CHAPTER V.A PIOUS PILGRIMAGE.All things appeared to be going well at Lochgarra: Mary was radiant and jubilant, and would pay no heed to Käthchen's underhand jibes and warnings. Her numerous schemes were thriving all along the line; she had orders for homespun webs and hand-knitted stockings far beyond what she could execute in the coming winter; she had been guaranteed two fishing-boats, with their furnishing of nets, for the next season; she was in treaty for more looms, for which there would be abundant employment; and to add to all this, the as yet ungarnered harvest—that poor, scattered, patchwork harvest, among the sterile rocks—promised a fair return if only the weather would leave it alone. But it was the attitude of the people towards her that warmed her heart. Since her open association with young Donald of Heimra, a miracle had been wrought in this neighbourhood; the dumb could speak; men and women who had sulkily turned away from the ban-sassunnach, shaking their heads, now managed to find quite sufficient English to answer her, and would ask her into their cottages, and offer her of their little store. Even the sad-faced, silent, morose Peter Grant, of the inn, had been brought to see that there might be something in Miss Stanley's proposals. If he were to take the April fishing on the Garra at an annual rental of £15, she providing a water-bailiff, and if, by advertising in the sporting papers, he were to find two gentlemen who would pay him £25 for the month's salmon-fishing, and use the inn at the same time, would not that serve? Peter (committing one illegal act in order to prevent another) could give an occasional glass of whiskey to the rosy-cheeked policeman: the placid and easy-going Iain, having little else to do, could now and again stroll down to the bridge of a morning or evening—there would be no fear of poachers at that end of the water.But it was over the terrible rascal and outlaw, Gillie Ciotach, that she obtained (as she thought) her most signal triumph. She sent for that notorious scamp to thank him for the couple of lythe he had presented to her; and one evening the Gillie Ciotach sauntered along towards Lochgarra House, his fisherman clothes as clean as might be, and a brand-new Balmoral set jauntily on his short brown curls. When he arrived at the house, he dismissed a quid of tobacco he had been chewing, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and ascended the steps. Barbara received him, and went and told her mistress, who directed her to bring some whiskey into the hall. Then Mary came down."Good evening!" said she, rather nervously, to this young fellow with the bold brown eyes and the heavy scar across his forehead, who stood twirling his Balmoral in his fingers. "Won't you be seated? I hope I have not put you to any inconvenience. The fact is, I wished to thank you for your kindness in leaving the two stenlock for me—I am sorry I was out—and—and perhaps you will take a glass of whiskey—will you help yourself?"For Barbara had brought in a little tray, and placed it on the hall-table, and retired. Now, when the Gillie Ciotach received this invitation, which he had no thought of refusing, he went to the table; and finding there a tumbler, a wineglass, a decanter, and a carafe of water, and being far too polite to think of drinking by himself, he filled the wine-glass with whiskey, and half-filled the tumbler with the same fluid, and brought the former, as being the more elegant of the two, to Miss Stanley."Oh, no, thank you," said she, with an involuntary shudder."No, mem?" said he, in great surprise. "Well, well, now!" But not to waste good liquor he poured the contents of the wine-glass into the tumbler, and took that between his hands as he sate down, nursing it, as it were, while he listened respectfully."But first of all," she said, with a fine effort at jollity and good-comradeship, "I ought to know your real name, you know; I don't consider nicknames fair—even although they may not be meant to be nicknames. And I wish to be good friends with everybody in the place—and to get to know all about them——""Aw, my own name?" said the Gillie Ciotach, after having, with careful manners, sipped a little of the whiskey. "Aw, it's just Andrew Mac Vean.""Very well, then, Andrew, I am very pleased to see you; and I am sure we shall be friends; and I wished to say, besides, that I hope everything will go peaceably here, and that there will be no more riotous proceedings, like the assault on the lobster-fishermen at Ru Minard——""Aw, God, that was a fine thing!" cried the Gillie Ciotach, with a loud laugh that led Mary to suspect he must have had a glass, or even two, before coming along. "Aw, it was a fine thing, that! And Miss Stanley has only to send us word, as she did before, and we'll drive the squatters into the sea—them and their traps, and their huts, ahltogether into the sea! Never mind where they settle!—you send to me, mem, and we will drive the duvvles into the sea, and let them tek their chance of swimming the Minch!——""But what do you mean?" she said, angrily. "What word did I send you? Do you imagine I authorized those mad and cruel proceedings? I bade Big Archie tell those men what the Fishery Board had said—that they had no right there; I did not ask you to drive the poor men out with sticks and stones, and set fire to their huts with petroleum. I don't want any such on-goings: why, it is monstrous that the people should take the law into their own hands, and get the neighbourhood a bad name for rioting.""It's the God's truth, mem, and many's the time I was telling them that," said the Gillie Ciotach, solemnly. "But ye see, mem, there's some wild duvvles about here; and they're neither to hold nor to bind; but I'll tell them what Miss Stanley says, that there's to be no more fighting; and if a man is determined to fight, then we'll chist fell him with a chair, and fling him below the table until he gets sober. It's a peaceable neighbourhood: why should there be any fighting in it?—but for these duvvles!——""I am glad you think so," said Mary, very gratefully. "And then there's another thing—the poaching. Now, is it fair? I ask you if it is fair——""It's a b——y shame!" said the Gillie Ciotach to himself, as he bent his head to sip a little more whiskey."Because look what I am doing, Andrew," she went on, probably not having heard the penitent exclamation. "I want you to understand. I am having the ground shot over, moderately, by the keepers, and the game sent to Inverness and sold there to pay wages, and the cost of the kennels, and so on; and in that way I can afford to keep the gillies in employment. And I do think it is hardly fair that there should be poaching.Iget no good out of the game—except a bird or two now and again for the house, or a brace or two to send away. Of course, I don't believe that there is very much poaching—for the keepers know their business too well; but it is disgraceful there should be any——""I declare to ye, mem," said the Gillie Ciotach, in tones of the most earnest conviction, "that if I was to come across one of them d——d scoundrels—I beg your pardon, mem—I meant to say there was one or two bad men about here, that mebbe would tek a hare if they found her sitting in her form—or—or a salmon; and as sure's death, mem, if I was to catch one of them scoundrels, I would bind him hand and foot with a heather rope, and I would fling him down in front of Hector's cottage, and I would say 'Hector, off with him to Dingwall!'"This was almost too much of zeal."Andrew," said she, slowly, and she looked at him, "I have heard it said that even you yourself——""Me, mem?" he exclaimed, quick to repel this unspoken accusation. "Me, mem? Miss Stanley is not going to believe that! There's a great many liars about here, mem, and there's not one of them I would believe myself; and tekking away any one's character like that! I would just like to brek the bones of any one that I heard talking like that about me—begooh, I would shove his teeth down his throat!""Well, I won't detain you any longer, Andrew," said she—and he drained off the whiskey, and smoothed out the ribbons of his Balmoral. "I am glad to hear that there is to be no more fighting or poaching; for I want the neighbourhood to have a good name; and there are plenty of other and better occupations for the young men."She went with him to the door. Suddenly something seemed to occur to the Gillie Ciotach."Would Miss Stanley be caring for two or three sea-trout now and again?" said he, in a casual kind of way.Instantly she fixed her eyes on him."Sea-trout?—where are you getting sea-trout, Andrew?" she demanded. "Do you mean to say you have a scringe-net?"For one brief moment the Gillie Ciotach looked disconcerted and guilty; but only for a moment."Aw, no, mem. A scringe-net? Is it a scringe-net? Aw, I'm sure there's no one would use a scringe-net about here!" he declared, assuming further and further an air of innocence as he went on. "The sea-trout?—well, mebbe they would be in the herring-nets—and mebbe a happening one would come on to the bait-lines—and—and mebbe the one way or the other; but if Miss Stanley not wishing to have them——""Why, isn't this the very time they go up the rivers to spawn!" she exclaimed. "And what a shame it would be to take them now!""Indeed, indeed, and that's the God's truth, mem," said the Gillie Ciotach, with a serious air. "It's at this very moment. And who would tek them? Who would put a scringe-net round the mouth of the ruvvers at a time of the year like this? Not a man about here, anyway. Aw, sea-trout?—who would think of tekkin sea-trout now? Well, good evening, mem; and I am thanking Miss Stanley for her kindness—yes, yes, indeed."And therewith the Gillie Ciotach went down the steps, fumbling in his pocket for his pipe; while Mary returned to relate the story of this momentous interview to Käthchen—perhaps with some few judicious reservations. For if all that the Gillie Ciotach professed was not quite to be believed, at least it was something that so desperate a dare-devil had the grace to affect being on the side of virtue; and Mary chose to flatter herself that, now he had shown himself in a measure amenable, she would sooner or later complete his conversion—to the general quieting of the country-side.And of course an account of this, her latest conquest, had to be written out forthwith and despatched to Heimra. Indeed, it was remarkable how constant had become the communication between the island and the shore, now that Donald Ross had returned for a few days to his own home. Big Archie's lugger was continually being requisitioned, to take out a note and wait for an answer; while Coinneach and Calum, when they came to meet the mail, would be intercepted by the swift-footed Barbara, and entrusted with a message. Käthchen was convinced that the replies that came back from Eilean Heimra were kept and secretly pondered over: more than once she had seen Mary thrust a paper into her pocket when someone had suddenly come upon her. And she noticed that when they two were walking along the shore, her companion's attention would sometimes be so steadily and wistfully fixed on the distant island—which sometimes was dark and misty under trailing clouds of rain, and sometimes shining fair amid a wonder of blue seas and sunlight—that when she was spoken to she would look startled, as if summoned out of a dream.One day there arrived, addressed to Miss Stanley, a wooden box that had the name of a well-known London florist printed on the label. The contents were a mass of flowers, all of them white; and Mary herself saw them taken out and carefully placed in water—for the pale wax-like buds of the tuberoses were hardly yet opened. Then she went to Kate Glendinning."Käthchen," she said, rather diffidently, "don't you think it is rather a sad thing, the lonely grave out there?""Do you mean at Heimra, Mamie?""Yes. It seems so hard that no one has ever a chance of showing sympathy—either with the dead or living. I have sent for some flowers; do you think we could go out and place them on the grave—without being seen?"Käthchen was silent: it did not appear a very feasible project."I have been thinking it over," Mary continued, in the same humbly apologetic, almost shamefaced way—though what there was to be ashamed of Käthchen could not make out. "And, you see, if we landed at the little bay, he would be sure to come down to meet us, and—and we should have to tell him—and—and there are things you can't speak of. I would rather have this done quite unknown—as if it were by the hand of a stranger: perhaps I should like it better if Mr. Ross himself never knew. However, I was wondering if we could not get out to the west coast of the island without being seen, and then if there was a chance of our being able to get up to the top of the cliff that way. What do you think, Käthchen?""Let us go along and ask Big Archie," said Käthchen, with promptitude: and that suggestion commending itself to her friend, both of them at once went off and got ready, and proceeded to walk down through the village.Big Archie they found on the beach, screwing the nails into a lobster-box. Käthchen put the matter briefly before him—telling him frankly the object of the expedition, and explaining their reasons for secrecy. The huge, heavy-shouldered fisherman listened attentively, stroking his voluminous beard the while."Well, mem," said he, in his plaintive Argyllshire intonation, "I am thinking it would be easy enough to get out to the island, for we could go round by the norse side. If the wind wass holding as it is now, we would lie aweh up the coast there, and if anyone on Heimra wass seeing the lugger, they would think I wass mekkin for the Eddrachilles fishing-banks; and then, when we were far enough we would put about and run down to the back of the island, and mek in for the shore. I am thinking there would be no diffeekwulty about that—aw, no, mem; we could get round to the back of the island ferry well; but it is the next thing that would be the sore thing for leddies to try——""You mean climbing up to the top of the cliff?" said Käthchen."Chist that! It's a terrible rough place the west side of Heimra," said Gilleasbuig Mor. "And where the big white stone is, it is fearful high.""Mamie," said Käthchen, turning to her friend, "wouldn't