.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 43053
   :PG.Title: Donald Ross of Heimra (Volume II of 3)
   :PG.Released: 2013-06-28
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: William Black
   :DC.Title: Donald Ross of Heimra (Volume II of 3)
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1891
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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

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      BY

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      WILLIAM BLACK

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      *IN THREE VOLUMES.*
      VOL. II.

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      LONDON:
      SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY
      *LIMITED,*
      St. Dunstan's House
      FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
      1891.

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      [*All rights reserved.*]

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

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   CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

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   CHAPTER

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   I.  `A Visitor`_
   II.  `A Deforcement`_
   III.  `A Crofters' Commission`_
   IV.  `Her Guest`_
   V.  `On Garra's Banks`_
   VI.  `A Threatened Invasion`_
   VII.  `"Kain to the King the Morn!"`_
   VIII.  `A Revolution that failed`_

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.. _`A VISITOR`:

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   DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA

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   CHAPTER I.

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   A VISITOR.

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Black night lay over sea and land; there was
a low continuous murmur round the rocks and
shores; and out here, at the end of the little
wooden quay, two men were slowly pacing up
and down in the dark.  They were the serious-visaged
Coinneach Breac and his taller and
younger companion Calum-a-Bhata.  The whereabouts
of the village, across the bay, was revealed
by a solitary light in one of the windows: no
doubt the man who looked after the pier was
enjoying the comfort of his own home as long
as was possible, before coming down to make
ready for the expected steamer.

The influence of the hour was upon Coinneach.

