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

"I hardly know," said he. "I am waiting for a rather important letter that I must answer at once."

"Not to-morrow, then?"

"Perhaps not."

"For I have sent for the photographer," said she, "and he may be here the day after."

"But I will stay over," said he; "oh, yes, certainly; I should be so pleased if I can be of the least service to you."

"Oh, thank you." And then she hesitated. "To-morrow—to-morrow you will simply be waiting for the mid-day mail?"

"Yes—is there anything that I can do for you in any way?"

"Oh, no," she made answer, with still further hesitation. "Some day—I am going to ask you to let me have a peep at the Sirène. She seems such a pretty little yacht."

"Won't you come along and look over her to-morrow morning, if the weather is fine?" said he, quickly.

"Would you like to go, Käthchen?" asked Mary, with a little shyness.

"Oh, I should be delighted," answered the useful Käthchen, divining what was wanted of her.

"If you are sure it is not troubling you," said Mary to her departing guest.

"Why, it will give me the greatest possible pleasure," said he. "Come as early as ever you like. It will be quite an event: it is many a day since I had the honour of receiving visitors on the little Sirène."

"Then about eleven," said Mary; and therewith he took his leave.

When they got back to the drawing-room, Kate Glendinning threw herself into the chair she had recently quitted.

"Well, I think he is simply splendid!" said she, as if she had some difficulty in finding words to express her enthusiasm. "That's all I can say—just splendid. He is so curiously straightforward, outspoken, independent; and yet all the time he is so careful to treat you with marked respect. If his eyes laugh at you, it is in such a good-natured way that you can't take offence. And he never agrees with you for courtesy's sake—never—oh, not a bit; but yet, as I say, to you he is always so respectful—in so many little ways—didn't you notice? Ah, well, Mamie," continued the observant but nevertheless cautious-tongued Käthchen, "it's a curious world, the way things happen in it. Do you remember, when you first came here, your distress about the destruction of Castle Heimra? You said nothing could ever atone for that; and I was of your opinion then. But I am not so sure now. I should not be so surprised, after all, if there were to be some atonement for the pulling down of Castle Heimra."

Mary did not answer: she had gone to put some Japanese water-colours into a large portfolio. Nor could the expression of her face be seen; if there was any indignant colour there, any proud, maidenly reserve and resentment, it was invisible; for she remained standing by the portfolio for some time, turning over the leaves.

CHAPTER IV.

SLOW BUT SURE.

The next morning was the very perfection of a September morning, clear, and crisp, and still; there was just enough wind to lift away the lazy blue smoke from the cottage chimneys, and to stir the smooth waters of the bay with a shimmering ripple. And here was the carriage in front of Lochgarra House, waiting for the two young ladies to come down.

"Käthchen," said Mary, in an undertone, as they took their seats and were driven off, "supposing I should get a chance of speaking to Mr. Ross privately—for a minute or two—do you think I should venture to apologise to him for Fred's outrageous conduct? What would you do if you were in my place?

"Not that—oh, no, Mamie, not that!" Käthchen said at once. "Don't you see how he wishes to ignore it altogether? And surely you remember what he himself said about the pulling down of Castle Heimra? 'There are some things that are best not spoken of.'"

"It is very generous of him," said Mary, absently.

They drove away up the Minard road; and when they had got some distance past the top of the hill, they dismissed the carriage, and left the highway, striking across the rough high ground by a worn footpath. Presently they found far beneath them the sheltered waters of the Camus Bheag; and the first thing they saw there was the Sirène at her moorings, with all her sails set and shining white in the morning sun. The next thing they perceived was that the two sailors, Coinneach and Calum, were on the beach, by the side of the yacht's boat; while standing some way apart was Donald Ross. And who was this who was talking to him?—a young girl, whose light brown curly hair was half hidden by her scarlet shawl.

"It is Anna Chlannach!" said Mary. "Now I have got her at last! She is always escaping me—and I want to convince her that I will not allow Mr. Purdie to lock her up in any asylum. Käthchen, couldn't we get down some other way, so that she may not see us?"

But at this very moment the girl down there happened to catch sight of them; and instantly she turned and fled, disappearing from sight in an incredibly short space of time. For one thing, the face of this hill was a mass of tumbled rocks, intermingled with long heather and thick-stemmed gorse, while skirting it was a plantation of young larch: most likely Anna Chlannach had made good her escape into this plantation.

"Why did you let her go?" said Mary, reproachfully, when she had got down to the beach. "You knew I wanted to talk to her."

"It isn't easy reasoning with Anna Chlannach," said Donald Ross, with his quiet smile. "She still associates you with Purdie; she is afraid of you. And this time she was on other business; she was pleading with me to take her out to Heimra—offering me all the money she has got—her shells, you know—if I would take her out."

"And why does she want to go out there?" Mary asked—her eyes still searching that rocky hill-side for the vanished fugitive.

"To bring back her mother. Sometimes she forgets her fancy about the white bird, and thinks if she could only get out to Heimra she would bring back her mother alive and well. And it is no use trying to undeceive her."

The men were waiting. Mary and Käthchen got into the stern of the boat; the others followed; and presently they were on their way out to the yawl.

"How much bigger she is than I had imagined!" Mary said, as they were drawing near.

And again when they were on deck, looking around with the curiosity that an unknown vessel invariably arouses, she could not but express her high approval: everything looked so trim and neat and ship-shape—the spotless decks, the gleaming brass, the snow-white canvas. And these cushions along the gunwale?

"The fact is," young Ross confessed—with some look of timid appeal towards Mary, "I got the sails up this morning just in case I might be able to induce you to take a bit of a run with us. There is a nice breeze outside, and nothing of a sea. What do you say, Miss Stanley? The Sirène feels proud enough that you should have come on board—but if you would like to see how she takes to the water——"

If he was at all anxious, the quick glance of pleasure in Mary's eyes must have instantly reassured him.

"Oh, yes, why not?" said she, rather addressing herself to Kate Glendinning; "I am sure we shall be delighted—if it isn't taking up too much of your time, Mr. Ross——"

"We can slip the moorings and be off at once," said he, and he gave a brief order to the men, himself going to the tiller. In a few minutes the Sirène was under way, gliding along so quietly that the two visitors hardly knew that they were moving.

But their departure had not been unnoticed elsewhere. Suddenly, into the absolute silence prevailing around, there came a piteous wail—a wail so full of agony that immediately all eyes were directed to the shore, whence the sound proceeded. And there the origin of it was visible enough. Anna Chlannach had come down from her hiding-place to the edge of the water; she was seated on a rock, her hands clasped in front of her and her head bent down in an attitude of indescribable anguish, her body swaying to and fro, while from time to time she uttered this heartrending cry, of despair and appeal.

"Poor Anna!" said Mary, with tears starting to her eyes. "Let us go back, Mr. Ross! Never mind us. We can go home. You must take her out to Heimra."

"What would be the use?" he said. "She would only be more miserable, searching about and finding no mother anywhere. And Anna does not keep very long in one mood. She will soon lose sight of us—and then she'll be off again searching for wild strawberries."

And perhaps it was to distract their attention from this melancholy setting out that he now called one of the men to the tiller, and would have his guests go below, to have a look at the ladies' cabin and the saloon. Of course they were much interested and pleased—admiring the cunning little contrivances for the utilisation of space; while Mary arrived at the conclusion that, if these rooms were kept in order by Calum, Calum was a very handy youth to have in one's service, whether afloat or ashore, They spent some time over these investigations; and when they came on deck again, they found they were well out at sea, with a far-extending view of the high and rocky coast, Lochgarra itself appearing as merely a thin grey-white line along one of those indented bays.

And still, and carelessly, and joyously, they kept on their course, the light breeze holding steady, the wide plain of water shining with a summer blue. Young Donald had not returned to the tiller; he was devoting himself assiduously to his two guests—their conversation, whatever its varying moods, accompanied by the soft, continuous murmur of these myriad-glancing ripples, for waves they could scarcely be called. And on this occasion Mary was not nearly so nervous, and excited, and wayward as she had been on the previous day; a placid, benign content reigned in her eyes; a sort of serious, bland sweetness in her demeanour. Käthchen thought to herself that she had never seen Mary Stanley look so beautiful, nor yet wearing so serene an air.

And still they held on, in this fair halcyon weather, alone with the sky, and the fresh wind, and the slumberous main; and so entirely and happily engrossed with themselves that they had no thought for the now distant land. But at last Käthchen said—

"Mr. Ross, how far are we going? I thought you were expecting an important letter."

"There are things of equal importance," said he, pleasantly. He cast a glance forward. "Soon we shall be getting near to Heimra, Miss Stanley. I have never had the chance of receiving you in my poor little bungalow: will you go ashore for a while?"

"Oh, yes," she replied, cheerfully. "I should like to renew my acquaintance with Martha; she was exceedingly kind to us when Käthchen and I called."

"And perhaps," said he, "when we get round the point, you wouldn't mind standing up for a few seconds—you and Miss Glendinning?—then Martha will see I have visitors, and will have time to put on her best gown. Otherwise I should get into serious trouble."

And so they sailed into the small, quiet harbour, and eventually got ashore at the little slip, and made their way up to the house. Martha had seen them; here she was in the porch, smiling a welcome, with her grey Highland eyes, to the young master, and also to his guests. These she took possession of—with suggestions of tea.