it be better for you to send Archie out with some young lad who is used to the coast, and they could put the flowers on the grave for you?""I wish to place them there with my own hand," said Mary, simply. "But you needn't come, Käthchen.""Of course I will, though!""Well, mem," said Big Archie, "I am not sure whether you will be able to get to the top that way, but we can go out and see whatever. And if the wind would hold till to-morrow morning, it would be a very good wind, both for going and coming.""Very well, then, Archie," said Mary; "to-morrow morning we shall be ready to start between nine and ten."The wind did hold, as it proved; and long before the young ladies made their appearance Big Archie and his assistant had the lugsail hoisted and the cumbrous craft smartened up as much as might be. Then he sent the lad along to Lochgarra House to see if there was anything to be fetched; but there was only a couple of waterproofs; when Mary and her friend came out, the former was herself carrying a small basket, containing the freshly-sprinkled flowers.And so they set forth—making away in a north-westerly direction, which would have led anyone to imagine they were either going to certain well-known fishing-banks or that they intended to pay some visit not at all in the Heimra direction. But when at length they had got well out beyond the most northerly spur of the island, Big Archie altered his course, and bore down south, until they were quite near to these giant ramparts facing the Atlantic main. And already it appeared to the two girls that this expedition of theirs was a quite hopeless one. They were, it is true, under the lee of the island, and the water was smooth, so that they could get ashore wherever they wished; but who could scale those sterile and sombre precipices that, further to the south, rose sheer from the water, and seemed to afford not even foothold for a goat? Even Big Archie was discouraged."No, mem," he said to Miss Stanley, "it is no use going aweh down there to where the big white stone is. There's no luvvin crayture could get up—it's far worse than I wass remembering it. But if we went ashore here where we are, and tried to get up one of them corries, then mebbe we could get along the top. Will ye try that, mem?""Whatever you like, Archie," said she—the aspect of that frowning, lonely, precipitous coast seemed to have overawed her.And indeed when they did eventually choose a landing-place, and when they began to look around them, the arduous nature of their task became abundantly apparent. First of all there were the tumbled rocks on the shore to be got over or avoided; then they proceeded up a narrow watercourse that here cleaved the land into a deep ravine; and this they ascended for some distance, scrambling up the loose wet shingle and stones. Big Archie led the way, and also he carried the little basket, for the two girls had frequently need of both hands to help them along, especially when they left the water-course, and began to force a path through the stunted birches that lined the sides of the chasm. It was a thicket of short trees, with intertwisted branches; while underfoot the long heather and bracken concealed loose, angular stones perilous to the ankle. Sometimes they had to pause, from absolute want of breath; and Big Archie, looking back, would also stop. But no one made any suggestion of giving up: there must be light and open space somewhere, if only one could win to the summit.So they toiled and toiled on, in silence, startling now a fox and now a rabbit, until, at length, the stunted trees gave way to bushes, and these in turn gave way to knee-deep heather. It was still difficult to get along; but at least they had reached the open, and were presumably approaching the high plateaus: turning, they could look abroad over the wide Atlantic, the vast plain not showing one single ship. Their own boat, far below, was out of sight, so steep was this ascent they had made.Here they rested for a minute or two, after their long and breathless struggle."One thing is quite certain, Mamie," said Käthchen, in rather a low voice, so that the big fisherman should not overhear, "When Mr. Ross finds these flowers on the grave, he will know very well who put them there.""I am not sure that I want him to know," Mary answered, in an absent way. "I think I almost wish he were not to know. If he were to consider it merely a little kindness from some stranger—that would be better, it seems to me—it would be quite disinterested——""Why, what stranger could have managed to land on Heimra without being seen?" Käthchen asked; and as there was no answer to the question, they resumed their difficult progress, getting momentarily higher as they went along the summit of the cliffs.But all at once Big Archie, who was some distance in front, halted, ducked his head, and immediately turned and came back."Miss Stanley, mem, Mr. Ross himself is there," said he."Mr. Ross!" said she, with frightened eyes."Ay. He is sitting on the heather, not far from the big white stone, and he is reading a book," said Big Archie. "He is often up there, mem. I am seeing him often and often when I am going by in the boat."Mary turned to her companion, with her face aghast."We must go away back, Käthchen, and at once," she said, in a hurried undertone. "The embarrassment would be too dreadful. If he could imagine it was some stranger brought the flowers, that would be all right; but to go up to him—before his face—to make a parade—he would wonder what kind of creatures we were."Käthchen hardly knew what to say. She had no more mind to go forward than her friend had; and yet she guessed with what a heavy heart, with what regretful lookings-back, Mary would set out on her voyage home again."Let us sit down and rest awhile," she said, at a venture.But at this very instant Big Archie returned."Mr. Ross, mem, he has got up, and he is going aweh down the hill," he said, in an eager whisper."You are sure he is not coming this way?" she said, quickly."No, no, mem—come a bit forrit, and you will see."So they followed, with rather timorous steps and anxious glances, the big fisherman; and at last they just caught a glimpse of Donald Ross making his way down the hill by the winding pathway leading up to this little plateau. And here was the large white block of marble, with its deep-graven letters of gold shining in the sunlight. Mary regarded this inscription with some curious fancies in her mind."I wish I had known her," she murmured, apparently to herself, as she took the white flowers out of the basket and reverently placed them on the stone. It was a simple ceremony—up here on the lofty crest of this solitary island, between the wide, over-arching sky and the far-extending plain of the sea.Then they went back along these silent and lonely cliffs, and got down to the boat in safety; returning to the mainland, as they hoped, unobserved. Mary Stanley was unusually absorbed and thoughtful during the rest of that day; and only once did she refer to their visit to Heimra."It seems strange, Käthchen, does it not," she said, musingly, "that he should go away up there to read? ... Do you think it is perhaps for some sense of companionship? ... That would be strange, wouldn't it, in a young man?..." And Käthchen did not venture to reply: she could not even conjecture what secret influences, what mysterious cogitations, might not have prompted such a question.But Kate herself grew to wonder whether Donald Ross had become aware of that thoughtful little act of kindness and sympathy; and whether, and in what way, he would make recognition of it. This was what happened. Some two days after their visit to the island Mary chanced to be standing at one of the windows, when she suddenly called to her companion—"Käthchen, there's a boat coming out from Heimra."She went quickly and got her binocular telescope, and returned to the window."It's theSirène!" she exclaimed."He has seen those flowers," Kate Glendinning said quietly.Mary turned to her friend, with something of concern in her look."And if he has, Käthchen, I hope he won't speak of them. Don't you think it would be better—if nothing were said? Besides, you don't know that he is coming here at all."But there was little doubt; and, in fact, on getting ashore, young Ross made straight for the house. When he was announced in the drawing-room, Mary happened to be standing near the door—perhaps with the least touch of conscious colour in the beautiful face. He, on the contrary, was pale, and calm, and self-possessed as usual; only, when he took her hand in his, he held it for a second."I thank you," he said, in rather a low voice: that was all—and it was enough.But presently it appeared that his visit had some other aim; for when he sate down they saw that he had brought a small parcel with him; and presently he said—"I am going to ask a favour of you, Miss Stanley; and I hope you won't refuse. I have brought a little present, if you will be so kind as to accept it: you may look on it as a souvenir of your visit to Heimra—for perhaps you remember the piece of lace you looked at——"She remembered very well; it was the exquisite Spanish mantilla to which Käthchen had drawn her attention. And it was not because this sumptuous piece of work was of great value that she hesitated about accepting it: would it not look like despoiling the dead woman? Instantly he appeared to divine her thought."If my mother were alive," he said, simply, "she would ask you to take it—and from her, not from me."So there was no alternative: Mary silently accepted the gift. Nor was there any further word or hint on either side about that pious and secret pilgrimage to Heimra Island; but Donald Ross knew whose hand it was that had placed those flowers on the white grave.One evening, about this time, two men were dining together in the Station Hotel, Inverness, in a corner of the long coffee-room; and these two were Mr. David Purdie, solicitor and agent, and Mr. James Watson, who was on his way through to his sheep-farm of Craiglarig. But if they were dining together, their fare was very different; for while the fresh-complexioned, twinkling-eyed farmer was content with such simple vegetarian dishes as an ordinary hotel could devise at short notice, the Troich Bheag Dhearg was attacking an ample plateful of boiled beef and carrots, while a decanter of port stood near to his elbow."Man, Watson," said the factor, with an expression of impatient disgust on his harsh, ill-tempered features, "I wonder to see ye swallowing that trash! It's not food for human beings. Have ye been so long among sheep that ye must imitate their very eating?""It's live and let live, each in his own way," said the well-contented sheep-farmer; and then he added: "But tell me this, friend Purdie: if ye object to my eemitating a sheep, what kind o' animal is't you eemitate? For there's only one kind o' crayture I've heard o' that would eat a dead cow—and that's a hoodie crow."But this was an incidental remark: presently they returned to their main object, which was the condition of Lochgarra."It's just terrible to think of," said the Little Red Dwarf, with his mouth as vindictive as the process of eating would allow; "it's just terrible to think of, the waste and extravagance going forward, on what used to be a carefully-ordered, carefully-kept estate. And the pampering o' they idle, whining, deceitful, ill-thrawn wretches, that would be the better of a cat-o'-nine tails to make them work! Work? Not them!—if they can get money out o' the proprietors or out o' the Government, or out o' the rates. And what could ye expect to happen wi' a silly, ignorant woman coming into such a nest of liars, and believing everything she hears? What could ye expect? Born liars every one o' them—ay, from end to end of the West Highlands: there's not a man o' them that would not lie the very soul out o' his body for a dram of whisky!""That's an old contention o' yours, friend Purdie," said the farmer; and then he proceeded, with a twinkle of humour in his eyes: "But I'll just tell ye this, man, that it's a mercy there's one thing in the West Highlands that will not lie. One thing at least, I tell ye. Among the universal lying, isn't it a mercy there's one thing willnotlie—and that's the snow. It's a blessing for the sheep—and for the sheep-farmers.""And what am I? Where am I?" resumed Mr. Purdie, paying no heed to this little jocosity, for his small, piggish eyes had grown heated with anger and indignation. "What is my poseetion? I ask ye that. What have I to do wi' the estate except to collect what rent there is left? It's this fashionable young dame that must come in to manage the place, snipping off here and snipping off there, ordering this and ordering that, building byres and sheds for nothing, and putting advertisements in the papers about druggets and blankets to sell, as if Lochgarra House was a warehousemen's shop. I tell ye, it's enough to make her uncle turn in his grave.Heknew better how to dale wi' they ill-thrawn paupers! And what will she not give them, after giving them Meall-na-Cruagan?—and that without consulting any one—no 'by your leave' or 'with your leave,' but 'this is what I have decided, and you can carry it out like a clerk.' Man, Watson, ye were a silly creature to consent to that Meall-na-Cruagan business! That was but a beginning—where is to be the end? Well, I'll tell ye the end! She'll snip here, and snip there, until she has divided every acre of ground among the crofters; and then, when they've resolved among themselves to pay no more rent, I suppose they'll be happy. No, d——n them if they will!—they'll want her to sell Lochgarra House, and give them the money to buy more stock." And here Mr. Purdie poured himself out a glass of port, and gulped it as a dog grabs at a rat."Ye've never forgiven the folk out there," said Mr. Watson, with an amused and demure air, "since the procession and the burning in effigy. Dod, that was a queer business!