CHAPTER VIII.FACE TO FACE.She was out in the solitude of the woods, and she was alone. It was early morning, clear, and calm, and still; the sun lay warm on the silver-lichened boulders that were dappled with velvet-green moss; the wandering air that stirred the pendulous branches of the birches brought with it a resinous odour, from the innumerable millions of opening buds. A profound silence prevailed, save for the hushed continuous murmur of an unseen rivulet, and the occasional distant call of a curlew.A vague restlessness, and something even akin to despair, had brought her hither. For of course like other young people of the day she had coquetted with the modern doctrine that in times of trouble our great and gentle Mother Nature is the true consoler and comforter; she had read Wordsworth; and she had read Matthew Arnold upon Wordsworth:"He too upon a wintry climeHad fallen—on this iron timeOf doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.He found us when the age had boundOur souls in its benumbing round—He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.He laid us as we lay at birthOn the cool flowery lap of earth;Smiles broke from us and we had ease.The hills were round us, and the breezeWent o'er the sun-lit fields again;Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.Our youth return'd; for there was shedOn spirits that had long been dead,Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,The freshness of the early world."And now if she wished to forget the untowardness of human nature—if she wished to escape from her bitter disappointment on beholding her large and generous schemes met and checked on every hand by a sullen ingratitude—surely here was a seclusion that should have brought balm to her wounded heart. Moreover the morning light was cheerful; April as it was, a quiet warmth prevailed; she tried to please herself by recollecting that this fairy paradise actually belonged to her. And if human beings were so hard and unapproachable, why, then, she could interest herself in these harmless living creatures that were all so busy around her, under the quickening influences of the spring. From the dusty pathway in the opener glades the yellow-hammers were picking up bits of withered grass for their nest-building; black-caps swung back-downward from the sprays, to wrench the buds off with their bills; she stopped here and there to watch a beautiful beetle—shining bronze, or opaque green with a touch of scarlet on its legs; a tiny grey lizard, with its small eye bright as a diamond, lay basking on a shelf of rock, and remained absolutely motionless, hoping to be passed unnoticed. Then she came upon a little tuft of primroses—so shining pale—so full of dim suggestions—and of associations with the poets. Well, she looked at the primroses. They were very pretty. But somehow she could not keep thinking of them, nor of the fine things the poets had said of them. The fact was, in her present straits her heart was craving for human sympathy; she wanted to be of some use in the world; she wished to see eyes brighten when she appeared at the door, however poor the cottage might be. Primroses were pretty, no doubt—the firstlings of the year awoke pleasant and tender memories—but—but why were those people so obdurate? No, there was no solace for her; the sweet and soothing influences of nature were intruded upon, were obliterated, by the harsh facts and problems of human life. With those men and women almost openly declared her enemies, and with all her grand schemes gone away, what good could she get from primroses? And so, humiliating herself with the conviction that she was nothing but another Peter Bell, she passed on through the woods, and eventually got down to the sheltered little bay where she had first met Anna Chlannach.And on this occasion also she was destined to make a new acquaintance. She was idly walking up and down the lilac and cream-hued beach—and trying to persuade herself that she had found a refuge from the perplexities and mortifications that seemed to surround her in the busier world she had left—when a sound she had distantly heard from time to time now rose in tone until there could be no doubt about its nature: it was a human voice, proceeding from the neighbouring bay. She went as close as she could to the intervening promontory; then curiosity led her stealthily to climb the heathery slope; she made her way between rocks and under birches; and at last she paused and listened. It was a man's voice, of an unnaturally high pitch, and curiously plaintive in its monotonous sing-song. In the perfect silence she distinctly heard these words—"Oh, my brethren, I charge you—I charge you by all that you hold dearest—that you keep the little children from the ruby wine!"What could this mean? She pushed her way a little further through the thick underwood, and peered over. There was a small boat drawn up on the shore. Pacing slowly backwards and forwards on the shingle was a man of about twenty-eight or thirty, with a long and lugubrious face, a shaggy brown beard, and deep set eyes. Sometimes his head was bent down, as if in deep thought; and then again he would raise it, and extend his arm, as if addressing the opposite side of the bay, or perhaps Eilean Heimra out at sea; while ever and anon the curious feminine falsetto came back to the admonition—"Oh, my brethren, keep the little children from the ruby wine!"Mary began to guess. Was this the Minister? Had he returned home; and had he seized the first opportunity to come away over to this solitary place, to rehearse his sermon for the following Sabbath, with appropriate intonation and gesture? She listened again:"'Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause? who hath redness of eyes?' Ah, my friends, now that I have addressed each section of the community, each member of the family circle, now we come to the little babes—those tender flowers—those blossoms along the rough roadway of life—smiling upon us like the rainbows of the morning—and bedewing the earth with their consecrated tears. When I behold those gems of purest ray serene," continued the Minister, in his elevated chant, "my soul is filled with misgivings and sad prognostications. I observe in my daily walk the example that is set before them; the fathers in Israel are a stumbling-block to their own children; nay, even of the wisest it has been said, 'The priest and the prophet have erred through strong drink, they are swallowed up of wine, they are out of the way through strong drink; they err in vision, they stumble in judgment.' My friends, is it not a terrible thing to think of these blessed babes—these innocent tendrils sprouting up into glorious flowers, even as the Rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley—to think of them babbling with red mouths curses they cannot comprehend? Hold them back, I say! Snatch the fatal goblet from them! Let pleasure wave her ambrosial locks when and where she pleases—let mirth and joy prevail—but when the timbrel sounds and the cymbal is heard in the hall—then, at all events let those innocent ones be restrained from the deadly snare—keep, oh, keep the little children from the ruby wine!"Unluckily this last appeal was addressed to Mary herself, or at least she thought so in her fright when she found the Minister's eyes turned towards her: instantly she bobbed her head down in the heather, and remained hidden there until the sermon—or perhaps it was a temperance lecture?—was ended. It did not last much longer. After the sonorous sentences had ceased, there was a moment's silence; then a grating on the beach; then a measured sound of oars: she concluded that the Minister, his flowery harangue rehearsed, was now making for home again; and she was free to get up from her concealment and return to Lochgarra House."Käthchen," she said, "the Minister has come back. I have seen him—though I—I, didn't speak to him. Now don't you think we ought to go along and make his acquaintance at once? He might help us: you say yourself the Free Church Ministers have an enormous influence in the Highlands."Kate Glendinning did not receive this proposal with any great enthusiasm."There is one thing he might do," said she, "as I told you before, Mamie. It would be much easier for us to go and see Mr. Ross, if the Minister would take us under his escort.""Mr. Ross!" said Mary, impatiently. "It is Mr. Ross, and Mr. Ross, with you from morning till night, Käthchen! You would think he owned the whole place!""Yes," said Käthchen, demurely, "that is just what he seems to do."However, the interview to which both the young ladies had looked forward with so much anxiety came about in the most natural way in the world; and that without any intervention whatever. Mary and Käthchen, being down in the village, had gone into the post-office to buy some packets of sweets—bribes for the children, no doubt; and they were coming out again from the little general store when, in broad and full daylight, they met young Ross of Heimra face to face. There was no escape possible on either side; he was going into the post-office; they were coming out; and here they were, confronted. Well, it must be admitted that at this crisis Mary Stanley's presence of mind entirely forsook her. Ten hundred thousand things seemed to go through her brain at once; she could not speak; confusion burned red in her cheeks and on her forehead. And then he was so pale and calm and collected; for a second he regarded them both—and with no furtive glance; he slightly raised his peaked cap, and would have passed them without more ado. It was Käthchen who made bold to detain him."Oh, Mr. Ross," said she, breathlessly, "we have never had an opportunity of thanking you—you left the cottage before we knew—and—and it was so kind of you to send the carriage——"And here for a moment Käthchen also lost her head, for she had a horrible consciousness that when a man has saved your life it is ridiculous to thank him for sending a carriage. And then those coal-black eyes were so calmly observant; they were not generously sympathetic; they seemed merely to await what she had to say with a respectful attention. But Käthchen bravely began again: "You—you must not think us ungrateful—you see, you had left the cottage before we knew—and when we went out to Heimra, we did not find you at home——""I am sorry I was not there," he said."And—and of course we knew quite well what a dreadful position we were in—I mean that night when we wandered into the morass," continued Käthchen. "But for you we never should have got out again—we dared not move—and in the darkness what could we have done?""It is a dangerous place," he said."I—I am going to give Mrs. MacVean a cow in place of the one that was lost," Mary now ventured to put in; and here was she—the bold, the dauntless, the proud-spirited one!—here was she standing timidly there, her face still suffused, her eyes downcast. And this little speech of hers was like a plea for merciful consideration! He turned to her."The MacVeans have had a bad time of it since the shepherd died," the young man said, in a distant sort of way—but he was regarding her curiously.Then all of a sudden it occurred to Mary that she ought not to stand there as a suppliant. Some sense of her wrongs and her recent trials came back to her; and here was the one whom she suspected of being responsible—here was her secret enemy—the antagonist who had hitherto concealed himself in the dark."I hope the widow will condescend to accept it, but who can tell?" said she, with greater spirit. "Really, they are the most extraordinary people! They seem to resent your trying to do them a kindness. I have been offering them all sorts of things they stand in need of; I am willing to lower their rents; I am going to arrange for more pasture; I propose to give prizes for the best homespun materials; and I would pay for getting over some of the Harris people, if instruction were wanted in dyeing or weaving—but they seem to suspect it is all for my own interest. I make them these offers—they will hardly look at them!""You may teach a dog to love you by feeding it," said young Donald Ross, coldly; "but the Highlanders are not dogs."At this she fired up—and there was no more shamefaced girlish blushing in her cheeks. Her eyes were as proud as his own."They are human beings, I suppose," said she, "and a human being might at least say 'Thank you.' But I do not know that I blame them," she continued—to Käthchen's great anxiety. "It seems to me there must be secret influences at work about here. It is not natural for people to be so ungrateful. Self-interest would make them a little more—a little more—amenable—if it were not for some evil instigation at work among them. And what can any one gain by stirring up ill-will? What can be the motive? At any rate, whatever the motive, and whoever he is, he might consider this—he might consider the mischief he is doing these poor people in making them blind to their own welfare. It seems a strange thing that in order to gratify envy, or hatred, or revenge, he should sacrifice the interests of a number of poor people who don't know any better."Käthchen glanced apprehensively from the one to the other; but there was no flash of anger in those dark eyes, nor any tinge of resentment in the pale, olive-tinted face. The young man maintained a perfectly impassive demeanour—respectful enough, but reserved and distant."I wish them nothing but good," Mary went on, in the same indignant way, "but how can I do anything if they turn away from me? Why do they not come and tell me what they want?""Come and tell you what they want?