FOOTNOTES:

“Sez vather to I, ‘Jack, rin arter him, du!’Sez I to vather, ‘I’m darned if I du!’ ”

“You won’t?” she said.

“The proposal comes too late. How can you expect Sheila to leave her new house, and that boy of hers, that occupies three-fourths of her letters, just at this time. I think it was very kind of her, mind you, to come away down to Oban to meet us; and Lavender, too, is giving up the time out of the best working season of the year. Bless you! you will see far more beautiful things as we go from Oban to Lewis than any you have mentioned. For we shall probably cut down by Scarba and Jura before going up to Skye; and then you will see the coast that you admired so much in Lavender’s pictures.”

“Is the yacht a large one, Edward?” his wife asked, somewhat timidly.

“Oh, big enough to take our party a dozen times over.”

“Will she tumble about much, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Ingram said with an unkindly grin. “But as you are a weak vessel, Lavender will watch the weather for you, and give it you as smooth as possible. Besides, look at the cleanliness and comfort of a smart yacht! You are thinking of one of those Channel steamers, with their engines and oil.”

“Let us hope for the best,” said his wife, with a sigh.

They not only hoped for it, but got it. When they left the Crinan and got on board the big steamer that was to take them up to Oban, all around them lay a sea of soft and shining blue, scarcely marred by a ripple. Here and there sharp crags that rose out of the luminous plain seemed almost black, but the farther islands lay soft and hazy in the heat, with the beautiful colors of August tinting the great masses of rock. As they steamed northward through the shining sea, new islands and new channels appeared until they came in sight of the open Atlantic, and that, too, was as calm and as still as a summer night. There was no white cloud in the blue vault of the sky, there was no crisp curl of a wave on the blue plain of the sea, but everywhere aclear, radiant, salt-smelling atmosphere, the drowsy haze of which was only visible when you looked at the distant islands and saw the fine and pearly vail of heat that was drawn over the soft colors of the hills. The sea-birds dipped and disappeared as the big boat churned its way onward. A white solan, far away by the shores of Mull, struck the water as he dived, and sent a jet of spray into the air. Colonsay and Oronsay became as faint clouds on the Southern horizon, the jagged coast of Lorne drew near. And then they went up through the Sound of Kerrara and steamed into the broad and beautiful bay of Oban, and behold! here was Sheila on the pier, already waving a handkerchief to them, while her husband held her arm, lest in her excitement she should go too near the edge of the quay.

“And where is the boat that we have heard so much of?” said Mrs. Kavanagh, when all the kissing and handshaking was over.

“There!” said Sheila, not without some shamefaced pride, pointing to a shapely schooner that lay out in the bay, with her white decks and tall spars shining in the afternoon sun.

“And what do you call her?” asked Mrs. Kavanagh’s daughter.

“We call herPrincess Sheila,” said Lavender. “What do you think of the name?”

“You couldn’t have got a better,” Ingram said, sententiously, and interposing as if it was not within his wife’s province to form an opinion of any sort. “And where is your father, Sheila? In Borva?”

“Oh, no, he is here,” the girl said, with a smile. “But the truth is, he has driven away to see some gentlemen he knows, to ask if he can have some grouse for you. He should have been back by this time.”

“I would not hurry him, Sheila,” Ingram said, gravely. “He could not have gone on a more admirable errand. We must await his return with composure. In the meantime, Lavender, do make your fellows stop that man; he is taking away my wife’s trunk to some hotel or other.”

The business of getting the luggage on board the yacht was entrusted to a couple of men whom Lavender left on shore, whereupon the newly-arrived travelers put off in a little pinnace and were conveyed to the side of the handsome schooner. When they were on board an eager exploration followed; and if Sheila could only have undertaken to vouchfor the smoothness of the water for the next month, Mrs. Ingram was ready to declare that at last she had discovered the most charming and beautiful and picturesque fashion of living known to civilized man. She was delighted with the little elegancies of the state-rooms; she was delighted with the paintings on the under skylights, which had been done by Lavender’s own hand; she was delighted with the whiteness of the decks and the height of the tapering spars; and she had no words for her admiration of the beautiful sweep of the bay, the striking ruins of the old castle at the point, the rugged hills rising behind the white houses, and out there in the West the noble panorama of mountain and island and sea.

“I am afraid, Mrs. Ingram,” Lavender said, “you will have cause to know Oban before we leave it. There is not a breath of wind to take us out of the bay.”