—I heard of it away up in Caithness. But I'm thinking ye might let bygones be bygones; ye've had them under your thumb a good while now—and—and—well, ye might consider that ye've paid off that score. But as for the young leddy—well, I tell ye, friend Purdie, it's just wonderful what she has done since she cam' to the place. A busy, industrious creature; ay, and she has a way of talking folk over to her way of thinking; she seems to get on famously wi' them, though they cannot have too friendly recollections of her uncle. Yes, I will say that for her: an active, well-meaning creature; and light-hearted as a lintie; dod, she takes her own way, and gets it too! But I'm thinking there's a great deal owing to young Mr. Ross—he goes about wi' her just conteenually.""Ay," said the factor, with a malignant scowl, "I'm told my young gentleman doesna shut himself up as much wi' his brandy-drinking as he used to do. So he comes over to the mainland sometimes, and goes about wi' her, does he?""Faith, ye may say that," Mr. Watson made answer, with a laugh. "They're just insayperable, as ye might say, any time that he comes over from Heimra, and that's often enough." He regarded the factor curiously. "Purdie, my man, that's going to be a match."For a second Purdie looked startled and incredulous, but instantly he lowered his eyes again."It's a match, Purdie, depend on't," Mr. Watson proceeded, still looking at his companion with an odd sort of scrutiny. "And I have been thinking, if such a thing were to come about, it might be a wee bit difficult for you—with young Ross the master at Lochgarra, eh? What d'ye think? Dod, ye'd have to make friends with him and keep a civil tongue besides, or he might be for bringing up old scores."Mr. Purdie's dinner did not seem to interest him much after that. He remained plunged in a profound reverie, with his truculent mouth drawn down, the shaggy red eyebrows shading the small irascible eyes that were now grown intent and thoughtful. And when at length Mr. Watson haled him off to the smoking-room he did not speak for some considerable time. But by and by he said—"Are ye off by the early train to-morrow, Watson?""Yes, indeed.'"And you go right through?""Just that.""Well, I think I'll bear ye company," said the Troich Bheag Dhearg, with the heavily down-drawn mouth expressing something more than mere decision. "There's a few things I want to see to. And I havena been out to Lochgarra for some time."CHAPTER VI.HABET!Mary went singing through the house: her step free and agile, her face radiant, her eyes shining with good-humour and the delight of life."Käthchen," she said, one morning, "the proofs of the photographs should come to-day, and if they turn out well I mean to have the whole of them enlarged, every one of them, to make a handsome series for Mrs. Armour. Don't you think they should be very interesting to those people away over there—'where wild Altama murmurs to their woe'? Woe, indeed! I wish we could import some of their woeful circumstances into this neighbourhood. Forty bushels of wheat to the acre: what do you say to that? A hundred and sixty acres of land for two pounds! I don't like to think of it, Käthchen: to tell you the truth, I just hate to hear Mr. Ross begin and talk about emigration: it all sounds so horribly reasonable, and practicable, and right. Sometimes I lie awake convincing myself that the very next day or the next again he will make his appearance with the announcement that he has decided to go back to his original intention; and then—then he will say good-bye to Lochgarra—he and half the people from about here—and be off to the Gilbert Plains or the Lake Dauphin District——""You need not be afraid," said Käthchen, quietly. "It is neither wheat-fields nor gold-fields that are likely to allure Mr. Ross. There's metal more attractive nearer home. By the way, Mamie," she continued, with a certain significance, "you remember there was a group taken on the banks of the Connan—and you and Mr. Ross are standing together. When you get the pictures enlarged, are you going to send any copies of that one to your friends in the south?""Why not?" said she, boldly."They may draw conclusions," said Kate Glendinning, looking at her."They are welcome to draw a cart-load of conclusions!" she retorted; but all the same she changed the subject quickly. "Do you know, Käthchen, it is quite wonderful how easily things go forward when Donald Ross is helping me. Look at the wood-carving class—started in a moment, almost; and that left-handed rascal turning out the cleverest of any of them. And then he is quite of a mind with me about corrugated iron——""You mean Mr. Ross, Mamie?" said Kate, demurely."Of course. Quite of a mind with me as to corrugated iron; and I won't have a square yard of it in the place. If, as he says, thatch takes too much time and labour, then they may have slates for their roofs, in place of the turf that I hope to see the last of before I have done with them; but not an inch of corrugated iron—not an inch. Oh, I tell you we will have Lochgarra smartened up in course of time, and Minard and Cruagan too. And I will never rest, Käthchen, I tell you I will never rest until Lochgarra has taken the first prize at the Inverness Exhibition—I mean for the best suit of men's clothes made from the wool of sheep fed on the croft, and carded, dyed, spun, hand-loom woven, and cut and sewn in the family. There! It may be a long time yet, but I mean Lochgarra to have it in the end.""Oh, but you must not stop at that point," said Käthchen. "There are a whole heap of things to be done before you have finally established your earthly paradise. You must banish all sickness and illness—but especially rheumatism. You must abolish old age. You must control the climate to suit the crops. Perhaps you could magnetise the herring-shoals, and bring them round this way, and ward off storms at the same time?""Käthchen," said Mary abruptly, "why does he keep harking back on Manitoba? Don't you think there is a curious tenacity about his mind?—he does not change plans or opinions quickly. And I know he was resolved on that emigration scheme. Why does he still talk about Manitoba? If he really has abandoned that project, why does he still keep thinking about Portage, and La Prairie, and Brandon? Of course, I admit that a hundred and sixty acres for two pounds is very tempting; and forty bushels of wheat to the acre sounds well; and I have no doubt the emigrants have better clothes, and better food, and better cottages, and that they don't run such risks from floods and rain. But still—still there's something about one's own country——""You need not be afraid, Mamie," said Kate Glendinning again.Mary went to the window, and remained there for a minute or two, looking absently across the wide plain of the sea."After all," she said, "it is a very pleasant and comfortable thing to have a neighbour. Heimra is a good way off; but all the same, if you knew there was no one living on the island, Lochgarra would be a very different place, wouldn't it, Käthchen? And Manitoba! Why, I have seen it stated that there is a most serious scarcity of water in a great many of the districts; and that often they have summer frosts that do incalculable mischief to the grain. So you see it isn't a certainty!""No, it is not," said Käthchen; "but I will tell you what is, Mamie. It is a certainty, an absolute certainty, that Donald Ross of Heimra will not go to Manitoba, or to any other corner of Canada, so long as Mary Stanley is living in Lochgarra.""Käthchen," rejoined Mary, a little proudly, "you will go on talking like that until you believe what you say."This same afternoon, shortly after luncheon, Mary left the house alone, which was unusual. She passed down through the village, greeting everyone, right and left, with a fine cheerfulness; for the weather still held good, and there was a fair chance for the harvest; while her individual schemes and industries were doing as well as could be expected. In fact, the only idle person in the place, apart from the aged and infirm, appeared to be John the policeman, and him she found by the bridge that crosses the Garra—no doubt he had been amusing himself by watching for some lively salmon or sea-trout on its way up the river. Iain seemed to have grown plumper and more roseate than ever in these piping times of peace; and the smile with which he greeted the young proprietress was good-nature itself."John," said she, "I want you to tell me something.""Aw, yes, mem," said the amiable John; and then he added: "but the lads hef been keeping very quiet.""So I hear," she answered him. "The Gillie Ciotach says he will smash the head of anyone that wants to fight; and I suppose that is one way to stop quarrelling."John laughed, showing his milk-white teeth."A very good weh, too, mem. There's not many would like to hef their head brokken by the Gillie Ciotach.""It is not about that I want you to give me some information," said Miss Stanley. "I want you to tell me if you have been long in this place. I mean, do you remember the old castle, up there in the loch, before it was pulled down?""Aw, yes, mem, yes, indeed," he made answer. "Who does not remember Castle Stanley?""Oh, nonsense with your Castle Stanley!" she said, angrily. "It never was Castle Stanley, and never will be Castle Stanley. It was Castle Heimra; and if I could have my way it would be Castle Heimra again——""Aw, yes, mem," said John, anxious to please, "who would be for calling it Castle Stanley? It is not Castle Stanley at ahl; it's just Castle Heimra, as it always was—ay, before any one can remember.""Well, tell me; what size of a place was it before it was pulled down? Was it a big place?""Big!" repeated John, doubtfully, for he did not know which way she wished to be answered."Yes, was it a great ruin?" she went on. "Some of those old castles are mere towers, you know; and others are great strongholds. What was Castle Heimra like? Was it as big as Ardvreck?"Now John had jumped to the conclusion that she wished to have the ancient glories of Castle Heimra magnified."Aw, far bigger nor Ardvreck!" he asserted confidently. "Aw, yes, yes; far bigger nor Ardvreck. A fearful big place, Castle Heimra—if you had seen the dingeons, and the towers, and the windows, and everything——""Oh, bigger than Ardvreck?" Mary said, with fallen face. And instantly John perceived that he had erred."Aw, no, mem," said he quickly. "Mebbe it was bigger nor Ardvreck at one time—that is a long time ago, before anyone about here can remember; but Castle Heimra?—aw, no!—a smahl place, a smahl place, indeed! There was nothing but the road out to it, when the loch was not too high flooded; and then the archway, and the dingeon, and the tower. Castle Heimra!—aw, it's a smahl place was Castle Heimra.""And do you suppose it could be built up again?" she asked—but rather to see how far his complaisance would carry him."Quite easy!" said John, without a moment's hesitation."Why, how do you know?" she demanded. "Are you a builder?""The stons are there," John pointed out. "And if they were pulled down, it is easy to put them back. What has been done once can be done twice.""Ah, but it would not be Castle Heimra," Mary said to herself, rather sadly, as she went on her solitary way.In course of time she came within view of the desolate expanse of mud and stones and rushes that had once been Heimra loch; and when she chose out for herself a seat on a heathery hillock close to the road, there before her were the tumbled ruins of the stronghold that had withstood the storms of centuries only to fall before the withering blast of one man's spite. And as she sate there, alone, in the absolute silence, a kind of desperation came into her mind. In all other directions there was hope for her; but here there was none. Elsewhere she could labour, and patiently wait for fruition; but how was she to drag back the past? The future had abundant and fair possibilities within it; and she was naturally sanguine; her happiness consisted in action; and perhaps she was looking forward to the time when she could say to her lover, 'See, this is what I have striven to do—for your people: is it well or ill?' But as between him and her, would there not be ever and always the consciousness of this black deed that could in no wise be recalled or atoned for, that could never be forgiven or forgotten? She was not even allowed to speak: he had declined to hear her shamefaced expressions of sorrow. Nay, she began to think he was too proud, too implacable, that he would have no word uttered. And if she went to him and said: 'Donald, do not blame me!—I had no part in it: I would give my right hand to undo what has been done'—would not his looks still remain haughty and cold, telling her that she had not ceased to be theban-sassunnach—a stranger—the enemy of his race and name?There was a sound of wheels. She started to her feet, for there were tears in her eyes that she had to hide. The approaching vehicle turned out to be the mail-car; and on it were Mr. Purdie and Mr. Watson, seated beside the driver. Both of them raised their hats to her, and would doubtless have driven on, but that she called to the factor; whereupon the mail-car was stopped, and Mr. Purdie descended."Leave my bag at the inn, Jimmie," he said to the driver, who sent his horses on again: then the Troich Bheag Dhearg came along to the spot at which Mary awaited him."I wish to speak to you about one or two things, Mr. Purdie," she said, in a curiously reserved and frigid fashion. "You told me it was under your direction that the loch here was drained. I do not know whether my uncle was acting on the advice or suggestion of any one; I can hardly believe that so insensate a piece of malice could have entered his head without instigation. And if there was instigation, if this thing was done out of ill-will towards the Rosses of Heimra, then I say it was a cowardly blow—a mean, shameless, and cowardly blow!" Her lips were a little pale; but she was apparently quite calm."It was just the thrawn nature of the people about here that brought it on themselves," said the Little Red Dwarf, sullenly. "The Rosses of Heimra had no further concern with the loch and the castle, once the property was sold. They belonged to your uncle: surely it was for him to say what they should be called? Surely he had the right to do what he liked with his own?""In this instance," said Mary, still preserving that somewhat cold and distant demeanour, "what he did has got to be undone, as far as that is now possible. I suppose it would be useless to try and rebuild the castle. Even if the stones were put up again, it would hardly be Castle Heimra. But Loch Heimra can be restored to what it used to be; and since the mischief was done under your direction, Mr. Purdie, you can now take steps to repair it.""Bless me, Miss Stanley," the factor protested, "it would be quite useless—perfectly useless! The loch was never worth anything to anybody. Salmon cannot get up; and there was nothing in it but a wheen brown trout——""It is not the value of the loch I am considering," she rejoined. "I wish to make some reparation, as far as I can. And I suppose if those channels you had cut were partially blocked up, the water from the hills would soon fill the lake again. Or you could bring the Connan round in this direction with very little trouble, and let it find its way down to the Garra after going through the loch——""The expense, Miss Stanley!