—when they daren't call their souls their own!" he said."Of whom are they afraid, then?" she demanded."Of your agent, Miss Stanley," said he (and here indeed Käthchen did notice something strange in his eyes—a gleam of dark fire in spite of all his studied restraint). "What do they care about philanthropic schemes, or how can you expect them to talk about their wants and wishes, when what they actually know is that Purdie has the face of every one of them at the grindstone?" He altered his tone. "I beg your pardon. I have no right to interfere—and no wish to interfere. If you should think of coming out again to Heimra, Miss Stanley, to have a look over the island, I hope I may be at home. Good-morning!"He again raised his cap—and passed on into the office. Mary stood undecided for a moment; then moved slowly away, accompanied by Käthchen. Before them was the wide sweep of the bay, with Lochgarra House at the point, and its background of larches. The sea was calm; the skies clear; it was a peaceful-looking morning.Of a sudden Mary Stanley stopped—her eyes full of disappointment and vexation."Everything is at sixes and sevens—and worse than before!" she exclaimed to her companion. "What did I say, Käthchen? What did he say? Wasn't he very insolent?—well, not that, exactly—not exactly insolent—but—well, I am not used to being treated with disdain. Why did he break off like that—with everything unsettled? Wasn't he very insolent?—or, at least, disdainful?—what did I say that he should treat me like that?""I know this," said the frivolous Käthchen, "that he has the most splendid eyes I ever saw in a human creature. I call him just distressingly handsome!""There is nothing so contemptible as a beauty man," said Mary, impatiently. "What has that got to do with it? I want to know why he treated me like that!""I thought he behaved with very great courtesy and self-respect," Käthchen made answer, "considering that you plainly intimated to him that it was he who stirred up all that ill-feeling against you.""Very well: he had nothing to say for himself!" Mary exclaimed. "He made no defence. And then, you see, I—I wasn't quite prepared—I did not expect to see him—and I forgot about the fishing and shooting, or that might have made him a little ashamed of himself, and a little less arrogant." She turned and looked towards the post-office. "I wonder whether that was a map that he had rolled up in his hand or a chart? If he is going on board his yacht again, he must pass this way. I cannot have things left as they are—worse than ever!""I don't see how you are to mend them at present," said Käthchen. "If you had kept on as you began, in that friendly way, it might have been all very well; but then you grew indignant, and almost charged him with being the mischief-maker. And I must say I think he behaved with very great consideration and courtesy.""Do you really think so?" said Mary, quickly—with her eyes still fixed on the post-office. And then she hesitated. And then she said: "Come, Käthchen, let us go back. I wish to make an apology to him——""Mary!" her friend protested. "How can you think of such a thing!""Oh, but you do not know. It is not about anything that has just happened. It is about the lake and the old castle. I quite forgot. And perhaps it is that that makes him so unforgiving. I must tell him that I am sorry."But Käthchen shrank back."Make an apology for that?" said she. "You don't seem to understand, Mary. It is too serious for an apology. If you murder a man's father or mother, you can't go to him and say 'I am very sorry.'"Will you go on to the house, then, Käthchen?" said Mary, simply. "I must put myself right with him—and after that he can be as disdainful as he chooses."Of course Käthchen refused to be released; she went back with her; and just as they reached the little building, young Ross of Heimra came out. He had neither chart nor map in his hand now; whichever it had been, he had no doubt sent it away by post.He seemed a little surprised; but was just as attentive and respectful as before."There was something I forgot to say," she began, with obvious embarrassment, "and—and it is difficult to say it. It was not till I came here that I knew what my uncle had done—about—about Loch Heimra—and Castle Heimra. Well, there are some injuries, my friend here says, that can never be repaired. I suppose that is so. But at least you will allow me to say that I am sorry—more deeply sorry than you can imagine perhaps——""And there are some things that are best not spoken of," he said, calmly."Yes, I daresay that is so," she made answer, with a hopeless feeling at her heart that his tone and manner were alike implacable. "No doubt that is so. And yet—yet some little consideration might be shown towards any one who wishes to express regret. It was none of my doing; it never would have been of my doing. And though you, of course, would rather hear no apology—would rather not have the subject mentioned—still, there is another thing. The people about here—if they have any resentment against me because of the pulling down of Castle Heimra—then that is not fair. And any one having influence with them—well, it would be ill done of him to stir up anger against me on that account. I had nothing to do with it—I am very sorry it ever happened.""Miss Stanley," said he—for he plainly did not wish to speak of this thing—"I think you are mistaken in supposing that any one is stirring up ill-will against you; and even the most ignorant of the people must know that you are not responsible for what happened before you came here. As regards myself, I do not wish for any apology or expression of regret; I wish for only one thing—forgetfulness. I think in such a case silence is the only amends."So they parted for the second time; and when the two girls had gone some way towards Lochgarra House, Mary said,—"Yes; but all the same I told him I was sorry."And then again she turned and looked. Donald Ross had passed through the village, and was now going up to the Free Church minister's cottage."Käthchen," said she, rather absently, "there are a good many of them about here who seem to hate me; but I know there is not one of them who hates me as he does. And what had I to do with the pulling down of Heimra Castle?"And that afternoon, as she stood at one of the windows in the tower, looking away out to sea, she saw the little white-winged yawl making for Heimra Island. She knew who was at the tiller—the man before whom she had abased herself, craving, and craving in vain, for some word of consideration and sympathy."Proud and implacable," she said to herself; and her wounded spirit was sore within her, and perhaps a trifle indignant, too; but she would make no further utterance. He had asked for silence and forgetfulness; and he had the right to say what was to be.Meanwhile the message that Mary had sent to the Fishery Board in Edinburgh had been duly received and considered; and when, after two or three days' interval, the answer came back to Lochgarra, it was to the effect that the alien lobster fishermen had either been misinformed or were making wilful mis-statements: the Fishery Board had not given them the right to build huts, and, indeed, had no power to confer any such right. At once Mary sent for Hector the head-keeper; and bade him seek out Archie MacNicol, and convey to him this news."And tell him from me," she said, "that all he has to do is to explain to these men that they have no right to come here and build huts and use the fishing-grounds that naturally belong to the crofters in possession; and that they must go—and go peaceably.""Would Miss Stanley be for having a sheriff's-officer over from Dingwall?" suggested the tall and handsome keeper, in his serious way."No, no, not at all!" she said. "The men must go, when they learn they have no right to be here. And if they refuse to go, haven't we got our own policeman?""Very well, mem," said Hector, and he left.It was towards the dusk of evening, and raining heavily; but all the same Hector found Big Archie at work in his little bit of a garden. When Archie heard the news, he struck his spade in the ground, and stood upright."Aw, that's the fine news!" he exclaimed, joyfully, in Gaelic. "And we will soon be putting an end to the squatters now, Hector! Was I not saying it myself that they had no right to come here?—but now there is the message from the Fishery Board; and we will soon have the devils away from the lobster-ground. And when there is good news coming, you will be for taking a dram with me, Hector?"Well, it is said there was once a Highland keeper who refused a glass of whiskey; but his name and neighbourhood are not known now. Hector followed Big Archie into the cottage, and there a black bottle was produced. Thereafter, the two men, having lit their pipes, set out through the dark and wet again, for Hector was returning to his own home, and Archie was going a certain distance with him in search of the Gillie Ciotach.The stiff glass of whiskey had warmed Big Archie's heart; and as he strode along, the huge and heavy-shouldered giant grew garrulous."The young lady that has come here," said he, in his native tongue, "you know as well as I do, Hector, she means very well, but it is not the place for her at all. I say it is not the place for her at all. What can a young lady know about the price of sheep and the price of lobsters? It is a foolish thing! The place for her, now, Hector, that place is London, at the court of the Queen, among the great ladies, in their fine clothes and jewels. You think I do not know about such things; but I do know; for I myself have relations with London; and it is from London I am hearing every fortnight, from Corstorphine. And the other day, when she was in my boat, I was saying to myself 'There is a fine and beautiful lady to be sitting in a coarse lobster-boat; and it is at the court of the Queen she ought to be; and not going about asking people to put in better chimneys, and the like of that. A woman—a woman has no right to be at the head of an estate; and I am not sure that the law allows it; maybe she is here only through Purdie, and he the master of the estate. Just think of that, Hector—if it is only Purdie that keeps out Young Donald from the estate: would not that be a thing to be considered? Now you know I am not from this place myself; I am from much farther south; but I am a Gael; I have no love for any Albannach or Sassunnach coming into this country against the wishes of the people; and if it is only Purdie, aw, God, it's myself that would willingly give Purdie a crack on the head. And think of young Donald of Heimra coming into the estates, would it not be a grand day that, Hector?—ay, and many a gun fired off, and the bagpipes, and flags, and taking the horses out of the carriage. Sure I am the Gillie Ciotach would go mad that day."The mention of the Gillie Ciotach recalled the keeper to his own immediate affairs."If you see Gillie Ciotach, Archie," said he, "perhaps you will give him a word of caution. The other evening I heard a shot up by the Crom-allt; and I did not look. But the next time I hear a shot, I will look; and if I catch Gillie Ciotach, I will break his gun over his head, yes, and I will shoot his thief of a dog, too; for I am not going to get myself into trouble on account of the Gillie Ciotach. This you know, Archie, that when old Mr. Stanley was here, there was not much goodwill; and perhaps some of us may have shut our eyes a little; but things are different now; for here is my sister Barbara telling me again and again that the Baintighearna is the kindest lady she has ever known in the world, and that it is not at all what Purdie wishes to have done that she means to have done. Well, well, that is not my business; but my business is to look after myself; and I am not going to get into trouble on account of Gillie Ciotach."At this point the two parted; and Big Archie went on to the inn. But he did not enter by the front-door; he passed round by the stable-yard, and made his way to a small lighted window that was partly open. He peeped in and listened at the same time—with a grin of satisfaction on his face, for he had found what he sought.There were three men in this little sanded parlour, which was a sort of adjunct to the inn. They were seated round a table on which was an oil-lamp; and in front of each man stood a small pewter measure and also a glass. Two of the men were middle-aged, and of a sailor-like type; the third was a young fellow of about four-and-twenty, whose bronzed complexion, regular features, and short-cropped curly brown hair made him rather good-looking, only that in regarding him one did not notice these things so much as the dare-devil expression of both eye and mouth. He also was dressed in something of sailor-like attire; while his broad Balmoral bonnet, pushed far back on his brown curls, revealed the fact that in his earlier youth he must have received a mighty slash along the side of his forehead. This was the Gillie Ciotach; and the Gillie Ciotach was singing—in high and nasal tones, while his two companions listened solemnly. Yet this was not really a melancholy song, thisLinn an aigh, for it described the happy state of affairs that existed long ago, when the heather yielded abundance of honey, and the pastures abundance of milk, when there was no rent to pay, when any one could fish or shoot wherever he pleased, and when there was neither hatred nor fighting, nor thirst of wealth. Indeed, there was perhaps a touch of sarcasm in the verses; for the refrain informed whosoever might wish to know at what period of the world's history this golden age existed that it wasAn uair bha Gàilig aig na h-eòin—that is to say,When all the birds in Gaelic sang. However, whether the song was or was not intended to be merry, the audience received it in precisely the same fashion: when it ended, the one said 'Ay, ay' in a sad tone; the other sighed deeply; and then each mechanically proceeded to pour out a glass of whiskey. The Gillie Ciotach did likewise; by all three the whiskey was drank in absolute silence; there was a pause of internal meditation—and at this point Big Archie thought fit to open the door and enter, for he had been long enough out in the rain.And no sooner had he told his story than the dare-devil leapt to his feet, a wild delight in his eyes."Aw,Dyeea, this is a fine thing!" he cried, sniffing the battle from afar. "I tell you now we will make short work of it—we will drive the squatters into the Minch, and if the devils can swim across the Minch, let them swim across the Minch, and if they cannot swim across the Minch, they can go down to their master below! Come away, boys, and make the preparation; for there will be a gay dance to-morrow!"The big giant caught him by both shoulders, and threw him back into the chair."Did you hear me?" said he (but there was an ominous mirth in his eyes too). "Peaceably, peaceably; the Baintighearna says peaceably—they are to go peaceably.""Aw, is it peaceably?" the Gillie Ciotach cried, with a loud laugh. "Well, if they will go peaceably, that is very good; but if they will not go peaceably, then we will make them sing a little song to-morrow—by God, Archie MacNicol, we will make them sing 'Farewell to Fiunary,' and maybe it is on the wrong side of their mouth they will be singing the 'Farewell to Fiunary!"CHAPTER IX.THE BATTLE OF RU-MINARD.All that night there was marching and counter-marching, and whipping up of recruits, and drinking of whiskey, and singing ofGabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr.