DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA (VOLUME I) (continued 3)

"Don't you have anything to work at?" she said, to one tall and rather good-looking young fellow, who was standing looking on at the women and girls gathering the sea-tangle.

"My father has a croft," he made answer, in a listless way.

"But wouldn't you," she said, in a very gentle and hesitating manner, so as not to seem impertinent, "wouldn't you rather go away and find some work for yourself?"

"Aw, well, I was at Glasgow, and I was getting twenty shillings a week there."

"And you did not stay?"

"Well, I could not live there," he said, simply enough. "It is no use getting twenty shillings a week if you cannot live in a place; and in a few years I would be dead, if I was living in Glasgow. I am better to be alive here than dead in Glasgow."

"Then perhaps you go to the East Coast fishing?" she suggested.

"No, I am not going there now. I was there one or two years, but it did not pay me."

"And don't you do anything?" she asked again.

"Well, in January I am in the Naval Reserve."

"And the rest of the year you don't do anything?"

"Well, my father has a croft"—and that was about all the information she could extract from him.

As a final attempt she said to him, timidly—

"If I were to try to get you a boat and nets from the Government, would it be of service to you?"

"It would need eight of a crew," said he, with an obvious lack of interest, "and I would not be knowing where to find them."

However, a great surprise was in store for her: before getting back to Lochgarra on this occasion she actually encountered a human being who received her proffered friendliness and good-will with cheerful and unhesitating gratitude, and responded with a frank comradeship that quite won her heart. It is true the man was drunk; but at first she did not perceive that; and indeed she was ready to make ample allowances in her eager desire to establish pleasant relations with anybody, after the disheartening coldness she had just experienced at Minard. This man whom she and Käthchen overtook on their homeward way was a huge, lumbering, heavy-shouldered giant, with a prodigious brown beard and thick eyebrows, whose deep-set grey eyes (though a little bemused) looked at once intelligent and amiable. On his shoulder he had hoisted a rough wooden box; and as he trudged along he smoked a small black clay pipe.

"Good-day to you!" said Mary to the giant.

"Aw, good-deh, good-deh, mem!" said he, with a broad grin of welcome, and he instantly put the pipe in his pocket.

"That is a heavy box you are carrying," said she; "I wish I were driving, and I would take it along for you."

"Aw, it's glad I am I hef something to carry," said he, in a strong Argyllshire accent, "and I wass thinking that mebbe Miss Stanley herself would be for tekkin a lobster or two from me, for the house. Aw, I'll not be charging Miss Stanley mich for them—no, nor anything at ahl, if Miss Stanley would be for tekkin a lobster or two from me——"

"Oh, these are lobsters?" said she, with the most friendly interest.

"Ay, chist that," said the giant.

"And you will be sending them away by the mail-cart?" she asked.

"Ay, chist that—it's to London I am sending them."

"Oh, really," she said. "All the way to London? Well, now, I wonder if you would think me inquisitive or impertinent if I asked you how much you get for them?"

"How much? Aw, chist two-and-sixpence the dissen," said he, in a good-natured fashion, as if he hardly expected to get anything.

But Mary was most indignant.

"What?" she said. "Two-and-sixpence the dozen? It's monstrous! Why, it's downright robbery! I will write to the London papers. Two-and-sixpence a dozen?—and a single lobster selling in London for eighteenpence or two shillings, and that a small one, too. Isn't it too bad, Käthchen? I will write to the newspapers—I will not allow such robbery."

"It is a long weh of communigation," said the big, heavy-shouldered, good-humoured-looking man; "and Mr. Corstorphine he paying ahl the carriage, and sending me the boxes."

"I will get you twice as much as that for the lobsters," said Mary, with decision, "if I sell them among my own friends. I will guarantee you twice as much as that, and I will pay the carriage, and get you the boxes. What is your name?"

"Archie MacNicol, mem," said he; but the whisky had made him talkative, and he went on: "I am from Tarbert on Loch Fyne; I am not from among these people here at ahl. These people, they are not proper fishermen—aw, they are afraid of the sea—they will not go far out—I hef seen the East Coast men coming along here and tekkin the herring from under their very eyes. There is one of the Government boats that they got; and it is not paid for yet; and it is lying half-covered with sand at Achnacross, and no one using it at ahl. Ay, and the curers willing to give elevenpence a piece for ling. Ay, and I wass into Loch Hourn, and I got fifty crans of herring, and I wass curing them myself—

"But wait a moment," said Mary, to whom this information seemed a little confused. "If you are not tired, won't you keep on your way to the village, and we will walk with you? You see, I am anxious to get all the information I can about this place; and the people here don't seem to be very communicative—although it is altogether in their own interests that I should like to make inquiries. But they appear to be afraid of me—or there is some quarrely or ill-will, that I don't understand——"

"A quarrel with Miss Stanley?" said the lobster-fisherman, deprecatingly—for he was in a mellow and generous mood. "No, no—he would be a foolish man that would be saying that!"

"Very well," said Mary, as they were all three going on to the village, "tell me about your own circumstances. I want to know how I can be of help to the people about here. I have not come to Lochgarra to raise rents, and collect money, and take it away and spend it in London. I want to live here—if the people will let me; but I don't want to live among continuous enmity and ill-will."

"Aw, yes, yes, to be sure, to be sure now!" said Archie, in the most amiable way, and Mary was entirely grateful to him for his sympathy—it was so unexpected.

"Tell me about your own circumstances," she went on. "Is there anything I can do for you and the other lobster-fishermen?"

"Aw, Cosh!" he cried (but it was the whisky that was responsible: Archie himself meant to be most polite). "Would Miss Stanley be doing this for us, now—would she be writing a letter for us to the Fishery Board?"

"Oh, certainly," she answered with promptitude, "if that will be of any service to you. What about?"

And here Big Archie (Gilleasbuig Mòr, as they called him) in his eagerness to tell his tale, stopped short, and deposited the lobster-box in the road.

"It's this way now—that there will be many a brokken head before long if something is not done. For they are coming from ahl quarters to the lobster-fishing—stranchers that hef no business here at ahl; and they are building huts; and where there is a hut there will soon be a house; and it does not require the wise man of Mull to tell any one the truth of that. Yes, and they will be saying they hef the right from the Fishery Board; but as I am thinking that is nothing but lies; for how can the Fishery Board give stranchers the right to come here and build huts on the crofts above the shore—ay, and going on, and paying no rent, either to Miss Stanley, or the crofter, or to any one? And Gillie Ciotach and me, ay, and two or three of the young lads, we were saying we would tek sticks and stones, and drive them into the sea—ay, though there might be a bluidy nawse here and there; and others would be saying no, that it was dancherous to do anything against the Fishery Board. And would Miss Stanley be for sending a letter to the Board, to ask if it is lies those people are telling us, and whether they can come and build a hut whenever they like?"

"Certainly I will," said she. "Only, there is to be no fighting and bloodshed, mind. Of course, the space occupied by a hut is a very trifling matter: I suppose what you really object to is those strangers coming to your lobster-ground?"

"Ay, chist that!" said Big Archie, eagerly.

"Very well. It seems to me quite absurd to think that the Fishery Board should have given any one the right to build huts; however, I will inquire; and then, if I get the answer I expect, you must go peaceably and quietly to those people, and tell them they are mistaken, that they have no right from the Fishery Board or from any one else, and that they must leave——"

"Evictions!" said Käthchen, under her breath: she saw trouble coming.

"Quite peaceably and quietly, you understand," Mary continued; "there must be no broken heads or anything of that kind; you must tell the people what the Fishery Board says, and then they will see that they are bound to go."

"Ay, ay, chist whatever Miss Stanley pleases," said Big Archie; and therewith he shouldered the heavy lobster-box again, and resumed his patient trudge, while he proceeded to give Miss Stanley some further information about those marauding fishermen and their evil ways.

But when they were nearing Lochgarra, Mary, who had been rather silent and abstracted for some little time back, said to him,—

"I suppose you have a boat, Mr. MacNicol?"

"Aw, ay, and a fine boat too," said Archie. "And if Miss Stanley herself would be wishing for a sail, I would bring the boat round from Camus Bheag."

"That is just what I have been thinking of," Mary said: they were now come in sight of the sea, and she was absently looking out towards the horizon.

"Ay, chist any time that Miss Stanley pleases, and I will not be charging anything," said the good-natured giant with the friendly (and bemused) eyes. "Aw, naw, there would be no charge at ahl—but chist a gless of whisky when we come ashore."

"Oh, I must pay you for your time, of course," said she, briefly. "I suppose you could bring your boat round this evening so that my friend and myself might start pretty early to-morrow morning? We should be ready by ten."

Käthchen turned wondering eyes upon her.

"But where are you going, Mamie?"

"I am going out to Heimra Island," she said.

CHAPTER VII.

THE PIRATE'S LAIR.

It was a bold undertaking; and Käthchen hardly concealed her dismay; but Mary Stanley was resolute.

