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

"The Free Church Minister!" said Käthchen, spitefully—for she had never forgiven the good man for his having kept aloof from the fray at Ru-Minard.

"Mr. Ross has been very kind to me—in his reserved and distant way," Mary said, "and I should not like him to think me ungrateful——"

"He cannot do that," said Käthchen, "if he hasn't been blind to what your eyes have said to him again and again."

"What do you mean, Käthchen?" Mary demanded—at once alarmed and resentful.

Käthchen retreated quickly: it had been a careless remark.

"Oh, I don't mean anything. I mean your eyes have said 'Thank you,' again and again; and it is but right they should. He has indeed been very thoughtful and kind—and always so respectful—keeping himself in the background. Oh, you need not be afraid, Mamie: you won't find me suggesting that you shouldn't have the most frank and friendly relations with Mr. Ross. At the same time——"

"Yes, at the same time?"

"I was wondering," said Käthchen, with a little hesitation, "how he might get on with your brother and Mr. Meredyth—or, rather, how they might get on with him——"

"My brother and Mr. Meredyth," said Mary, a little proudly, "will remember that Mr. Ross is my guest: that will be enough."

But Kate Glendinning's uneasy forecast was not without some justification—as Mary was soon to discover. The two visitors from the South arrived on the Monday afternoon, and there were many curious eyes covertly following the waggonette as it drove through the village. Of the two strangers, the taller, who was Mary Stanley's brother, was a young fellow of about four or five-and-twenty, good looking rather, of the fair English type, with an aquiline nose, a pretty little yellow-white moustache, and calm grey eyes. His companion, some eight or ten years older, was of middle height, or perhaps a trifle under, active and wiry-looking, with a sun-tanned face, a firm mouth, and shrewd eyes, that on the whole were also good-natured. Both of the travellers were in high spirits—and no wonder: they had heard good accounts of the grouse; they had just caught a glimpse of the Garra, which had plenty of water after the recent rains; over there was the little steam launch that could amuse them now and again for an idle hour; and beyond the bay the big, odd-looking house, against its background of fir and larch, seemed to offer them a hospitable welcome.

Mary was at the top of the semicircular flight of stairs to greet them; but even as she accompanied them into the great oak hall she instinctively felt that there was something unusual in her brother's manner towards her. And when, presently, Mr. Meredyth had been taken away to be shown his own room, Fred Stanley remained behind: Käthchen had not yet put in an appearance, for some reason or another.

"Well, what's the matter, Fred?" Mary said at once.

He had been kicking about the drawing-room in a discontented fashion, staring out of the windows or glancing at the engravings while his friend was there; but now these two were alone.

"The matter?" said he. "Plenty the matter! I don't like to find that you have been making a fool of yourself, and that you are still bent on making a fool of yourself."

"But we can't help it if we are born that way," she said, sweetly.

"Oh, you know quite well what I mean," said this tall young gentleman with the boyish moustache. "I had heard something of it before; but I thought we might as well stop the night at Inverness on the way north; and I saw Mr. Purdie. Now, mind you, Mamie, don't you take it into your head that Purdie said anything against you—he did not. He's a shrewd-headed fellow, and knows which side his bread is buttered. But he answered my questions. And I find you have just been ruining this place—turning the whole neighbourhood into a pauper asylum—and—and flinging the thing away, as you might call it."

"But it wasn't left to you, Fred," she reminded him, gently. "And I have been doing my best—after inquiry."

"Oh, I know," he said impatiently; "you've been got at by a lot of sentimentalists in London—faddists—slummers—popularity-hunters; and now, here in the Highlands, you have been working into the hands of those agitator fellows who are trying to stir up anarchy and rebellion everywhere; and you let yourself be imposed upon by a parcel of scheming and cunning crofters, who don't thank you, to begin with, and who would pull down this house to the ground and burn it the moment your back was turned if they dared."

"You haven't been very long in Lochgarra," said she, with much good humour, "but you seem to have used your time industriously. You know all about it——"

"Oh, it isn't only this place!" he said. "Everyone who reads the papers—who knows anything of the Highlands—is aware of what is going on. And you have allowed yourself to be taken in! For the credit of the family—for the sake of your own common sense—you might have waited a little. Here was Mr. Purdie, who knew the place, who knew the people; but you must needs take the whole matter in your own hands, and begin to throw away your money right and left, as if you had come into a dukedom! What do you suppose is the rental now—after all your abatements?"

"Well, I don't exactly know," said she. "But isn't it better to take what the people can really give you than nothing at all? You can't live on arrears? And, my dear Fred, what cause have you to grumble? The amount of rent affects me only; whereas I offer you the shooting and fishing, which has nothing to do with these matters. Why can't you amuse yourself and let me alone? What I have done I have considered. I have inquired into the condition of these people. To make rents practicable is not to throw away money. Indeed—but I am not going to discuss the question with you at all. Go away and get out your fly-book, and take Mr. Meredyth down to the Garra, and see if you can pick up a grilse before dinner."

But he was not to be put off by her bland amiability.

"Of course," said he, "it is very kind of you to offer me the fishing and the shooting; but I should have been better pleased to have had them without encumbrances."

"What do you mean?" said she.

"Why, who has the fishing and shooting here?" said he. "This poaching scoundrel, Ross. I am told the whole place is in league with him. He can do what he likes."

"And what further information did you gather at Inverness?" she asked, rather contemptuously.

"Well, but look here, Mamie," he remonstrated, with a sense of his wrongs gaining upon him. "Consider the position you have put me in. You know how Frank is in request at this time of the year—a thundering good shot—and used to managing things about country-houses——"

"As well as leading cotillons in London," she interposed, with smiling eyes.

"And why not?" said he, boldly. "Oh, I suppose you consider that effeminate: you would rather have him living among rocks and caves, like this smuggling fellow, and shooting seagulls for his dinner? However, look at my position. I ask him to come down with me, at your suggestion. I tell him it isn't a grand shooting—and that he'll get more sea-trout than salmon in the river—but he comes all the same; and then we discover that the whole place is at the mercy of this idling blackguard of a fellow—if we get a few birds or find a pool undisturbed, it is with his sufferance——"

"So you have acquired all this information at Inverness?" said she. "But I wouldn't entirely trust it if I were you. I am afraid Mr. Purdie is rather prejudiced. He may have been exaggerating. However, if there is any truth in what he says, I'll tell you what you ought to do: ask Mr. Ross to join your shooting and fishing parties. You'll meet him to-night at dinner."

"Here—in this house?" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "Mamie, are you mad?"

"I hope not," she said quietly. "But Mr. Ross has been very kind to me of late, in helping me in various little ways; and as I couldn't well ask him to dinner when only Kate and I were in the house, I took the first opportunity after your arrival——"

"And so Frank and I, after being warned that the great annoyance and vexation we should find in the place is this fellow Ross, are coolly informed that we are to meet him at dinner, and I suppose we are expected to be civil to him!"

"I certainly do expect you to be civil to him," said Mary.

"Oh, but it's too bad!" he said, impatiently, and he went to the window and turned his back on her. And then he faced round again. "I wonder what Frank will think! I was almost ashamed to ask him to come here, even as it was—a small shooting, not much fishing, and the stalking merely a chance; but, all the same, he accepts; then the first thing we hear of on reaching Inverness is all about this vexation and underhand going on; and the next thing is that we are asked to meet at dinner the very person who causes all the trouble! Now, Mamie, I appeal to yourself, don't you think it is a little too hard?"

She hesitated. She began to fear she had been thoughtless—indiscreet—too much taken up with her own plans and projects.

"At all events, Fred," she pleaded, "your meeting Mr. Ross at dinner can't matter one way or the other—and you will be able to judge for yourself. To me he does not seem the kind of young man you would suspect of spending his time in poaching; in fact, as I understand it, he is looking forward to being called to the Bar, and I should think he was busier with books than with cartridges or salmon flies."

"You are sure he said he would come to-night?" asked this young Fred Stanley, looking at his sister.

"Yes."

"Definitely promised?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't think he will."

"Why?"

"Because," said the young man, as he went leisurely towards the door, "there might be a question of evening dress. You haven't a Court tailor at Lochgarra, have you?"

Mary flushed slightly.

"I don't care whether he appears in evening dress or not," said she. "Most likely he will come along from his yacht; and a yachting suit is as good as any—in my eyes."

That evening, when the young hostess came downstairs, the large drawing-room was all suffused with a soft warmth of colour, for the sun was just sinking behind the violet-grey Atlantic, and the glory of the western skies streamed in through the several windows. Käthchen was here; and Käthchen's eyes lighted up with pleasure when she saw how Mary was attired. And yet could any costume have been simpler than this dress of cream-coloured China silk, its only ornamentation being a bunch of deep crimson fuchsias at the opening of the bodice, with another cluster of the same flowers at her belt? She wore no jewellery of any kind whatsoever.

"That is more like you, Mamie," said Käthchen, coming forward with a proud and admiring scrutiny. "I want Mr. Ross to see you in something different from your ordinary workaday things. And you look taller, too, somehow. And fairer—or is that the light from the windows?"