[#] Big Archie and his peaceful, or pseudo-peaceful, counsels were no longer heeded; the movement had been taken up by the younger fellows, headed by the mischievous Gillie Ciotach; and the belief became general that orders had been received from the Fishery Board in Edinburgh to the effect that the Ru-Minard squatters were forthwith to be driven into the sea. And if the aliens should refuse to be so driven—should stand up in defence of their little bits of homesteads—what then?[#] "We will take the highway.""It is a lesson they will want," said the Gillie Ciotach, gaily, to his comrades (they were having a friendly glass together, in a barn lit up by a solitary candle), "not to come thieving on other people's lobster-ground, and building huts wherever they like, and not a penny of rent to the holder of the croft. It is a lesson they will want; and it is a lesson they will get—to take back home with them, and keep the others from coming here. Well, now, this is my opinion, that the best thing for giving a man a rap over the head is a tiller. A tiller with a handle to it—aw, that is a fine convenient thing!""I am going to take an oar over my shoulder," said a brawny young Hercules."And the more fool you, then," said the Gillie Ciotach, who was a blunt-spoken youth. "For I will tell you this, Feargus: if you strike at a man with an oar, and he steps aside so that you miss him, then he has you at his mercy—it does not need a wise man to show you that. Aw, God, a tiller is a fine thing, when the wood is strong—it is a tiller that will be myorra-an-donais*[#] to-morrow." He broke into a loud laugh. "We will teach them to be telling lies about the Fishery Board!—and it is little they are thinking now that to-morrow they will be singing *Farewell, farewell to Fiunary!"[#]Orra-an-donais—an amulet for sending one's enemy to perdition.Donasis Satan.In the morning it was found that the rain had ceased; but worse than rain was threatening; for all along the west the skies were of a heavy and thunderous purple—a louring dark wall, as it were—while torn shreds of grey cloud were being blown along in advance, the precursors of a gale. Mary and Käthchen were both at the window, looking out at the angry heavens and the livid sea beneath, when the maid Barbara came quickly into the room. For the moment Barbara had lost her pretty shyness of manner; she was breathless and excited; her eyes were full of apprehension."Oh, mem," she said, "do you know what is happening? They have gone aweh up the road, a great many of the young lads, and others; and they have sticks with them; and they are singingGabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr. Oh, I am sure there is harm coming of it! They were saying something of the strange fishermen out at Ru-Minard—and there will be fighting."A sudden dismay filled Mary's heart—dismay, and a curious sense of helplessness. To whom could she turn for aid in such a crisis—and with every moment a thing of value?"Barbara," she said quickly, "I must have some one to go with me. Is Hector there?""No, mem, he went up the hill this morning.""Or Hugh?""No, mem, he was going over to Cruagan, to arrange about the heather-burning, so I was hearing him say."Then Mary turned to her friend."Käthchen, who is there? Shall we ask the Minister?""Of course, he is the very person to ask—if you really mean to go, Mamie. But do you think you should?" Käthchen asked, with serious eyes. "It sounds like an open riot.""I don't care—I must try what I can do—for I fear I am responsible," Mary said, in a kind of desperation; and then she turned to the young Highland lass: "Barbara, we shall want the carriage at once—as soon as ever the horses can be put to. Tell Sandy we are going over to find Mr. Pettigrew; he can come along and meet us. Tell him not to lose a second."And almost directly afterwards the two girls were out-of-doors, hurrying along to the other side of the village, where was the Minister's cottage. Käthchen was unmistakeably frightened; but all the same she ventured to say—"Well, Mamie, your friends in London have almost given up asking when you are going to marry your cousin—you have kept him at arm's length so long. But I think if Mr. Meredyth were here just now, he would have a very good chance.""Why?" said Mary, with a certain coldness."Because you want a man's assistance and advice," said Käthchen. "Isn't it as clear as daylight? The moment this news comes, you look round for some man to help you. Is the head keeper there? No. Or the under-keeper? No. Then you think of the Minister—anybody so long as he is a man. All quite natural, of course. Only I think if Mr. Frank Meredyth were here—and you finding yourself in constant trouble and perplexity—well, I think he would soon take up a very important position. He might even persuade you to let him send in to Inverness for a wedding-ring.""People don't get married in order to make peace among their tenantry!" said Mary, a little proudly."Is he coming here in August?" asked the shrewd Käthchen."Fred wants me to ask him," Mary said, briefly; indeed, at such a time she was not thinking of any suitor; she was thinking of what might even now be going forward on the shores of Minard Bay.The Rev. Mr. Pettigrew received the intelligence of the rising with a calm and gentle compassion."Dear me, dear me!" he said, in his high-pitched, unnatural voice, and he thoughtfully stroked his long and straggling beard. "What a sad thing to think of, when brethren might be living together in peace and ahmity! The heart of man is full of dangerous possibeelities—it is a sad thing to think of—at this season of the year, when all nature seems to know that the verdant spring is around us—when all is harmony and peace—to think that angry passions should arise in the heart of man—""Yes, but won't you come at once, Mr. Pettigrew?" said Mary, with distress in her eyes. "We may be able to do something to prevent bloodshed. The carriage will meet us—we may be able to overtake them."But the Minister paused to consider."No doubt," said he, reflectively, "to prevent the shedding of blood is an admirable thing, a commendable thing, and praiseworthy. But there are times and seasons when even the wisest counsel is of no avail—when the heart of man is as a fiery steed, untameable, not to be bridled; and in these times and seasons, what is demanded of us is a judeecious sympathy, a constant sympathy, a sympathy that does not take sides, but longs for the return of peace and good will. Strange, indeed, that at this time of the year—""But won't you come with us at once, Mr. Pettigrew!" Mary said, in her despair. "The carriage will meet us. We must try what we can do. You see, I am in a measure responsible. I told them what the Fishery Board had said—that the stranger fishermen had no right to build huts—and—and I hoped they would go away quietly—but if there is to be fighting, then surely it is the Minister who should come and try to make peace.""Ah, the carriage?" said Mr. Pettigrew, thoughtfully, as he took down his hat from a peg in the lobby. "That is well considered—well considered. For if in their anger these misguided craytures should take to throwing of stons, the carriage could be closed. Ay, ay, that is very well now; and if their wrath should be intemperate—for who can gauge the stubbornness of man?—then the carriage can be driven away at any moment. But what a sad thing to think of—sad thing!—when all might be dwelling in peace and ahmity—in peace and ahmity."However, it was no consideration of personal safety that was uppermost in Mary Stanley's mind at this moment; indeed, so anxious was she to overtake the rioters that she and her two companions had very nearly got back to Lochgarra House before they met the carriage. Then the horses were turned round; and on they drove—past the brawling stream—past the larchwoods—and up to the height commanding a view of Minard Bay. And here, at the top, they encountered the first human being of whom they could ask the news. It was John the policeman. The plump, roseate, good-natured Iain was calmly seated on a low wall by the roadside; and he was unconcernedly regarding the wide stretch of white sand across which some small black figures were now seen to be in motion."What are you doing here, John?" said Mary, indignantly."I was just looking," said Iain, with an amiable smile—and he glanced in the direction of the people crossing the white sands."Yes, but why are you waiting here?" said she. "Don't you know that there is likely to be fighting? And it is your duty to prevent that!""They will be telling me," said Iain, slowly and comfortably, "that the strange fishermen have no right to be in the place. Very well, then. And if they are to be put out of the place, it's not for me to interfere. If they are wrong, let them go aweh; and if they will not go aweh, they will have to be put aweh."This seemed a sound argument—to John."But what did the Lochgarra people say to you as they went by?" Mary demanded. "Didn't you see they were armed with sticks? Don't you know there will be fighting and bloodshed?""Aw, there may be a brokken head or two," said John, with a demure smile."Well, it is your duty to prevent that! These men have no right to take the law into their own hand. If the strangers will not go peaceably, they must be removed by the law—not by beating them with sticks. And you are standing back here—and letting them do what they like!""And if they tek to fighting," said John, "it's not me that can stop them."This also seemed painfully true."But you can do something," she insisted. "You can warn them. You can take their names. You can threaten them with a prosecution. You can tell them that—that—Mr. Pettigrew, who is it that prosecutes here?