"I must see my enemy face to face," she said. "I want to know what he means. Why should he stir up enmity and malignity against me? If he had any thought for those people who seem to regard him with such devotion, he would be on my side, for I wish to do everything I can for them. He ought to welcome me, instead of trying to drive me out of the place. And if he fishes and shoots over the Lochgarra estate simply to spite me, suppose I refuse to be spited? Suppose I present him with the shooting and fishing, on condition that he allows me to be kind to these people? How would that do, Käthchen? Wouldn't that be a fine revenge? I think that ought to make his face burn, if he has anything of gentle blood left in him!"

There was a vibrant chord of indignation in her tone, as there generally was when she spoke of this young man; for she did not think she was being fairly treated. But Käthchen, ignoring the true sources of her dismay, began to urge objections to this proposed visit, on the ground of social observances.

"I do really think, Mamie, it will look strange for two unmarried girls to go away out and pay such a visit—and—to that lonely island. Now if you would only wait until the Free Church Minister comes home, he might go with us, and then it would be all right. Not that the Free Church Minister is certain of a welcome—if the young man is what he is said to be; but at all events he would be a chaperon for us."

But Mary would not hear of waiting; she would challenge her secret antagonist forthwith.

"Very well, then," said Kate Glendinning, more seriously than was her wont, "if we do go, we must have some excuse; and you must tell him you have come to thank him for having got us out of that frightful bog."

Nor did the uninviting look of the next morning cause Miss Stanley to alter her resolve. It was hardly a day for a pleasure sail. The wind, it is true, had abated during the night; and there was not much of a sea on; but the skies were heavy and lowering; and dark and sombre were those long headlands running out into the leaden-hued main. But there was the lobster-boat lying at anchor, in charge of a young lad; and the dinghy was drawn up on the beach; and a message had just come in that Big Archie was waiting below to carry wraps and rugs.

"Käthchen," said Mary, sitting hastily down to her writing-desk, "I have discovered that the Fishery Board sits at Edinburgh; but I can't find out who are the members. Do you think I should begin 'My Lords and Gentlemen' or only 'Gentlemen'?"

"I don't know," said Käthchen; "I should think 'Gentlemen' would be safer."

So, in happy singleness of purpose, Mary proceeded to write her letter about the alien lobster-fishermen—little thinking to what that innocent action was to lead; then she went and quickly got ready; and by and by the two girls were on their way down to the beach, accompanied by the gigantic and massive-shouldered Gilleasbuig Mòr. Big Archie, if the truth must be told, was moodily silent this morning: the fact being that on the previous evening he had wound up the day's promiscuous indulgence by "drinking sore," as they say in those parts; and now his physical conscience was troubling him. But if his conversation was limited to monosyllables, and if he wore a sad and depressed look, he was, nevertheless, most kind and assiduous in his attentions to the two ladies; and when he had rowed them out in the dinghy, and got them ensconced in the stern of the bigger boat, he did everything he could for their comfort, considering the rudeness of their surroundings. And presently, when the anchor was got up, Big Archie came aft to the tiller; the young lad lay prone on the bit of deck forward, to keep a look-out; and Mary and her companion knew they were now pledged to the enterprise, whatever might come of it.

Indeed the two girls were themselves rather inclined to silence. It was a gloomy sort of morning; there was even a threatening of rain brooding over the distant headlands; and the dark sea lapped mournfully around them, with not a single swift-glancing flash of white. But the light breeze was favourable, and they made steady progress, unfamiliar features of the coast-line becoming visible on right hand and on left as they made further and further out to sea.

It seemed a long and weary time—given over to dreamings, and doubtings, and somewhat anxious forecasts. But all of a sudden Mary was startled by the voice of the skipper.

"Will Miss Stanley be for going in to Heimra?"

And then for the moment her courage failed her.

"What do you say, Käthchen? Do you think—we should send a message—before calling——?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," said Käthchen, with eagerness. "That is certainly what we ought to do."

"Oh, very well, then," said Mary, turning to the steersman (but there was a flush of self-conscious shame on her cheeks), "you need not take us to the house—we will merely have a look at the island—and some other day we will come out, when we have told Mr. Ross beforehand."

"Very well, mem," said Big Archie, holding on the same course, which was taking them by the south side of the island.

It was an angry-looking coast—steep and sheer—a long, low, heavy surge breaking monotonously along the black rocks. But when they got round the westward-trending headland, they gradually came in sight of the sheltered waters of the little bay, and of the sweep of silver beach, and the solitary cottage perched on its small plateau. And of course Käthchen's eyes were full of intensest interest, with something, too, of apprehension; for this (according to Mr. Purdie) was the pirate's den; this was the home of the outlaw whose deeds by night and day, by sea and shore, had gained him so dark a renown. But Mary's attention had been attracted elsewhither. She was regarding a white marble slab, placed high on the top of the cliff, facing the western seas.

"Look, Käthchen," she said, in rather a low voice. And then she turned to the silent little bay before her. "Poor woman!" she said. "It was a lonely place to live all those years."

Presently Mary bethought her of the errand that had brought her so far; and she repented of her irresolution.

"Can you take us into the bay, Mr. MacNicol?" said she, without staying to consult Käthchen.

"Aw, yes, mem, zurely."

"For it is a long way to have come—and—and I am anxious to see Mr. Ross."

"Aw, very well, mem," said Archie, at once altering his course.

And then she said, looking all round the bay:

"But where is the yacht?"

"Is it Mr. Ross's yat, mem? It wass lying in Camus Bheag when I wass coming aweh last evening."

"And was Mr. Ross on board?" Käthchen asked, with a quick sense of relief.

"Indeed I am not zure of that," said Archie. "For mebbe he wass sending the men over to the mainland, and himself staying on the island."

"In any case, Käthchen, that need not matter to you," Mary interposed. "You can remain where you are, and I will go up to the house by myself. Why should you bother about my business affairs?"

This was a view of the case that was not likely to commend itself to Kate Glendinning, who could nerve herself on occasion. When the lobster-boat had come to anchor, and they had gone ashore in the dinghy, she proceeded to walk up to the house along with her friend just as if nothing unusual was happening to her. She kept watch—furtively; but her outward air was one of perfect self-possession. As for Mary, she was too deeply engaged in thinking how her complaints and demands were to be framed to heed anything else at this moment.

They knocked at the door, and again knocked; after a little while the old woman Martha appeared—the surprise in her face being obvious testimony to the rarity of visitors to this remote island.

"Is Mr. Ross at home?" Mary asked.

It was a second or so before Martha recovered from her amazement—for she had not seen the lobster-boat appear in the bay, nor yet the strangers come ashore.

"Oh, no—he is over on the mainland," said the trimly-dressed old woman. "What a peety—what a peety!"

Mary was rather taken aback; however, she said:

"It is not of much consequence, for, if he is on the mainland—or if he is in the neighbourhood—I daresay I shall be able to see him before he returns to Heimra."

And then she was about coming away when Martha interposed, with Highland courtesy.

"But would not the leddies come in and sit down for a little while—and hef some tea, or a little milk, or something of that kind? Mr. Ross very sorry when he knows—to be sure—and a great peety him not here—"

"Oh, thank you," said Käthchen (whose face had lightened considerably when she heard of Donald Ross being absent), "it is very kind of you; and I am sure I shall be very glad to have a glass of milk, if you will be so kind."

Käthchen wanted no milk; but she suddenly saw before her a chance of having her curiosity satisfied without risk: she would be allowed to see what kind of lair this was in which the savage outlaw lived. And so the unsuspecting Martha led the way; and the two young ladies followed her into the passage, and into the first room leading therefrom, which was a kind of morning-apartment and study combined. They seated themselves, and she left to get them such refreshment as the out-of-the-world cottage could afford.

The two girls were silent; but their eyes were busy. The first thing that attracted their notice was a portrait over the mantelpiece—the portrait of a very beautiful woman, pale somewhat and dark, with refined and impressive features, and of a simple yet dignified bearing. A sad face, perhaps; but a face full of character and distinction: the first glance told you this was no common person who looked at you so calmly. Mary said nothing; Käthchen said nothing; but they knew who this was—the likeness was too obvious.

And as for the other contents of the room?—well, there were neither guns, nor rods, nor splash-nets, nor anything else connected with fishing or shooting, legal or illegal; but there was an abundance of books in the shelves that lined three walls of the apartment. Moreover, there was one volume lying on the table before them—beside a wooden pipe. They regarded this for some little time; but it was Käthchen who spoke first.

"Mary, would it be very impertinent if I looked?"

Mary Stanley laughed.

"I don't know," she said. "Most people do pick up things when they are left in a room. But we are in a peculiar position. We are here without the consent of the owner."

"Yes, that is so," said Käthchen, resignedly, and she remained still.

But she continued looking towards the book in a wistful way.

"It's only the title I should like to see," she began again. "What harm can there be in that? If Mr. Ross were here himself, I would take up the book in a minute—yes, I would! What do you say, Mary?"

"Well," said Mary, frankly, "I really should like to know what kind of literature commends itself to any one living in a strange place such as this. But at the same time we are not his guests—we are intruders—or if we are guests, we are the housekeeper's guests, and it is but fair to her we shouldn't pry into secrets."

Käthchen had risen and gone across to the table: perhaps it would not be breaking the laws of hospitality if she could get a glimpse of the title of the book without actually laying hands on it? But the back of it was away from the light. In these desperate circumstances, Käthchen yielded to temptation; she hastily snatched up the volume, glanced at the title, and as quickly returned to her seat again.