“I am content,” she said, “with a gracious calm.”

“But we must get you up to Borva, somehow. There it would not matter how long you were becalmed, for there is plenty to see about the island. But this is a trifle commonplace, you know.”

“I don’t think so at all. I am delighted with the place,” she said. “And so are you, Edward.”

Ingram laughed. He knew she was daring him to contradict her. He proposed he should go ashore and buy a few lines with which they might fish for young saithe or lythe over the side of the yacht, but this project was stopped by the appearance of the King of Borva, who bore triumphant proof of the success of his mission in a brace of grouse held up in each hand as a small boat brought him out to the yacht.

“And I was seeing Mr. Hutcheson,” Mackenzie said to Lavender, as he stepped on board, “and he is a ferry good-natured man whatever, and he says if there is no wind at all he will let one of his steamers take the yacht up to Loch Sunart, and if there is a breeze at all we will get it there.”

“But why should we go in quest of a breeze?” Mrs. Ingram said, petulantly.

“Why, mem,” said Mackenzie, taking the matter seriously, “you was not thinking we could sail a boat without wind? But I am no sure that there will not be a breeze before night.”

Mackenzie was right. As the evening wore on and the sun drooped in the West, the aspect of affairs changed somewhat, and there was now and again a sort of shiver apparent on the surface of the lake-like bay. When, indeed, the people on board came up on deck, just before dinner they found a rather thunderous-looking sunset spreading over the sky. Into the clear saffron glory of the Western sky some dark and massive purple clouds had risen. The mountains of Mull had grown light and milk-like, and yet they seemed near. The glass-like bay began to move, and the black shadow of a ship that lay on the gleaming yellow plain began to tremble as the water cut lines of light across the reflection of the masts. You could hear voices afar off. Under the ruins of the castle and along the curves of the coast the shadows of the water were a pure green, and the rocks were growing still more sharp and distinct in the gathering dusk. There was a cold smell of the sea in the air. And then swiftly the pale colors of the West waxed lurid and fierce, the mountains became of a glowing purple, and then all the plain of the sea was dashed with a wild glare of crimson, while the walls of Dunolly grew black, and overhead the first scouts of the marshaling forces of the clouds came up in flying shreds of gold and fire.

“Oh, ay, we may hef a breeze the night,” Mackenzie said.

“I hope we shan’t have a storm,” Mrs. Ingram said.

“A storm? Oh, no; no storm at all. It will be a ferry good thing if the wind lasts till the morning.”

Mackenzie was not at all sure that there would be storm enough, and went down to dinner grumbling over the fineness of the weather. Indeed, when they came on deck again later on in the night, even the slight breeze that he had hoped for seemed impossible. The night was perfectly still. A few stars had come out overhead, and their light scarcely trembled on the smooth waters of the bay. A cold, fresh scent of seaweed was about, but no wind. The orange lights in Oban burned pale and clear, the red and green lamps of the steamers and yachts in the bay did not move. And when Mrs. Ingram came up to take Sheila forward to the bow of the boat, to sit down there to have a confidential talk with her, a clear and golden moon was rising over the sharp black ridge of Kerrara into the still and beautiful skies, and there was not a ripple of the water along the sides of the yacht to break the wonderful silence of the night.

“My dear,” she said, “you have a beautiful place to live in.”

“But we do not live here,” Sheila said, with a smile. “This is to me as far away from home as England can be to you when you think of America. When I came here for the first time I thought I had got into another world, and that I should never be able to get back again to the Lewis.”

“And is the island you live in more beautiful than this place?” she asked, looking around on the calm sea, the lambent skies and the far mountains beyond, which were gray and ghost-like in the pale glow of the moon.

“If you see our island on such a night as this, you will say it is the most beautiful place in the world. It is the Winter-time that is bad, when we have rain and mist for weeks together. But after this year I think we shall spend all the Winters in London, although my husband does not like to give up the shooting and boating; and that is very good amusement for him when he is tired with his work.”

“That island life certainly seems to agree with him,” said Mrs. Ingram, not daring even to hint that there was any further improvement in Sheila’s husband than that of mere health: “I have never seen him look so well and strong. I scarcely recognized him on the pier, he was so brown; and—and—and I think his sailor clothes suit him so well. They are a little rough, you know; indeed, I have been wondering whether you made them yourself.”

