DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA (VOLUME I) (continued 2)

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

THE BAINTIGHEARNA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[#] Baintighearna mhin—the gentle lady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hot blood mounted to Mary Stanley's face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But here Barbara became very much embarrassed.

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

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

But still Barbara hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But here, to her surprise, she was interrupted.

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

"A railway?" she repeated.

"Ay—a railway to Bonar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Beg pardon?"

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

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

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

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

"But I can't do things?

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

"The inn, for example?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked up, a trifle indignant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kate Glendinning turned to the keeper.

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

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

"Mamie!"

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

THE MEALL-NA-FEARN BOG.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A touch of colour rose to Mary's face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes—he was saying that."

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

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

There was no reply.

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

"It—thirty shillings an acre."

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

The small, suspicious eyes glanced at her furtively.

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

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

She was coming away when he looked after her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kate Glendinning followed the direction of her glance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where is the 'march,' Mary?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly Kate Glendinning uttered a joyful cry.

"Look! Look!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He came back at once.

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

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

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

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

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

"Where has the gentleman gone?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

"My grandmother, lady," was the answer.

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

But the old grandmother knew a little English too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI.

GILLEASBUIG MÒR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Am I to be going home now?"

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

"Oh, yes, indeed."

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

She was obediently going away, but Käthchen stopped her.

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

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

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

"Oh, yes."

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

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

"He came up to ask about the cow."

"What cow?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary's face flushed with vexation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a moment of silence—and distress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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