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

"Mr. Purdie, I do not wish to hear," she said, with some touch of alarm.

"But ye must hear," he said, with set lips and slow, emphatic utterance. "Ye are bound to hear—and to understand the character of the man ye are publicly associating yourself with. A scoundrel of that kind has no right to be going about with a virtuous and respectable young woman——"

"Mr. Purdie," she said, hurriedly, "I don't want to know—I don't believe—I wouldn't believe——"

"Miss Stanley," he said, with measured deliberation, "ye have some knowledge of that poor half-witted creature they call Anna Chlannach. But did it never occur to ye to ask how she came to lose her reason? Ay, but if ye had asked, they would not have told ye; there's not one o' them about here but would lie through thick and thin to screen that scapegrace; and what then would be the use o' your asking? But I can tell ye; and I say it's my bounden duty to speak, if there's none else here to warn ye. And there is my witness—there is the living witness to that scoundrel's licentiousness and wicked cruelty: go to her—ask herself—ask her what makes her wander about the shore watching for him, looking out to Heimra as if the ill he has done her could now be repaired. The poor lass, betrayed, deserted: no wonder she lost her reason—ay, and it's a good thing the currents along this coast are strong, or I'm thinking there might have been a trial for infanticide as well——"

Mary heard no more: she did not know that he was still talking to her; she did not know that he accompanied her almost to the house, where he left her. For—after the first fierce and indignant denial that involuntarily rushed to her mind—what she saw before her burning eyes was a series of visions, each of them of the most terrible distinctness, and all of them related in some ghastly way to this story she had just been told. What were these things, then, that seemed to sear her very eyeballs? She saw the little harbour of Camus Bheag; she saw the figure of a young girl rocking herself in an utter abandonment of misery and despair; she saw piteous hands held out; she heard that heart-broken wail piercing the silence as the boat made slowly away for Eilean Heimra. And then again she was on the heights above the Garra, and looking down upon the bridge. Those two there?—she had taken them for lovers—she had called Käthchen's attention—it was a pretty scene. Then the sudden, swift disappearance of the girl into the woods; and the young man's easy, confident professions: all those things grew manifest before her with an appalling clearness; a blinding light burned upon them. Nay, her very first interview with Anna Chlannach came back to startle her: she remembered the poor demented girl wandering among the rocks, all her intelligible talk being about Heimra: she remembered her being easily persuaded to walk towards the house; she remembered, too, how Anna Chlannach fled in terror the moment she came in sight of the stranger who knew her history. What hideous tale was it that seemed to summon up these scenes, appealing to them for corroboration? What was it they seemed to say was true—true as if written up before her in letters of fire?

There was no time for her to reason or think. For here, as it chanced, was this very man—this Donald Ross—coming down the wide steps from her own door. And all her soul was in revolt. Her wounded pride—her sense of humiliation—scorched her like flame. How had this man dared to lift his eyes to her? Unabashed he had come into the same room with her—he had breathed the same air—he had touched her hand: a contamination that was a poisoned sting. And the people of Lochgarra, who had seen him and her walking together: were they cognisant of his low amours? They had wagged their heads, perhaps? They had looked the one to the other?

"I half-expected to meet you," said Donald Ross.

There was no answer. But Mary Stanley did not lower her head, or avert her face; she was too proud for that; her heart might be beating as though it would burst its prison, but to all outward appearance she was quite unmoved. She passed him, pale and cold and silent; and he stood on one side, looking at her, without a word. She went into the house; she took no notice of Käthchen, who was still in the hall; she made for her own room, and locked herself in there—voiceless, tearless, with all the fair fabric of her life, its aims, and dreams, and ideals, its still more secret and trembling hopes, become suddenly and at one blow a tragic desolation of wreckage and ruin.

CHAPTER VII.

"'TWAS WHEN THE SEAS WERE ROARING."

It was early morning out at Heimra; the sky comparatively clear as yet, though there was a squally look about the flying rags of cloud; the sea obviously freshening up, and already springing white along the headlands. And here at the little landing-slip were Coinneach Breac and Calum, waiting by the side of the yacht's boat, and from time to time conversing in their native tongue.

"I am not liking the look of this morning," said Coinneach, "with the glass down near half-an-inch since last night. But if the master wishes me to go, then it is I who am ready to go, and I do not care where it is that I may be going. For who knows the anchorages better than himself, and the tides, and the currents, and the navigation?"

And then presently he said, in a more sombre tone:

"There is something that I do not understand. Did you look at the master when he was coming away from the mainland last evening? There has a trouble fallen on him: mark my words, Calum; for you are a young man and not quick to see such things. And do you know what Martha was telling me when I went up to the house this morning?—she was telling me that the master was not coming near the house all the night through; and it is I myself that saw him coming slowly down the hill not more than half-an-hour ago. And if he was up by the white grave all the night through, that is not a good thing for a young man. A grave without a wall round it is not a good thing."

And then again he said:

"It is I who would like to know who brought the trouble on the young master; and last night, as I was lying in my bunk, thinking over this thing and that thing, and wondering what it was that had happened, I was remembering that the Little Red Dwarf came to Lochgarra yesterday—yes, and he the only stranger that came to Lochgarra yesterday."

"I wish the Little Red Dwarf were with his father the devil," said Calum, with calm content.

"And if I thought it was the Little Red Dwarf that was the cause of the master's trouble," said Coinneach, with his deep-set grey eyes full of a dark hatred, "do you know what I would do, Calum? I would put the orra-an-donais on him. That is what I would do, ay, this very night. This very night I would take two branches of hawthorn, and I would nail them as a cross, and at twelve o'clock I would put them against his door; and then I would say this: 'God's wrath to be set against thy face, whether thou art drowning at sea or burning on land; and a branch of hawthorn between thy heart and thy kidneys; and for thy soul the lowermost floor in hell, for ever and ever.' He is a powerful man, the Little Red Dwarf, and he has wide shoulders; but how would he fare with the orra-an-donais on his wide shoulders?"

But Calum shook his head.

"No, no," said the long, loutish, good-humoured-looking lad, "I do not think well of such things. They are dangerous things. They are like the bending of a stick; and who knows but that the stick may fly back and strike you? But this is what I have in my mind, Coinneach: if the master wishes, then I would just take the Little Red Dwarf and I would put him in a pool in the Garra, ay, and I would hold his head down until he was as dead as a rat. Aw, Dyeea, there would be no trouble with the Little Red Dwarf after that!"

"The master!" said Coinneach—and there was silence.

Young Donald appeared somewhat pale and tired; but otherwise did not seem out of spirits.

"Well, Coinneach," he said, cheerfully enough, as he came up—and he spoke in the tongue that was most familiar to them—"what do you think of taking the world for your pillow—as they say in the old stories; and would you set out at this very moment?"

"But with you, sir?" said Coinneach, quickly.

"Oh, yes, yes—in the Sirène?"

"I am willing to go wherever Mr. Ross wishes, and at any time, and for any length of time—it is Mr. Ross himself knows that," Coinneach made answer.

"And you, Calum?"

"It is the same that I am saying," responded the younger lad, with downcast eyes.

"And where would you like to go, Coinneach, if you have all the world to choose from?" the young master asked.

"That is not for me to say—that is for Mr. Ross to say."

"And if you were never to see Eilean Heimra again?"

"That also to me is indifferent," said Coinneach, with dogged obedience.

Donald Ross stepped into the boat, and took his seat in the stern.

"Come away, then, lads; for if we are to set out on our travels, we must make a hasty start. Did you look at the glass this morning, Coinneach? And there is a thick bank of cloud rising in the west: we shall not want for wind, I'm thinking, when we get outside. And as for getting under way at a moment's notice, well, we can put in stores and everything else that is wanted when we are safe in Portree Harbour, with a little time to spare. For there is wild weather coming, Coinneach, if I am not mistaken; but anything is better than being storm-stayed at Heimra, when it is to the south you wish to be going."

And he himself helped the two men to get the vessel in readiness when they had got on board—ordering them, as a preliminary precaution, to take down a couple of reefs in the mainsail. For even here in this sheltered little bay, the omens were inauspicious; the sky had grown dark and the wind had risen; there was a low and troubled and continuous murmur from the out-jutting spur on the north.

"It is an angry-looking day to be leaving Heimra," young Ross said; "but perhaps there is no one wishing us to remain at Heimra; and you and I, Coinneach, have been companions before now. And if I am asking you to go away in a hurry, well, there will be time to get all we want at Portree."