Sheila laughed: “I have seen you look at them. No, I did not make them. But the cloth, that was made on the island, and it is very good cloth whatever.”

“You see what a bad imitation of your costume I am compelled to wear. Edward would have it, you know. I think he’d like me to speak like you, if I could manage it.”

“Oh, no, I am sure he would not like that,” Sheila said, “for many a time he used to correct me; and when he first came to the island I was very much ashamed, and sometimes angry with him.”

“But I suppose you got accustomed to his putting everybody right?” said Mr. Ingram’s wife, with a smile.

“He was always a very good friend to me,” Sheila said, simply.

“Yes, and I think he is now,” said her companion, taking the girl’s hand and forcing herself to say something of that which lay at her heart, and which had been struggling for utterance during all this beating about the bush. “I am sureyou could not have a better friend than he is; and if you only knew how pleased we both are to find you so well and so happy—”

Sheila saw the great embarrassment in her companion’s face, and she knew the good feeling that had driven her to this stammering confession. “It is very kind of you,” she said, gently. “I am very happy; yes, I do not think I have anything more to wish for in the world.”

There was no embarrassment in her manner as she made this simple avowal, her face was clear and calm in the moonlight, and her eyes were looking somewhat distantly at the sea and the island near. Her husband came forward with a light shawl and put it around her shoulders. She took his hand and for a moment pressed it to her lips. Then he went back to where Ingram and old Mackenzie were smoking, and the two women were left to their confidences. Mrs. Kavanagh had gone below.

What was this great noise next morning of the rattling of chains and the flapping of canvas overhead? There was a slight motion in the boat and a plashing of water around her sides. Was thePrincess Sheilagetting under weigh?

The various noises ceased, so also did the rolling of the vessel, and apparently all was silent and motionless again. But when the ladies had dressed and got up on deck, behold they were in a new world! All around them were the blue waters of Loch Linnhe, lit up by the brilliant sunshine of the morning. A light breeze was just filling the great white sails, and the yacht, heeling over slightly, was cutting her placid way through the lapping waves. How keen was the fresh smell of the air! Sea-gulls were swooping down and around the tall masts; over there the green island of Lismore lay bright in the sunshine; the lonely hills of Morven and the mountains of Mull had a thousand shades of color growing on their massive shoulders and slopes; the ruins of Duart Castle, out at the point, seemed too fair and picturesque to be associated with dark legends of blood. Were these faint specks in the South the far islands of Colonsay and Oronsay? Lavender brought his glass to Mrs. Ingram, and, with many apologies to all the ladies for having woke them up so soon, bade her watch the flight of two herons making in for the mouth of Loch Etive.

They had postponed for the present that Southward tripto Jura. The glass was still rising, and the appearance of the weather rendered it doubtful whether they might have wind enough to make such a cruise anything but tedious. They had taken advantage of the light breeze in the morning to weigh anchor and stand across for the Sound of Mull; if it held out, they would at least reach Tobermony, and take their last look at a town before rounding Ardnamurchan and making for the wild solitudes of Skye.

“Well, Cis,” Ingram said to his wife, as he busied himself with a certain long fishing-line, “what do you think of the Western Highlands?”

“Why did you not tell me of these places before?” she said, rather absently, for the mere height of the mountains along the Sound of Mull—the soft green woods leading up to the great bare shoulders of purple and gray and brown above—seemed to draw away one’s eyes and thoughts from surrounding objects.

“I have often. But what is the use of telling?”

“It is the most wonderful place I have ever seen,” she said. “It is so beautiful and so desolate at the same time. What lovely colors there are everywhere—on the sea, and on the shores there, and up the hills—and everything is so bright and gleaming! But no one seems to live here. I suppose you couldn’t; the loneliness of the mountains and the sea would kill you.”