—the Sheriff at Dingwall?""Nay, but I am considering that there is much of reason in what John says," observed the Minister, in his lofty sing-song; "and perhaps we should do well to follow his example, and remain as spectators and witnesses. I perceive that this carriage cannot be closed; and therefore I do not think it would be prudent—rather would it be rashness, and culpable rashness—to go forward amid a storm of angry passions. Surely it would be more prudent for us to remain here, with the constituted representative of law and order?""But I am not going to remain here. John." she said, peremptorily, to the young policeman. "get up in front. Sandy, drive on quickly; we may get between those people yet, before the mischief has begun."And so the horses went forward again—rattling away down the stony hill until they reached the soft and sandy road skirting the bay. The little township of Minard was quite deserted, save for the women, who stood in small groups in the fields or at the cottage-doors, watching what was going forward out there towards the long headland. Not that they could see very much, once the black figures had crossed the white breadth of sand; for the morning was dull and sombre; and the rocks of Ru-Minard, along which the crofters and fishermen were now making their way, were dark. But this much was obvious, that at a certain point the crowd stopped; while two of their number went forward—one of these being of gigantic size."This is Big Archie," said Mary, almost to herself, "and I warned him that he must get them to go away peaceably."And no doubt it was as a deputation carrying peaceful proposals that Big Archie and his companion were now going forward to certain huts scattered just above the rocks, where also a number of dark figures could be dimly descried. Peaceful or not peaceful, the negotiations at all events involved delay; and this delay enabled the party in the carriage to drive along the road as far as was practicable; then the horses were stopped, and Mary got down to follow the rioters on foot. It was in vain that the Minister sought to dissuade her with plaintive remonstrances; she intimated to him that he could remain in the carriage if he chose. Käthchen, on the other hand, though she was thoroughly frightened, had but the one and sole idea—to remain by Mary Stanley's side, whithersoever she went. As for the easy-going Iain, he was distinctly inclined to hang back."What can I do?" said he, with occult amusement in his eyes. "If they will brek one another's heads, how can I prevent it? If it is right that these men should go aweh, and if they will not go aweh, they cannot complain if they get their heads brokken for not going aweh."But Iain's humorous indifference did not last very long. Mary, hurrying forward, and with eyes anxiously straining, could make out that the two men were now returning to their friends; presently the blustering wind blowing in from the sea brought a sound of confused and prolonged cheering; and she now perceived that the scattered assemblage was moving on. At the same moment there was the sharp report of a gun; and then it was that the policeman's face grew grave."Is there going to be murder?" said he.She did not answer him; she was running now—and Käthchen by her side."We must—go right into the middle of it," she said, panting for breath, "and then—perhaps they will stop."At first the Lochgarra and Minard fishermen advanced but slowly and cautiously upon the huts, not knowing where the enemy might mass himself. The fact is the aliens had been taken unawares; for while they were as determined as men could be to defend their homesteads, they had no time to seek for arms, supposing they could have obtained any, while up here on the rocky knolls there were no stones. They were running hither and thither about the huts, picking up any bit of wood or any broken oar they could find; but when they made a sort of group of themselves, to await the onset of their antagonists, it was clear that timber had failed them, and other weapons they seemed to have none. But there they stood, dauntless, sullen, silent—the sea behind them—their outnumbering foes in front.And now the invaders knew what was expected of them. It was a shrill cry from the Gillie Ciotach that led the great hoarse volume of their cheers; and then, with all kinds of minatory exclamations, they rushed forward on the devoted band. Who could resist this whirling, tempestuous, compacted shock? For two or three wild seconds there was inextricable confusion; and snap here, snap there, cudgel met cudgel, or descended on solid crown; but it was all over directly; and the next phase of the battle was that the aliens, as if by one common impulse, had turned and fled—fled pell-mell down the rocks and towards the shore, their foes pursuing with fierce and joyous cries. And here it was that Mary Stanley made her appearance—breathless, dishevelled—trying to throw herself in the way of Big Archie, who was leading the pursuit."Archie!" she called to him. "How dare you! Let those men alone! I command you!"But very little indeed did Big Archie care for her commands; it was another consideration altogether that at this moment caused himself and his companions to pause. For the fugitives, as soon as they gained the beach, had taken refuge behind two boats drawn up there; and as the boats, with their spars and sails astern, and their lobster-creels and barrels at the bow, offered excellent shelter, while the beach afforded unlimited ammunition, the battle was not yet over. In truth, the stones that were now flying through the air decidedly checked the ardour of the pursuers; and it was at this moment that Mary again got up to Gilleasbuig Mòr."Archie!" she said, indignantly.An accidental stone struck her on the shoulder. She did not mind. But another and a sharper one struck her on the wrist; and inadvertently she drew up her hand with a piteous little cry. She had been cut over the bone; blood was flowing profusely; and at sight of that, Big Archie—his eyes blazing with wrath—seemed to go mad altogether."Aw,Dyeea!" he cried; and he ran forward and leapt into the boat, on to the middle thwart; he sprang out on the other side; and began to lay about him with his cudgel as with the hammer of Thor, smiting and scattering his enemies in all directions. But she was after him in a moment—nimbly getting round the stern of the boat—and before he had wholly wreaked his vengeance, she had him by the arm. And here her interposition did save bloodshed; for the men, finding her between Big Archie and themselves, refused to throw the stones they had hastily picked up; quietude was secured at least in this corner of the battlefield.But indeed the general interest had already been attracted elsewhere. When Mary turned to see what was going on landwards, she happened to notice certain small wavering shreds of pink. It was a very pale pink; on a clear day, it would hardly have been visible; but against the lurid sky it was distinct enough."What is that?" she said, with a sudden, conscious fear, to Big Archie.The huge, heavy-shouldered fisherman (who was keeping an eye on his discomfited foes as he led the way round the stern of the boats) glanced towards the rocky knolls that had been the scene of the first onslaught, and said grimly,—"It wass the Gillie Ciotaeh he wass bringing a can of petroleum with him this morning, and lobster-creels will be easy to set on fire.""Do you mean to say they are burning down those poor men's huts?" she demanded, in a perfect agony of helplessness. "Archie, what is to be done? Why does not the policeman interfere?""Aw, it is no use now," said Big Archie, with much composure. "They are ahl on fire already—and a good job, too!—for we won the fight, and that is a proper end to it.""And this is how you have kept your promise to me!" Mary said, in accents of bitter reproach."As sure as death, mem," said the big good-natured giant, "I wass doing everything Miss Stanley said—peaceably, peaceably. When I went to them this morning, I wass saying to them 'You hef no right here.' They said, 'We hef the right here.' I said 'It is no use telling lies; for Miss Stanley she has written to the Fishery Board; and they hef given you no right whatever.' And then I says 'It is a fine thing for you to come here and tek what piece of land you want, and build your houses on it, and you not paying a penny of rent to the man that has the croft.' Then they said 'The land is not worth anything; it is only rock.' Then I says 'That is not your business, as you know very well; and other people hef to pay rent for it, whether it is rock or good land; and it is impudent men you are to come and tek things for nothing. I am from Tarbert on Loch Fyne,' says I, 'and it's stealing they would be calling that down there.' Well, mem, they were not liking that—""I should think not!" said Mary. "Is that what you call asking them to go away civilly and quietly?""But they would not go aweh at ahl, mem!" Archie protested, still looking towards those pink shreds of flame (and alas! for the poor discomfited aliens—they had emerged from their shelter, and gone a few yards up the beach, and were also regarding, hopelessly enough, the distant crowd and the work of destruction). "They were growing more and more impudent, mem; and they said they would not go aweh; and I said we would drive them aweh; and they said we could not do it. And then says I to them 'Do you see the carriage yonder?—for if you can mek out the people, it is the proprietor herself, and the Minister, and the policeman, and they are come down to see that you go aweh from this place ahltogether, and, by God, if you do not go aweh, we will drive you into the sea, and set fire to your houses.' 'You cannot do it,' says they—""But how dared you tell them that we had come down for any such purpose," said Mary, indignantly, "when we only came to prevent violence?""And how wass I knowing that, mem?" said he cunningly. "But I am sure there wass only the one end to it in any case, when they began to pick up the sticks. And we were not going to hef the land stolen, and the lobster-ground tekken up, and be beaten as well; for a man cannot stand everything, and we had sticks as well as they had sticks—""And so you began to fight in spite of all I told you!" she said. "And I do not know what harm has been done or how many have been hurt. You yourself, you would have been murdered if I had not come round by the boats and dragged you away.""Is it murdering, mem?" said Big Archie, with a grin. "Aw, Cosh, there would hef been some murdering going before they murdered me!"And now they came upon Käthchen, who was standing as one paralyzed, gazing upon the excited crowd who were collected round the burning huts, and listening to their shouts and laughter. The moment she turned, she caught sight of Mary's hand, and uttered a quick cry of alarm."It is nothing, Käthchen," her friend said, "only I wish you'd tie this handkerchief round my wrist—and pull it tight; it will hurt less then.""What made you go away down there, Mamie?" said Käthchen, in her distress. "I—wanted to stay by your side—but—but I could not face the stones. It was madness—""They did not intend to strike me," said Mary (whose shoulder was aching cruelly, as well as her wrist). "These poor men, they have nothing left now but their boats." And then she demanded: "But where was that booby of a policeman?—why did he not prevent them setting fire to the huts? And where is the Minister?"Käthchen did not know; nor did she care much; all her interests were engrossed by the strange scene being enacted up there among the rocky knolls. For, despite the petroleum, and the heaping-on of lobster-creels and float-barrels, the huts did not burn well; the rain of the previous night had soddened the thatch, and perhaps the interiors were none too dry at the best of times; so that the incendiaries had to keep opening up draught-holes, or flinging on more petroleum, in order to encourage the flames. And then again that proved too slow work for their impatience. They got poles and broken oars to use as battering-rams; they charged the ineffectual doors, and tore down the smouldering roofs; and when the demolition of this or that rude dwelling was complete, there were loud and triumphant cheers. Mary did not seek to interpose. It was too late now. She looked on sadly, wondering what the poor wretches down by the boats were thinking, and not without some half-terrified consciousness that she was answerable for all this wreck and ruin."It is shameful!—it is shameful!" she said—almost to herself."Well, mem," said Big Archie, who still remained with the two young ladies, "I will ask you this—when you will find a wasps' nest in your garden, what will you do? You will not be for going forward and telling them they were right in tekkin up the place, and that you will not disturb them; aw, no!—I think it is a bunch of straw you will be carrying to the place, and setting a light to it, and putting the nest on fire. Aw, Cosh, that is the sure weh to get rid of them—""But these were not wasps—these were men like yourselves," said she, sharply. "They have as much right to live as you—""Ay," said Big Archie, scratching his head in assumed perplexity, "mebbe they hef as much right to live as we hef—butnot there. For it wass Miss Stanley herself that would be saying that."Mary's face flushed."I told you they were wrong in thinking they had any right to be there; but I did not tell you to go and break out into lawlessness and set houses on fire with petroleum. Do you think that can be allowed? Do you think there is no government in this country? Do you think you can do just as you please? I tell you, the Sheriff from Dingwall will have to inquire into this matter."Gilleasbuig Mòr did not like the mention of Dingwall."If it was brekkin the law," said he, rather gloomily, "it wass not us that wass brekkin it first. It was them fishermen. And now they can go aweh hom; and if they ever think of coming back here, they will remember the day they sah their houses on fire at Ru-Minard."The work of demolition was now complete. Smouldering thatch and blackened rafters strewed the ground; nothing remained erect but the rude stone walls; the alien colony had lost its habitation. And then the invaders formed once more into a sort of irregular procession; they shouldered their staves and clubs; three ringing cheers were given—as a significant message to their vanquished opponents, who still remained down by the boats; and then the victors set out on their homeward march, the Gillie Ciotach's shrill voice leading off with "Gabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr"[#] while a rough and ready chorus was volunteered by the straggling ranks. Mary Stanley and Käthchen, accompanied by Big Archie, slowly followed, some distance intervening. In truth, Mary's heart was as lead: all things seemed to be going so ill—in spite of her most patient and unselfish endeavours.
CHAPTER VIII.
FACE TO FACE.
She was out in the solitude of the woods, and she was alone. It was early morning, clear, and calm, and still; the sun lay warm on the silver-lichened boulders that were dappled with velvet-green moss; the wandering air that stirred the pendulous branches of the birches brought with it a resinous odour, from the innumerable millions of opening buds. A profound silence prevailed, save for the hushed continuous murmur of an unseen rivulet, and the occasional distant call of a curlew.