"And what do I want," said Coinneach, "except tobacco? And it is not even that would hinder me from going wherever Mr. Ross wishes to be going."

The young master went aft to the tiller. As the yacht slowly crept forward he turned for a moment and glanced towards the island they were leaving.

"Poor old Martha," he said to himself; "I must try to find another place for her somewhere and get her away; it would be the breaking of her heart if she were to see strangers come to take possession of Eilean Heimra."

On Eilean Heimra he bestowed this single farewell glance; but on Lochgarra none. When they got outside into the heavily-running seas he did not turn once to look at the distant bay and its strip of cottages, nor yet at the promontory where the sharp gusts of the gale were already ploughing waves along the tops of the larchwoods surrounding Lochgarra House. The affected cheerfulness with which he had addressed the two sailors on setting forth was gone now; his face was pale and worn; the mouth stern; the eyes clouded and dark. But he had his hands full; for every moment the weather became more threatening.

"Calum," he called out, "go below and fetch me up my oil-skins. We are going to catch something pretty soon."

And so—amid this wild turmoil of driven skies and black-rolling seas—the Sirène bore away for the south.

And meanwhile at yonder big building among the wind-swept larches? All the long and terrible night Mary Stanley had neither slept nor thought of sleeping; she had not even undressed; she had kept walking up and down her room in a fever of agitation; or she had sate at the table, her hands clasped over her forehead, striving to shut out from her memory that dire succession of scenes, those haunting visions that seemed to have been burned into her brain. And if they would not go?—then blindly and stubbornly would she refuse to admit that they lent any air of credibility to this tale that had been told her. Nay, she abased herself; and overwhelmed herself with reproaches; and called herself the meanest of living creatures, in that she could have believed, even for one frantic moment, that base and malignant fabrication. Why, had she not known all along of the deadly animosity that Purdie, for some reason or another, bore towards young Ross and all his family? Had she not herself discovered that previous charges against Donald Ross owned no foundation other than a rancorous and reckless spite? And she had taken the unsupported testimony of one who appeared to be out of his mind with malice and hatred against the man who was her lover, as he and she knew in their secret hearts? In one second of unreasoning impulse she had destroyed all those fair possibilities that lay within her grasp; she had ruined her life; and wounded to the quick the one that was dearest to her in all the world. And well she knew how proud and relentless he was: he had forgiven much, to her and hers; but this he would never forgive. It was more than an insult; it was a betrayal: what would he think of her, even if she could go to him, and make humble confession, and implore his pardon? How could she explain that instant of panic following her first indignant repudiation—then the hapless chance that brought him face to face with her—then the fierce revolt of a maiden soul against contamination—alas! all in a sudden bewilderment of error, that could never be atoned for now. What must he think of her?—she kept repeating to herself—of her, faithless, shameless, who had spurned his loyal trust in her? If she went and grovelled in the very dust before him, and stretched out her hands towards him, he would turn away from her. remorseless and implacable. She was not worthy of his disdain.

And nevertheless, upbraid herself as she might, she still beheld before her aching eyes those two figures on the Garra bridge, followed by the swift disappearance of the girl into the woods; and again she saw her down at the shore, entreating to be taken out to Heimra Island and piercing the silence with her despair when she was left behind. It was not Purdie who had shown her these things; it was of her own knowledge she knew them; they had started up before her, in corroboration of his impeachment, even as he spoke. But what if she were to accept his challenge? What if she were to go to Anna Chlannach herself? He had declared she was his witness—his living witness. If there were any foundation for this terrible story, she would confess the truth: if, as Mary Stanley strove to convince herself, the charge was nothing but a deliberate and malevolent invention, she would be able to hurl the black falsehood back in his teeth. He had challenged her to go to Anna Chlannach: to Anna Chlannach she would go.

And then (as the blue-grey light of the dawn appeared in the window-panes) a sense of her utter helplessness came over her. That poor, half-witted creature knew no word of English. And how was she to appeal to any third person, asking for intervention? How could she demean herself by repeating such a story, and by admitting even the possibility of its being true? Nay more: might not her motives be misconstrued? What would the third person, the interpreter, think of these shamefaced inquiries? That the mistress of Lochgarra House was moved by an angry jealousy of that poor wandering waif? That Mary Stanley and Anna Chlannach were in the position of rivals? Her cheeks burned. Not in that way could she find the means of hurling back Purdie's monstrous accusation.

The white daylight broadened over land and sea; and away out yonder was Heimra Island, shining all the fairer because of the black and slow-moving wall of cloud along the western horizon. What had happened since yesterday, then? She hardly knew: she knew only that her heart lay heavy within her bosom, and that despair instead of sleep seemed to weigh down her eyelids. Was it only yesterday that she had been away up at Loch Heimra, imagining it once more a sheet of water, and pleasing herself with the fancy that some afternoon she would bring her lover along the road with her, to show him what she had done to make meek amends? Yesterday, when she thought of him, which was often enough, joy had filled her whole being, and kindness, and gratitude, and well-wishing to the universal world. Yesterday he and she were friends; and to look forward to their next meeting was to her a secret delight which she could dwell upon, even in talking with strangers. But now—this new day: what had it brought her, that she was so numb, and cold, and hopeless? And what was this that lay so heavy in her breast?

Suddenly she sprang to her feet—her eyes staring. A boat was creeping out from the southernmost headland of Eilean Heimra. It was a small vessel with sails: it was the Sirène, she made sure. And was he coming ashore now—coming straight to Lochgarra House, as was his wont—coming, in open and manly fashion to demand an explanation from her? And even if he were to upbraid her, and shower anger and scorn upon her, what then?—so long as he showed himself not wholly unforgiving, so long as he allowed her to speak. But as she stood at the window there, intently watching the distant ship, a shuddering suspicion seemed to paralyse her. The Sirène was not coming this way at all: it was slowly, gradually, unmistakably making for the south. And no sooner had this fear become a certainty than the world appeared to swim around her. There was to be no explanation, then?—not even that torrent of bitter and angry reproach? He was going away—silent, stern, inexorable? This was his answer? He would not stoop to demand explanations: he would simply withdraw? It was not fit that he should mate or match with such as she.

And at the same moment she caught sight of Big Archie, who was pulling out to his boat. In her terror, and despair, and helplessness, she did not think twice; her resolution was formed in a moment; she threw a shawl over her head and shoulders, and fled downstairs, and out into the open. Quickly she made her way along the beach.

"Archie!" she called, in the teeth of the wind. "Archie! Archie! I want you!—come ashore, quick!"

The heavy-shouldered and heavy-bearded fisherman, who was still in the smaller boat, paused on his oars for a second; and then, probably understanding more from her gestures than from her words what she wished, he headed round and made for the beach. And before he had reached the land she had called to him again.

"Archie, that is the Sirène—going away from Heimra?"

"Yes, indeed, mem," said Archie.

"You must take me out in your lugger, Archie," she said, in a frenzied sort of way. "There's not a moment to be lost: even if you can't sail as quick as they can, never mind—we will get some distance after them—they will see us—we can signal to them——"

The bow of the small boat rose on the shingle and seaweed; Big Archie stepped out and pulled it up a bit further. He did not quite understand at first what was demanded of him; perhaps he was a trifle scared by the unusual look on Miss Stanley's face—the pallid cheeks, the piteous and anxious eyes; but when he did comprehend, his answer was a serious and earnest remonstrance.

"Aw, Dyeea, do you not see what it is threatening out there?" said he, quite concerned.

"I do not care about that," she answered him. "If the Sirène can go out, so can you. And you have the sail up, Archie!"

"Ay, ay, indeed," he explained, "bekass I was thinking of going round to Ru Gobhar, to hef a look at the lobster-traps. But when I was seeing the bad weather threatening, and the glass down, then I was just going out to the boat to get the sail lowered again and the young lad brought ashore. It is just anything I would do to please Miss Stanley; but it is looking very, very bad; and we could not catch up on the Sirène whatever—aw, no!—it is no use to think my boat could get near to the Sirène, and her a first-class yat and a fine sailer. And Miss Stanley getting very wet, too, for there's a heavy sea outside——"

"Archie," she said, in an imploring voice, "if you are a friend of mine, you will try! You will try to stop the Sirène—cannot we make some signal to her? And you said the young lad was in the boat?—and the sail is up—we could get away at once——"

"Oh, if you wish it, mem, that is enough for me," he said; and presently he had got her into the stern of the small boat, had shoved off, and was pulling out to the big, brown-sailed lugger.