At this very moment the door was opened, and Mr. Ross was announced. Mary turned—with some little self-conscious expectation. And here was Young Donald of Heimra, in faultless evening dress; and there was a quiet look of friendliness in his eyes as he came forward and took the hand that was offered him. Käthchen said to herself: "Why is it that the full shirt-front and white tie suit dark men so well? And why doesn't he dress like that every evening?" For Käthchen did not know that that was precisely what Donald Ross had been in the habit of doing all the years that his mother and he had lived out in that remote island; it was a little compliment he paid her; and she liked that bit of make-believe of ceremony in the monotony of their isolated life.

The new-comers who had arrived that afternoon were somewhat late; for they had gone down to the river to have a cast or two—a futile proceeding in the blazing sunlight; but presently they made their appearance, and were in due course introduced to Donald Ross. Käthchen, who was as usual a keen and interested observer, and who had heard of Fred Stanley's indignant protest, could not but admire the perfect good breeding he displayed on being thus brought face to face with his enemy. But indeed the ordinary every-day manner of a well-educated young Englishman—its curious impassivity, its lack of self-assertion—is a standing puzzle for foreigners and for Americans. What is the origin of it? Blank stupidity? Or a serene contempt for the opinion of others? Or a determination not to commit one's self? Or an affectation of having already seen and done everything worth seeing and doing? Anyhow, Fred Stanley's demeanour towards this stranger and intruder was perfect in its negative way; and so was that of his friend, though Frank Meredyth, by virtue of his superior years, allowed himself to be a little more careless and off-hand. However, there was not much time for forming surmises or jumping to conclusions; for presently dinner was announced.

"Mr. Meredyth, will you take in Miss Glendinning?" Mary said. "Fred, I'm sorry we've nobody for you." And therewithal she turned to Donald Ross, and took his arm, and these two followed the first couple into the dining-room. Young Ross sate at her right hand, of course; he was her chief guest; the others belonged to the house.

It was rather an animated little party; for if the Twelfth was as yet some way off, there were plenty of speculations as to what the Garra was likely to yield in the way of grilse and sea-trout. Käthchen noticed that Donald Ross spoke but little, and that they seldom appealed to him; indeed, Mr. Meredyth, professing to have met with unvarying ill-luck on every stream he had ever fished, was devising an ideal salmon-river on which the sportsman would not be continually exposed to the evil strokes of fate.

"What you want first of all," said he, "is to regulate the water-supply. At present when I go to a salmon-river, one of two things is certain to happen: either it's in roaring flood, and quite unfishable, or else—and this is the more common—it has dwindled away all to nothing, and you might as well begin and throw a fly over a pavement in Piccadilly. Very well; what you want is to turn the mountain-lochs into reservoirs; you bank up the surplus water in the hills; and then, in times of drought, when the river has got low, and would be otherwise unfishable, you send up the keepers to the sluices, turn on a supply, and freshen the pools, so that the fish wake up, and wonder what's going to happen. That is one thing. Then there's another. You know that even when the water is in capital order, you may go down day by day, and find it impossible to get a single cast because of the blazing sunlight. That is a terrible misfortune; for you are all the time aware, as you sit on the bank, and hopelessly watch for clouds, that the fine weather is drying up the hills, and that very soon the stream will have dwindled away again. Very well; what you want for that is en enormous awning, that can be moved from pool to pool, and high enough not to interfere with the casting. By that means, you see, you could transfer any portion of a Highland stream into the land where it is always afternoon; and the fish, thinking the cool of the evening had already come, would begin to disport themselves and play with the pretty little coloured things that the current brought down. Look at the saving of time! Generally, in the middle of the day, there is a horrible long interval when nothing will move in a river. Whether it is the heat, or the sunlight, or the general drowsiness of nature, there's hardly ever anything stirring between twelve o'clock and four; and you lie on the bank, and consume a frightful amount of tobacco; and you may even fall asleep, if you have been doing a good deal of night-work in London. But if you have this great canvas screen, that can be stretched from the trees on one side to the poles on the other—very gradually and slowly, like the coming over of the evening—then the little fishes will begin to say to themselves, 'Here, boys, it's time to go out and have some fun,' and you can have fine sport, in spite of all the sunlight that ever blazed. However, I'm afraid you'd want the revenue of some half-a-dozen dukes before you could secure the ideal salmon-river."

"They're doing so many things with electricity now: couldn't you bring that in?" said Käthchen. "Couldn't you have an electric shock running out from the butt of the rod the moment the salmon touched the fly?"

But this was sheer frivolity. Frank Meredyth suddenly turned to young Ross and said—

"Oh, you can tell me, Mr. Ross—is the Garra a difficult river to fish?"

Now this was a perfectly innocent question—not meant as a trap at all; but Fred Stanley, whose mind had been brooding over the fact that the poacher was actually sitting at table with them, looked startled, and even frightened. Young Ross, on the other hand, appeared in no wise disconcerted.

"Really, I can hardly tell you," he said, "I am not much of a fisherman myself—there is no fishing at all on Heimra Island. But I should say it was not a very difficult river. Perhaps some of the pools under the woods—just above the bridge, I mean, where the banks are steep—might be a little awkward; but further up it is much opener; and further up still you come to long stretches where there isn't a bush on either side."

"Then, perhaps, you can't tell me what are the best sea-trout flies for this water?" was the next question—with no evil intent in it.

"I'm afraid you would find me an untrustworthy guide," said Donald Ross. "If I were you I would take Hector's advice."

So there was an end of this matter—and Fred Stanley was much relieved. What he said to himself was this: "If that Spaniard-looking fellow is lying, he has a splendid nerve and can do it well. A magnificent piece of cheek—if it is so!"

On the whole, at this unpretentious little banquet, Frank Meredyth did most of the talking; and naturally it was addressed in the first place to Miss Stanley as being at the head of the table. He had had a considerable experience of country houses; he was gifted with a certain sense of humour; and he told his stories fairly well—Käthchen rewarding him now and again with a covert little giggle. As for Donald Ross, he sate silent, and reserved, and attentive. He was distinctly the stranger. Not that he betrayed any embarrassment, or was ill at ease; but he seemed to prefer to listen, especially when Mary Stanley happened to be speaking. For, indeed, more than once she let the others go their own way, and turned to him, and engaged him in conversation with herself alone. She found herself timid in doing so. If his manner was always most respectful—and even submissive—his eyes looked uncompromisingly straight at her, and they had a strange, subdued fire in them. When she happened to find his gaze thus fixed on her, she would suddenly grow nervous—stammer—perhaps even forget what she had been saying; while the joyous chatter of the other three at table went gaily on, fortunately for her. Sometimes she would think it was hardly fair of those others to leave her alone in this way: then again she would remind herself that it was she who was responsible for her guest.

It was not that he confused her by an awkward or obstinate silence; on the contrary, he answered her freely enough, in a gravely courteous way; but he seemed to attach too much importance to what she said—he seemed to be too grateful for this special attention she was bestowing upon him. And then again she dared hardly look up; for those black eyes burned so—in a timid, startled way—regarding her as if they would read something behind the mere prettiness of her face and complexion and hair, and apparently quite unconscious of their own power.

At last the ladies rose from the table; and Mary said—

"I suppose you gentlemen will be going out on the terrace to smoke? I wish you would let us come with you. I have not smelt a cigar for months—and it is so delicious in the evening air."

There was not very much objection. Chairs were brought out from the hall; Frank Meredyth perched himself on the stone parapet; the evening air became odorous, for there was hardly a breath of wind coming up from the bay. And as they sate and looked at the wide expanse of water—with only a chance remark breaking the silence from time to time—it may have occurred to one or other of them that the summer twilight that lay over land and sea was growing somewhat warmer in tone. It was Mary who discovered the cause: the golden moon was behind them—just over the low, birch-crowned hill; and the pale radiance lay on the still water in front of them, and on the long spur of land on the other side of the bay, where there were one or two crofters' cottages and fishermen's huts just above the shore. And while they were thus looking abroad over the mystic and sleeping world, a still stranger thing appeared—a more unusual thing for Loch-garra, that is to say—certain moving lights out beyond the point of the headland.

"Look, Mary!" Käthchen cried. "But that can't be the steamer—she is not due till next Thursday!"

Whatever the vessel was, she was obviously making in for the harbour; for presently they could see both port and starboard lights—a red star and a green star, coming slowly into the still, moonlit bay.

"It is the Consuelo," Donald Ross said to Mary. "It is Lord Mount-Grattan's yacht: she has come down from Loch Laxford."

They watched her slow progress—this big dark thing stealing almost noiselessly into the spectral grey world; they saw her gradually rounding; the green light disappeared; there was a sudden noise of the reversal of the screw; then a space of quiet again; and at last the roar of the anchor. The rare visitor had chosen her position for the night.

Almost directly thereafter young Ross of Heimra rose and took leave of his hostess—saying a few words of thanks for so pleasant an evening. The others did not go indoors, however; the still, balmy, moonlight night was too great a temptation. They remained on the terrace, looking at the big black steam-yacht that now lay motionless on the silver-grey water, and listening for the occasional distant sounds that came from it.

But presently they saw a small boat put off from the shore, rowed by two men, with a third figure in the stern.

"That is Mr. Ross!" Käthchen exclaimed. "I know it is—that is his light overcoat."

"Can he be going away in the yacht?" Mary said suddenly.

