average young Englishman, however
honest and sincere he may be, does not express
himself fluently on such occasions; probably he
would be ashamed of himself if he could and
did.  Nevertheless, a proposal of marriage,
however stumblingly and awkwardly conveyed,
is a very serious thing to a young woman; and
Mary, startled and frightened, had only the
one immediate and overwhelming desire—to
postpone the terrible necessity of giving a
definite answer.  For it was all too bewildering.
She wanted to think.  To tell the truth, Frank
Meredyth's wooing had not been too open and
avowed.  A man of the world in other things,
in this he had been a little shy—one touch of
nature among a thousand conventionalities.
Then, again, was not a refusal a very cruel
thing, that should be administered gently?

"Oh, Mr. Meredyth," she said, in a very low
and rather breathless voice, "I think—I
think—this is hardly the time——"

"But surely it is!" said he.  "For I am
going away to-morrow morning.  And I don't
know when I may see you again.  And I
should like to take with me some little word of
hope—something to remember——"

"Did you see that hare?" Fred Stanley
called to them, looking back for a moment.

Meredyth did not pay much heed to the hare.

"Perhaps I have asked you too abruptly," he
went on, in the same hurried and confused
undertone.  "Perhaps I am asking too much—that
you should say something definite all at
once.  Very well: I will not press for an
answer—I will wait—I will wait——"

They were emerging from the shadow of
the larch trees; before them was an open space
of gravel, white in the moonlight, and beyond
that rose the grey walls and turrets of
Lochgarra House.

"Only tell me this," said he, in a still lower
voice, "tell me if there is any one before me.
I have hesitated about speaking earlier because
I imagined certain things—perhaps I was
mistaken—at least you will tell me that—tell
me if there is some one else——"

"No," said Mary, as they crossed that space
of white moonlight, and perhaps she spoke a
little proudly.  "That—at least—I can assure
you——"

"No one?" he said, eagerly, in the same
undertone.

But here they were at the house—with Fred
and Käthchen waiting for them on the grey
stone terrace: these two had turned to look
at the wonderful beauty of the night.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A FORECAST`:

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   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium

   A FORECAST.

.. vspace:: 2

Now, among the numerous undertakings on
which the young proprietress of Lochgarra had
set her heart was the establishment of a Public
Reading-room and Free Library; and to that
end she had planned and built—employing local
labour only—a large, long, one-storeyed erection,
of a solid and substantial cast, fit to withstand
the buffetings of the western storms.  The
interior was as simple and unpretentious as the
exterior; there was nothing beyond a strip of
platform, a series of plain wooden benches, a
few deal tables and chairs, and a small space
partitioned off as kitchen.  The rules and
regulations, of her own sketching out, were likewise
of an artless nature.  The place was to be open
to the whole community.  Tea and coffee at
cheap rates were to be procurable between five
and seven a.m., and from seven till nine in the
evening: the morning hours were for the
benefit of bachelor workmen on their way to work,
or of fishermen coming in cold and wet after a
night at sea.  Although reading was the
ostensible aim, women were free to bring their
knitting or sewing: good lamps would be provided,
and a good fire in winter.  There were to be
no set entertainments of any kind; but on
certain evenings such of the young people as
could sing or play on any instrument would be
expected to do their best for the amusement of
their neighbours.  Thus far only had she drawn
out her simple code; she wished to get the
opinions of the villagers themselves as to minor
details; and so, all being ready, there one day
appeared the following modest little handbill—-"On
Tuesday next, at six o'clock in the evening,
Miss Stanley will open the Public Reading
Room for the use of the inhabitants of
Lochgarra.  Everyone is invited to attend."

It was on the Monday afternoon that she and
Kate Glendinning went along to have a final
look.  Apparently all was in order; though,
to be sure, the supply of books, magazines, and
newspapers was as yet somewhat scanty.  But
it was something else that was uppermost in
Mary's mind at this moment.

"You don't think me really nervous, Käthchen?"
said she, in a half-laughing and yet
concerned way.

"No, I do not," her friend said explicitly.
"Why, you, of all people!—you have courage
for anything——"

"Look at that platform," Mary went on.
"It is only a few inches raised above the floor.
Yes, but those few inches make all the
difference.  Standing here I might perhaps be able
to say something; but I declare to you,
Käthchen, that the moment I set foot on that
platform I shall be frozen into a voiceless statue.
Why, I am trembling now, even to think of it!
I feel the choking in my throat already.  And
to have all those eyes fixed on you—and your
brain going round—and you unable to say a
word; I know I shall tumble down in a faint—and
the ignominy of it——"

"It is very unfortunate," Käthchen admitted,
as they left the building and set out for home
again, "that Mr. Meredyth was called away so
suddenly.  He could have done it for you.  Or
even your brother.  But if you are so terrified,
Mamie, why don't you ask the Minister?—he
is accustomed to conduct all sorts of
meetings."

"No, I could not do that either," Mary said.
"You see, I want the people thoroughly to
understand that they are not going to be
lectured or preached at.  They are not even to be
amused against their will.  The whole place is
to be their own: I have no educational fad to
thrust on them.  Do you remember Mrs. Armour
talking about the *Ceilidh* of the old
days?—well, I want to revive the *Ceilidh*; and
I am not sure that Mr. Pettigrew would
approve.  No; I suppose I must get up on that
platform, even if my knees should be knocking
against each other.  And if my tongue cleaves
to the roof of my mouth, well, you must come
forward, Käthchen, and make an apology, and
tell them that I give them the use of the
building and its contents, and that there's no more
to be said."

Now Kate Glendinning, during these last few
seconds, seemed to be occupied with something
far ahead of them, on which she was fixing an
earnest gaze.  The afternoon around them was
clear and golden, with an abundance of light
everywhere; but the sun was getting over to
the west, so that the larches threw a shadow
across the Minard highway, whither her eyes
were directed.  Presently, however, she seemed
to have satisfied herself.

"Well, Mamie," said she, "I have never
tried to address a meeting, so I don't know
what it is like; but I should have thought you
had nerve and courage for anything."

"It isn't nerve, Käthchen; it isn't courage!"
she exclaimed, in a kind of mock despair.
"Why, at a Lord Mayor's dinner, I have seen
one of the bravest soldiers that England
possesses—I have seen him with his hands
shaking like a leaf as he stood up to answer to
a toast."

"Very well, then, Mamie," said her companion,
calmly, "if you are so frightened, why
don't you get Mr. Donald Ross to take your
place?  I am sure he would do it for you at
once.  And as for asking him, there can be no
trouble about that; because if you look along
there you will see him at the foot of the Minard
road, and he is coming this way."

For one startled second Mary stood stock
still, her eyes filled with alarm: perhaps some
wild notion that escape might even yet be
possible had flashed through her brain.  But
that was only for a moment.  Käthchen had
just been complimenting her on her courage:
she could not show the white feather the very
next minute.  So instantly she resumed her
onward walk, and that with something of an
air of proud confidence.  She was 'more than
common tall,' and there was a certain freedom
and dignity in her gait: how could any
bystander have told that under that brave
demeanour her heart was going like the heart
of a captured hare?

"Oh, what were you saying, Käthchen?"
she resumed, with a fine assumption of
carelessness.  "The Mansion House dinner—oh,
yes, I assure you—a very famous soldier—and
his hand was shaking—you see, I happened to
be sitting next him——"

"Mamie, are you going to ask Mr. Ross
about the photographs?" Käthchen asked, in a
low voice, for young Donald of Heimra was
drawing nearer.

But what could she say in reply?  This
encounter was altogether too abrupt and
unexpected a thing.  She had not even time to
recall what she had decided was her position
with regard to this solitary neighbour of hers.
If he had wronged her by neglect, she had
vehemently professed to Käthchen that that
was of no consequence.  If, on the other hand,
he was still haughtily indignant over the insults
that had been heaped upon him by her brother,
how could she make him any fit apology?  In
fact, she hardly knew whether to treat him as
friend or foe; and yet here he was approaching
them—every moment coming nearer—and her
heart going faster than ever.

As for him, he kept his eyes fixed on her,
with a calm and even respectful attention.  He,
at least, was not embarrassed; and Mary, in a
desperate kind of way, was conscious that it
was for her to decide; she was aware, without
looking, that he was expectant; she was
mortified to think that her face was flushed and
confused, while he was tranquilly regarding her.
Then of a sudden she rebelled angrily against
this calm superiority; and just as he came up
she glanced towards him and coldly bowed.
He raised his cap.  Was he going on—without
a word?

"Oh, Mr. Ross," said she, stammering and
embarrassed, and yet affecting to treat this
meeting as quite an everyday affair, "it is
strange we should just have been talking about
you—you—you haven't been much over to the
mainland of late, have you?—perhaps you
haven't seen the reading-room since it was
finished—no, I suppose not—do you think it
will be of any use?—do you think it will be of
any service?—do you think the people will
care for it?"

"They ought to be very grateful to you,"
said he.  "I wonder what you are going to do
for them next?"

The sound of his voice seemed immensely to
reassure her.

"Grateful?" she said, quite cheerfully, and
despite her conscious colour she managed to
meet his eyes.  "Well, I, for one, should be
exceedingly grateful to you if would do me a
very particular favour with regard to this same
reading-room.  Miss Glendinning was talking
about you only a moment or two ago—and—and
the fact is, I propose to hand over the
building to-morrow afternoon——"

"I saw the little handbill," said he, with a smile.

"Then I hope," said she, with an answering
smile, "that you haven't come over to turn
away my audience, as you did in the case of
the people who wanted to create a disturbance."

"Oh, no," said he, "I hope you did not
suspect me of any such intention.  Oh, no; it
was quite the other way, indeed—if any one
had asked me——"

"But I want more than that from you," said
she—and all her confusion seemed to have fled:
she was regarding him in the most friendly
way, and talking with a happy confidence.
"I want far more than that, Mr. Ross, if you
will be so kind.  Do you know, I was telling
Käthchen here that the moment I put my foot
on the platform to-morrow evening I should
expire, or faint, or do something terrible; for
what experience have I in addressing a meeting?
I assure you I am in an absolute fright
about it; I tremble when I think of it; when
I try to imagine what I am going to say, my
throat seems to gasp already.  Now would you
do this speechmaking for me—what little is
needed?  Would it be too much of a favour?
Is it asking too much?"

This was her brief prayer; and Käthchen,
standing by, a not uninterested spectator, was
saying to herself, "Well, Mamie, you have the
most extraordinary eyes, when they choose to
be friendly, and interested, and appealing; I
wonder what mortal man could resist them?"  It
was not Donald Ross, at all events.

"Oh yes, certainly; I will do that for you
with pleasure," said he at once.  "I have never
in my life addressed a meeting; but I don't
suppose there can be any trouble about
it—especially when one knows the people.  Only,
you must tell me what I am to say: if I am
to be your counsel, you must give me instructions——"

"Oh, yes, yes," said she, quite eagerly.  "I
will tell you all the regulations I mean to
propose; and the points on which I want to
have the public opinion.  Are you very busy
just now?  Will you come along and have tea
with us?  Then I could tell you all I wish to
have said."

He hesitated; and the least tinge of colour
appeared in the pale, keen, resolute face.  He
had not expected to be asked so soon to cross
the threshold of Lochgarra House.  Nevertheless,
after that momentary indecision, he said—

"Thank you, yes, I will go with you and
get my brief.  Though it does seem a little
impertinent in me to presume to be your
spokesman."

"Oh, don't say that," she remonstrated,
warmly.  "I cannot tell you how much I am
obliged to you.  Why, Käthchen will assure
you that I was just about dying with fear."

And all this had taken place so rapidly that
even Käthchen was a little bewildered.  How
had such a mighty revolution come about
within the space of two or three swift seconds?
A few minutes before, and Mary Stanley would
not have allowed this young man's name to
have passed her lips; and now she was
regarding him with the most obvious favour, and
smiling and talking with an eager delight;
while his keen, dark face and expressive eyes
answered her in kind.  Kate Glendinning, as
they walked on towards the house, did not seek
to interfere in this conversation: to watch the
demeanour of those two was of far greater
interest to her than any question connected
with the Free Library.  And Käthchen, if she
did not talk to them, could commune with
herself.  'Mamie,' she was saying, in this secret
fashion, 'you should not show yourself so
anxious to please.  It isn't like you.  If you
are overjoyed to be on friendly terms with him
again, don't make it so manifest.  You shouldn't
seek him; let him seek you.  And don't allow
your eyes to say quite so much: do you know
that they are just laughing with gladness?'  And
then, as they were passing into the hall,
the door leading out on to the garden-terrace
recalled a certain little incident.  'Poor
Mr. Meredyth!' said Käthchen to herself.

In the drawing-room, again, Mary plied this
guest of hers with every kind of pretty
attention; and seemed very pleased and happy;
while she grew almost reckless in her
philanthropic schemes.  Indeed, it was Donald Ross
himself who had to interpose to put a check on
her generous enthusiasm.

"No, no," he said, with a smile, and yet with
a certain quiet and masterful air that was
habitual with him, "you must not do anything
of the kind.  Giving them Meall-na-Cruagan was
quite enough.  You must not think of giving
up Meall-na-Fearn as well.  You would be
crippling Mr. Watson to no purpose.  The
crofters have quite enough pasture now for their
stock.

"Yes, but I want to do everything," she
insisted, "I want to try everything that can be
thought of—everything—before coming to the
last confession of failure: and you know what
that is?"

"What?"

"Why, emigration.  Oh, I haven't forgotten
your threat," she said, with some little touch of
confusion in her smiling eyes, "to take away
the people with you to Canada or New South
Wales, or some such place.  And—and I don't
want that.  That seems to me ignominious.
That seems to me simply a confession of failure."

"At all events," said he, "it was not as a
threat that I made the suggestion.  I thought it
would help you."

"Oh," said she, with her face flushing a little,
"but I don't want anybody to go away.  Surely
something else should be tried first.  There are
many things to be done.  I want to have many
more looms going; and the fishing developed;
and several new industries started—perhaps
even kelp-burning, if there are sufficient beds of
seaweed.  Why, I consider I am only beginning
now.  I have been simply clearing the way—getting
fair rents fixed—and all that; and—and
I don't want to be interfered with, in that rude
fashion.  Give me time.  Let me have my
chance first.  Then if I fail——"

"Oh, but we shan't talk of failure," said
he, good-naturedly.  "Failure would be too
cruel a return for all your kindness to these
people."

He stayed till very near dinner-time: those
two seemed to have so much to say to each
other—and not about the Lochgarra estate only.
Directly he had gone, Mary said, in quite an
eager and excited fashion—

"Käthchen, if I had had the courage of a
mouse, I'd have asked him to dine with us!
Why shouldn't I?  Don't you think I might—the
next time?  Don't you think I might?  It is
so pleasant for neighbours to be on neighbourly
terms.  And just imagine what his life must be
out in that little island, seeing no one.  It seems
to me that, situated as we are, it is almost a duty
to ask him to come to the house.  And why not
to dinner?  If he comes in, and has tea with
us, why not dinner?  What is the difference
between tea and dinner?"

"He has very eloquent eyes," said Käthchen,
demurely.  "He seemed much pleased with his
visit this evening."

"Käthchen," said Mary, and she seemed a
little restless, and yet very happy withal: she
went to the window occasionally to look at
nothing, and appeared quite oblivious of the
fact that the dinner-gong had just
sounded—"Käthchen, do you remember the blue and gold
embroidered scarf that I told you could be so
easily turned into a hood for the opera?"

"I'm sure I do!" said Käthchen, little dreaming
of what was coming.

"Then I'm going to give you that—yes, I
will—now, don't protest——"

"Indeed I must, though, Mamie," said
Käthchen, warmly.  "Why, what use would it
be to me?  And you know how admirably it
suited your complexion and the colour of your
hair.  What mania for giving has seized you
this afternoon?  I thought you were going to
throw away the whole of the Lochgarra estate;
and I was glad to see Mr. Ross put some curb
on your wildness.  And I must say you were
very amenable, Mamie.  You're not quite so
self-willed when Mr. Ross is talking to you——"

"I'm going to be self-willed enough to make
you take that scarf, Käthchen," said Mary, with
a gay impetuosity.  "Yes, I am.  I will send
for it to-morrow.  Why, you know it is a pretty
thing, Käthchen—the Albanian needlework is
so quaint—and I remember perfectly that you
admired it——"

"But what use would a hood for the theatre
be in a place like this!" Käthchen exclaimed.

"Don't I tell you it is a pretty thing to look
at, here or anywhere else?" was the imperious
rejoinder.  "And I want to give it to you,
Käthchen—and that's all about it—and so not
another word!"

When at length they went in to dinner,
Mary sate silent and thoughtful for a little
while: then she said—

"Käthchen, did you ever hear a voice that
gave you such a curious impression of sincerity?"

"Do you mean Mr. Ross's?" said Käthchen,
gravely.

"Yes," said Mary, with a bit of a start:
she had been forgetting.  "I mean quite apart
from the quality of the voice, and that of
itself seems to me remarkable.  For you know
most men's voices are repellent—unnecessarily
harsh and grating—you are not interested—you
would rather keep away.  But his voice,
quiet as it is, thrills; it is so clear, and soft,
and persuasive; I don't know that you can
say of a man that he has a musical voice in
talking, but if you can, then his is distinctly
musical.  Only that is not what you chiefly
think of.  It is the honesty of his tone that
is so marked.  He never seems to talk for
effect; he does not want to impress you, or
make any display; it is the truth he aims at,
and you feel that it is the truth, and that
you can believe down to the very depths
every word he is uttering.  And you seem
to feel that he makes you honest too.  It is
no use trying any pretence with him.  He
would laugh at you if you did—and yet not
cruelly.  He is so direct, so simple, so manly,
not a grain of affectation to be discovered.  I
wonder, now, when he is called to the Bar,
if he will practise in the courts?  For don't
you think I rather effectually stopped the
emigration scheme—didn't I, Käthchen?  Oh, yes,
I don't think he will talk any more about
Canada or Australia—not, at least, until I
have had my chance.  But on the other hand,
if he were to remain in this county, and practise
at the Bar, don't you think he would succeed?
I know if I were a judge, and Mr. Ross were
pleading before me, I should have little difficulty
in deciding who was speaking the truth."

"Counsel are not paid to speak the truth:
quite the reverse," said Käthchen.

"And when he laughs, there is nothing
sarcastic in his laugh—nothing but
good-nature," continued the young lady, who was
not paying much attention to Barbara's
ministrations.  "Is there anything so horrid as a
cackling laugh—the conceited laugh of a
small nature?  Yes, it is a very good thing
he has so pleasant and good-humoured a
laugh—for—after all—yes, perhaps he is just a little
blunt and peremptory.  What do you think,
Käthchen?  Did you think he was a little
dictatorial?  And you said something—that I
was amenable?  But was I too amenable,
Käthchen?  I hope he did not imagine that I was
subservient—especially if he was rather
masterful and plain-spoken——"

"Come, come, Mamie, don't quarrel with him
when he has hardly had time to get out of
the house," Käthchen interposed, with a smile.
"I consider that the manner of both of you
was quite perfect, if what you wanted to
convey was that you were both highly pleased
to meet in this way and have a confidential
and friendly chat.  Dictatorial?  Not in the
least!  Of course he knows a good many
things about this place; and it was to save
you yourself from being excessive in your
generosity that he spoke plainly.  And
speaking plainly—why, wasn't it that very thing
you were praising only a moment ago, when
you spoke of the simplicity and sincerity of
his speech?"

"Because," said Mary, drawing up her head a
little, "if—if I thought he considered me too
complaisant and submissive—if I thought
so—well, I would show him something different."

"Now, are you determined to quarrel?"
Käthchen exclaimed, with laughing eyes.
"Here is this poor young man who meets
you in the road, and he is as respectful and
distant as could possibly be, waiting to see
how you mean to treat him; and you seem
a little doubtful; then of a sudden you resolve
to make the first advances; and the next
thing is that you appear so glad to find that
both of you are on friendly terms, that nothing
will do but he must come away home and
have tea with you; and you are exceedingly
kind to him, and he is exceedingly grateful—as
those black eyes of his showed.  What
is there in all that?  Yet now you must
alarm yourself by thinking you have been too
complaisant!"

"No, Käthchen, no; not that I think so; what
I dread is that he may have been thinking so."

"If I were to tell you, Mamie," said Käthchen,
"what I imagine to have been in Donald
Ross's mind when you and he were sitting
talking together, eyes fixed on eyes, with never
a thought for anything or anybody else in the
whole wide world, well, I suppose you would
be indignant, and would probably tell me to
attend to my own affairs.  Which I mean to
do—only I am not blind."  For a second Mary
regarded her friend with a scrutinizing glance;
but she had not the courage to speak; she
changed the subject—and hardly mentioned
Donald Ross's name for the rest of that evening.

Next day, and especially towards the
afternoon, there was quite a commotion in the
village, for small things become great in a
remote little community like Lochgarra; and
when it drew near to six o'clock there were
various groups of people scattered around the
new building, walking about and chatting,
sometimes peeping in at the door with a vague
curiosity.

"I wonder if he expects us to go along and
meet him there?" said Mary, rather anxiously
to Käthchen.

"You mean Mr. Ross?" said Käthchen,
though well she knew to whom the "he"
referred.  "I should think he would call for
us.  The *Sirène* is not in the bay; she must
be round in the Camus Bheag; so Mr. Ross
will be coming down from Minard."

Käthchen's anticipations proved correct;
young Ross, in passing Lochgarra House,
stopped for a moment to ask if the ladies had
gone on; and, finding that they were just about
ready to set out, he waited for them.  And
thus it was that the inhabitants of Lochgarra
again witnessed a strange sight—something
far more wonderful than the opening of a Free
Library: they beheld young Donald of Heimra
acting as escort to this English woman—this
alien—this representative of the family that
had drained the waters out of Heimra Loch,
and torn down the walls of the old Castle.
And not only that, but when they came along,
he seemed to manage everything for her.  He
drove the people into the large, long room,
and got the benches filled up; he had two
chairs placed on the platform, one for Miss
Stanley and one for Miss Glendinning; and
then, standing by the side of the Baintighearna,
proceeded to speak for her, and to
explain the conditions attaching to this bequest.