A vague restlessness, and something even akin to despair, had brought her hither. For of course like other young people of the day she had coquetted with the modern doctrine that in times of trouble our great and gentle Mother Nature is the true consoler and comforter; she had read Wordsworth; and she had read Matthew Arnold upon Wordsworth:
"He too upon a wintry climeHad fallen—on this iron timeOf doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.He found us when the age had boundOur souls in its benumbing round—He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.He laid us as we lay at birthOn the cool flowery lap of earth;Smiles broke from us and we had ease.The hills were round us, and the breezeWent o'er the sun-lit fields again;Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.Our youth return'd; for there was shedOn spirits that had long been dead,Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,The freshness of the early world."
"He too upon a wintry climeHad fallen—on this iron timeOf doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.He found us when the age had boundOur souls in its benumbing round—He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.He laid us as we lay at birthOn the cool flowery lap of earth;Smiles broke from us and we had ease.The hills were round us, and the breezeWent o'er the sun-lit fields again;Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.Our youth return'd; for there was shedOn spirits that had long been dead,Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,The freshness of the early world."
"He too upon a wintry clime
Had fallen—on this iron time
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
He found us when the age had bound
Our souls in its benumbing round—
He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.
He laid us as we lay at birth
On the cool flowery lap of earth;
Smiles broke from us and we had ease.
The hills were round us, and the breeze
Went o'er the sun-lit fields again;
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth return'd; for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead,
Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,
The freshness of the early world."
And now if she wished to forget the untowardness of human nature—if she wished to escape from her bitter disappointment on beholding her large and generous schemes met and checked on every hand by a sullen ingratitude—surely here was a seclusion that should have brought balm to her wounded heart. Moreover the morning light was cheerful; April as it was, a quiet warmth prevailed; she tried to please herself by recollecting that this fairy paradise actually belonged to her. And if human beings were so hard and unapproachable, why, then, she could interest herself in these harmless living creatures that were all so busy around her, under the quickening influences of the spring. From the dusty pathway in the opener glades the yellow-hammers were picking up bits of withered grass for their nest-building; black-caps swung back-downward from the sprays, to wrench the buds off with their bills; she stopped here and there to watch a beautiful beetle—shining bronze, or opaque green with a touch of scarlet on its legs; a tiny grey lizard, with its small eye bright as a diamond, lay basking on a shelf of rock, and remained absolutely motionless, hoping to be passed unnoticed. Then she came upon a little tuft of primroses—so shining pale—so full of dim suggestions—and of associations with the poets. Well, she looked at the primroses. They were very pretty. But somehow she could not keep thinking of them, nor of the fine things the poets had said of them. The fact was, in her present straits her heart was craving for human sympathy; she wanted to be of some use in the world; she wished to see eyes brighten when she appeared at the door, however poor the cottage might be. Primroses were pretty, no doubt—the firstlings of the year awoke pleasant and tender memories—but—but why were those people so obdurate? No, there was no solace for her; the sweet and soothing influences of nature were intruded upon, were obliterated, by the harsh facts and problems of human life. With those men and women almost openly declared her enemies, and with all her grand schemes gone away, what good could she get from primroses? And so, humiliating herself with the conviction that she was nothing but another Peter Bell, she passed on through the woods, and eventually got down to the sheltered little bay where she had first met Anna Chlannach.
And on this occasion also she was destined to make a new acquaintance. She was idly walking up and down the lilac and cream-hued beach—and trying to persuade herself that she had found a refuge from the perplexities and mortifications that seemed to surround her in the busier world she had left—when a sound she had distantly heard from time to time now rose in tone until there could be no doubt about its nature: it was a human voice, proceeding from the neighbouring bay. She went as close as she could to the intervening promontory; then curiosity led her stealthily to climb the heathery slope; she made her way between rocks and under birches; and at last she paused and listened. It was a man's voice, of an unnaturally high pitch, and curiously plaintive in its monotonous sing-song. In the perfect silence she distinctly heard these words—
"Oh, my brethren, I charge you—I charge you by all that you hold dearest—that you keep the little children from the ruby wine!"
What could this mean? She pushed her way a little further through the thick underwood, and peered over. There was a small boat drawn up on the shore. Pacing slowly backwards and forwards on the shingle was a man of about twenty-eight or thirty, with a long and lugubrious face, a shaggy brown beard, and deep set eyes. Sometimes his head was bent down, as if in deep thought; and then again he would raise it, and extend his arm, as if addressing the opposite side of the bay, or perhaps Eilean Heimra out at sea; while ever and anon the curious feminine falsetto came back to the admonition—"Oh, my brethren, keep the little children from the ruby wine!"
Mary began to guess. Was this the Minister? Had he returned home; and had he seized the first opportunity to come away over to this solitary place, to rehearse his sermon for the following Sabbath, with appropriate intonation and gesture? She listened again:
"'Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause? who hath redness of eyes?' Ah, my friends, now that I have addressed each section of the community, each member of the family circle, now we come to the little babes—those tender flowers—those blossoms along the rough roadway of life—smiling upon us like the rainbows of the morning—and bedewing the earth with their consecrated tears. When I behold those gems of purest ray serene," continued the Minister, in his elevated chant, "my soul is filled with misgivings and sad prognostications. I observe in my daily walk the example that is set before them; the fathers in Israel are a stumbling-block to their own children; nay, even of the wisest it has been said, 'The priest and the prophet have erred through strong drink, they are swallowed up of wine, they are out of the way through strong drink; they err in vision, they stumble in judgment.' My friends, is it not a terrible thing to think of these blessed babes—these innocent tendrils sprouting up into glorious flowers, even as the Rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley—to think of them babbling with red mouths curses they cannot comprehend? Hold them back, I say! Snatch the fatal goblet from them! Let pleasure wave her ambrosial locks when and where she pleases—let mirth and joy prevail—but when the timbrel sounds and the cymbal is heard in the hall—then, at all events let those innocent ones be restrained from the deadly snare—keep, oh, keep the little children from the ruby wine!"
Unluckily this last appeal was addressed to Mary herself, or at least she thought so in her fright when she found the Minister's eyes turned towards her: instantly she bobbed her head down in the heather, and remained hidden there until the sermon—or perhaps it was a temperance lecture?—was ended. It did not last much longer. After the sonorous sentences had ceased, there was a moment's silence; then a grating on the beach; then a measured sound of oars: she concluded that the Minister, his flowery harangue rehearsed, was now making for home again; and she was free to get up from her concealment and return to Lochgarra House.
"Käthchen," she said, "the Minister has come back. I have seen him—though I—I, didn't speak to him. Now don't you think we ought to go along and make his acquaintance at once? He might help us: you say yourself the Free Church Ministers have an enormous influence in the Highlands."
Kate Glendinning did not receive this proposal with any great enthusiasm.
"There is one thing he might do," said she, "as I told you before, Mamie. It would be much easier for us to go and see Mr. Ross, if the Minister would take us under his escort."
"Mr. Ross!" said Mary, impatiently. "It is Mr. Ross, and Mr. Ross, with you from morning till night, Käthchen! You would think he owned the whole place!"
"Yes," said Käthchen, demurely, "that is just what he seems to do."
However, the interview to which both the young ladies had looked forward with so much anxiety came about in the most natural way in the world; and that without any intervention whatever. Mary and Käthchen, being down in the village, had gone into the post-office to buy some packets of sweets—bribes for the children, no doubt; and they were coming out again from the little general store when, in broad and full daylight, they met young Ross of Heimra face to face. There was no escape possible on either side; he was going into the post-office; they were coming out; and here they were, confronted. Well, it must be admitted that at this crisis Mary Stanley's presence of mind entirely forsook her. Ten hundred thousand things seemed to go through her brain at once; she could not speak; confusion burned red in her cheeks and on her forehead. And then he was so pale and calm and collected; for a second he regarded them both—and with no furtive glance; he slightly raised his peaked cap, and would have passed them without more ado. It was Käthchen who made bold to detain him.
"Oh, Mr. Ross," said she, breathlessly, "we have never had an opportunity of thanking you—you left the cottage before we knew—and—and it was so kind of you to send the carriage——"
And here for a moment Käthchen also lost her head, for she had a horrible consciousness that when a man has saved your life it is ridiculous to thank him for sending a carriage. And then those coal-black eyes were so calmly observant; they were not generously sympathetic; they seemed merely to await what she had to say with a respectful attention. But Käthchen bravely began again: "You—you must not think us ungrateful—you see, you had left the cottage before we knew—and when we went out to Heimra, we did not find you at home——"
"I am sorry I was not there," he said.
"And—and of course we knew quite well what a dreadful position we were in—I mean that night when we wandered into the morass," continued Käthchen. "But for you we never should have got out again—we dared not move—and in the darkness what could we have done?"
"It is a dangerous place," he said.
"I—I am going to give Mrs. MacVean a cow in place of the one that was lost," Mary now ventured to put in; and here was she—the bold, the dauntless, the proud-spirited one!—here was she standing timidly there, her face still suffused, her eyes downcast. And this little speech of hers was like a plea for merciful consideration! He turned to her.
"The MacVeans have had a bad time of it since the shepherd died," the young man said, in a distant sort of way—but he was regarding her curiously.
Then all of a sudden it occurred to Mary that she ought not to stand there as a suppliant. Some sense of her wrongs and her recent trials came back to her; and here was the one whom she suspected of being responsible—here was her secret enemy—the antagonist who had hitherto concealed himself in the dark.
"I hope the widow will condescend to accept it, but who can tell?" said she, with greater spirit. "Really, they are the most extraordinary people! They seem to resent your trying to do them a kindness. I have been offering them all sorts of things they stand in need of; I am willing to lower their rents; I am going to arrange for more pasture; I propose to give prizes for the best homespun materials; and I would pay for getting over some of the Harris people, if instruction were wanted in dyeing or weaving—but they seem to suspect it is all for my own interest. I make them these offers—they will hardly look at them!"
"You may teach a dog to love you by feeding it," said young Donald Ross, coldly; "but the Highlanders are not dogs."
At this she fired up—and there was no more shamefaced girlish blushing in her cheeks. Her eyes were as proud as his own.
"They are human beings, I suppose," said she, "and a human being might at least say 'Thank you.' But I do not know that I blame them," she continued—to Käthchen's great anxiety. "It seems to me there must be secret influences at work about here. It is not natural for people to be so ungrateful. Self-interest would make them a little more—a little more—amenable—if it were not for some evil instigation at work among them. And what can any one gain by stirring up ill-will? What can be the motive? At any rate, whatever the motive, and whoever he is, he might consider this—he might consider the mischief he is doing these poor people in making them blind to their own welfare. It seems a strange thing that in order to gratify envy, or hatred, or revenge, he should sacrifice the interests of a number of poor people who don't know any better."
Käthchen glanced apprehensively from the one to the other; but there was no flash of anger in those dark eyes, nor any tinge of resentment in the pale, olive-tinted face. The young man maintained a perfectly impassive demeanour—respectful enough, but reserved and distant.
"I wish them nothing but good," Mary went on, in the same indignant way, "but how can I do anything if they turn away from me? Why do they not come and tell me what they want?"
"Come and tell you what they want?—when they daren't call their souls their own!" he said.
"Of whom are they afraid, then?" she demanded.