—the expense!""I tell you I will have this done, if I have to sell Lochgarra House to do it!" she said—forgetting for a moment her austere demeanour. The factor had no further word. Mary went on: "It cannot be a difficult thing to do, any more than the draining was difficult; and it will give employment to some of the people, when the harvest is in and the fishing season over. So you'd better see about it at once, Mr. Purdie; and make arrangements. And there is to be no more talk of Loch Stanley or of Castle Stanley either; this is Loch Heimra; and if Castle Heimra has been pulled down—shamefully and wickedly pulled down—at least there are the ruins to show where it stood."The factor remained darkly silent, his vindictive mouth drawn down, his small eyes morose. And little did she know what gall and wormwood she had poured into his heart, in directing him to employ those very Lochgarra people in this work of restoration. However, he made no further protest: indeed, he endeavoured to assume an air of hopeless acquiescence—it was his business to obey orders, even if she should bring the whole estate to waste and ruin.But as they together set out to return to the village, and as she was talking over general business affairs with him, explaining what she had done and what she meant to do, he could not quite conceal his bitter resentment."It seems to me, Miss Stanley, that I am hardly wanted here. A strange condeetion of affairs. The factor the very last one to be consulted. And when I think of the way ye allow these people to impose on ye—well, maybe I'm not so much astonished; for what could one expect?—you come here an absolute stranger, and you wish to do without them that have experience of the place, and of course you believe every tale that is told ye. Though I say it who maybe should not, Lochgarra was a well-managed estate; everything actually valued, and in order; and the tenants, large and small, knowing fine that they had to fulfil their contracts, or take the consequences. But what prevails now? A system of wholesale charity, as it seems to me. It is giving everything, and getting nothing. I hope, Miss Stanley," he went on, "ye will not mind my speaking warmly; for I've done my best for my employers all my life through; and I cannot be supposed to like other ways and means—which were never contemplated by the law of the land. If the other proprietors were to go on as you are doing, there's three-fourths o' them would be in beggary——""It might do them good to try a little of it," said she—which was an odd speech for the owner of a considerable estate."And what has been the result?" he demanded. "What has been gained by so much sacrifice?""Well," said she, "for one thing, the people are more contented. And they are more friendly towards me. When I came here at first I was hated; now I am not so much so. Quite friendly most of them are—or, at least, they appear to be.""Ay, trust them for that!" said the Little Red Dwarf, scornfully. "Trust them for that—the cunningest mongrels that ever whined for a bone! Well they know how to fawn and beslaver, when they're expecting more and more. I tell ye, Miss Stanley, ye do not understand these creatures, and it angers me to think that ye are being cheated and imposed on right and left. Getting more boats and nets?—they'll laugh at ye, they'll just laugh at ye when ye ask them to pay up the instalments! And who is your adviser?—a young man who is in secret league with them—an underhand, conspiring ne'er-do-weel, as cunning as any one of them, and as treacherous——""Mr. Purdie," she said—with a sudden change of tone he did not fail to note, "what do you mean? I—I beg you to be a little more respectful in your language.""It's the old story," said the factor, with affected resignation. "Ye may work and work, and do the best for your employers; and then some stranger is called in, new advice is taken, and all you have done is destroyed. And I wonder if the people will be any the better off. I wonder what change in their condeetion it will make—what permanent change, when once you stop putting your hand in your pocket. Improvements? Oh, yes, yes; improvements are all very fine. But I'm thinking that spending money on free libraries and the like o' that will not help them much in getting in their crops.""As for that," she retorted—but with no displeasure, only a little quiet confidence, "I can merely say that I am trying to do my best, in a great many different ways; and the result, whatever it may be, is a long way off yet. And I live in hope. Of course, there is much more that I should like to do, and do at once; but I cannot; for I haven't sufficient money. I don't deny that there is a great deal still to be amended: I can't work miracles. The people are very poor—and many of them not too industrious; the soil is bad; the fishing is uncertain; and communication difficult. I dare say there is even a good deal of wretchedness—or rather, what a stranger would regard as extreme wretchedness and misery; but all that cannot be changed in a moment, even if it turns out that it can be changed at all. And at least there is little sickness; the poorest cottages have the fresh air blowing around them—they're better than the London slums, at all events. And one must just do what one can; and hope for the best.""I tell ye, ye are going entirely the wrong way to work wi' these people, Miss Stanley," said he, as they were crossing the bridge and about to enter the village. "It's my place to tell ye. It's my bounden duty to tell ye. And I say they are just making sport wi' ye. They are born beggars; work of any kind is an abomination to them; and you'll find they'll be like leeches—give, give always; and when you've ruined the estate on their behalf, what then?""I don't see any such prospect—not at present," said Mary, cheerfully."Who is likely to know most about them, you or me?" he went on with dogged persistence. "Who has had most experience of them? Who has had dealings with them for years and years, and learned their tricks? A whining, cringing, useless set, cunning as the very mischief, and having not even an idea of what speaking the truth is. Plausible enough—oh, ay—plausible with a stranger—especially when they expect to get anything.""Mr. Purdie," said Mary, interrupting him, "I presume from your name you belong to the south of Scotland. Well, I have been told that the Scotch—the people in the southern half of Scotland—do not understand the Highland character at all; and cannot understand it, for they have no sympathy with it. I have been told that the English have far more sympathy with the Highland nature. And I am English.""Ay, and who told ye that about the Scotch and the Highlanders?" he said, suddenly and sharply.She hesitated for a second."It is of little consequence," she answered him. "But I would like to add this—that denunciations of the inhabitants of a whole country-side do not seem to me of much value. I suppose human nature is pretty much the same in Lochgarra as it is elsewhere. And—and—besides, Mr. Purdie—I do not wish to hear evil spoken of a people amongst whom I have many friends."She spoke with some dignity."Evil speaking?" said he, with louring eyebrows, "I for one am not given to evil speaking—or the truth might have been told you ere now.""The truth?—what truth?" she demanded."The truth about one that is too much at your right hand, Miss Stanley, if I may make bold to say so." At this moment they arrived at the door of the inn; and she paused, expecting him to leave her; but he said: "No, I will go on with you as far as Lochgarra House. It is time I should open my lips at last. I have been patient. I have stood by. I have heard what has been going on—and I have held my tongue. And why?—because there are things that it is difficult to speak of to an unmarried young woman."Mary was a trifle bewildered. They were walking along through the village, on this quiet afternoon, with nothing to interrupt the peaceful stillness save the recurrent plash of the ripples on the beach: it was hardly the time or the place to be associated with any tragic disclosure. Moreover, had she heard aright? Was it of Donald Ross he was speaking?"And I will say this for myself," the factor continued, "that I warned ye about the character of that young man, as plainly as I dared—ay, the very first day ye set foot in the place——""You mean Mr. Ross?" said she, lightly. "Pray spare yourself the trouble, Mr. Purdie. You forget I have had some opportunities of studying Mr. Ross's character. I know him a little. What did you say?—that you had something to tell? Oh, no; don't give yourself the trouble. I know him a little.""You do not know him at all!" he said, with a vehemence that startled her. "I tell ye there is not one in this place who would dare to tell ye the story; and would I, unless I was bound to do it? If there was a married woman at Lochgarra House, it's to her I would go; and she would tell ye; but I say it is my bounden duty to speak—and to speak plainly——""Mr. Purdie, I do not wish to hear," she said, with some touch of alarm."But ye must hear," he said, with set lips and slow, emphatic utterance. "Ye are bound to hear—and to understand the character of the man ye are publicly associating yourself with. A scoundrel of that kind has no right to be going about with a virtuous and respectable young woman——""Mr. Purdie," she said, hurriedly, "I don't want to know—I don't believe—I wouldn't believe——""Miss Stanley," he said, with measured deliberation, "ye have some knowledge of that poor half-witted creature they call Anna Chlannach. But did it never occur to ye to ask how she came to lose her reason? Ay, but if ye had asked, they would not have told ye; there's not one o' them about here but would lie through thick and thin to screen that scapegrace; and what then would be the use o' your asking? But I can tell ye; and I say it's my bounden duty to speak, if there's none else here to warn ye. And there is my witness—there is the living witness to that scoundrel's licentiousness and wicked cruelty: go to her—ask herself—ask her what makes her wander about the shore watching for him, looking out to Heimra as if the ill he has done her could now be repaired. The poor lass, betrayed, deserted: no wonder she lost her reason—ay, and it's a good thing the currents along this coast are strong, or I'm thinking there might have been a trial for infanticide as well——"Mary heard no more: she did not know that he was still talking to her; she did not know that he accompanied her almost to the house, where he left her. For—after the first fierce and indignant denial that involuntarily rushed to her mind—what she saw before her burning eyes was a series of visions, each of them of the most terrible distinctness, and all of them related in some ghastly way to this story she had just been told. What were these things, then, that seemed to sear her very eyeballs? She saw the little harbour of Camus Bheag; she saw the figure of a young girl rocking herself in an utter abandonment of misery and despair; she saw piteous hands held out; she heard that heart-broken wail piercing the silence as the boat made slowly away for Eilean Heimra. And then again she was on the heights above the Garra, and looking down upon the bridge. Those two there?—she had taken them for lovers—she had called Käthchen's attention—it was a pretty scene. Then the sudden, swift disappearance of the girl into the woods; and the young man's easy, confident professions: all those things grew manifest before her with an appalling clearness; a blinding light burned upon them. Nay, her very first interview with Anna Chlannach came back to startle her: she remembered the poor demented girl wandering among the rocks, all her intelligible talk being about Heimra: she remembered her being easily persuaded to walk towards the house; she remembered, too, how Anna Chlannach fled in terror the moment she came in sight of the stranger who knew her history. What hideous tale was it that seemed to summon up these scenes, appealing to them for corroboration? What was it they seemed to say was true—true as if written up before her in letters of fire?There was no time for her to reason or think. For here, as it chanced, was this very man—this Donald Ross—coming down the wide steps from her own door. And all her soul was in revolt. Her wounded pride—her sense of humiliation—scorched her like flame. How had this man dared to lift his eyes to her? Unabashed he had come into the same room with her—he had breathed the same air—he had touched her hand: a contamination that was a poisoned sting. And the people of Lochgarra, who had seen him and her walking together: were they cognisant of his low amours? They had wagged their heads, perhaps? They had looked the one to the other?"I half-expected to meet you," said Donald Ross.There was no answer. But Mary Stanley did not lower her head, or avert her face; she was too proud for that; her heart might be beating as though it would burst its prison, but to all outward appearance she was quite unmoved. She passed him, pale and cold and silent; and he stood on one side, looking at her, without a word. She went into the house; she took no notice of Käthchen, who was still in the hall; she made for her own room, and locked herself in there—voiceless, tearless, with all the fair fabric of her life, its aims, and dreams, and ideals, its still more secret and trembling hopes, become suddenly and at one blow a tragic desolation of wreckage and ruin.
CHAPTER V.
A PIOUS PILGRIMAGE.