And here once more Mary, sitting there silent
and observant, may have been struck by the
curious directness and simplicity of his speech.
Concise, explicit sentences: they seemed to
accord well with his own bearing, which was
distinctly straightforward, intrepid, resolute.
Indeed, so little of effort, so little of talking
for effect was there about this address, that once
or twice, and in the most natural way in the
world, he turned to Miss Stanley and asked
her for information on certain points.  Finally,
he told them that Miss Stanley wished for no
ceremony, opening or otherwise; they were
merely to take possession; and they would now
be left to examine the resources of the building
including the duplicate catalogues of the library.

"Three cheers for Donald Ross of Heimra!"
called out a voice—and a cap was twirled to
the roof.

"Don't make a fool of yourself, Gillie
Ciotach!" said Ross, with a quick frown;
and then he went on calmly: "It is Miss
Stanley's express wish that there should be
no formalities whatever, otherwise I should
have proposed a vote of thanks to her for her
very great kindness and thoughtfulness.
However, that is not to be; and the best way you
can show what you think of her munificent gift
is by making a good use of it and taking every
care of it."  He turned to the Baintighearna.
"I suppose that is about all I have to say, Miss
Stanley?"

"Yes, I think so: thank you so much!" she
said, in rather a low voice—for she was a trifle
self-conscious before all those people.

Then she rose.  He stepped down from the
platform, and led the way along the hall.  There
was some covert clapping of hands and stamping
of feet; but the Gillie Ciotach had been snubbed
into silence; and, indeed, the majority of those
sad and weather-worn countenances remained
stolidly indifferent, as if they hardly knew
what was happening around them.  Ross
opened the door for his two companions, and
followed them out into the golden-clear
afternoon; the villagers were left to overhaul at
their leisure this new possession, and to become
familiar with its opportunities.

But no sooner were those three out in the
open, and by themselves, than Mary Stanley's
manner underwent a complete change.  She
had thrown off that platform constraint; she
was profuse in her expressions of gratitude;
her eyes were shining with pleasure.

"How can I ever sufficiently thank you?"
said she.  "I could never have got through it
by myself—never!  And of course they will
remember everything you said: any word of
yours is all-important with them.  I am a
stranger.  I am suspected.  But when you are
on my side all goes well.  And now that this
serious business has been got over, I feel as if
we had earned a holiday for the rest of the
day," she continued, in a very radiant and
light-hearted fashion.  "What shall we do,
Käthchen?  Can't you devise something?  Can't
you devise some wild escapade—something
terrible—something unheard of?"

"The Lady Superior of Lochgarra," said
Donald Ross, "is much too distinguished a
person to indulge in wild escapades."

"At least," said she, turning to him—and
they were now on their way to Lochgarra
House—"it would be very hard if we three,
having so successfully got through the solemn
duties and labours of the day, were to separate
now.  Don't you think we are entitled to a
little relaxation?  Now, tell me, Mr. Ross,
where you are going at this moment.  Back to
the *Sirène*, are you not?  And you will be
dining alone?  And after that a book and a
pipe in the solitary saloon—isn't that about
how you will pass the evening?"

"You have guessed pretty near the truth,
Miss Stanley," said he, with a smile.

"Then," said she, boldly, "why should we
separate?  Come in and dine with us.  Give
up your book, and let two frivolous creatures
talk to you.  We will allow you to go away at
ten; and it will be a clear starlight night—you
will have no difficulty in finding your way
round to the Camus Bheag.  Now, will you?"

"Indeed, I shall be most happy," said he,
without an instant's hesitation; and again Miss
Stanley's clear grey-green eyes thanked
him as they could, when she had a mind.

And really this proved to be a most joyous
and careless evening, without an atom of
restraint or reserve; the little group of friends,
brought together in that far-away corner of the
world, developed a very frank and informal
intimacy; the time sped swiftly.  Mary was in
especial merry-hearted and audacious;
occasionally betraying new moods of wilful
petulance; and then again becoming suddenly
honest, as much as to say, "No, don't believe
that of me; it was only mischief."  Even
Käthchen was less demurely observant than
usual; she had become a little more accustomed
to the flame of those coal-black eyes; moreover,
the young man had a winning smile.  He was
no longer the proud and austere person whom
she had regarded with a little anxiety and even
awe.  Implacable she was no longer ready to
call him: surely one who could laugh in that
frankly good-humoured way was not likely to
prove revengeful and unforgiving?  As for his
being haughty and imperious, she noticed one
small circumstance—that ever and again, amid
this familiar and sprightly intercourse, he
checked himself a little, and would address
Miss Stanley with something almost of
deference.  It was as if he were saying, 'It is
exceedingly kind of you to treat me in so very
friendly a fashion; but still—still—you are the
Lady Superior of Lochgarra—and I am your
guest.'  And sometimes he seemed to veil his
eyes a little—those burning eyes that might
unawares convey too much.

The lightning moments fled; ten o'clock
came ere he knew.  Indeed, it was half-an-hour
thereafter before he chanced to look at
his watch; and instantly he rose, with a quite
boyish confusion on his clear, finely-cut face.

"When do you go back to Heimra?" said
Mary to him—the two young ladies having
accompanied him out into the hall.

"I hardly know," said he.  "I am waiting
for a rather important letter that I must answer
at once."

"Not to-morrow, then?"

"Perhaps not."

"For I have sent for the photographer,"
said she, "and he may be here the day after."

"But I will stay over," said he; "oh, yes,
certainly; I should be so pleased if I can be
of the least service to you."

"Oh, thank you."  And then she hesitated.
"To-morrow—to-morrow you will simply be
waiting for the mid-day mail?"

"Yes—is there anything that I can do for
you in any way?"

"Oh, no," she made answer, with still further
hesitation.  "Some day—I am going to ask
you to let me have a peep at the *Sirène*.  She
seems such a pretty little yacht."

"Won't you come along and look over her
to-morrow morning, if the weather is fine?"
said he, quickly.

"Would you like to go, Käthchen?" asked
Mary, with a little shyness.

"Oh, I should be delighted," answered the
useful Käthchen, divining what was wanted
of her.

"If you are sure it is not troubling you,"
said Mary to her departing guest.

"Why, it will give me the greatest possible
pleasure," said he.  "Come as early as ever
you like.  It will be quite an event: it is many
a day since I had the honour of receiving
visitors on the little *Sirène*."

"Then about eleven," said Mary; and therewith
he took his leave.

When they got back to the drawing-room,
Kate Glendinning threw herself into the chair
she had recently quitted.

"Well, I think he is simply splendid!" said
she, as if she had some difficulty in finding
words to express her enthusiasm.  "That's all
I can say—just splendid.  He is so curiously
straightforward, outspoken, independent; and
yet all the time he is so careful to treat you
with marked respect.  If his eyes laugh at you,
it is in such a good-natured way that you can't
take offence.  And he never agrees with you
for courtesy's sake—never—oh, not a bit; but
yet, as I say, to you he is always so respectful—in
so many little ways—didn't you notice?
Ah, well, Mamie," continued the observant but
nevertheless cautious-tongued Käthchen, "it's
a curious world, the way things happen in it.
Do you remember, when you first came here,
your distress about the destruction of Castle
Heimra?  You said nothing could ever atone
for that; and I was of your opinion then.  But
I am not so sure now.  I should not be so
surprised, after all, if there were to be some
atonement for the pulling down of Castle Heimra."

Mary did not answer: she had gone to put
some Japanese water-colours into a large
portfolio.  Nor could the expression of her face be
seen; if there was any indignant colour there,
any proud, maidenly reserve and resentment,
it was invisible; for she remained standing by
the portfolio for some time, turning over the
leaves.





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   CHAPTER IV.


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   SLOW BUT SURE.

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The next morning was the very perfection of a
September morning, clear, and crisp, and still;
there was just enough wind to lift away the
lazy blue smoke from the cottage chimneys,
and to stir the smooth waters of the bay with
a shimmering ripple.  And here was the
carriage in front of Lochgarra House, waiting
for the two young ladies to come down.

"Käthchen," said Mary, in an undertone, as
they took their seats and were driven off,
"supposing I should get a chance of speaking
to Mr. Ross privately—for a minute or two—do
you think I should venture to apologise to
him for Fred's outrageous conduct?  What
would you do if you were in my place?

"Not that—oh, no, Mamie, not that!"
Käthchen said at once.  "Don't you see how
he wishes to ignore it altogether?  And surely
you remember what he himself said about the
pulling down of Castle Heimra?   'There are
some things that are best not spoken of.'"

"It is very generous of him," said Mary,
absently.

They drove away up the Minard road; and
when they had got some distance past the top
of the hill, they dismissed the carriage, and left
the highway, striking across the rough high
ground by a worn footpath.  Presently they
found far beneath them the sheltered waters of
the Camus Bheag; and the first thing they saw
there was the *Sirène* at her moorings, with all her
sails set and shining white in the morning sun.
The next thing they perceived was that the two
sailors, Coinneach and Calum, were on the
beach, by the side of the yacht's boat; while
standing some way apart was Donald Ross.
And who was this who was talking to him?—a
young girl, whose light brown curly hair was
half hidden by her scarlet shawl.

"It is Anna Chlannach!" said Mary.  "Now
I have got her at last!  She is always escaping
me—and I want to convince her that I will not
allow Mr. Purdie to lock her up in any asylum.
Käthchen, couldn't we get down some other
way, so that she may not see us?"

But at this very moment the girl down there
happened to catch sight of them; and instantly
she turned and fled, disappearing from sight in
an incredibly short space of time.  For one
thing, the face of this hill was a mass of tumbled
rocks, intermingled with long heather and
thick-stemmed gorse, while skirting it was a
plantation of young larch: most likely Anna Chlannach
had made good her escape into this plantation.

"Why did you let her go?" said Mary,
reproachfully, when she had got down to the
beach.  "You knew I wanted to talk to her."

"It isn't easy reasoning with Anna Chlannach,"
said Donald Ross, with his quiet smile.
"She still associates you with Purdie; she is
afraid of you.  And this time she was on other
business; she was pleading with me to take
her out to Heimra—offering me all the money
she has got—her shells, you know—if I would
take her out."

"And why does she want to go out there?"
Mary asked—her eyes still searching that rocky
hill-side for the vanished fugitive.

"To bring back her mother.  Sometimes she
forgets her fancy about the white bird, and
thinks if she could only get out to Heimra she
would bring back her mother alive and well.
And it is no use trying to undeceive her."

The men were waiting.  Mary and Käthchen
got into the stern of the boat; the others
followed; and presently they were on their way
out to the yawl.

"How much bigger she is than I had
imagined!" Mary said, as they were drawing near.

And again when they were on deck, looking
around with the curiosity that an unknown
vessel invariably arouses, she could not but
express her high approval: everything looked
so trim and neat and ship-shape—the spotless
decks, the gleaming brass, the snow-white canvas.
And these cushions along the gunwale?

"The fact is," young Ross confessed—with
some look of timid appeal towards Mary, "I
got the sails up this morning just in case I
might be able to induce you to take a bit of a
run with us.  There is a nice breeze outside,
and nothing of a sea.  What do you say, Miss
Stanley?  The *Sirène* feels proud enough that
you should have come on board—but if you
would like to see how she takes to the
water——"

If he was at all anxious, the quick glance of
pleasure in Mary's eyes must have instantly
reassured him.

"Oh, yes, why not?" said she, rather
addressing herself to Kate Glendinning; "I am
sure we shall be delighted—if it isn't taking
up too much of your time, Mr. Ross——"

"We can slip the moorings and be off at
once," said he, and he gave a brief order to the
men, himself going to the tiller.  In a few
minutes the *Sirène* was under way, gliding
along so quietly that the two visitors hardly
knew that they were moving.

But their departure had not been unnoticed
elsewhere.  Suddenly, into the absolute silence
prevailing around, there came a piteous wail—a
wail so full of agony that immediately all
eyes were directed to the shore, whence the
sound proceeded.  And there the origin of it
was visible enough.  Anna Chlannach had come
down from her hiding-place to the edge of the
water; she was seated on a rock, her hands
clasped in front of her and her head bent down
in an attitude of indescribable anguish, her
body swaying to and fro, while from time to
time she uttered this heartrending cry, of
despair and appeal.

"Poor Anna!" said Mary, with tears starting
to her eyes.  "Let us go back, Mr. Ross!
Never mind us.  We can go home.  You must
take her out to Heimra."

"What would be the use?" he said.  "She
would only be more miserable, searching about
and finding no mother anywhere.  And Anna
does not keep very long in one mood.  She
will soon lose sight of us—and then she'll be
off again searching for wild strawberries."

And perhaps it was to distract their attention
from this melancholy setting out that he now
called one of the men to the tiller, and would
have his guests go below, to have a look at the
ladies' cabin and the saloon.  Of course they
were much interested and pleased—admiring
the cunning little contrivances for the utilisation
of space; while Mary arrived at the conclusion
that, if these rooms were kept in order
by Calum, Calum was a very handy youth to
have in one's service, whether afloat or ashore,
They spent some time over these investigations;
and when they came on deck again, they found
they were well out at sea, with a far-extending
view of the high and rocky coast, Lochgarra
itself appearing as merely a thin grey-white
line along one of those indented bays.

And still, and carelessly, and joyously, they
kept on their course, the light breeze holding
steady, the wide plain of water shining with a
summer blue.  Young Donald had not returned
to the tiller; he was devoting himself
assiduously to his two guests—their conversation,
whatever its varying moods, accompanied by
the soft, continuous murmur of these
myriad-glancing ripples, for waves they could scarcely
be called.  And on this occasion Mary was not
nearly so nervous, and excited, and wayward as
she had been on the previous day; a placid,
benign content reigned in her eyes; a sort of
serious, bland sweetness in her demeanour.
Käthchen thought to herself that she had never
seen Mary Stanley look so beautiful, nor yet
wearing so serene an air.

And still they held on, in this fair halcyon
weather, alone with the sky, and the fresh
wind, and the slumberous main; and so entirely
and happily engrossed with themselves that
they had no thought for the now distant land.
But at last Käthchen said—

"Mr. Ross, how far are we going?  I
thought you were expecting an important letter."

"There are things of equal importance," said
he, pleasantly.  He cast a glance forward.
"Soon we shall be getting near to Heimra,
Miss Stanley.  I have never had the chance of
receiving you in my poor little bungalow: will
you go ashore for a while?"

"Oh, yes," she replied, cheerfully.  "I
should like to renew my acquaintance with
Martha; she was exceedingly kind to us when
Käthchen and I called."

"And perhaps," said he, "when we get
round the point, you wouldn't mind standing
up for a few seconds—you and Miss
Glendinning?—then Martha will see I have visitors,
and will have time to put on her best gown.
Otherwise I should get into serious trouble."

And so they sailed into the small, quiet
harbour, and eventually got ashore at the
little slip, and made their way up to the house.
Martha had seen them; here she was in the
porch, smiling a welcome, with her grey
Highland eyes, to the young master, and also
to his guests.  These she took possession
of—with suggestions of tea.

"No, no, Martha," said Donald Ross, "we
are not going to have tea at this time of the
day.  The young ladies will stay for lunch;
and you must do the best you can for us.  We
will go for a stroll about the island, and be
back in an hour or thereabouts."

"Oh, yes, indeed," said the old Highland
woman, "but it is a peety I was not knowing
before——"

"Martha," said Mary Stanley, interposing,
"I dare say Mr. Ross does not understand
much about housekeeping.  Now, you must put
yourself to no trouble on our account.  A glass
of milk will be quite sufficient."

"Aw, but there will be more than that," the
old woman said, and she regarded this beautiful,
tall, shining-eyed young creature with a most
favouring look, and her speech was soft and
propitiating; "it would be strange if there was
not more than that in the house, and Mr. Ross
bringing his friends with him."  And therewith
she went away; and presently they heard
her sharply calling on the lad Calum, who had
come up from the slip, and was hanging about,
to be in readiness if he were wanted.

And now as the proud young host led forth
his fair guests on an exploration of these
winding shores, and tumbled crags, and steep
precipices, this island of Heimra looked
infinitely more cheerful than it had done on
Mary's previous visit, in the bleak April
weather.  There was an abundance of rich
colour everywhere.  The silver-grey rocks, and
ruddy-grey rocks, and black-grey rocks were
interspersed with masses of purple heather;
and other masses there were of tall foxgloves,
and bracken, and juniper, and broom.  Their
progress, it is true, was something of a
scramble, for there was no road nor semblance
of a road; the sheep tracks, he explained, were
up on the higher slopes and plateaus; down
here by the shore they had to get along as best
they could, though sometimes they had the
chance of a space of velvet-soft sand—with
the clear green water breaking in crisp white
ripples and sparkling in the sun.  A solitary, if
a picturesque, island, facing those wide western
seas; there was no sign of human existence or
occupation after they had got out of sight of
the single house and its small dependencies;
and at last Mary said:

"One would think that no living creature
had ever been round this coast before.  But it
cannot be so wild and lonely to you, Mr. Ross,
as it seems to us; you have discovered all the
secrets of it; and so I want you to take me to
your grotto.  In such an island of Monte Cristo,
you must have the grotto of Monte Cristo:
where is it?"

"How did you guess?" said he, with a smile.

"Guess what?"

"For there is a grotto," he said, regarding
her.  "Your surmise is quite correct.  There is
a grotto; only it isn't filled with sacks of jewels
and coins; all that there is in it is some
smuggled brandy."

"Oh, really?" she said, with her eyes
showing a sudden attention.  "Brandy?—smuggled
brandy?—and how did it come
there?—did you bring it?"

"Indeed I did," said he, without a moment's
hesitation—and he was standing in front of
her now, for she had sate down on a smooth
grey rock.  "I suppose I must let you into
my dark and terrible secret, and give you the
power of sending the Supervisor over, and
haling me off to Dingwall.  It is not a grotto,
however, it is a cave; and very few people
know of its existence.  In fact, you can't get
to it by the shore at all; you must go by water;
and I hope to show it to you some day, if you
would care to go round in a boat.  But then
there are no wonders—no hasheesh—no heaps
of diamonds and rubies—only little casks of
spirits: perhaps they wouldn't interest you?"

"Oh, but I think they would," she said—and
yet with a little caution, for she did not quite
know how to take this confession.

He observed her face for a moment.

"I see I must begin and justify myself," said
he, lightly, "if justification is possible.  For
of course it's very wrong and wicked to evade
the customs duties of your native land; only
in my case there are two or three qualifying
circumstances.  For one thing, I am a
Highlander; and smuggling comes natural to a
Highlander.  Then I have the proud consciousness
that I am circumventing Mr. Purdie—and
that of itself is a praiseworthy achievement.
You may have heard, Miss Stanley, that Purdie
plumes himself on having routed out the very
last of the illicit stills from this country-side—and
it was done merely out of ill-will to the
people; but he forgot that it is difficult to
watch a rough coast like this.  I can put a
counter-check on Mr. Purdie's zeal.  But my
real excuse is simply this—the old people about
here are too poor to buy spirits of any kind,
but especially of a wholesome quality; and it
is the only little bit of comfort they have when
they are cold and wet, just as it is the only
medicine they believe in; and really I think
the Government, that gives lavish grants here,
there, and everywhere—except here, by the
way—I think the Government can afford to
wink at such a small trifle.  Am I convincing
you?" he went on, with a laugh.  "I'm afraid
you look very stern.  Is there to be no palliation?"

Then up and spoke Kate Glendinning, valiantly—

"I consider you are perfectly justified,
Mr. Ross; yes, I do, indeed," said she.

"You see I have Miss Glendinning on my
side," he pointed out, still addressing Mary.

"Ah, but you are both Highlanders," Mary
said, as she rose from the rock; "and how can
I argue one against two?"

"Shall I be quite honest," said he, as they
were setting out for home again, "and confess
that there is a spice of adventure in going
away to the south for the cargo, and running
it safely here?  It is a break in the monotony
of one's life on the island."

"Yes, I shouldn't wonder if that had something
to do with all those fine reasons," she
observed, with demure significance.

"And then," he continued, frankly, and
perhaps not noticing her sarcasm, "I like to
be on friendly terms with the old people who
knew our family in former days.  I like them
to speak well of me; I like to think that they
have some trifle of affection for me.  And this
is about the only way I can keep up the old
relationship that used to exist between them
and the 'big house;' it's very little kindness
I am able to show them: they've got to take
the will for the deed nowadays."  He turned
to her.  "What, not convinced yet?" he said,
laughing again.  "What is to be the verdict?
Not acquittal?"

She shook her head doubtfully: the Lady
Superior of Lochgarra did not choose to say.

They found an excellent lunch awaiting
them; and after that, in his eager desire to
entertain these rare visitors in every possible
way, he showed them the heirlooms of the
family, along with a heap of antiquities and
curiosities that for the most part had been
put away in cabinets and chests, as being out
of keeping with these plain rooms.  Naturally
the old armour interested Mary less than the
silks and embroideries, the porcelain and
pottery; and in particular was she struck by
a Rhodian dish, the like of which she had never
seen before.  It was of coarse material, and
of the simplest design—a plain draught-board
pattern, with a free-handed scroll running
round the rim; but the curious pellucid green
colour was singularly beautiful, and the glaze
extraordinarily luminous.

"Where could that have come from?" said
she, reluctantly laying it down, and still
regarding it with admiration.  "I have never
seen one like it in England."

"My father sent it home from Smyrna," he
said, simply, "to my mother.  He could not
live in the West Highlands: the climate did
not suit him.  He travelled a great deal."

Donald Ross seemed to speak without any
restraint or embarrassment; but there was
some strange misgiving in Mary's mind; she
was glad when Käthchen changed the subject—calling
her attention to some exquisite lace.

And at last this wonderful and memorable
visit had to come to an end; but when they went
out to the little porch Mary said she could not
go without saying good-bye to Martha, and
so she turned and went through the passage
into the kitchen.

"Martha," said she, in her most winning
way, and with smiling eyes, "you have been
very good to us, and I shall never forget your
kindness on our first visit to Heimra, when
we were quite strangers to you.  And this is
a little present I want you to take, as a souvenir,
you understand——"

She had unclasped the chatelaine from her
belt; and there it was, in antique silver, with
all its ornaments and housewifely implements
complete, pressed upon the old dame's acceptance.
But Martha hung back—shyly—and
yet looking at the marvellous treasure.

"Oh, no, mem," she said.  "I thank ye;
I'm sure I thank ye; but Mr. Ross would not
be liking me to tek it."