Archie had moorings in the bay, so that they lost no time in setting forth. And at first everything went well enough; for they had merely to beat out against the swirls of wind that came into the sheltered harbour; and the water was comparatively smooth. But when they got into the open they found a heavy sea running; and the lugger began to dip her bows and fling flying showers of spray down to the stern; while the bank of black cloud in the west was slowly advancing, heralded by torn shreds of silver that chased each other across the menacing sky. Big Archie took off his jacket and offered it to Miss Stanley, to shield her from the wet; but she obstinately refused, and bade him put it on again: her sole and whole attention was fixed on the phantom-grey yacht down there in the south, that was every other moment hidden from view by the surging crests of the waves. She had to cling to the gunwale, to prevent her being hurled from her seat; for the lugger was labouring sorely, and staggering under these successive shocks; but all the same her eyes, though they smarted from the salt foam, were following the now distant Sirène with a kind of wild entreaty in them, as though she would fain have called across the waste of waters.

"Can they see us, Archie?—can they see us?" she cried. "Could not the boy climb up to the mast-head and wave something?"

"Aw, no, mem," said Archie, "they are too far aweh. They are far too far aweh. And they are not knowing we are looking towards them."

"But if we keep right on to Heimra?" said she, in her desperation. "Surely they will see we are making for the island—they will come back——"

"They would just think it was the Gillie Ciotach going out to look after the lobster-traps," said Archie.

"Not in this weather!" she urged. "Not in this weather! They must see it is something of importance. They will see the boat going out to Heimra—they are sure to come back, Archie—they are certain to come back!"

"We will hold on for Heimra if you wish it, mem—but there's a bad sea getting up," said Archie, with his eye on those tumultuous swift-running masses of water, the crashing into which caused even this heavy craft to quiver from stem to stern. By this time the heavens had still further darkened around them—a boding gloom, accompanied, as it was, by a fitful howling of wind; while rain was falling in torrents. Not that this latter mattered very much, for they were all of them drenched to the skin by the seas that were leaping high from the lugger's bows; only that the deluge thickened all the air, so that it became more and more difficult to catch a glimpse of the now fast-receding Sirène. Archie paid but little attention to the yacht; he seemed to have no hope of attracting her notice; but he was greatly distressed about the condition of the young mistress of Lochgarra.

"If I had known, mem—if I had known early in the moarning—I would hef brought something to cover you," said he, in accents of deep commiseration. "It is a great peety——"

"Never mind about that, Archie," said she. "Don't you think they must know now that we are making for Heimra?"

"They are a long weh aweh," said Big Archie, shaking the salt water from his eyebrows and beard. "And they will be looking after themselves now. It was a stranche thing for Mr. Ross to put out with a storm coming on."

"Is there any danger, Archie?" she said, quickly. "Are they going into any danger?"

Archie was silent for a second.

"I am not knowing what would mek Mr. Ross start out on a moarning like this," said he. "And where he is going I cannot seh. But he is one that knows the signs of the weather—aw, yes, mem!—and it is likely he will make in for Gairloch, or Loch Torridon, or mebbe he will get as far down as the back of Rona Island——

"No, no, Archie, he must see us—he cannot help seeing us!" she exclaimed. "When we are getting close to Heimra, then he cannot help seeing us—he will understand—and surely he will come back!"

And meanwhile the gale had been increasing in fury: the wind moaning low and whistling shrill alternately, the high-springing spray rattling down on the boat with a noise as of gravel. The old lugger groaned and strained and creaked—burying herself—shaking herself—reeling before the ponderous blows of the surge; but Archie gave it her well; there was no timorous shivering up into the wind. His two hands gripped the sheet—the tiller under his arm; his feet were wedged firm against the stone ballast; his mouth set hard; his eyes clear enough in spite of the driving rain and whirling foam. And now this island of Heimra was drawing nearer—if the Sirène far away in the south had almost vanished.

"Look now, Archie!—look now, for I can see nothing," she said, piteously.

He raised himself somewhat; and scanned the southern horizon, as well as the heaving and breaking billows would allow.

"Aw, no, mem, the Sirène is not in sight at ahl—not in sight at ahl now," he said.

She uttered a stifled little cry, as of despair.

"Archie," she said, "could you not follow down to Loch Torridon?"

"Aw, God bless us, mem, the boat would not live long in a sea like this—it is getting worse and worse every meenit——"

"Very well," said she, wearily, "very well. You have done what you could, Archie: now there is nothing but to get away back home again."

But that was not at all Big Archie's intention.

"Indeed no, mem," said he, with decision, "I am not going aweh back to Lochgarra, and you in such a state, mem, when there is a good shelter close by, ay, and a house. It is into Heimra Bay that I am going; and there is the house; and Martha will hef your clothes dried for you, mem, and give you warm food and such things. And mebbe the gale will quiet down a little in the afternoon, or mebbe to-morrow it will quiet down, and we will get back to Lochgarra; but it is not weather for an open boat at ahl."

She made no answer. She did not seem to care. She sate there with eyes fixed and haggard: perhaps it was not the cliffs of Heimra she saw before her, but the wild headlands of Wester Ross, and a lurid and thundering sea, and a small phantom-grey yacht flying for shelter. She appeared to take no notice as they rounded the stormy point with its furious, boiling surge, and as they gradually left behind them that roaring waste of waves, escaping into the friendly quietude of the land-locked little bay. She was quite passive in Archie's hands—getting into the small boat listlessly when the lugger had been brought to anchor; and when she stepped ashore she set out to walk up to the house, he respectfully following. But she had miscalculated her strength. For one thing, she had not tasted food since the middle of the previous day; nor had she once closed her eyes during the night. Then she was dazed with the wind and the rain; her clothes clung to her and chilled her to the bone; the feverish anxiety of the morning had left her nerves all unstrung. Indeed, she could not drag herself up the beach. She went a few steps—hesitated—turned round as if seeking for help in a piteous sort of way—then she sank on to the rocks, and abandoned herself to a passion of grief and despair, from sheer weakness.

"I cannot go up to the house, Archie," she said, in a half-hysterical fashion, amid her choking sobs, "and—and why should I go—to an empty house? It—it is empty—you—you let the Sirène sail away—but—but never mind that—it is all my fault—more than you know. And I want you to leave me here, Archie—go away back to Lochgarra—there is no one cares what becomes of me—what does it matter to anyone? I do nothing but harm—nothing but harm—there is no need to care what becomes of me——"

The huge, lumbering, good-hearted fisherman was in a sad plight: he knew not in the least what to do; he stood there irresolute, the deepest concern and sympathy in his eyes, himself unable or not daring to utter a word. But help was at hand. For here was Martha, hurrying along as fast as her aged limbs would allow, and bringing with her a great fur rug.

"Dear, dear me!" she exclaimed, as she came up. "What could mek Miss Stanley venture out o' the house on a day like this?"

And therewith she put the rug round the girl's shoulders, and got her to her feet, and, with many encouragements and consolatory phrases, assisted her on her way up from the shore.

"I will get a nice warm bed ready for you at once, mem," said the old dame, "with plenty of blankets; and I will bring you something hot and comfortable for you, for you hef got ferry, ferry wet. Dear, dear me!—but we'll soon hef you made all right; for Mr. Ross would be an angry man, ay, indeed, if he was hearing that Miss Stanley had come to Heimra, and not everything done for her that could be done."

But when, after struggling through the blinding rain, they reached the porch, and when Martha had opened the front-door, Miss Stanley did not go further than the hall: she sank exhausted into the solitary chair there.

"Martha," she said, "do not trouble about me. I want to ask you a question. Did Mr. Ross say where he was going when he left in the Sirène this morning?"

"No, mem—not a word," Martha answered her, "about where he was going, or when he was coming back. It was a strange way of leaving—and in the face of such weather; but young people they hef odd fancies come in their head. Think of this, mem, that he never was near the house last night; he was aweh up the hill; and I'm feared that he was saying good-bye to his mother's grave, and that it will be long ere we see him back in Heimra again. For he is a strange young man—and not like others. But you'll come aweh now, mem, and get off your wet things: it is Mr. Ross himself would be terrible angry if you were not well cared for in this house."