All things appeared to be going well at Lochgarra: Mary was radiant and jubilant, and would pay no heed to Käthchen's underhand jibes and warnings. Her numerous schemes were thriving all along the line; she had orders for homespun webs and hand-knitted stockings far beyond what she could execute in the coming winter; she had been guaranteed two fishing-boats, with their furnishing of nets, for the next season; she was in treaty for more looms, for which there would be abundant employment; and to add to all this, the as yet ungarnered harvest—that poor, scattered, patchwork harvest, among the sterile rocks—promised a fair return if only the weather would leave it alone. But it was the attitude of the people towards her that warmed her heart. Since her open association with young Donald of Heimra, a miracle had been wrought in this neighbourhood; the dumb could speak; men and women who had sulkily turned away from the ban-sassunnach, shaking their heads, now managed to find quite sufficient English to answer her, and would ask her into their cottages, and offer her of their little store. Even the sad-faced, silent, morose Peter Grant, of the inn, had been brought to see that there might be something in Miss Stanley's proposals. If he were to take the April fishing on the Garra at an annual rental of £15, she providing a water-bailiff, and if, by advertising in the sporting papers, he were to find two gentlemen who would pay him £25 for the month's salmon-fishing, and use the inn at the same time, would not that serve? Peter (committing one illegal act in order to prevent another) could give an occasional glass of whiskey to the rosy-cheeked policeman: the placid and easy-going Iain, having little else to do, could now and again stroll down to the bridge of a morning or evening—there would be no fear of poachers at that end of the water.
But it was over the terrible rascal and outlaw, Gillie Ciotach, that she obtained (as she thought) her most signal triumph. She sent for that notorious scamp to thank him for the couple of lythe he had presented to her; and one evening the Gillie Ciotach sauntered along towards Lochgarra House, his fisherman clothes as clean as might be, and a brand-new Balmoral set jauntily on his short brown curls. When he arrived at the house, he dismissed a quid of tobacco he had been chewing, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and ascended the steps. Barbara received him, and went and told her mistress, who directed her to bring some whiskey into the hall. Then Mary came down.
"Good evening!" said she, rather nervously, to this young fellow with the bold brown eyes and the heavy scar across his forehead, who stood twirling his Balmoral in his fingers. "Won't you be seated? I hope I have not put you to any inconvenience. The fact is, I wished to thank you for your kindness in leaving the two stenlock for me—I am sorry I was out—and—and perhaps you will take a glass of whiskey—will you help yourself?"
For Barbara had brought in a little tray, and placed it on the hall-table, and retired. Now, when the Gillie Ciotach received this invitation, which he had no thought of refusing, he went to the table; and finding there a tumbler, a wineglass, a decanter, and a carafe of water, and being far too polite to think of drinking by himself, he filled the wine-glass with whiskey, and half-filled the tumbler with the same fluid, and brought the former, as being the more elegant of the two, to Miss Stanley.
"Oh, no, thank you," said she, with an involuntary shudder.
"No, mem?" said he, in great surprise. "Well, well, now!" But not to waste good liquor he poured the contents of the wine-glass into the tumbler, and took that between his hands as he sate down, nursing it, as it were, while he listened respectfully.
"But first of all," she said, with a fine effort at jollity and good-comradeship, "I ought to know your real name, you know; I don't consider nicknames fair—even although they may not be meant to be nicknames. And I wish to be good friends with everybody in the place—and to get to know all about them——"
"Aw, my own name?" said the Gillie Ciotach, after having, with careful manners, sipped a little of the whiskey. "Aw, it's just Andrew Mac Vean."
"Very well, then, Andrew, I am very pleased to see you; and I am sure we shall be friends; and I wished to say, besides, that I hope everything will go peaceably here, and that there will be no more riotous proceedings, like the assault on the lobster-fishermen at Ru Minard——"
"Aw, God, that was a fine thing!" cried the Gillie Ciotach, with a loud laugh that led Mary to suspect he must have had a glass, or even two, before coming along. "Aw, it was a fine thing, that! And Miss Stanley has only to send us word, as she did before, and we'll drive the squatters into the sea—them and their traps, and their huts, ahltogether into the sea! Never mind where they settle!—you send to me, mem, and we will drive the duvvles into the sea, and let them tek their chance of swimming the Minch!——"
"But what do you mean?" she said, angrily. "What word did I send you? Do you imagine I authorized those mad and cruel proceedings? I bade Big Archie tell those men what the Fishery Board had said—that they had no right there; I did not ask you to drive the poor men out with sticks and stones, and set fire to their huts with petroleum. I don't want any such on-goings: why, it is monstrous that the people should take the law into their own hands, and get the neighbourhood a bad name for rioting."
"It's the God's truth, mem, and many's the time I was telling them that," said the Gillie Ciotach, solemnly. "But ye see, mem, there's some wild duvvles about here; and they're neither to hold nor to bind; but I'll tell them what Miss Stanley says, that there's to be no more fighting; and if a man is determined to fight, then we'll chist fell him with a chair, and fling him below the table until he gets sober. It's a peaceable neighbourhood: why should there be any fighting in it?—but for these duvvles!——"
"I am glad you think so," said Mary, very gratefully. "And then there's another thing—the poaching. Now, is it fair? I ask you if it is fair——"
"It's a b——y shame!" said the Gillie Ciotach to himself, as he bent his head to sip a little more whiskey.
"Because look what I am doing, Andrew," she went on, probably not having heard the penitent exclamation. "I want you to understand. I am having the ground shot over, moderately, by the keepers, and the game sent to Inverness and sold there to pay wages, and the cost of the kennels, and so on; and in that way I can afford to keep the gillies in employment. And I do think it is hardly fair that there should be poaching.Iget no good out of the game—except a bird or two now and again for the house, or a brace or two to send away. Of course, I don't believe that there is very much poaching—for the keepers know their business too well; but it is disgraceful there should be any——"
"I declare to ye, mem," said the Gillie Ciotach, in tones of the most earnest conviction, "that if I was to come across one of them d——d scoundrels—I beg your pardon, mem—I meant to say there was one or two bad men about here, that mebbe would tek a hare if they found her sitting in her form—or—or a salmon; and as sure's death, mem, if I was to catch one of them scoundrels, I would bind him hand and foot with a heather rope, and I would fling him down in front of Hector's cottage, and I would say 'Hector, off with him to Dingwall!'"
This was almost too much of zeal.
"Andrew," said she, slowly, and she looked at him, "I have heard it said that even you yourself——"
"Me, mem?" he exclaimed, quick to repel this unspoken accusation. "Me, mem? Miss Stanley is not going to believe that! There's a great many liars about here, mem, and there's not one of them I would believe myself; and tekking away any one's character like that! I would just like to brek the bones of any one that I heard talking like that about me—begooh, I would shove his teeth down his throat!"
"Well, I won't detain you any longer, Andrew," said she—and he drained off the whiskey, and smoothed out the ribbons of his Balmoral. "I am glad to hear that there is to be no more fighting or poaching; for I want the neighbourhood to have a good name; and there are plenty of other and better occupations for the young men."
She went with him to the door. Suddenly something seemed to occur to the Gillie Ciotach.
"Would Miss Stanley be caring for two or three sea-trout now and again?" said he, in a casual kind of way.
Instantly she fixed her eyes on him.
"Sea-trout?—where are you getting sea-trout, Andrew?" she demanded. "Do you mean to say you have a scringe-net?"
For one brief moment the Gillie Ciotach looked disconcerted and guilty; but only for a moment.
"Aw, no, mem. A scringe-net? Is it a scringe-net? Aw, I'm sure there's no one would use a scringe-net about here!" he declared, assuming further and further an air of innocence as he went on. "The sea-trout?—well, mebbe they would be in the herring-nets—and mebbe a happening one would come on to the bait-lines—and—and mebbe the one way or the other; but if Miss Stanley not wishing to have them——"
"Why, isn't this the very time they go up the rivers to spawn!" she exclaimed. "And what a shame it would be to take them now!"
"Indeed, indeed, and that's the God's truth, mem," said the Gillie Ciotach, with a serious air. "It's at this very moment. And who would tek them? Who would put a scringe-net round the mouth of the ruvvers at a time of the year like this? Not a man about here, anyway. Aw, sea-trout?—who would think of tekkin sea-trout now? Well, good evening, mem; and I am thanking Miss Stanley for her kindness—yes, yes, indeed."
And therewith the Gillie Ciotach went down the steps, fumbling in his pocket for his pipe; while Mary returned to relate the story of this momentous interview to Käthchen—perhaps with some few judicious reservations. For if all that the Gillie Ciotach professed was not quite to be believed, at least it was something that so desperate a dare-devil had the grace to affect being on the side of virtue; and Mary chose to flatter herself that, now he had shown himself in a measure amenable, she would sooner or later complete his conversion—to the general quieting of the country-side.
And of course an account of this, her latest conquest, had to be written out forthwith and despatched to Heimra. Indeed, it was remarkable how constant had become the communication between the island and the shore, now that Donald Ross had returned for a few days to his own home. Big Archie's lugger was continually being requisitioned, to take out a note and wait for an answer; while Coinneach and Calum, when they came to meet the mail, would be intercepted by the swift-footed Barbara, and entrusted with a message. Käthchen was convinced that the replies that came back from Eilean Heimra were kept and secretly pondered over: more than once she had seen Mary thrust a paper into her pocket when someone had suddenly come upon her. And she noticed that when they two were walking along the shore, her companion's attention would sometimes be so steadily and wistfully fixed on the distant island—which sometimes was dark and misty under trailing clouds of rain, and sometimes shining fair amid a wonder of blue seas and sunlight—that when she was spoken to she would look startled, as if summoned out of a dream.
One day there arrived, addressed to Miss Stanley, a wooden box that had the name of a well-known London florist printed on the label. The contents were a mass of flowers, all of them white; and Mary herself saw them taken out and carefully placed in water—for the pale wax-like buds of the tuberoses were hardly yet opened. Then she went to Kate Glendinning.
"Käthchen," she said, rather diffidently, "don't you think it is rather a sad thing, the lonely grave out there?"
"Do you mean at Heimra, Mamie?"
"Yes. It seems so hard that no one has ever a chance of showing sympathy—either with the dead or living. I have sent for some flowers; do you think we could go out and place them on the grave—without being seen?"
Käthchen was silent: it did not appear a very feasible project.
"I have been thinking it over," Mary continued, in the same humbly apologetic, almost shamefaced way—though what there was to be ashamed of Käthchen could not make out. "And, you see, if we landed at the little bay, he would be sure to come down to meet us, and—and we should have to tell him—and—and there are things you can't speak of. I would rather have this done quite unknown—as if it were by the hand of a stranger: perhaps I should like it better if Mr. Ross himself never knew. However, I was wondering if we could not get out to the west coast of the island without being seen, and then if there was a chance of our being able to get up to the top of the cliff that way. What do you think, Käthchen?"
"Let us go along and ask Big Archie," said Käthchen, with promptitude: and that suggestion commending itself to her friend, both of them at once went off and got ready, and proceeded to walk down through the village.
Big Archie they found on the beach, screwing the nails into a lobster-box. Käthchen put the matter briefly before him—telling him frankly the object of the expedition, and explaining their reasons for secrecy. The huge, heavy-shouldered fisherman listened attentively, stroking his voluminous beard the while.
"Well, mem," said he, in his plaintive Argyllshire intonation, "I am thinking it would be easy enough to get out to the island, for we could go round by the norse side. If the wind wass holding as it is now, we would lie aweh up the coast there, and if anyone on Heimra wass seeing the lugger, they would think I wass mekkin for the Eddrachilles fishing-banks; and then, when we were far enough we would put about and run down to the back of the island, and mek in for the shore. I am thinking there would be no diffeekwulty about that—aw, no, mem; we could get round to the back of the island ferry well; but it is the next thing that would be the sore thing for leddies to try——"
"You mean climbing up to the top of the cliff?" said Käthchen.
"Chist that! It's a terrible rough place the west side of Heimra," said Gilleasbuig Mor. "And where the big white stone is, it is fearful high."
"Mamie," said Käthchen, turning to her friend, "wouldn't it be better for you to send Archie out with some young lad who is used to the coast, and they could put the flowers on the grave for you?"