"Good gracious!" said she. "That is fine entertainment for a lonely island—Joshua Williams's 'Real Property'!"

"A law book?" said Mary, with her face becoming suddenly grave. "I hope there is not going to be—any trouble—a lawsuit is such a dreadful thing——"

"Oh, no; I understand what that means," said Käthchen, "I know quite well. That is one of the books my brother had when he was reading up for the bar—I remember it because I spilt some ink over it, and he made me buy him another. I wonder, now, if Mr. Ross is reading up for the bar? Wouldn't that be a blessed dispensation of Providence for you, Mamie—if he were to go away and shut himself up in the Temple, and leave you Lochgarra entirely in your own hands, shooting, and fishing, and everything? Only," she added, "I don't quite understand how such a wild savage as Mr. Purdie described to us would be likely to get on with the Judges. I am afraid there would be scenes in court. What do they call dismissing a barrister?—not cashiering?—unfrocking?——"

Käthchen had suddenly to cease; for here was the elderly Martha, carrying a large tray amply provided with homely and wholesome fare—oatmeal cake, soda scones, marmalade, strawberry jam, fresh butter, and a jug of milk. And Mary did not pause before breaking bread in the house of her enemy; for she saw that the old housekeeper was anxious that her bounties should be appreciated; and besides, oat-cake and marmalade and fresh milk ought to recommend themselves to any healthily-constituted young woman. By and by, when Martha had left the room, Miss Stanley said—

"What shall I give her as we are going away, Käthchen? Half-a-sovereign?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Mamie, don't think of such a thing!" Käthchen exclaimed. "At any other time give her anything you like; but you must not pay for food in this house; you cannot imagine how offended she would be. She would take it as an insult offered to her master: she represents Mr. Ross in his absence—it is Mr. Ross who is entertaining us now——"

"Oh, it is Mr. Ross who is entertaining us?—yes of course," said Mary, thoughtfully; and—perhaps without noticing the coincidence—she put down the piece of oat-cake she held in her hand, nor did she take it up again.

And furthermore, as they were going down to the boat—having made due acknowledgments to Martha for her hospitality—Mary walked as one in a dream; while Käthchen, rejoiced to have come through this dreaded ordeal with such unexpected ease, was in the gayest of humours. She did not notice her friend's reverie; she was chattering away about their foolhardiness in entering the savage's lair—about her surprise in finding no skulls and bones lying in corners—about the quiet and studious aspect of the place being a pretty cover for all kinds of dark and lawless deeds. Mary did not reply; once or twice she looked up to the white grave on the hill—she was thinking of other things.

But when they had all got into the larger boat again, and set out on their return voyage, Käthchen found a companion more of her own mood. The truth is that while the young ladies were being entertained in the front part of the house, Big Archie had slipped up to the back, had paid his respects to Martha, and had been presented, as is the custom in the west, with his morning dram. This welcome mitigation of his Katzenjammer had made a new man of him; and he was now disposed to be as talkative as hitherto he had been morose; so that, as he sate with his arm on the tiller, he was cheerfully telling the young lady all about himself, and his doings, and circumstances. And Käthchen, finding him thus sociable, and friendly, affected much interest, and plied him with appropriate questions.

"Do you keep a cow, Mr. MacNicol?" said she.

"Aw, now," said he, deprecatingly, "the young leddy will be mekkin me ashamed. It's chist Archie they'll be calling me."

"Very well, Archie—do you keep a cow?"

"I starve one," said Archie, with ironical humour.

"And a kitchen garden?"

"Aw, is it a garden? And you will not know that I wass tekken the prize for the garden, ay, more as three or four years? Well, well, now, there is no longer a prize given for the best garden, and it's a peety, too——"

"But tell me," said Käthchen, with some astonishment, "why was the prize stopped? It seems a very reasonable thing, a prize for the best kitchen garden among the crofters and fishermen—I'm quite sure Miss Stanley would give such a prize. Why was it stopped?"

Big Archie hesitated for a second or two; then he said, with a grin of confession—

"Well, now, I will tell you the God's truth, mem; for there's two ways about every story; and there's my way of it, and there's Mr. Purdie's way of it; and mebbe the one is true or the other. And this is my way of it: I wass gettin the prize—oh, yes, I will not deny that—year by year, and very proud I wass, too, of the cabbages, and the scarlet beans, and the like of that, and the thirty shullins of the prize a very good thing for me. And then kem the time the Minard crofters they were for sending an appligation to Mr. Stanley for to have the rents revised, and I put my name to the paper too; but Mr. Stanley he would do nothing at ahl—he said 'Go to Mr. Purdie.' Then Mr. Purdie he sees my name on the paper; and he says, 'Very well, there will be no more prize for the garden, and you can do without your thirty shullins.' It wass a punishment for me, that I wass putting my name on the paper. Now, mem, that is my story about the prize——"

"I think it was very shabby treatment!" Käthchen exclaimed.

"And that is the way I see my side of it," continued Big Archie, honestly; "but I am not denying there may be another way. Aw naw, mem, I want to tell you fair; and Mr. Purdie he would hef another version for you, if you were to believe it——"

"Well, then, what is his version?" said Käthchen—for the time being rather priding herself on playing Mary Stanley's part.

"Well, I wass speaking to Mr. Pettigrew, the minister, and he wass speaking to Mr. Purdie, about getting the prize back, and Mr. Purdie he says to Mr. Pettigrew 'No, I will not give the prize back; for there was not enough competition, and Archie MacNicol he wass always tekkin the prize, and it wass the same as thirty shullins a year off his rent. The prize,' he wass saying, 'wass to encourache ahl the people to attend to their gardens, and not to give Archie MacNicol thirty shullins a year.' And that's the God's truth, mem, and both ways of the story; but what I will be thinking to myself is that there wass no talk of stopping the prize till Mr. Purdie found my name on the paper. That's what I would be thinking to myself sometimes."

Käthchen glanced rather timidly at her friend. But Mary was still in that curiously abstracted reverie—her eyes turned wistfully towards the now receding Eilean Heimra—her thoughts remote. So Käthchen merely said in an undertone—

"Very well, Archie, I will put both versions of the story before Miss Stanley, and I have no doubt she will do what is right. For my own part, I don't see why you should be deprived of the prize simply because you keep a smarter garden than the other people."

A great event happened this afternoon—nothing less than the arrival from the South of Mr. Watson, the sheep-farmer, Miss Stanley's principal tenant. The two girls had landed from the boat, walked along the shore, and were just about turning off towards Lochgarra House, when they were overtaken by some one riding a stout and serviceable little cob; and Mary instantly guessed who this must be—for persons on horseback are rare at Lochgarra. The stranger lifted his hat, but did not draw rein.

"Mr. Watson," said she—looking towards him with a plain intimation that she desired to speak with him.

Mr. Watson immediately pulled up, dismounted, and came towards her, leading the cob by the bridle. He was a middle-aged man with a fresh complexion, grizzled hair, short whiskers, and shrewd blue eyes—looking prosperous and well-satisfied with himself, and with some little turn for jocosity about his firmly-set lips.

"I beg your pardon," she said, with a little embarrassment, "but—I wished to speak with you——"

"Miss Stanley?—I am glad to make your acquaintance," said he, in a marked south-country accent. And he bowed to Miss Stanley's companion.

"Won't you come into the house for a moment or two?" said Mary, with a vague notion that she ought to be polite to a tenant who paid her £1400 a year: moreover, she had ulterior ends in view. Mr. Watson consented; Mary went and called a gardener, who took charge of the cob; and then the two young ladies and the farmer proceeded up the stone steps, and through the hall, and into the wide hexagonal drawing-room in the tower. Then she asked him to be seated, adding some vague suggestion about a glass of wine and a biscuit after his ride.

"No, I thank ye," said Mr. Watson. "I am a teetotaller—not an ordinary thing in these parts. Ay, and a vegetarian. But I practise—I don't preach," he explained, with a complacent smile; "so I do no harm to other folk. Both things suit me; but I let other people alone. That's the fair way in the world."

"I wanted to ask you, Mr. Watson," said she, with a certain timidity, "whether you would be disposed to give up the pasturage of Meall-na-Cruagan?"

In a second the shrewd and humorous blue eyes had become strictly observant and business-like.

"To give it up?" he said, slowly.

"I mean," she interposed, "at a valuation. I know it is yours under the lease; we cannot disturb you; nor should I wish to do so, except entirely with your own goodwill."

"Miss Stanley," said he, "I will ask ye a plain question: what for do ye want me to give up the Meall-na-Cruagan?"

"The crofters——"

"Ay, ay, just that," said he, without much ceremony. "They've been at ye, in the absence of Mr. Purdie. Well, let me tell ye this: I am willing on my part to give up the Meall-na-Cruagan, at a fair valuation; but I warn ye that if ye hand it over to the crofters, they'll be not one penny the better off, and you'll be just so much the worse. Where are they to get the stock to put on it? They've enough grazing for what stock they've got."

"Yes, but it is not wholly that," said Mary. "I want to have them satisfied."