The day without was sombre and dark; and the light entering here was wan: perhaps that was the cause of the singular alteration in Mary Stanley's appearance. She—who had hitherto been always and ever the very embodiment of buoyant youth, and health, and high spirits—now looked old. And her eyes were as if night had fallen upon them.

CHAPTER VIII.

A MISSION.

All that day the gale did not abate in fury; nor yet on the next; and even on the third day Gilleasbuig Mor still hesitated about trying to get back to Lochgarra, for the sea was running high, and the wind blew in angry gusts and squalls. But on the morning of this third day communication with the mainland was resumed; for shortly after eleven o'clock a lug-sail boat made its appearance, coming round the point into the little bay; and at a glance Archie knew who this must be—this could be no other than that venturesome dare-devil the Gillie Ciotach, who had doubtless been sent out by Miss Glendinning to gain tidings of her friend. Big Archie went down to the slip, to await the boat's arrival.

And when the Gillie Ciotach, whose sole companion was a little, old, white-headed man called Dugald MacIsaac, came ashore he was in a triumphant mood over his exploit, and had nothing but taunts and jeers for the storm-stayed Archie.

"Aw, God," said he (in Gaelic) as he fetched out the parcels that had come by the mail for Martha, "there is nothing makes me laugh so much as a Tarbert man when there is a little breeze of wind anywhere. A Tarbert man will hide behind a barn-door; and if a rat squeaks, his heart is in his mouth. For what is Loch Fyne? Loch Fyne is only a ditch. A Tarbert man does not learn anything of the sea; he runs away behind a door if there is a puff of wind blowing anywhere. And have you taken possession of Heimra, Archie? Are you going to stay here for ever? Are you never going back to Lochgarra?"

"Andrew," said Big Archie, quite good-naturedly, "you are a clever lad; but maybe you do not know what the wise man of Mull said: he said, 'The proper time is better than too soon.'

"Too soon? And is it too soon, then, for me to come over?" said the young man of the slashed forehead and the bold eye.

"You!" said Big Archie. "But who is mindful of you or what becomes of you? When I go over to Lochgarra, it is a valuable cargo I will have with me. That is what makes me mindful. You?—who cares whether you and your packages of tea go to the bottom?"

But the Gillie Ciotach was so elate over this achievement of his that, instead of bandying further words, he stood up to Big Archie, and began to spar, dancing from side to side, and aiming cuffs at him with his open hand. The huge, good-humoured giant bore this for a while, merely trying to ward off these playful blows; but at last—the Gillie Ciotach unwarily offering an opportunity—Archie suddenly seized him by the breeches and the scruff of the neck, and by a tremendous effort of strength heaved him off the slip altogether—heaved him. into a bed of seaweed and sand.

The Gillie Ciotach picked himself up slowly, and slowly and deliberately he took off his jacket. His brows were frowning.

"We will just settle this thing now, Archie," said he, stepping up on to the slip again. "We will see who is the better man, you or I. You can catch a quick grip—oh, yes, and you have strength in your arms; but maybe in an honest fight you will not do so well——"

"Oh, be peaceable!—be peaceable!" said Big Archie. "If you want fighting, go and seek out some of the Minard lads—though that would be carrying timber to Lochaber, as the saying is."

"Andrew, my son," said the little old man in the boat, "there is the Baintighearna come to the door."

The Gillie Ciotach glanced towards the porch of the cottage; and there, sure enough, was Miss Stanley—and also Martha.

"It is the luck of Friday that is on me," he said, with a laugh; "for I am the one that was to stop all the fighting! Well, come away up to the house, Archie; you are a friendly man; and if she asks why I was taking off my jacket, you will swear to her that I was only searching for my pipe. For a lie is good enough for women at any time."

They got up to the house, and the Gillie Ciotach delivered his parcels, and the newspapers, and one or two letters, and said that Miss Glendinning had sent him over to take back assurances of their safety.

"But I was telling the lady there was no chance of harm," said he; "for we saw Miss Stanley go on board, and we saw Archie's lugger standing in for Heimra, and every one knew there would be good shelter from the storm——"

"And the Sirène, Andrew—have you heard anything of the Sirène?" Mary asked quickly—and her eyes were alert and anxious, if the rest of her features looked tired and worn.

"Aw, the Sirène, mem?" said the Gillie Ciotach, confidently. "I am sure the Sirène is just as safe as any of us. There's no harm coming to the Sirène, mem, as long as Mr. Ross himself is on board. It's the God's truth I'm telling ye, mem. Mr. Ross he would put in to Loch Broom or Loch Ewe; and he knows every anchorage to half a fathom; and, with plenty of chain out, and an anchor-watch, where would the harm be coming to him?"

"You have no doubt of it, Andrew?"

"It's as sure as death, mem!" said the Gillie Ciotach, with an almost angry vehemence.

She seemed a little relieved.

"And the sea outside, Andrew—is it very bad?"

"It's a bit wild," he admitted; and then he added, with a cool audacity: "but mebbe Miss Stanley would be for going back with me now, if Archie is too afraid to go out?"

"Oh, no, thank you," said she. "If Archie does not think it safe, I should not think of venturing. I will wait for him—thank you all the same."

Here there was an awkward pause. Mary left the little group, walking over to the edge of the plateau, to get a better view of the distant and troubled line of the sea. The Gillie Ciotach stood twirling his Glengarry bonnet. Then he said timidly to Martha—

"Are there any empty casks going back?"

"None but yourself, Andrew, my lad," said Martha, with a dark smile in her eyes.

At this he plucked up spirit.

"There's a way of curing that, as you know, Martha," said he. "And it's many's the time I have come out to Heimra, and I never before had to complain of going away like an empty cask."

"And you need not complain of it now, Andrew, my son," said Martha. "Come away round to the kitchen, and I will get you something—ay, and you will take something down to old Dugald, too. For although the master of the house is not in his own home, I know his wish; and it is I who would get the blame if any one went away hungry or cold from Eilean Heimra."

But it was not until the afternoon that Big Archie considered it prudent to cross to the mainland; and a rough passage they had of it. Mary, however, was on this occasion provided with an abundance of wraps; and was indifferent to wind, and spray, and rain. Possibly there may have been other reasons for her apathy.

Kate Glendinning was down at the slip beside the quay.

"Mamie," she exclaimed, when her friend landed, "what took you out to Heimra on that wild morning? I could not believe it when I was told. And I sent over to know you were safe as soon as I could get any one to go. What is the meaning of it all? If you had seen the people watching the boat!—they did not know what might happen."

"I cannot explain; and you must not ask, Käthchen, now or at any time," was her answer. "But tell me, has the gale done much damage? The harvest was looking so well in those little patches——"

"Damage?" said Käthchen. "It isn't damage, Mamie; it is destruction—devastation—everywhere. Oh, it is pitiable. The corn beaten down—the crofts flooded—well, well, the only thing to be said is that the poor people are not so disheartened as you might expect. Perhaps they are used to such bitter disappointments. I do believe this place is fit only for sheep—and hardly fit for them."

"What can I do, Käthchen," said Mary, with a curious listlessness, "beyond lowering their rent again? I suppose that is all I can do. They would not go to Manitoba with me: would they, Käthchen? Do you think they would? Would you, now?"

"Manitoba?" repeated Käthchen, looking at her. "What has happened, Mamie? I don't understand the way you speak. Why should you talk about Manitoba, when you were so set against it?"

"The climate appears to be so uncertain here," she said, rather wearily, as they were ascending the steps of Lochgarra House; "and—and the people have of late been more friendly towards me; and I would like to do what I could for them. There is nothing to keep me in this country. I would go away willingly with them—to Canada, or anywhere. But perhaps not you, Käthchen. I could not expect you. All your interests are in this country—or in England, at least. But if I were to sell Lochgarra, I could get money to take them all away to Canada, and buy good land for them, and see them comfortably established; and then I should have done my duty by them, as I intended to do when I came here at first. And—and I don't think I should care to come back."

She furtively wiped away the tears from her lashes: Käthchen did not notice. They were passing through the hall now.

"I cannot understand what you mean, Mamie. What is it? What has happened? Did you see Mr. Ross when you were at Heimra? I heard that the Sirène had left the morning you went out—and I took it for granted that Mr. Ross had gone with her——"

"Käthchen, to please me," she said, beseechingly, "will you never mention Heimra again? Mr. Ross is away—and—and I have been to the island for the last time; that is all."