"I wish to place them there with my own hand," said Mary, simply. "But you needn't come, Käthchen."
"Of course I will, though!"
"Well, mem," said Big Archie, "I am not sure whether you will be able to get to the top that way, but we can go out and see whatever. And if the wind would hold till to-morrow morning, it would be a very good wind, both for going and coming."
"Very well, then, Archie," said Mary; "to-morrow morning we shall be ready to start between nine and ten."
The wind did hold, as it proved; and long before the young ladies made their appearance Big Archie and his assistant had the lugsail hoisted and the cumbrous craft smartened up as much as might be. Then he sent the lad along to Lochgarra House to see if there was anything to be fetched; but there was only a couple of waterproofs; when Mary and her friend came out, the former was herself carrying a small basket, containing the freshly-sprinkled flowers.
And so they set forth—making away in a north-westerly direction, which would have led anyone to imagine they were either going to certain well-known fishing-banks or that they intended to pay some visit not at all in the Heimra direction. But when at length they had got well out beyond the most northerly spur of the island, Big Archie altered his course, and bore down south, until they were quite near to these giant ramparts facing the Atlantic main. And already it appeared to the two girls that this expedition of theirs was a quite hopeless one. They were, it is true, under the lee of the island, and the water was smooth, so that they could get ashore wherever they wished; but who could scale those sterile and sombre precipices that, further to the south, rose sheer from the water, and seemed to afford not even foothold for a goat? Even Big Archie was discouraged.
"No, mem," he said to Miss Stanley, "it is no use going aweh down there to where the big white stone is. There's no luvvin crayture could get up—it's far worse than I wass remembering it. But if we went ashore here where we are, and tried to get up one of them corries, then mebbe we could get along the top. Will ye try that, mem?"
"Whatever you like, Archie," said she—the aspect of that frowning, lonely, precipitous coast seemed to have overawed her.
And indeed when they did eventually choose a landing-place, and when they began to look around them, the arduous nature of their task became abundantly apparent. First of all there were the tumbled rocks on the shore to be got over or avoided; then they proceeded up a narrow watercourse that here cleaved the land into a deep ravine; and this they ascended for some distance, scrambling up the loose wet shingle and stones. Big Archie led the way, and also he carried the little basket, for the two girls had frequently need of both hands to help them along, especially when they left the water-course, and began to force a path through the stunted birches that lined the sides of the chasm. It was a thicket of short trees, with intertwisted branches; while underfoot the long heather and bracken concealed loose, angular stones perilous to the ankle. Sometimes they had to pause, from absolute want of breath; and Big Archie, looking back, would also stop. But no one made any suggestion of giving up: there must be light and open space somewhere, if only one could win to the summit.
So they toiled and toiled on, in silence, startling now a fox and now a rabbit, until, at length, the stunted trees gave way to bushes, and these in turn gave way to knee-deep heather. It was still difficult to get along; but at least they had reached the open, and were presumably approaching the high plateaus: turning, they could look abroad over the wide Atlantic, the vast plain not showing one single ship. Their own boat, far below, was out of sight, so steep was this ascent they had made.
Here they rested for a minute or two, after their long and breathless struggle.
"One thing is quite certain, Mamie," said Käthchen, in rather a low voice, so that the big fisherman should not overhear, "When Mr. Ross finds these flowers on the grave, he will know very well who put them there."
"I am not sure that I want him to know," Mary answered, in an absent way. "I think I almost wish he were not to know. If he were to consider it merely a little kindness from some stranger—that would be better, it seems to me—it would be quite disinterested——"
"Why, what stranger could have managed to land on Heimra without being seen?" Käthchen asked; and as there was no answer to the question, they resumed their difficult progress, getting momentarily higher as they went along the summit of the cliffs.
But all at once Big Archie, who was some distance in front, halted, ducked his head, and immediately turned and came back.
"Miss Stanley, mem, Mr. Ross himself is there," said he.
"Mr. Ross!" said she, with frightened eyes.
"Ay. He is sitting on the heather, not far from the big white stone, and he is reading a book," said Big Archie. "He is often up there, mem. I am seeing him often and often when I am going by in the boat."
Mary turned to her companion, with her face aghast.
"We must go away back, Käthchen, and at once," she said, in a hurried undertone. "The embarrassment would be too dreadful. If he could imagine it was some stranger brought the flowers, that would be all right; but to go up to him—before his face—to make a parade—he would wonder what kind of creatures we were."
Käthchen hardly knew what to say. She had no more mind to go forward than her friend had; and yet she guessed with what a heavy heart, with what regretful lookings-back, Mary would set out on her voyage home again.
"Let us sit down and rest awhile," she said, at a venture.
But at this very instant Big Archie returned.
"Mr. Ross, mem, he has got up, and he is going aweh down the hill," he said, in an eager whisper.
"You are sure he is not coming this way?" she said, quickly.
"No, no, mem—come a bit forrit, and you will see."
So they followed, with rather timorous steps and anxious glances, the big fisherman; and at last they just caught a glimpse of Donald Ross making his way down the hill by the winding pathway leading up to this little plateau. And here was the large white block of marble, with its deep-graven letters of gold shining in the sunlight. Mary regarded this inscription with some curious fancies in her mind.
"I wish I had known her," she murmured, apparently to herself, as she took the white flowers out of the basket and reverently placed them on the stone. It was a simple ceremony—up here on the lofty crest of this solitary island, between the wide, over-arching sky and the far-extending plain of the sea.
Then they went back along these silent and lonely cliffs, and got down to the boat in safety; returning to the mainland, as they hoped, unobserved. Mary Stanley was unusually absorbed and thoughtful during the rest of that day; and only once did she refer to their visit to Heimra.
"It seems strange, Käthchen, does it not," she said, musingly, "that he should go away up there to read? ... Do you think it is perhaps for some sense of companionship? ... That would be strange, wouldn't it, in a young man?..." And Käthchen did not venture to reply: she could not even conjecture what secret influences, what mysterious cogitations, might not have prompted such a question.
But Kate herself grew to wonder whether Donald Ross had become aware of that thoughtful little act of kindness and sympathy; and whether, and in what way, he would make recognition of it. This was what happened. Some two days after their visit to the island Mary chanced to be standing at one of the windows, when she suddenly called to her companion—
"Käthchen, there's a boat coming out from Heimra."
She went quickly and got her binocular telescope, and returned to the window.
"It's theSirène!" she exclaimed.
"He has seen those flowers," Kate Glendinning said quietly.
Mary turned to her friend, with something of concern in her look.
"And if he has, Käthchen, I hope he won't speak of them. Don't you think it would be better—if nothing were said? Besides, you don't know that he is coming here at all."
But there was little doubt; and, in fact, on getting ashore, young Ross made straight for the house. When he was announced in the drawing-room, Mary happened to be standing near the door—perhaps with the least touch of conscious colour in the beautiful face. He, on the contrary, was pale, and calm, and self-possessed as usual; only, when he took her hand in his, he held it for a second.
"I thank you," he said, in rather a low voice: that was all—and it was enough.
But presently it appeared that his visit had some other aim; for when he sate down they saw that he had brought a small parcel with him; and presently he said—
"I am going to ask a favour of you, Miss Stanley; and I hope you won't refuse. I have brought a little present, if you will be so kind as to accept it: you may look on it as a souvenir of your visit to Heimra—for perhaps you remember the piece of lace you looked at——"
She remembered very well; it was the exquisite Spanish mantilla to which Käthchen had drawn her attention. And it was not because this sumptuous piece of work was of great value that she hesitated about accepting it: would it not look like despoiling the dead woman? Instantly he appeared to divine her thought.
"If my mother were alive," he said, simply, "she would ask you to take it—and from her, not from me."
So there was no alternative: Mary silently accepted the gift. Nor was there any further word or hint on either side about that pious and secret pilgrimage to Heimra Island; but Donald Ross knew whose hand it was that had placed those flowers on the white grave.
One evening, about this time, two men were dining together in the Station Hotel, Inverness, in a corner of the long coffee-room; and these two were Mr. David Purdie, solicitor and agent, and Mr. James Watson, who was on his way through to his sheep-farm of Craiglarig. But if they were dining together, their fare was very different; for while the fresh-complexioned, twinkling-eyed farmer was content with such simple vegetarian dishes as an ordinary hotel could devise at short notice, the Troich Bheag Dhearg was attacking an ample plateful of boiled beef and carrots, while a decanter of port stood near to his elbow.
"Man, Watson," said the factor, with an expression of impatient disgust on his harsh, ill-tempered features, "I wonder to see ye swallowing that trash! It's not food for human beings. Have ye been so long among sheep that ye must imitate their very eating?"
"It's live and let live, each in his own way," said the well-contented sheep-farmer; and then he added: "But tell me this, friend Purdie: if ye object to my eemitating a sheep, what kind o' animal is't you eemitate? For there's only one kind o' crayture I've heard o' that would eat a dead cow—and that's a hoodie crow."
But this was an incidental remark: presently they returned to their main object, which was the condition of Lochgarra.
"It's just terrible to think of," said the Little Red Dwarf, with his mouth as vindictive as the process of eating would allow; "it's just terrible to think of, the waste and extravagance going forward, on what used to be a carefully-ordered, carefully-kept estate. And the pampering o' they idle, whining, deceitful, ill-thrawn wretches, that would be the better of a cat-o'-nine tails to make them work! Work? Not them!—if they can get money out o' the proprietors or out o' the Government, or out o' the rates. And what could ye expect to happen wi' a silly, ignorant woman coming into such a nest of liars, and believing everything she hears? What could ye expect? Born liars every one o' them—ay, from end to end of the West Highlands: there's not a man o' them that would not lie the very soul out o' his body for a dram of whisky!"
"That's an old contention o' yours, friend Purdie," said the farmer; and then he proceeded, with a twinkle of humour in his eyes: "But I'll just tell ye this, man, that it's a mercy there's one thing in the West Highlands that will not lie. One thing at least, I tell ye. Among the universal lying, isn't it a mercy there's one thing willnotlie—and that's the snow. It's a blessing for the sheep—and for the sheep-farmers."
"And what am I? Where am I?" resumed Mr. Purdie, paying no heed to this little jocosity, for his small, piggish eyes had grown heated with anger and indignation. "What is my poseetion? I ask ye that. What have I to do wi' the estate except to collect what rent there is left? It's this fashionable young dame that must come in to manage the place, snipping off here and snipping off there, ordering this and ordering that, building byres and sheds for nothing, and putting advertisements in the papers about druggets and blankets to sell, as if Lochgarra House was a warehousemen's shop. I tell ye, it's enough to make her uncle turn in his grave.Heknew better how to dale wi' they ill-thrawn paupers! And what will she not give them, after giving them Meall-na-Cruagan?—and that without consulting any one—no 'by your leave' or 'with your leave,' but 'this is what I have decided, and you can carry it out like a clerk.' Man, Watson, ye were a silly creature to consent to that Meall-na-Cruagan business! That was but a beginning—where is to be the end? Well, I'll tell ye the end! She'll snip here, and snip there, until she has divided every acre of ground among the crofters; and then, when they've resolved among themselves to pay no more rent, I suppose they'll be happy. No, d——n them if they will!—they'll want her to sell Lochgarra House, and give them the money to buy more stock." And here Mr. Purdie poured himself out a glass of port, and gulped it as a dog grabs at a rat.
"Ye've never forgiven the folk out there," said Mr. Watson, with an amused and demure air, "since the procession and the burning in effigy. Dod, that was a queer business!—I heard of it away up in Caithness. But I'm thinking ye might let bygones be bygones; ye've had them under your thumb a good while now—and—and—well, ye might consider that ye've paid off that score. But as for the young leddy—well, I tell ye, friend Purdie, it's just wonderful what she has done since she cam' to the place. A busy, industrious creature; ay, and she has a way of talking folk over to her way of thinking; she seems to get on famously wi' them, though they cannot have too friendly recollections of her uncle. Yes, I will say that for her: an active, well-meaning creature; and light-hearted as a lintie; dod, she takes her own way, and gets it too! But I'm thinking there's a great deal owing to young Mr. Ross—he goes about wi' her just conteenually."