"Not likely!" her brother struck in. "When you start off on a yachting cruise you don't go on board in evening dress." And then the young man turned to his male companion. "I say, Frank, don't you think that fellow was lying when he pretended not to know anything about the fishing in the Garra?"

It was an idle and careless question—perhaps not even meant to be impertinent; but Mary Stanley flamed up instantly—into white heat.

"Mr. Ross is—is a gentleman," she said, quite breathlessly. "And—he was my guest this evening—though you—you did not seem to treat him as such!"

Käthchen put her hand gently on her friend's arm.

"Mamie!" she said.

And Frank Meredyth never answered the question: this little incident—and a swift and covert glance he had directed towards the young lady herself—had given him something to think about.

CHAPTER V.

ON GARRA'S BANKS.

It soon became sufficiently evident that it was not solely for fishing and shooting that Mr. Frank Meredyth had come to Loch-garra; keepers, gillies, dogs, guns, fly-books occupied but little of his attention, while Mary Stanley occupied much; moreover, the zeal with which he prosecuted his suit was favoured by an abundance of opportunities. Indeed it must often have occurred to our country cousins—to those of them, at least, who have ventured to speculate on such dark mysteries—that courtship in a big and busy town like London must be a very difficult thing, demanding all kinds of subterfuges, plans, and lyings-in-wait. Or is it possible at all? they may ask, looking around at their own happy chances. The after-service stroll home on a Sunday morning, along a honeysuckle lane—the little groups of twos and threes getting widely scattered—is a much more secret and subtle thing than the crowded church-parade of Hyde Park, where every young maiden's features are being watched by a thousand amateur detectives. To sit out a dance is all very well—to take up a position on the staircase and affect to ignore the never-ending procession of ascending and descending guests; but it is surely inferior to the idle exploration of an old-fashioned rustic garden, with its red-brick walls and courts, its unintentional mazes, its leafy screens—while the tennis-lawn and the shade of trees, and ices and strawberries, hold the dowagers remote. And if these be the opportunities of the country, look at those of a distant sea-side solitude—the lonely little bays, the intervening headlands, the moonlight wanderings along the magic shores. Even in the day-time, when all this small world of Loch-garra was busy, there were many chances of companionship, of which he was not slow to avail himself. The Twelfth was not yet; the water in the Garra was far too low for fishing; what better could this young man do than go about with Mary Stanley, admiring her bland, good-natured ways, sympathising in her beneficent labour, and participating in it by the only method known to him—that is to say, by the simple process of purchase? One consequence of all which was that he gradually became the owner of a vast and quite useless collection of home-shapen sticks, home-knitted stockings, homespun plaids, and what not; although, being only the younger son of a not very wealthy Welsh baronet, Frank Meredyth was not usually supposed to be overburdened with cash. But he said he would have a sale of these articles when he went south; and if there were any profit he would return it to Miss Stanley, to be expended as she might think fit.

The truth is, however, that Mary was far from encouraging him to accompany her on her expeditions; and would rather have had him go and talk to the keepers about the dogs. For one thing, she did not wish him to know how remote this little community still was from the Golden Age which she hoped in time to establish. For another, she was half afraid that those people whose obduracy she was patiently trying to overcome might suddenly say among themselves, "Oh, here are more strangers come to spy and inquire. And these are the fine gentlemen who have taken away the shooting and the fishing that by rights should belong to Young Donald. We do not want them here; no, nor the Baintighearna either; let her keep to her own friends. We do not wish to be interfered with; we are not slaves; when her uncle bought Lochgarra, he did not buy us." And thus it was that she did not at all approve of those two young men coming with her to the door of this or that cottage, standing about smoking cigarettes, and scanning everything with a cold and critical Saxon eye: she wished that the Twelfth were here, and that she could have them packed off up the hill out of everybody's way.

Meanwhile, what had become of Donald Ross of Heimra? Nothing had been heard or seen of him since the moonlight night on which they had watched him go out to the Consuelo; and next day the big steam-yacht left the harbour. Mary, though not saying much, became more and more concerned; his silence and absence made her think over things; sometimes Käthchen caught her friend looking out towards Heimra Island, in a curiously wistful way. And at last there came confession—one evening that Fred Stanley and Frank Meredyth had gone off on a stenlock-fishing expedition.

"I hope I am not distressing myself about nothing, Käthchen," Mary said, "but the more I think of it the more I fear——"

"What?"

"That something happened to offend Mr. Ross the evening he dined here. Oh, I don't mean anything very serious—any actual insult——"

"I should think not!" said Käthchen. "I thought he was treated with the greatest consideration. He took you in to dinner, to begin with. Then you simply devoted yourself to him all the evening——"

"But don't you think, Käthchen," Mary said—and she rose and went to the window, evidently in considerable trouble—"don't you think that Fred and Mr. Meredyth—yes, and you, too—that you kept yourselves just a little too openly to yourselves—it was hardly fair, was it?"

"Hardly fair!" Käthchen exclaimed. "To leave you entirely to him? I wonder what young man would complain of that! I think he ought to be very grateful to us. If he had wished, he could have listened to Mr. Meredyth—who was most amusing, really; but as you two seemed to have plenty to say to each other—we could not dream of interfering——"

"But you never know how any little arrangement of that kind may be taken," Mary said, absently. "The intention may entirely be misunderstood. And then, brooding over some such thing in that lonely island may make it serious. I would not for worlds have him imagine that—that—he had not been well-treated. If you consider the peculiar circumstances—asked to a house that used to be his own—knowing he was to meet a nephew of my uncle—indeed I was not at all sure that he would come."

"Neither was I!" said Käthchen, with a bit of a laugh. "It was very generous of him, in my opinion: he must have had to make up his mind."

"Well, I will admit this," said Mary, with some colour mounting to her face, "that I put the invitation so that it would have been rather difficult for him to refuse—I—I asked him to come as a favour to myself. But that makes it all the worse if he has gone away with any consciousness of affront—and—and, as I say, brooding over it in that island would only deepen his sense of injury." She hesitated for a second or two, and then went on again, in a desperate kind of a way: "Why, for myself, the thinking over the mere possibility of such a thing has made me perfectly miserable. I don't know what to do, Käthchen, and that is the truth. If Fred and his friend weren't here I would go away out to Heimra—I mean you and I could go—so that I might see for myself why he has never sent me a line, or called. There must be something the matter. And as you say, it was a great concession to me—his coming to the house; and I can't bear the idea of anything having happened to give him offence."

"If you want to know," said the practical Käthchen, "why don't you get Fred to write and ask him over for a day's shooting?"

Mary was walking up and down: she stopped.

"Yes," she said, thoughtfully. "That might do—if Fred were a little reasonable. It would show Mr. Ross, at all events, that there was no wish to make a stranger of him."

Her two guests came home late; they had got into a good shoal of stenlock, and had been loth to give up. When they made their appearance they found supper awaiting them; and not only that, but the young ladies had let their dinner go by, in order to give them of their company; so they ought to have been in an amiable mood.

"Where did you go, Fred?" Mary asked, as they took their places at table.

"Oh, a long way," said he. "We got Big Archie's boat, and then we had her towed by the steam-launch: we made first of all for the headlands south of Minard Bay."

"Then you would be in sight of Eilean Heimra most of the time?" she said, timidly.

"Oh, yes."

"You did not see any one coming or going from the island?" she continued, with eyes cast down.

"No; but we were not paying much heed. I can tell you, those big stenlock gave us plenty of occupation."

"It is rather odd we should have heard nothing of Mr. Ross," she ventured to say.

"He may have gone up to London," Mr. Meredyth put in, in a casual kind of fashion. "Didn't you say he is studying for the Bar? Then he must go up from time to time to keep his terms and eat his dinners."

"No, no—not just now," Fred Stanley interposed, and he spoke as one having authority, for he was himself looking forward to being called. "There's nothing of that sort going on at this time of year: the next term is Michaelmas—in November. My dear Frank, do you imagine that that fellow Ross would go away from Lochgarra at the beginning of August?—why, it's the very cream of the shooting!—a few days in advance of the legal time—the very pick of the year!—especially if you have a convenient little arrangement with a game-dealer in Inverness." Then he corrected himself. "No, I don't suppose he carries on this kind of thing for money; I will do him that justice; he doesn't look that kind of a chap. More likely malice: revenge for my uncle having come in and robbed him of what he had been brought up to consider his own: perhaps, too, the natural instinct of the chase, which is strong in some people, even when the law frowns on them."

"I will confess this," Frank Meredyth struck in (for he noticed that Mary was looking deeply vexed, and yet was too proud to speak), "that if I had been born the son of a horny-handed peasant—or more particularly still, the son of the village publican—I should have been an inveterate poacher. I can't imagine anything more exciting and interesting; the skill and cunning you have to exercise; the spice of danger that comes in; the local fame you acquire, when late hours and deep draughts lead to a little bragging. A poacher?—of course I should have been a poacher!—it is the only thing for one who has the instincts of a gentleman, and no money. And in the case of that young Ross, what could be more natural, with all the people round about recognising that that is the inalienable part of your inheritance? The land may have gone, and crops, and sheep, and what not: but the wild animals—the game—the birds of the air—the salmon in the stream—they still belong to the old family—they were never sold."