"Mr. Ross!" said Mary impatiently.  "What
does Mr. Ross know about such things?  Why,
it is necessary for your housekeeping, Martha!—and,
besides, you must take it to please me;
and it will remind you of our visit until we
come back again—for I hope to come back and
see you some day."

"Yes, yes, and soon, mem," said the grateful
Martha, who had been forced into compliance.
"And I will be showing it to Mr. Ross, mem——"

"Good-bye, then, Martha, and thank you
for all your kindness," said Mary, as she was going.

"No, no, mem, it is my thanks and service
to you, mem," said Martha, and she timidly
extended her hand.  Mary had learnt the ways
of this country.  She shook hands with the
old dame; and said good-bye again; and went
her way.

Then once more over the shining sea, with
the light northerly breeze providing them a
steady and continuous passage.  Mary turned
once or twice to look at the now receding island.

"I suppose you get very much attached
to a solitary home like that?" she said, absently.

"But I like a few days on the mainland
very well," said he, with much cheerfulness,
"if there is anything to be done.  When do
you expect your photographer?"

"To-morrow or next day."

"I will wait for him," said he, promptly.

"That will be very kind of you," said she;
"for what would pictures of Lochgarra be to
Mrs. Armour if you were not in them?"

"And Saturday is Miss Stanley's birthday,"
put in Käthchen.  "You should stay over for
that."

"Saturday?" said he.  "Oh, indeed.  Oh,
really."  And then he added: "Why, they
must get up a big bonfire on the top of Meall-na-Fearn."

"No, no," said Mary, with an odd kind of
look; "that is not for me.  I must wait a
little for anything of that sort.  It must come
spontaneously, if ever it comes."  And then
she suddenly changed her tone.  "Well, Mr. Ross,
since you are remaining on the mainland
for a day or two, I hope you will come and see
what I have been doing.  I have started a few
things——"

"I know more about your work than you
think," said he.  "But I should be glad to go
with you."

"And then perhaps the people won't treat
me as a stranger," she said, with a touch of
injury in her tone.

"It is very ungrateful of them if they do,"
said he, with some emphasis.

And so it came about, on the next day, that
Lochgarra again beheld the spectacle of Young
Donald of Heimra acting as escort to the
English lady, while she was taking him about
and showing him all she was doing or trying
to do.  And to Käthchen it was as clear as
daylight that those people began to be a great
deal more friendly—more willing to answer
questions—more sympathetic in their looks.
Why, when the two girls returned home that
evening, they found the hall-door open, and
Barbara in the act of lifting up two huge
stenlock that had been laid on the stone slab.

"Why, what's this, Barbara?" Mary inquired.

"Oh, it's just that foolish lad, the Gillie
Ciotach," said Barbara, with a smile of apology,
"and he was leaving them here instead of
taking them round by the back.  He was
saying the people are thanking Miss Stanley
for the new building and the papers; and he
and Archie MacNicol they had a big catch of
stenlock, and would Miss Stanley take one or two."

"Do you mean that the Gillie Ciotach
brought me those fish as a present?" said
Mary, with a delighted surprise—and she was
looking at those big, coarse lythe
as if she had just received an Emperor's gift.

"Yes, ma'am," said Barbara.

"But of course you gave him something all
the same?"

"Oh, no, ma'am."

"A glass of whiskey, at least?" Mary demanded.

"Oh, no, ma'am," said the soft-spoken
Barbara, "there is no whiskey in the house."

"Then it is a shame there should be no
whisky in a Highland house!" Mary
exclaimed, indignantly.  "Why, could you not
have run over to your brother's cottage and
got some?"

"The Gillie Ciotach was not giving me time,
ma'am," answered Barbara, in her pleasant
way.  "Maybe he was thinking of something
of that kind, and he went away quick after
leaving the message."

"I'll make it up to the Gillie Ciotach—you
will see if I don't!" she said to Käthchen, as
they passed through the hall and went upstairs.
And all that evening she appeared to be greatly
pleased by this little incident; and spoke of it
again and again: why, to her it seemed to
presage the pacification of this lawless
land—she was going to meet with some return at
last.

Moreover, when the photographer at length
made his appearance and set to work, it must
have appeared to the people about that Donald
Ross of Heimra had become the chosen ally
and companion of the young Baintighearna;
while to Donald Ross himself it seemed as if
Mary were bent on representing him—in these
views, at least—as the owner of the whole
place.  And she was wilful and imperative
about it, too; though Käthchen, standing by
as a spectator, perceived that she had to deal
with a nature which, however quiet, was a
good deal firmer than her own.  For example,
one of the first views was the front of
Lochgarra House.  The artist, having a soul above
bare stone and lime, suggested that there
should be some figures standing at the open
hall-door, on the terrace above the steps.

"Oh, yes, certainly," said Mary at once.
"You go, Mr. Ross, and stand there—will you
be so kind?"

"I?" said he, in amazement—for it was
clear she meant herself and Kate Glendenning
to remain out of the picture—"What should
I do there?  That is your place, surely—in
front of your own house."

"Oh, what does Mrs. Armour want with
me!" she protested.  "It is you she wants,
naturally.  Of course she associates Lochgarra
House with you, not with me at all.  Who am
I?  A stranger—an interloper.  What does
Mrs. Armour care about me?  No, really, I
must insist on your going and standing on the
terrace."

"But indeed I cannot: what right have I
to be there?" said he, with the faintest touch
of colour coming to the keen, pale, dark face.

"Mrs. Armour would tell you you had a
better right to be there than I have!" said
Mary, rather ruefully.  "I knew what she was
thinking, if she was kind enough to say nothing.
Now, go, Mr. Ross, to please me!  I must not
appear in this picture at all—indeed, I will not."

"And I cannot," he said, simply.

"Very well, then," said the shifty Käthchen,
cheerfully stepping into the breach, "it is
evident that I, at least, can't be expected to
take up a position as owner of Lochgarra
House; but figures are wanted; and so, if you
are both resolved to remain out, I will go and
get the keepers and gillies and servants, and
range them along the front there, at the foot
of the steps.  I dare say Mrs. Armour will
recognise some of them."

"Then you positively refuse me?" Mary
said to him.

"You ought to understand why," he answered
her—and then she was silent.

But on the following morning she was deeply
impressed by his thoughtful forbearance and
consideration.  They wished to get a view of
the little hamlet of Cruagan, Mrs. Armour
having lived there formerly; and, as the place
was some distance off, they drove thither—the
artist and his camera up beside the coachman.
Now, it was inevitable they should pass the
desert plain that used to be Loch Heimra, with
the tumbled stones of the ancient keep; and
on coming in sight of these the photographer,
recognising a subject, and yet a little puzzled,
called on the coachman to stop.

"That, sir—what is that, sir?" he asked of
Donald Ross, whom he generally consulted.

"Oh, that is nothing," said Ross (and this
time it was Mary who look distressed and
embarrassed).  "Never mind; go on."

"Isn't that an old ruin, sir?" said the
photographer, with professional instinct.  Subjects
did not abound in this neighbourhood, and he
wished to do his best.

"That is of no use: that would not make
a picture—a heap of stones like that," said
young Donald; and so the artist gave way;
and the carriage went on again.  There was
a space of silence thereafter.

But Mary was none the less grateful to him.
And when they came to a stretch of the Connan,
where there were some rocks in mid-stream
and a bit of a waterfall, with some birches by
the side of the river, she said:

"Now, Mr. Ross, Mrs. Armour is sure to
remember this place; and it is very pretty;
and since you want me to come into some of
the pictures, I will come in this time, and the
three of us can sit on the bank as if we were
a pic-nic party.  And if it turns out well,
mightn't we have it enlarged and some copies
printed for our own friends?  We will send
on the carriage a bit, so that there shall be
nothing but ourselves in this solitude."

"Let me go on with the carriage, Mamie!"
interposed Käthchen at once.

"Don't be silly, Käthchen!" Mary made
answer, with quickly lowered lashes.  "We
are supposed to be a pic-nic party, or a fishing
party, taking a rest—anything you please;
but of course we must all be together."

So that group also was taken, with the
Highland river-scene for its background; and then
they went forward and overtook the carriage.
Mary was much more cheerful now, after getting
away from that reproachful sight of Castle
Heimra.

"Do you know, Mr. Ross," she was saying,
"I am about to encounter the bitterest enemy
I have in the world?"

"I cannot believe you have any enemy," was
his reply.  "But who is this?"

"James Macdonald."

"Oh, Macdonald the crofter at Cruagan.
Well, what have you been doing to him?"

"What have I been doing to him?" she said
with some spirit.  "You should rather ask
what I have been doing for him.  I have been
doing far too much for him: I suppose that is
why he hates me.  What haven't I done for
him?  I took off the tax for the dyke; I handed
over the pasturage of Meall-na-Cruagan; I
lowered his rent; I forgave him arrears; I had
the decree of removal quashed, and gave him
back his holding after he had forfeited it; I
stopped the action against him for deforcing
the sheriff's officer.  What more?  What more?
And yet he looks as if he would like to murder
me if I try to speak to him."

"Have you any idea of the reason?"

"Yes," said Mary, a little proudly.  "He
says that you are his laird, and not I: he says
I have nothing to do with the land or the
people here."

"Macdonald is a foolish man—and stubborn:
I will talk to him," he said; and he was
thoughtful for a second or two.

Indeed, when they arrived at the scattered
little hamlet of Cruagan, it was not the
sun-pictures that occupied Mary Stanley's attention.
The photographer was allowed to choose his
subjects as he liked.  For, in driving up, they
had perceived the sullen-browed, Russian-looking
crofter at work in his patch of potatoes;
and as soon as the carriage stopped, young Ross
left his companions, stepped over the bit of wire
fence, and went along the potato drills.
Macdonald ceased working, and respectfully raised
his cap.  Ross began speaking in a low voice,
and yet with some emphasis, and increasing
emphasis, as the ladies in the waggonette could
gather.  It was impossible for them to overhear
the words, even if they had been able to
understand; but as he proceeded it was clear enough
that he was becoming angry and indignant, the
man with the shaggy eyebrows and the
determined jaw having answered once or twice.
Then almost suddenly there came a strange
termination to this fierce encounter.  Young
Ross remained behind, glancing around him as
if merely wanting to know whether the crop
promised well; but Macdonald came down the
drills, in the direction of the carriage.

"Käthchen," said Mary, in an eager whisper,
"he is coming to speak to me! Let me get
out—quick!"

She stepped into the roadway.  As Macdonald
came slowly towards her, he raised his eyes and
regarded her for a second, in silence.  He took
off his cap—and forgot to put it on again.  He
was thinking what to say.

"I—not mich English.  It is thanks to you—for
many things.  The young laird says that.
And I—am to ask your pardon—and sorry I
am if there is not goodwill—and there is
good-will now—and it is sorry I am——"

"Not at all—not at all; we are going to be
quite good friends, Mr. Macdonald—and there's
my hand on it," said she in her frank, impetuous
way.  "And you are going to ask me into your
house; and will you give me a little bit of
oat-cake, or something of the kind?—and when you
are next over at Lochgarra you must not forget
to come and see me.  And at any time, mind
you, if you have anything to complain of, come
to me first; come direct to me; don't go to
Mr. Purdie, or anybody; for perhaps I might
be able to settle the matter for you at once."

And with that she called on Mr. Ross, and
told him they were going into the cottage to
get a bit of oat-cake; for Macdonald was already
leading the way thither.  When they came out
of Macdonald's cottage, they found that the
photographer had quite completed his work;
so they at once set out for home again.  Mary
was in an extraordinary state of delight over
this vanquishment of her obdurate enemy, and
said she should take means to remind him of
their compact of goodwill.  But young Ross
only laughed.

"'Wherefore he called that place Beersheba,'"
he said, "'because there they sware both of them.'"

The following Saturday was Mary Stanley's
birthday.  Early in the morning she and Kate,
in fulfilment of a long-standing engagement,
drove away out to Craiglarig to pay a visit to
Mr. Watson, and talk over some matters
connected with his farm; and as they stayed for
lunch, they did not get back till the afternoon.
By that time the mail had come in, and there
was an astonishing number of letters and parcels
addressed to Miss Stanley, for she had a large
number of friends in the south, who held her in
kindly remembrance.  She was looking at these
and guessing at the senders, when she came to
one that was larger and heavier than the others;
moreover, it had not come by post, but by hand.
Something impelled her to tear off the brown
wrapper, and behold, here was the Rhodian
dish she had so particularly admired when they
were out at Heimra Island.

"I saw he noticed how long you looked at
it," said Käthchen, with smiling eyes.

Well, she did not look at it long now,
beautiful as it was.  She had turned again to
the wrapper, and she seemed to take a curious
interest in studying her own name as she found
it there.

"It is an unusual handwriting, don't you
think so, Käthchen?" she said, slowly, and
almost as if she were talking to herself.  "Firm
and precise....  How odd one's own name
appears when you see it written for the first
time by some one you know! ... Do you
think character can be read in handwriting,
Käthchen? ... firmness—yes, apparently; and
precision—well, I don't object to that so much,
... but don't you think he is a little too—a
little too confident in himself ... careless of
what others may think ... a little too
independent ... and proud in his own domain?"

"I don't know about that at all.  But I am
going to tell you something now, and you may
be angry or not as you please," said Käthchen;
and she went up to her friend, and put her
hand on her arm: perhaps she wanted to watch
the expression of her face: "Mamie," she said,
"that man loves you."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A PIOUS PILGRIMAGE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium

   A PIOUS PILGRIMAGE.

.. vspace:: 2

All things appeared to be going well at
Lochgarra: Mary was radiant and jubilant,
and would pay no heed to Käthchen's
underhand jibes and warnings.  Her numerous
schemes were thriving all along the line; she
had orders for homespun webs and hand-knitted
stockings far beyond what she could execute
in the coming winter; she had been guaranteed
two fishing-boats, with their furnishing of nets,
for the next season; she was in treaty for more
looms, for which there would be abundant
employment; and to add to all this, the as
yet ungarnered harvest—that poor, scattered,
patchwork harvest, among the sterile
rocks—promised a fair return if only the weather
would leave it alone.  But it was the attitude
of the people towards her that warmed her
heart.  Since her open association with young
Donald of Heimra, a miracle had been wrought
in this neighbourhood; the dumb could speak;
men and women who had sulkily turned away
from the ban-sassunnach, shaking their heads,
now managed to find quite sufficient English
to answer her, and would ask her into their
cottages, and offer her of their little store.
Even the sad-faced, silent, morose Peter Grant,
of the inn, had been brought to see that there
might be something in Miss Stanley's proposals.
If he were to take the April fishing on the
Garra at an annual rental of £15, she
providing a water-bailiff, and if, by advertising in
the sporting papers, he were to find two
gentlemen who would pay him £25 for the
month's salmon-fishing, and use the inn at the
same time, would not that serve?  Peter
(committing one illegal act in order to prevent
another) could give an occasional glass of
whiskey to the rosy-cheeked policeman: the
placid and easy-going Iain, having little else
to do, could now and again stroll down to the
bridge of a morning or evening—there would
be no fear of poachers at that end of the water.

But it was over the terrible rascal and
outlaw, Gillie Ciotach, that she obtained (as she
thought) her most signal triumph.  She sent
for that notorious scamp to thank him for
the couple of lythe he had presented to her;
and one evening the Gillie Ciotach sauntered
along towards Lochgarra House, his fisherman
clothes as clean as might be, and a brand-new
Balmoral set jauntily on his short brown curls.
When he arrived at the house, he dismissed
a quid of tobacco he had been chewing, wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand, and
ascended the steps.  Barbara received him, and
went and told her mistress, who directed her
to bring some whiskey into the hall.  Then
Mary came down.

"Good evening!" said she, rather nervously,
to this young fellow with the bold brown eyes
and the heavy scar across his forehead, who
stood twirling his Balmoral in his fingers.
"Won't you be seated?  I hope I have not
put you to any inconvenience.  The fact is,
I wished to thank you for your kindness in
leaving the two stenlock for me—I am sorry
I was out—and—and perhaps you will take a
glass of whiskey—will you help yourself?"

For Barbara had brought in a little tray,
and placed it on the hall-table, and retired.
Now, when the Gillie Ciotach received this
invitation, which he had no thought of refusing,
he went to the table; and finding there a
tumbler, a wineglass, a decanter, and a carafe
of water, and being far too polite to think of
drinking by himself, he filled the wine-glass
with whiskey, and half-filled the tumbler with
the same fluid, and brought the former, as
being the more elegant of the two, to Miss
Stanley.

"Oh, no, thank you," said she, with an
involuntary shudder.

"No, mem?" said he, in great surprise.
"Well, well, now!" But not to waste good
liquor he poured the contents of the wine-glass
into the tumbler, and took that between his
hands as he sate down, nursing it, as it were,
while he listened respectfully.

"But first of all," she said, with a fine effort
at jollity and good-comradeship, "I ought to
know your real name, you know; I don't
consider nicknames fair—even although they may
not be meant to be nicknames.  And I wish
to be good friends with everybody in the
place—and to get to know all about them——"

"Aw, my own name?" said the Gillie
Ciotach, after having, with careful manners,
sipped a little of the whiskey.  "Aw, it's just
Andrew Mac Vean."

"Very well, then, Andrew, I am very
pleased to see you; and I am sure we shall be
friends; and I wished to say, besides, that I
hope everything will go peaceably here, and
that there will be no more riotous proceedings,
like the assault on the lobster-fishermen at Ru
Minard——"

"Aw, God, that was a fine thing!" cried
the Gillie Ciotach, with a loud laugh that led
Mary to suspect he must have had a glass, or
even two, before coming along.  "Aw, it was
a fine thing, that!  And Miss Stanley has
only to send us word, as she did before, and
we'll drive the squatters into the sea—them
and their traps, and their huts, ahltogether
into the sea!  Never mind where they settle!—you
send to me, mem, and we will drive the
duvvles into the sea, and let them tek their
chance of swimming the Minch!——"

"But what do you mean?" she said, angrily.
"What word did I send you?  Do you imagine
I authorized those mad and cruel proceedings?
I bade Big Archie tell those men what the
Fishery Board had said—that they had no
right there; I did not ask you to drive the
poor men out with sticks and stones, and set
fire to their huts with petroleum.  I don't want
any such on-goings: why, it is monstrous that
the people should take the law into their own
hands, and get the neighbourhood a bad name
for rioting."

"It's the God's truth, mem, and many's the
time I was telling them that," said the Gillie
Ciotach, solemnly.  "But ye see, mem, there's
some wild duvvles about here; and they're
neither to hold nor to bind; but I'll tell them
what Miss Stanley says, that there's to be no
more fighting; and if a man is determined to
fight, then we'll chist fell him with a chair, and
fling him below the table until he gets sober.
It's a peaceable neighbourhood: why should
there be any fighting in it?—but for these
duvvles!——"

"I am glad you think so," said Mary, very
gratefully.  "And then there's another thing—the
poaching.  Now, is it fair?  I ask you
if it is fair——"

"It's a b——y shame!" said the Gillie
Ciotach to himself, as he bent his head to sip
a little more whiskey.

"Because look what I am doing, Andrew,"
she went on, probably not having heard the
penitent exclamation.  "I want you to
understand.  I am having the ground shot over,
moderately, by the keepers, and the game sent
to Inverness and sold there to pay wages, and
the cost of the kennels, and so on; and in that
way I can afford to keep the gillies in
employment.  And I do think it is hardly fair that
there should be poaching.  *I* get no good out
of the game—except a bird or two now and
again for the house, or a brace or two to send
away.  Of course, I don't believe that there is
very much poaching—for the keepers know
their business too well; but it is disgraceful
there should be any——"

"I declare to ye, mem," said the Gillie
Ciotach, in tones of the most earnest conviction,
"that if I was to come across one of them
d——d scoundrels—I beg your pardon,
mem—I meant to say there was one or two bad men
about here, that mebbe would tek a hare if
they found her sitting in her form—or—or a
salmon; and as sure's death, mem, if I was to
catch one of them scoundrels, I would bind him
hand and foot with a heather rope, and I would
fling him down in front of Hector's cottage,
and I would say 'Hector, off with him to Dingwall!'"

This was almost too much of zeal.

"Andrew," said she, slowly, and she looked
at him, "I have heard it said that even you
yourself——"

"Me, mem?" he exclaimed, quick to repel
this unspoken accusation.  "Me, mem?
Miss Stanley is not going to believe that!
There's a great many liars about here, mem,
and there's not one of them I would believe
myself; and tekking away any one's character
like that!  I would just like to brek the bones
of any one that I heard talking like that about
me—begooh, I would shove his teeth down his
throat!"

"Well, I won't detain you any longer,
Andrew," said she—and he drained off the
whiskey, and smoothed out the ribbons of his
Balmoral.  "I am glad to hear that there is to
be no more fighting or poaching; for I want the
neighbourhood to have a good name; and there
are plenty of other and better occupations for
the young men."

She went with him to the door.  Suddenly
something seemed to occur to the Gillie
Ciotach.

"Would Miss Stanley be caring for two or
three sea-trout now and again?" said he, in
a casual kind of way.

Instantly she fixed her eyes on him.

"Sea-trout?—where are you getting
sea-trout, Andrew?" she demanded.  "Do you
mean to say you have a scringe-net?"

For one brief moment the Gillie Ciotach
looked disconcerted and guilty; but only for a
moment.

"Aw, no, mem.  A scringe-net?  Is it a
scringe-net?  Aw, I'm sure there's no one
would use a scringe-net about here!" he
declared, assuming further and further an air of
innocence as he went on.  "The sea-trout?—well,
mebbe they would be in the herring-nets—and
mebbe a happening one would come on
to the bait-lines—and—and mebbe the one way
or the other; but if Miss Stanley not wishing
to have them——"

"Why, isn't this the very time they go up the
rivers to spawn!" she exclaimed.  "And what
a shame it would be to take them now!"

"Indeed, indeed, and that's the God's truth,
mem," said the Gillie Ciotach, with a serious
air.  "It's at this very moment.  And who
would tek them?  Who would put a scringe-net
round the mouth of the ruvvers at a time
of the year like this?  Not a man about here,
anyway.  Aw, sea-trout?—who would think
of tekkin sea-trout now?  Well, good evening,
mem; and I am thanking Miss Stanley for her
kindness—yes, yes, indeed."