“My dear child, these are town-bred fancies,” he said, in his usual calm and carelessly sententious manner. “If you lived there, you would have plenty to do besides looking at the hills and the sea. You would be glad of a fine day to let you go out and get some fish or go up the hills and get some blackcock for your dinner; and you would not get sad by looking at fine colors, as towns-folk do. Do you think Lavender and Sheila spend their time in mooning up in that island of theirs? and that, I can tell you, is a trifle more remote and wild than this is. They’ve got their work to do, and when that is done they feel comfortable and secure in a well-built house, and fairly pleased with themselves that they have earned some rest and amusement. I dare say if you built a cottage over there, and did nothing but look at the sea and the hills and the sky at night, you would very soon drown yourself. I suppose if a man were to give himself up for three months to thinking of the first formation of the world, and the condition ofaffairs before that happened, and the puzzle about how the materials ever came to be there, he would grow mad. But few people luckily have the chance of trying. They’ve got their bread to earn: if they haven’t, they’re bent on killing something or other—foxes, grouse, deer, and what not—and they don’t bother about the stars, or what lies just outside the region of the stars. When I find myself getting miserable about the size of a mountain, or the question as to how and when it came there, I know that it is time to eat something. I think breakfast is ready, Cis. Do you think you have the nerve to cut this hook out of my fingers? and then we can go below.”

She gave a little scream and started up. Two drops of blood had fallen on Lavender’s white decks.

“No, I see you can’t,” he said. “Open this knife, and I will dig it out myself. Bless the girl! are you going to faint because I have scratched my finger?”

Lavender, however, had to be called in to help, and while the surgical operation was going forward Mrs. Ingram said, “You see we have got towns-folks’ hands as yet. I suppose they will get to be leather by and by. I am sure I don’t know how Mrs. Lavender can do those things about a boat with the tiny little hands she has.”

“Yes, Sheila has small hands, hasn’t she?” Lavender said, as he bound up his friend’s finger; “but then she makes up for that by the bigness of her heart.”

It was a pretty and kindly speech, and it pleased Mrs Ingram, though Sheila did not hear it. Then, when the doctoring was over, they all went below for breakfast, and an odor of fish and ham and eggs and coffee prevailed throughout the yacht.

“I have quite fallen in love with this manner of life,” Mrs. Ingram said. “But, tell me, is it always as pleasant as this? Do you always have those blue seas around you, and green shores? Are the sails always white in the sunlight?”

There was a dead silence.

“Well, I would not say,” Mackenzie observed seriously, as no one else would take up the question—I would not say it is always ferry good weather off this coast—oh no, I would not say that—for if there was no rain, what would the cattle do, and the streams?—they would not hef a pool left in them. Oh, yes, there is rain sometimes, but you cannot always be sailing about, and when there will be rain you will hef your thingsto attend to in-doors. And there is always plenty of good weather if you wass wanting to tek a trip around the islands or down to Oban—oh, yes, there is no fear of that; and it will be a ferry good coast whatever for the harbor, and there is always some place you can put into if it wass coming on rough, only you must know the coast and the lie of the islands and the rocks about the harbors. And you would learn it ferry soon. There is Sheila there; there is no one in the Lewis will know more of the channels in Loch Roag than she does—not one, I can say that; and when you go farther away, then you must tek some one with you who wass well acquainted with the coast. If you wass thinking of having a yacht, Mr. Ingram, there is one I hef heard of just now in Rothesay that is for sale, and she is a ferry good boat, but not so big as this one.”

“I think we’ll wait till my wife knows more about it, Mr. Mackenzie,” Ingram said. “Wait till she gets round Ardnamurchan, and has crossed the Munch, and has got the fine Atlantic swell as you run into Borvapost.”

“Edward, you frighten me,” his wife said: “I was beginning to give myself courage.”

“But it is mere nonsense,” cried Mackenzie, impatiently. “Kott pless me! there is no chance of your being ill in this fine weather; and if you had a boat of your own, you would ferry soon get accustomed to the weather—oh, ferry soon, indeed—and you would hef no more fear of the water than Sheila has.”

“Sheila has far too little fear of the water,” her husband said.

“Indeed, and that is true,” said her father; “and it is not right that a young lass should go about by herself in a boat.”

“But you know very well, papa, I never do that now.”

“Oh, you do not do it now,” grumbled Mackenzie. “No, you do not do it now. But some day you will forget when there is something to be done, and you will run a great danger, Sheila.”

“But she has promised never to go out by herself, haven’t you, Sheila?” her husband said.

“I did; I promised that to you. And I have never been out since by myself.”

“Well, don’t forget, Sheila,” said her father, not very surebut that some sudden occasion might tempt the girl to her old deeds of recklessness.