When they went into the room, she threw herself down on a couch, and put her clasped hands on the arm of it, and hid her face. She was not crying; she merely seemed overcome with fatigue and lassitude. Kate Glendinning knelt down beside her, and with gentle fingers caressingly stroked and smoothed the beautiful golden-brown hair that had been all dishevelled by the wind.

"What is it, Mamie?"

"Tell me about the farms, Käthchen," was the answer, uttered in a hopeless kind of way. "I don't know anything about farm work, except what I have been told since I came here. Are the crops so completely destroyed? Would not fine weather give them another chance? Surely entire ruin cannot have been caused by one gale—gales are frequent on this coast——"

"This one came at a bad time, Mamie," said her companion; "and a great part of the corn will have to be cut and given to the cows. But why should you distress yourself unnecessarily? It was none of your fault. You have done everything for these poor people that could be devised. And, as I tell you, they seem used to misfortunes of this kind; there is no bewailing; their despondency has become a sort of habit with them——"

"Send for Mr. Purdie: I wish to see him"—this was what came from those closed hands. But the next moment she had thrown herself upright. "No!" she said, fiercely. "No, I will not see Mr. Purdie. With my consent, Mr. Purdie shall never enter this house again."

"Mr. Purdie left on the very day you went out to Heimra," said Käthchen, gently; and then she went on: "You are hiding something from me, Mamie. Well, I will not ask any further. I will wait. But I am afraid you are very much fatigued, and upset, and I can see you are not well. Now will you be persuaded, Mamie! If you will only go to bed you will have a far more thorough rest; and I will bring you something that will make you sleep. Why, your forehead is burning hot, and your hands quite cold!—and if you were to get seriously ill, that would be a good deal worse for the crofters than the flattening down of their corn!"

She was amenable enough; she consented to be led away; she was ready to do anything asked of her—except to touch food or drink.

And yet the next morning she was up and out of the house before anyone was awake, and she was making away for the solitude of the hills. She wished to be alone—and to look at the wide sea. She walked slowly, but yet her sick heart was resolute; the arduous toil of getting up the lower slopes and corries, filled with bracken, and rocks, and heather, did not hinder her; she turned from time to time to look, absently enough, at the ever-broadening plain of the Atlantic, rising up to the pale greenish-turquoise of the sky. And in time she had got over this rough ground, and had reached the lofty and sterile plateaus of peat-bog and grass, where, if it was loneliness she sought, she found it. No sign of life: no sound, except the plaintive call of a greenshank from a melancholy tarn: no movement, save that of the silver-grey masses of cloud that came over from the west. But away out yonder was the deserted island of Heimra; and far in the south were the long black promontories—Ru-Minard, Ru-Gobhar, and the rest—behind which a boat would disappear when it left for other lands. And had she heard of the Fhir-a-Bhata? Did Kate Glendinning know of the song that is the most familiar, the greatest favourite of all the West Highland songs; and had she told her friend of the maiden who used to go up the cliffs, day by day, to watch for the coming of her lover?—

'I climb the mountain and scan the ocean,

For thee, my boatman, with fond devotion:

When shall I see thee?—to-day?—to-morrow?

Oh, do not leave me in lonely sorrow!

Broken-hearted I droop and languish,

And frequent tears show my bosom's anguish:

Shall I expect thee to-night to cheer me?

Or close the door, sighing and weary.'

This, at least, Kate Glendinning soon began to learn—that nearly every morning now Mary left the house, entirely by herself, and was away by herself, in these desolate altitudes. It was clear she wished for no companionship; and Käthchen did not offer her services. Nor was any reference made to these solitary expeditions. The rest of the day Mary devoted herself to her usual work—increased, at this time, by her investigations into the extent of the injury done by the gale: as to the rest there was silence.

And thus it was that Käthchen remained ignorant of this curious fact—that day by day these excursions were gradually being shortened. Day by day Mary Stanley found that her strength would not carry her quite so far: she had to be content with a lesser height. And at last she had altogether to abandon that laborious task of breasting the hill; she merely, and wearily enough, walked away up the Minard road—whence you can see a portion of the southern and western horizon; and there she would sit down on the heather or a boulder of rock—with a strange look in her eyes.

"Mamie!" said Käthchen, one evening—and there was grief in her voice. "Won't you tell me what has happened! I cannot bear to see you like that! You are ill. I tell you, you are seriously ill; and yet you will not say a word. And there is no one here but myself; I am in charge of you; I am responsible for you; and how can I bear to see you killing yourself before my eyes?"

Mary was lying on the couch, her face averted from the light.

"You are right in one way, Käthchen," she said, rather sadly. "Something has happened. But no good would come of speaking about it; because it cannot be undone now. And as for being ill, I know what will make me well. It is only sleep I want. It is the sleep that knows no waking that I wish for."

Käthchen burst out crying, and flung herself down on her knees, and put her arms round her friend.

"Mamie, I declare to you I will not rest until you tell me what this is!" she exclaimed passionately.

Nor did she. And that very evening, after an unheard-of pleading and coaxing on the one side and despairing protest on the other, all those recent occurrences were confided to the faithful Käthchen. She was a little bewildered at first; but she had a nimble brain.

"Mamie," she said, with a firm air, "I don't know what doubts, or if any, may still be lingering in your mind; but I am absolutely convinced that that story of Purdie's is a lie—a wicked and abominable lie. And I can guess what drove him to it: it was a bold stroke, and it was nearly proving successful; but it shall not prove successful. I will make it my business to get Donald Ross back to Lochgarra—and then we shall have an explanation."

"Do you think he will come back to Lochgarra? Then you do not know him," Mary made answer, and almost listlessly. "Do you imagine I have not considered everything, night after night, ay, and every hour of the night all the way through? He will never come back to Lochgarra—if it is to speak to me that you mean. I have told you before: it seems a fatality that he and his should receive nothing but injury and insult at our hands, from one member of our family after another; and never has there been a word in reply—never a single syllable of reproach—but only kindnesses innumerable, and thoughtfulness, and respect. Well, there is an end of respect now. How can he have anything but scorn of me? If I were to confess to him that I had believed that story—even for one frightened moment—what could he think of me? Why, what he thinks of me now—as a base creature, ignoble, ungrateful, unworthy—oh! do you imagine I cannot read what is in that man's heart at this moment?"

"Do you imagine I cannot?" said Käthchen, boldly. "I have not been blind all these months. What is in that man's heart, Mamie, is a passionate love and devotion towards you; and there is no injury, and no insult, he would not forgive you if he thought that you—that you—well, that you cared for him a little. Oh, I know both you and him. I know that you are wilful and impulsive; and I know that he is proud, and sensitive, and reserved; but I think—I think—well, Mamie, no more words; but I am going to have my own way in this matter, and you must let me do precisely what I please."

And that was all she would say meanwhile. But next day was a busy day for Kate Glendinning. First of all she went straight to the Minister and demanded point-blank whether there were, or could be, any foundation for that story about Anna Chlannach; and the Minister—not directly, of course, but with many lamentations, in his high falsetto, over the wickedness of the human mind in harbouring and uttering slanders and calumnies—answered that he had known Anna Chlannach all her life, and that she had been half-witted from her infancy, and that the tale now told him was an entire and deplorable fabrication. Indeed, he would have liked to enlarge on the theme, but Kate was in a hurry. For she had heard in passing through the village that the Gillie Ciotach was about to go over to Heimra, with the parcels and letters that had come by the previous day's mail; and it occurred to her that here was a happy chance for herself.

"Now, Andrew," she said, when she was seated comfortably in the stern of the lugger, "keep everything smooth for me. I haven't once been sea-sick since I came to Lochgarra, and I don't want to begin now."

"Aw, is it the sea-seeckness?" said the Gillie Ciotach. "Well, mem, when you feel the seeckness coming on, just you tell me, and I will give you something to mek you all right. Ay, I will give you a good strong glass of whiskey; and in a moment it will make the seeckness jump out of your body."

"Whiskey?" said Käthchen. "Do you mean to say you take a bottle of whiskey with you every time you put out in a boat?"

"Aw, as for that," said the Gillie Ciotach—and he was clearly casting about for some portentous lie or another—"I was saying to Peter Grant that mebbe the young leddy might have the sea-seeckness; and Peter he was saying to me, 'Tek a smahl bottle of whiskey with you, Andrew, and then she will hef no fear of the sea-seeckness.' And it was just for yourself, mem, I was bringing the whiskey."

"And a pretty character you seem to have given me at the inn!" said Käthchen, as she contentedly wrapped herself up in her rugs.