"No, no, Martha," said Donald Ross, "we are not going to have tea at this time of the day. The young ladies will stay for lunch; and you must do the best you can for us. We will go for a stroll about the island, and be back in an hour or thereabouts."

"Oh, yes, indeed," said the old Highland woman, "but it is a peety I was not knowing before——"

"Martha," said Mary Stanley, interposing, "I dare say Mr. Ross does not understand much about housekeeping. Now, you must put yourself to no trouble on our account. A glass of milk will be quite sufficient."

"Aw, but there will be more than that," the old woman said, and she regarded this beautiful, tall, shining-eyed young creature with a most favouring look, and her speech was soft and propitiating; "it would be strange if there was not more than that in the house, and Mr. Ross bringing his friends with him." And therewith she went away; and presently they heard her sharply calling on the lad Calum, who had come up from the slip, and was hanging about, to be in readiness if he were wanted.

And now as the proud young host led forth his fair guests on an exploration of these winding shores, and tumbled crags, and steep precipices, this island of Heimra looked infinitely more cheerful than it had done on Mary's previous visit, in the bleak April weather. There was an abundance of rich colour everywhere. The silver-grey rocks, and ruddy-grey rocks, and black-grey rocks were interspersed with masses of purple heather; and other masses there were of tall foxgloves, and bracken, and juniper, and broom. Their progress, it is true, was something of a scramble, for there was no road nor semblance of a road; the sheep tracks, he explained, were up on the higher slopes and plateaus; down here by the shore they had to get along as best they could, though sometimes they had the chance of a space of velvet-soft sand—with the clear green water breaking in crisp white ripples and sparkling in the sun. A solitary, if a picturesque, island, facing those wide western seas; there was no sign of human existence or occupation after they had got out of sight of the single house and its small dependencies; and at last Mary said:

"One would think that no living creature had ever been round this coast before. But it cannot be so wild and lonely to you, Mr. Ross, as it seems to us; you have discovered all the secrets of it; and so I want you to take me to your grotto. In such an island of Monte Cristo, you must have the grotto of Monte Cristo: where is it?"

"How did you guess?" said he, with a smile.

"Guess what?"

"For there is a grotto," he said, regarding her. "Your surmise is quite correct. There is a grotto; only it isn't filled with sacks of jewels and coins; all that there is in it is some smuggled brandy."

"Oh, really?" she said, with her eyes showing a sudden attention. "Brandy?—smuggled brandy?—and how did it come there?—did you bring it?"

"Indeed I did," said he, without a moment's hesitation—and he was standing in front of her now, for she had sate down on a smooth grey rock. "I suppose I must let you into my dark and terrible secret, and give you the power of sending the Supervisor over, and haling me off to Dingwall. It is not a grotto, however, it is a cave; and very few people know of its existence. In fact, you can't get to it by the shore at all; you must go by water; and I hope to show it to you some day, if you would care to go round in a boat. But then there are no wonders—no hasheesh—no heaps of diamonds and rubies—only little casks of spirits: perhaps they wouldn't interest you?"

"Oh, but I think they would," she said—and yet with a little caution, for she did not quite know how to take this confession.

He observed her face for a moment.

"I see I must begin and justify myself," said he, lightly, "if justification is possible. For of course it's very wrong and wicked to evade the customs duties of your native land; only in my case there are two or three qualifying circumstances. For one thing, I am a Highlander; and smuggling comes natural to a Highlander. Then I have the proud consciousness that I am circumventing Mr. Purdie—and that of itself is a praiseworthy achievement. You may have heard, Miss Stanley, that Purdie plumes himself on having routed out the very last of the illicit stills from this country-side—and it was done merely out of ill-will to the people; but he forgot that it is difficult to watch a rough coast like this. I can put a counter-check on Mr. Purdie's zeal. But my real excuse is simply this—the old people about here are too poor to buy spirits of any kind, but especially of a wholesome quality; and it is the only little bit of comfort they have when they are cold and wet, just as it is the only medicine they believe in; and really I think the Government, that gives lavish grants here, there, and everywhere—except here, by the way—I think the Government can afford to wink at such a small trifle. Am I convincing you?" he went on, with a laugh. "I'm afraid you look very stern. Is there to be no palliation?"

Then up and spoke Kate Glendinning, valiantly—

"I consider you are perfectly justified, Mr. Ross; yes, I do, indeed," said she.

"You see I have Miss Glendinning on my side," he pointed out, still addressing Mary.

"Ah, but you are both Highlanders," Mary said, as she rose from the rock; "and how can I argue one against two?"

"Shall I be quite honest," said he, as they were setting out for home again, "and confess that there is a spice of adventure in going away to the south for the cargo, and running it safely here? It is a break in the monotony of one's life on the island."

"Yes, I shouldn't wonder if that had something to do with all those fine reasons," she observed, with demure significance.

"And then," he continued, frankly, and perhaps not noticing her sarcasm, "I like to be on friendly terms with the old people who knew our family in former days. I like them to speak well of me; I like to think that they have some trifle of affection for me. And this is about the only way I can keep up the old relationship that used to exist between them and the 'big house;' it's very little kindness I am able to show them: they've got to take the will for the deed nowadays." He turned to her. "What, not convinced yet?" he said, laughing again. "What is to be the verdict? Not acquittal?"

She shook her head doubtfully: the Lady Superior of Lochgarra did not choose to say.

They found an excellent lunch awaiting them; and after that, in his eager desire to entertain these rare visitors in every possible way, he showed them the heirlooms of the family, along with a heap of antiquities and curiosities that for the most part had been put away in cabinets and chests, as being out of keeping with these plain rooms. Naturally the old armour interested Mary less than the silks and embroideries, the porcelain and pottery; and in particular was she struck by a Rhodian dish, the like of which she had never seen before. It was of coarse material, and of the simplest design—a plain draught-board pattern, with a free-handed scroll running round the rim; but the curious pellucid green colour was singularly beautiful, and the glaze extraordinarily luminous.

"Where could that have come from?" said she, reluctantly laying it down, and still regarding it with admiration. "I have never seen one like it in England."

"My father sent it home from Smyrna," he said, simply, "to my mother. He could not live in the West Highlands: the climate did not suit him. He travelled a great deal."

Donald Ross seemed to speak without any restraint or embarrassment; but there was some strange misgiving in Mary's mind; she was glad when Käthchen changed the subject—calling her attention to some exquisite lace.

And at last this wonderful and memorable visit had to come to an end; but when they went out to the little porch Mary said she could not go without saying good-bye to Martha, and so she turned and went through the passage into the kitchen.

"Martha," said she, in her most winning way, and with smiling eyes, "you have been very good to us, and I shall never forget your kindness on our first visit to Heimra, when we were quite strangers to you. And this is a little present I want you to take, as a souvenir, you understand——"

She had unclasped the chatelaine from her belt; and there it was, in antique silver, with all its ornaments and housewifely implements complete, pressed upon the old dame's acceptance. But Martha hung back—shyly—and yet looking at the marvellous treasure.

"Oh, no, mem," she said. "I thank ye; I'm sure I thank ye; but Mr. Ross would not be liking me to tek it."

"Mr. Ross!" said Mary impatiently. "What does Mr. Ross know about such things? Why, it is necessary for your housekeeping, Martha!—and, besides, you must take it to please me; and it will remind you of our visit until we come back again—for I hope to come back and see you some day."

"Yes, yes, and soon, mem," said the grateful Martha, who had been forced into compliance. "And I will be showing it to Mr. Ross, mem——"

"Good-bye, then, Martha, and thank you for all your kindness," said Mary, as she was going.

"No, no, mem, it is my thanks and service to you, mem," said Martha, and she timidly extended her hand. Mary had learnt the ways of this country. She shook hands with the old dame; and said good-bye again; and went her way.

Then once more over the shining sea, with the light northerly breeze providing them a steady and continuous passage. Mary turned once or twice to look at the now receding island.

"I suppose you get very much attached to a solitary home like that?" she said, absently.

"But I like a few days on the mainland very well," said he, with much cheerfulness, "if there is anything to be done. When do you expect your photographer?"

"To-morrow or next day."

"I will wait for him," said he, promptly.

"That will be very kind of you," said she; "for what would pictures of Lochgarra be to Mrs. Armour if you were not in them?"

"And Saturday is Miss Stanley's birthday," put in Käthchen. "You should stay over for that."

"Saturday?" said he. "Oh, indeed. Oh, really." And then he added: "Why, they must get up a big bonfire on the top of Meall-na-Fearn."

"No, no," said Mary, with an odd kind of look; "that is not for me. I must wait a little for anything of that sort. It must come spontaneously, if ever it comes." And then she suddenly changed her tone. "Well, Mr. Ross, since you are remaining on the mainland for a day or two, I hope you will come and see what I have been doing. I have started a few things——"

"I know more about your work than you think," said he. "But I should be glad to go with you."

"And then perhaps the people won't treat me as a stranger," she said, with a touch of injury in her tone.

"It is very ungrateful of them if they do," said he, with some emphasis.