And therewith the Gillie Ciotach went down
the steps, fumbling in his pocket for his pipe;
while Mary returned to relate the story of this
momentous interview to Käthchen—perhaps
with some few judicious reservations.  For if
all that the Gillie Ciotach professed was not
quite to be believed, at least it was something
that so desperate a dare-devil had the grace to
affect being on the side of virtue; and Mary
chose to flatter herself that, now he had shown
himself in a measure amenable, she would
sooner or later complete his conversion—to the
general quieting of the country-side.

And of course an account of this, her latest
conquest, had to be written out forthwith and
despatched to Heimra.  Indeed, it was
remarkable how constant had become the communication
between the island and the shore, now
that Donald Ross had returned for a few days
to his own home.  Big Archie's lugger was
continually being requisitioned, to take out a
note and wait for an answer; while Coinneach
and Calum, when they came to meet the mail,
would be intercepted by the swift-footed
Barbara, and entrusted with a message.
Käthchen was convinced that the replies that came
back from Eilean Heimra were kept and
secretly pondered over: more than once she
had seen Mary thrust a paper into her pocket
when someone had suddenly come upon her.
And she noticed that when they two were
walking along the shore, her companion's
attention would sometimes be so steadily and
wistfully fixed on the distant island—which
sometimes was dark and misty under trailing
clouds of rain, and sometimes shining fair amid
a wonder of blue seas and sunlight—that when
she was spoken to she would look startled, as
if summoned out of a dream.

One day there arrived, addressed to Miss
Stanley, a wooden box that had the name of
a well-known London florist printed on the
label.  The contents were a mass of flowers,
all of them white; and Mary herself saw them
taken out and carefully placed in water—for
the pale wax-like buds of the tuberoses were
hardly yet opened.  Then she went to Kate
Glendinning.

"Käthchen," she said, rather diffidently,
"don't you think it is rather a sad thing, the
lonely grave out there?"

"Do you mean at Heimra, Mamie?"

"Yes.  It seems so hard that no one has ever
a chance of showing sympathy—either with the
dead or living.  I have sent for some flowers;
do you think we could go out and place them
on the grave—without being seen?"

Käthchen was silent: it did not appear a
very feasible project.

"I have been thinking it over," Mary
continued, in the same humbly apologetic, almost
shamefaced way—though what there was to be
ashamed of Käthchen could not make out.
"And, you see, if we landed at the little bay,
he would be sure to come down to meet us,
and—and we should have to tell him—and—and
there are things you can't speak of.  I would
rather have this done quite unknown—as if it
were by the hand of a stranger: perhaps I should
like it better if Mr. Ross himself never knew.
However, I was wondering if we could not get
out to the west coast of the island without being
seen, and then if there was a chance of our being
able to get up to the top of the cliff that way.
What do you think, Käthchen?"

"Let us go along and ask Big Archie," said
Käthchen, with promptitude: and that
suggestion commending itself to her friend, both
of them at once went off and got ready, and
proceeded to walk down through the village.

Big Archie they found on the beach, screwing
the nails into a lobster-box.  Käthchen put the
matter briefly before him—telling him frankly
the object of the expedition, and explaining their
reasons for secrecy.  The huge, heavy-shouldered
fisherman listened attentively, stroking his
voluminous beard the while.

"Well, mem," said he, in his plaintive
Argyllshire intonation, "I am thinking it would be
easy enough to get out to the island, for we
could go round by the norse side.  If the wind
wass holding as it is now, we would lie aweh
up the coast there, and if anyone on Heimra wass
seeing the lugger, they would think I wass
mekkin for the Eddrachilles fishing-banks; and
then, when we were far enough we would put
about and run down to the back of the island,
and mek in for the shore.  I am thinking there
would be no diffeekwulty about that—aw, no,
mem; we could get round to the back of the
island ferry well; but it is the next thing that
would be the sore thing for leddies to try——"

"You mean climbing up to the top of the
cliff?" said Käthchen.

"Chist that!  It's a terrible rough place the
west side of Heimra," said Gilleasbuig Mor.
"And where the big white stone is, it is fearful high."

"Mamie," said Käthchen, turning to her
friend, "wouldn't it be better for you to send
Archie out with some young lad who is used to
the coast, and they could put the flowers on the
grave for you?"

"I wish to place them there with my own
hand," said Mary, simply.  "But you needn't
come, Käthchen."

"Of course I will, though!"

"Well, mem," said Big Archie, "I am not
sure whether you will be able to get to the
top that way, but we can go out and see
whatever.  And if the wind would hold till
to-morrow morning, it would be a very good
wind, both for going and coming."

"Very well, then, Archie," said Mary;
"to-morrow morning we shall be ready to start
between nine and ten."

The wind did hold, as it proved; and long
before the young ladies made their appearance
Big Archie and his assistant had the lugsail
hoisted and the cumbrous craft smartened up as
much as might be.  Then he sent the lad along
to Lochgarra House to see if there was anything
to be fetched; but there was only a couple of
waterproofs; when Mary and her friend came
out, the former was herself carrying a small
basket, containing the freshly-sprinkled flowers.

And so they set forth—making away in a
north-westerly direction, which would have
led anyone to imagine they were either
going to certain well-known fishing-banks or
that they intended to pay some visit not at all
in the Heimra direction.  But when at length
they had got well out beyond the most
northerly spur of the island, Big Archie altered
his course, and bore down south, until they
were quite near to these giant ramparts facing
the Atlantic main.  And already it appeared
to the two girls that this expedition of theirs
was a quite hopeless one.  They were, it is
true, under the lee of the island, and the water
was smooth, so that they could get ashore
wherever they wished; but who could scale
those sterile and sombre precipices that, further
to the south, rose sheer from the water, and
seemed to afford not even foothold for a goat?
Even Big Archie was discouraged.

"No, mem," he said to Miss Stanley, "it is
no use going aweh down there to where the
big white stone is.  There's no luvvin crayture
could get up—it's far worse than I wass
remembering it.  But if we went ashore here
where we are, and tried to get up one of them
corries, then mebbe we could get along the top.
Will ye try that, mem?"

"Whatever you like, Archie," said she—the
aspect of that frowning, lonely, precipitous
coast seemed to have overawed her.

And indeed when they did eventually choose
a landing-place, and when they began to look
around them, the arduous nature of their task
became abundantly apparent.  First of all there
were the tumbled rocks on the shore to be got
over or avoided; then they proceeded up a
narrow watercourse that here cleaved the land
into a deep ravine; and this they ascended for
some distance, scrambling up the loose wet
shingle and stones.  Big Archie led the way,
and also he carried the little basket, for the two
girls had frequently need of both hands to help
them along, especially when they left the
water-course, and began to force a path through the
stunted birches that lined the sides of the
chasm.  It was a thicket of short trees, with
intertwisted branches; while underfoot the long
heather and bracken concealed loose, angular
stones perilous to the ankle.  Sometimes they
had to pause, from absolute want of breath;
and Big Archie, looking back, would also stop.
But no one made any suggestion of giving up:
there must be light and open space somewhere,
if only one could win to the summit.

So they toiled and toiled on, in silence,
startling now a fox and now a rabbit, until, at
length, the stunted trees gave way to bushes,
and these in turn gave way to knee-deep
heather.  It was still difficult to get along;
but at least they had reached the open, and
were presumably approaching the high
plateaus: turning, they could look abroad over
the wide Atlantic, the vast plain not showing
one single ship.  Their own boat, far below,
was out of sight, so steep was this ascent they
had made.

Here they rested for a minute or two, after
their long and breathless struggle.

"One thing is quite certain, Mamie," said
Käthchen, in rather a low voice, so that the
big fisherman should not overhear, "When
Mr. Ross finds these flowers on the grave, he
will know very well who put them there."

"I am not sure that I want him to know,"
Mary answered, in an absent way.  "I think
I almost wish he were not to know.  If he
were to consider it merely a little kindness from
some stranger—that would be better, it seems
to me—it would be quite disinterested——"

"Why, what stranger could have managed
to land on Heimra without being seen?"
Käthchen asked; and as there was no answer to the
question, they resumed their difficult progress,
getting momentarily higher as they went along
the summit of the cliffs.

But all at once Big Archie, who was some
distance in front, halted, ducked his head, and
immediately turned and came back.

"Miss Stanley, mem, Mr. Ross himself is
there," said he.

"Mr. Ross!" said she, with frightened eyes.

"Ay.  He is sitting on the heather, not far
from the big white stone, and he is reading a
book," said Big Archie.  "He is often up there,
mem.  I am seeing him often and often when
I am going by in the boat."

Mary turned to her companion, with her face
aghast.

"We must go away back, Käthchen, and at
once," she said, in a hurried undertone.  "The
embarrassment would be too dreadful.  If he
could imagine it was some stranger brought the
flowers, that would be all right; but to go up
to him—before his face—to make a parade—he
would wonder what kind of creatures we were."

Käthchen hardly knew what to say.  She
had no more mind to go forward than her
friend had; and yet she guessed with what a
heavy heart, with what regretful lookings-back,
Mary would set out on her voyage home again.

"Let us sit down and rest awhile," she said,
at a venture.

But at this very instant Big Archie returned.

"Mr. Ross, mem, he has got up, and he is
going aweh down the hill," he said, in an
eager whisper.

"You are sure he is not coming this way?"
she said, quickly.

"No, no, mem—come a bit forrit, and you will see."

So they followed, with rather timorous steps
and anxious glances, the big fisherman; and at
last they just caught a glimpse of Donald Ross
making his way down the hill by the winding
pathway leading up to this little plateau.  And
here was the large white block of marble, with
its deep-graven letters of gold shining in the
sunlight.  Mary regarded this inscription with
some curious fancies in her mind.

"I wish I had known her," she murmured,
apparently to herself, as she took the white
flowers out of the basket and reverently placed
them on the stone.  It was a simple ceremony—up
here on the lofty crest of this solitary
island, between the wide, over-arching sky and
the far-extending plain of the sea.

Then they went back along these silent and
lonely cliffs, and got down to the boat in safety;
returning to the mainland, as they hoped,
unobserved.  Mary Stanley was unusually
absorbed and thoughtful during the rest of
that day; and only once did she refer to their
visit to Heimra.

"It seems strange, Käthchen, does it not,"
she said, musingly, "that he should go away
up there to read? ... Do you think it is
perhaps for some sense of companionship? ... That
would be strange, wouldn't it, in a young
man?..."  And Käthchen did not venture
to reply: she could not even conjecture what
secret influences, what mysterious cogitations,
might not have prompted such a question.

But Kate herself grew to wonder whether
Donald Ross had become aware of that thoughtful
little act of kindness and sympathy; and
whether, and in what way, he would make
recognition of it.  This was what happened.
Some two days after their visit to the island
Mary chanced to be standing at one of the
windows, when she suddenly called to her companion—

"Käthchen, there's a boat coming out from Heimra."

She went quickly and got her binocular
telescope, and returned to the window.

"It's the *Sirène*!" she exclaimed.

"He has seen those flowers," Kate Glendinning
said quietly.

Mary turned to her friend, with something of
concern in her look.

"And if he has, Käthchen, I hope he won't
speak of them.  Don't you think it would be
better—if nothing were said?  Besides, you
don't know that he is coming here at all."

But there was little doubt; and, in fact, on
getting ashore, young Ross made straight for
the house.  When he was announced in the
drawing-room, Mary happened to be standing
near the door—perhaps with the least touch of
conscious colour in the beautiful face.  He, on
the contrary, was pale, and calm, and
self-possessed as usual; only, when he took her
hand in his, he held it for a second.

"I thank you," he said, in rather a low
voice: that was all—and it was enough.

But presently it appeared that his visit had
some other aim; for when he sate down they
saw that he had brought a small parcel with
him; and presently he said—

"I am going to ask a favour of you, Miss
Stanley; and I hope you won't refuse.  I have
brought a little present, if you will be so kind
as to accept it: you may look on it as a
souvenir of your visit to Heimra—for perhaps
you remember the piece of lace you looked
at——"

She remembered very well; it was the
exquisite Spanish mantilla to which Käthchen
had drawn her attention.  And it was not
because this sumptuous piece of work was of
great value that she hesitated about accepting
it: would it not look like despoiling the dead
woman?  Instantly he appeared to divine her thought.

"If my mother were alive," he said, simply,
"she would ask you to take it—and from her,
not from me."

So there was no alternative: Mary silently
accepted the gift.  Nor was there any further
word or hint on either side about that pious
and secret pilgrimage to Heimra Island; but
Donald Ross knew whose hand it was that had
placed those flowers on the white grave.

.. vspace:: 2

One evening, about this time, two men were
dining together in the Station Hotel, Inverness,
in a corner of the long coffee-room; and these
two were Mr. David Purdie, solicitor and
agent, and Mr. James Watson, who was on his
way through to his sheep-farm of Craiglarig.
But if they were dining together, their fare
was very different; for while the
fresh-complexioned, twinkling-eyed farmer was content
with such simple vegetarian dishes as an
ordinary hotel could devise at short notice, the
Troich Bheag Dhearg was attacking an ample
plateful of boiled beef and carrots, while a
decanter of port stood near to his elbow.

"Man, Watson," said the factor, with an
expression of impatient disgust on his harsh,
ill-tempered features, "I wonder to see ye
swallowing that trash!  It's not food for human
beings.  Have ye been so long among sheep
that ye must imitate their very eating?"

"It's live and let live, each in his own way,"
said the well-contented sheep-farmer; and then
he added: "But tell me this, friend Purdie:
if ye object to my eemitating a sheep, what kind
o' animal is't you eemitate?  For there's only
one kind o' crayture I've heard o' that would
eat a dead cow—and that's a hoodie crow."

But this was an incidental remark: presently
they returned to their main object, which was
the condition of Lochgarra.

"It's just terrible to think of," said the Little
Red Dwarf, with his mouth as vindictive as
the process of eating would allow; "it's just
terrible to think of, the waste and extravagance
going forward, on what used to be a carefully-ordered,
carefully-kept estate.  And the pampering
o' they idle, whining, deceitful, ill-thrawn
wretches, that would be the better of a
cat-o'-nine tails to make them work!  Work?  Not
them!—if they can get money out o' the
proprietors or out o' the Government, or out o'
the rates.  And what could ye expect to happen
wi' a silly, ignorant woman coming into such
a nest of liars, and believing everything she
hears?  What could ye expect?  Born liars
every one o' them—ay, from end to end of the
West Highlands: there's not a man o' them
that would not lie the very soul out o' his body
for a dram of whisky!"

"That's an old contention o' yours, friend
Purdie," said the farmer; and then he
proceeded, with a twinkle of humour in his eyes:
"But I'll just tell ye this, man, that it's a
mercy there's one thing in the West
Highlands that will not lie.  One thing at least,
I tell ye.  Among the universal lying, isn't
it a mercy there's one thing will *not* lie—and
that's the snow.  It's a blessing for the
sheep—and for the sheep-farmers."

"And what am I?  Where am I?" resumed
Mr. Purdie, paying no heed to this little
jocosity, for his small, piggish eyes had grown
heated with anger and indignation.  "What
is my poseetion?  I ask ye that.  What have
I to do wi' the estate except to collect what
rent there is left?  It's this fashionable young
dame that must come in to manage the place,
snipping off here and snipping off there,
ordering this and ordering that, building byres and
sheds for nothing, and putting advertisements
in the papers about druggets and blankets to
sell, as if Lochgarra House was a warehousemen's
shop.  I tell ye, it's enough to make
her uncle turn in his grave.  *He* knew better
how to dale wi' they ill-thrawn paupers!  And
what will she not give them, after giving
them Meall-na-Cruagan?—and that without
consulting any one—no 'by your leave' or
'with your leave,' but 'this is what I have
decided, and you can carry it out like a
clerk.'  Man, Watson, ye were a silly creature to
consent to that Meall-na-Cruagan business!  That
was but a beginning—where is to be the end?
Well, I'll tell ye the end!  She'll snip here,
and snip there, until she has divided every
acre of ground among the crofters; and then,
when they've resolved among themselves to
pay no more rent, I suppose they'll be happy.
No, d——n them if they will!—they'll want
her to sell Lochgarra House, and give them
the money to buy more stock."  And here
Mr. Purdie poured himself out a glass of port, and
gulped it as a dog grabs at a rat.

"Ye've never forgiven the folk out there,"
said Mr. Watson, with an amused and demure
air, "since the procession and the burning in
effigy.  Dod, that was a queer business!—I
heard of it away up in Caithness.  But I'm
thinking ye might let bygones be bygones;
ye've had them under your thumb a good while
now—and—and—well, ye might consider that
ye've paid off that score.  But as for the young
leddy—well, I tell ye, friend Purdie, it's just
wonderful what she has done since she cam'
to the place.  A busy, industrious creature;
ay, and she has a way of talking folk over
to her way of thinking; she seems to get on
famously wi' them, though they cannot have
too friendly recollections of her uncle.  Yes,
I will say that for her: an active, well-meaning
creature; and light-hearted as a lintie;
dod, she takes her own way, and gets it too!
But I'm thinking there's a great deal owing
to young Mr. Ross—he goes about wi' her
just conteenually."

"Ay," said the factor, with a malignant
scowl, "I'm told my young gentleman doesna
shut himself up as much wi' his brandy-drinking
as he used to do.  So he comes over
to the mainland sometimes, and goes about
wi' her, does he?"

"Faith, ye may say that," Mr. Watson made
answer, with a laugh.  "They're just insayperable,
as ye might say, any time that he comes
over from Heimra, and that's often enough."  He
regarded the factor curiously.  "Purdie,
my man, that's going to be a match."

For a second Purdie looked startled and
incredulous, but instantly he lowered his eyes
again.

"It's a match, Purdie, depend on't,"
Mr. Watson proceeded, still looking at his
companion with an odd sort of scrutiny.  "And
I have been thinking, if such a thing were
to come about, it might be a wee bit difficult
for you—with young Ross the master at
Lochgarra, eh?  What d'ye think?  Dod, ye'd have
to make friends with him and keep a civil
tongue besides, or he might be for bringing
up old scores."

Mr. Purdie's dinner did not seem to interest
him much after that.  He remained plunged
in a profound reverie, with his truculent mouth
drawn down, the shaggy red eyebrows shading
the small irascible eyes that were now grown
intent and thoughtful.  And when at length
Mr. Watson haled him off to the smoking-room
he did not speak for some considerable
time.  But by and by he said—

"Are ye off by the early train to-morrow, Watson?"

"Yes, indeed.'

"And you go right through?"

"Just that."

"Well, I think I'll bear ye company," said
the Troich Bheag Dhearg, with the heavily
down-drawn mouth expressing something more
than mere decision.  "There's a few things
I want to see to.  And I havena been out
to Lochgarra for some time."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HABET!`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium

   HABET!

.. vspace:: 2

Mary went singing through the house: her
step free and agile, her face radiant, her eyes
shining with good-humour and the delight of life.

"Käthchen," she said, one morning, "the
proofs of the photographs should come to-day,
and if they turn out well I mean to have the
whole of them enlarged, every one of them,
to make a handsome series for Mrs. Armour.
Don't you think they should be very interesting
to those people away over there—'where wild
Altama murmurs to their woe'?  Woe, indeed!
I wish we could import some of their woeful
circumstances into this neighbourhood.  Forty
bushels of wheat to the acre: what do you say
to that?  A hundred and sixty acres of land
for two pounds!  I don't like to think of it,
Käthchen: to tell you the truth, I just hate
to hear Mr. Ross begin and talk about emigration:
it all sounds so horribly reasonable, and
practicable, and right.  Sometimes I lie awake
convincing myself that the very next day or
the next again he will make his appearance
with the announcement that he has decided to
go back to his original intention; and
then—then he will say good-bye to Lochgarra—he
and half the people from about here—and be
off to the Gilbert Plains or the Lake Dauphin
District——"

"You need not be afraid," said Käthchen,
quietly.  "It is neither wheat-fields nor gold-fields
that are likely to allure Mr. Ross.  There's
metal more attractive nearer home.  By the
way, Mamie," she continued, with a certain
significance, "you remember there was a group
taken on the banks of the Connan—and you
and Mr. Ross are standing together.  When
you get the pictures enlarged, are you going to
send any copies of that one to your friends in
the south?"

"Why not?" said she, boldly.

"They may draw conclusions," said Kate
Glendinning, looking at her.

"They are welcome to draw a cart-load of
conclusions!" she retorted; but all the same
she changed the subject quickly.  "Do you
know, Käthchen, it is quite wonderful how
easily things go forward when Donald Ross is
helping me.  Look at the wood-carving
class—started in a moment, almost; and that
left-handed rascal turning out the cleverest of any
of them.  And then he is quite of a mind with
me about corrugated iron——"

"You mean Mr. Ross, Mamie?" said Kate, demurely.

"Of course.  Quite of a mind with me as
to corrugated iron; and I won't have a square
yard of it in the place.  If, as he says, thatch
takes too much time and labour, then they may
have slates for their roofs, in place of the turf
that I hope to see the last of before I have done
with them; but not an inch of corrugated
iron—not an inch.  Oh, I tell you we will have
Lochgarra smartened up in course of time, and
Minard and Cruagan too.  And I will never
rest, Käthchen, I tell you I will never rest
until Lochgarra has taken the first prize at the
Inverness Exhibition—I mean for the best suit
of men's clothes made from the wool of sheep
fed on the croft, and carded, dyed, spun,
hand-loom woven, and cut and sewn in the family.
There!  It may be a long time yet, but I mean
Lochgarra to have it in the end."

"Oh, but you must not stop at that point,"
said Käthchen.  "There are a whole heap of
things to be done before you have finally
established your earthly paradise.  You must
banish all sickness and illness—but especially
rheumatism.  You must abolish old age.  You
must control the climate to suit the crops.
Perhaps you could magnetise the herring-shoals,
and bring them round this way, and
ward off storms at the same time?"

"Käthchen," said Mary abruptly, "why does
he keep harking back on Manitoba?  Don't
you think there is a curious tenacity about his
mind?—he does not change plans or opinions
quickly.  And I know he was resolved on that
emigration scheme.  Why does he still talk
about Manitoba?  If he really has abandoned
that project, why does he still keep thinking
about Portage, and La Prairie, and Brandon?
Of course, I admit that a hundred and sixty
acres for two pounds is very tempting; and
forty bushels of wheat to the acre sounds well;
and I have no doubt the emigrants have better
clothes, and better food, and better cottages,
and that they don't run such risks from floods
and rain.  But still—still there's something
about one's own country——"

"You need not be afraid, Mamie," said Kate
Glendinning again.