"Ye'll never see them satisfied, though ye gave them the whole Lochgarra estate for nothing," said this very plain-spoken person. "Surely ye are aware that the agents of the Highland Land League have been here, as they have been in every hole and corner of the Highlands; and while some of them have been making reasonable enough demands, others of them have been showing themselves nothing but irresponsible mischief-makers, firing the brains of these poor creatures with revolutionary nonsense, and trying to turn the whole place into another Ireland. Well, well, it's not my business; it's not for me to speak; but I warn ye, Miss Stanley, that giving up Meall-na-Cruagan will not satisfy them. What many of them want—especially what the more ignorant among them want—is for the landlords to quit the country altogether, and leave them the entire stock, lock, and barrel of the estates—the land and all that belongs to it."

"I know," said Mary, quietly, "what the Land League have been doing; but if there had not been widespread discontent and distress they could not have done anything at all. And surely there was reason for the discontent; look at the reductions the Crofters' Commission have made—thirty and forty per cent. in some places. However, I am not concerned with the economic question of the Highlands generally; I am concerned merely with Lochgarra; and I want to do what is fair by the tenants; I want to see them satisfied, and as well-to-do and comfortable as the circumstances will allow. But what has been puzzling me since I came here," she continued—for this seemed a frank and well-wishing kind of man, and she was glad to have any sort of help or advice—"is that when I have spoken about lowering the rent, they have had nothing to say in reply. They seem rather to look to the Government for aid. Yet you would imagine that the lowering of the rent would be the first and all-important thing."

Mr. Watson smiled, in a condescending way.

"I think ye might understand why they would not complain to you about the rent."

"Why?" she demanded.

He hesitated—and there was an odd look on his face.

"I do not wish to say anything against friend Purdie," he observed.

"But I want to know the truth," she insisted. "How am I to do anything at all unless I know the exact and literal truth?"

"Well, well, let us put it this way," said Mr. Watson, good-naturedly. "There's some that would call Mr. Purdie a hard man; and there's some that would call him an excellent factor, business-like, thoroughgoing, and skilled in his work. It's not a nice position to be in at the best; it's not possible to please everybody. And there's different ways of dealing with people."

All this sounded very enigmatic. Mary could not in the least understand what he meant.

"I wish you to speak plainly, Mr. Watson," said she. "You may be sure it will be in absolute confidence."

He considered for a moment. Then he said:

"It's of little consequence to me. Friend Purdie and I get on very well, considering; and besides I have my lease. But I'll just give ye an instance of what has happened on this estate, and you'll judge for yourself whether it's likely the tenants would come to you for a reduction of rent, or ask ye to interfere in any way whatever. It was about four years ago that one of the crofts over at Cruagan fell vacant. Very well. Then Mr. Purdie would have it that the pasture of that croft should be taken by the other Cruagan crofters, each one paying his share of the rent; while the arable land of the croft should be added to the Glen Sanna farm, which was also vacant just then. The Cruagan crofters objected to that arrangement; Mr. Purdie insisted; and at last the crofters sent a petition to Mr. Stanley, asking to have the arable land of the croft as well, or else to be let alone. I am not saying anything against your uncle, Miss Stanley."

"But I want to get at the truth of the story, Mr. Watson," said Mary, firmly. "That is the main point. What happened?"

"I may explain that your uncle never interfered with Mr. Purdie," the farmer continued, rather apologetically, "and that's no to be wondered at. Many landlords make it a rule not to interfere with their factor, for of course he's doing the best he can for the estate, and knows about it better than they can know themselves. Then what happened, do ye say? What happened was this—at the very next term every crofter that had signed the petition was served with a notice to quit; and that was only withdrawn when they undertook to pay, each man of them, £3 a year additional rent—that is 15s. for their share of the added pasture, and £2 5s. as a fine for having objected to Mr. Purdie's arrangements. That's just what happened, Miss Stanley."

Mary was silent for a second or so—looking towards Käthchen, her eyes full of indignation.

"Why, it is one of the most abominable pieces of tyranny I ever heard of!" she exclaimed. And then she turned to Mr. Watson. "If people are treated like that, can you wonder if the Land League should find it easy to put revolutionary ideas into their head?"

"At all events," said Mr. Watson, with a shrewd and cautious smile, "ye will understand that they are not likely to apply to you for any lowering of rent. They know the consequences."

"Ah, do they?" said she quickly. "Well, I must show them that they are mistaken. I must convince them they have nothing to fear. They must learn that they can come to me, without dread of Mr. Purdie or anyone else. But," she added, with a bit of a sigh, "I suppose it will take a long time."

Alter some little further conversation, of no great moment, but marked by much civility on both sides, the farmer rose.

"Any time ye're passing Craiglarig, Miss Stanley, I should be proud if ye'd look in."

"Indeed I will," said she, going with him to the door. "But I must tell you now how deeply I am indebted to you. And of course what you have said shall be kept in the strictest confidence."

"I have told ye the truth," said he, "since ye asked for it. But just mind this, Miss Stanley—good factors are no that common; and friend Purdie understands his business. He drives a hard bargain; but it's on your behalf."

"Yes," said she, "and now I am beginning to see why it is the people hate me."

That same evening the two girls, who had been out for a long walk, were coming down the Minard road towards Lochgarra. The twilight was deepening; the solemn inland hills were growing slowly and slowly darker, and losing their individual features; the softly lilac skies overhead were waiting for the coming night. Silence had fallen over the woods, where the birches showed their spectral arms in the dusk, and where the russet bracken and withered grey grass were now almost indistinguishable. It was a still and tranquil hour; sleep stealing upon the tired world; a little while, and the far, wide, mysteriously-moving sea would be alone with the stars.

But for Mary Stanley there was no sense of soothing quiet, even amidst this all-prevailing repose. On the contrary, her heart was full of turmoil and perplexity; insomuch that at times her courage was like to give way; and she was almost ready to abandon the task she had undertaken, as something beyond her strength. And then again a voice seemed to say to her "Patience—patience—hold on your way—dark as the present hour may be, the day will dawn at last." And in Käthchen she had an excellent counsellor; for Käthchen had an admirable habit of making light of troubles—especially those that did not concern herself; and she was practical, and matter-of-fact, neither over-sanguine nor liable to fits of black despondency. On the present occasion this was what she was saying, in her cool and self-possessed way:

"You see, Mamie, I understand the Highland character better than you do. All that sullenness and ill-will doesn't arise merely from high rent and Mr. Purdie's tyranny—though that no doubt has something to do with it. There are sentimental influences at work as well. There is the strong attachment towards the old family—very unreasoning, perhaps, but there it is; and there is resentment against those who have displaced them. Then there may be anger about your uncle having destroyed the ancient landmarks; and injuries of that kind are not easily forgotten or forgiven. But every hour that I am in this place," continued Käthchen, as they were making home through the strangely-silent dusk, "I am more and more convinced that what Mr. Purdie said was perfectly correct—that young Donald Ross of Heimra is just everybody and everything to those people. He is all-powerful with them. Very well. I cannot believe that he has stirred up ill-will against you, or even that he wishes it to continue. He may do everything he can to thwart and madden Mr. Purdie—-why not?—I would do that myself, if I were in his place!—but how can he have any wish to injure you? Then what I say is this: if you really mean to go and see him, put entirely out of your mind what you may have heard about his private character, and his poaching and smuggling, and remember only that his influence over those people could make everything quite pleasant to you. Don't go to him as you did this morning, as an enemy to be challenged and reproached: no, what you have to do is just to lower your pride a little, and tell him that you have come to beg for a favour. In fact, I am convinced that a word from him would entirely change the situation. Mamie, are you going to ask for it?"

Mary Stanley did not answer: she walked on in silence.

CHAPTER VIII.

FACE TO FACE.

She was out in the solitude of the woods, and she was alone. It was early morning, clear, and calm, and still; the sun lay warm on the silver-lichened boulders that were dappled with velvet-green moss; the wandering air that stirred the pendulous branches of the birches brought with it a resinous odour, from the innumerable millions of opening buds. A profound silence prevailed, save for the hushed continuous murmur of an unseen rivulet, and the occasional distant call of a curlew.

A vague restlessness, and something even akin to despair, had brought her hither. For of course like other young people of the day she had coquetted with the modern doctrine that in times of trouble our great and gentle Mother Nature is the true consoler and comforter; she had read Wordsworth; and she had read Matthew Arnold upon Wordsworth:

"He too upon a wintry clime

Had fallen—on this iron time

Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.

He found us when the age had bound

Our souls in its benumbing round—

He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.

He laid us as we lay at birth

On the cool flowery lap of earth;

Smiles broke from us and we had ease.

The hills were round us, and the breeze

Went o'er the sun-lit fields again;

Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.

Our youth return'd; for there was shed

On spirits that had long been dead,

Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,

The freshness of the early world."