And so it came about, on the next day, that Lochgarra again beheld the spectacle of Young Donald of Heimra acting as escort to the English lady, while she was taking him about and showing him all she was doing or trying to do. And to Käthchen it was as clear as daylight that those people began to be a great deal more friendly—more willing to answer questions—more sympathetic in their looks. Why, when the two girls returned home that evening, they found the hall-door open, and Barbara in the act of lifting up two huge stenlock that had been laid on the stone slab.

"Why, what's this, Barbara?" Mary inquired.

"Oh, it's just that foolish lad, the Gillie Ciotach," said Barbara, with a smile of apology, "and he was leaving them here instead of taking them round by the back. He was saying the people are thanking Miss Stanley for the new building and the papers; and he and Archie MacNicol they had a big catch of stenlock, and would Miss Stanley take one or two."

"Do you mean that the Gillie Ciotach brought me those fish as a present?" said Mary, with a delighted surprise—and she was looking at those big, coarse lythe as if she had just received an Emperor's gift.

"Yes, ma'am," said Barbara.

"But of course you gave him something all the same?"

"Oh, no, ma'am."

"A glass of whiskey, at least?" Mary demanded.

"Oh, no, ma'am," said the soft-spoken Barbara, "there is no whiskey in the house."

"Then it is a shame there should be no whisky in a Highland house!" Mary exclaimed, indignantly. "Why, could you not have run over to your brother's cottage and got some?"

"The Gillie Ciotach was not giving me time, ma'am," answered Barbara, in her pleasant way. "Maybe he was thinking of something of that kind, and he went away quick after leaving the message."

"I'll make it up to the Gillie Ciotach—you will see if I don't!" she said to Käthchen, as they passed through the hall and went upstairs. And all that evening she appeared to be greatly pleased by this little incident; and spoke of it again and again: why, to her it seemed to presage the pacification of this lawless land—she was going to meet with some return at last.

Moreover, when the photographer at length made his appearance and set to work, it must have appeared to the people about that Donald Ross of Heimra had become the chosen ally and companion of the young Baintighearna; while to Donald Ross himself it seemed as if Mary were bent on representing him—in these views, at least—as the owner of the whole place. And she was wilful and imperative about it, too; though Käthchen, standing by as a spectator, perceived that she had to deal with a nature which, however quiet, was a good deal firmer than her own. For example, one of the first views was the front of Lochgarra House. The artist, having a soul above bare stone and lime, suggested that there should be some figures standing at the open hall-door, on the terrace above the steps.

"Oh, yes, certainly," said Mary at once. "You go, Mr. Ross, and stand there—will you be so kind?"

"I?" said he, in amazement—for it was clear she meant herself and Kate Glendenning to remain out of the picture—"What should I do there? That is your place, surely—in front of your own house."

"Oh, what does Mrs. Armour want with me!" she protested. "It is you she wants, naturally. Of course she associates Lochgarra House with you, not with me at all. Who am I? A stranger—an interloper. What does Mrs. Armour care about me? No, really, I must insist on your going and standing on the terrace."

"But indeed I cannot: what right have I to be there?" said he, with the faintest touch of colour coming to the keen, pale, dark face.

"Mrs. Armour would tell you you had a better right to be there than I have!" said Mary, rather ruefully. "I knew what she was thinking, if she was kind enough to say nothing. Now, go, Mr. Ross, to please me! I must not appear in this picture at all—indeed, I will not."

"And I cannot," he said, simply.

"Very well, then," said the shifty Käthchen, cheerfully stepping into the breach, "it is evident that I, at least, can't be expected to take up a position as owner of Lochgarra House; but figures are wanted; and so, if you are both resolved to remain out, I will go and get the keepers and gillies and servants, and range them along the front there, at the foot of the steps. I dare say Mrs. Armour will recognise some of them."

"Then you positively refuse me?" Mary said to him.

"You ought to understand why," he answered her—and then she was silent.

But on the following morning she was deeply impressed by his thoughtful forbearance and consideration. They wished to get a view of the little hamlet of Cruagan, Mrs. Armour having lived there formerly; and, as the place was some distance off, they drove thither—the artist and his camera up beside the coachman. Now, it was inevitable they should pass the desert plain that used to be Loch Heimra, with the tumbled stones of the ancient keep; and on coming in sight of these the photographer, recognising a subject, and yet a little puzzled, called on the coachman to stop.

"That, sir—what is that, sir?" he asked of Donald Ross, whom he generally consulted.

"Oh, that is nothing," said Ross (and this time it was Mary who look distressed and embarrassed). "Never mind; go on."

"Isn't that an old ruin, sir?" said the photographer, with professional instinct. Subjects did not abound in this neighbourhood, and he wished to do his best.

"That is of no use: that would not make a picture—a heap of stones like that," said young Donald; and so the artist gave way; and the carriage went on again. There was a space of silence thereafter.

But Mary was none the less grateful to him. And when they came to a stretch of the Connan, where there were some rocks in mid-stream and a bit of a waterfall, with some birches by the side of the river, she said:

"Now, Mr. Ross, Mrs. Armour is sure to remember this place; and it is very pretty; and since you want me to come into some of the pictures, I will come in this time, and the three of us can sit on the bank as if we were a pic-nic party. And if it turns out well, mightn't we have it enlarged and some copies printed for our own friends? We will send on the carriage a bit, so that there shall be nothing but ourselves in this solitude."

"Let me go on with the carriage, Mamie!" interposed Käthchen at once.

"Don't be silly, Käthchen!" Mary made answer, with quickly lowered lashes. "We are supposed to be a pic-nic party, or a fishing party, taking a rest—anything you please; but of course we must all be together."

So that group also was taken, with the Highland river-scene for its background; and then they went forward and overtook the carriage. Mary was much more cheerful now, after getting away from that reproachful sight of Castle Heimra.

"Do you know, Mr. Ross," she was saying, "I am about to encounter the bitterest enemy I have in the world?"

"I cannot believe you have any enemy," was his reply. "But who is this?"

"James Macdonald."

"Oh, Macdonald the crofter at Cruagan. Well, what have you been doing to him?"

"What have I been doing to him?" she said with some spirit. "You should rather ask what I have been doing for him. I have been doing far too much for him: I suppose that is why he hates me. What haven't I done for him? I took off the tax for the dyke; I handed over the pasturage of Meall-na-Cruagan; I lowered his rent; I forgave him arrears; I had the decree of removal quashed, and gave him back his holding after he had forfeited it; I stopped the action against him for deforcing the sheriff's officer. What more? What more? And yet he looks as if he would like to murder me if I try to speak to him."

"Have you any idea of the reason?"

"Yes," said Mary, a little proudly. "He says that you are his laird, and not I: he says I have nothing to do with the land or the people here."

"Macdonald is a foolish man—and stubborn: I will talk to him," he said; and he was thoughtful for a second or two.

Indeed, when they arrived at the scattered little hamlet of Cruagan, it was not the sun-pictures that occupied Mary Stanley's attention. The photographer was allowed to choose his subjects as he liked. For, in driving up, they had perceived the sullen-browed, Russian-looking crofter at work in his patch of potatoes; and as soon as the carriage stopped, young Ross left his companions, stepped over the bit of wire fence, and went along the potato drills. Macdonald ceased working, and respectfully raised his cap. Ross began speaking in a low voice, and yet with some emphasis, and increasing emphasis, as the ladies in the waggonette could gather. It was impossible for them to overhear the words, even if they had been able to understand; but as he proceeded it was clear enough that he was becoming angry and indignant, the man with the shaggy eyebrows and the determined jaw having answered once or twice. Then almost suddenly there came a strange termination to this fierce encounter. Young Ross remained behind, glancing around him as if merely wanting to know whether the crop promised well; but Macdonald came down the drills, in the direction of the carriage.

"Käthchen," said Mary, in an eager whisper, "he is coming to speak to me! Let me get out—quick!"

She stepped into the roadway. As Macdonald came slowly towards her, he raised his eyes and regarded her for a second, in silence. He took off his cap—and forgot to put it on again. He was thinking what to say.

"I—not mich English. It is thanks to you—for many things. The young laird says that. And I—am to ask your pardon—and sorry I am if there is not goodwill—and there is good-will now—and it is sorry I am——"

"Not at all—not at all; we are going to be quite good friends, Mr. Macdonald—and there's my hand on it," said she in her frank, impetuous way. "And you are going to ask me into your house; and will you give me a little bit of oat-cake, or something of the kind?—and when you are next over at Lochgarra you must not forget to come and see me. And at any time, mind you, if you have anything to complain of, come to me first; come direct to me; don't go to Mr. Purdie, or anybody; for perhaps I might be able to settle the matter for you at once."

And with that she called on Mr. Ross, and told him they were going into the cottage to get a bit of oat-cake; for Macdonald was already leading the way thither. When they came out of Macdonald's cottage, they found that the photographer had quite completed his work; so they at once set out for home again. Mary was in an extraordinary state of delight over this vanquishment of her obdurate enemy, and said she should take means to remind him of their compact of goodwill. But young Ross only laughed.

"'Wherefore he called that place Beersheba,'" he said, "'because there they sware both of them.'"