Martha had seen the boat on its way into the harbour; she had come out to the door of the cottage; a visitor was welcome in this solitary island.

"Martha," she said, as soon as she had got within, "have you heard any news of late?—can you tell me where the Sirène is now?"

"Yes, indeed, mem," said the old Highland dame, with wondering eyes. "But do you not know that the Sirène is at the bottom of the sea? Was the master not writing to Miss Stanley about it?"

"We have not heard a word," Käthchen exclaimed.

"Dear, dear me now!" said Martha. "That is a stranche thing."

"But tell me—tell me about it," said Käthchen anxiously. "There was no one drowned?"

"No, no," said Martha, with much complacency. "There was plenty of time for them to get into the boat. And the master not writing to Miss Stanley at the same time he was writing to me—that is a stranche thing. But this was the weh of it, as he says; that it was an ahfu' dark night, the night of the first day of the gale; and they were mekkin for shelter between Scalpa and Skye, and they had got through the Caol-Mòr, and were coming near to an anchorage, when they ran into a trading schooner that was lying there without a single light up. Without a single light, and the night fearful dark: I'm sure the men should be hanged that would do such a thing, to save a little oil."

"And where is Mr. Ross now?" asked Käthchen.

"Just in Greenock. He says he will try to get a place for Coinneach and for Calum, and will not trouble with a yat any more for the present. Ay, indeed," Martha went on, with a bit of a sigh, "and I'm thinking he will not be coming back soon to Heimra, when he says he will not trouble with a yat, and when he could have a yat easy enough with the insurance money——"

"Is he at a hotel in Greenock?"

"Ay, the Tontine Hotel," the old woman said. "And I am not liking what he says—that he is waiting for a friend, and they are going away from Greenock together. I am not liking that at ahl. There's many a one sailed away from the Tail of the Bank that never came back again. And he says, if it is too lonely here for me and the young lass Maggie, we are to go over to Lochgarra and get lodgings; but how could I be leaving the house to the rain and the damp? Ay, lonely it is, except when Gillie Ciotach comes out to look after the lobster traps—

"Well, Martha," said her visitor, "this time the Gillie Ciotach is going straight back again; for I'm rather in a hurry. And don't you move over to the mainland until you hear further. I will come and see you sometimes if you are so lonely." And therewithal the industrious Kate hied her back to the lobster boat, and set out for Lochgarra again.

Mary was lying on a sofa, her head half hidden by the cushion. She had been attempting to read; but her arm had fallen supinely by her side, and the book was half closed.

"Mamie," said Kate Glendinning, entering the room noiselessly, and approaching the sofa, "I have a favour to beg of you; but please to remember this: that I have waited on you—and worried you—all this long time; and I have never asked you for an hour's holiday. Now I am going to ask you for two or three days; and if you give me permission I mean to be off by the mail car to-morrow morning. May I go?"

The pale cheek flushed—and the fingers that held the book trembled a little. But she affected not to understand.

"Do as you wish, Käthchen," said she, in a low voice.

Well, this was an onerous, and difficult, and delicate task that Kate had undertaken; but she had plenty of courage. And her setting-forth was auspicious: when the mail-car started away from Lochgarra the dawn was giving every promise of a pleasant and cheerful day for the long drive. It is true that as they passed the Cruagan crofts her face fell a little on noticing here and there traces of the devastation that had been wrought by the gale; but she had heard that things were mending a little in consequence of the continued fine weather; and she was greatly cheered to hear the driver maintain that the people about this neighbourhood had little cause to grumble; matters had been made very easy for them, he declared, since Miss Stanley came to Lochgarra. And so on they drove, hour after hour, by Ledmore, and Oykel Bridge, and Invercassley, and Rosehall, until the afternoon saw her safely arrived at Lairg. Then the more tedious railway journey—away down to Inverness; on through the night to Perth; breakfast there, and on again to Glasgow; from Glasgow down to Greenock. It was about noon, or something thereafter, that she entered the dismal and rainy town.

Fortune favoured her. The Tontine Hotel is almost opposite the railway station, so that she had no difficulty in finding it; and hardly had she got within the doorway when she met Donald Ross himself crossing the hall, and apparently on his way into the street. When he made out who this was (her face was in shadow, and he did not at first recognise her) his eyes looked startled, and he threw an involuntary glance towards the door to see if there was any one accompanying her. But the girl was alone.

"Mr. Ross," said Käthchen, rather nervously—for she had not expected to encounter him just at once—"I wish to speak with you——"

"Oh, come in here, then," said he, with a certain coldness of manner, as if he were about to face an unpleasant ordeal that was also useless; and he led the way into the coffee-room, where, at this time of the day, there was no one, not even a waiter.

Nervous Käthchen distinctly was; for she knew the terrible responsibility that lay on her; and all the fine calmness she had been calculating on in her communings with herself in lonely railway-carriages seemed now to have fled. But perhaps it was just as well; for in a somewhat incoherent, but earnest, fashion, she plunged right into the middle of things, and told him the whole story—told him of the factor's circumstantial and malignant slander, of Mary's momentary bewilderment, of the luckless meeting, and of her subsequent bitter remorse and despair. At one portion of this narrative his face grew dark, and the black eyes burned with a sullen fire.

"I have a long account to settle with Purdie," said he, as if to himself, "and it is about time the reckoning was come."

But when she had quite finished with her eager explanations, and excuses, and indirect appeals, what was his reply? Why, not one word. She looked at him—in blank dismay.

"But, Mr. Ross!—Mr. Ross!——" she said, piteously.

There was no response: he had received her communication—that was all.

"I have told you everything: surely you understand: what—what message am I to take?" Käthchen exclaimed, in trembling appeal.

"I have heard what you had to say," he answered her, with a studied reserve that seemed to Käthchen's anxious soul nothing less than brutal, "and of course I am sorry if there has been any misunderstanding, or any suffering, anywhere. But these things are past. And as for the present, I do not gather that you have been commissioned by Miss Stanley to bring one solitary word to me—one expression of any kind whatsoever. Why should I return any reply?—she has not spoken one word."

"Oh, you ask too much!" Käthchen exclaimed, in hot indignation. "You ask too much! Do you think Mary Stanley would send for you? She is as proud as yourself—every bit as proud! And she is a woman. You are a man: it is your place to have the courage of yielding—to have the courage of offering forgiveness, even before it is asked. If I were a man, and if I loved a woman that I thought loved me, I would not stand too much on my dignity, even if she did not speak. And what do you want—that she should say she is sorry? Mr. Ross, she is ill! I tell you, she is ill. Come and judge for yourself what all this has done to her!—you will see only too clearly whether she has been sorry or not. And that superstition of hers, about there being a fatality attending her family—that they cannot help inflicting injury and insult on you and yours—who can remove that but yourself? No," she said, a little stiffly, "I have no message from Mary Stanley to you; and if I had, I would not deliver it. And now it is for you to say or do what you think best."

"Yes, yes; yes, yes," he said, after a moment's deliberation. "I was thinking too much of the Little Red Dwarf; I was thinking too much of that side of it. I will go back to Lochgarra, and at once. And this is Thursday; the steamer will be coming down from Glasgow to-day; that will be the easiest way for us to go back."

There was a flash of joy and triumph—and of gratitude—in Käthchen's sufficiently pretty eyes.

CHAPTER IX.

THE BANABHARD.

The big steamer was slowly and cautiously making in for Lochgarra Bay—slowly and cautiously, for though the harbour is an excellent one after you are in it, the entrance is somewhat difficult of navigation; and Donald Ross and Kate Glendinning were seated in the after part of the boat, passing the time in talking. And of course it was mostly of Miss Stanley they spoke.

"For one thing, you ought to remember," said Käthchen, "the amount of prejudice against you she has had to overcome. If you only knew the character she received of you the very first evening we arrived here! I wonder if you would recognise the picture—a terrible outlaw living in a lonely island, a drunken, thieving, poaching ne'er-do-well, a malignant conspirator and mischief-maker: Mr. Purdie laid on the colours pretty thickly. By the way, I wish you would tell me the cause of that bitter animosity Mr. Purdie shows against you and all your family——"

"It is simple enough—but it is not worth speaking about," he said, with a certain indifference. It was not of Purdie, nor of Purdie's doings, that he was thinking at the moment.

"But I want to know—I am curious to know," Käthchen insisted.