"I beg your pardon—they were sold," said Fred Stanley, bluntly, "and whoever takes them in defiance of the law, steals: that's all about it."

"I dare say the lawyers could say something on behalf of that form of stealing," Frank Meredyth answered, good-naturedly, "only that they're all busy justifying the big stealings—the stealings of emperors, and statesmen, and financial magnates. However, I will admit this also: it is uncommonly awkward when you have poaching going on. It is an annoyance that worries. And you suspect everybody; and go on suspecting, until you can trust nobody; and you get disgusted with the whole place. Your abstract sympathy with the life of a poacher won't comfort you when you imagine that the moor has been shot over before you are out in the morning, and when you suspect the keepers of connivance. It isn't pleasant, I must say; indeed, it is a condition of affairs that can but rarely exist anywhere, for naturally the keepers are risking a good deal—risking their place, in fact——"

"I quite agree with you, Mr. Meredyth," Mary said at this point, with some emphasis. "Indeed, it is a condition of affairs that looks to me absurdly improbable. I should like to have some sort of definite proof of it before believing it. No doubt, there may be some such feeling as you suggest among the people—that Mr. Ross should still have the fishing and shooting: it is easy enough to believe that, when you find you cannot convince them that the land does not belong to him too; but it is quite another thing to assume that he takes advantage of this prevailing sentiment. However, in any case, isn't the remedy quite simple? Why shouldn't Fred ask him to go shooting with you? Surely there is room for three guns?"

"Oh," said Fred Stanley, with some stiffness, "if you wish to invite him to shoot on the Twelfth, very well. It is your shooting; it is for you to say. Of course, I did not understand when I left London that there was any stranger going to join the party, or I should have explained as much to Frank——"

"I am sure I shall be only too delighted, Miss Stanley," Frank Meredyth put in, quickly, "if any friend of yours should join us—quite delighted—naturally—another gun will be all the better. And when I spoke of the joys of poaching, I assure you it was without any particular reference to anybody: I was telling you what would be my own ambition in other circumstances. Fred will write to Mr. Ross——"

"I beg your pardon," said the young gentleman, with something of coldness. "Mamie, you'd better write yourself."

"Not if there is going to be any disinclination on your part," she said.

"Disinclination?" he repeated. "Well, the way I look at it is simply this: you suspect that poaching is going on, and you ask the poacher to go shooting—why? Because you are afraid of him. It is a confession of weakness. What I would do, if the place were mine, is this: I'd send the keepers packing—and every man-jack of the gillies, too—until I knew I was master. It is perfectly preposterous that your own servants should connive at your being cheated——"

"Doesn't that sometimes happen in other spheres of life?" Frank Meredyth asked—he was evidently bent on being pacificator.

"I don't know—I don't care," said young Stanley, stubbornly. "What I do know is that if Ross is to come shooting with us on the Twelfth, well, then, Mamie had better send him the invitation: I'm not hypocrite enough to do it."

So matters remained there for the present; but the very next evening a singular incident occurred which caused a renewal of this discussion—with its conflict of prejudices and prepossessions. All night there had been heavy and steady rain; in the morning the Garra had risen considerably; towards the afternoon it was discovered that the river was fining down again; whereupon Fred Stanley proposed to his friend and companion that they should go along as soon as the sun was likely to be off the water, and try for a grilse or a sea-trout in the cool of the twilight. They did not propose to take either gillie or keeper with them; they had found out which were the proper flies; and they would have greater freedom without professional supervision. So Frank Meredyth shouldered a grilse-rod of moderate length and weight; his companion took with him both landing-net and gaff; and together they walked along to the banks of the stream, passing through the village on their way.

They were rather too early; the sun was still on the pools; but they had the rod to put together, the casting-line to soak, the flies to choose. Then they sate down on the breckan, and cigarettes were produced.

"Don't you think my sister puts me into a very awkward position?" said the younger man, discontentedly.

"Why?" asked his companion—being discreet.

"Keeping up those friendly relations, or apparently friendly relations, with this fellow Ross," Fred Stanley said. "Wouldn't it be very much better, much honester, if we were declared enemies—as the people about here think we are? Then we could give fair notice to the keepers that they must either have him watched or they themselves must go. You see, my sister doesn't care what happens to the fishing or the shooting; but it is a shame she should be imposed upon; and a still greater shame that this fellow should come to the house, and pretend to be on friendly terms with her. You know, Frank, he must be a thundering hypocrite. Do you mean to tell me he has forgiven any one of our family for what my uncle did—you know what Mamie told you—draining the loch and pulling down the old castle? Of course he hasn't! And perhaps I don't blame him: it was too bad; and that's a fact. But what I do blame him for is pretending to be on good terms; coming to the house; and so taking it out of our power to treat him as he ought to be treated—that is, as a person who is defying the law, whom we ought to try to catch. You see, Mamie is so soft; she hasn't that dimple in her cheek for nothing; she's far too good-natured; and this stuck-up Spaniard, or Portuguese, or whatever he is, seems to have impressed her because he looks mysterious and says nothing. Or perhaps she thinks that we have ill-treated him—that my uncle has, I mean. Or perhaps she hopes that through him she will get at those ill-conditioned brutes about here—you heard what Purdie said. I don't know; I can't make out women; they're not sufficiently aboveboard for the humble likes of me; but this I do know, that I should like to catch that fellow Ross red-handed, carrying a salmon or a brace of grouse, and then we should have it out!"

Frank Meredyth did not reply to this resentful little oration: he had been watching the westering sun, that was now slowly sinking behind the topmost trees of the steep bank on the other side of the river. And at length, when there was no longer a golden flash on the tea-brown ripples that came dancing over the shingle, he went down to the edge of the stream and began to cast, throwing a very fair line. But he was not very serious about it; in this rapid run there was little chance of anything beyond a sea-trout; he had his eye on a deeper, and smoother, and likelier pool lower down, where perchance there might be a lively young grilse lying, up that morning from the sea.

Then he called out—

"Come along, Fred, and take the next pool: it amuses me quite as much to look on."

"It amuses me more," the younger man said, taking out another cigarette. "You're throwing a beautiful line—go ahead—you'll come upon something down there."

And indeed Frank Meredyth now began to cast with more caution as he approached this smoother and deeper pool—sending his fly well over to the other side, letting it come gradually round with almost imperceptible jerks, and nursing it in the water before recovery. It was one of the best stretches of the river—they had been told that; and there was a fair chance after the rain. But all of a sudden, as he was carefully watching his fly being carried slowly round by the current, there was a terrific splash right in the midst of the stream: a large stone had been hurled from among the trees on the opposite bank: the pool was ruined. The fisherman, without a word, let his fly drift helplessly, and turned and looked at his companion. The same instant Fred Stanley had thrown away his cigarette, ran down the bank, and sprang into the water—careless of everything but getting across in time to capture their cowardly assailant. He had no waders on; but he did not heed that; all his endeavour was to force his way across the current before their unseen enemy could have escaped from among those birches. Meredyth could do nothing but look on. The point at which his companion had entered the stream was rather above the pool, and shallower; but none the less there was a certain body of water to contend with; and out in the middle young Stanley, despite his arduous efforts, made but slow progress. Then there was the catching at the bushes on the opposite bank—a hurried scrambling up—the next second he had disappeared among the birch trees. Frank Meredyth laid down his rod, and quietly took out a cigarette: fishing in this kind of a neighbourhood did not seem to attract him any more.

It was some time before Fred Stanley came back: of course his quest had been unsuccessful—his hampered progress through the water had allowed his foe to get clear away.

"You see you were wrong, Frank," he said, with affected indifference, when he had waded across the stream again. "Our friendly neighbour hasn't gone south to keep the last of his terms, or for any other reason. A pretty trick, wasn't it? I knew there was a dog-in-the-manger look about the fellow; well, I don't care: Mamie can choose her own friends. As for you and me, we are off by the mail-car that leaves to-morrow morning."

He was simply wild with rage, despite all his outward calmness. Frank Meredyth looked very grave indeed.

"We can't do that, Fred," said he. "It would be an affront to your sister——"

"Well, then, and she allows my friend—her guest—to be insulted!" he exclaimed. "And all because no one dare speak out! But I've had enough of it. This last is too much—this shows you what the neighbourhood is like; and it is all to be winked at! As I say, I've had enough. I'm off. You can stay if you choose——"

"You know I can't stay here if you go," said Meredyth, in the same grave way: indeed, he did not at all like this position in which he found himself. And then he said: "Come, Fred, don't make too much of a trifle——"

"Do you call that a trifle?" the other demanded. "It is an indication of the spirit of the whole place; and more than that, it shows you the miserable, underhand enmity of this very fellow who has been pretending to make friends with my sister. It is not on my account—it is on your account—that I am indignant. I asked you to come here. This is pretty treatment, is it not?—and a pleasant intimation of what we may expect all the way through, if we stay on——"

"Of course we must stay on," said Meredyth. "I would not for anything have your sister vexed. I would not even tell her of what has just happened. Why should you? Neither you nor I care so much for the fishing——"

"That is not the point, Frank," said young Stanley. "Reel up—and we will go back to the house. I want Mamie to understand what all her pampering of this place has resulted in—nothing but miserable, underhand spite and enmity. And if we do stop on, do you think I'd be frightened away from the fishing? Not if I had to get water-bailiffs up from Inverness, and give them each a double-barrelled breech-loader and a hiding-place in the woods. Pitching stones into salmon pools and then running away is a very pretty amusement; but that skulking and poaching thief would sing another tune if he were brought down by a charge of No. 6 shot!"