The following Saturday was Mary Stanley's birthday. Early in the morning she and Kate, in fulfilment of a long-standing engagement, drove away out to Craiglarig to pay a visit to Mr. Watson, and talk over some matters connected with his farm; and as they stayed for lunch, they did not get back till the afternoon. By that time the mail had come in, and there was an astonishing number of letters and parcels addressed to Miss Stanley, for she had a large number of friends in the south, who held her in kindly remembrance. She was looking at these and guessing at the senders, when she came to one that was larger and heavier than the others; moreover, it had not come by post, but by hand. Something impelled her to tear off the brown wrapper, and behold, here was the Rhodian dish she had so particularly admired when they were out at Heimra Island.

"I saw he noticed how long you looked at it," said Käthchen, with smiling eyes.

Well, she did not look at it long now, beautiful as it was. She had turned again to the wrapper, and she seemed to take a curious interest in studying her own name as she found it there.

"It is an unusual handwriting, don't you think so, Käthchen?" she said, slowly, and almost as if she were talking to herself. "Firm and precise.... How odd one's own name appears when you see it written for the first time by some one you know! ... Do you think character can be read in handwriting, Käthchen? ... firmness—yes, apparently; and precision—well, I don't object to that so much, ... but don't you think he is a little too—a little too confident in himself ... careless of what others may think ... a little too independent ... and proud in his own domain?"

"I don't know about that at all. But I am going to tell you something now, and you may be angry or not as you please," said Käthchen; and she went up to her friend, and put her hand on her arm: perhaps she wanted to watch the expression of her face: "Mamie," she said, "that man loves you."

CHAPTER V.

A PIOUS PILGRIMAGE.

All things appeared to be going well at Lochgarra: Mary was radiant and jubilant, and would pay no heed to Käthchen's underhand jibes and warnings. Her numerous schemes were thriving all along the line; she had orders for homespun webs and hand-knitted stockings far beyond what she could execute in the coming winter; she had been guaranteed two fishing-boats, with their furnishing of nets, for the next season; she was in treaty for more looms, for which there would be abundant employment; and to add to all this, the as yet ungarnered harvest—that poor, scattered, patchwork harvest, among the sterile rocks—promised a fair return if only the weather would leave it alone. But it was the attitude of the people towards her that warmed her heart. Since her open association with young Donald of Heimra, a miracle had been wrought in this neighbourhood; the dumb could speak; men and women who had sulkily turned away from the ban-sassunnach, shaking their heads, now managed to find quite sufficient English to answer her, and would ask her into their cottages, and offer her of their little store. Even the sad-faced, silent, morose Peter Grant, of the inn, had been brought to see that there might be something in Miss Stanley's proposals. If he were to take the April fishing on the Garra at an annual rental of £15, she providing a water-bailiff, and if, by advertising in the sporting papers, he were to find two gentlemen who would pay him £25 for the month's salmon-fishing, and use the inn at the same time, would not that serve? Peter (committing one illegal act in order to prevent another) could give an occasional glass of whiskey to the rosy-cheeked policeman: the placid and easy-going Iain, having little else to do, could now and again stroll down to the bridge of a morning or evening—there would be no fear of poachers at that end of the water.

But it was over the terrible rascal and outlaw, Gillie Ciotach, that she obtained (as she thought) her most signal triumph. She sent for that notorious scamp to thank him for the couple of lythe he had presented to her; and one evening the Gillie Ciotach sauntered along towards Lochgarra House, his fisherman clothes as clean as might be, and a brand-new Balmoral set jauntily on his short brown curls. When he arrived at the house, he dismissed a quid of tobacco he had been chewing, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and ascended the steps. Barbara received him, and went and told her mistress, who directed her to bring some whiskey into the hall. Then Mary came down.

"Good evening!" said she, rather nervously, to this young fellow with the bold brown eyes and the heavy scar across his forehead, who stood twirling his Balmoral in his fingers. "Won't you be seated? I hope I have not put you to any inconvenience. The fact is, I wished to thank you for your kindness in leaving the two stenlock for me—I am sorry I was out—and—and perhaps you will take a glass of whiskey—will you help yourself?"

For Barbara had brought in a little tray, and placed it on the hall-table, and retired. Now, when the Gillie Ciotach received this invitation, which he had no thought of refusing, he went to the table; and finding there a tumbler, a wineglass, a decanter, and a carafe of water, and being far too polite to think of drinking by himself, he filled the wine-glass with whiskey, and half-filled the tumbler with the same fluid, and brought the former, as being the more elegant of the two, to Miss Stanley.

"Oh, no, thank you," said she, with an involuntary shudder.

"No, mem?" said he, in great surprise. "Well, well, now!" But not to waste good liquor he poured the contents of the wine-glass into the tumbler, and took that between his hands as he sate down, nursing it, as it were, while he listened respectfully.

"But first of all," she said, with a fine effort at jollity and good-comradeship, "I ought to know your real name, you know; I don't consider nicknames fair—even although they may not be meant to be nicknames. And I wish to be good friends with everybody in the place—and to get to know all about them——"

"Aw, my own name?" said the Gillie Ciotach, after having, with careful manners, sipped a little of the whiskey. "Aw, it's just Andrew Mac Vean."

"Very well, then, Andrew, I am very pleased to see you; and I am sure we shall be friends; and I wished to say, besides, that I hope everything will go peaceably here, and that there will be no more riotous proceedings, like the assault on the lobster-fishermen at Ru Minard——"

"Aw, God, that was a fine thing!" cried the Gillie Ciotach, with a loud laugh that led Mary to suspect he must have had a glass, or even two, before coming along. "Aw, it was a fine thing, that! And Miss Stanley has only to send us word, as she did before, and we'll drive the squatters into the sea—them and their traps, and their huts, ahltogether into the sea! Never mind where they settle!—you send to me, mem, and we will drive the duvvles into the sea, and let them tek their chance of swimming the Minch!——"

"But what do you mean?" she said, angrily. "What word did I send you? Do you imagine I authorized those mad and cruel proceedings? I bade Big Archie tell those men what the Fishery Board had said—that they had no right there; I did not ask you to drive the poor men out with sticks and stones, and set fire to their huts with petroleum. I don't want any such on-goings: why, it is monstrous that the people should take the law into their own hands, and get the neighbourhood a bad name for rioting."

"It's the God's truth, mem, and many's the time I was telling them that," said the Gillie Ciotach, solemnly. "But ye see, mem, there's some wild duvvles about here; and they're neither to hold nor to bind; but I'll tell them what Miss Stanley says, that there's to be no more fighting; and if a man is determined to fight, then we'll chist fell him with a chair, and fling him below the table until he gets sober. It's a peaceable neighbourhood: why should there be any fighting in it?—but for these duvvles!——"

"I am glad you think so," said Mary, very gratefully. "And then there's another thing—the poaching. Now, is it fair? I ask you if it is fair——"

"It's a b——y shame!" said the Gillie Ciotach to himself, as he bent his head to sip a little more whiskey.

"Because look what I am doing, Andrew," she went on, probably not having heard the penitent exclamation. "I want you to understand. I am having the ground shot over, moderately, by the keepers, and the game sent to Inverness and sold there to pay wages, and the cost of the kennels, and so on; and in that way I can afford to keep the gillies in employment. And I do think it is hardly fair that there should be poaching. I get no good out of the game—except a bird or two now and again for the house, or a brace or two to send away. Of course, I don't believe that there is very much poaching—for the keepers know their business too well; but it is disgraceful there should be any——"

"I declare to ye, mem," said the Gillie Ciotach, in tones of the most earnest conviction, "that if I was to come across one of them d——d scoundrels—I beg your pardon, mem—I meant to say there was one or two bad men about here, that mebbe would tek a hare if they found her sitting in her form—or—or a salmon; and as sure's death, mem, if I was to catch one of them scoundrels, I would bind him hand and foot with a heather rope, and I would fling him down in front of Hector's cottage, and I would say 'Hector, off with him to Dingwall!'"

This was almost too much of zeal.

"Andrew," said she, slowly, and she looked at him, "I have heard it said that even you yourself——"

"Me, mem?" he exclaimed, quick to repel this unspoken accusation. "Me, mem? Miss Stanley is not going to believe that! There's a great many liars about here, mem, and there's not one of them I would believe myself; and tekking away any one's character like that! I would just like to brek the bones of any one that I heard talking like that about me—begooh, I would shove his teeth down his throat!"

"Well, I won't detain you any longer, Andrew," said she—and he drained off the whiskey, and smoothed out the ribbons of his Balmoral. "I am glad to hear that there is to be no more fighting or poaching; for I want the neighbourhood to have a good name; and there are plenty of other and better occupations for the young men."

She went with him to the door. Suddenly something seemed to occur to the Gillie Ciotach.

"Would Miss Stanley be caring for two or three sea-trout now and again?" said he, in a casual kind of way.

Instantly she fixed her eyes on him.

"Sea-trout?—where are you getting sea-trout, Andrew?" she demanded. "Do you mean to say you have a scringe-net?"

For one brief moment the Gillie Ciotach looked disconcerted and guilty; but only for a moment.