"I will tell you this, Calum," he was
saying, in his native tongue—and speaking in
rather a low tone, as if he did not wish to
be overheard—"that there are many strange
things happen to them that have to watch
through the night; and they are never
mentioned; for it is not safe to mention them.
You do not know who may hear—perhaps
some one at the back of your shoulder.  And
the speaking of such things is harmful.  When
I was telling you, Calum, about the Woman
and her overtaking me as I was on the way
home from Ru Gobhar, well, it all came over
me again, and it was as if someone had me by
the throat again, and I could not move, no, nor
say some good words to get free from her and
escape.  But I will tell you of another strange
thing now, that did not happen to me, so that I
can talk of it, and without danger to anyone.
It happened to my uncle, Angus Roy, that
used to be out at Ardavore Lighthouse.  Ah,
well, now, if they would only speak, it is the
lighthouse-men that could be telling you of
strange things—ay, like the ringing of the
fog-bell on clear nights, and the men looking at
each other.  Well, now, about my uncle, Calum;
you know the men at the lighthouse have little
occupation or amusement when they are not
attending to the lamps; and sometimes, when
it was getting dark, my uncle would go away
down the iron ladder on to the rocks, and he
would have a rod and a stout line and a big
white fly, and he would go to where the water
was deep, and maybe he would get a lythe or
two for his supper.  Well, one night, he came
up the ladder, and when he came in he was
nearly falling down on the floor, and he was all
trembling, and his face was white.  'Duncan,'
says he, 'I have been bitten by a dog.'  'You
are dreaming, Angus,' said the other, 'for how
could there be a dog on the Ardavore rocks?'  'See
that,' says my uncle, and he was holding
out his hand.  And there, sure enough, was the
mark of the dog's teeth.  'It was trying to
pull me into the water,' says he, 'and when I
escaped from it, it followed me, and when I got
up the ladder, I looked down, and there it was,
with its fore-paws on the first rung, and its
eyes glaring on me.  God help us all this
night, Duncan,'—that is what my uncle was
saying, 'if there is a dog on the island.'  Now
you know, Calum, there is no whisky or
brandy allowed in the lighthouses, except for
medicine; and Duncan MacEachran, he was
the captain of the lighthouse, and he went to
the chest and got a glass of brandy for my
uncle, and says he, 'Drink that, Angus, and do
not think any more of the dog, and in the
morning we will search for the dog'—and so
that was all for that night.  Then the next day
they searched and searched, and there was not
any sign of a dog; for how could a dog get out
to Ardavore, that is fourteen miles from the
mainland?  And another thing I must tell
you, Calum, is that the marks of the dog's teeth
on my uncle's hand they were almost away the
next morning, and white.  Very well.  Duncan
would think no more of it; and my uncle
would think no more of it; and the marks
would go away altogether.  But now I will tell
you what happened, and you will see whether
it would not make a strong man afraid.  As
the evening came on, my uncle he was getting
more and more uneasy; and he was looking at
his hand; and the marks were becoming red
now, instead of white.  My uncle he could not
sit still; and he could not do his work; what
he said was, 'Duncan, it is the dog coming for
me, to drag me into the water.'  Then says
Duncan, 'How can he come for you?  How
can he climb up the ladder?  But when it is
the same hour that you were down on the rocks
last night, then I will look out and see what I
can see.'  And he did that.  He opened the
door, and looked down; and there was the dog,
with its fore-paws on the first rung of the ladder,
and its eyes glaring up.  I can tell you, Calum,
he did not wait long; he was himself like to
fall down with fright; and when he got the
door closed again, he put in all the iron
stanchions as quickly as he could.  And then
he went and sate down.  My uncle he was a
little better by this time.  'The dog has gone
away now,' says he.  'I know it.  But
to-morrow night it will be back—and the next
night—and the next night—until it drags me
into the water.  What is the use of fighting
against it, Duncan?  I might as well go down,
and be drowned now; for the dog is coming
back for me.'  But Duncan would not say that.
He said 'I will contrive something.  Perhaps it
is not only drowning that is meant.  And a
man must not give up his life.'  And Duncan
MacEachran was right there, Calum," continued
Coinneach, in an absent kind of way, "for you
know what the proverb says—'*There may be
hopes of a person at sea, but none of one in the
grave*.'  Very well, then, the next day he went
into the store-room and he searched about till he
found a trap they had brought out to see if
they could get an otter; and during the
afternoon he took down the trap to the rocks, and
he was placing it at the foot of the ladder, and
concealing the most of it with seaweed.  But
do you know what he put into the trap, Calum?
No, you do not know; and if you were
guessing for a hundred years, you would not
guess.  He put a New Testament—ay, that is
what he was putting into the trap—a New
Testament with a dark cover, in among the
seaweed.  'Because,' says he, 'if he sets his
foot in the trap, then he will be caught, and we
will see what kind of a dog he is; but if he is
a kind of dog that cannot be caught in a trap,
then the New Testament will burn his foot for
him, and we will hear of him no more.'  That
is what he was saying to my uncle.  Then the
evening came, and my uncle he got worse.  He
could not sit still; and he could not do his
work.  The marks on his hand were red again;
and he knew that the dog was coming.  Duncan
MacEachran, perhaps he was frightened; but he
would not say he was frightened; all that day,
my uncle was telling me, Duncan was hardly
speaking a word.  My uncle he was sitting in
the chair, and looking at his hand, and
moaning; and the redder and redder grew the
marks; and at last he got up, and says he,
'Duncan,' says he, 'something has come over
me; something is drawing me; will you open
the door, for I have no strength to open the
door?'  His teeth were chattering, as he was
telling me long after, and himself shaking, and
sweat on his forehead.  'No, by God, Angus,'
says Duncan, 'I will not open the door this
night—nor you either—and if you come near
the door, it will be a fight between you and
me.'  'I am not wishing for any fight,' says
my uncle, 'but there is something in my
head—and I would like to look down the ladder—to
see what is at the foot of the ladder.'  'Be
still, for a foolish man!' says Duncan.  'Would
you fall and smash yourself on the rocks?'  Well,
the time was come.  My uncle's teeth
were chattering; but he did not speak now;
he was sitting and moaning, for he knew the
beast had put something over him, and was
coming now to claim him.  And then they
were listening; and as they were listening there
was a terrible clap of thunder, and another, and
another—three there were—and then silence.
My uncle was telling me he did not speak;
and Duncan looked at him.  They waited a
while.  And then my uncle rose, and says he,
'Duncan, the beast has gone away.  Do you
see the marks?—they are white now.'  And
perhaps, Calum, you would have opened the
door and gone down the iron ladder to see what
had happened at the foot of the ladder—although
it was dark—and the dog might still
be there; but let me tell you this, that if you
had been living in a lighthouse, you would not
have gone down; for the men who live in the
lighthouses they think of many things.  It was
not till the next morning that they went down
the ladder; and do you know what was there?—the
otter-trap was closed together, and yet
there was nothing in it.  Do you see that,
now—that the trap had closed together and caught
nothing; but I am thinking that the beast,
whatever kind of beast it was, had got a fine
burn on his foot when he touched the New
Testament.  I am thinking that.  And the
marks on my uncle's hand, they went away
almost directly; and the dog was never heard
of again: I tell you, Calum, I tell you it was a
clever thing of Duncan MacEachran to put the
otter-trap and the New Testament at the foot
of the ladder.  But those men at the lighthouses,
they come upon strange things, and
they will not always speak of them, because it
is safer not to speak of them."

"I am glad I am not at a lighthouse," said
Calum, slowly; and thereafter for some little
time the two men walked up and down in
silence.

The dim red light in the distant cottage
went out; and presently another and stronger
appeared—moving along by the side of the
shore.  They watched its course as it drew
nearer and nearer; then in the silence of the
night they could make out footsteps; finally,
with a slow tramp along the wooden structure,
the pier-keeper came up—and greatly surprised
was he to find the two men there.