"Of your agent, Miss Stanley," said he (and here indeed Käthchen did notice something strange in his eyes—a gleam of dark fire in spite of all his studied restraint). "What do they care about philanthropic schemes, or how can you expect them to talk about their wants and wishes, when what they actually know is that Purdie has the face of every one of them at the grindstone?" He altered his tone. "I beg your pardon. I have no right to interfere—and no wish to interfere. If you should think of coming out again to Heimra, Miss Stanley, to have a look over the island, I hope I may be at home. Good-morning!"
He again raised his cap—and passed on into the office. Mary stood undecided for a moment; then moved slowly away, accompanied by Käthchen. Before them was the wide sweep of the bay, with Lochgarra House at the point, and its background of larches. The sea was calm; the skies clear; it was a peaceful-looking morning.
Of a sudden Mary Stanley stopped—her eyes full of disappointment and vexation.
"Everything is at sixes and sevens—and worse than before!" she exclaimed to her companion. "What did I say, Käthchen? What did he say? Wasn't he very insolent?—well, not that, exactly—not exactly insolent—but—well, I am not used to being treated with disdain. Why did he break off like that—with everything unsettled? Wasn't he very insolent?—or, at least, disdainful?—what did I say that he should treat me like that?"
"I know this," said the frivolous Käthchen, "that he has the most splendid eyes I ever saw in a human creature. I call him just distressingly handsome!"
"There is nothing so contemptible as a beauty man," said Mary, impatiently. "What has that got to do with it? I want to know why he treated me like that!"
"I thought he behaved with very great courtesy and self-respect," Käthchen made answer, "considering that you plainly intimated to him that it was he who stirred up all that ill-feeling against you."
"Very well: he had nothing to say for himself!" Mary exclaimed. "He made no defence. And then, you see, I—I wasn't quite prepared—I did not expect to see him—and I forgot about the fishing and shooting, or that might have made him a little ashamed of himself, and a little less arrogant." She turned and looked towards the post-office. "I wonder whether that was a map that he had rolled up in his hand or a chart? If he is going on board his yacht again, he must pass this way. I cannot have things left as they are—worse than ever!"
"I don't see how you are to mend them at present," said Käthchen. "If you had kept on as you began, in that friendly way, it might have been all very well; but then you grew indignant, and almost charged him with being the mischief-maker. And I must say I think he behaved with very great consideration and courtesy."
"Do you really think so?" said Mary, quickly—with her eyes still fixed on the post-office. And then she hesitated. And then she said: "Come, Käthchen, let us go back. I wish to make an apology to him——"
"Mary!" her friend protested. "How can you think of such a thing!"
"Oh, but you do not know. It is not about anything that has just happened. It is about the lake and the old castle. I quite forgot. And perhaps it is that that makes him so unforgiving. I must tell him that I am sorry."
But Käthchen shrank back.
"Make an apology for that?" said she. "You don't seem to understand, Mary. It is too serious for an apology. If you murder a man's father or mother, you can't go to him and say 'I am very sorry.'
"Will you go on to the house, then, Käthchen?" said Mary, simply. "I must put myself right with him—and after that he can be as disdainful as he chooses."
Of course Käthchen refused to be released; she went back with her; and just as they reached the little building, young Ross of Heimra came out. He had neither chart nor map in his hand now; whichever it had been, he had no doubt sent it away by post.
He seemed a little surprised; but was just as attentive and respectful as before.
"There was something I forgot to say," she began, with obvious embarrassment, "and—and it is difficult to say it. It was not till I came here that I knew what my uncle had done—about—about Loch Heimra—and Castle Heimra. Well, there are some injuries, my friend here says, that can never be repaired. I suppose that is so. But at least you will allow me to say that I am sorry—more deeply sorry than you can imagine perhaps——"
"And there are some things that are best not spoken of," he said, calmly.
"Yes, I daresay that is so," she made answer, with a hopeless feeling at her heart that his tone and manner were alike implacable. "No doubt that is so. And yet—yet some little consideration might be shown towards any one who wishes to express regret. It was none of my doing; it never would have been of my doing. And though you, of course, would rather hear no apology—would rather not have the subject mentioned—still, there is another thing. The people about here—if they have any resentment against me because of the pulling down of Castle Heimra—then that is not fair. And any one having influence with them—well, it would be ill done of him to stir up anger against me on that account. I had nothing to do with it—I am very sorry it ever happened."
"Miss Stanley," said he—for he plainly did not wish to speak of this thing—"I think you are mistaken in supposing that any one is stirring up ill-will against you; and even the most ignorant of the people must know that you are not responsible for what happened before you came here. As regards myself, I do not wish for any apology or expression of regret; I wish for only one thing—forgetfulness. I think in such a case silence is the only amends."
So they parted for the second time; and when the two girls had gone some way towards Lochgarra House, Mary said,—
"Yes; but all the same I told him I was sorry."
And then again she turned and looked. Donald Ross had passed through the village, and was now going up to the Free Church minister's cottage.
"Käthchen," said she, rather absently, "there are a good many of them about here who seem to hate me; but I know there is not one of them who hates me as he does. And what had I to do with the pulling down of Heimra Castle?"
And that afternoon, as she stood at one of the windows in the tower, looking away out to sea, she saw the little white-winged yawl making for Heimra Island. She knew who was at the tiller—the man before whom she had abased herself, craving, and craving in vain, for some word of consideration and sympathy.
"Proud and implacable," she said to herself; and her wounded spirit was sore within her, and perhaps a trifle indignant, too; but she would make no further utterance. He had asked for silence and forgetfulness; and he had the right to say what was to be.
Meanwhile the message that Mary had sent to the Fishery Board in Edinburgh had been duly received and considered; and when, after two or three days' interval, the answer came back to Lochgarra, it was to the effect that the alien lobster fishermen had either been misinformed or were making wilful mis-statements: the Fishery Board had not given them the right to build huts, and, indeed, had no power to confer any such right. At once Mary sent for Hector the head-keeper; and bade him seek out Archie MacNicol, and convey to him this news.
"And tell him from me," she said, "that all he has to do is to explain to these men that they have no right to come here and build huts and use the fishing-grounds that naturally belong to the crofters in possession; and that they must go—and go peaceably."
"Would Miss Stanley be for having a sheriff's-officer over from Dingwall?" suggested the tall and handsome keeper, in his serious way.
"No, no, not at all!" she said. "The men must go, when they learn they have no right to be here. And if they refuse to go, haven't we got our own policeman?"
"Very well, mem," said Hector, and he left.
It was towards the dusk of evening, and raining heavily; but all the same Hector found Big Archie at work in his little bit of a garden. When Archie heard the news, he struck his spade in the ground, and stood upright.
"Aw, that's the fine news!" he exclaimed, joyfully, in Gaelic. "And we will soon be putting an end to the squatters now, Hector! Was I not saying it myself that they had no right to come here?—but now there is the message from the Fishery Board; and we will soon have the devils away from the lobster-ground. And when there is good news coming, you will be for taking a dram with me, Hector?"
Well, it is said there was once a Highland keeper who refused a glass of whiskey; but his name and neighbourhood are not known now. Hector followed Big Archie into the cottage, and there a black bottle was produced. Thereafter, the two men, having lit their pipes, set out through the dark and wet again, for Hector was returning to his own home, and Archie was going a certain distance with him in search of the Gillie Ciotach.
The stiff glass of whiskey had warmed Big Archie's heart; and as he strode along, the huge and heavy-shouldered giant grew garrulous.
"The young lady that has come here," said he, in his native tongue, "you know as well as I do, Hector, she means very well, but it is not the place for her at all. I say it is not the place for her at all. What can a young lady know about the price of sheep and the price of lobsters? It is a foolish thing! The place for her, now, Hector, that place is London, at the court of the Queen, among the great ladies, in their fine clothes and jewels. You think I do not know about such things; but I do know; for I myself have relations with London; and it is from London I am hearing every fortnight, from Corstorphine. And the other day, when she was in my boat, I was saying to myself 'There is a fine and beautiful lady to be sitting in a coarse lobster-boat; and it is at the court of the Queen she ought to be; and not going about asking people to put in better chimneys, and the like of that. A woman—a woman has no right to be at the head of an estate; and I am not sure that the law allows it; maybe she is here only through Purdie, and he the master of the estate. Just think of that, Hector—if it is only Purdie that keeps out Young Donald from the estate: would not that be a thing to be considered? Now you know I am not from this place myself; I am from much farther south; but I am a Gael; I have no love for any Albannach or Sassunnach coming into this country against the wishes of the people; and if it is only Purdie, aw, God, it's myself that would willingly give Purdie a crack on the head. And think of young Donald of Heimra coming into the estates, would it not be a grand day that, Hector?—ay, and many a gun fired off, and the bagpipes, and flags, and taking the horses out of the carriage. Sure I am the Gillie Ciotach would go mad that day."
The mention of the Gillie Ciotach recalled the keeper to his own immediate affairs.
"If you see Gillie Ciotach, Archie," said he, "perhaps you will give him a word of caution. The other evening I heard a shot up by the Crom-allt; and I did not look. But the next time I hear a shot, I will look; and if I catch Gillie Ciotach, I will break his gun over his head, yes, and I will shoot his thief of a dog, too; for I am not going to get myself into trouble on account of the Gillie Ciotach. This you know, Archie, that when old Mr. Stanley was here, there was not much goodwill; and perhaps some of us may have shut our eyes a little; but things are different now; for here is my sister Barbara telling me again and again that the Baintighearna is the kindest lady she has ever known in the world, and that it is not at all what Purdie wishes to have done that she means to have done. Well, well, that is not my business; but my business is to look after myself; and I am not going to get into trouble on account of Gillie Ciotach."
At this point the two parted; and Big Archie went on to the inn. But he did not enter by the front-door; he passed round by the stable-yard, and made his way to a small lighted window that was partly open. He peeped in and listened at the same time—with a grin of satisfaction on his face, for he had found what he sought.
There were three men in this little sanded parlour, which was a sort of adjunct to the inn. They were seated round a table on which was an oil-lamp; and in front of each man stood a small pewter measure and also a glass. Two of the men were middle-aged, and of a sailor-like type; the third was a young fellow of about four-and-twenty, whose bronzed complexion, regular features, and short-cropped curly brown hair made him rather good-looking, only that in regarding him one did not notice these things so much as the dare-devil expression of both eye and mouth. He also was dressed in something of sailor-like attire; while his broad Balmoral bonnet, pushed far back on his brown curls, revealed the fact that in his earlier youth he must have received a mighty slash along the side of his forehead. This was the Gillie Ciotach; and the Gillie Ciotach was singing—in high and nasal tones, while his two companions listened solemnly. Yet this was not really a melancholy song, thisLinn an aigh, for it described the happy state of affairs that existed long ago, when the heather yielded abundance of honey, and the pastures abundance of milk, when there was no rent to pay, when any one could fish or shoot wherever he pleased, and when there was neither hatred nor fighting, nor thirst of wealth. Indeed, there was perhaps a touch of sarcasm in the verses; for the refrain informed whosoever might wish to know at what period of the world's history this golden age existed that it wasAn uair bha Gàilig aig na h-eòin—that is to say,When all the birds in Gaelic sang. However, whether the song was or was not intended to be merry, the audience received it in precisely the same fashion: when it ended, the one said 'Ay, ay' in a sad tone; the other sighed deeply; and then each mechanically proceeded to pour out a glass of whiskey. The Gillie Ciotach did likewise; by all three the whiskey was drank in absolute silence; there was a pause of internal meditation—and at this point Big Archie thought fit to open the door and enter, for he had been long enough out in the rain.