"Aw, no, mem. A scringe-net? Is it a scringe-net? Aw, I'm sure there's no one would use a scringe-net about here!" he declared, assuming further and further an air of innocence as he went on. "The sea-trout?—well, mebbe they would be in the herring-nets—and mebbe a happening one would come on to the bait-lines—and—and mebbe the one way or the other; but if Miss Stanley not wishing to have them——"

"Why, isn't this the very time they go up the rivers to spawn!" she exclaimed. "And what a shame it would be to take them now!"

"Indeed, indeed, and that's the God's truth, mem," said the Gillie Ciotach, with a serious air. "It's at this very moment. And who would tek them? Who would put a scringe-net round the mouth of the ruvvers at a time of the year like this? Not a man about here, anyway. Aw, sea-trout?—who would think of tekkin sea-trout now? Well, good evening, mem; and I am thanking Miss Stanley for her kindness—yes, yes, indeed."

And therewith the Gillie Ciotach went down the steps, fumbling in his pocket for his pipe; while Mary returned to relate the story of this momentous interview to Käthchen—perhaps with some few judicious reservations. For if all that the Gillie Ciotach professed was not quite to be believed, at least it was something that so desperate a dare-devil had the grace to affect being on the side of virtue; and Mary chose to flatter herself that, now he had shown himself in a measure amenable, she would sooner or later complete his conversion—to the general quieting of the country-side.

And of course an account of this, her latest conquest, had to be written out forthwith and despatched to Heimra. Indeed, it was remarkable how constant had become the communication between the island and the shore, now that Donald Ross had returned for a few days to his own home. Big Archie's lugger was continually being requisitioned, to take out a note and wait for an answer; while Coinneach and Calum, when they came to meet the mail, would be intercepted by the swift-footed Barbara, and entrusted with a message. Käthchen was convinced that the replies that came back from Eilean Heimra were kept and secretly pondered over: more than once she had seen Mary thrust a paper into her pocket when someone had suddenly come upon her. And she noticed that when they two were walking along the shore, her companion's attention would sometimes be so steadily and wistfully fixed on the distant island—which sometimes was dark and misty under trailing clouds of rain, and sometimes shining fair amid a wonder of blue seas and sunlight—that when she was spoken to she would look startled, as if summoned out of a dream.

One day there arrived, addressed to Miss Stanley, a wooden box that had the name of a well-known London florist printed on the label. The contents were a mass of flowers, all of them white; and Mary herself saw them taken out and carefully placed in water—for the pale wax-like buds of the tuberoses were hardly yet opened. Then she went to Kate Glendinning.

"Käthchen," she said, rather diffidently, "don't you think it is rather a sad thing, the lonely grave out there?"

"Do you mean at Heimra, Mamie?"

"Yes. It seems so hard that no one has ever a chance of showing sympathy—either with the dead or living. I have sent for some flowers; do you think we could go out and place them on the grave—without being seen?"

Käthchen was silent: it did not appear a very feasible project.

"I have been thinking it over," Mary continued, in the same humbly apologetic, almost shamefaced way—though what there was to be ashamed of Käthchen could not make out. "And, you see, if we landed at the little bay, he would be sure to come down to meet us, and—and we should have to tell him—and—and there are things you can't speak of. I would rather have this done quite unknown—as if it were by the hand of a stranger: perhaps I should like it better if Mr. Ross himself never knew. However, I was wondering if we could not get out to the west coast of the island without being seen, and then if there was a chance of our being able to get up to the top of the cliff that way. What do you think, Käthchen?"

"Let us go along and ask Big Archie," said Käthchen, with promptitude: and that suggestion commending itself to her friend, both of them at once went off and got ready, and proceeded to walk down through the village.

Big Archie they found on the beach, screwing the nails into a lobster-box. Käthchen put the matter briefly before him—telling him frankly the object of the expedition, and explaining their reasons for secrecy. The huge, heavy-shouldered fisherman listened attentively, stroking his voluminous beard the while.

"Well, mem," said he, in his plaintive Argyllshire intonation, "I am thinking it would be easy enough to get out to the island, for we could go round by the norse side. If the wind wass holding as it is now, we would lie aweh up the coast there, and if anyone on Heimra wass seeing the lugger, they would think I wass mekkin for the Eddrachilles fishing-banks; and then, when we were far enough we would put about and run down to the back of the island, and mek in for the shore. I am thinking there would be no diffeekwulty about that—aw, no, mem; we could get round to the back of the island ferry well; but it is the next thing that would be the sore thing for leddies to try——"

"You mean climbing up to the top of the cliff?" said Käthchen.

"Chist that! It's a terrible rough place the west side of Heimra," said Gilleasbuig Mor. "And where the big white stone is, it is fearful high."

"Mamie," said Käthchen, turning to her friend, "wouldn't it be better for you to send Archie out with some young lad who is used to the coast, and they could put the flowers on the grave for you?"

"I wish to place them there with my own hand," said Mary, simply. "But you needn't come, Käthchen."

"Of course I will, though!"

"Well, mem," said Big Archie, "I am not sure whether you will be able to get to the top that way, but we can go out and see whatever. And if the wind would hold till to-morrow morning, it would be a very good wind, both for going and coming."

"Very well, then, Archie," said Mary; "to-morrow morning we shall be ready to start between nine and ten."

The wind did hold, as it proved; and long before the young ladies made their appearance Big Archie and his assistant had the lugsail hoisted and the cumbrous craft smartened up as much as might be. Then he sent the lad along to Lochgarra House to see if there was anything to be fetched; but there was only a couple of waterproofs; when Mary and her friend came out, the former was herself carrying a small basket, containing the freshly-sprinkled flowers.

And so they set forth—making away in a north-westerly direction, which would have led anyone to imagine they were either going to certain well-known fishing-banks or that they intended to pay some visit not at all in the Heimra direction. But when at length they had got well out beyond the most northerly spur of the island, Big Archie altered his course, and bore down south, until they were quite near to these giant ramparts facing the Atlantic main. And already it appeared to the two girls that this expedition of theirs was a quite hopeless one. They were, it is true, under the lee of the island, and the water was smooth, so that they could get ashore wherever they wished; but who could scale those sterile and sombre precipices that, further to the south, rose sheer from the water, and seemed to afford not even foothold for a goat? Even Big Archie was discouraged.

"No, mem," he said to Miss Stanley, "it is no use going aweh down there to where the big white stone is. There's no luvvin crayture could get up—it's far worse than I wass remembering it. But if we went ashore here where we are, and tried to get up one of them corries, then mebbe we could get along the top. Will ye try that, mem?"

"Whatever you like, Archie," said she—the aspect of that frowning, lonely, precipitous coast seemed to have overawed her.

And indeed when they did eventually choose a landing-place, and when they began to look around them, the arduous nature of their task became abundantly apparent. First of all there were the tumbled rocks on the shore to be got over or avoided; then they proceeded up a narrow watercourse that here cleaved the land into a deep ravine; and this they ascended for some distance, scrambling up the loose wet shingle and stones. Big Archie led the way, and also he carried the little basket, for the two girls had frequently need of both hands to help them along, especially when they left the water-course, and began to force a path through the stunted birches that lined the sides of the chasm. It was a thicket of short trees, with intertwisted branches; while underfoot the long heather and bracken concealed loose, angular stones perilous to the ankle. Sometimes they had to pause, from absolute want of breath; and Big Archie, looking back, would also stop. But no one made any suggestion of giving up: there must be light and open space somewhere, if only one could win to the summit.

So they toiled and toiled on, in silence, startling now a fox and now a rabbit, until, at length, the stunted trees gave way to bushes, and these in turn gave way to knee-deep heather. It was still difficult to get along; but at least they had reached the open, and were presumably approaching the high plateaus: turning, they could look abroad over the wide Atlantic, the vast plain not showing one single ship. Their own boat, far below, was out of sight, so steep was this ascent they had made.

Here they rested for a minute or two, after their long and breathless struggle.

"One thing is quite certain, Mamie," said Käthchen, in rather a low voice, so that the big fisherman should not overhear, "When Mr. Ross finds these flowers on the grave, he will know very well who put them there."

"I am not sure that I want him to know," Mary answered, in an absent way. "I think I almost wish he were not to know. If he were to consider it merely a little kindness from some stranger—that would be better, it seems to me—it would be quite disinterested——"

"Why, what stranger could have managed to land on Heimra without being seen?" Käthchen asked; and as there was no answer to the question, they resumed their difficult progress, getting momentarily higher as they went along the summit of the cliffs.

But all at once Big Archie, who was some distance in front, halted, ducked his head, and immediately turned and came back.

"Miss Stanley, mem, Mr. Ross himself is there," said he.

"Mr. Ross!" said she, with frightened eyes.

"Ay. He is sitting on the heather, not far from the big white stone, and he is reading a book," said Big Archie. "He is often up there, mem. I am seeing him often and often when I am going by in the boat."

Mary turned to her companion, with her face aghast.

"We must go away back, Käthchen, and at once," she said, in a hurried undertone. "The embarrassment would be too dreadful. If he could imagine it was some stranger brought the flowers, that would be all right; but to go up to him—before his face—to make a parade—he would wonder what kind of creatures we were."

Käthchen hardly knew what to say. She had no more mind to go forward than her friend had; and yet she guessed with what a heavy heart, with what regretful lookings-back, Mary would set out on her voyage home again.

"Let us sit down and rest awhile," she said, at a venture.

But at this very instant Big Archie returned.