And he was in the same indignant mood whey they got back to Lochgarra House. He went straight to his sister. He told her the story—and in silence awaited her answer. What was it to be?—an excuse? an apology? a promise of inquiry and stricter government?

But for a second or two Mary Stanley was thoroughly alarmed. She recalled with a startling distinctness her own experience—her wandering up the side of the river—her coming upon the almost invisible poacher in the mysterious dusk of the twilight—the strange and vivid circles of blue-white fire on the dark surface of the stream whenever he moved—then his noiseless escape into the opposite woods; and she recalled, too, her own sudden suspicions as to who that ghostly fisherman was. Since then she had seen a good deal of Donald Ross, and she had gradually ceased to connect him in any way with that illegal haunting of the salmon-stream; but this new incident—following upon her brother's protests and remonstrances—frightened her, for one breathless moment. Then she strove to reassure herself. The young man who had sate by her side at dinner a few evenings ago—proud, reserved, and self-possessed, and yet timidly respectful towards herself and grateful for the attention she paid him—was not the kind of person to go spitefully throwing stones into a salmon-pool in order to destroy a stranger's fishing. It was absurd to think so!

"I am very sorry, Mr. Meredyth," said she, "that such a thing should have happened. It is a vexatious annoyance——"

"Oh, don't consider me, Miss Stanley!" said he, at once. "I assure you I don't mind in the least. I did not even wish to have it mentioned."

"It is annoying, though—very," she said. "It seems a pity that any one should have such ill-will——"

"But what are you going to do?" her brother demanded. "Sit tamely down and submit to this tyranny? And what will be the next thing?—trampling the nests in the spring, I suppose, so that there won't be a single grouse left on the whole moor. Then why shouldn't they help themselves to a sheep or two, when they want mutton for dinner, or go into the Glen Orme forest for a stag, if they prefer venison?"

Mary rang the bell; Barbara came.

"Barbara," said she, "send a message to Hector that I want to see him."

When the tall and bronze-complexioned keeper made his appearance—looking somewhat concerned at this unusual summons—she briefly related to him what had occurred; and her tone implied that he was responsible for this petty outrage.

"I was offering," said Hector, in his serious and guarded way, "to go down to the ruvver with the chentlemen——"

"Yes, that is true enough," Fred Stanley broke in. "Hector did offer to go down with us. But surely it is a monstrous thing that we shouldn't be able to stroll along to a pool and have a cast by ourselves without being interfered with in this way. Come now, Hector, you must know who was likely to do a thing like that."

Hector paused for a moment, and then answered—

"Indeed, sir, I could not seh."

"Who is it who thinks the fishing in the Garra belongs to him, and is determined no one else shall have it? Isn't there anyone about with that idea in his head?" The question was put pointedly; it was clear what Fred Stanley meant; but there was no definite reply.

"There's some of the young lads they are fond of mischief," Hector said ambiguously. "And there's others nowadays that will be saying everyone has the right to fish."

"And perhaps that is your opinion, too," said Fred Stanley, regarding him.

"Oh, no, sir, not that at ahl," the keeper answered, simply enough. "But such things get into their heads, and sometimes they will be reading it from a newspaper, and the one talking to the other about what the Land League was saying at the meetings. The young lads they speak about new things nowadays amongst themselves."

"And I suppose they want to have the shooting, too?" Fred Stanley continued; "and if we don't give them the shooting they will go up the hill in the spring and trample the eggs?"

"Oh, no, sir, the shepherds are friendly with us," said Hector.

Mary interposed; for this badgering seemed to lead to nothing.

"Couldn't you get some old man to act as water-bailiff, Hector?—some old man to whom a small weekly wage would be a consideration."

"Oh, yes, mem, I could do that," said the keeper.

"And if there are any of those mischievous lads about, why, if he were to catch one of them, a little trip across to Dingwall might frighten the others, wouldn't it?"

"Just that, mem."

"There is old John at the inn—he seems to do nothing—does he know anything about the river?"

"Oh, yes, indeed—he was many a day a gillie," Hector made answer.

"Very well; see what wages he wants; and tell him that when he suspects there's any poaching going on, or any mischief of any kind, you and Hugh will give him a hand in the watching."

"Very well, mem."

And so the tall, bushy-bearded Hector was going away; but Fred Stanley stopped him. The young man's sombre suspicions had not been dissipated by those vague references to mischievous lads.

"Hector," said he, "is Mr. Ross of Heimra a keen fisherman?"

"I could not seh, sir," was Hector's grave and careful answer.

"Does he know the Garra well?"

"I could not seh, sir," Hector repeated.

"You don't happen to have seen or heard anything of him of late?"

"No, sir," said Hector; and then he added, "but I was noticing the yat coming over from Heimra this morning."

"Oh, really," exclaimed the young man, with a swift glance towards Frank Meredyth. "The yacht came over this morning? So Mr. Ross is in the neighbourhood?"

"Maybe, sir; but I have not seen him whatever."

That seemed to be enough for the cross-examiner.

"All right, Hector—thank you. Good evening!"

The head keeper withdrew; and Fred Stanley turned to his sister.

"I thought as much," said he. "I had a notion that Robinson Crusoe had come ashore from his desolate island. And no doubt he was very much surprised and disgusted to find two strangers intruding upon his favourite salmon pools—on the very first evening there has been a chance of a cast for some time. But he should not have allowed his anger to get the better of him; it was a childish trick, that flinging a stone into the water; a poor piece of spite—for one who claims to represent an old Highland family. Don't you think so, Mamie?"

Well, this at least was certain—that the Sirène had come across from Heimra, and was now lying in the Camus Bheag, or Little Bay. And the very next afternoon, as Mary Stanley and her friend Käthchen were seated at a table in the drawing-room busily engaged in comparing samples of dyed wool, the door was opened, and Barbara appeared.

"Mr. Ross, mem!" said Barbara.

CHAPTER VI.

A THREATENED INVASION.

Mary rose quickly, her clear eyes showing such obvious pleasure that Käthchen was inclined to be indignant. 'Mamie, have you no pride!' Käthchen said in her heart. 'It is not becoming in a young woman to be so grateful—for an ordinary piece of civility. And Mary Stanley of all people!' Well, Mary Stanley did not seem to be governed by any such considerations; she went forward to receive her visitor with the frankest smile of welcome lighting up her face; the magic-working dimple did its part.

"I am so glad you have called," said she, "for I was thinking of writing to you, and I was not sure whether you were at Heimra. We have not seen the yacht coming and going of late."

"No," said he, as he took the chair nearest her (and Käthchen remarked that his eyes, too, showed pleasure, if less openly declared), "I went down as far as Portree in the Consuelo—or I would have called before now. Did you want to see me about—about anything?"

And this question he asked with a curious simplicity and directness of manner. There was none of the self-consciousness of a young man addressing a remarkably pretty young woman. It was rather like an offer of neighbourly help: what trouble was she in now?

"I was wondering," she made answer, with a little timidity, "whether you would care to go out on the Twelfth with my brother and Mr. Meredyth. It is not a very grand shooting, as you know; but you would get some little amusement, I suppose; and Miss Glendinning and I would come and have lunch with you—if we were not in the way."

This ought to have been a sufficiently attractive invitation; but the observant Käthchen noticed that the young man hesitated.

"Thank you very much," said he; "it is most kind of you to have thought of me; but the fact is I'm not much of a shot, and I shouldn't like to spoil the bag. Of course, your brother will want to see what the moor can yield; and with fair shooting two guns should give a very good account of Lochgarra; so that it would be really a pity to spoil the Twelfth by bringing in a useless gun. Thank you all the same for thinking of me——"

"Oh, perhaps you don't care about shooting?" said Mary. "Perhaps you are fonder of fishing?"

And hardly were the words out of her mouth when some sudden recollection of that phantom poacher rushed in upon her mind; a hideous dread possessed her; how could she have been so unutterably indiscreet? Not only that, but there was yesterday's incident of the hurling of the stone into the salmon-pool: would he imagine that she suspected him—that she was probing into a guilty knowledge? She was bewildered by what she had done; and yet determined to betray no consciousness of her blunder. A ghastly and protracted silence seemed to follow her question; but that was merely imagination on her part; he answered her at once—and that in the most natural manner, without a trace of embarrassment.

"I am a poor enough shot," said he, with a smile, "but I am even a worse fisherman. You see, there is hardly any shooting on Heimra Island, but there is still less fishing—none at all, practically. As for the shooting, there are some rabbits among the rocks, and occasionally I have seen a covey of grouse come flying across from the mainland; but the truth is, when you get used to the charm of quiet in a place like that, you don't want to have it broken by the banging of a gun——"

"Oh, no, of course not," said Mary, with a certain eagerness of assent—for she was overjoyed to find that nothing had come of her fancied indiscretion. "Of course not. I can quite imagine there must be a singular fascination in the solitariness of such an island, and the—the—silence. A fascination and a charm; and yet when Miss Glendinning and I have been up among the hills here, sometimes it has seemed too awful—too lifeless—it became terrible. Then out at Heimra—the sea being all round you in the night—and the bit of land so small—that must be a strange sensation; but perhaps you don't notice it as a stranger might; you must have got used to it——"

"Yes," said he, "it is very solitary and very silent. All the same," he added, rather absently, "I dare say I shall miss that very solitariness and silence when I go away from Heimra, as I hope to do ere long. I should not wonder if I looked back with some regret."