And now if she wished to forget the untowardness of human nature—if she wished to escape from her bitter disappointment on beholding her large and generous schemes met and checked on every hand by a sullen ingratitude—surely here was a seclusion that should have brought balm to her wounded heart. Moreover the morning light was cheerful; April as it was, a quiet warmth prevailed; she tried to please herself by recollecting that this fairy paradise actually belonged to her. And if human beings were so hard and unapproachable, why, then, she could interest herself in these harmless living creatures that were all so busy around her, under the quickening influences of the spring. From the dusty pathway in the opener glades the yellow-hammers were picking up bits of withered grass for their nest-building; black-caps swung back-downward from the sprays, to wrench the buds off with their bills; she stopped here and there to watch a beautiful beetle—shining bronze, or opaque green with a touch of scarlet on its legs; a tiny grey lizard, with its small eye bright as a diamond, lay basking on a shelf of rock, and remained absolutely motionless, hoping to be passed unnoticed. Then she came upon a little tuft of primroses—so shining pale—so full of dim suggestions—and of associations with the poets. Well, she looked at the primroses. They were very pretty. But somehow she could not keep thinking of them, nor of the fine things the poets had said of them. The fact was, in her present straits her heart was craving for human sympathy; she wanted to be of some use in the world; she wished to see eyes brighten when she appeared at the door, however poor the cottage might be. Primroses were pretty, no doubt—the firstlings of the year awoke pleasant and tender memories—but—but why were those people so obdurate? No, there was no solace for her; the sweet and soothing influences of nature were intruded upon, were obliterated, by the harsh facts and problems of human life. With those men and women almost openly declared her enemies, and with all her grand schemes gone away, what good could she get from primroses? And so, humiliating herself with the conviction that she was nothing but another Peter Bell, she passed on through the woods, and eventually got down to the sheltered little bay where she had first met Anna Chlannach.

And on this occasion also she was destined to make a new acquaintance. She was idly walking up and down the lilac and cream-hued beach—and trying to persuade herself that she had found a refuge from the perplexities and mortifications that seemed to surround her in the busier world she had left—when a sound she had distantly heard from time to time now rose in tone until there could be no doubt about its nature: it was a human voice, proceeding from the neighbouring bay. She went as close as she could to the intervening promontory; then curiosity led her stealthily to climb the heathery slope; she made her way between rocks and under birches; and at last she paused and listened. It was a man's voice, of an unnaturally high pitch, and curiously plaintive in its monotonous sing-song. In the perfect silence she distinctly heard these words—

"Oh, my brethren, I charge you—I charge you by all that you hold dearest—that you keep the little children from the ruby wine!"

What could this mean? She pushed her way a little further through the thick underwood, and peered over. There was a small boat drawn up on the shore. Pacing slowly backwards and forwards on the shingle was a man of about twenty-eight or thirty, with a long and lugubrious face, a shaggy brown beard, and deep set eyes. Sometimes his head was bent down, as if in deep thought; and then again he would raise it, and extend his arm, as if addressing the opposite side of the bay, or perhaps Eilean Heimra out at sea; while ever and anon the curious feminine falsetto came back to the admonition—"Oh, my brethren, keep the little children from the ruby wine!"

Mary began to guess. Was this the Minister? Had he returned home; and had he seized the first opportunity to come away over to this solitary place, to rehearse his sermon for the following Sabbath, with appropriate intonation and gesture? She listened again:

"'Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause? who hath redness of eyes?' Ah, my friends, now that I have addressed each section of the community, each member of the family circle, now we come to the little babes—those tender flowers—those blossoms along the rough roadway of life—smiling upon us like the rainbows of the morning—and bedewing the earth with their consecrated tears. When I behold those gems of purest ray serene," continued the Minister, in his elevated chant, "my soul is filled with misgivings and sad prognostications. I observe in my daily walk the example that is set before them; the fathers in Israel are a stumbling-block to their own children; nay, even of the wisest it has been said, 'The priest and the prophet have erred through strong drink, they are swallowed up of wine, they are out of the way through strong drink; they err in vision, they stumble in judgment.' My friends, is it not a terrible thing to think of these blessed babes—these innocent tendrils sprouting up into glorious flowers, even as the Rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley—to think of them babbling with red mouths curses they cannot comprehend? Hold them back, I say! Snatch the fatal goblet from them! Let pleasure wave her ambrosial locks when and where she pleases—let mirth and joy prevail—but when the timbrel sounds and the cymbal is heard in the hall—then, at all events let those innocent ones be restrained from the deadly snare—keep, oh, keep the little children from the ruby wine!"

Unluckily this last appeal was addressed to Mary herself, or at least she thought so in her fright when she found the Minister's eyes turned towards her: instantly she bobbed her head down in the heather, and remained hidden there until the sermon—or perhaps it was a temperance lecture?—was ended. It did not last much longer. After the sonorous sentences had ceased, there was a moment's silence; then a grating on the beach; then a measured sound of oars: she concluded that the Minister, his flowery harangue rehearsed, was now making for home again; and she was free to get up from her concealment and return to Lochgarra House.

"Käthchen," she said, "the Minister has come back. I have seen him—though I—I, didn't speak to him. Now don't you think we ought to go along and make his acquaintance at once? He might help us: you say yourself the Free Church Ministers have an enormous influence in the Highlands."

Kate Glendinning did not receive this proposal with any great enthusiasm.

"There is one thing he might do," said she, "as I told you before, Mamie. It would be much easier for us to go and see Mr. Ross, if the Minister would take us under his escort."

"Mr. Ross!" said Mary, impatiently. "It is Mr. Ross, and Mr. Ross, with you from morning till night, Käthchen! You would think he owned the whole place!"

"Yes," said Käthchen, demurely, "that is just what he seems to do."

However, the interview to which both the young ladies had looked forward with so much anxiety came about in the most natural way in the world; and that without any intervention whatever. Mary and Käthchen, being down in the village, had gone into the post-office to buy some packets of sweets—bribes for the children, no doubt; and they were coming out again from the little general store when, in broad and full daylight, they met young Ross of Heimra face to face. There was no escape possible on either side; he was going into the post-office; they were coming out; and here they were, confronted. Well, it must be admitted that at this crisis Mary Stanley's presence of mind entirely forsook her. Ten hundred thousand things seemed to go through her brain at once; she could not speak; confusion burned red in her cheeks and on her forehead. And then he was so pale and calm and collected; for a second he regarded them both—and with no furtive glance; he slightly raised his peaked cap, and would have passed them without more ado. It was Käthchen who made bold to detain him.

"Oh, Mr. Ross," said she, breathlessly, "we have never had an opportunity of thanking you—you left the cottage before we knew—and—and it was so kind of you to send the carriage——"

And here for a moment Käthchen also lost her head, for she had a horrible consciousness that when a man has saved your life it is ridiculous to thank him for sending a carriage. And then those coal-black eyes were so calmly observant; they were not generously sympathetic; they seemed merely to await what she had to say with a respectful attention. But Käthchen bravely began again: "You—you must not think us ungrateful—you see, you had left the cottage before we knew—and when we went out to Heimra, we did not find you at home——"

"I am sorry I was not there," he said.

"And—and of course we knew quite well what a dreadful position we were in—I mean that night when we wandered into the morass," continued Käthchen. "But for you we never should have got out again—we dared not move—and in the darkness what could we have done?"

"It is a dangerous place," he said.

"I—I am going to give Mrs. MacVean a cow in place of the one that was lost," Mary now ventured to put in; and here was she—the bold, the dauntless, the proud-spirited one!—here was she standing timidly there, her face still suffused, her eyes downcast. And this little speech of hers was like a plea for merciful consideration! He turned to her.

"The MacVeans have had a bad time of it since the shepherd died," the young man said, in a distant sort of way—but he was regarding her curiously.

Then all of a sudden it occurred to Mary that she ought not to stand there as a suppliant. Some sense of her wrongs and her recent trials came back to her; and here was the one whom she suspected of being responsible—here was her secret enemy—the antagonist who had hitherto concealed himself in the dark.

"I hope the widow will condescend to accept it, but who can tell?" said she, with greater spirit. "Really, they are the most extraordinary people! They seem to resent your trying to do them a kindness. I have been offering them all sorts of things they stand in need of; I am willing to lower their rents; I am going to arrange for more pasture; I propose to give prizes for the best homespun materials; and I would pay for getting over some of the Harris people, if instruction were wanted in dyeing or weaving—but they seem to suspect it is all for my own interest. I make them these offers—they will hardly look at them!"

"You may teach a dog to love you by feeding it," said young Donald Ross, coldly; "but the Highlanders are not dogs."

At this she fired up—and there was no more shamefaced girlish blushing in her cheeks. Her eyes were as proud as his own.

"They are human beings, I suppose," said she, "and a human being might at least say 'Thank you.' But I do not know that I blame them," she continued—to Käthchen's great anxiety. "It seems to me there must be secret influences at work about here. It is not natural for people to be so ungrateful. Self-interest would make them a little more—a little more—amenable—if it were not for some evil instigation at work among them. And what can any one gain by stirring up ill-will? What can be the motive? At any rate, whatever the motive, and whoever he is, he might consider this—he might consider the mischief he is doing these poor people in making them blind to their own welfare. It seems a strange thing that in order to gratify envy, or hatred, or revenge, he should sacrifice the interests of a number of poor people who don't know any better."

Käthchen glanced apprehensively from the one to the other; but there was no flash of anger in those dark eyes, nor any tinge of resentment in the pale, olive-tinted face. The young man maintained a perfectly impassive demeanour—respectful enough, but reserved and distant.

"I wish them nothing but good," Mary went on, in the same indignant way, "but how can I do anything if they turn away from me? Why do they not come and tell me what they want?"