"Mr. Ross, mem, he has got up, and he is going aweh down the hill," he said, in an eager whisper.

"You are sure he is not coming this way?" she said, quickly.

"No, no, mem—come a bit forrit, and you will see."

So they followed, with rather timorous steps and anxious glances, the big fisherman; and at last they just caught a glimpse of Donald Ross making his way down the hill by the winding pathway leading up to this little plateau. And here was the large white block of marble, with its deep-graven letters of gold shining in the sunlight. Mary regarded this inscription with some curious fancies in her mind.

"I wish I had known her," she murmured, apparently to herself, as she took the white flowers out of the basket and reverently placed them on the stone. It was a simple ceremony—up here on the lofty crest of this solitary island, between the wide, over-arching sky and the far-extending plain of the sea.

Then they went back along these silent and lonely cliffs, and got down to the boat in safety; returning to the mainland, as they hoped, unobserved. Mary Stanley was unusually absorbed and thoughtful during the rest of that day; and only once did she refer to their visit to Heimra.

"It seems strange, Käthchen, does it not," she said, musingly, "that he should go away up there to read? ... Do you think it is perhaps for some sense of companionship? ... That would be strange, wouldn't it, in a young man?..." And Käthchen did not venture to reply: she could not even conjecture what secret influences, what mysterious cogitations, might not have prompted such a question.

But Kate herself grew to wonder whether Donald Ross had become aware of that thoughtful little act of kindness and sympathy; and whether, and in what way, he would make recognition of it. This was what happened. Some two days after their visit to the island Mary chanced to be standing at one of the windows, when she suddenly called to her companion—

"Käthchen, there's a boat coming out from Heimra."

She went quickly and got her binocular telescope, and returned to the window.

"It's the Sirène!" she exclaimed.

"He has seen those flowers," Kate Glendinning said quietly.

Mary turned to her friend, with something of concern in her look.

"And if he has, Käthchen, I hope he won't speak of them. Don't you think it would be better—if nothing were said? Besides, you don't know that he is coming here at all."

But there was little doubt; and, in fact, on getting ashore, young Ross made straight for the house. When he was announced in the drawing-room, Mary happened to be standing near the door—perhaps with the least touch of conscious colour in the beautiful face. He, on the contrary, was pale, and calm, and self-possessed as usual; only, when he took her hand in his, he held it for a second.

"I thank you," he said, in rather a low voice: that was all—and it was enough.

But presently it appeared that his visit had some other aim; for when he sate down they saw that he had brought a small parcel with him; and presently he said—

"I am going to ask a favour of you, Miss Stanley; and I hope you won't refuse. I have brought a little present, if you will be so kind as to accept it: you may look on it as a souvenir of your visit to Heimra—for perhaps you remember the piece of lace you looked at——"

She remembered very well; it was the exquisite Spanish mantilla to which Käthchen had drawn her attention. And it was not because this sumptuous piece of work was of great value that she hesitated about accepting it: would it not look like despoiling the dead woman? Instantly he appeared to divine her thought.

"If my mother were alive," he said, simply, "she would ask you to take it—and from her, not from me."

So there was no alternative: Mary silently accepted the gift. Nor was there any further word or hint on either side about that pious and secret pilgrimage to Heimra Island; but Donald Ross knew whose hand it was that had placed those flowers on the white grave.

One evening, about this time, two men were dining together in the Station Hotel, Inverness, in a corner of the long coffee-room; and these two were Mr. David Purdie, solicitor and agent, and Mr. James Watson, who was on his way through to his sheep-farm of Craiglarig. But if they were dining together, their fare was very different; for while the fresh-complexioned, twinkling-eyed farmer was content with such simple vegetarian dishes as an ordinary hotel could devise at short notice, the Troich Bheag Dhearg was attacking an ample plateful of boiled beef and carrots, while a decanter of port stood near to his elbow.

"Man, Watson," said the factor, with an expression of impatient disgust on his harsh, ill-tempered features, "I wonder to see ye swallowing that trash! It's not food for human beings. Have ye been so long among sheep that ye must imitate their very eating?"

"It's live and let live, each in his own way," said the well-contented sheep-farmer; and then he added: "But tell me this, friend Purdie: if ye object to my eemitating a sheep, what kind o' animal is't you eemitate? For there's only one kind o' crayture I've heard o' that would eat a dead cow—and that's a hoodie crow."

But this was an incidental remark: presently they returned to their main object, which was the condition of Lochgarra.

"It's just terrible to think of," said the Little Red Dwarf, with his mouth as vindictive as the process of eating would allow; "it's just terrible to think of, the waste and extravagance going forward, on what used to be a carefully-ordered, carefully-kept estate. And the pampering o' they idle, whining, deceitful, ill-thrawn wretches, that would be the better of a cat-o'-nine tails to make them work! Work? Not them!—if they can get money out o' the proprietors or out o' the Government, or out o' the rates. And what could ye expect to happen wi' a silly, ignorant woman coming into such a nest of liars, and believing everything she hears? What could ye expect? Born liars every one o' them—ay, from end to end of the West Highlands: there's not a man o' them that would not lie the very soul out o' his body for a dram of whisky!"

"That's an old contention o' yours, friend Purdie," said the farmer; and then he proceeded, with a twinkle of humour in his eyes: "But I'll just tell ye this, man, that it's a mercy there's one thing in the West Highlands that will not lie. One thing at least, I tell ye. Among the universal lying, isn't it a mercy there's one thing will not lie—and that's the snow. It's a blessing for the sheep—and for the sheep-farmers."

"And what am I? Where am I?" resumed Mr. Purdie, paying no heed to this little jocosity, for his small, piggish eyes had grown heated with anger and indignation. "What is my poseetion? I ask ye that. What have I to do wi' the estate except to collect what rent there is left? It's this fashionable young dame that must come in to manage the place, snipping off here and snipping off there, ordering this and ordering that, building byres and sheds for nothing, and putting advertisements in the papers about druggets and blankets to sell, as if Lochgarra House was a warehousemen's shop. I tell ye, it's enough to make her uncle turn in his grave. He knew better how to dale wi' they ill-thrawn paupers! And what will she not give them, after giving them Meall-na-Cruagan?—and that without consulting any one—no 'by your leave' or 'with your leave,' but 'this is what I have decided, and you can carry it out like a clerk.' Man, Watson, ye were a silly creature to consent to that Meall-na-Cruagan business! That was but a beginning—where is to be the end? Well, I'll tell ye the end! She'll snip here, and snip there, until she has divided every acre of ground among the crofters; and then, when they've resolved among themselves to pay no more rent, I suppose they'll be happy. No, d——n them if they will!—they'll want her to sell Lochgarra House, and give them the money to buy more stock." And here Mr. Purdie poured himself out a glass of port, and gulped it as a dog grabs at a rat.

"Ye've never forgiven the folk out there," said Mr. Watson, with an amused and demure air, "since the procession and the burning in effigy. Dod, that was a queer business!—I heard of it away up in Caithness. But I'm thinking ye might let bygones be bygones; ye've had them under your thumb a good while now—and—and—well, ye might consider that ye've paid off that score. But as for the young leddy—well, I tell ye, friend Purdie, it's just wonderful what she has done since she cam' to the place. A busy, industrious creature; ay, and she has a way of talking folk over to her way of thinking; she seems to get on famously wi' them, though they cannot have too friendly recollections of her uncle. Yes, I will say that for her: an active, well-meaning creature; and light-hearted as a lintie; dod, she takes her own way, and gets it too! But I'm thinking there's a great deal owing to young Mr. Ross—he goes about wi' her just conteenually."

"Ay," said the factor, with a malignant scowl, "I'm told my young gentleman doesna shut himself up as much wi' his brandy-drinking as he used to do. So he comes over to the mainland sometimes, and goes about wi' her, does he?"

"Faith, ye may say that," Mr. Watson made answer, with a laugh. "They're just insayperable, as ye might say, any time that he comes over from Heimra, and that's often enough." He regarded the factor curiously. "Purdie, my man, that's going to be a match."

For a second Purdie looked startled and incredulous, but instantly he lowered his eyes again.

"It's a match, Purdie, depend on't," Mr. Watson proceeded, still looking at his companion with an odd sort of scrutiny. "And I have been thinking, if such a thing were to come about, it might be a wee bit difficult for you—with young Ross the master at Lochgarra, eh? What d'ye think? Dod, ye'd have to make friends with him and keep a civil tongue besides, or he might be for bringing up old scores."

Mr. Purdie's dinner did not seem to interest him much after that. He remained plunged in a profound reverie, with his truculent mouth drawn down, the shaggy red eyebrows shading the small irascible eyes that were now grown intent and thoughtful. And when at length Mr. Watson haled him off to the smoking-room he did not speak for some considerable time. But by and by he said—

"Are ye off by the early train to-morrow, Watson?"

"Yes, indeed.'

"And you go right through?"

"Just that."

"Well, I think I'll bear ye company," said the Troich Bheag Dhearg, with the heavily down-drawn mouth expressing something more than mere decision. "There's a few things I want to see to. And I havena been out to Lochgarra for some time."

CHAPTER VI.

HABET!

Mary went singing through the house: her step free and agile, her face radiant, her eyes shining with good-humour and the delight of life.