"Ay," said the factor, with a malignant scowl, "I'm told my young gentleman doesna shut himself up as much wi' his brandy-drinking as he used to do. So he comes over to the mainland sometimes, and goes about wi' her, does he?"
"Faith, ye may say that," Mr. Watson made answer, with a laugh. "They're just insayperable, as ye might say, any time that he comes over from Heimra, and that's often enough." He regarded the factor curiously. "Purdie, my man, that's going to be a match."
For a second Purdie looked startled and incredulous, but instantly he lowered his eyes again.
"It's a match, Purdie, depend on't," Mr. Watson proceeded, still looking at his companion with an odd sort of scrutiny. "And I have been thinking, if such a thing were to come about, it might be a wee bit difficult for you—with young Ross the master at Lochgarra, eh? What d'ye think? Dod, ye'd have to make friends with him and keep a civil tongue besides, or he might be for bringing up old scores."
Mr. Purdie's dinner did not seem to interest him much after that. He remained plunged in a profound reverie, with his truculent mouth drawn down, the shaggy red eyebrows shading the small irascible eyes that were now grown intent and thoughtful. And when at length Mr. Watson haled him off to the smoking-room he did not speak for some considerable time. But by and by he said—
"Are ye off by the early train to-morrow, Watson?"
"Yes, indeed.'
"And you go right through?"
"Just that."
"Well, I think I'll bear ye company," said the Troich Bheag Dhearg, with the heavily down-drawn mouth expressing something more than mere decision. "There's a few things I want to see to. And I havena been out to Lochgarra for some time."
CHAPTER VI.
HABET!
Mary went singing through the house: her step free and agile, her face radiant, her eyes shining with good-humour and the delight of life.
"Käthchen," she said, one morning, "the proofs of the photographs should come to-day, and if they turn out well I mean to have the whole of them enlarged, every one of them, to make a handsome series for Mrs. Armour. Don't you think they should be very interesting to those people away over there—'where wild Altama murmurs to their woe'? Woe, indeed! I wish we could import some of their woeful circumstances into this neighbourhood. Forty bushels of wheat to the acre: what do you say to that? A hundred and sixty acres of land for two pounds! I don't like to think of it, Käthchen: to tell you the truth, I just hate to hear Mr. Ross begin and talk about emigration: it all sounds so horribly reasonable, and practicable, and right. Sometimes I lie awake convincing myself that the very next day or the next again he will make his appearance with the announcement that he has decided to go back to his original intention; and then—then he will say good-bye to Lochgarra—he and half the people from about here—and be off to the Gilbert Plains or the Lake Dauphin District——"
"You need not be afraid," said Käthchen, quietly. "It is neither wheat-fields nor gold-fields that are likely to allure Mr. Ross. There's metal more attractive nearer home. By the way, Mamie," she continued, with a certain significance, "you remember there was a group taken on the banks of the Connan—and you and Mr. Ross are standing together. When you get the pictures enlarged, are you going to send any copies of that one to your friends in the south?"
"Why not?" said she, boldly.
"They may draw conclusions," said Kate Glendinning, looking at her.
"They are welcome to draw a cart-load of conclusions!" she retorted; but all the same she changed the subject quickly. "Do you know, Käthchen, it is quite wonderful how easily things go forward when Donald Ross is helping me. Look at the wood-carving class—started in a moment, almost; and that left-handed rascal turning out the cleverest of any of them. And then he is quite of a mind with me about corrugated iron——"
"You mean Mr. Ross, Mamie?" said Kate, demurely.
"Of course. Quite of a mind with me as to corrugated iron; and I won't have a square yard of it in the place. If, as he says, thatch takes too much time and labour, then they may have slates for their roofs, in place of the turf that I hope to see the last of before I have done with them; but not an inch of corrugated iron—not an inch. Oh, I tell you we will have Lochgarra smartened up in course of time, and Minard and Cruagan too. And I will never rest, Käthchen, I tell you I will never rest until Lochgarra has taken the first prize at the Inverness Exhibition—I mean for the best suit of men's clothes made from the wool of sheep fed on the croft, and carded, dyed, spun, hand-loom woven, and cut and sewn in the family. There! It may be a long time yet, but I mean Lochgarra to have it in the end."
"Oh, but you must not stop at that point," said Käthchen. "There are a whole heap of things to be done before you have finally established your earthly paradise. You must banish all sickness and illness—but especially rheumatism. You must abolish old age. You must control the climate to suit the crops. Perhaps you could magnetise the herring-shoals, and bring them round this way, and ward off storms at the same time?"
"Käthchen," said Mary abruptly, "why does he keep harking back on Manitoba? Don't you think there is a curious tenacity about his mind?—he does not change plans or opinions quickly. And I know he was resolved on that emigration scheme. Why does he still talk about Manitoba? If he really has abandoned that project, why does he still keep thinking about Portage, and La Prairie, and Brandon? Of course, I admit that a hundred and sixty acres for two pounds is very tempting; and forty bushels of wheat to the acre sounds well; and I have no doubt the emigrants have better clothes, and better food, and better cottages, and that they don't run such risks from floods and rain. But still—still there's something about one's own country——"
"You need not be afraid, Mamie," said Kate Glendinning again.
Mary went to the window, and remained there for a minute or two, looking absently across the wide plain of the sea.
"After all," she said, "it is a very pleasant and comfortable thing to have a neighbour. Heimra is a good way off; but all the same, if you knew there was no one living on the island, Lochgarra would be a very different place, wouldn't it, Käthchen? And Manitoba! Why, I have seen it stated that there is a most serious scarcity of water in a great many of the districts; and that often they have summer frosts that do incalculable mischief to the grain. So you see it isn't a certainty!"
"No, it is not," said Käthchen; "but I will tell you what is, Mamie. It is a certainty, an absolute certainty, that Donald Ross of Heimra will not go to Manitoba, or to any other corner of Canada, so long as Mary Stanley is living in Lochgarra."
"Käthchen," rejoined Mary, a little proudly, "you will go on talking like that until you believe what you say."
This same afternoon, shortly after luncheon, Mary left the house alone, which was unusual. She passed down through the village, greeting everyone, right and left, with a fine cheerfulness; for the weather still held good, and there was a fair chance for the harvest; while her individual schemes and industries were doing as well as could be expected. In fact, the only idle person in the place, apart from the aged and infirm, appeared to be John the policeman, and him she found by the bridge that crosses the Garra—no doubt he had been amusing himself by watching for some lively salmon or sea-trout on its way up the river. Iain seemed to have grown plumper and more roseate than ever in these piping times of peace; and the smile with which he greeted the young proprietress was good-nature itself.
"John," said she, "I want you to tell me something."
"Aw, yes, mem," said the amiable John; and then he added: "but the lads hef been keeping very quiet."
"So I hear," she answered him. "The Gillie Ciotach says he will smash the head of anyone that wants to fight; and I suppose that is one way to stop quarrelling."
John laughed, showing his milk-white teeth.
"A very good weh, too, mem. There's not many would like to hef their head brokken by the Gillie Ciotach."
"It is not about that I want you to give me some information," said Miss Stanley. "I want you to tell me if you have been long in this place. I mean, do you remember the old castle, up there in the loch, before it was pulled down?"
"Aw, yes, mem, yes, indeed," he made answer. "Who does not remember Castle Stanley?"
"Oh, nonsense with your Castle Stanley!" she said, angrily. "It never was Castle Stanley, and never will be Castle Stanley. It was Castle Heimra; and if I could have my way it would be Castle Heimra again——"
"Aw, yes, mem," said John, anxious to please, "who would be for calling it Castle Stanley? It is not Castle Stanley at ahl; it's just Castle Heimra, as it always was—ay, before any one can remember."
"Well, tell me; what size of a place was it before it was pulled down? Was it a big place?"
"Big!" repeated John, doubtfully, for he did not know which way she wished to be answered.
"Yes, was it a great ruin?" she went on. "Some of those old castles are mere towers, you know; and others are great strongholds. What was Castle Heimra like? Was it as big as Ardvreck?"
Now John had jumped to the conclusion that she wished to have the ancient glories of Castle Heimra magnified.
"Aw, far bigger nor Ardvreck!" he asserted confidently. "Aw, yes, yes; far bigger nor Ardvreck. A fearful big place, Castle Heimra—if you had seen the dingeons, and the towers, and the windows, and everything——"
"Oh, bigger than Ardvreck?" Mary said, with fallen face. And instantly John perceived that he had erred.
"Aw, no, mem," said he quickly. "Mebbe it was bigger nor Ardvreck at one time—that is a long time ago, before anyone about here can remember; but Castle Heimra?—aw, no!—a smahl place, a smahl place, indeed! There was nothing but the road out to it, when the loch was not too high flooded; and then the archway, and the dingeon, and the tower. Castle Heimra!—aw, it's a smahl place was Castle Heimra."
"And do you suppose it could be built up again?" she asked—but rather to see how far his complaisance would carry him.
"Quite easy!" said John, without a moment's hesitation.
"Why, how do you know?" she demanded. "Are you a builder?"
"The stons are there," John pointed out. "And if they were pulled down, it is easy to put them back. What has been done once can be done twice."
"Ah, but it would not be Castle Heimra," Mary said to herself, rather sadly, as she went on her solitary way.
In course of time she came within view of the desolate expanse of mud and stones and rushes that had once been Heimra loch; and when she chose out for herself a seat on a heathery hillock close to the road, there before her were the tumbled ruins of the stronghold that had withstood the storms of centuries only to fall before the withering blast of one man's spite. And as she sate there, alone, in the absolute silence, a kind of desperation came into her mind. In all other directions there was hope for her; but here there was none. Elsewhere she could labour, and patiently wait for fruition; but how was she to drag back the past? The future had abundant and fair possibilities within it; and she was naturally sanguine; her happiness consisted in action; and perhaps she was looking forward to the time when she could say to her lover, 'See, this is what I have striven to do—for your people: is it well or ill?' But as between him and her, would there not be ever and always the consciousness of this black deed that could in no wise be recalled or atoned for, that could never be forgiven or forgotten? She was not even allowed to speak: he had declined to hear her shamefaced expressions of sorrow. Nay, she began to think he was too proud, too implacable, that he would have no word uttered. And if she went to him and said: 'Donald, do not blame me!—I had no part in it: I would give my right hand to undo what has been done'—would not his looks still remain haughty and cold, telling her that she had not ceased to be theban-sassunnach—a stranger—the enemy of his race and name?
There was a sound of wheels. She started to her feet, for there were tears in her eyes that she had to hide. The approaching vehicle turned out to be the mail-car; and on it were Mr. Purdie and Mr. Watson, seated beside the driver. Both of them raised their hats to her, and would doubtless have driven on, but that she called to the factor; whereupon the mail-car was stopped, and Mr. Purdie descended.
"Leave my bag at the inn, Jimmie," he said to the driver, who sent his horses on again: then the Troich Bheag Dhearg came along to the spot at which Mary awaited him.
"I wish to speak to you about one or two things, Mr. Purdie," she said, in a curiously reserved and frigid fashion. "You told me it was under your direction that the loch here was drained. I do not know whether my uncle was acting on the advice or suggestion of any one; I can hardly believe that so insensate a piece of malice could have entered his head without instigation. And if there was instigation, if this thing was done out of ill-will towards the Rosses of Heimra, then I say it was a cowardly blow—a mean, shameless, and cowardly blow!" Her lips were a little pale; but she was apparently quite calm.
"It was just the thrawn nature of the people about here that brought it on themselves," said the Little Red Dwarf, sullenly. "The Rosses of Heimra had no further concern with the loch and the castle, once the property was sold. They belonged to your uncle: surely it was for him to say what they should be called? Surely he had the right to do what he liked with his own?"