"Oh, you are going away from Heimra—and before long?" Mary repeated—and Käthchen glanced quickly at her.

"I hope so," he said. "Well, I would not trouble you with my schemes and plans, but for the fact that they indirectly concern you." She looked startled for a second; but he proceeded with a certain easy cheerfulness of manner which Käthchen thought became him; and he spoke in a confidential and friendly way, more than was his wont: "Yes; if what I am aiming at succeeds it will make your position here a good deal easier. I know the difficulties you have to contend with on an estate like this—the poverty of the soil—families growing up and marrying, and still clinging to the small homesteads—the distance from markets—the climate—and all that. And indeed my first scheme—my ideal scheme," he went on, in this frank kind of fashion, "was comprehensive enough: I wanted nothing less than to take away the whole of the population with me—not the surplus population merely, but the whole of the people bodily, leaving the sheep and the game in undisturbed possession. That would have made matters easy for you—and for Mr. Purdie. I thought I could carry them away with me to one of the colonies; and get a grant of Crown Lands from the Government; and be appointed to look after the settlement, so that I could live and die among those I have known from my childhood. There was only one point of the scheme that I was absolutely sure about, and that was that the people would go if I asked them—yes, to the very oldest. 'If I have to be carried on board the ship,' one of them said to me——"

"Have you considered—the terrible responsibility?" she said, in rather a breathless way.

"Yes, indeed," said he, gravely. "And that comprehensive project was not practicable: it was too big—too visionary. But for some time back I have been making inquiries: indeed I went down to Portree chiefly to see one of the Committee who manage the Emigrants' Information Office—he is taking his holiday in Skye at present. And if in a more modest and reasonable way I could take a number of the people away with me, and found a little colony out in Queensland or in Canada, that would give you some relief, and make it easier for those remaining behind—would it not? North-Western Canada and Queensland—perhaps you know—are the only colonies that offer the immigrant a free homestead of 160 acres; and Canada is especially hospitable, for at all the ports there are Government agents, for the purpose of giving the immigrants every information and procuring them work. Oh, I am very well aware," he continued—seeing that she was silent and absorbed—"that emigration is not a certain panacea. There is no assurance that the emigrant is going to leave all his ills and troubles behind him. Very often the first generation have to suffer sore hardship; then the next reap the reward of their toil and perseverance. And home-sickness—well, plenty of them never get over that; and naturally, if they are home-sick, they exaggerate their sufferings and misfortunes." He sought in his pockets and brought out a letter. "Perhaps you would care to read that—I found it awaiting me when I came home this time."

She took the letter, and looked at it in rather a perfunctory way. It was clear that her mind was fixed on something quite different. Perhaps she was thinking of that distant settlement—out among the pines and snows of the North-West—or far away under the Southern Cross: the drafted people working with a right goodwill, and concealing their home-sickness, and making light of their hardships, so long as Young Donald was with them. Perhaps she was thinking of the denuded Lochgarra, and of the empty Eilean Heimra. After all, it was something to have a neighbour, even if he lived in that lonely island. And if she were doing her best with the people who remained—fostering industries, spreading education, bettering their condition in every way—well, there would be no one to whom she could show what she had done. What did her brother care for such things?—her brother was thinking only of grouse, and black-game, and grilse. Frank Meredyth?—she more than suspected that his affectation of interest was only a sort of compliment paid to herself. And then there was another thing, more difficult to formulate; but away deep down in her heart somewhere there had sprung up a vague desire that some day or other she might be able to show Donald Ross how sorry she was for the injuries he had suffered at the hands of her family. When once a close and firm friendship had been established between them, he might be induced to forgive. But if he were going away, while as yet he and she were almost strangers? And she knew that the people who might remain with her at Lochgarra would say to themselves that she was the one who had driven Young Donald across the seas.

She forced herself to read the letter—

"Armadale, Minnesona, Canada.

"Mr. Ross of Heimra.—Sir,—Peter Macleod was showing me the letter you was writing to him, and asking about me, and he said it my duty to answer and give Mr. Ross the news. We have not much comfort here; I think the Lord was not pleased with us that we left our own country and come to America. My wife is very seeck; and while she has the seeckness on her I cannot go away and get railway work; and there are the five children, the oldest of them twelve, and not able to do mich. I have a cow that is giving mulk. I have a yoke of oxen. There is not a well; but I will begin at it soon. I have found a Lochgarra man, wan Neil Campbell, about five miles from here; it is a pleasure to me that I have the jance of speaking my own langwich. I have twelve tons of hay. The soil is good; but the weather verra bad; ay, until the end of May there was frost every night, and many's the time hailstones that would spoil the crop in half an hour. I bought ten bolls of meal forbye[#] the Government's supply; and if I had not had a little money I do not know what I would have done; and now the money is gone, and I cannot go away to work and leave my wife with the seeckness on her; and maybe if I did go away I would not get any work whatever. What to do now it is beyond me to say, and we are far away from any friends, my wife and me. When I went to Kavanagh to bring the doctor to my wife I was hearing the news from home that they believed I had brokken my leg. But it is not my legs that are brokken—it is my heart that is brokken. There has been no happiness within me since the day I left Loch Torridon and went away to Greenock to the steamer. That was a bad day for me and my family; we have had no peace or comfort since; it's glad I would be to see Ru-na-uag once more—ay, if they would give me a job at brekkin stones. This is all the news I am thinking of; and wishing Mr. Ross a long life and happiness, I am, your respectful servant,

"ANGUS MACKAY."

[#] Forbye—besides.

"Poor man!" said Mary. And then she looked up as she handed back the letter. "I should have thought," she continued, addressing Donald Ross, "that a report like that would have caused you to hesitate before recommending any more emigration. Was it you who sent that poor man out?"

"Oh, no," he answered at once; "that Angus Mackay lived at Loch Torridon—a long way south from here. I only got to know something of him accidentally. But mind you, Miss Stanley, I would not assume that even in his case emigration has been a failure. That letter is simply saturated with home-sickness. I should not be at all surprised to hear in a year or two that Angus was doing very well with his farm; and it is almost a certainty that when his family have grown up they will find themselves in excellent circumstances. Of course it is hard on him that his wife should be ill, especially with those young children—but these are misfortunes that happen everywhere."

"Emigration?" she repeated (and Käthchen could tell by her tone that this scheme of his found no favour in her sight). "So that is your cure for the poverty and discontent in the Highlands? But don't you think it is rather a confession of failure? Don't you think if the landlords were doing their duty there would be no need to drive these poor people away from their homes? No doubt, as you say, families grow up and marry, while the land does not increase; but look at the thousands upon thousands of acres that at present don't support a single human being——"

"You mean the deer-forests?" he said quite coolly (for the owner of the little island of Heimra had not much personal and immediate interest in the rights and duties of proprietors). "Yes; they say that is the alternative. They say either emigration or throwing open the deer-forests to small tenants and crofters—banishing the deer altogether, limiting the sheep-farms, planting homesteads. It sounds very well in the House of Commons, but I'm afraid it wouldn't work in practice. Such deer-forests as I happen to know are quite useless for any such purpose; the great bulk of the soil is impossible—rocks and peat simply; and then the small patches of land that might be cultivated—less than two acres in every thousand, they say—are scattered, and remote, and inaccessible. Who is to make roads, to begin with—even if the crofters were mad enough to imagine that they could send their handful of produce away to the distant markets with any chance of competition?"

But she was not convinced: a curious obstinacy seemed to have got hold of her.

"I can't help thinking," she repeated, "that emigration is a kind of cowardly remedy. Isn't it rather like admitting that you have failed? Surely there must be some other means? Why, before I came to Lochgarra I made up my mind that I would try to find out about the crofters who had gone away or been sent away, and I would invite them to come back and take up their old holdings."

"It would be a cruel kindness," said he. "And I doubt whether they would thank you for the offer. Yes, I dare say some would; and on their way back to their old home they would be filled with joy. When they came in sight of Ru-Minard I dare say they would be crying with delight; and when they landed at Lochgarra they would be for falling on their knees to kiss the beloved shore. But that wouldn't last long. When they came to look at the sour and marshy soil, the peat-hags, and the rocks, they would begin to alter their mind——"

"In any case," said she, "I have abandoned the idea for the present; I find I have already plenty on my hands. And I don't confess that I have failed yet. I am doing what I can. It is a very slow process; for they seem to imagine that whatever I suggest is for my own interest; at the same time, I don't see that I have failed yet. And as for emigration——"

"But, Miss Stanley," said he seriously, "you don't suppose I would take away any number of the people without your consent?"

At this she brightened up a little.

"Oh, it is only if there is a necessity? Only as a necessity, you mean?"