"Käthchen," she said, one morning, "the proofs of the photographs should come to-day, and if they turn out well I mean to have the whole of them enlarged, every one of them, to make a handsome series for Mrs. Armour. Don't you think they should be very interesting to those people away over there—'where wild Altama murmurs to their woe'? Woe, indeed! I wish we could import some of their woeful circumstances into this neighbourhood. Forty bushels of wheat to the acre: what do you say to that? A hundred and sixty acres of land for two pounds! I don't like to think of it, Käthchen: to tell you the truth, I just hate to hear Mr. Ross begin and talk about emigration: it all sounds so horribly reasonable, and practicable, and right. Sometimes I lie awake convincing myself that the very next day or the next again he will make his appearance with the announcement that he has decided to go back to his original intention; and then—then he will say good-bye to Lochgarra—he and half the people from about here—and be off to the Gilbert Plains or the Lake Dauphin District——"

"You need not be afraid," said Käthchen, quietly. "It is neither wheat-fields nor gold-fields that are likely to allure Mr. Ross. There's metal more attractive nearer home. By the way, Mamie," she continued, with a certain significance, "you remember there was a group taken on the banks of the Connan—and you and Mr. Ross are standing together. When you get the pictures enlarged, are you going to send any copies of that one to your friends in the south?"

"Why not?" said she, boldly.

"They may draw conclusions," said Kate Glendinning, looking at her.

"They are welcome to draw a cart-load of conclusions!" she retorted; but all the same she changed the subject quickly. "Do you know, Käthchen, it is quite wonderful how easily things go forward when Donald Ross is helping me. Look at the wood-carving class—started in a moment, almost; and that left-handed rascal turning out the cleverest of any of them. And then he is quite of a mind with me about corrugated iron——"

"You mean Mr. Ross, Mamie?" said Kate, demurely.

"Of course. Quite of a mind with me as to corrugated iron; and I won't have a square yard of it in the place. If, as he says, thatch takes too much time and labour, then they may have slates for their roofs, in place of the turf that I hope to see the last of before I have done with them; but not an inch of corrugated iron—not an inch. Oh, I tell you we will have Lochgarra smartened up in course of time, and Minard and Cruagan too. And I will never rest, Käthchen, I tell you I will never rest until Lochgarra has taken the first prize at the Inverness Exhibition—I mean for the best suit of men's clothes made from the wool of sheep fed on the croft, and carded, dyed, spun, hand-loom woven, and cut and sewn in the family. There! It may be a long time yet, but I mean Lochgarra to have it in the end."

"Oh, but you must not stop at that point," said Käthchen. "There are a whole heap of things to be done before you have finally established your earthly paradise. You must banish all sickness and illness—but especially rheumatism. You must abolish old age. You must control the climate to suit the crops. Perhaps you could magnetise the herring-shoals, and bring them round this way, and ward off storms at the same time?"

"Käthchen," said Mary abruptly, "why does he keep harking back on Manitoba? Don't you think there is a curious tenacity about his mind?—he does not change plans or opinions quickly. And I know he was resolved on that emigration scheme. Why does he still talk about Manitoba? If he really has abandoned that project, why does he still keep thinking about Portage, and La Prairie, and Brandon? Of course, I admit that a hundred and sixty acres for two pounds is very tempting; and forty bushels of wheat to the acre sounds well; and I have no doubt the emigrants have better clothes, and better food, and better cottages, and that they don't run such risks from floods and rain. But still—still there's something about one's own country——"

"You need not be afraid, Mamie," said Kate Glendinning again.

Mary went to the window, and remained there for a minute or two, looking absently across the wide plain of the sea.

"After all," she said, "it is a very pleasant and comfortable thing to have a neighbour. Heimra is a good way off; but all the same, if you knew there was no one living on the island, Lochgarra would be a very different place, wouldn't it, Käthchen? And Manitoba! Why, I have seen it stated that there is a most serious scarcity of water in a great many of the districts; and that often they have summer frosts that do incalculable mischief to the grain. So you see it isn't a certainty!"

"No, it is not," said Käthchen; "but I will tell you what is, Mamie. It is a certainty, an absolute certainty, that Donald Ross of Heimra will not go to Manitoba, or to any other corner of Canada, so long as Mary Stanley is living in Lochgarra."

"Käthchen," rejoined Mary, a little proudly, "you will go on talking like that until you believe what you say."

This same afternoon, shortly after luncheon, Mary left the house alone, which was unusual. She passed down through the village, greeting everyone, right and left, with a fine cheerfulness; for the weather still held good, and there was a fair chance for the harvest; while her individual schemes and industries were doing as well as could be expected. In fact, the only idle person in the place, apart from the aged and infirm, appeared to be John the policeman, and him she found by the bridge that crosses the Garra—no doubt he had been amusing himself by watching for some lively salmon or sea-trout on its way up the river. Iain seemed to have grown plumper and more roseate than ever in these piping times of peace; and the smile with which he greeted the young proprietress was good-nature itself.

"John," said she, "I want you to tell me something."

"Aw, yes, mem," said the amiable John; and then he added: "but the lads hef been keeping very quiet."

"So I hear," she answered him. "The Gillie Ciotach says he will smash the head of anyone that wants to fight; and I suppose that is one way to stop quarrelling."

John laughed, showing his milk-white teeth.

"A very good weh, too, mem. There's not many would like to hef their head brokken by the Gillie Ciotach."

"It is not about that I want you to give me some information," said Miss Stanley. "I want you to tell me if you have been long in this place. I mean, do you remember the old castle, up there in the loch, before it was pulled down?"

"Aw, yes, mem, yes, indeed," he made answer. "Who does not remember Castle Stanley?"

"Oh, nonsense with your Castle Stanley!" she said, angrily. "It never was Castle Stanley, and never will be Castle Stanley. It was Castle Heimra; and if I could have my way it would be Castle Heimra again——"

"Aw, yes, mem," said John, anxious to please, "who would be for calling it Castle Stanley? It is not Castle Stanley at ahl; it's just Castle Heimra, as it always was—ay, before any one can remember."

"Well, tell me; what size of a place was it before it was pulled down? Was it a big place?"

"Big!" repeated John, doubtfully, for he did not know which way she wished to be answered.

"Yes, was it a great ruin?" she went on. "Some of those old castles are mere towers, you know; and others are great strongholds. What was Castle Heimra like? Was it as big as Ardvreck?"

Now John had jumped to the conclusion that she wished to have the ancient glories of Castle Heimra magnified.

"Aw, far bigger nor Ardvreck!" he asserted confidently. "Aw, yes, yes; far bigger nor Ardvreck. A fearful big place, Castle Heimra—if you had seen the dingeons, and the towers, and the windows, and everything——"

"Oh, bigger than Ardvreck?" Mary said, with fallen face. And instantly John perceived that he had erred.

"Aw, no, mem," said he quickly. "Mebbe it was bigger nor Ardvreck at one time—that is a long time ago, before anyone about here can remember; but Castle Heimra?—aw, no!—a smahl place, a smahl place, indeed! There was nothing but the road out to it, when the loch was not too high flooded; and then the archway, and the dingeon, and the tower. Castle Heimra!—aw, it's a smahl place was Castle Heimra."

"And do you suppose it could be built up again?" she asked—but rather to see how far his complaisance would carry him.

"Quite easy!" said John, without a moment's hesitation.

"Why, how do you know?" she demanded. "Are you a builder?"

"The stons are there," John pointed out. "And if they were pulled down, it is easy to put them back. What has been done once can be done twice."

"Ah, but it would not be Castle Heimra," Mary said to herself, rather sadly, as she went on her solitary way.

In course of time she came within view of the desolate expanse of mud and stones and rushes that had once been Heimra loch; and when she chose out for herself a seat on a heathery hillock close to the road, there before her were the tumbled ruins of the stronghold that had withstood the storms of centuries only to fall before the withering blast of one man's spite. And as she sate there, alone, in the absolute silence, a kind of desperation came into her mind. In all other directions there was hope for her; but here there was none. Elsewhere she could labour, and patiently wait for fruition; but how was she to drag back the past? The future had abundant and fair possibilities within it; and she was naturally sanguine; her happiness consisted in action; and perhaps she was looking forward to the time when she could say to her lover, 'See, this is what I have striven to do—for your people: is it well or ill?' But as between him and her, would there not be ever and always the consciousness of this black deed that could in no wise be recalled or atoned for, that could never be forgiven or forgotten? She was not even allowed to speak: he had declined to hear her shamefaced expressions of sorrow. Nay, she began to think he was too proud, too implacable, that he would have no word uttered. And if she went to him and said: 'Donald, do not blame me!—I had no part in it: I would give my right hand to undo what has been done'—would not his looks still remain haughty and cold, telling her that she had not ceased to be the ban-sassunnach—a stranger—the enemy of his race and name?

There was a sound of wheels. She started to her feet, for there were tears in her eyes that she had to hide. The approaching vehicle turned out to be the mail-car; and on it were Mr. Purdie and Mr. Watson, seated beside the driver. Both of them raised their hats to her, and would doubtless have driven on, but that she called to the factor; whereupon the mail-car was stopped, and Mr. Purdie descended.