Mary went to the window, and remained
there for a minute or two, looking absently
across the wide plain of the sea.

"After all," she said, "it is a very pleasant
and comfortable thing to have a neighbour.
Heimra is a good way off; but all the same, if
you knew there was no one living on the
island, Lochgarra would be a very different
place, wouldn't it, Käthchen?  And Manitoba!
Why, I have seen it stated that there is a most
serious scarcity of water in a great many of the
districts; and that often they have summer
frosts that do incalculable mischief to the grain.
So you see it isn't a certainty!"

"No, it is not," said Käthchen; "but I will
tell you what is, Mamie.  It is a certainty, an
absolute certainty, that Donald Ross of Heimra
will not go to Manitoba, or to any other corner
of Canada, so long as Mary Stanley is living in
Lochgarra."

"Käthchen," rejoined Mary, a little proudly,
"you will go on talking like that until you
believe what you say."

This same afternoon, shortly after luncheon,
Mary left the house alone, which was unusual.
She passed down through the village, greeting
everyone, right and left, with a fine cheerfulness;
for the weather still held good, and there
was a fair chance for the harvest; while her
individual schemes and industries were doing
as well as could be expected.  In fact, the only
idle person in the place, apart from the aged
and infirm, appeared to be John the policeman,
and him she found by the bridge that crosses
the Garra—no doubt he had been amusing
himself by watching for some lively salmon or
sea-trout on its way up the river.  Iain seemed
to have grown plumper and more roseate than
ever in these piping times of peace; and the
smile with which he greeted the young
proprietress was good-nature itself.

"John," said she, "I want you to tell me something."

"Aw, yes, mem," said the amiable John;
and then he added: "but the lads hef been
keeping very quiet."

"So I hear," she answered him.  "The
Gillie Ciotach says he will smash the head of
anyone that wants to fight; and I suppose
that is one way to stop quarrelling."

John laughed, showing his milk-white teeth.

"A very good weh, too, mem.  There's not
many would like to hef their head brokken by
the Gillie Ciotach."

"It is not about that I want you to give me
some information," said Miss Stanley.  "I want
you to tell me if you have been long in this
place.  I mean, do you remember the old castle,
up there in the loch, before it was pulled
down?"

"Aw, yes, mem, yes, indeed," he made
answer.  "Who does not remember Castle Stanley?"

"Oh, nonsense with your Castle Stanley!"
she said, angrily.  "It never was Castle
Stanley, and never will be Castle Stanley.  It
was Castle Heimra; and if I could have my
way it would be Castle Heimra again——"

"Aw, yes, mem," said John, anxious to
please, "who would be for calling it Castle
Stanley?  It is not Castle Stanley at ahl; it's
just Castle Heimra, as it always was—ay, before
any one can remember."

"Well, tell me; what size of a place was it
before it was pulled down?  Was it a big place?"

"Big!" repeated John, doubtfully, for he
did not know which way she wished to be answered.

"Yes, was it a great ruin?" she went on.
"Some of those old castles are mere towers,
you know; and others are great strongholds.
What was Castle Heimra like?  Was it as big
as Ardvreck?"

Now John had jumped to the conclusion that
she wished to have the ancient glories of Castle
Heimra magnified.

"Aw, far bigger nor Ardvreck!" he asserted
confidently.  "Aw, yes, yes; far bigger nor
Ardvreck.  A fearful big place, Castle Heimra—if
you had seen the dingeons, and the towers,
and the windows, and everything——"

"Oh, bigger than Ardvreck?" Mary said,
with fallen face.  And instantly John perceived
that he had erred.

"Aw, no, mem," said he quickly.  "Mebbe
it was bigger nor Ardvreck at one time—that
is a long time ago, before anyone about here can
remember; but Castle Heimra?—aw, no!—a
smahl place, a smahl place, indeed!  There was
nothing but the road out to it, when the loch
was not too high flooded; and then the
archway, and the dingeon, and the tower.  Castle
Heimra!—aw, it's a smahl place was Castle Heimra."

"And do you suppose it could be built up
again?" she asked—but rather to see how far
his complaisance would carry him.

"Quite easy!" said John, without a moment's
hesitation.

"Why, how do you know?" she demanded.
"Are you a builder?"

"The stons are there," John pointed out.
"And if they were pulled down, it is easy to
put them back.  What has been done once can
be done twice."

"Ah, but it would not be Castle Heimra,"
Mary said to herself, rather sadly, as she went
on her solitary way.

In course of time she came within view of
the desolate expanse of mud and stones and
rushes that had once been Heimra loch; and
when she chose out for herself a seat on a
heathery hillock close to the road, there before
her were the tumbled ruins of the stronghold
that had withstood the storms of centuries only
to fall before the withering blast of one man's
spite.  And as she sate there, alone, in the
absolute silence, a kind of desperation came into
her mind.  In all other directions there was
hope for her; but here there was none.
Elsewhere she could labour, and patiently wait for
fruition; but how was she to drag back the
past?  The future had abundant and fair
possibilities within it; and she was naturally
sanguine; her happiness consisted in action; and
perhaps she was looking forward to the time
when she could say to her lover, 'See, this is
what I have striven to do—for your people: is
it well or ill?'  But as between him and her,
would there not be ever and always the
consciousness of this black deed that could in no
wise be recalled or atoned for, that could never
be forgiven or forgotten?  She was not even
allowed to speak: he had declined to hear her
shamefaced expressions of sorrow.  Nay, she
began to think he was too proud, too implacable,
that he would have no word uttered.  And if
she went to him and said: 'Donald, do not
blame me!—I had no part in it: I would give
my right hand to undo what has been done'—would
not his looks still remain haughty and
cold, telling her that she had not ceased to be
the *ban-sassunnach*—a stranger—the enemy of
his race and name?

There was a sound of wheels.  She started to
her feet, for there were tears in her eyes that
she had to hide.  The approaching vehicle turned
out to be the mail-car; and on it were Mr. Purdie
and Mr. Watson, seated beside the driver.
Both of them raised their hats to her, and would
doubtless have driven on, but that she called to
the factor; whereupon the mail-car was stopped,
and Mr. Purdie descended.

"Leave my bag at the inn, Jimmie," he said
to the driver, who sent his horses on again:
then the Troich Bheag Dhearg came along to
the spot at which Mary awaited him.

"I wish to speak to you about one or two
things, Mr. Purdie," she said, in a curiously
reserved and frigid fashion.  "You told me it
was under your direction that the loch here was
drained.  I do not know whether my uncle was
acting on the advice or suggestion of any one;
I can hardly believe that so insensate a piece of
malice could have entered his head without
instigation.  And if there was instigation, if
this thing was done out of ill-will towards the
Rosses of Heimra, then I say it was a cowardly
blow—a mean, shameless, and cowardly blow!"  Her
lips were a little pale; but she was
apparently quite calm.

"It was just the thrawn nature of the people
about here that brought it on themselves," said
the Little Red Dwarf, sullenly.  "The Rosses of
Heimra had no further concern with the loch
and the castle, once the property was sold.
They belonged to your uncle: surely it was for
him to say what they should be called?  Surely
he had the right to do what he liked with his own?"

"In this instance," said Mary, still preserving
that somewhat cold and distant demeanour,
"what he did has got to be undone, as far as
that is now possible.  I suppose it would be
useless to try and rebuild the castle.  Even if
the stones were put up again, it would hardly
be Castle Heimra.  But Loch Heimra can be
restored to what it used to be; and since the
mischief was done under your direction,
Mr. Purdie, you can now take steps to repair it."

"Bless me, Miss Stanley," the factor protested,
"it would be quite useless—perfectly
useless!  The loch was never worth anything
to anybody.  Salmon cannot get up; and there
was nothing in it but a wheen brown trout——"

"It is not the value of the loch I am
considering," she rejoined.  "I wish to make some
reparation, as far as I can.  And I suppose if
those channels you had cut were partially
blocked up, the water from the hills would soon
fill the lake again.  Or you could bring the
Connan round in this direction with very little
trouble, and let it find its way down to the
Garra after going through the loch——"

"The expense, Miss Stanley!—the expense!"

"I tell you I will have this done, if I have
to sell Lochgarra House to do it!" she
said—forgetting for a moment her austere demeanour.
The factor had no further word.  Mary went
on: "It cannot be a difficult thing to do, any
more than the draining was difficult; and it
will give employment to some of the people,
when the harvest is in and the fishing season
over.  So you'd better see about it at once,
Mr. Purdie; and make arrangements.  And there
is to be no more talk of Loch Stanley or of
Castle Stanley either; this is Loch Heimra;
and if Castle Heimra has been pulled
down—shamefully and wickedly pulled down—at
least there are the ruins to show where it
stood."

The factor remained darkly silent, his
vindictive mouth drawn down, his small eyes
morose.  And little did she know what gall
and wormwood she had poured into his heart,
in directing him to employ those very
Lochgarra people in this work of restoration.
However, he made no further protest: indeed, he
endeavoured to assume an air of hopeless
acquiescence—it was his business to obey
orders, even if she should bring the whole
estate to waste and ruin.

But as they together set out to return to the
village, and as she was talking over general
business affairs with him, explaining what she
had done and what she meant to do, he could
not quite conceal his bitter resentment.

"It seems to me, Miss Stanley, that I am
hardly wanted here.  A strange condeetion of
affairs.  The factor the very last one to be
consulted.  And when I think of the way ye allow
these people to impose on ye—well, maybe I'm
not so much astonished; for what could one
expect?—you come here an absolute stranger,
and you wish to do without them that have
experience of the place, and of course you
believe every tale that is told ye.  Though I say
it who maybe should not, Lochgarra was a
well-managed estate; everything actually valued,
and in order; and the tenants, large and small,
knowing fine that they had to fulfil their
contracts, or take the consequences.  But what
prevails now?  A system of wholesale charity,
as it seems to me.  It is giving everything,
and getting nothing.  I hope, Miss Stanley,"
he went on, "ye will not mind my speaking
warmly; for I've done my best for my
employers all my life through; and I cannot be
supposed to like other ways and means—which
were never contemplated by the law of the
land.  If the other proprietors were to go on
as you are doing, there's three-fourths o' them
would be in beggary——"

"It might do them good to try a little of it,"
said she—which was an odd speech for the
owner of a considerable estate.

"And what has been the result?" he
demanded.  "What has been gained by so much
sacrifice?"

"Well," said she, "for one thing, the people
are more contented.  And they are more
friendly towards me.  When I came here at
first I was hated; now I am not so much so.
Quite friendly most of them are—or, at least,
they appear to be."

"Ay, trust them for that!" said the Little
Red Dwarf, scornfully.  "Trust them for
that—the cunningest mongrels that ever whined
for a bone!  Well they know how to fawn and
beslaver, when they're expecting more and
more.  I tell ye, Miss Stanley, ye do not
understand these creatures, and it angers me to think
that ye are being cheated and imposed on right
and left.  Getting more boats and nets?—they'll
laugh at ye, they'll just laugh at ye
when ye ask them to pay up the instalments!
And who is your adviser?—a young man who
is in secret league with them—an underhand,
conspiring ne'er-do-weel, as cunning as any one
of them, and as treacherous——"

"Mr. Purdie," she said—with a sudden
change of tone he did not fail to note, "what
do you mean?  I—I beg you to be a little more
respectful in your language."

"It's the old story," said the factor, with
affected resignation.  "Ye may work and work,
and do the best for your employers; and then
some stranger is called in, new advice is taken,
and all you have done is destroyed.  And I
wonder if the people will be any the better off.
I wonder what change in their condeetion it
will make—what permanent change, when once
you stop putting your hand in your pocket.
Improvements?  Oh, yes, yes; improvements
are all very fine.  But I'm thinking that spending
money on free libraries and the like o' that
will not help them much in getting in their crops."

"As for that," she retorted—but with no
displeasure, only a little quiet confidence, "I
can merely say that I am trying to do my best,
in a great many different ways; and the result,
whatever it may be, is a long way off yet.
And I live in hope.  Of course, there is much
more that I should like to do, and do at once;
but I cannot; for I haven't sufficient money.  I
don't deny that there is a great deal still to be
amended: I can't work miracles.  The people
are very poor—and many of them not too
industrious; the soil is bad; the fishing is
uncertain; and communication difficult.  I dare
say there is even a good deal of wretchedness—or
rather, what a stranger would regard as
extreme wretchedness and misery; but all that
cannot be changed in a moment, even if it turns
out that it can be changed at all.  And at least
there is little sickness; the poorest cottages
have the fresh air blowing around them—they're
better than the London slums, at all events.
And one must just do what one can; and hope
for the best."

"I tell ye, ye are going entirely the wrong
way to work wi' these people, Miss Stanley,"
said he, as they were crossing the bridge and
about to enter the village.  "It's my place to tell
ye.  It's my bounden duty to tell ye.  And I
say they are just making sport wi' ye.  They
are born beggars; work of any kind is an
abomination to them; and you'll find they'll be
like leeches—give, give always; and when
you've ruined the estate on their behalf, what
then?"

"I don't see any such prospect—not at
present," said Mary, cheerfully.

"Who is likely to know most about them,
you or me?" he went on with dogged
persistence.  "Who has had most experience of
them?  Who has had dealings with them for
years and years, and learned their tricks?  A
whining, cringing, useless set, cunning as
the very mischief, and having not even an
idea of what speaking the truth is.  Plausible
enough—oh, ay—plausible with a
stranger—especially when they expect to get
anything."

"Mr. Purdie," said Mary, interrupting him,
"I presume from your name you belong to the
south of Scotland.  Well, I have been told
that the Scotch—the people in the southern half
of Scotland—do not understand the Highland
character at all; and cannot understand it,
for they have no sympathy with it.  I have
been told that the English have far more
sympathy with the Highland nature.  And I
am English."

"Ay, and who told ye that about the Scotch
and the Highlanders?" he said, suddenly and
sharply.

She hesitated for a second.

"It is of little consequence," she answered
him.  "But I would like to add this—that
denunciations of the inhabitants of a whole
country-side do not seem to me of much value.
I suppose human nature is pretty much the
same in Lochgarra as it is elsewhere.
And—and—besides, Mr. Purdie—I do not wish to
hear evil spoken of a people amongst whom I
have many friends."

She spoke with some dignity.

"Evil speaking?" said he, with louring
eyebrows, "I for one am not given to evil
speaking—or the truth might have been told
you ere now."

"The truth?—what truth?" she demanded.

"The truth about one that is too much at
your right hand, Miss Stanley, if I may make
bold to say so."  At this moment they arrived
at the door of the inn; and she paused,
expecting him to leave her; but he said: "No, I
will go on with you as far as Lochgarra House.
It is time I should open my lips at last.  I
have been patient.  I have stood by.  I have
heard what has been going on—and I have
held my tongue.  And why?—because there
are things that it is difficult to speak of to
an unmarried young woman."

Mary was a trifle bewildered.  They were
walking along through the village, on this
quiet afternoon, with nothing to interrupt the
peaceful stillness save the recurrent plash of
the ripples on the beach: it was hardly the
time or the place to be associated with any
tragic disclosure.  Moreover, had she heard
aright?  Was it of Donald Ross he was
speaking?

"And I will say this for myself," the factor
continued, "that I warned ye about the
character of that young man, as plainly as I
dared—ay, the very first day ye set foot in the
place——"

"You mean Mr. Ross?" said she, lightly.
"Pray spare yourself the trouble, Mr. Purdie.
You forget I have had some opportunities of
studying Mr. Ross's character.  I know him a
little.  What did you say?—that you had
something to tell?  Oh, no; don't give yourself the
trouble.  I know him a little."

"You do not know him at all!" he said,
with a vehemence that startled her.  "I tell
ye there is not one in this place who would
dare to tell ye the story; and would I, unless
I was bound to do it?  If there was a married
woman at Lochgarra House, it's to her I would
go; and she would tell ye; but I say it is
my bounden duty to speak—and to speak
plainly——"

"Mr. Purdie, I do not wish to hear," she
said, with some touch of alarm.

"But ye must hear," he said, with set lips
and slow, emphatic utterance.  "Ye are bound
to hear—and to understand the character of
the man ye are publicly associating yourself
with.  A scoundrel of that kind has no right
to be going about with a virtuous and respectable
young woman——"

"Mr. Purdie," she said, hurriedly, "I don't
want to know—I don't believe—I wouldn't
believe——"

"Miss Stanley," he said, with measured
deliberation, "ye have some knowledge of
that poor half-witted creature they call Anna
Chlannach.  But did it never occur to ye to
ask how she came to lose her reason?  Ay,
but if ye had asked, they would not have told
ye; there's not one o' them about here but
would lie through thick and thin to screen that
scapegrace; and what then would be the use
o' your asking?  But I can tell ye; and I say
it's my bounden duty to speak, if there's none
else here to warn ye.  And there is my witness—there
is the living witness to that scoundrel's
licentiousness and wicked cruelty: go to her—ask
herself—ask her what makes her wander
about the shore watching for him, looking out
to Heimra as if the ill he has done her could
now be repaired.  The poor lass, betrayed,
deserted: no wonder she lost her reason—ay,
and it's a good thing the currents along
this coast are strong, or I'm thinking there
might have been a trial for infanticide as
well——"

Mary heard no more: she did not know that
he was still talking to her; she did not know
that he accompanied her almost to the house,
where he left her.  For—after the first fierce
and indignant denial that involuntarily rushed
to her mind—what she saw before her burning
eyes was a series of visions, each of them of
the most terrible distinctness, and all of them
related in some ghastly way to this story she
had just been told.  What were these things,
then, that seemed to sear her very eyeballs?  She
saw the little harbour of Camus Bheag; she saw
the figure of a young girl rocking herself in an
utter abandonment of misery and despair; she
saw piteous hands held out; she heard that
heart-broken wail piercing the silence as the
boat made slowly away for Eilean Heimra.
And then again she was on the heights above
the Garra, and looking down upon the bridge.
Those two there?—she had taken them for
lovers—she had called Käthchen's attention—it
was a pretty scene.  Then the sudden, swift
disappearance of the girl into the woods; and
the young man's easy, confident professions:
all those things grew manifest before her with
an appalling clearness; a blinding light burned
upon them.  Nay, her very first interview
with Anna Chlannach came back to startle her:
she remembered the poor demented girl wandering
among the rocks, all her intelligible talk
being about Heimra: she remembered her
being easily persuaded to walk towards the
house; she remembered, too, how Anna
Chlannach fled in terror the moment she came in
sight of the stranger who knew her history.
What hideous tale was it that seemed to
summon up these scenes, appealing to them for
corroboration?  What was it they seemed to
say was true—true as if written up before her
in letters of fire?

There was no time for her to reason or think.
For here, as it chanced, was this very man—this
Donald Ross—coming down the wide steps
from her own door.  And all her soul was
in revolt.  Her wounded pride—her sense of
humiliation—scorched her like flame.  How
had this man dared to lift his eyes to her?
Unabashed he had come into the same room
with her—he had breathed the same air—he
had touched her hand: a contamination that
was a poisoned sting.  And the people of
Lochgarra, who had seen him and her walking
together: were they cognisant of his low
amours?  They had wagged their heads,
perhaps?  They had looked the one to the other?

"I half-expected to meet you," said Donald Ross.

There was no answer.  But Mary Stanley
did not lower her head, or avert her face; she
was too proud for that; her heart might be
beating as though it would burst its prison,
but to all outward appearance she was quite
unmoved.  She passed him, pale and cold and
silent; and he stood on one side, looking at
her, without a word.  She went into the house;
she took no notice of Käthchen, who was still
in the hall; she made for her own room, and
locked herself in there—voiceless, tearless, with
all the fair fabric of her life, its aims, and
dreams, and ideals, its still more secret and
trembling hopes, become suddenly and at one
blow a tragic desolation of wreckage and ruin.





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.. _`"'TWAS WHEN THE SEAS WERE ROARING"`:

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   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium

   "'TWAS WHEN THE SEAS WERE ROARING."

.. vspace:: 2

It was early morning out at Heimra; the sky
comparatively clear as yet, though there was a
squally look about the flying rags of cloud;
the sea obviously freshening up, and already
springing white along the headlands.  And
here at the little landing-slip were Coinneach
Breac and Calum, waiting by the side of the
yacht's boat, and from time to time conversing
in their native tongue.

"I am not liking the look of this morning,"
said Coinneach, "with the glass down near
half-an-inch since last night.  But if the
master wishes me to go, then it is I who am
ready to go, and I do not care where it is that
I may be going.  For who knows the
anchorages better than himself, and the tides, and the
currents, and the navigation?"

And then presently he said, in a more sombre tone:

"There is something that I do not understand.
Did you look at the master when he
was coming away from the mainland last
evening?  There has a trouble fallen on him:
mark my words, Calum; for you are a young
man and not quick to see such things.  And do
you know what Martha was telling me when
I went up to the house this morning?—she was
telling me that the master was not coming near
the house all the night through; and it is I
myself that saw him coming slowly down the
hill not more than half-an-hour ago.  And if he
was up by the white grave all the night through,
that is not a good thing for a young man.  A
grave without a wall round it is not a good thing."

And then again he said:

"It is I who would like to know who
brought the trouble on the young master; and
last night, as I was lying in my bunk, thinking
over this thing and that thing, and wondering
what it was that had happened, I was
remembering that the Little Red Dwarf came to
Lochgarra yesterday—yes, and he the only
stranger that came to Lochgarra yesterday."

"I wish the Little Red Dwarf were with his
father the devil," said Calum, with calm content.

"And if I thought it was the Little Red
Dwarf that was the cause of the master's
trouble," said Coinneach, with his deep-set grey
eyes full of a dark hatred, "do you know what
I would do, Calum?  I would put the *orra-an-donais*
on him.  That is what I would do, ay,
this very night.  This very night I would take
two branches of hawthorn, and I would nail
them as a cross, and at twelve o'clock I would
put them against his door; and then I would
say this: '*God's wrath to be set against thy face,
whether thou art drowning at sea or burning on
land; and a branch of hawthorn between thy
heart and thy kidneys; and for thy soul the
lowermost floor in hell, for ever and ever*.'  He
is a powerful man, the Little Red Dwarf, and
he has wide shoulders; but how would he fare
with the *orra-an-donais* on his wide shoulders?"