"Come and tell you what they want?—when they daren't call their souls their own!" he said.

"Of whom are they afraid, then?" she demanded.

"Of your agent, Miss Stanley," said he (and here indeed Käthchen did notice something strange in his eyes—a gleam of dark fire in spite of all his studied restraint). "What do they care about philanthropic schemes, or how can you expect them to talk about their wants and wishes, when what they actually know is that Purdie has the face of every one of them at the grindstone?" He altered his tone. "I beg your pardon. I have no right to interfere—and no wish to interfere. If you should think of coming out again to Heimra, Miss Stanley, to have a look over the island, I hope I may be at home. Good-morning!"

He again raised his cap—and passed on into the office. Mary stood undecided for a moment; then moved slowly away, accompanied by Käthchen. Before them was the wide sweep of the bay, with Lochgarra House at the point, and its background of larches. The sea was calm; the skies clear; it was a peaceful-looking morning.

Of a sudden Mary Stanley stopped—her eyes full of disappointment and vexation.

"Everything is at sixes and sevens—and worse than before!" she exclaimed to her companion. "What did I say, Käthchen? What did he say? Wasn't he very insolent?—well, not that, exactly—not exactly insolent—but—well, I am not used to being treated with disdain. Why did he break off like that—with everything unsettled? Wasn't he very insolent?—or, at least, disdainful?—what did I say that he should treat me like that?"

"I know this," said the frivolous Käthchen, "that he has the most splendid eyes I ever saw in a human creature. I call him just distressingly handsome!"

"There is nothing so contemptible as a beauty man," said Mary, impatiently. "What has that got to do with it? I want to know why he treated me like that!"

"I thought he behaved with very great courtesy and self-respect," Käthchen made answer, "considering that you plainly intimated to him that it was he who stirred up all that ill-feeling against you."

"Very well: he had nothing to say for himself!" Mary exclaimed. "He made no defence. And then, you see, I—I wasn't quite prepared—I did not expect to see him—and I forgot about the fishing and shooting, or that might have made him a little ashamed of himself, and a little less arrogant." She turned and looked towards the post-office. "I wonder whether that was a map that he had rolled up in his hand or a chart? If he is going on board his yacht again, he must pass this way. I cannot have things left as they are—worse than ever!"

"I don't see how you are to mend them at present," said Käthchen. "If you had kept on as you began, in that friendly way, it might have been all very well; but then you grew indignant, and almost charged him with being the mischief-maker. And I must say I think he behaved with very great consideration and courtesy."

"Do you really think so?" said Mary, quickly—with her eyes still fixed on the post-office. And then she hesitated. And then she said: "Come, Käthchen, let us go back. I wish to make an apology to him——"

"Mary!" her friend protested. "How can you think of such a thing!"

"Oh, but you do not know. It is not about anything that has just happened. It is about the lake and the old castle. I quite forgot. And perhaps it is that that makes him so unforgiving. I must tell him that I am sorry."

But Käthchen shrank back.

"Make an apology for that?" said she. "You don't seem to understand, Mary. It is too serious for an apology. If you murder a man's father or mother, you can't go to him and say 'I am very sorry.'

"Will you go on to the house, then, Käthchen?" said Mary, simply. "I must put myself right with him—and after that he can be as disdainful as he chooses."

Of course Käthchen refused to be released; she went back with her; and just as they reached the little building, young Ross of Heimra came out. He had neither chart nor map in his hand now; whichever it had been, he had no doubt sent it away by post.

He seemed a little surprised; but was just as attentive and respectful as before.

"There was something I forgot to say," she began, with obvious embarrassment, "and—and it is difficult to say it. It was not till I came here that I knew what my uncle had done—about—about Loch Heimra—and Castle Heimra. Well, there are some injuries, my friend here says, that can never be repaired. I suppose that is so. But at least you will allow me to say that I am sorry—more deeply sorry than you can imagine perhaps——"

"And there are some things that are best not spoken of," he said, calmly.

"Yes, I daresay that is so," she made answer, with a hopeless feeling at her heart that his tone and manner were alike implacable. "No doubt that is so. And yet—yet some little consideration might be shown towards any one who wishes to express regret. It was none of my doing; it never would have been of my doing. And though you, of course, would rather hear no apology—would rather not have the subject mentioned—still, there is another thing. The people about here—if they have any resentment against me because of the pulling down of Castle Heimra—then that is not fair. And any one having influence with them—well, it would be ill done of him to stir up anger against me on that account. I had nothing to do with it—I am very sorry it ever happened."

"Miss Stanley," said he—for he plainly did not wish to speak of this thing—"I think you are mistaken in supposing that any one is stirring up ill-will against you; and even the most ignorant of the people must know that you are not responsible for what happened before you came here. As regards myself, I do not wish for any apology or expression of regret; I wish for only one thing—forgetfulness. I think in such a case silence is the only amends."

So they parted for the second time; and when the two girls had gone some way towards Lochgarra House, Mary said,—

"Yes; but all the same I told him I was sorry."

And then again she turned and looked. Donald Ross had passed through the village, and was now going up to the Free Church minister's cottage.

"Käthchen," said she, rather absently, "there are a good many of them about here who seem to hate me; but I know there is not one of them who hates me as he does. And what had I to do with the pulling down of Heimra Castle?"

And that afternoon, as she stood at one of the windows in the tower, looking away out to sea, she saw the little white-winged yawl making for Heimra Island. She knew who was at the tiller—the man before whom she had abased herself, craving, and craving in vain, for some word of consideration and sympathy.

"Proud and implacable," she said to herself; and her wounded spirit was sore within her, and perhaps a trifle indignant, too; but she would make no further utterance. He had asked for silence and forgetfulness; and he had the right to say what was to be.

Meanwhile the message that Mary had sent to the Fishery Board in Edinburgh had been duly received and considered; and when, after two or three days' interval, the answer came back to Lochgarra, it was to the effect that the alien lobster fishermen had either been misinformed or were making wilful mis-statements: the Fishery Board had not given them the right to build huts, and, indeed, had no power to confer any such right. At once Mary sent for Hector the head-keeper; and bade him seek out Archie MacNicol, and convey to him this news.

"And tell him from me," she said, "that all he has to do is to explain to these men that they have no right to come here and build huts and use the fishing-grounds that naturally belong to the crofters in possession; and that they must go—and go peaceably."

"Would Miss Stanley be for having a sheriff's-officer over from Dingwall?" suggested the tall and handsome keeper, in his serious way.

"No, no, not at all!" she said. "The men must go, when they learn they have no right to be here. And if they refuse to go, haven't we got our own policeman?"

"Very well, mem," said Hector, and he left.

It was towards the dusk of evening, and raining heavily; but all the same Hector found Big Archie at work in his little bit of a garden. When Archie heard the news, he struck his spade in the ground, and stood upright.

"Aw, that's the fine news!" he exclaimed, joyfully, in Gaelic. "And we will soon be putting an end to the squatters now, Hector! Was I not saying it myself that they had no right to come here?—but now there is the message from the Fishery Board; and we will soon have the devils away from the lobster-ground. And when there is good news coming, you will be for taking a dram with me, Hector?"

Well, it is said there was once a Highland keeper who refused a glass of whiskey; but his name and neighbourhood are not known now. Hector followed Big Archie into the cottage, and there a black bottle was produced. Thereafter, the two men, having lit their pipes, set out through the dark and wet again, for Hector was returning to his own home, and Archie was going a certain distance with him in search of the Gillie Ciotach.

The stiff glass of whiskey had warmed Big Archie's heart; and as he strode along, the huge and heavy-shouldered giant grew garrulous.

"The young lady that has come here," said he, in his native tongue, "you know as well as I do, Hector, she means very well, but it is not the place for her at all. I say it is not the place for her at all. What can a young lady know about the price of sheep and the price of lobsters? It is a foolish thing! The place for her, now, Hector, that place is London, at the court of the Queen, among the great ladies, in their fine clothes and jewels. You think I do not know about such things; but I do know; for I myself have relations with London; and it is from London I am hearing every fortnight, from Corstorphine. And the other day, when she was in my boat, I was saying to myself 'There is a fine and beautiful lady to be sitting in a coarse lobster-boat; and it is at the court of the Queen she ought to be; and not going about asking people to put in better chimneys, and the like of that. A woman—a woman has no right to be at the head of an estate; and I am not sure that the law allows it; maybe she is here only through Purdie, and he the master of the estate. Just think of that, Hector—if it is only Purdie that keeps out Young Donald from the estate: would not that be a thing to be considered? Now you know I am not from this place myself; I am from much farther south; but I am a Gael; I have no love for any Albannach or Sassunnach coming into this country against the wishes of the people; and if it is only Purdie, aw, God, it's myself that would willingly give Purdie a crack on the head. And think of young Donald of Heimra coming into the estates, would it not be a grand day that, Hector?—ay, and many a gun fired off, and the bagpipes, and flags, and taking the horses out of the carriage. Sure I am the Gillie Ciotach would go mad that day."

The mention of the Gillie Ciotach recalled the keeper to his own immediate affairs.