And no sooner had he told his story than the dare-devil leapt to his feet, a wild delight in his eyes.
"Aw,Dyeea, this is a fine thing!" he cried, sniffing the battle from afar. "I tell you now we will make short work of it—we will drive the squatters into the Minch, and if the devils can swim across the Minch, let them swim across the Minch, and if they cannot swim across the Minch, they can go down to their master below! Come away, boys, and make the preparation; for there will be a gay dance to-morrow!"
The big giant caught him by both shoulders, and threw him back into the chair.
"Did you hear me?" said he (but there was an ominous mirth in his eyes too). "Peaceably, peaceably; the Baintighearna says peaceably—they are to go peaceably."
"Aw, is it peaceably?" the Gillie Ciotach cried, with a loud laugh. "Well, if they will go peaceably, that is very good; but if they will not go peaceably, then we will make them sing a little song to-morrow—by God, Archie MacNicol, we will make them sing 'Farewell to Fiunary,' and maybe it is on the wrong side of their mouth they will be singing the 'Farewell to Fiunary!"
CHAPTER IX.
THE BATTLE OF RU-MINARD.
All that night there was marching and counter-marching, and whipping up of recruits, and drinking of whiskey, and singing ofGabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr.[#] Big Archie and his peaceful, or pseudo-peaceful, counsels were no longer heeded; the movement had been taken up by the younger fellows, headed by the mischievous Gillie Ciotach; and the belief became general that orders had been received from the Fishery Board in Edinburgh to the effect that the Ru-Minard squatters were forthwith to be driven into the sea. And if the aliens should refuse to be so driven—should stand up in defence of their little bits of homesteads—what then?
[#] "We will take the highway."
"It is a lesson they will want," said the Gillie Ciotach, gaily, to his comrades (they were having a friendly glass together, in a barn lit up by a solitary candle), "not to come thieving on other people's lobster-ground, and building huts wherever they like, and not a penny of rent to the holder of the croft. It is a lesson they will want; and it is a lesson they will get—to take back home with them, and keep the others from coming here. Well, now, this is my opinion, that the best thing for giving a man a rap over the head is a tiller. A tiller with a handle to it—aw, that is a fine convenient thing!"
"I am going to take an oar over my shoulder," said a brawny young Hercules.
"And the more fool you, then," said the Gillie Ciotach, who was a blunt-spoken youth. "For I will tell you this, Feargus: if you strike at a man with an oar, and he steps aside so that you miss him, then he has you at his mercy—it does not need a wise man to show you that. Aw, God, a tiller is a fine thing, when the wood is strong—it is a tiller that will be myorra-an-donais*[#] to-morrow." He broke into a loud laugh. "We will teach them to be telling lies about the Fishery Board!—and it is little they are thinking now that to-morrow they will be singing *Farewell, farewell to Fiunary!"
[#]Orra-an-donais—an amulet for sending one's enemy to perdition.Donasis Satan.
In the morning it was found that the rain had ceased; but worse than rain was threatening; for all along the west the skies were of a heavy and thunderous purple—a louring dark wall, as it were—while torn shreds of grey cloud were being blown along in advance, the precursors of a gale. Mary and Käthchen were both at the window, looking out at the angry heavens and the livid sea beneath, when the maid Barbara came quickly into the room. For the moment Barbara had lost her pretty shyness of manner; she was breathless and excited; her eyes were full of apprehension.
"Oh, mem," she said, "do you know what is happening? They have gone aweh up the road, a great many of the young lads, and others; and they have sticks with them; and they are singingGabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr. Oh, I am sure there is harm coming of it! They were saying something of the strange fishermen out at Ru-Minard—and there will be fighting."
A sudden dismay filled Mary's heart—dismay, and a curious sense of helplessness. To whom could she turn for aid in such a crisis—and with every moment a thing of value?
"Barbara," she said quickly, "I must have some one to go with me. Is Hector there?"
"No, mem, he went up the hill this morning."
"Or Hugh?"
"No, mem, he was going over to Cruagan, to arrange about the heather-burning, so I was hearing him say."
Then Mary turned to her friend.
"Käthchen, who is there? Shall we ask the Minister?"
"Of course, he is the very person to ask—if you really mean to go, Mamie. But do you think you should?" Käthchen asked, with serious eyes. "It sounds like an open riot."
"I don't care—I must try what I can do—for I fear I am responsible," Mary said, in a kind of desperation; and then she turned to the young Highland lass: "Barbara, we shall want the carriage at once—as soon as ever the horses can be put to. Tell Sandy we are going over to find Mr. Pettigrew; he can come along and meet us. Tell him not to lose a second."
And almost directly afterwards the two girls were out-of-doors, hurrying along to the other side of the village, where was the Minister's cottage. Käthchen was unmistakeably frightened; but all the same she ventured to say—
"Well, Mamie, your friends in London have almost given up asking when you are going to marry your cousin—you have kept him at arm's length so long. But I think if Mr. Meredyth were here just now, he would have a very good chance."
"Why?" said Mary, with a certain coldness.
"Because you want a man's assistance and advice," said Käthchen. "Isn't it as clear as daylight? The moment this news comes, you look round for some man to help you. Is the head keeper there? No. Or the under-keeper? No. Then you think of the Minister—anybody so long as he is a man. All quite natural, of course. Only I think if Mr. Frank Meredyth were here—and you finding yourself in constant trouble and perplexity—well, I think he would soon take up a very important position. He might even persuade you to let him send in to Inverness for a wedding-ring."
"People don't get married in order to make peace among their tenantry!" said Mary, a little proudly.
"Is he coming here in August?" asked the shrewd Käthchen.
"Fred wants me to ask him," Mary said, briefly; indeed, at such a time she was not thinking of any suitor; she was thinking of what might even now be going forward on the shores of Minard Bay.
The Rev. Mr. Pettigrew received the intelligence of the rising with a calm and gentle compassion.
"Dear me, dear me!" he said, in his high-pitched, unnatural voice, and he thoughtfully stroked his long and straggling beard. "What a sad thing to think of, when brethren might be living together in peace and ahmity! The heart of man is full of dangerous possibeelities—it is a sad thing to think of—at this season of the year, when all nature seems to know that the verdant spring is around us—when all is harmony and peace—to think that angry passions should arise in the heart of man—"
"Yes, but won't you come at once, Mr. Pettigrew?" said Mary, with distress in her eyes. "We may be able to do something to prevent bloodshed. The carriage will meet us—we may be able to overtake them."
But the Minister paused to consider.
"No doubt," said he, reflectively, "to prevent the shedding of blood is an admirable thing, a commendable thing, and praiseworthy. But there are times and seasons when even the wisest counsel is of no avail—when the heart of man is as a fiery steed, untameable, not to be bridled; and in these times and seasons, what is demanded of us is a judeecious sympathy, a constant sympathy, a sympathy that does not take sides, but longs for the return of peace and good will. Strange, indeed, that at this time of the year—"
"But won't you come with us at once, Mr. Pettigrew!" Mary said, in her despair. "The carriage will meet us. We must try what we can do. You see, I am in a measure responsible. I told them what the Fishery Board had said—that the stranger fishermen had no right to build huts—and—and I hoped they would go away quietly—but if there is to be fighting, then surely it is the Minister who should come and try to make peace."
"Ah, the carriage?" said Mr. Pettigrew, thoughtfully, as he took down his hat from a peg in the lobby. "That is well considered—well considered. For if in their anger these misguided craytures should take to throwing of stons, the carriage could be closed. Ay, ay, that is very well now; and if their wrath should be intemperate—for who can gauge the stubbornness of man?—then the carriage can be driven away at any moment. But what a sad thing to think of—sad thing!—when all might be dwelling in peace and ahmity—in peace and ahmity."
However, it was no consideration of personal safety that was uppermost in Mary Stanley's mind at this moment; indeed, so anxious was she to overtake the rioters that she and her two companions had very nearly got back to Lochgarra House before they met the carriage. Then the horses were turned round; and on they drove—past the brawling stream—past the larchwoods—and up to the height commanding a view of Minard Bay. And here, at the top, they encountered the first human being of whom they could ask the news. It was John the policeman. The plump, roseate, good-natured Iain was calmly seated on a low wall by the roadside; and he was unconcernedly regarding the wide stretch of white sand across which some small black figures were now seen to be in motion.
"What are you doing here, John?" said Mary, indignantly.
"I was just looking," said Iain, with an amiable smile—and he glanced in the direction of the people crossing the white sands.
"Yes, but why are you waiting here?" said she. "Don't you know that there is likely to be fighting? And it is your duty to prevent that!"
"They will be telling me," said Iain, slowly and comfortably, "that the strange fishermen have no right to be in the place. Very well, then. And if they are to be put out of the place, it's not for me to interfere. If they are wrong, let them go aweh; and if they will not go aweh, they will have to be put aweh."
This seemed a sound argument—to John.
"But what did the Lochgarra people say to you as they went by?" Mary demanded. "Didn't you see they were armed with sticks? Don't you know there will be fighting and bloodshed?"
"Aw, there may be a brokken head or two," said John, with a demure smile.
"Well, it is your duty to prevent that! These men have no right to take the law into their own hand. If the strangers will not go peaceably, they must be removed by the law—not by beating them with sticks. And you are standing back here—and letting them do what they like!"
"And if they tek to fighting," said John, "it's not me that can stop them."
This also seemed painfully true.
"But you can do something," she insisted. "You can warn them. You can take their names. You can threaten them with a prosecution. You can tell them that—that—Mr. Pettigrew, who is it that prosecutes here?—the Sheriff at Dingwall?"
"Nay, but I am considering that there is much of reason in what John says," observed the Minister, in his lofty sing-song; "and perhaps we should do well to follow his example, and remain as spectators and witnesses. I perceive that this carriage cannot be closed; and therefore I do not think it would be prudent—rather would it be rashness, and culpable rashness—to go forward amid a storm of angry passions. Surely it would be more prudent for us to remain here, with the constituted representative of law and order?"
"But I am not going to remain here. John." she said, peremptorily, to the young policeman. "get up in front. Sandy, drive on quickly; we may get between those people yet, before the mischief has begun."
And so the horses went forward again—rattling away down the stony hill until they reached the soft and sandy road skirting the bay. The little township of Minard was quite deserted, save for the women, who stood in small groups in the fields or at the cottage-doors, watching what was going forward out there towards the long headland. Not that they could see very much, once the black figures had crossed the white breadth of sand; for the morning was dull and sombre; and the rocks of Ru-Minard, along which the crofters and fishermen were now making their way, were dark. But this much was obvious, that at a certain point the crowd stopped; while two of their number went forward—one of these being of gigantic size.
"This is Big Archie," said Mary, almost to herself, "and I warned him that he must get them to go away peaceably."