But Calum shook his head.

"No, no," said the long, loutish,
good-humoured-looking lad, "I do not think well of
such things.  They are dangerous things.
They are like the bending of a stick; and who
knows but that the stick may fly back and
strike you?  But this is what I have in my
mind, Coinneach: if the master wishes, then I
would just take the Little Red Dwarf and I
would put him in a pool in the Garra, ay, and
I would hold his head down until he was as dead
as a rat.  Aw, *Dyeea*, there would be no trouble
with the Little Red Dwarf after that!"

"The master!" said Coinneach—and there
was silence.

Young Donald appeared somewhat pale and
tired; but otherwise did not seem out of
spirits.

"Well, Coinneach," he said, cheerfully
enough, as he came up—and he spoke in the
tongue that was most familiar to them—"what
do you think of taking the world for your
pillow—as they say in the old stories; and
would you set out at this very moment?"

"But with you, sir?" said Coinneach, quickly.

"Oh, yes, yes—in the *Sirène*?"

"I am willing to go wherever Mr. Ross
wishes, and at any time, and for any length
of time—it is Mr. Ross himself knows that,"
Coinneach made answer.

"And you, Calum?"

"It is the same that I am saying," responded
the younger lad, with downcast eyes.

"And where would you like to go, Coinneach,
if you have all the world to choose from?" the
young master asked.

"That is not for me to say—that is for
Mr. Ross to say."

"And if you were never to see Eilean Heimra
again?"

"That also to me is indifferent," said
Coinneach, with dogged obedience.

Donald Ross stepped into the boat, and took
his seat in the stern.

"Come away, then, lads; for if we are to
set out on our travels, we must make a hasty
start.  Did you look at the glass this morning,
Coinneach?  And there is a thick bank of cloud
rising in the west: we shall not want for wind,
I'm thinking, when we get outside.  And as
for getting under way at a moment's notice,
well, we can put in stores and everything else
that is wanted when we are safe in Portree
Harbour, with a little time to spare.  For there
is wild weather coming, Coinneach, if I am not
mistaken; but anything is better than being
storm-stayed at Heimra, when it is to the south
you wish to be going."

And he himself helped the two men to get
the vessel in readiness when they had got on
board—ordering them, as a preliminary
precaution, to take down a couple of reefs in the
mainsail.  For even here in this sheltered little
bay, the omens were inauspicious; the sky had
grown dark and the wind had risen; there was
a low and troubled and continuous murmur from
the out-jutting spur on the north.

"It is an angry-looking day to be leaving
Heimra," young Ross said; "but perhaps there
is no one wishing us to remain at Heimra; and
you and I, Coinneach, have been companions
before now.  And if I am asking you to go
away in a hurry, well, there will be time to get
all we want at Portree."

"And what do I want," said Coinneach,
"except tobacco?  And it is not even that
would hinder me from going wherever Mr. Ross
wishes to be going."

The young master went aft to the tiller.  As
the yacht slowly crept forward he turned for a
moment and glanced towards the island they
were leaving.

"Poor old Martha," he said to himself; "I
must try to find another place for her
somewhere and get her away; it would be the
breaking of her heart if she were to see
strangers come to take possession of Eilean
Heimra."

On Eilean Heimra he bestowed this single
farewell glance; but on Lochgarra none.  When
they got outside into the heavily-running seas
he did not turn once to look at the distant bay
and its strip of cottages, nor yet at the
promontory where the sharp gusts of the gale were
already ploughing waves along the tops of the
larchwoods surrounding Lochgarra House.  The
affected cheerfulness with which he had
addressed the two sailors on setting forth was
gone now; his face was pale and worn; the
mouth stern; the eyes clouded and dark.  But
he had his hands full; for every moment the
weather became more threatening.

"Calum," he called out, "go below and fetch
me up my oil-skins.  We are going to catch
something pretty soon."

And so—amid this wild turmoil of driven
skies and black-rolling seas—the *Sirène* bore
away for the south.

And meanwhile at yonder big building among
the wind-swept larches?  All the long and
terrible night Mary Stanley had neither slept
nor thought of sleeping; she had not even
undressed; she had kept walking up and down
her room in a fever of agitation; or she had
sate at the table, her hands clasped over her
forehead, striving to shut out from her memory
that dire succession of scenes, those haunting
visions that seemed to have been burned into
her brain.  And if they would not go?—then
blindly and stubbornly would she refuse to
admit that they lent any air of credibility to
this tale that had been told her.  Nay, she
abased herself; and overwhelmed herself with
reproaches; and called herself the meanest of
living creatures, in that she could have believed,
even for one frantic moment, that base and
malignant fabrication.  Why, had she not
known all along of the deadly animosity that
Purdie, for some reason or another, bore towards
young Ross and all his family?  Had she not
herself discovered that previous charges against
Donald Ross owned no foundation other than a
rancorous and reckless spite?  And she had
taken the unsupported testimony of one who
appeared to be out of his mind with malice and
hatred against the man who was her lover, as
he and she knew in their secret hearts?  In
one second of unreasoning impulse she had
destroyed all those fair possibilities that lay
within her grasp; she had ruined her life; and
wounded to the quick the one that was dearest
to her in all the world.  And well she knew
how proud and relentless he was: he had
forgiven much, to her and hers; but this he would
never forgive.  It was more than an insult; it
was a betrayal: what would he think of her,
even if she could go to him, and make humble
confession, and implore his pardon?  How
could she explain that instant of panic
following her first indignant repudiation—then the
hapless chance that brought him face to face
with her—then the fierce revolt of a maiden
soul against contamination—alas! all in a
sudden bewilderment of error, that could never be
atoned for now.  What must he think of her?—she
kept repeating to herself—of her, faithless,
shameless, who had spurned his loyal trust
in her?  If she went and grovelled in the very
dust before him, and stretched out her hands
towards him, he would turn away from her.
remorseless and implacable.  She was not worthy
of his disdain.

And nevertheless, upbraid herself as she
might, she still beheld before her aching eyes
those two figures on the Garra bridge, followed
by the swift disappearance of the girl into the
woods; and again she saw her down at the
shore, entreating to be taken out to Heimra
Island and piercing the silence with her despair
when she was left behind.  It was not Purdie
who had shown her these things; it was of
her own knowledge she knew them; they had
started up before her, in corroboration of his
impeachment, even as he spoke.  But what if
she were to accept his challenge?  What if
she were to go to Anna Chlannach herself?
He had declared she was his witness—his
living witness.  If there were any foundation
for this terrible story, she would confess the
truth: if, as Mary Stanley strove to convince
herself, the charge was nothing but a deliberate
and malevolent invention, she would be able
to hurl the black falsehood back in his teeth.
He had challenged her to go to Anna Chlannach:
to Anna Chlannach she would go.

And then (as the blue-grey light of the
dawn appeared in the window-panes) a sense
of her utter helplessness came over her.  That
poor, half-witted creature knew no word of
English.  And how was she to appeal to any
third person, asking for intervention?  How
could she demean herself by repeating such a
story, and by admitting even the possibility of
its being true?  Nay more: might not her
motives be misconstrued?  What would the
third person, the interpreter, think of these
shamefaced inquiries?  That the mistress of
Lochgarra House was moved by an angry
jealousy of that poor wandering waif?  That
Mary Stanley and Anna Chlannach were in
the position of rivals?  Her cheeks burned.
Not in that way could she find the means of
hurling back Purdie's monstrous accusation.

The white daylight broadened over land and
sea; and away out yonder was Heimra Island,
shining all the fairer because of the black and
slow-moving wall of cloud along the western
horizon.  What had happened since yesterday,
then?  She hardly knew: she knew only that
her heart lay heavy within her bosom, and that
despair instead of sleep seemed to weigh down
her eyelids.  Was it only yesterday that she
had been away up at Loch Heimra, imagining
it once more a sheet of water, and pleasing
herself with the fancy that some afternoon she
would bring her lover along the road with her,
to show him what she had done to make meek
amends?  Yesterday, when she thought of
him, which was often enough, joy had filled
her whole being, and kindness, and gratitude,
and well-wishing to the universal world.
Yesterday he and she were friends; and to
look forward to their next meeting was to her
a secret delight which she could dwell upon,
even in talking with strangers.  But
now—this new day: what had it brought her, that
she was so numb, and cold, and hopeless?
And what was this that lay so heavy in her
breast?

Suddenly she sprang to her feet—her eyes
staring.  A boat was creeping out from the
southernmost headland of Eilean Heimra.  It
was a small vessel with sails: it was the *Sirène*,
she made sure.  And was he coming ashore
now—coming straight to Lochgarra House, as was
his wont—coming, in open and manly fashion
to demand an explanation from her?  And
even if he were to upbraid her, and shower
anger and scorn upon her, what then?—so
long as he showed himself not wholly
unforgiving, so long as he allowed her to speak.
But as she stood at the window there, intently
watching the distant ship, a shuddering
suspicion seemed to paralyse her.  The *Sirène* was
not coming this way at all: it was slowly,
gradually, unmistakably making for the south.
And no sooner had this fear become a certainty
than the world appeared to swim around her.
There was to be no explanation, then?—not
even that torrent of bitter and angry reproach?
He was going away—silent, stern, inexorable?
This was his answer?  He would not stoop to
demand explanations: he would simply
withdraw?  It was not fit that he should mate or
match with such as she.

And at the same moment she caught sight
of Big Archie, who was pulling out to his boat.
In her terror, and despair, and helplessness,
she did not think twice; her resolution was
formed in a moment; she threw a shawl over
her head and shoulders, and fled downstairs,
and out into the open.  Quickly she made her
way along the beach.

"Archie!" she called, in the teeth of the
wind.  "Archie!  Archie!  I want you!—come
ashore, quick!"

The heavy-shouldered and heavy-bearded
fisherman, who was still in the smaller boat,
paused on his oars for a second; and then,
probably understanding more from her gestures
than from her words what she wished, he
headed round and made for the beach.  And
before he had reached the land she had called
to him again.

"Archie, that is the *Sirène*—going away
from Heimra?"

"Yes, indeed, mem," said Archie.

"You must take me out in your lugger,
Archie," she said, in a frenzied sort of way.
"There's not a moment to be lost: even if you
can't sail as quick as they can, never mind—we
will get some distance after them—they
will see us—we can signal to them——"

The bow of the small boat rose on the
shingle and seaweed; Big Archie stepped out
and pulled it up a bit further.  He did not
quite understand at first what was demanded
of him; perhaps he was a trifle scared by the
unusual look on Miss Stanley's face—the pallid
cheeks, the piteous and anxious eyes; but when
he did comprehend, his answer was a serious
and earnest remonstrance.

"Aw, *Dyeea*, do you not see what it is
threatening out there?" said he, quite concerned.

"I do not care about that," she answered
him.  "If the *Sirène* can go out, so can you.
And you have the sail up, Archie!"

"Ay, ay, indeed," he explained, "bekass I
was thinking of going round to Ru Gobhar, to
hef a look at the lobster-traps.  But when I
was seeing the bad weather threatening, and
the glass down, then I was just going out to
the boat to get the sail lowered again and the
young lad brought ashore.  It is just anything
I would do to please Miss Stanley; but it is
looking very, very bad; and we could not
catch up on the *Sirène* whatever—aw, no!—it
is no use to think my boat could get near to
the *Sirène*, and her a first-class yat and a fine
sailer.  And Miss Stanley getting very wet,
too, for there's a heavy sea outside——"

"Archie," she said, in an imploring voice,
"if you are a friend of mine, you will try!
You will try to stop the *Sirène*—cannot we
make some signal to her?  And you said the
young lad was in the boat?—and the sail is
up—we could get away at once——"

"Oh, if you wish it, mem, that is enough
for me," he said; and presently he had got
her into the stern of the small boat, had shoved
off, and was pulling out to the big,
brown-sailed lugger.

Archie had moorings in the bay, so that
they lost no time in setting forth.  And at
first everything went well enough; for they
had merely to beat out against the swirls of
wind that came into the sheltered harbour;
and the water was comparatively smooth.  But
when they got into the open they found a
heavy sea running; and the lugger began to
dip her bows and fling flying showers of spray
down to the stern; while the bank of black
cloud in the west was slowly advancing,
heralded by torn shreds of silver that chased
each other across the menacing sky.  Big
Archie took off his jacket and offered it to
Miss Stanley, to shield her from the wet; but
she obstinately refused, and bade him put it
on again: her sole and whole attention was
fixed on the phantom-grey yacht down there
in the south, that was every other moment
hidden from view by the surging crests of the
waves.  She had to cling to the gunwale, to
prevent her being hurled from her seat; for
the lugger was labouring sorely, and
staggering under these successive shocks; but all
the same her eyes, though they smarted from
the salt foam, were following the now distant
*Sirène* with a kind of wild entreaty in them,
as though she would fain have called across
the waste of waters.

"Can they see us, Archie?—can they see
us?" she cried.  "Could not the boy climb
up to the mast-head and wave something?"

"Aw, no, mem," said Archie, "they are
too far aweh.  They are far too far aweh.
And they are not knowing we are looking
towards them."

"But if we keep right on to Heimra?" said
she, in her desperation.  "Surely they will
see we are making for the island—they will
come back——"

"They would just think it was the Gillie
Ciotach going out to look after the
lobster-traps," said Archie.

"Not in this weather!" she urged.  "Not
in this weather!  They must see it is something
of importance.  They will see the boat going
out to Heimra—they are sure to come back,
Archie—they are certain to come back!"

"We will hold on for Heimra if you wish
it, mem—but there's a bad sea getting up,"
said Archie, with his eye on those tumultuous
swift-running masses of water, the crashing
into which caused even this heavy craft to
quiver from stem to stern.  By this time the
heavens had still further darkened around
them—a boding gloom, accompanied, as it was,
by a fitful howling of wind; while rain
was falling in torrents.  Not that this latter
mattered very much, for they were all of them
drenched to the skin by the seas that were
leaping high from the lugger's bows; only
that the deluge thickened all the air, so that
it became more and more difficult to catch
a glimpse of the now fast-receding *Sirène*.
Archie paid but little attention to the yacht;
he seemed to have no hope of attracting her
notice; but he was greatly distressed about
the condition of the young mistress of Lochgarra.

"If I had known, mem—if I had known
early in the moarning—I would hef brought
something to cover you," said he, in accents of
deep commiseration.  "It is a great peety——"

"Never mind about that, Archie," said she.
"Don't you think they must know now that
we are making for Heimra?"

"They are a long weh aweh," said Big
Archie, shaking the salt water from his
eyebrows and beard.  "And they will be looking
after themselves now.  It was a stranche thing
for Mr. Ross to put out with a storm coming on."

"Is there any danger, Archie?" she said,
quickly.  "Are they going into any danger?"

Archie was silent for a second.

"I am not knowing what would mek Mr. Ross
start out on a moarning like this," said
he.  "And where he is going I cannot seh.
But he is one that knows the signs of the
weather—aw, yes, mem!—and it is likely he
will make in for Gairloch, or Loch Torridon,
or mebbe he will get as far down as the back
of Rona Island——

"No, no, Archie, he must see us—he cannot
help seeing us!" she exclaimed.  "When we
are getting close to Heimra, then he cannot
help seeing us—he will understand—and surely
he will come back!"

And meanwhile the gale had been increasing
in fury: the wind moaning low and whistling
shrill alternately, the high-springing spray
rattling down on the boat with a noise as of
gravel.  The old lugger groaned and strained
and creaked—burying herself—shaking
herself—reeling before the ponderous blows of the
surge; but Archie gave it her well; there was
no timorous shivering up into the wind.  His
two hands gripped the sheet—the tiller under
his arm; his feet were wedged firm against
the stone ballast; his mouth set hard; his eyes
clear enough in spite of the driving rain and
whirling foam.  And now this island of Heimra
was drawing nearer—if the *Sirène* far away
in the south had almost vanished.

"Look now, Archie!—look now, for I can
see nothing," she said, piteously.

He raised himself somewhat; and scanned
the southern horizon, as well as the heaving
and breaking billows would allow.

"Aw, no, mem, the *Sirène* is not in sight at
ahl—not in sight at ahl now," he said.

She uttered a stifled little cry, as of despair.

"Archie," she said, "could you not follow
down to Loch Torridon?"

"Aw, God bless us, mem, the boat would not
live long in a sea like this—it is getting worse
and worse every meenit——"

"Very well," said she, wearily, "very well.
You have done what you could, Archie: now
there is nothing but to get away back home again."

But that was not at all Big Archie's intention.

"Indeed no, mem," said he, with decision,
"I am not going aweh back to Lochgarra, and
you in such a state, mem, when there is a good
shelter close by, ay, and a house.  It is into
Heimra Bay that I am going; and there is the
house; and Martha will hef your clothes dried
for you, mem, and give you warm food and
such things.  And mebbe the gale will quiet
down a little in the afternoon, or mebbe
to-morrow it will quiet down, and we will get
back to Lochgarra; but it is not weather for
an open boat at ahl."

She made no answer.  She did not seem to
care.  She sate there with eyes fixed and
haggard: perhaps it was not the cliffs of
Heimra she saw before her, but the wild
headlands of Wester Ross, and a lurid and thundering
sea, and a small phantom-grey yacht flying
for shelter.  She appeared to take no notice as
they rounded the stormy point with its furious,
boiling surge, and as they gradually left behind
them that roaring waste of waves, escaping into
the friendly quietude of the land-locked little
bay.  She was quite passive in Archie's
hands—getting into the small boat listlessly when
the lugger had been brought to anchor; and
when she stepped ashore she set out to walk up
to the house, he respectfully following.  But
she had miscalculated her strength.  For one
thing, she had not tasted food since the middle
of the previous day; nor had she once closed
her eyes during the night.  Then she was
dazed with the wind and the rain; her clothes
clung to her and chilled her to the bone; the
feverish anxiety of the morning had left her
nerves all unstrung.  Indeed, she could not
drag herself up the beach.  She went a few
steps—hesitated—turned round as if seeking
for help in a piteous sort of way—then she
sank on to the rocks, and abandoned herself to
a passion of grief and despair, from sheer weakness.

"I cannot go up to the house, Archie," she
said, in a half-hysterical fashion, amid her
choking sobs, "and—and why should I go—to
an empty house?  It—it is empty—you—you
let the *Sirène* sail away—but—but never mind
that—it is all my fault—more than you know.
And I want you to leave me here, Archie—go
away back to Lochgarra—there is no one cares
what becomes of me—what does it matter to
anyone?  I do nothing but harm—nothing but
harm—there is no need to care what becomes
of me——"

The huge, lumbering, good-hearted fisherman
was in a sad plight: he knew not in the least
what to do; he stood there irresolute, the
deepest concern and sympathy in his eyes,
himself unable or not daring to utter a word.
But help was at hand.  For here was Martha,
hurrying along as fast as her aged limbs would
allow, and bringing with her a great fur rug.

"Dear, dear me!" she exclaimed, as she came
up.  "What could mek Miss Stanley venture
out o' the house on a day like this?"

And therewith she put the rug round the
girl's shoulders, and got her to her feet, and,
with many encouragements and consolatory
phrases, assisted her on her way up from the
shore.

"I will get a nice warm bed ready for you
at once, mem," said the old dame, "with plenty
of blankets; and I will bring you something
hot and comfortable for you, for you hef got
ferry, ferry wet.  Dear, dear me!—but we'll
soon hef you made all right; for Mr. Ross
would be an angry man, ay, indeed, if he was
hearing that Miss Stanley had come to Heimra,
and not everything done for her that could be
done."

But when, after struggling through the
blinding rain, they reached the porch, and
when Martha had opened the front-door, Miss
Stanley did not go further than the hall: she
sank exhausted into the solitary chair there.

"Martha," she said, "do not trouble about
me.  I want to ask you a question.  Did
Mr. Ross say where he was going when he left in
the *Sirène* this morning?"

"No, mem—not a word," Martha answered
her, "about where he was going, or when he
was coming back.  It was a strange way of
leaving—and in the face of such weather; but
young people they hef odd fancies come in their
head.  Think of this, mem, that he never was
near the house last night; he was aweh up the
hill; and I'm feared that he was saying
good-bye to his mother's grave, and that it will be
long ere we see him back in Heimra again.
For he is a strange young man—and not like
others.  But you'll come aweh now, mem, and
get off your wet things: it is Mr. Ross himself
would be terrible angry if you were not well
cared for in this house."

The day without was sombre and dark; and
the light entering here was wan: perhaps that
was the cause of the singular alteration in Mary
Stanley's appearance.  She—who had hitherto
been always and ever the very embodiment of
buoyant youth, and health, and high spirits—now
looked old.  And her eyes were as if night
had fallen upon them.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A MISSION`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium

   A MISSION.

.. vspace:: 2

All that day the gale did not abate in fury;
nor yet on the next; and even on the third
day Gilleasbuig Mor still hesitated about trying
to get back to Lochgarra, for the sea was
running high, and the wind blew in angry
gusts and squalls.  But on the morning of this
third day communication with the mainland
was resumed; for shortly after eleven o'clock
a lug-sail boat made its appearance, coming
round the point into the little bay; and at a
glance Archie knew who this must be—this
could be no other than that venturesome
dare-devil the Gillie Ciotach, who had doubtless
been sent out by Miss Glendinning to gain
tidings of her friend.  Big Archie went down
to the slip, to await the boat's arrival.

And when the Gillie Ciotach, whose sole
companion was a little, old, white-headed man
called Dugald MacIsaac, came ashore he was
in a triumphant mood over his exploit, and
had nothing but taunts and jeers for the
storm-stayed Archie.

"Aw, God," said he (in Gaelic) as he fetched
out the parcels that had come by the mail for
Martha, "there is nothing makes me laugh
so much as a Tarbert man when there is a
little breeze of wind anywhere.  A Tarbert
man will hide behind a barn-door; and if a
rat squeaks, his heart is in his mouth.  For
what is Loch Fyne?  Loch Fyne is only a
ditch.  A Tarbert man does not learn anything
of the sea; he runs away behind a door if
there is a puff of wind blowing anywhere.
And have you taken possession of Heimra,
Archie?  Are you going to stay here for
ever?  Are you never going back to Lochgarra?"

"Andrew," said Big Archie, quite
good-naturedly, "you are a clever lad; but maybe
you do not know what the wise man of Mull
said: he said, '*The proper time is better than too soon*.'