"If you see Gillie Ciotach, Archie," said he, "perhaps you will give him a word of caution. The other evening I heard a shot up by the Crom-allt; and I did not look. But the next time I hear a shot, I will look; and if I catch Gillie Ciotach, I will break his gun over his head, yes, and I will shoot his thief of a dog, too; for I am not going to get myself into trouble on account of the Gillie Ciotach. This you know, Archie, that when old Mr. Stanley was here, there was not much goodwill; and perhaps some of us may have shut our eyes a little; but things are different now; for here is my sister Barbara telling me again and again that the Baintighearna is the kindest lady she has ever known in the world, and that it is not at all what Purdie wishes to have done that she means to have done. Well, well, that is not my business; but my business is to look after myself; and I am not going to get into trouble on account of Gillie Ciotach."

At this point the two parted; and Big Archie went on to the inn. But he did not enter by the front-door; he passed round by the stable-yard, and made his way to a small lighted window that was partly open. He peeped in and listened at the same time—with a grin of satisfaction on his face, for he had found what he sought.

There were three men in this little sanded parlour, which was a sort of adjunct to the inn. They were seated round a table on which was an oil-lamp; and in front of each man stood a small pewter measure and also a glass. Two of the men were middle-aged, and of a sailor-like type; the third was a young fellow of about four-and-twenty, whose bronzed complexion, regular features, and short-cropped curly brown hair made him rather good-looking, only that in regarding him one did not notice these things so much as the dare-devil expression of both eye and mouth. He also was dressed in something of sailor-like attire; while his broad Balmoral bonnet, pushed far back on his brown curls, revealed the fact that in his earlier youth he must have received a mighty slash along the side of his forehead. This was the Gillie Ciotach; and the Gillie Ciotach was singing—in high and nasal tones, while his two companions listened solemnly. Yet this was not really a melancholy song, this Linn an aigh, for it described the happy state of affairs that existed long ago, when the heather yielded abundance of honey, and the pastures abundance of milk, when there was no rent to pay, when any one could fish or shoot wherever he pleased, and when there was neither hatred nor fighting, nor thirst of wealth. Indeed, there was perhaps a touch of sarcasm in the verses; for the refrain informed whosoever might wish to know at what period of the world's history this golden age existed that it was An uair bha Gàilig aig na h-eòin—that is to say, When all the birds in Gaelic sang. However, whether the song was or was not intended to be merry, the audience received it in precisely the same fashion: when it ended, the one said 'Ay, ay' in a sad tone; the other sighed deeply; and then each mechanically proceeded to pour out a glass of whiskey. The Gillie Ciotach did likewise; by all three the whiskey was drank in absolute silence; there was a pause of internal meditation—and at this point Big Archie thought fit to open the door and enter, for he had been long enough out in the rain.

And no sooner had he told his story than the dare-devil leapt to his feet, a wild delight in his eyes.

"Aw, Dyeea, this is a fine thing!" he cried, sniffing the battle from afar. "I tell you now we will make short work of it—we will drive the squatters into the Minch, and if the devils can swim across the Minch, let them swim across the Minch, and if they cannot swim across the Minch, they can go down to their master below! Come away, boys, and make the preparation; for there will be a gay dance to-morrow!"

The big giant caught him by both shoulders, and threw him back into the chair.

"Did you hear me?" said he (but there was an ominous mirth in his eyes too). "Peaceably, peaceably; the Baintighearna says peaceably—they are to go peaceably."

"Aw, is it peaceably?" the Gillie Ciotach cried, with a loud laugh. "Well, if they will go peaceably, that is very good; but if they will not go peaceably, then we will make them sing a little song to-morrow—by God, Archie MacNicol, we will make them sing 'Farewell to Fiunary,' and maybe it is on the wrong side of their mouth they will be singing the 'Farewell to Fiunary!"

CHAPTER IX.

THE BATTLE OF RU-MINARD.

All that night there was marching and counter-marching, and whipping up of recruits, and drinking of whiskey, and singing of Gabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr.[#] Big Archie and his peaceful, or pseudo-peaceful, counsels were no longer heeded; the movement had been taken up by the younger fellows, headed by the mischievous Gillie Ciotach; and the belief became general that orders had been received from the Fishery Board in Edinburgh to the effect that the Ru-Minard squatters were forthwith to be driven into the sea. And if the aliens should refuse to be so driven—should stand up in defence of their little bits of homesteads—what then?

[#] "We will take the highway."

"It is a lesson they will want," said the Gillie Ciotach, gaily, to his comrades (they were having a friendly glass together, in a barn lit up by a solitary candle), "not to come thieving on other people's lobster-ground, and building huts wherever they like, and not a penny of rent to the holder of the croft. It is a lesson they will want; and it is a lesson they will get—to take back home with them, and keep the others from coming here. Well, now, this is my opinion, that the best thing for giving a man a rap over the head is a tiller. A tiller with a handle to it—aw, that is a fine convenient thing!"

"I am going to take an oar over my shoulder," said a brawny young Hercules.

"And the more fool you, then," said the Gillie Ciotach, who was a blunt-spoken youth. "For I will tell you this, Feargus: if you strike at a man with an oar, and he steps aside so that you miss him, then he has you at his mercy—it does not need a wise man to show you that. Aw, God, a tiller is a fine thing, when the wood is strong—it is a tiller that will be my orra-an-donais*[#] to-morrow." He broke into a loud laugh. "We will teach them to be telling lies about the Fishery Board!—and it is little they are thinking now that to-morrow they will be singing *Farewell, farewell to Fiunary!"

[#] Orra-an-donais—an amulet for sending one's enemy to perdition. Donas is Satan.

In the morning it was found that the rain had ceased; but worse than rain was threatening; for all along the west the skies were of a heavy and thunderous purple—a louring dark wall, as it were—while torn shreds of grey cloud were being blown along in advance, the precursors of a gale. Mary and Käthchen were both at the window, looking out at the angry heavens and the livid sea beneath, when the maid Barbara came quickly into the room. For the moment Barbara had lost her pretty shyness of manner; she was breathless and excited; her eyes were full of apprehension.

"Oh, mem," she said, "do you know what is happening? They have gone aweh up the road, a great many of the young lads, and others; and they have sticks with them; and they are singing Gabhaidh sinn an rathad mòr. Oh, I am sure there is harm coming of it! They were saying something of the strange fishermen out at Ru-Minard—and there will be fighting."

A sudden dismay filled Mary's heart—dismay, and a curious sense of helplessness. To whom could she turn for aid in such a crisis—and with every moment a thing of value?

"Barbara," she said quickly, "I must have some one to go with me. Is Hector there?"

"No, mem, he went up the hill this morning."

"Or Hugh?"

"No, mem, he was going over to Cruagan, to arrange about the heather-burning, so I was hearing him say."

Then Mary turned to her friend.

"Käthchen, who is there? Shall we ask the Minister?"

"Of course, he is the very person to ask—if you really mean to go, Mamie. But do you think you should?" Käthchen asked, with serious eyes. "It sounds like an open riot."

"I don't care—I must try what I can do—for I fear I am responsible," Mary said, in a kind of desperation; and then she turned to the young Highland lass: "Barbara, we shall want the carriage at once—as soon as ever the horses can be put to. Tell Sandy we are going over to find Mr. Pettigrew; he can come along and meet us. Tell him not to lose a second."

And almost directly afterwards the two girls were out-of-doors, hurrying along to the other side of the village, where was the Minister's cottage. Käthchen was unmistakeably frightened; but all the same she ventured to say—

"Well, Mamie, your friends in London have almost given up asking when you are going to marry your cousin—you have kept him at arm's length so long. But I think if Mr. Meredyth were here just now, he would have a very good chance."

"Why?" said Mary, with a certain coldness.

"Because you want a man's assistance and advice," said Käthchen. "Isn't it as clear as daylight? The moment this news comes, you look round for some man to help you. Is the head keeper there? No. Or the under-keeper? No. Then you think of the Minister—anybody so long as he is a man. All quite natural, of course. Only I think if Mr. Frank Meredyth were here—and you finding yourself in constant trouble and perplexity—well, I think he would soon take up a very important position. He might even persuade you to let him send in to Inverness for a wedding-ring."

"People don't get married in order to make peace among their tenantry!" said Mary, a little proudly.

"Is he coming here in August?" asked the shrewd Käthchen.

"Fred wants me to ask him," Mary said, briefly; indeed, at such a time she was not thinking of any suitor; she was thinking of what might even now be going forward on the shores of Minard Bay.

The Rev. Mr. Pettigrew received the intelligence of the rising with a calm and gentle compassion.

"Dear me, dear me!" he said, in his high-pitched, unnatural voice, and he thoughtfully stroked his long and straggling beard. "What a sad thing to think of, when brethren might be living together in peace and ahmity! The heart of man is full of dangerous possibeelities—it is a sad thing to think of—at this season of the year, when all nature seems to know that the verdant spring is around us—when all is harmony and peace—to think that angry passions should arise in the heart of man—"

"Yes, but won't you come at once, Mr. Pettigrew?" said Mary, with distress in her eyes. "We may be able to do something to prevent bloodshed. The carriage will meet us—we may be able to overtake them."

But the Minister paused to consider.