"It is simple enough, then," he repeated. "When the old factor died—old MacInnes—I hardly remember him, but I fancy he was a decent sort of man—when he died, my father appointed this Purdie, on the recommendation of a friend, and without knowing much about him. Well, Purdie never did get on at all with the people about here. He was an ill-tempered, ill-conditioned brute, to begin with; spiteful, revengeful, and merciless; and of course the people hated him, and of course he came to know it, and had it out with them whenever he got the chance. You see, my father was almost constantly abroad, and Purdie had complete control. My mother tried to interfere a little; and he resented her interference; I think it made him all the more savage. And at last the discontent of the people broke out in open revolt. Purdie happened to have come over to Lochgarra; and when they heard of it, the whole lot of them—from Minard, and Cruagan, and everywhere—came together in front of the inn, and there was no end of howling and hooting. Purdie escaped through the back-garden, and took refuge with the Minister; but the crowd followed him to the Minister's cottage, and burnt his effigy in front of the door—oh, I don't know what they didn't do. Only, it got into the papers; it was a public scandal; and my father, coming to hear of it, at once deposed the twopenny-halfpenny tyrant. That is all the story. But no doubt his being ignominiously dismissed was a sore thing for a man of his nature—the public humiliation, and all the rest of it——"

"But how did he get back to his former position?" Käthchen demanded.

"Miss Stanley's uncle put him back when he bought the estate," Donald Ross said, quietly. "I fancy he had an idea that Purdie was the right kind of man for this place, especially as he himself had to be absent a good deal. Yes, I will say this for Purdie—he is an excellent man of business; he will squeeze out for you every penny of rent that is to be got at; and he has no sort of hesitation about calling in the aid of the sheriff. And of course he came back more malevolent than ever; he knew they had rejoiced over his downfall; and he was determined to make them smart for it. As for his honouring me with his hatred, that is quite natural, I suppose. It was my father who sent him into disgrace; and then—then the people about here and I are rather friendly, you know; and they had a great regard for my mother; and all that taken together is enough for Purdie. We were in league with his enemies; and they with us."

"I can imagine what he thought," said Käthchen, meditatively, "when he saw the new proprietress taking you into her counsels, and adopting a new system, and interfering with him, and overriding his decisions at every turn. He made a bold stroke to sever that alliance between her and you; but it failed; and now he is sorry—very sorry—exceedingly sorry, I should think."

"What do you mean?" he asked, fixing his eyes upon her.

"Perhaps I should leave Mary herself to tell you," she answered him. "But that is of little consequence; it cannot be a secret. Very well: she has ordered Mr. Purdie to prepare a statement of his accounts; and his factorship ceases at Michaelmas. It was the last thing she told me before I left Lochgarra."

Donald Ross laughed.

"I had intended to have a word with Purdie," said he, "but it seems the Baintighearna has been before me."

The arrival of the steamer is always a great event at Lochgarra; there were several well-known faces on the quay. Here were the Gillie Ciotach, and Big Archie, and the Minister, and Peter Grant, the innkeeper; and here also was Anna Clannach. The poor lass was in sad distress; she was crying and wringing her hands.

"What is the matter, Anna?" said Donald Ross, in Gaelic, as he stepped from the gangway on to the pier.

"I am wishing to go out to Heimra," said the Irish-looking girl with the dishevelled hair and streaming eyes.

"Why so?" he asked.

"It is to find my mother," she made answer, with many sobs. "When I was sleeping my mother came to me, and said I was to come out to Heimra for her, and bring her back, but when I offer the money to the men they laugh at me——"

"Anna," said he, gently, "you must not think of going out to Heimra. If you were not to find your mother there, that would be great sorrow for you. If she is coming for you, you must wait patiently——"

"But I am going out in the steamer?" said the girl, beginning to cry afresh.

"The steamer?" he said. "The steamer does not call at Heimra, not at any time."

"But it is Mr. Ross has the mastery,"[#] she pleaded. "It is every one that must obey Mr. Ross; and the steamer will take me out to Heimra if he tells the captain."

[#] Tighearnas—lordship, or dominion.

"Now, Anna," he said, trying to reason with her, "listen to what I am telling you. How can a great boat like that go into the small harbour of Eilean Heimra? And I have no authority over the captain, nor has any one: it is to Stornoway he is going now, and to no other place. So you must wait patiently; and I think you should go and live with the Widow MacVean, and help to do little things about the croft. For it is not good for a young lass to be without an occupation."

Anna Chlannach turned away weeping silently, and refusing to be comforted; while young Ross was immediately tackled by the Minister, who had a long tale to tell about some Presbytery case in Edinburgh.

What now occurred it is difficult to describe consecutively, for so many things seemed to happen at once, or within the space of a few breathless seconds. The captain had discharged his cargo (Kate Glendinning and Donald Ross, with their bodyguard of Coinneach and Calum, were the only passengers), and was getting under weigh again; and to do this the more easily he had signalled down to have the engines reversed, while keeping the stern hawser on its stanchion on the pier, so that the bow of the boat should gradually slew round. It was to the man who was in charge of this massive rope that Anna Chlannach, seeing the steamer was beginning to move, addressed her final and frantic appeal—nay, she even seized him by the arm, and implored him, with loud lamentations, to let her go on the boat. The man, intently watching the captain on the bridge, tried to shake her off; grew more and more impatient of her importunity; at last he said savagely—

"To the devil with you and your mother!—I tell you your mother is dead and buried these three years!"

At this Anna Chlannach uttered a piercing shriek—she seemed to reel under the blow, in a wild horror—then, with her hands raised high above her head, she rushed to the end of the quay, and threw herself over, right under the stern-post of the steamer. Donald Ross, startled by that despairing cry, wheeled round just in time to see her disappear; and in a moment he was after her, heedless of the fact that the steamer was still backing, the powerful screw churning up the green water into seething and hissing whirlpools. But the captain had seen this swift thing happen; instantly he recognised the terrible danger; he rapped down to the engine room "Full speed ahead!"—while the man in charge of the hawser, who had not seen, taking this for a sufficient signal, slipped the noose off the post, and let the ponderous cable drop into the sea.

"The raven's death to you, what have you done!" Archie MacNichol cried, as he ran quickly to the edge of the quay, and stared over, his eyes aghast, his lips ashen-grey.

There was nothing visible but the seething and foaming water, with its million million bells of air showing white in the pellucid green. Had the girl been struck down by the revolving screw? Had Donald Ross been knocked senseless by a blow from the heavy cable? Big Archie pulled off his jacket and flung it aside. He clambered over the edge of the quay, and let himself down until he stood on one of the beams below. His eyes—a fisherman's eyes—were searching those green deeps, that every moment showed more and more clear.

All this was the work of a second, and so was Archie's quick plunge into the sea when he beheld a dark object rise to the surface, some half-dozen yards away from him—the tangled black hair and the wan face belonging to a quite listless if not lifeless form. It needed but a few powerful strokes to take him along—then one arm was placed under the apparently inanimate body—while with the other he began to fight his way back again to the pier. Of course, bearing such a burden, it was impossible for him to drag himself up to his former position; he could only cling on to one of the mussel-encrusted beams, waiting for the boat that the people were now hurriedly pushing off from the shore. And if, while bravely hanging on there, he looked back to see if there was no sign of that other one, then he looked in vain: the corpse of the hapless Anna Chlannach was not found until some two days thereafter.

Meanwhile, this was what was taking place at Lochgarra House. Barbara had come to tell her young mistress, who was lying tired and languid on the sofa, of the arrival of the steamer.

"Go to the window, Barbara," said she, rather faintly, "and—and tell me who are coming ashore. Maybe you can make them out?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, mem," said Barbara, who had been famous for her eyesight, even among the keepers and stalkers, when she was parlour-maid up at Glen Orme.

She went to the window.

"There is Miss Glendinning, mem," said Barbara, in her soft-spoken way; "and glad I am of that: it is not good for Miss Stanley to be so much alone. Yes, and Mr. Ross coming ashore too—no, he is going back down the gang way—maybe he is going onto Stornoway?—no, no, I think he is only calling something to Coinneach Breac, and the lad Calum—and they are carrying a portmanteau. And there is Anna Chlannach going from the one to the other on the quay—yes, and Mr. Ross now speaking to her—and Miss Glendinning speaking to the Minister. And now Mr. Ross speaking to the Minister—and—and Miss Glendinning watching the steamer—ay, just waiting to see her go aweh.... Oh, mem!—oh, mem!—there is something happening on the quay!" exclaimed Barbara, in terrified accents. "The people are running—and I am not seeing Mr. Ross anywhere—and they are shoving out a boat from the shore——"

"What is it!—what is it, Barbara! Tell me!—tell me!"