"Too soon?  And is it too soon, then, for
me to come over?" said the young man of
the slashed forehead and the bold eye.

"You!" said Big Archie.  "But who is
mindful of you or what becomes of you?  When
I go over to Lochgarra, it is a valuable cargo
I will have with me.  That is what makes
me mindful.  You?—who cares whether you
and your packages of tea go to the bottom?"

But the Gillie Ciotach was so elate over this
achievement of his that, instead of bandying
further words, he stood up to Big Archie, and
began to spar, dancing from side to side, and
aiming cuffs at him with his open hand.  The
huge, good-humoured giant bore this for a
while, merely trying to ward off these playful
blows; but at last—the Gillie Ciotach unwarily
offering an opportunity—Archie suddenly
seized him by the breeches and the scruff of
the neck, and by a tremendous effort of strength
heaved him off the slip altogether—heaved him.
into a bed of seaweed and sand.

The Gillie Ciotach picked himself up slowly,
and slowly and deliberately he took off his
jacket.  His brows were frowning.

"We will just settle this thing now, Archie,"
said he, stepping up on to the slip again.  "We
will see who is the better man, you or I.  You
can catch a quick grip—oh, yes, and you have
strength in your arms; but maybe in an honest
fight you will not do so well——"

"Oh, be peaceable!—be peaceable!" said
Big Archie.  "If you want fighting, go and
seek out some of the Minard lads—though
that would be carrying timber to Lochaber,
as the saying is."

"Andrew, my son," said the little old man
in the boat, "there is the Baintighearna come
to the door."

The Gillie Ciotach glanced towards the porch
of the cottage; and there, sure enough, was
Miss Stanley—and also Martha.

"It is the luck of Friday that is on me,"
he said, with a laugh; "for I am the one that
was to stop all the fighting!  Well, come away
up to the house, Archie; you are a friendly
man; and if she asks why I was taking off
my jacket, you will swear to her that I was
only searching for my pipe.  For a lie is good
enough for women at any time."

They got up to the house, and the Gillie
Ciotach delivered his parcels, and the
newspapers, and one or two letters, and said that
Miss Glendinning had sent him over to take
back assurances of their safety.

"But I was telling the lady there was no
chance of harm," said he; "for we saw Miss
Stanley go on board, and we saw Archie's lugger
standing in for Heimra, and every one knew there
would be good shelter from the storm——"

"And the *Sirène*, Andrew—have you heard
anything of the *Sirène*?" Mary asked quickly—and
her eyes were alert and anxious, if the
rest of her features looked tired and worn.

"Aw, the *Sirène*, mem?" said the Gillie
Ciotach, confidently.  "I am sure the *Sirène*
is just as safe as any of us.  There's no harm
coming to the *Sirène*, mem, as long as Mr. Ross
himself is on board.  It's the God's truth
I'm telling ye, mem.  Mr. Ross he would put
in to Loch Broom or Loch Ewe; and he knows
every anchorage to half a fathom; and, with
plenty of chain out, and an anchor-watch,
where would the harm be coming to him?"

"You have no doubt of it, Andrew?"

"It's as sure as death, mem!" said the
Gillie Ciotach, with an almost angry vehemence.

She seemed a little relieved.

"And the sea outside, Andrew—is it very bad?"

"It's a bit wild," he admitted; and then he
added, with a cool audacity: "but mebbe Miss
Stanley would be for going back with me now,
if Archie is too afraid to go out?"

"Oh, no, thank you," said she.  "If Archie
does not think it safe, I should not think of
venturing.  I will wait for him—thank you
all the same."

Here there was an awkward pause.  Mary
left the little group, walking over to the edge
of the plateau, to get a better view of the
distant and troubled line of the sea.  The
Gillie Ciotach stood twirling his Glengarry
bonnet.  Then he said timidly to Martha—

"Are there any empty casks going back?"

"None but yourself, Andrew, my lad," said
Martha, with a dark smile in her eyes.

At this he plucked up spirit.

"There's a way of curing that, as you know,
Martha," said he.  "And it's many's the time
I have come out to Heimra, and I never before
had to complain of going away like an empty cask."

"And you need not complain of it now,
Andrew, my son," said Martha.  "Come away
round to the kitchen, and I will get you
something—ay, and you will take something down
to old Dugald, too.  For although the master
of the house is not in his own home, I know
his wish; and it is I who would get the blame
if any one went away hungry or cold from
Eilean Heimra."

But it was not until the afternoon that Big
Archie considered it prudent to cross to the
mainland; and a rough passage they had of
it.  Mary, however, was on this occasion
provided with an abundance of wraps; and was
indifferent to wind, and spray, and rain.
Possibly there may have been other reasons for
her apathy.

Kate Glendinning was down at the slip
beside the quay.

"Mamie," she exclaimed, when her friend
landed, "what took you out to Heimra on that
wild morning?  I could not believe it when
I was told.  And I sent over to know you
were safe as soon as I could get any one to
go.  What is the meaning of it all?  If you
had seen the people watching the boat!—they
did not know what might happen."

"I cannot explain; and you must not ask,
Käthchen, now or at any time," was her answer.
"But tell me, has the gale done much damage?
The harvest was looking so well in those little
patches——"

"Damage?" said Käthchen.  "It isn't
damage, Mamie; it is destruction—devastation—everywhere.
Oh, it is pitiable.  The corn
beaten down—the crofts flooded—well, well,
the only thing to be said is that the poor people
are not so disheartened as you might expect.
Perhaps they are used to such bitter
disappointments.  I do believe this place is fit
only for sheep—and hardly fit for them."

"What can I do, Käthchen," said Mary, with
a curious listlessness, "beyond lowering their
rent again?  I suppose that is all I can do.
They would not go to Manitoba with me: would
they, Käthchen?  Do you think they would?
Would you, now?"

"Manitoba?" repeated Käthchen, looking
at her.  "What has happened, Mamie?  I
don't understand the way you speak.  Why
should you talk about Manitoba, when you were
so set against it?"

"The climate appears to be so uncertain here,"
she said, rather wearily, as they were ascending
the steps of Lochgarra House; "and—and the
people have of late been more friendly towards
me; and I would like to do what I could for
them.  There is nothing to keep me in this
country.  I would go away willingly with
them—to Canada, or anywhere.  But perhaps not
you, Käthchen.  I could not expect you.  All
your interests are in this country—or in England,
at least.  But if I were to sell Lochgarra, I
could get money to take them all away to
Canada, and buy good land for them, and see
them comfortably established; and then I should
have done my duty by them, as I intended to
do when I came here at first.  And—and I don't
think I should care to come back."

She furtively wiped away the tears from her
lashes: Käthchen did not notice.  They were
passing through the hall now.

"I cannot understand what you mean, Mamie.
What is it?  What has happened?  Did you
see Mr. Ross when you were at Heimra?  I
heard that the *Sirène* had left the morning you
went out—and I took it for granted that
Mr. Ross had gone with her——"

"Käthchen, to please me," she said, beseechingly,
"will you never mention Heimra again?
Mr. Ross is away—and—and I have been to the
island for the last time; that is all."

When they went into the room, she threw
herself down on a couch, and put her clasped
hands on the arm of it, and hid her face.  She
was not crying; she merely seemed overcome
with fatigue and lassitude.  Kate Glendinning
knelt down beside her, and with gentle fingers
caressingly stroked and smoothed the beautiful
golden-brown hair that had been all dishevelled
by the wind.

"What is it, Mamie?"

"Tell me about the farms, Käthchen," was
the answer, uttered in a hopeless kind of way.
"I don't know anything about farm work,
except what I have been told since I came here.
Are the crops so completely destroyed?  Would
not fine weather give them another chance?
Surely entire ruin cannot have been caused by
one gale—gales are frequent on this coast——"

"This one came at a bad time, Mamie," said
her companion; "and a great part of the corn
will have to be cut and given to the cows.  But
why should you distress yourself unnecessarily?
It was none of your fault.  You have done
everything for these poor people that could be
devised.  And, as I tell you, they seem used to
misfortunes of this kind; there is no bewailing;
their despondency has become a sort of habit
with them——"

"Send for Mr. Purdie: I wish to see him"—this
was what came from those closed hands.
But the next moment she had thrown herself
upright.  "No!" she said, fiercely.  "No, I
will not see Mr. Purdie.  With my consent,
Mr. Purdie shall never enter this house again."

"Mr. Purdie left on the very day you went
out to Heimra," said Käthchen, gently; and
then she went on: "You are hiding something
from me, Mamie.  Well, I will not ask any
further.  I will wait.  But I am afraid you are
very much fatigued, and upset, and I can see
you are not well.  Now will you be persuaded,
Mamie!  If you will only go to bed you will
have a far more thorough rest; and I will bring
you something that will make you sleep.  Why,
your forehead is burning hot, and your hands
quite cold!—and if you were to get seriously
ill, that would be a good deal worse for the
crofters than the flattening down of their corn!"

She was amenable enough; she consented to
be led away; she was ready to do anything
asked of her—except to touch food or drink.

And yet the next morning she was up and
out of the house before anyone was awake, and
she was making away for the solitude of the
hills.  She wished to be alone—and to look at
the wide sea.  She walked slowly, but yet her
sick heart was resolute; the arduous toil of
getting up the lower slopes and corries, filled
with bracken, and rocks, and heather, did not
hinder her; she turned from time to time to
look, absently enough, at the ever-broadening
plain of the Atlantic, rising up to the pale
greenish-turquoise of the sky.  And in time
she had got over this rough ground, and had
reached the lofty and sterile plateaus of
peat-bog and grass, where, if it was loneliness she
sought, she found it.  No sign of life: no sound,
except the plaintive call of a greenshank from a
melancholy tarn: no movement, save that of the
silver-grey masses of cloud that came over from
the west.  But away out yonder was the deserted
island of Heimra; and far in the south were the
long black promontories—Ru-Minard, Ru-Gobhar,
and the rest—behind which a boat would
disappear when it left for other lands.  And had
she heard of the Fhir-a-Bhata?  Did Kate
Glendinning know of the song that is the most
familiar, the greatest favourite of all the West
Highland songs; and had she told her friend of
the maiden who used to go up the cliffs, day by
day, to watch for the coming of her lover?—

   |  'I climb the mountain and scan the ocean,
   |  For thee, my boatman, with fond devotion:
   |  When shall I see thee?—to-day?—to-morrow?
   |  Oh, do not leave me in lonely sorrow!

   |  Broken-hearted I droop and languish,
   |  And frequent tears show my bosom's anguish:
   |  Shall I expect thee to-night to cheer me?
   |  Or close the door, sighing and weary.'

This, at least, Kate Glendinning soon began to
learn—that nearly every morning now Mary
left the house, entirely by herself, and was away
by herself, in these desolate altitudes.  It was
clear she wished for no companionship; and
Käthchen did not offer her services.  Nor was
any reference made to these solitary expeditions.
The rest of the day Mary devoted herself to her
usual work—increased, at this time, by her
investigations into the extent of the injury done
by the gale: as to the rest there was silence.

And thus it was that Käthchen remained
ignorant of this curious fact—that day by day
these excursions were gradually being shortened.
Day by day Mary Stanley found that her
strength would not carry her quite so far: she
had to be content with a lesser height.  And at
last she had altogether to abandon that laborious
task of breasting the hill; she merely, and
wearily enough, walked away up the Minard
road—whence you can see a portion of the
southern and western horizon; and there she
would sit down on the heather or a boulder of
rock—with a strange look in her eyes.

"Mamie!" said Käthchen, one evening—and
there was grief in her voice.  "Won't you tell
me what has happened!  I cannot bear to see
you like that!  You are ill.  I tell you, you are
seriously ill; and yet you will not say a word.
And there is no one here but myself; I am in
charge of you; I am responsible for you; and
how can I bear to see you killing yourself before
my eyes?"

Mary was lying on the couch, her face averted
from the light.

"You are right in one way, Käthchen," she
said, rather sadly.  "Something has happened.
But no good would come of speaking about it;
because it cannot be undone now.  And as for
being ill, I know what will make me well.  It
is only sleep I want.  It is the sleep that knows
no waking that I wish for."

Käthchen burst out crying, and flung herself
down on her knees, and put her arms round her
friend.

"Mamie, I declare to you I will not rest
until you tell me what this is!" she exclaimed
passionately.

Nor did she.  And that very evening, after
an unheard-of pleading and coaxing on the one
side and despairing protest on the other, all
those recent occurrences were confided to the
faithful Käthchen.  She was a little bewildered
at first; but she had a nimble brain.

"Mamie," she said, with a firm air, "I don't
know what doubts, or if any, may still be
lingering in your mind; but I am absolutely convinced
that that story of Purdie's is a lie—a wicked
and abominable lie.  And I can guess what
drove him to it: it was a bold stroke, and it was
nearly proving successful; but it shall not prove
successful.  I will make it my business to get
Donald Ross back to Lochgarra—and then we
shall have an explanation."

"Do you think he will come back to
Lochgarra?  Then you do not know him," Mary
made answer, and almost listlessly.  "Do you
imagine I have not considered everything, night
after night, ay, and every hour of the night all
the way through?  He will never come back
to Lochgarra—if it is to speak to me that you
mean.  I have told you before: it seems a
fatality that he and his should receive nothing
but injury and insult at our hands, from one
member of our family after another; and never
has there been a word in reply—never a single
syllable of reproach—but only kindnesses
innumerable, and thoughtfulness, and respect.
Well, there is an end of respect now.  How can
he have anything but scorn of me?  If I were
to confess to him that I had believed that
story—even for one frightened moment—what could
he think of me?  Why, what he thinks of me
now—as a base creature, ignoble, ungrateful,
unworthy—oh! do you imagine I cannot read
what is in that man's heart at this moment?"

"Do you imagine I cannot?" said Käthchen,
boldly.  "I have not been blind all these
months.  What is in that man's heart, Mamie,
is a passionate love and devotion towards you;
and there is no injury, and no insult, he would
not forgive you if he thought that you—that
you—well, that you cared for him a little.  Oh,
I know both you and him.  I know that you
are wilful and impulsive; and I know that he is
proud, and sensitive, and reserved; but I
think—I think—well, Mamie, no more words; but
I am going to have my own way in this matter,
and you must let me do precisely what I please."

And that was all she would say meanwhile.
But next day was a busy day for Kate Glendinning.
First of all she went straight to the
Minister and demanded point-blank whether
there were, or could be, any foundation for that
story about Anna Chlannach; and the Minister—not
directly, of course, but with many lamentations,
in his high falsetto, over the wickedness
of the human mind in harbouring and uttering
slanders and calumnies—answered that he had
known Anna Chlannach all her life, and that
she had been half-witted from her infancy, and
that the tale now told him was an entire and
deplorable fabrication.  Indeed, he would have
liked to enlarge on the theme, but Kate was
in a hurry.  For she had heard in passing
through the village that the Gillie Ciotach was
about to go over to Heimra, with the parcels
and letters that had come by the previous day's
mail; and it occurred to her that here was
a happy chance for herself.

"Now, Andrew," she said, when she was
seated comfortably in the stern of the lugger,
"keep everything smooth for me.  I haven't
once been sea-sick since I came to Lochgarra,
and I don't want to begin now."

"Aw, is it the sea-seeckness?" said the
Gillie Ciotach.  "Well, mem, when you feel
the seeckness coming on, just you tell me, and
I will give you something to mek you all right.
Ay, I will give you a good strong glass of
whiskey; and in a moment it will make the
seeckness jump out of your body."

"Whiskey?" said Käthchen.  "Do you
mean to say you take a bottle of whiskey with
you every time you put out in a boat?"

"Aw, as for that," said the Gillie Ciotach—and
he was clearly casting about for some
portentous lie or another—"I was saying to Peter
Grant that mebbe the young leddy might have
the sea-seeckness; and Peter he was saying to
me, 'Tek a smahl bottle of whiskey with you,
Andrew, and then she will hef no fear of the
sea-seeckness.'  And it was just for yourself,
mem, I was bringing the whiskey."

"And a pretty character you seem to have
given me at the inn!" said Käthchen, as she
contentedly wrapped herself up in her rugs.

Martha had seen the boat on its way into
the harbour; she had come out to the door of
the cottage; a visitor was welcome in this
solitary island.

"Martha," she said, as soon as she had
got within, "have you heard any news of
late?—can you tell me where the *Sirène* is now?"

"Yes, indeed, mem," said the old Highland
dame, with wondering eyes.  "But do you not
know that the *Sirène* is at the bottom of the
sea?  Was the master not writing to Miss
Stanley about it?"

"We have not heard a word," Käthchen exclaimed.

"Dear, dear me now!" said Martha.  "That
is a stranche thing."

"But tell me—tell me about it," said
Käthchen anxiously.  "There was no one drowned?"

"No, no," said Martha, with much complacency.
"There was plenty of time for them
to get into the boat.  And the master not
writing to Miss Stanley at the same time he was
writing to me—that is a stranche thing.  But
this was the weh of it, as he says; that it was
an ahfu' dark night, the night of the first day
of the gale; and they were mekkin for shelter
between Scalpa and Skye, and they had got
through the Caol-Mòr, and were coming near
to an anchorage, when they ran into a trading
schooner that was lying there without a single
light up.  Without a single light, and the
night fearful dark: I'm sure the men should
be hanged that would do such a thing, to save
a little oil."

"And where is Mr. Ross now?" asked Käthchen.

"Just in Greenock.  He says he will try to
get a place for Coinneach and for Calum, and
will not trouble with a yat any more for the
present.  Ay, indeed," Martha went on, with
a bit of a sigh, "and I'm thinking he will not
be coming back soon to Heimra, when he says
he will not trouble with a yat, and when he
could have a yat easy enough with the
insurance money——"

"Is he at a hotel in Greenock?"

"Ay, the Tontine Hotel," the old woman
said.  "And I am not liking what he says—that
he is waiting for a friend, and they are
going away from Greenock together.  I am
not liking that at ahl.  There's many a one
sailed away from the Tail of the Bank that
never came back again.  And he says, if it is
too lonely here for me and the young lass
Maggie, we are to go over to Lochgarra and
get lodgings; but how could I be leaving the
house to the rain and the damp?  Ay, lonely
it is, except when Gillie Ciotach comes out to
look after the lobster traps—

"Well, Martha," said her visitor, "this time
the Gillie Ciotach is going straight back again;
for I'm rather in a hurry.  And don't you
move over to the mainland until you hear
further.  I will come and see you sometimes
if you are so lonely."  And therewithal the
industrious Kate hied her back to the lobster
boat, and set out for Lochgarra again.

Mary was lying on a sofa, her head half
hidden by the cushion.  She had been
attempting to read; but her arm had fallen supinely
by her side, and the book was half closed.

"Mamie," said Kate Glendinning, entering
the room noiselessly, and approaching the sofa,
"I have a favour to beg of you; but please
to remember this: that I have waited on
you—and worried you—all this long time; and I have
never asked you for an hour's holiday.  Now
I am going to ask you for two or three days;
and if you give me permission I mean to be off
by the mail car to-morrow morning.  May I go?"

The pale cheek flushed—and the fingers that
held the book trembled a little.  But she affected
not to understand.

"Do as you wish, Käthchen," said she, in a
low voice.

Well, this was an onerous, and difficult, and
delicate task that Kate had undertaken; but
she had plenty of courage.  And her setting-forth
was auspicious: when the mail-car started
away from Lochgarra the dawn was giving
every promise of a pleasant and cheerful day for
the long drive.  It is true that as they passed the
Cruagan crofts her face fell a little on noticing
here and there traces of the devastation that
had been wrought by the gale; but she had
heard that things were mending a little in
consequence of the continued fine weather; and
she was greatly cheered to hear the driver
maintain that the people about this neighbourhood
had little cause to grumble; matters had
been made very easy for them, he declared,
since Miss Stanley came to Lochgarra.  And
so on they drove, hour after hour, by Ledmore,
and Oykel Bridge, and Invercassley, and
Rosehall, until the afternoon saw her safely arrived
at Lairg.  Then the more tedious railway
journey—away down to Inverness; on through
the night to Perth; breakfast there, and on
again to Glasgow; from Glasgow down to
Greenock.  It was about noon, or something
thereafter, that she entered the dismal and
rainy town.

Fortune favoured her.  The Tontine Hotel
is almost opposite the railway station, so that
she had no difficulty in finding it; and hardly
had she got within the doorway when she met
Donald Ross himself crossing the hall, and
apparently on his way into the street.  When
he made out who this was (her face was in
shadow, and he did not at first recognise her)
his eyes looked startled, and he threw an
involuntary glance towards the door to see if
there was any one accompanying her.  But
the girl was alone.

"Mr. Ross," said Käthchen, rather nervously—for
she had not expected to encounter him
just at once—"I wish to speak with you——"

"Oh, come in here, then," said he, with a
certain coldness of manner, as if he were about
to face an unpleasant ordeal that was also
useless; and he led the way into the coffee-room,
where, at this time of the day, there was no
one, not even a waiter.

Nervous Käthchen distinctly was; for she
knew the terrible responsibility that lay on
her; and all the fine calmness she had been
calculating on in her communings with herself
in lonely railway-carriages seemed now to have
fled.  But perhaps it was just as well; for in
a somewhat incoherent, but earnest, fashion,
she plunged right into the middle of things,
and told him the whole story—told him of the
factor's circumstantial and malignant slander,
of Mary's momentary bewilderment, of the
luckless meeting, and of her subsequent bitter
remorse and despair.  At one portion of this
narrative his face grew dark, and the black
eyes burned with a sullen fire.

"I have a long account to settle with Purdie,"
said he, as if to himself, "and it is about time
the reckoning was come."

But when she had quite finished with her
eager explanations, and excuses, and indirect
appeals, what was his reply?  Why, not one
word.  She looked at him—in blank dismay.

"But, Mr. Ross!—Mr. Ross!——" she said,
piteously.

There was no response: he had received
her communication—that was all.

"I have told you everything: surely you
understand: what—what message am I to
take?" Käthchen exclaimed, in trembling
appeal.

"I have heard what you had to say," he
answered her, with a studied reserve that
seemed to Käthchen's anxious soul nothing less
than brutal, "and of course I am sorry if there
has been any misunderstanding, or any
suffering, anywhere.  But these things are past.
And as for the present, I do not gather that
you have been commissioned by Miss Stanley to
bring one solitary word to me—one expression
of any kind whatsoever.  Why should I return
any reply?—she has not spoken one word."