"No doubt," said he, reflectively, "to prevent the shedding of blood is an admirable thing, a commendable thing, and praiseworthy. But there are times and seasons when even the wisest counsel is of no avail—when the heart of man is as a fiery steed, untameable, not to be bridled; and in these times and seasons, what is demanded of us is a judeecious sympathy, a constant sympathy, a sympathy that does not take sides, but longs for the return of peace and good will. Strange, indeed, that at this time of the year—"

"But won't you come with us at once, Mr. Pettigrew!" Mary said, in her despair. "The carriage will meet us. We must try what we can do. You see, I am in a measure responsible. I told them what the Fishery Board had said—that the stranger fishermen had no right to build huts—and—and I hoped they would go away quietly—but if there is to be fighting, then surely it is the Minister who should come and try to make peace."

"Ah, the carriage?" said Mr. Pettigrew, thoughtfully, as he took down his hat from a peg in the lobby. "That is well considered—well considered. For if in their anger these misguided craytures should take to throwing of stons, the carriage could be closed. Ay, ay, that is very well now; and if their wrath should be intemperate—for who can gauge the stubbornness of man?—then the carriage can be driven away at any moment. But what a sad thing to think of—sad thing!—when all might be dwelling in peace and ahmity—in peace and ahmity."

However, it was no consideration of personal safety that was uppermost in Mary Stanley's mind at this moment; indeed, so anxious was she to overtake the rioters that she and her two companions had very nearly got back to Lochgarra House before they met the carriage. Then the horses were turned round; and on they drove—past the brawling stream—past the larchwoods—and up to the height commanding a view of Minard Bay. And here, at the top, they encountered the first human being of whom they could ask the news. It was John the policeman. The plump, roseate, good-natured Iain was calmly seated on a low wall by the roadside; and he was unconcernedly regarding the wide stretch of white sand across which some small black figures were now seen to be in motion.

"What are you doing here, John?" said Mary, indignantly.

"I was just looking," said Iain, with an amiable smile—and he glanced in the direction of the people crossing the white sands.

"Yes, but why are you waiting here?" said she. "Don't you know that there is likely to be fighting? And it is your duty to prevent that!"

"They will be telling me," said Iain, slowly and comfortably, "that the strange fishermen have no right to be in the place. Very well, then. And if they are to be put out of the place, it's not for me to interfere. If they are wrong, let them go aweh; and if they will not go aweh, they will have to be put aweh."

This seemed a sound argument—to John.

"But what did the Lochgarra people say to you as they went by?" Mary demanded. "Didn't you see they were armed with sticks? Don't you know there will be fighting and bloodshed?"

"Aw, there may be a brokken head or two," said John, with a demure smile.

"Well, it is your duty to prevent that! These men have no right to take the law into their own hand. If the strangers will not go peaceably, they must be removed by the law—not by beating them with sticks. And you are standing back here—and letting them do what they like!"

"And if they tek to fighting," said John, "it's not me that can stop them."

This also seemed painfully true.

"But you can do something," she insisted. "You can warn them. You can take their names. You can threaten them with a prosecution. You can tell them that—that—Mr. Pettigrew, who is it that prosecutes here?—the Sheriff at Dingwall?"

"Nay, but I am considering that there is much of reason in what John says," observed the Minister, in his lofty sing-song; "and perhaps we should do well to follow his example, and remain as spectators and witnesses. I perceive that this carriage cannot be closed; and therefore I do not think it would be prudent—rather would it be rashness, and culpable rashness—to go forward amid a storm of angry passions. Surely it would be more prudent for us to remain here, with the constituted representative of law and order?"

"But I am not going to remain here. John." she said, peremptorily, to the young policeman. "get up in front. Sandy, drive on quickly; we may get between those people yet, before the mischief has begun."

And so the horses went forward again—rattling away down the stony hill until they reached the soft and sandy road skirting the bay. The little township of Minard was quite deserted, save for the women, who stood in small groups in the fields or at the cottage-doors, watching what was going forward out there towards the long headland. Not that they could see very much, once the black figures had crossed the white breadth of sand; for the morning was dull and sombre; and the rocks of Ru-Minard, along which the crofters and fishermen were now making their way, were dark. But this much was obvious, that at a certain point the crowd stopped; while two of their number went forward—one of these being of gigantic size.

"This is Big Archie," said Mary, almost to herself, "and I warned him that he must get them to go away peaceably."

And no doubt it was as a deputation carrying peaceful proposals that Big Archie and his companion were now going forward to certain huts scattered just above the rocks, where also a number of dark figures could be dimly descried. Peaceful or not peaceful, the negotiations at all events involved delay; and this delay enabled the party in the carriage to drive along the road as far as was practicable; then the horses were stopped, and Mary got down to follow the rioters on foot. It was in vain that the Minister sought to dissuade her with plaintive remonstrances; she intimated to him that he could remain in the carriage if he chose. Käthchen, on the other hand, though she was thoroughly frightened, had but the one and sole idea—to remain by Mary Stanley's side, whithersoever she went. As for the easy-going Iain, he was distinctly inclined to hang back.

"What can I do?" said he, with occult amusement in his eyes. "If they will brek one another's heads, how can I prevent it? If it is right that these men should go aweh, and if they will not go aweh, they cannot complain if they get their heads brokken for not going aweh."

But Iain's humorous indifference did not last very long. Mary, hurrying forward, and with eyes anxiously straining, could make out that the two men were now returning to their friends; presently the blustering wind blowing in from the sea brought a sound of confused and prolonged cheering; and she now perceived that the scattered assemblage was moving on. At the same moment there was the sharp report of a gun; and then it was that the policeman's face grew grave.

"Is there going to be murder?" said he.

She did not answer him; she was running now—and Käthchen by her side.

"We must—go right into the middle of it," she said, panting for breath, "and then—perhaps they will stop."

At first the Lochgarra and Minard fishermen advanced but slowly and cautiously upon the huts, not knowing where the enemy might mass himself. The fact is the aliens had been taken unawares; for while they were as determined as men could be to defend their homesteads, they had no time to seek for arms, supposing they could have obtained any, while up here on the rocky knolls there were no stones. They were running hither and thither about the huts, picking up any bit of wood or any broken oar they could find; but when they made a sort of group of themselves, to await the onset of their antagonists, it was clear that timber had failed them, and other weapons they seemed to have none. But there they stood, dauntless, sullen, silent—the sea behind them—their outnumbering foes in front.

And now the invaders knew what was expected of them. It was a shrill cry from the Gillie Ciotach that led the great hoarse volume of their cheers; and then, with all kinds of minatory exclamations, they rushed forward on the devoted band. Who could resist this whirling, tempestuous, compacted shock? For two or three wild seconds there was inextricable confusion; and snap here, snap there, cudgel met cudgel, or descended on solid crown; but it was all over directly; and the next phase of the battle was that the aliens, as if by one common impulse, had turned and fled—fled pell-mell down the rocks and towards the shore, their foes pursuing with fierce and joyous cries. And here it was that Mary Stanley made her appearance—breathless, dishevelled—trying to throw herself in the way of Big Archie, who was leading the pursuit.

"Archie!" she called to him. "How dare you! Let those men alone! I command you!"

But very little indeed did Big Archie care for her commands; it was another consideration altogether that at this moment caused himself and his companions to pause. For the fugitives, as soon as they gained the beach, had taken refuge behind two boats drawn up there; and as the boats, with their spars and sails astern, and their lobster-creels and barrels at the bow, offered excellent shelter, while the beach afforded unlimited ammunition, the battle was not yet over. In truth, the stones that were now flying through the air decidedly checked the ardour of the pursuers; and it was at this moment that Mary again got up to Gilleasbuig Mòr.

"Archie!" she said, indignantly.

An accidental stone struck her on the shoulder. She did not mind. But another and a sharper one struck her on the wrist; and inadvertently she drew up her hand with a piteous little cry. She had been cut over the bone; blood was flowing profusely; and at sight of that, Big Archie—his eyes blazing with wrath—seemed to go mad altogether.

"Aw, Dyeea!" he cried; and he ran forward and leapt into the boat, on to the middle thwart; he sprang out on the other side; and began to lay about him with his cudgel as with the hammer of Thor, smiting and scattering his enemies in all directions. But she was after him in a moment—nimbly getting round the stern of the boat—and before he had wholly wreaked his vengeance, she had him by the arm. And here her interposition did save bloodshed; for the men, finding her between Big Archie and themselves, refused to throw the stones they had hastily picked up; quietude was secured at least in this corner of the battlefield.

But indeed the general interest had already been attracted elsewhere. When Mary turned to see what was going on landwards, she happened to notice certain small wavering shreds of pink. It was a very pale pink; on a clear day, it would hardly have been visible; but against the lurid sky it was distinct enough.

"What is that?" she said, with a sudden, conscious fear, to Big Archie.

The huge, heavy-shouldered fisherman (who was keeping an eye on his discomfited foes as he led the way round the stern of the boats) glanced towards the rocky knolls that had been the scene of the first onslaught, and said grimly,—

"It wass the Gillie Ciotaeh he wass bringing a can of petroleum with him this morning, and lobster-creels will be easy to set on fire."

"Do you mean to say they are burning down those poor men's huts?" she demanded, in a perfect agony of helplessness. "Archie, what is to be done? Why does not the policeman interfere?"