"Leave my bag at the inn, Jimmie," he said to the driver, who sent his horses on again: then the Troich Bheag Dhearg came along to the spot at which Mary awaited him.

"I wish to speak to you about one or two things, Mr. Purdie," she said, in a curiously reserved and frigid fashion. "You told me it was under your direction that the loch here was drained. I do not know whether my uncle was acting on the advice or suggestion of any one; I can hardly believe that so insensate a piece of malice could have entered his head without instigation. And if there was instigation, if this thing was done out of ill-will towards the Rosses of Heimra, then I say it was a cowardly blow—a mean, shameless, and cowardly blow!" Her lips were a little pale; but she was apparently quite calm.

"It was just the thrawn nature of the people about here that brought it on themselves," said the Little Red Dwarf, sullenly. "The Rosses of Heimra had no further concern with the loch and the castle, once the property was sold. They belonged to your uncle: surely it was for him to say what they should be called? Surely he had the right to do what he liked with his own?"

"In this instance," said Mary, still preserving that somewhat cold and distant demeanour, "what he did has got to be undone, as far as that is now possible. I suppose it would be useless to try and rebuild the castle. Even if the stones were put up again, it would hardly be Castle Heimra. But Loch Heimra can be restored to what it used to be; and since the mischief was done under your direction, Mr. Purdie, you can now take steps to repair it."

"Bless me, Miss Stanley," the factor protested, "it would be quite useless—perfectly useless! The loch was never worth anything to anybody. Salmon cannot get up; and there was nothing in it but a wheen brown trout——"

"It is not the value of the loch I am considering," she rejoined. "I wish to make some reparation, as far as I can. And I suppose if those channels you had cut were partially blocked up, the water from the hills would soon fill the lake again. Or you could bring the Connan round in this direction with very little trouble, and let it find its way down to the Garra after going through the loch——"

"The expense, Miss Stanley!—the expense!"

"I tell you I will have this done, if I have to sell Lochgarra House to do it!" she said—forgetting for a moment her austere demeanour. The factor had no further word. Mary went on: "It cannot be a difficult thing to do, any more than the draining was difficult; and it will give employment to some of the people, when the harvest is in and the fishing season over. So you'd better see about it at once, Mr. Purdie; and make arrangements. And there is to be no more talk of Loch Stanley or of Castle Stanley either; this is Loch Heimra; and if Castle Heimra has been pulled down—shamefully and wickedly pulled down—at least there are the ruins to show where it stood."

The factor remained darkly silent, his vindictive mouth drawn down, his small eyes morose. And little did she know what gall and wormwood she had poured into his heart, in directing him to employ those very Lochgarra people in this work of restoration. However, he made no further protest: indeed, he endeavoured to assume an air of hopeless acquiescence—it was his business to obey orders, even if she should bring the whole estate to waste and ruin.

But as they together set out to return to the village, and as she was talking over general business affairs with him, explaining what she had done and what she meant to do, he could not quite conceal his bitter resentment.

"It seems to me, Miss Stanley, that I am hardly wanted here. A strange condeetion of affairs. The factor the very last one to be consulted. And when I think of the way ye allow these people to impose on ye—well, maybe I'm not so much astonished; for what could one expect?—you come here an absolute stranger, and you wish to do without them that have experience of the place, and of course you believe every tale that is told ye. Though I say it who maybe should not, Lochgarra was a well-managed estate; everything actually valued, and in order; and the tenants, large and small, knowing fine that they had to fulfil their contracts, or take the consequences. But what prevails now? A system of wholesale charity, as it seems to me. It is giving everything, and getting nothing. I hope, Miss Stanley," he went on, "ye will not mind my speaking warmly; for I've done my best for my employers all my life through; and I cannot be supposed to like other ways and means—which were never contemplated by the law of the land. If the other proprietors were to go on as you are doing, there's three-fourths o' them would be in beggary——"

"It might do them good to try a little of it," said she—which was an odd speech for the owner of a considerable estate.

"And what has been the result?" he demanded. "What has been gained by so much sacrifice?"

"Well," said she, "for one thing, the people are more contented. And they are more friendly towards me. When I came here at first I was hated; now I am not so much so. Quite friendly most of them are—or, at least, they appear to be."

"Ay, trust them for that!" said the Little Red Dwarf, scornfully. "Trust them for that—the cunningest mongrels that ever whined for a bone! Well they know how to fawn and beslaver, when they're expecting more and more. I tell ye, Miss Stanley, ye do not understand these creatures, and it angers me to think that ye are being cheated and imposed on right and left. Getting more boats and nets?—they'll laugh at ye, they'll just laugh at ye when ye ask them to pay up the instalments! And who is your adviser?—a young man who is in secret league with them—an underhand, conspiring ne'er-do-weel, as cunning as any one of them, and as treacherous——"

"Mr. Purdie," she said—with a sudden change of tone he did not fail to note, "what do you mean? I—I beg you to be a little more respectful in your language."

"It's the old story," said the factor, with affected resignation. "Ye may work and work, and do the best for your employers; and then some stranger is called in, new advice is taken, and all you have done is destroyed. And I wonder if the people will be any the better off. I wonder what change in their condeetion it will make—what permanent change, when once you stop putting your hand in your pocket. Improvements? Oh, yes, yes; improvements are all very fine. But I'm thinking that spending money on free libraries and the like o' that will not help them much in getting in their crops."

"As for that," she retorted—but with no displeasure, only a little quiet confidence, "I can merely say that I am trying to do my best, in a great many different ways; and the result, whatever it may be, is a long way off yet. And I live in hope. Of course, there is much more that I should like to do, and do at once; but I cannot; for I haven't sufficient money. I don't deny that there is a great deal still to be amended: I can't work miracles. The people are very poor—and many of them not too industrious; the soil is bad; the fishing is uncertain; and communication difficult. I dare say there is even a good deal of wretchedness—or rather, what a stranger would regard as extreme wretchedness and misery; but all that cannot be changed in a moment, even if it turns out that it can be changed at all. And at least there is little sickness; the poorest cottages have the fresh air blowing around them—they're better than the London slums, at all events. And one must just do what one can; and hope for the best."

"I tell ye, ye are going entirely the wrong way to work wi' these people, Miss Stanley," said he, as they were crossing the bridge and about to enter the village. "It's my place to tell ye. It's my bounden duty to tell ye. And I say they are just making sport wi' ye. They are born beggars; work of any kind is an abomination to them; and you'll find they'll be like leeches—give, give always; and when you've ruined the estate on their behalf, what then?"

"I don't see any such prospect—not at present," said Mary, cheerfully.

"Who is likely to know most about them, you or me?" he went on with dogged persistence. "Who has had most experience of them? Who has had dealings with them for years and years, and learned their tricks? A whining, cringing, useless set, cunning as the very mischief, and having not even an idea of what speaking the truth is. Plausible enough—oh, ay—plausible with a stranger—especially when they expect to get anything."

"Mr. Purdie," said Mary, interrupting him, "I presume from your name you belong to the south of Scotland. Well, I have been told that the Scotch—the people in the southern half of Scotland—do not understand the Highland character at all; and cannot understand it, for they have no sympathy with it. I have been told that the English have far more sympathy with the Highland nature. And I am English."

"Ay, and who told ye that about the Scotch and the Highlanders?" he said, suddenly and sharply.

She hesitated for a second.

"It is of little consequence," she answered him. "But I would like to add this—that denunciations of the inhabitants of a whole country-side do not seem to me of much value. I suppose human nature is pretty much the same in Lochgarra as it is elsewhere. And—and—besides, Mr. Purdie—I do not wish to hear evil spoken of a people amongst whom I have many friends."

She spoke with some dignity.

"Evil speaking?" said he, with louring eyebrows, "I for one am not given to evil speaking—or the truth might have been told you ere now."

"The truth?—what truth?" she demanded.

"The truth about one that is too much at your right hand, Miss Stanley, if I may make bold to say so." At this moment they arrived at the door of the inn; and she paused, expecting him to leave her; but he said: "No, I will go on with you as far as Lochgarra House. It is time I should open my lips at last. I have been patient. I have stood by. I have heard what has been going on—and I have held my tongue. And why?—because there are things that it is difficult to speak of to an unmarried young woman."

Mary was a trifle bewildered. They were walking along through the village, on this quiet afternoon, with nothing to interrupt the peaceful stillness save the recurrent plash of the ripples on the beach: it was hardly the time or the place to be associated with any tragic disclosure. Moreover, had she heard aright? Was it of Donald Ross he was speaking?

"And I will say this for myself," the factor continued, "that I warned ye about the character of that young man, as plainly as I dared—ay, the very first day ye set foot in the place——"

"You mean Mr. Ross?" said she, lightly. "Pray spare yourself the trouble, Mr. Purdie. You forget I have had some opportunities of studying Mr. Ross's character. I know him a little. What did you say?—that you had something to tell? Oh, no; don't give yourself the trouble. I know him a little."

"You do not know him at all!" he said, with a vehemence that startled her. "I tell ye there is not one in this place who would dare to tell ye the story; and would I, unless I was bound to do it? If there was a married woman at Lochgarra House, it's to her I would go; and she would tell ye; but I say it is my bounden duty to speak—and to speak plainly——"