"Oh, you ask too much!" Käthchen exclaimed,
in hot indignation.  "You ask too
much!  Do you think Mary Stanley would
send for you?  She is as proud as yourself—every
bit as proud!  And she is a woman.
You are a man: it is your place to have the
courage of yielding—to have the courage of
offering forgiveness, even before it is asked.
If I were a man, and if I loved a woman that
I thought loved me, I would not stand too much
on my dignity, even if she did not speak.  And
what do you want—that she should say she is
sorry?  Mr. Ross, she is ill!  I tell you, she
is ill.  Come and judge for yourself what all
this has done to her!—you will see only too
clearly whether she has been sorry or not.  And
that superstition of hers, about there being a
fatality attending her family—that they cannot
help inflicting injury and insult on you and
yours—who can remove that but yourself?
No," she said, a little stiffly, "I have no
message from Mary Stanley to you; and if I
had, I would not deliver it.  And now it is
for you to say or do what you think best."

"Yes, yes; yes, yes," he said, after a
moment's deliberation.  "I was thinking too
much of the Little Red Dwarf; I was thinking
too much of that side of it.  I will go back to
Lochgarra, and at once.  And this is Thursday;
the steamer will be coming down from
Glasgow to-day; that will be the easiest way
for us to go back."

There was a flash of joy and triumph—and
of gratitude—in Käthchen's sufficiently pretty
eyes.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BANABHARD`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium

   THE BANABHARD.

.. vspace:: 2

The big steamer was slowly and cautiously
making in for Lochgarra Bay—slowly and
cautiously, for though the harbour is an
excellent one after you are in it, the entrance is
somewhat difficult of navigation; and Donald
Ross and Kate Glendinning were seated in the
after part of the boat, passing the time in
talking.  And of course it was mostly of Miss
Stanley they spoke.

"For one thing, you ought to remember,"
said Käthchen, "the amount of prejudice
against you she has had to overcome.  If you
only knew the character she received of you
the very first evening we arrived here!  I
wonder if you would recognise the picture—a
terrible outlaw living in a lonely island, a
drunken, thieving, poaching ne'er-do-well, a
malignant conspirator and mischief-maker:
Mr. Purdie laid on the colours pretty thickly.  By
the way, I wish you would tell me the cause
of that bitter animosity Mr. Purdie shows
against you and all your family——"

"It is simple enough—but it is not worth
speaking about," he said, with a certain
indifference.  It was not of Purdie, nor of
Purdie's doings, that he was thinking at the
moment.

"But I want to know—I am curious to
know," Käthchen insisted.

"It is simple enough, then," he repeated.
"When the old factor died—old MacInnes—I
hardly remember him, but I fancy he was a
decent sort of man—when he died, my father
appointed this Purdie, on the recommendation
of a friend, and without knowing much about
him.  Well, Purdie never did get on at all
with the people about here.  He was an
ill-tempered, ill-conditioned brute, to begin with;
spiteful, revengeful, and merciless; and of
course the people hated him, and of course he
came to know it, and had it out with them
whenever he got the chance.  You see, my
father was almost constantly abroad, and Purdie
had complete control.  My mother tried to
interfere a little; and he resented her
interference; I think it made him all the more
savage.  And at last the discontent of the
people broke out in open revolt.  Purdie
happened to have come over to Lochgarra; and
when they heard of it, the whole lot of them—from
Minard, and Cruagan, and everywhere—came
together in front of the inn, and there
was no end of howling and hooting.  Purdie
escaped through the back-garden, and took
refuge with the Minister; but the crowd
followed him to the Minister's cottage, and
burnt his effigy in front of the door—oh, I
don't know what they didn't do.  Only, it got
into the papers; it was a public scandal; and
my father, coming to hear of it, at once deposed
the twopenny-halfpenny tyrant.  That is all
the story.  But no doubt his being ignominiously
dismissed was a sore thing for a man of his
nature—the public humiliation, and all the rest
of it——"

"But how did he get back to his former
position?" Käthchen demanded.

"Miss Stanley's uncle put him back when he
bought the estate," Donald Ross said, quietly.
"I fancy he had an idea that Purdie was the
right kind of man for this place, especially as
he himself had to be absent a good deal.  Yes,
I will say this for Purdie—he is an excellent
man of business; he will squeeze out for you
every penny of rent that is to be got at; and
he has no sort of hesitation about calling in the
aid of the sheriff.  And of course he came back
more malevolent than ever; he knew they
had rejoiced over his downfall; and he was
determined to make them smart for it.  As for
his honouring me with his hatred, that is quite
natural, I suppose.  It was my father who sent
him into disgrace; and then—then the people
about here and I are rather friendly, you know;
and they had a great regard for my mother;
and all that taken together is enough for
Purdie.  We were in league with his enemies;
and they with us."

"I can imagine what he thought," said
Käthchen, meditatively, "when he saw the
new proprietress taking you into her counsels,
and adopting a new system, and interfering
with him, and overriding his decisions at every
turn.  He made a bold stroke to sever that
alliance between her and you; but it failed;
and now he is sorry—very sorry—exceedingly
sorry, I should think."

"What do you mean?" he asked, fixing his
eyes upon her.

"Perhaps I should leave Mary herself to tell
you," she answered him.  "But that is of little
consequence; it cannot be a secret.  Very well:
she has ordered Mr. Purdie to prepare a statement
of his accounts; and his factorship ceases
at Michaelmas.  It was the last thing she told
me before I left Lochgarra."

Donald Ross laughed.

"I had intended to have a word with
Purdie," said he, "but it seems the Baintighearna
has been before me."

The arrival of the steamer is always a great
event at Lochgarra; there were several
well-known faces on the quay.  Here were the Gillie
Ciotach, and Big Archie, and the Minister, and
Peter Grant, the innkeeper; and here also was
Anna Clannach.  The poor lass was in sad
distress; she was crying and wringing her hands.

"What is the matter, Anna?" said Donald
Ross, in Gaelic, as he stepped from the
gangway on to the pier.

"I am wishing to go out to Heimra," said
the Irish-looking girl with the dishevelled hair
and streaming eyes.

"Why so?" he asked.

"It is to find my mother," she made answer,
with many sobs.  "When I was sleeping my
mother came to me, and said I was to come
out to Heimra for her, and bring her back, but
when I offer the money to the men they laugh
at me——"

"Anna," said he, gently, "you must not
think of going out to Heimra.  If you were not
to find your mother there, that would be great
sorrow for you.  If she is coming for you, you
must wait patiently——"

"But I am going out in the steamer?" said
the girl, beginning to cry afresh.

"The steamer?" he said.  "The steamer
does not call at Heimra, not at any time."

"But it is Mr. Ross has the mastery,"[#] she
pleaded.  "It is every one that must obey
Mr. Ross; and the steamer will take me out to
Heimra if he tells the captain."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Tighearnas*—lordship, or dominion.

.. vspace:: 2

"Now, Anna," he said, trying to reason with
her, "listen to what I am telling you.  How
can a great boat like that go into the small
harbour of Eilean Heimra?  And I have no
authority over the captain, nor has any one:
it is to Stornoway he is going now, and to no
other place.  So you must wait patiently; and
I think you should go and live with the Widow
MacVean, and help to do little things about the
croft.  For it is not good for a young lass to be
without an occupation."

Anna Chlannach turned away weeping
silently, and refusing to be comforted; while
young Ross was immediately tackled by the
Minister, who had a long tale to tell about
some Presbytery case in Edinburgh.

What now occurred it is difficult to describe
consecutively, for so many things seemed to
happen at once, or within the space of a few
breathless seconds.  The captain had discharged
his cargo (Kate Glendinning and Donald Ross,
with their bodyguard of Coinneach and Calum,
were the only passengers), and was getting
under weigh again; and to do this the more
easily he had signalled down to have the
engines reversed, while keeping the stern
hawser on its stanchion on the pier, so that
the bow of the boat should gradually slew
round.  It was to the man who was in charge
of this massive rope that Anna Chlannach,
seeing the steamer was beginning to move,
addressed her final and frantic appeal—nay,
she even seized him by the arm, and implored
him, with loud lamentations, to let her go on
the boat.  The man, intently watching the
captain on the bridge, tried to shake her off;
grew more and more impatient of her
importunity; at last he said savagely—

"To the devil with you and your mother!—I
tell you your mother is dead and buried these
three years!"

At this Anna Chlannach uttered a piercing
shriek—she seemed to reel under the blow, in a
wild horror—then, with her hands raised high
above her head, she rushed to the end of the
quay, and threw herself over, right under the
stern-post of the steamer.  Donald Ross,
startled by that despairing cry, wheeled round
just in time to see her disappear; and in a
moment he was after her, heedless of the fact
that the steamer was still backing, the powerful
screw churning up the green water into seething
and hissing whirlpools.  But the captain
had seen this swift thing happen; instantly he
recognised the terrible danger; he rapped down
to the engine room "Full speed ahead!"—while
the man in charge of the hawser, who
had not seen, taking this for a sufficient signal,
slipped the noose off the post, and let the
ponderous cable drop into the sea.

"The raven's death to you, what have you
done!" Archie MacNichol cried, as he ran
quickly to the edge of the quay, and stared
over, his eyes aghast, his lips ashen-grey.

There was nothing visible but the seething
and foaming water, with its million million bells
of air showing white in the pellucid green.
Had the girl been struck down by the revolving
screw?  Had Donald Ross been knocked senseless
by a blow from the heavy cable?  Big
Archie pulled off his jacket and flung it aside.
He clambered over the edge of the quay, and
let himself down until he stood on one of the
beams below.  His eyes—a fisherman's eyes—were
searching those green deeps, that every
moment showed more and more clear.

All this was the work of a second, and so was
Archie's quick plunge into the sea when he
beheld a dark object rise to the surface, some
half-dozen yards away from him—the tangled
black hair and the wan face belonging to a
quite listless if not lifeless form.  It needed but
a few powerful strokes to take him along—then
one arm was placed under the apparently
inanimate body—while with the other he began to
fight his way back again to the pier.  Of course,
bearing such a burden, it was impossible for
him to drag himself up to his former position;
he could only cling on to one of the
mussel-encrusted beams, waiting for the boat that the
people were now hurriedly pushing off from the
shore.  And if, while bravely hanging on
there, he looked back to see if there was no
sign of that other one, then he looked in vain:
the corpse of the hapless Anna Chlannach was
not found until some two days thereafter.

Meanwhile, this was what was taking place
at Lochgarra House.  Barbara had come to
tell her young mistress, who was lying tired and
languid on the sofa, of the arrival of the steamer.

"Go to the window, Barbara," said she,
rather faintly, "and—and tell me who are
coming ashore.  Maybe you can make them out?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, mem," said Barbara, who
had been famous for her eyesight, even among
the keepers and stalkers, when she was
parlour-maid up at Glen Orme.

She went to the window.

"There is Miss Glendinning, mem," said
Barbara, in her soft-spoken way; "and glad I
am of that: it is not good for Miss Stanley to
be so much alone.  Yes, and Mr. Ross coming
ashore too—no, he is going back down the
gang way—maybe he is going onto Stornoway?—no,
no, I think he is only calling something
to Coinneach Breac, and the lad Calum—and
they are carrying a portmanteau.  And there
is Anna Chlannach going from the one to the
other on the quay—yes, and Mr. Ross now
speaking to her—and Miss Glendinning
speaking to the Minister.  And now
Mr. Ross speaking to the Minister—and—and Miss
Glendinning watching the steamer—ay, just
waiting to see her go aweh....  Oh, mem!—oh,
mem!—there is something happening on
the quay!" exclaimed Barbara, in terrified
accents.  "The people are running—and I am
not seeing Mr. Ross anywhere—and they are
shoving out a boat from the shore——"

"What is it!—what is it, Barbara!  Tell
me!—tell me!"

"Oh, mem, do not be afraid," cried Barbara,
even amidst her own wild alarm.  "There's a
boat going out—oh, yes, they are pulling
hard—they will be at the end of the quay in a
moment or two—and the people are all looking
over—oh, yes, yes, mem, if anyone is in the
water, they have found him—and—and the
boat—now the boat has gone by the end of
the quay, and I am not seeing it any more—yes,
yes, it is there now—and they are coming
this way, mem—they will be coming into the
slip—oh, yes—I am sure they have got the one
that was in the water—and Big Archie in the
stern of the boat, mem—and the people now
running to meet them at the slip—now it is
Big Archie that is lifting the one out of the
stern of the boat——"  Suddenly Barbara
uttered a plaintive cry, "Oh, *Dyeea*, it is the
young master himself!"

"What do you say?  Mr. Ross?  What has
happened, Barbara?"  She struggled to her
feet, pale and shuddering; and Barbara was at
her side in an instant.  "Quick, Barbara!—come
with me!—help me!—I must go down to
the slip—your arm, Barbara—help me!—quick
quick——"

And so, with trembling limbs and dazed
eyes—dazed by the fear of some dread unknown
thing—she managed to cross the hall and get
down the steps and across the road.  It was but
a short distance to the slip.  The little crowd
made way on her approach: and there, lying
extended on the stone, she beheld the senseless
body of her lover, while the big fisherman,
kneeling, was making such examination as was
possible.  Big Archie rose at once.

"Oh, he will be ahl right directly, mem—I'm
sure of it!—he has been struck on the
back of the head—mebbe by the keel of the
steamer——"

She paid no heed to him—no, nor to any
who were standing there.  She threw herself
on her knees beside the prostrate figure; with
her warm hands she pushed back the coal-black
tangled hair; she bent down close to him; she
spoke to him, almost in a whisper—but with a
passionate tenderness that might have thrilled
the dead.

"Donald!—speak to me!—tell me I have not
killed you!—I sent you away—yes—but my
heart has cried for you to come back—speak
to me!—speak to me!—Donald!—do you not
hear me?—Donald——"

Was it the touch of her warm, trembling
fingers about his face, or was it the low-breathing,
piteous cry of her voice that seemed
to stir his pulses and call him slowly back to
life?  The eyelids opened wearily—to find this
wonderful vision hanging over him, and they
seemed to rest there and understand.

"*Mo-lua!*"[#] he murmured.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Mo-luaidh*—My dearest one, or my most-prized one.

.. vspace:: 2

She did not know the meaning of the phrase;
but the look in his eyes was enough.  She
held his hand as they carried him up to the
house.

.. vspace:: 1

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

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



It was on a clear and white-shining morning
in the following spring that Donald Ross and
his newly-wedded bride were walking arm-in-arm
through the budding larch-woods, the sun
warm on the green bracken, on the golden
furze, and on the grey rocks.  She was angry
with him; though the anger did not show
much in her dimpled and fresh-tinted cheeks,
nor yet in her eyes, where the love-light lay
only half-concealed by the modest lashes.

"It is a pestilent language!" she was saying,
with frowning brows.  "I do believe the
heavens and the earth shall pass away before
I become thoroughly acquainted with that awful
grammar; and unless, as Barbara says, I 'have
the Gaelic,' how am I ever to get into proper
relationship with the people about here?—yes,
and how am I to be sure that you are not stealing
away their hearts from me?  Oh, it is a very
pretty trick, the stealing away of hearts—you
are rather clever at it," said she, with downcast
and smiling eyes.

"*Mo-ghaol*," said he (and there were some
Gaelic phrases, at least, of which she had by
this time got to know the meaning well enough),
"I thought you were going to let me be your
interpreter."

"Why do you not begin, then?  Where are
the verses that Mrs. Armour sent?" she said.
"You promised you would write out a
translation for me."

"And so I have," he answered her—yet with
some apparent unwillingness.  "I have written
out a translation, in a kind of a way, because
you insisted on it.  But it is a shame.  For the
Gaelic is a most expressive language; and all
the subtlety and grace of the original escape
when you come down to a literal rendering in
English.  Besides, what skill have I in such
things?  If you like, I will send it to the editor
of the *Celtic Magazine*, and ask him to get it
properly translated—he has printed some of
Mrs. Armour's pieces before now—in Gaelic,
of course——"

"I want your version—none other," she said,
imperatively.

"Very well, very well; I will read it to you,"
said he, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket.
"Here is a seat for you."

It was a rock mostly covered by soft green
moss; and when she had seated herself, he
threw himself down on the bracken by her side,
leaning his head against her knee.  And this
is what the old dame out there in Canada had
sent them as her humble wedding-gift—perhaps,
as to the form of it, with some recollection of
the song of the Princess Deirdri influencing her
unequal lines:—

   |  *I am far from the land of my fathers.*
   |  *I sit and mourn because of the great distance.*
   |  *My old age brings me no comfort,*
   |  *Since I am far from my own land.*

   |  *My eyes strain across the wide ocean.*
   |  *I see the lofty hills, and the peaks, and the glens;*
   |  *I see the corries where the wide-antlered deer wander.*
   |  *Joyful to me was my youth there.*

   |  *I see the woods, deep-sheltered;*
   |  *I see the rivers flowing by the rocks;*
   |  *I see the sandy bays, and the headlands;*
   |  *I see the sun [setting] behind Eilean Heimra.*

   |  *Ru-Minard, O Ru-Minard!—*
   |  *The promontory facing the great waves:*
   |  *Often as a girl have I sate and watched the ships,*
   |  *Singing to myself on Ru-Minard.*

   |  *Loch-Heimra, O Loch-Heimra!—*
   |  *Pleasant its shores, with the many birches;*
   |  *Sweet were the youthful moments I spent watching*
   |  *For one that I used to meet by Loch-Heimra.*

   |  *Lochgarra, O Lochgarra!—*
   |  *The fair town—the Town of the Big House——*

.. vspace:: 1

"I wonder if the Americans know the meaning
of Baltimore?" he said; and then he went
on again—

   |  *Dear to me were my friends, happy the hours.*
   |  *We spent together at Lochgarra.*

   |  *But to-day there is no more of mourning;*
   |  *To-day my old age is comforted;*
   |  *To-day I lift up my voice, I send a message,*
   |  *Across the sea to the dear one of my heart.*

   |  *Well I remember him, the young boy fearless;*
   |  *Fearless on the land, fearless on the sea;*
   |  *Clinging to the crags seeking the ravens' nests.*
   |  *Proud was I of Young Donald——*

.. vspace:: 1

"There are some more verses about me," he
again interpolated.  "I will skip them."

"You shall not," she said.  "Not a single word."

"Oh, how can I read all this about myself!"
he protested.

"Well, then, give me the paper," said she,
and she leant over and took it from him.  Nor
did she return it.  She read right on to the
end—though not aloud—

   |  *My eyes have beheld him come to man's estate.*
   |  *Proudly I name him: Donald, son of John, son of Roderick.*
   |  *Of the ancient Clan Anrias, high he holds his head.*
   |  *Joyful were my eyes when I beheld him.*

   |  *Swift and alert, firm-sinewed as a man.*
   |  *Laughing and light-hearted: dangerous to his foe.*
   |  *Strong as an eagle to choose his mate,*
   |  *Strong likewise to defend her.*

   |  *Bold-eyed and resolute; confident at the helm;*
   |  *Long-enduring; scornful of danger.*
   |  *Small his possessions, but rich-chambered his mind:*
   |  *Wealth has he other than Eilean Heimra.*

   |  *I see the people as they go along the road:*
   |  *Their regard is turned upon Young Donald;*
   |  *There is deep love in their bosom for him;*
   |  *They wish him many days and prosperity.*

   |  *I see her whom he has chosen:*
   |  *The lady of the Big House near to the trees:*
   |  *The fair mistress, the beautiful one,*
   |  *The generous daughter of the Saxon.*

   |  *Mild of speech, smiling pleasantly:*
   |  *My heart was warm towards her;*
   |  *Much did I hear of the kindness*
   |  *Of the generous, open-handed maiden.*

   |  *Tall of stature, graceful in step as a young fawn;*
   |  *Glad was I when I gazed on her;*
   |  *I regarded her many beauties, and I said—*
   |  *Well has young Donald chosen his mate.*

   |  *Now I hear the sound of rejoicings;*
   |  *I hear the festivities wide-echoing;*
   |  *Across the ocean I hear the shouts of the wedding:*
   |  *Hail to the young chief of Clan Anrias!*

   |  *The wine-cup is lifted by many hands;*
   |  *The bride and bridegroom are smiling among their friends;*
   |  *To-night the bonfires will blaze on the hills;*
   |  *I hear the loud sound of the pipes.*

   |  *No gifts have I for the home-coming;*
   |  *No amulet of secret virtue;*
   |  *But the voice of the woman-bard[#] is welcome to her chief:*
   |  *Young Donald will not despise what I send.*

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Banabhard.*

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  *Salutations and blessings I send:*
   |  *Happy may his days be with his love:*
   |  *Long years, many friends, a warm heart—*
   |  *These are the things I wish for him.*

   |  *For her also the same:*
   |  *For her, the chosen one, the fair-haired one, the beautiful Saxon;*
   |  *Many years, and love through all of them,*
   |  *For the bride of Young Donald of Heimra!*


She carefully folded the paper and put it in
her pocket.

"This is to be mine," she said.  "For if
Young Donald despises that message from
across the sea, Young Donald's wife does not."

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center medium

   THE END.


.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center small white-space-pre-line

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

.. vspace:: 4

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

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large

   NOVELS BY WILLIAM BLACK.


.. class:: center small

   *Crown 8vo.  6s. each.*

.. vspace:: 2

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

STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON!
THE NEW PRINCE FORTUNATUS.
IN FAR LOCHABER.
THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A HOUSE-BOAT.
A DAUGHTER OF HETH.
KILMENY.
THREE FEATHERS.
LADY SILVERDALE'S SWEETHEART.
IN SILK ATTIRE.
SUNRISE.
THE PENANCE OF JOHN LOGAN.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON AND COMPANY, LTD., LONDON.


.. vspace:: 2

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

A PRINCESS OF THULE.
THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON.
THE MAID OF KILLEENA.
MADCAP VIOLET.
GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY.
MACLEOD OF DARE.
WHITE WINGS.
THE BEAUTIFUL WRETCH.
SHANDON BELLS.
YOLANDE.
JUDITH SHAKESPEARE.
THE WISE WOMEN OF INVERNESS.
WHITE HEATHER.
SABINA ZEMBRA.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON.

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::