"Oh, mem, do not be afraid," cried Barbara, even amidst her own wild alarm. "There's a boat going out—oh, yes, they are pulling hard—they will be at the end of the quay in a moment or two—and the people are all looking over—oh, yes, yes, mem, if anyone is in the water, they have found him—and—and the boat—now the boat has gone by the end of the quay, and I am not seeing it any more—yes, yes, it is there now—and they are coming this way, mem—they will be coming into the slip—oh, yes—I am sure they have got the one that was in the water—and Big Archie in the stern of the boat, mem—and the people now running to meet them at the slip—now it is Big Archie that is lifting the one out of the stern of the boat——" Suddenly Barbara uttered a plaintive cry, "Oh, Dyeea, it is the young master himself!"

"What do you say? Mr. Ross? What has happened, Barbara?" She struggled to her feet, pale and shuddering; and Barbara was at her side in an instant. "Quick, Barbara!—come with me!—help me!—I must go down to the slip—your arm, Barbara—help me!—quick quick——"

And so, with trembling limbs and dazed eyes—dazed by the fear of some dread unknown thing—she managed to cross the hall and get down the steps and across the road. It was but a short distance to the slip. The little crowd made way on her approach: and there, lying extended on the stone, she beheld the senseless body of her lover, while the big fisherman, kneeling, was making such examination as was possible. Big Archie rose at once.

"Oh, he will be ahl right directly, mem—I'm sure of it!—he has been struck on the back of the head—mebbe by the keel of the steamer——"

She paid no heed to him—no, nor to any who were standing there. She threw herself on her knees beside the prostrate figure; with her warm hands she pushed back the coal-black tangled hair; she bent down close to him; she spoke to him, almost in a whisper—but with a passionate tenderness that might have thrilled the dead.

"Donald!—speak to me!—tell me I have not killed you!—I sent you away—yes—but my heart has cried for you to come back—speak to me!—speak to me!—Donald!—do you not hear me?—Donald——"

Was it the touch of her warm, trembling fingers about his face, or was it the low-breathing, piteous cry of her voice that seemed to stir his pulses and call him slowly back to life? The eyelids opened wearily—to find this wonderful vision hanging over him, and they seemed to rest there and understand.

"Mo-lua!"[#] he murmured.

[#] Mo-luaidh—My dearest one, or my most-prized one.

She did not know the meaning of the phrase; but the look in his eyes was enough. She held his hand as they carried him up to the house.

* * * * *

It was on a clear and white-shining morning in the following spring that Donald Ross and his newly-wedded bride were walking arm-in-arm through the budding larch-woods, the sun warm on the green bracken, on the golden furze, and on the grey rocks. She was angry with him; though the anger did not show much in her dimpled and fresh-tinted cheeks, nor yet in her eyes, where the love-light lay only half-concealed by the modest lashes.

"It is a pestilent language!" she was saying, with frowning brows. "I do believe the heavens and the earth shall pass away before I become thoroughly acquainted with that awful grammar; and unless, as Barbara says, I 'have the Gaelic,' how am I ever to get into proper relationship with the people about here?—yes, and how am I to be sure that you are not stealing away their hearts from me? Oh, it is a very pretty trick, the stealing away of hearts—you are rather clever at it," said she, with downcast and smiling eyes.

"Mo-ghaol," said he (and there were some Gaelic phrases, at least, of which she had by this time got to know the meaning well enough), "I thought you were going to let me be your interpreter."

"Why do you not begin, then? Where are the verses that Mrs. Armour sent?" she said. "You promised you would write out a translation for me."

"And so I have," he answered her—yet with some apparent unwillingness. "I have written out a translation, in a kind of a way, because you insisted on it. But it is a shame. For the Gaelic is a most expressive language; and all the subtlety and grace of the original escape when you come down to a literal rendering in English. Besides, what skill have I in such things? If you like, I will send it to the editor of the Celtic Magazine, and ask him to get it properly translated—he has printed some of Mrs. Armour's pieces before now—in Gaelic, of course——"

"I want your version—none other," she said, imperatively.

"Very well, very well; I will read it to you," said he, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket. "Here is a seat for you."

It was a rock mostly covered by soft green moss; and when she had seated herself, he threw himself down on the bracken by her side, leaning his head against her knee. And this is what the old dame out there in Canada had sent them as her humble wedding-gift—perhaps, as to the form of it, with some recollection of the song of the Princess Deirdri influencing her unequal lines:—

I am far from the land of my fathers.

I sit and mourn because of the great distance.

My old age brings me no comfort,

Since I am far from my own land.

My eyes strain across the wide ocean.

I see the lofty hills, and the peaks, and the glens;

I see the corries where the wide-antlered deer wander.

Joyful to me was my youth there.

I see the woods, deep-sheltered;

I see the rivers flowing by the rocks;

I see the sandy bays, and the headlands;

I see the sun [setting] behind Eilean Heimra.

Ru-Minard, O Ru-Minard!—

The promontory facing the great waves:

Often as a girl have I sate and watched the ships,

Singing to myself on Ru-Minard.

Loch-Heimra, O Loch-Heimra!—

Pleasant its shores, with the many birches;

Sweet were the youthful moments I spent watching

For one that I used to meet by Loch-Heimra.

Lochgarra, O Lochgarra!—

The fair town—the Town of the Big House——

"I wonder if the Americans know the meaning of Baltimore?" he said; and then he went on again—

Dear to me were my friends, happy the hours.

We spent together at Lochgarra.

But to-day there is no more of mourning;

To-day my old age is comforted;

To-day I lift up my voice, I send a message,

Across the sea to the dear one of my heart.

Well I remember him, the young boy fearless;

Fearless on the land, fearless on the sea;

Clinging to the crags seeking the ravens' nests.

Proud was I of Young Donald——

"There are some more verses about me," he again interpolated. "I will skip them."

"You shall not," she said. "Not a single word."

"Oh, how can I read all this about myself!" he protested.

"Well, then, give me the paper," said she, and she leant over and took it from him. Nor did she return it. She read right on to the end—though not aloud—

My eyes have beheld him come to man's estate.

Proudly I name him: Donald, son of John, son of Roderick.

Of the ancient Clan Anrias, high he holds his head.

Joyful were my eyes when I beheld him.

Swift and alert, firm-sinewed as a man.

Laughing and light-hearted: dangerous to his foe.

Strong as an eagle to choose his mate,

Strong likewise to defend her.

Bold-eyed and resolute; confident at the helm;

Long-enduring; scornful of danger.

Small his possessions, but rich-chambered his mind:

Wealth has he other than Eilean Heimra.

I see the people as they go along the road:

Their regard is turned upon Young Donald;

There is deep love in their bosom for him;

They wish him many days and prosperity.

I see her whom he has chosen:

The lady of the Big House near to the trees:

The fair mistress, the beautiful one,

The generous daughter of the Saxon.

Mild of speech, smiling pleasantly:

My heart was warm towards her;

Much did I hear of the kindness

Of the generous, open-handed maiden.

Tall of stature, graceful in step as a young fawn;

Glad was I when I gazed on her;

I regarded her many beauties, and I said—

Well has young Donald chosen his mate.

Now I hear the sound of rejoicings;

I hear the festivities wide-echoing;

Across the ocean I hear the shouts of the wedding:

Hail to the young chief of Clan Anrias!

The wine-cup is lifted by many hands;

The bride and bridegroom are smiling among their friends;

To-night the bonfires will blaze on the hills;

I hear the loud sound of the pipes.

No gifts have I for the home-coming;

No amulet of secret virtue;

But the voice of the woman-bard[#] is welcome to her chief:

Young Donald will not despise what I send.

[#] Banabhard.

Salutations and blessings I send:

Happy may his days be with his love:

Long years, many friends, a warm heart—

These are the things I wish for him.

For her also the same:

For her, the chosen one, the fair-haired one, the beautiful Saxon;

Many years, and love through all of them,

For the bride of Young Donald of Heimra!

She carefully folded the paper and put it in her pocket.

"This is to be mine," she said. "For if Young Donald despises that message from across the sea, Young Donald's wife does not."

THE END.

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

* * * * * * * *

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