And no doubt it was as a deputation carrying peaceful proposals that Big Archie and his companion were now going forward to certain huts scattered just above the rocks, where also a number of dark figures could be dimly descried. Peaceful or not peaceful, the negotiations at all events involved delay; and this delay enabled the party in the carriage to drive along the road as far as was practicable; then the horses were stopped, and Mary got down to follow the rioters on foot. It was in vain that the Minister sought to dissuade her with plaintive remonstrances; she intimated to him that he could remain in the carriage if he chose. Käthchen, on the other hand, though she was thoroughly frightened, had but the one and sole idea—to remain by Mary Stanley's side, whithersoever she went. As for the easy-going Iain, he was distinctly inclined to hang back.
"What can I do?" said he, with occult amusement in his eyes. "If they will brek one another's heads, how can I prevent it? If it is right that these men should go aweh, and if they will not go aweh, they cannot complain if they get their heads brokken for not going aweh."
But Iain's humorous indifference did not last very long. Mary, hurrying forward, and with eyes anxiously straining, could make out that the two men were now returning to their friends; presently the blustering wind blowing in from the sea brought a sound of confused and prolonged cheering; and she now perceived that the scattered assemblage was moving on. At the same moment there was the sharp report of a gun; and then it was that the policeman's face grew grave.
"Is there going to be murder?" said he.
She did not answer him; she was running now—and Käthchen by her side.
"We must—go right into the middle of it," she said, panting for breath, "and then—perhaps they will stop."
At first the Lochgarra and Minard fishermen advanced but slowly and cautiously upon the huts, not knowing where the enemy might mass himself. The fact is the aliens had been taken unawares; for while they were as determined as men could be to defend their homesteads, they had no time to seek for arms, supposing they could have obtained any, while up here on the rocky knolls there were no stones. They were running hither and thither about the huts, picking up any bit of wood or any broken oar they could find; but when they made a sort of group of themselves, to await the onset of their antagonists, it was clear that timber had failed them, and other weapons they seemed to have none. But there they stood, dauntless, sullen, silent—the sea behind them—their outnumbering foes in front.
And now the invaders knew what was expected of them. It was a shrill cry from the Gillie Ciotach that led the great hoarse volume of their cheers; and then, with all kinds of minatory exclamations, they rushed forward on the devoted band. Who could resist this whirling, tempestuous, compacted shock? For two or three wild seconds there was inextricable confusion; and snap here, snap there, cudgel met cudgel, or descended on solid crown; but it was all over directly; and the next phase of the battle was that the aliens, as if by one common impulse, had turned and fled—fled pell-mell down the rocks and towards the shore, their foes pursuing with fierce and joyous cries. And here it was that Mary Stanley made her appearance—breathless, dishevelled—trying to throw herself in the way of Big Archie, who was leading the pursuit.
"Archie!" she called to him. "How dare you! Let those men alone! I command you!"
But very little indeed did Big Archie care for her commands; it was another consideration altogether that at this moment caused himself and his companions to pause. For the fugitives, as soon as they gained the beach, had taken refuge behind two boats drawn up there; and as the boats, with their spars and sails astern, and their lobster-creels and barrels at the bow, offered excellent shelter, while the beach afforded unlimited ammunition, the battle was not yet over. In truth, the stones that were now flying through the air decidedly checked the ardour of the pursuers; and it was at this moment that Mary again got up to Gilleasbuig Mòr.
"Archie!" she said, indignantly.
An accidental stone struck her on the shoulder. She did not mind. But another and a sharper one struck her on the wrist; and inadvertently she drew up her hand with a piteous little cry. She had been cut over the bone; blood was flowing profusely; and at sight of that, Big Archie—his eyes blazing with wrath—seemed to go mad altogether.
"Aw,Dyeea!" he cried; and he ran forward and leapt into the boat, on to the middle thwart; he sprang out on the other side; and began to lay about him with his cudgel as with the hammer of Thor, smiting and scattering his enemies in all directions. But she was after him in a moment—nimbly getting round the stern of the boat—and before he had wholly wreaked his vengeance, she had him by the arm. And here her interposition did save bloodshed; for the men, finding her between Big Archie and themselves, refused to throw the stones they had hastily picked up; quietude was secured at least in this corner of the battlefield.
But indeed the general interest had already been attracted elsewhere. When Mary turned to see what was going on landwards, she happened to notice certain small wavering shreds of pink. It was a very pale pink; on a clear day, it would hardly have been visible; but against the lurid sky it was distinct enough.
"What is that?" she said, with a sudden, conscious fear, to Big Archie.
The huge, heavy-shouldered fisherman (who was keeping an eye on his discomfited foes as he led the way round the stern of the boats) glanced towards the rocky knolls that had been the scene of the first onslaught, and said grimly,—
"It wass the Gillie Ciotaeh he wass bringing a can of petroleum with him this morning, and lobster-creels will be easy to set on fire."
"Do you mean to say they are burning down those poor men's huts?" she demanded, in a perfect agony of helplessness. "Archie, what is to be done? Why does not the policeman interfere?"
"Aw, it is no use now," said Big Archie, with much composure. "They are ahl on fire already—and a good job, too!—for we won the fight, and that is a proper end to it."
"And this is how you have kept your promise to me!" Mary said, in accents of bitter reproach.
"As sure as death, mem," said the big good-natured giant, "I wass doing everything Miss Stanley said—peaceably, peaceably. When I went to them this morning, I wass saying to them 'You hef no right here.' They said, 'We hef the right here.' I said 'It is no use telling lies; for Miss Stanley she has written to the Fishery Board; and they hef given you no right whatever.' And then I says 'It is a fine thing for you to come here and tek what piece of land you want, and build your houses on it, and you not paying a penny of rent to the man that has the croft.' Then they said 'The land is not worth anything; it is only rock.' Then I says 'That is not your business, as you know very well; and other people hef to pay rent for it, whether it is rock or good land; and it is impudent men you are to come and tek things for nothing. I am from Tarbert on Loch Fyne,' says I, 'and it's stealing they would be calling that down there.' Well, mem, they were not liking that—"
"I should think not!" said Mary. "Is that what you call asking them to go away civilly and quietly?"
"But they would not go aweh at ahl, mem!" Archie protested, still looking towards those pink shreds of flame (and alas! for the poor discomfited aliens—they had emerged from their shelter, and gone a few yards up the beach, and were also regarding, hopelessly enough, the distant crowd and the work of destruction). "They were growing more and more impudent, mem; and they said they would not go aweh; and I said we would drive them aweh; and they said we could not do it. And then says I to them 'Do you see the carriage yonder?—for if you can mek out the people, it is the proprietor herself, and the Minister, and the policeman, and they are come down to see that you go aweh from this place ahltogether, and, by God, if you do not go aweh, we will drive you into the sea, and set fire to your houses.' 'You cannot do it,' says they—"
"But how dared you tell them that we had come down for any such purpose," said Mary, indignantly, "when we only came to prevent violence?"
"And how wass I knowing that, mem?" said he cunningly. "But I am sure there wass only the one end to it in any case, when they began to pick up the sticks. And we were not going to hef the land stolen, and the lobster-ground tekken up, and be beaten as well; for a man cannot stand everything, and we had sticks as well as they had sticks—"
"And so you began to fight in spite of all I told you!" she said. "And I do not know what harm has been done or how many have been hurt. You yourself, you would have been murdered if I had not come round by the boats and dragged you away."
"Is it murdering, mem?" said Big Archie, with a grin. "Aw, Cosh, there would hef been some murdering going before they murdered me!"
And now they came upon Käthchen, who was standing as one paralyzed, gazing upon the excited crowd who were collected round the burning huts, and listening to their shouts and laughter. The moment she turned, she caught sight of Mary's hand, and uttered a quick cry of alarm.
"It is nothing, Käthchen," her friend said, "only I wish you'd tie this handkerchief round my wrist—and pull it tight; it will hurt less then."
"What made you go away down there, Mamie?" said Käthchen, in her distress. "I—wanted to stay by your side—but—but I could not face the stones. It was madness—"
"They did not intend to strike me," said Mary (whose shoulder was aching cruelly, as well as her wrist). "These poor men, they have nothing left now but their boats." And then she demanded: "But where was that booby of a policeman?—why did he not prevent them setting fire to the huts? And where is the Minister?"
Käthchen did not know; nor did she care much; all her interests were engrossed by the strange scene being enacted up there among the rocky knolls. For, despite the petroleum, and the heaping-on of lobster-creels and float-barrels, the huts did not burn well; the rain of the previous night had soddened the thatch, and perhaps the interiors were none too dry at the best of times; so that the incendiaries had to keep opening up draught-holes, or flinging on more petroleum, in order to encourage the flames. And then again that proved too slow work for their impatience. They got poles and broken oars to use as battering-rams; they charged the ineffectual doors, and tore down the smouldering roofs; and when the demolition of this or that rude dwelling was complete, there were loud and triumphant cheers. Mary did not seek to interpose. It was too late now. She looked on sadly, wondering what the poor wretches down by the boats were thinking, and not without some half-terrified consciousness that she was answerable for all this wreck and ruin.
"It is shameful!—it is shameful!" she said—almost to herself.
"Well, mem," said Big Archie, who still remained with the two young ladies, "I will ask you this—when you will find a wasps' nest in your garden, what will you do? You will not be for going forward and telling them they were right in tekkin up the place, and that you will not disturb them; aw, no!—I think it is a bunch of straw you will be carrying to the place, and setting a light to it, and putting the nest on fire. Aw, Cosh, that is the sure weh to get rid of them—"
"But these were not wasps—these were men like yourselves," said she, sharply. "They have as much right to live as you—"
"Ay," said Big Archie, scratching his head in assumed perplexity, "mebbe they hef as much right to live as we hef—butnot there. For it wass Miss Stanley herself that would be saying that."
Mary's face flushed.
"I told you they were wrong in thinking they had any right to be there; but I did not tell you to go and break out into lawlessness and set houses on fire with petroleum. Do you think that can be allowed? Do you think there is no government in this country? Do you think you can do just as you please? I tell you, the Sheriff from Dingwall will have to inquire into this matter."
Gilleasbuig Mòr did not like the mention of Dingwall.
"If it was brekkin the law," said he, rather gloomily, "it wass not us that wass brekkin it first. It was them fishermen. And now they can go aweh hom; and if they ever think of coming back here, they will remember the day they sah their houses on fire at Ru-Minard."
The work of demolition was now complete. Smouldering thatch and blackened rafters strewed the ground; nothing remained erect but the rude stone walls; the alien colony had lost its habitation. And then the invaders formed once more into a sort of irregular procession; they shouldered their staves and clubs; three ringing cheers were given—as a significant message to their vanquished opponents, who still remained down by the boats; and then the victors set out on their homeward march, the Gillie Ciotach's shrill voice leading off with "Gabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr"[#] while a rough and ready chorus was volunteered by the straggling ranks. Mary Stanley and Käthchen, accompanied by Big Archie, slowly followed, some distance intervening. In truth, Mary's heart was as lead: all things seemed to be going so ill—in spite of her most patient and unselfish endeavours.