"Perhaps there is something of selfishness in it, too," he admitted. "Of course, I don't like the idea of living in Eilean Heimra all my life—not now: I am free from any duty; and—and perhaps there are associations that one ought to leave behind one. And if I could get some post from the Government in connection with this emigration scheme—if I could become the overseer of the little settlement—I should still be among my own people: no doubt that has had something to do with my forecasts——"

"But at all events," she interposed, quickly, "you won't be too precipitate? It is a dreadful responsibility. Even if they exaggerate their hardships through home-sickness, that is not altogether imaginary: it is real enough to them at the time. And if actual suffering were to take place——"

"I know the responsibility," he said. "I am quite aware of it. All that I could do would be to obtain the fullest and most accurate information; and then explain to the people the gravity of the step they were about to take. Then it is not a new thing; there are quite trustworthy accounts of the various colonial settlements; and this evidence they would have to estimate dispassionately for themselves."

"Mr. Ross!" she remonstrated. "How can you say such a thing! You told me just now that the whole of those people would follow you away to Canada or Australia if you but said the word. Is that a fair judgment of evidence? I don't think you could get rid of your responsibility by putting a lot of Bluebooks before them——"

"I see you are against emigration," he said.

"It may be necessary in some places—I don't know yet that it is here," she answered him. "I would rather be allowed to try." And then she said—looking at him rather timidly—"If you think I have not given them enough, I will give them more. There is no forest land, as you know; but—but there is some more pasture that perhaps Mr. Watson might be induced to give up. I have given them Meall-na-Cruagan; if you wish it, I will give them Meall-na-Fearn. Mr. Watson was most good-natured about Meall-na-Cruagan; and I dare say there would be no difficulty in settling what should be taken off his rent if he were to give up Meall-na-Fearn and Corrie Bhreag. And—and there's more than that I would try before having people banished."

Kate Glendinning observed that this young man changed colour. It was an odd thing—and interesting to the onlooker. For usually he was so calm, and self-possessed, and reserved: submissive, too, so that it was only at times that he raised his keen black eyes to the young lady who was addressing him: he seemed to wish to keep a certain distance between them. But these last words of hers appeared to have touched him. The pale, dark face showed a sense of shame—or deprecation.

"You must not imagine, Miss Stanley," said he, "that I came to ask for anything. You have already been most generous—too generous, most people would say. It would be imposing on you to ask for more; it would be unfair; if I were in your position, I would refuse. But I thought my scheme might afford you some relief——"

"And if you went away with them, what would you do with Heimra Island?" she said, abruptly—and regarding him with her clear, honest eyes.

"That I don't know," said he, "except that I should be sorry to sell it. And it would not be easy to let it, even as a summer holiday place. There is no fishing or shooting to speak of; and it is a long way to come. For a yachtsman it might make convenient headquarters——"

"But you would not sell the island?" she asked again.

"Not unless I was compelled," he made answer. "I might go away and leave it for a time—the letting of the pasture would just about cover the housekeeper's wages and the keeping up of the place; and then, years hence, when my little community in Australia or Canada was all safely established—when the heat of the day was over, as they say in the Gaelic—I might come back there, and spend the end of my life in peace and quiet. For old people do not need many friends around them: their recollections are in the past."

And then he rose.

"I beg your pardon for troubling you about my poor affairs."

"But they concern me," she said, as she rose also, "and very immediately. Besides that, we are neighbours. And so I am to understand that you won't do anything further with your emigration scheme—not at present?"

"Nothing until you consent—nor until you are quite satisfied that it is a wise thing to embark on. And indeed there is no great hurry: I can't keep my last term until November next. But by then I hope to have learnt everything there is to be learned about the various emigration-fields."

She rang the bell; but she herself accompanied him to the door, and out into the hall.

"By the way," said she, "what has become of Anna Chlannach?—I thought you were to tell her to come to me, so that I could assure her she shouldn't be locked up in any asylum?"

"I'm afraid Anna has not got over her fear of you," said he, with a smile. "She seems to think you tried to entrap her into the garden, where Mr. Purdie was. And it isn't easy to reason with Anna Chlannach."

"Oh, then, you see her sometimes?" she asked.

"Sometimes—yes. If Anna catches sight of the Sirène coming across, she generally runs down to Camus Bheag, and waits for us, to ask for news from the island."

"Will you tell her that I am very angry with her for not coming to see me—when Barbara could quite easily be the interpreter between us?"

"I will. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye!" said she, as he left.

But she did not immediately go back to the drawing-room, and to Käthchen, and the dyed wools. She remained in the great, empty oak hall, slowly walking up and down—with visions before her eyes. She saw a name, too: it was New Heimra. And the actual Heimra out there—the actual Heimra would then be deserted, save, perhaps, for some old housekeeper, who would sit out in the summer evenings, and wonder whether Young Donald was ever coming back to his home. Or perhaps an English family would be in possession of that bungalow retreat: the children scampering about with their noisy games: would they be silent a little, when chance brought them to the lonely white grave, up there on the crest of the hill?

She was startled from her reverie by some sound on the steps outside, and, turning, found her brother and Frank Meredyth at the door.

"Now, Mamie, see what comes of all your coddling!" Fred Stanley exclaimed as he came forward, and he held a piece of paper in his hand. "This is a pretty state of affairs! But can you wonder? They easily find out where the place is ripe for them—where the people have been nursed into insolence and discontent—and on the Twelfth, too—oh, yes, the Twelfth!—when they expect the keepers to be up on the hill, so they'll be able to break a few of the drawing-room windows on their way by——"

"What are you talking about?" she said, in answer to this incoherent harangue; and she took the paper from him. It was a handbill, rather shabbily printed; and these were the contents:—

THE HEATHER ON FIRE!

THE HEATHER ON FIKE!

The Land for the People!—Away with Sheep, Deer, and Landlords!—The Landlords must go!—Compulsory Emigration for Landlords!—Men of the Highlands, stand up for your rights!—Down with Southern Rack-Renters!

To THE TENANTS, CROFTERS, AND COTTARS OF LOCHGARRA AND NEIGHBOURHOOD: A PUBLIC MEETING

Will be held in Lochgarra Free Church, on Monday the 12th of August, at one o'clock. Addresses by Mr. JOSIAH OGDEN, M.P., Miss ERNESTINE SIMON, of Paris, and Mrs. ELIZABETH JACKSON NOYES, of the Connecticut Council of Liberty. Mr. JOHN FRASER, Vice-President of the Stratherrick Branch of the Highland Land League, will preside.

ADMISSION FREE.

Men of Lochgarra!—attend in your hundreds:

"Who would be free themselves must strike the blow!"

Well, Mary was not the least bit frightened.

"I don't see why they shouldn't hold a public meeting," said she, as she handed him back the bill.

"Why, there will be a public riot!" he said. "You haven't seen the great placards they have pasted up on the walls—done with a big brush—I suppose they were afraid to print them; but if you go down through the village you will see what they're after. 'Sweep the sheep off Meall-na-Fearn'—'Take back the land'—'A general march into Glen Orme.'"

"Glen Orme deer-forest has nothing to do with me," she said.

"Do you think they will draw such fine distinctions?" he retorted. "I can tell you, when once the march has begun, they won't stop to ask whose fences they are tearing down; and a shot or two fired through your windows is about the least you can expect. And that is what comes of coddling people: they think they can terrorise over you whenever they choose—they welcome any kind of agitator, and think they're going to have it all their own way. And can't you see who suggested the Twelfth to them? I'll bet it was that fellow Ross—a clever trick!—either we lose the opening day of the shooting—and that would make him laugh like a cat—or else we leave the place free for those parading blackguards to plunder at their will."

"At all events, Miss Stanley," interposed Frank Meredyth, in a calmer manner, "there can be no harm in postponing our grouse shooting until the Tuesday. I think it will be better for Fred and myself to be about the premises—and the keepers too—until this little disturbance has blown over."

"Who are those people?" she said, taking back the paper and regarding it. "Mr. Ogden I know something of—mostly from pictures of him in Punch; but I thought it was strikes and trade unions in the north of England that he busied himself with. What has brought him to Scotland?"

"Why, wherever there is mischief to be stirred up—and notoriety to be earned for himself—that is enough for a low Radical of that stamp!" her brother said. He was a young man, and his convictions were round and complete.

"And Miss Ernestine Simon—-who is she?"

"Oh, you don't know Ernestine?" said Frank Meredyth, with a smile. "Oh yes, surely! Ernestine, the famous pétroleuse, who fought at the Buttes Chaumont and got wounded in the scramble through Belleville? You must have heard of her, surely! Well, Ernestine is getting old now; but there is still something of the sacred fire about her—a sort of mouton enragé desperation: she can use whirling words, as far as her broken English goes."

"And Mrs. Noyes?" Mary continued. "Who is Mrs. Jackson Noyes, from Connecticut?"

"There I am done," he confessed. "I never heard of Mrs. Jackson Noyes in any capacity whatever. But I can imagine the sort of person she is likely to be."

"And what do those people know about the Highlands?" Mary demanded again.

"What they have been told by the Land League, I suppose," was his answer—and therewithal Miss Stanley led the way back to the drawing-room, to carry these startling tidings to Kate Glendinning.