The two American ladies had little to fear. The Hebrides received them with fair sunshine and smooth seas, and all the day long their occupation was but to watch the wild birds flying from island to island, and mark the gliding by of the beautiful coasts, and listen to the light rushing of the waves as the fresh sea-breeze flew through the rigging. And Sheila was proud to teach them something of the mystery of sailing a small craft, and would give them the tiller sometimes, while her eye, as clear and keen as her father’s, kept watch and ward over the shapely vessel that was making for the Northern seas. One evening she said to her friends, “Do you see that point that runs out on this side of the small island? Round that we enter Loch Roag.”

The last pale light of the sun was shining along the houses of Borvapost as the Princess Sheila passed. The people there had made out the yacht long ere she came close to land, and Mackenzie knew that twenty eager scouts would fly to tell the news to Scarlett and Duncan, so that ample preparation would be made in the newly-finished house down by the sea. The wind, however, had almost died away, and they were a long time getting into Loch Roag in this clear twilight. They who were making their first visit to Sheila’s island sat contentedly enough on deck, however, amazed and bewildered by the beauty of the scene around them. For now the sun had long sunk, but there was a glow all over the heavens, and only in the far East did the yellow stars begin to glimmer over the dark plain of the loch. Mealasabhal, Suainabhal, Cracabhal lifted their grand shoulders and peaks into this wondrous sky, and stood dark and clear there, with the silence of the sea around them.

As the night came on the yellow stars grew more intense overhead, but the lambent glow in the North did not pale.

They entered a small bay. Up there on a plateau of the rocks stood a long, low house, with all its windows gleaming in the dusk. The pinnace was put off from the yacht; in the strange silence of the night the ripples plashed around her prow; her oars struck fire in the water as the men rowed into the land. And then, as Sheila’s guests made their way up to the house, and when they reached the verandah and turned to look at the sea and the loch and the far mountains opposite, they beheld the clearand golden sickle of the moon rising from behind the black outline of Suainabhal into the soft and violet skies. As the yellow moon rose in the South a pathway of gold began to tremble on Loch Roag, and they could see the white curve of sand around the bay. The air was sweet with the cold smell of the sea. There was a murmur of the far Atlantic all around the silent coast.

It was the old familiar picture that had charmed the imagination of Sheila’s first and only lover, when as yet she was to him as some fair and wonderful princess living in a lonely island and clothed around about with the glamor of old legends and stories of the sea. Was she any longer this strange sea-princess, with dreams in her eyes and the mystery of the night and the stars written in her beautiful face? Or was she to him now, what all the world long ago perceived her to be, a tender wife, a faithful companion and a true and loyal-hearted woman? Sheila walked quietly into the house; there was something there for her friends to see, and, with a great pride and gentleness and gladness, Scarlett was despatched on a particular errand. The old King of Borva was still down at the yacht, looking after the landing of certain small articles of luggage. Duncan had come forward to Ingram and said, “And are you ferry well, sir?” and Mairi, come down from Mackenzie’s house, had done the same. Then there was a wild squeal of the pipes in the long apartment where supper was laid, the unearthly gathering cry of a clan, until Sheila’s husband dashed into the place and threatened to throw John into the sea if he did not hold his peace. John was offended, and would probably have gone up the hillside and, in revenge, played “Mackrimmon shall no more return,” only that he knew the irate old King of Borva would, in such a case, literally fulfill the threat that had been lightly uttered by his son-in-law. In another room, where two or three women were together, one of them suddenly took both of Sheila’s hands in hers and said, with a great look of kindness in her eyes, “My dear, I can believe now what you told me that night at Oban.”

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:[1]“My black-haired girl, my pretty girl, my black-haired girl, don’t leave me.” “Nighean dubh” is pronounced “Nyean du.”[2]Literally, “Gearaidh-na’k-Aimhne,” the cutting of the river.[3]Another name given by the islanders to these stones, is “Fir-bhreige,” false men. Both names, False Men and the Mourners, should be of some interest to antiquarians, for they will suit pretty nearly any theory.[4]PronouncedArgyud-chark; literally, “hen money.”

[1]“My black-haired girl, my pretty girl, my black-haired girl, don’t leave me.” “Nighean dubh” is pronounced “Nyean du.”

[2]Literally, “Gearaidh-na’k-Aimhne,” the cutting of the river.

[3]Another name given by the islanders to these stones, is “Fir-bhreige,” false men. Both names, False Men and the Mourners, should be of some interest to antiquarians, for they will suit pretty nearly any theory.

[4]PronouncedArgyud-chark; literally, “hen money.”

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