"In this instance," said Mary, still preserving that somewhat cold and distant demeanour, "what he did has got to be undone, as far as that is now possible. I suppose it would be useless to try and rebuild the castle. Even if the stones were put up again, it would hardly be Castle Heimra. But Loch Heimra can be restored to what it used to be; and since the mischief was done under your direction, Mr. Purdie, you can now take steps to repair it."
"Bless me, Miss Stanley," the factor protested, "it would be quite useless—perfectly useless! The loch was never worth anything to anybody. Salmon cannot get up; and there was nothing in it but a wheen brown trout——"
"It is not the value of the loch I am considering," she rejoined. "I wish to make some reparation, as far as I can. And I suppose if those channels you had cut were partially blocked up, the water from the hills would soon fill the lake again. Or you could bring the Connan round in this direction with very little trouble, and let it find its way down to the Garra after going through the loch——"
"The expense, Miss Stanley!—the expense!"
"I tell you I will have this done, if I have to sell Lochgarra House to do it!" she said—forgetting for a moment her austere demeanour. The factor had no further word. Mary went on: "It cannot be a difficult thing to do, any more than the draining was difficult; and it will give employment to some of the people, when the harvest is in and the fishing season over. So you'd better see about it at once, Mr. Purdie; and make arrangements. And there is to be no more talk of Loch Stanley or of Castle Stanley either; this is Loch Heimra; and if Castle Heimra has been pulled down—shamefully and wickedly pulled down—at least there are the ruins to show where it stood."
The factor remained darkly silent, his vindictive mouth drawn down, his small eyes morose. And little did she know what gall and wormwood she had poured into his heart, in directing him to employ those very Lochgarra people in this work of restoration. However, he made no further protest: indeed, he endeavoured to assume an air of hopeless acquiescence—it was his business to obey orders, even if she should bring the whole estate to waste and ruin.
But as they together set out to return to the village, and as she was talking over general business affairs with him, explaining what she had done and what she meant to do, he could not quite conceal his bitter resentment.
"It seems to me, Miss Stanley, that I am hardly wanted here. A strange condeetion of affairs. The factor the very last one to be consulted. And when I think of the way ye allow these people to impose on ye—well, maybe I'm not so much astonished; for what could one expect?—you come here an absolute stranger, and you wish to do without them that have experience of the place, and of course you believe every tale that is told ye. Though I say it who maybe should not, Lochgarra was a well-managed estate; everything actually valued, and in order; and the tenants, large and small, knowing fine that they had to fulfil their contracts, or take the consequences. But what prevails now? A system of wholesale charity, as it seems to me. It is giving everything, and getting nothing. I hope, Miss Stanley," he went on, "ye will not mind my speaking warmly; for I've done my best for my employers all my life through; and I cannot be supposed to like other ways and means—which were never contemplated by the law of the land. If the other proprietors were to go on as you are doing, there's three-fourths o' them would be in beggary——"
"It might do them good to try a little of it," said she—which was an odd speech for the owner of a considerable estate.
"And what has been the result?" he demanded. "What has been gained by so much sacrifice?"
"Well," said she, "for one thing, the people are more contented. And they are more friendly towards me. When I came here at first I was hated; now I am not so much so. Quite friendly most of them are—or, at least, they appear to be."
"Ay, trust them for that!" said the Little Red Dwarf, scornfully. "Trust them for that—the cunningest mongrels that ever whined for a bone! Well they know how to fawn and beslaver, when they're expecting more and more. I tell ye, Miss Stanley, ye do not understand these creatures, and it angers me to think that ye are being cheated and imposed on right and left. Getting more boats and nets?—they'll laugh at ye, they'll just laugh at ye when ye ask them to pay up the instalments! And who is your adviser?—a young man who is in secret league with them—an underhand, conspiring ne'er-do-weel, as cunning as any one of them, and as treacherous——"
"Mr. Purdie," she said—with a sudden change of tone he did not fail to note, "what do you mean? I—I beg you to be a little more respectful in your language."
"It's the old story," said the factor, with affected resignation. "Ye may work and work, and do the best for your employers; and then some stranger is called in, new advice is taken, and all you have done is destroyed. And I wonder if the people will be any the better off. I wonder what change in their condeetion it will make—what permanent change, when once you stop putting your hand in your pocket. Improvements? Oh, yes, yes; improvements are all very fine. But I'm thinking that spending money on free libraries and the like o' that will not help them much in getting in their crops."
"As for that," she retorted—but with no displeasure, only a little quiet confidence, "I can merely say that I am trying to do my best, in a great many different ways; and the result, whatever it may be, is a long way off yet. And I live in hope. Of course, there is much more that I should like to do, and do at once; but I cannot; for I haven't sufficient money. I don't deny that there is a great deal still to be amended: I can't work miracles. The people are very poor—and many of them not too industrious; the soil is bad; the fishing is uncertain; and communication difficult. I dare say there is even a good deal of wretchedness—or rather, what a stranger would regard as extreme wretchedness and misery; but all that cannot be changed in a moment, even if it turns out that it can be changed at all. And at least there is little sickness; the poorest cottages have the fresh air blowing around them—they're better than the London slums, at all events. And one must just do what one can; and hope for the best."
"I tell ye, ye are going entirely the wrong way to work wi' these people, Miss Stanley," said he, as they were crossing the bridge and about to enter the village. "It's my place to tell ye. It's my bounden duty to tell ye. And I say they are just making sport wi' ye. They are born beggars; work of any kind is an abomination to them; and you'll find they'll be like leeches—give, give always; and when you've ruined the estate on their behalf, what then?"
"I don't see any such prospect—not at present," said Mary, cheerfully.
"Who is likely to know most about them, you or me?" he went on with dogged persistence. "Who has had most experience of them? Who has had dealings with them for years and years, and learned their tricks? A whining, cringing, useless set, cunning as the very mischief, and having not even an idea of what speaking the truth is. Plausible enough—oh, ay—plausible with a stranger—especially when they expect to get anything."
"Mr. Purdie," said Mary, interrupting him, "I presume from your name you belong to the south of Scotland. Well, I have been told that the Scotch—the people in the southern half of Scotland—do not understand the Highland character at all; and cannot understand it, for they have no sympathy with it. I have been told that the English have far more sympathy with the Highland nature. And I am English."
"Ay, and who told ye that about the Scotch and the Highlanders?" he said, suddenly and sharply.
She hesitated for a second.
"It is of little consequence," she answered him. "But I would like to add this—that denunciations of the inhabitants of a whole country-side do not seem to me of much value. I suppose human nature is pretty much the same in Lochgarra as it is elsewhere. And—and—besides, Mr. Purdie—I do not wish to hear evil spoken of a people amongst whom I have many friends."
She spoke with some dignity.
"Evil speaking?" said he, with louring eyebrows, "I for one am not given to evil speaking—or the truth might have been told you ere now."
"The truth?—what truth?" she demanded.
"The truth about one that is too much at your right hand, Miss Stanley, if I may make bold to say so." At this moment they arrived at the door of the inn; and she paused, expecting him to leave her; but he said: "No, I will go on with you as far as Lochgarra House. It is time I should open my lips at last. I have been patient. I have stood by. I have heard what has been going on—and I have held my tongue. And why?—because there are things that it is difficult to speak of to an unmarried young woman."
Mary was a trifle bewildered. They were walking along through the village, on this quiet afternoon, with nothing to interrupt the peaceful stillness save the recurrent plash of the ripples on the beach: it was hardly the time or the place to be associated with any tragic disclosure. Moreover, had she heard aright? Was it of Donald Ross he was speaking?
"And I will say this for myself," the factor continued, "that I warned ye about the character of that young man, as plainly as I dared—ay, the very first day ye set foot in the place——"
"You mean Mr. Ross?" said she, lightly. "Pray spare yourself the trouble, Mr. Purdie. You forget I have had some opportunities of studying Mr. Ross's character. I know him a little. What did you say?—that you had something to tell? Oh, no; don't give yourself the trouble. I know him a little."
"You do not know him at all!" he said, with a vehemence that startled her. "I tell ye there is not one in this place who would dare to tell ye the story; and would I, unless I was bound to do it? If there was a married woman at Lochgarra House, it's to her I would go; and she would tell ye; but I say it is my bounden duty to speak—and to speak plainly——"
"Mr. Purdie, I do not wish to hear," she said, with some touch of alarm.
"But ye must hear," he said, with set lips and slow, emphatic utterance. "Ye are bound to hear—and to understand the character of the man ye are publicly associating yourself with. A scoundrel of that kind has no right to be going about with a virtuous and respectable young woman——"
"Mr. Purdie," she said, hurriedly, "I don't want to know—I don't believe—I wouldn't believe——"
"Miss Stanley," he said, with measured deliberation, "ye have some knowledge of that poor half-witted creature they call Anna Chlannach. But did it never occur to ye to ask how she came to lose her reason? Ay, but if ye had asked, they would not have told ye; there's not one o' them about here but would lie through thick and thin to screen that scapegrace; and what then would be the use o' your asking? But I can tell ye; and I say it's my bounden duty to speak, if there's none else here to warn ye. And there is my witness—there is the living witness to that scoundrel's licentiousness and wicked cruelty: go to her—ask herself—ask her what makes her wander about the shore watching for him, looking out to Heimra as if the ill he has done her could now be repaired. The poor lass, betrayed, deserted: no wonder she lost her reason—ay, and it's a good thing the currents along this coast are strong, or I'm thinking there might have been a trial for infanticide as well——"
Mary heard no more: she did not know that he was still talking to her; she did not know that he accompanied her almost to the house, where he left her. For—after the first fierce and indignant denial that involuntarily rushed to her mind—what she saw before her burning eyes was a series of visions, each of them of the most terrible distinctness, and all of them related in some ghastly way to this story she had just been told. What were these things, then, that seemed to sear her very eyeballs? She saw the little harbour of Camus Bheag; she saw the figure of a young girl rocking herself in an utter abandonment of misery and despair; she saw piteous hands held out; she heard that heart-broken wail piercing the silence as the boat made slowly away for Eilean Heimra. And then again she was on the heights above the Garra, and looking down upon the bridge. Those two there?—she had taken them for lovers—she had called Käthchen's attention—it was a pretty scene. Then the sudden, swift disappearance of the girl into the woods; and the young man's easy, confident professions: all those things grew manifest before her with an appalling clearness; a blinding light burned upon them. Nay, her very first interview with Anna Chlannach came back to startle her: she remembered the poor demented girl wandering among the rocks, all her intelligible talk being about Heimra: she remembered her being easily persuaded to walk towards the house; she remembered, too, how Anna Chlannach fled in terror the moment she came in sight of the stranger who knew her history. What hideous tale was it that seemed to summon up these scenes, appealing to them for corroboration? What was it they seemed to say was true—true as if written up before her in letters of fire?
There was no time for her to reason or think. For here, as it chanced, was this very man—this Donald Ross—coming down the wide steps from her own door. And all her soul was in revolt. Her wounded pride—her sense of humiliation—scorched her like flame. How had this man dared to lift his eyes to her? Unabashed he had come into the same room with her—he had breathed the same air—he had touched her hand: a contamination that was a poisoned sting. And the people of Lochgarra, who had seen him and her walking together: were they cognisant of his low amours? They had wagged their heads, perhaps? They had looked the one to the other?
"I half-expected to meet you," said Donald Ross.
There was no answer. But Mary Stanley did not lower her head, or avert her face; she was too proud for that; her heart might be beating as though it would burst its prison, but to all outward appearance she was quite unmoved. She passed him, pale and cold and silent; and he stood on one side, looking at her, without a word. She went into the house; she took no notice of Käthchen, who was still in the hall; she made for her own room, and locked herself in there—voiceless, tearless, with all the fair fabric of her life, its aims, and dreams, and ideals, its still more secret and trembling hopes, become suddenly and at one blow a tragic desolation of wreckage and ruin.