But she was very silent and thoughtful all that evening; and when the two gentlemen, after dinner, had gone out on the terrace to smoke a cigar, she said—

"Käthchen, I am going to confide in you; and you must not break faith with me. You hear what is likely to happen next Monday. Very well: Mr. Meredyth and Fred both want to remain about the house, along with the keepers, in case there should be any disturbance, any injury done to the place. Now I particularly wish that they should not; and you must back me up, if it is spoken of again. Why, what harm can the people do? I don't mind about a broken window, if one of the lads should become unruly in going by. And if they drive the sheep off Meall-na-Fearn, the sheep can be driven back the next day. I will warn Mr. Watson that he must not allow his men to show resistance. But, above all, I am anxious that Fred and Mr. Meredyth should leave in the morning for their shooting, as they had arranged. For the truth is, Käthchen, I mean to go to this meeting; and I mean to go alone."

"Mamie!" Käthchen exclaimed, with dismay in her eyes.

"There are many reasons," Mary Stanley went on. "If those strangers know anything about the condition of the Highlands that I do not know, I shall be glad to hear it. If they have merely come to stir up mischief, I wish to make my protest. But there is more than that: perhaps the people about here have their grievances and resentments that they would speak of more freely at such a meeting; and if they have, I want to know what they are; and I want to show that I am not afraid to trust myself among my neighbours, and to listen to what they have got to say. For, after all, Käthchen, the more you think of it, the more that emigration scheme—the drafting of a lot of people from their own homes—seems such a complete confession of failure. I would rather try something else first—or many things—rather than have the people go away to Canada or Queensland."

"Mamie," said Käthchen, rising to her feet, "I will not allow you to thrust yourself into this danger. You don't know what an excited crowd may not do. You are the representative here—the only representative—of the very class whom these strangers have come to denounce."

"That is why I mean to go and show them that the relations between landlord and tenant need not necessarily be what they imagine them to be," Mary said, with a certain dignity and reserve. "Why, if there is any risk of a serious disturbance, is it not my place to be there, to do what I can to prevent it?"

"I will appeal to Mr. Meredyth," said Käthchen.

"You cannot," said Mary, calmly. "I have entrusted you with my secret—you cannot break faith."

Käthchen looked disconcerted for a second.

"It is quite monstrous, Mamie, that you should expose yourself to such a risk. Is it because you are so anxious Mr. Ross should not take away a lot of the people to Canada—and you want them to declare openly that they are on good terms with you? At all events, you shall not be there alone. I will go with you."

"It is quite needless, Käthchen!"

"I don't care about that," said Kate Glendinning; and then she added, vindictively: "and when I get hold of that Mr. Pettigrew, I will give him a bit of my mind! The man of peace—always sighing and praying that people should live together in ahmity—and here he goes and lends his church to these professional mischief-makers. Wait till I get hold of Mr. Pettigrew!"

CHAPTER VII.

"KAIN TO THE KING THE MORN!"

The night was dark and yet clear; the sea still; not a whisper stirred in the birch-woods nor along the shores; the small red points of fire, that told of the distant village, burned steadily. And here, down near the edge of the water, were Coinneach and Calum-a-bhata, hidden under the shadow of the projecting rocks.

"Oh, yes, Calum," the elder sailor was saying in his native tongue—and he spoke in something of an undertone—"maybe we will get a few sea-trout this night; and a good basket of sea-trout is a fine thing to take away with us to Heimra; and who has a better right to the sea-trout than our master? Perhaps you do not know what in other days they used to call Kain; for you are a young man, and not hearing of many things; but I will tell you now. It was in the days when there were very good relations between the people and the proprietors—"

"When the birds sang in Gaelic, Coinneach!" said Calum.

"Oh, you may laugh; for you are a young man, and ignorant of many things; but I tell you there was that time; and the tenants and the people at the Big House were very friendly. And the tenants they paid part of their rent in things that were useful for the Big House—such things as hens, and butter, and eggs, and the like; but it was not taken as rent; not at all; it was taken as a present; and the people at the Big House they would have the tenant sit down, and drink a glass of whisky, and hear the news. And now do you understand that there's many a one about here knows well of that custom; and they may pay their money-rent to the English family; but they would rather send their Kain to the old family, that is, to our master; and that is why the Gillie Ciotach and the rest of them are very glad when they can take out a hare or a brace of birds or something of that kind to Heimra. And why should not the sea pay Kain to Donald Ross of Heimra?—I will ask you that question, Calum. If the sea about here belongs to any one, it belongs to the old family, and not to the English family——"

"But if they catch us with the scringe-net, Coinneach?" said the younger man, ruefully. "Aw, Dyeea, I was never in a prison."

"The scringe-net!—a prison!" said Coinneach with contempt. "How little you know about such things! Do they put the dukes and the lords in prison that come round the coast in their big yachts? and in nearly every one of the yachts you will see a scringe-net hung out to dry, and no one concealing it. Do you think I have no eyes, Calum? When the Consuelo came round to Camus Bheag, and the master was sending to us for his other clothes before he went away to the south, did I not see them taking down a scringe-net from the boom? It is very frightened you are, Calum, whether it is putting a few kegs into a cave, or putting a scringe-net round a shore. Now if there was something really to frighten you—like the card-playing the young man saw——

"What was that, Coinneach?" said Calum quickly.

Conneach paused for a second or two, and his face became grave and thoughtful.

"That was enough to frighten anyone," he continued presently—in this mysterious chillness, while he kept his eyes watching the vague, dark plain that lay between him and the distant lights of the village. "And if I tell you the story, Calum, it is to show you there are many things we do not understand, and that it is wise not to speak too confidently, in case someone might overhear—someone that we cannot see. For sometimes they show themselves; and at other times they are not visible; but they may be there. Now I must tell you it happened in a great castle in the north; I am not remembering the name of it; maybe it was up in Caithness; I am not remembering that; but the story is well known, and I was hearing that someone was putting it in a book as well. Now I must tell you that the owner of the castle is the head of the clan, and of a very old and great family; and it is the custom, whenever he goes away from home, that one of the other gentlemen of the clan goes to the castle to keep watch. It is not needful in these days, as you can guess for yourself; but it is a compliment to the head of the clan, and an old custom; and maybe it is kept up to this present time—though I am not swearing that to you, Calum. What I am telling you took place a good many years ago; that is what I have heard; maybe sixty years, maybe fifty years, maybe a hundred years; I am not swearing to that. But the chief had to go away from home; and according to the custom, one of the gentlemen went to keep watch; and he took with him a young country lad, one of his own servants. Now I must tell you there was a fire put in the great hall of the castle; for it was in the winter time; and they had to sit up all night, the one keeping the other awake—for no one likes to be left alone in a strange place like that, in the night-time, and not knowing what things have been experienced by others."

"You are not needing to tell me that, Coinneach," the other assented.

"Very well. But as I was saying, the master he sate close to the fire in the great hall; and the young man he remained some distance away, by one of the windows; and there was no speaking between them. So one hour after another hour went by; and there was nothing happening; and it was not until the dead of the night, or towards the morning, that the young man noticed that his master had fallen asleep. He did not like that, I can tell you, Calum; for if you are left alone, the evil beings may appear and come upon you; and there is no question about it. Very well. The young man he thought he would go over to the fire and waken his master; but what do you think of this now, Calum, that when he tried to rise from his seat he could not do that—something was holding him back—he tried seven times over and seven times more, as I have heard, for he was trembling with the fear of being held. And then—what do you think of this, Calum?—and it is the truth I am telling you—he saw what few men have ever seen, and what few would ever wish to see: the folding-doors at the end of the hall were opened wide; and there were two footmen bringing in lights; and then there was a procession of ladies and gentlemen all dressed in a way that was strange to him; and they came into the hall so that you could not hear a sound. They took no notice of him or his master; and he could see everything they were doing, for all that his eyes were starting out of his head with fright; and I tell you he was so terrified he could not cry out to wake his master. But he was watching—oh, yes, he was watching with all his eyes, you may be sure of that; and he saw the footmen bring forward the tables; and those people in the strange clothes sate down and began to play at cards; and they were talking to each other—but never any sound of their talking. He could see their lips moving; but there was no sound. What do you think of that now, Calum?—was it not a dreadful thing for a young man to see?—even if they were not doing him any harm, or even knowing he was there? There's many a one would have sprung up and shrieked out; but as I tell you, there was no strength in his bones and he could not move; and his master was fast asleep; and all those people—the gentlemen with their small swords by their side, and the ladies in their silks—they were playing away at the cards, and talking to each other across the table, and not a sound to be heard. He watched and watched—aw, God, I suppose he was more dead than alive with trembling, and not being able to call on his master—until the windows began to grow grey with the morning light; and then he saw that the people were sometimes looking at the windows, and sometimes at each other, and they were talking less. Then they rose; and he could not see the candles any more because of the light in the hall; and they were going away in that noiseless manner, when one of them happened to spy the young man; and he came along and looked at him. He looked at him for a moment—and seemed to breathe on him—so that it was like a cold air touching him—and the young man knew that the hand of death had been put upon him. There was no sound; the strange person only looked; and the young man felt the cold air on his forehead, so that he was for sinking to the floor; for he thought that death was on him already, and that he must go with them wherever they were going. Calum, I have told you what I felt when I was coming back from Ru Grobhar, and when the Woman came behind me; it was like that with the young man, as I have heard. And then all of a sudden a cock crew outside; and his master woke up and looked round; and there was no one in the hall but their two selves."