"Well, it was this weh, Thomas," said
Coinneach, in English, "Calum and me we
were thinking it was as easy waiting here for
the steamer as on board the yat, and less
trouble in pulling ashore in a hurry.  And
the steamer, will she be late now, do you
think?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," said the pier-keeper, as
he proceeded to sling up the big lantern he
carried, "for there has been heavy weather
in the south.  And you might have been
sleeping in your beds for some while to come."

Coinneach did not like this reproach.

"Then perhaps you are not knowing what
it is to have a good master," said he, "or
perhaps you are your own master, which is better.
But listen to what I am telling you now: if
my master wishes to have things put on board,
or brought ashore from the steamer, then it's
me that is willing to wait up half the night, or
ahl the night, to be sure to catch the steamer;
for I know he will seh when I go out to the
yat again, 'Coinneach, go below now, and have
a sleep.'  That is when you have a good master;
but if you had a bad master, would you be for
walking up and down a dark pier through the
night?  It's me that would see him going to
the tuffle first!"

"Can you give me a fill of a pipe, Coinneach?"
asked the pier-keeper; and then he
added, facetiously: "for they say there's always
plenty of tobacco at Eilean Heimra."

"Ay, are they sehing that?" answered
Coinneach, as he drew out a piece of tobacco
from his waistcoat pocket.  "And mebbe they'd
better not be sehing that to me, or they'll have
to swallow their words—*and the bulk of my fist
as well!*"

The three men sate and talked together, and
smoked; and as the time went by, a faint,
half-bluish light began to appear over the low-lying
hills in the east; the cottages across the water
became visible; there were gulls flying about.
The dawn broadened up and declared itself;
something of a warmer hue prevailed; a solitary
thin thread of smoke began to ascend from one
of the chimneys.  The pier-master lowered his
lantern and extinguished it.  And yet there was
no sign of the coming steamer—no far-off
hoarse signal startling the silence of the new-born day.

Then, as the morning wore on, and the
sleeping village awoke to life, Coinneach
said:—

"I think we will pull out to the yat, Calum,
to see if the master will be for coming ashore;
and if we should hear the steamer we can turn
back."

"Very well, then, Coinneach," said the
younger man, "for sure I am the master will
be wanting to come ashore to meet the steamer."

And away they went to the boat.  But
indeed all Lochgarra was astir this morning;
for it was not often the villagers had a chance
of seeing the steamer come in by daylight; and
in any case it was a rare visitor—once in three
weeks at this time of the year.  So that the
long-protracted booming of the steam-pipe
brought even the old women out to the doors;
and by the time the two red funnels were
sighted coming round the distant headland,
quite a small crowd of people had come down
to the quay.

And here were the two ladies from Lochgarra
House, hastening along to be in time: why
should they not also join in the general
excitement?  But just as they arrived at the pier
Mary Stanley suddenly stopped short: the
very first person she had caught sight
of—among that straggling assemblage—was the
young laird of Heimra Island.

"Mary, you are not afraid of him!" said
Käthchen.

It was but a momentary irresolution, of
which she was instantly ashamed; she
continued on her way; nay, she went boldly up
to him, and past him, and said "Good morning!"
as she went by.

"Good morning!" said he—and he raised
his cap: that was all.

Then, after a second of vacillation and
embarrassment, Mary turned—he was barely a
couple of yards distant.

"Mr. Ross," said she, "I suppose you—you
heard of what happened at Ru-Minard."

"Yes, I am sorry you should have been
troubled," he said, in a formal kind of way.

"But they have built up the huts again!"
she exclaimed.  "And I suppose the people
here will go back and burn them down, and
there will be riot after riot—never ending!"

He did not answer her: indeed, there was
no question to answer.  And Käthchen, standing
a little bit apart, was watching these two
with the keenest interest; and she was saying
to herself—"Well, she has met her match at
last.  She has been all-conquering hitherto;
every man who has come near her has been all
complaisance and humility and gratitude for
a smile or a friendly look; but this one—this
one is as proud as herself!  And what will she
do?—become angry and indignant, and astonish
my young Lord Arrogance?  Or become humbly
submissive, and beg for a little favour and
consideration?—and Mary Stanley, of all
people!"

Mary regarded the young man, and seeing
that he did not speak, she said—

"A never-ending series of riots, is that what
it is coming to?  And if not, what is to be
done?  What am I to do?"

He answered her very respectfully—and very
coldly:

"I think you should hardly ask me, Miss
Stanley.  If you consider, you will see that I
could not well interfere—even so far as to offer
advice.  You will find Mr. Purdie will know
how to deal with such a case."

"Mr. Purdie!" she said.  "I cannot have
Mr. Purdie here the whole year round.  Surely
I can do something myself?  Cannot you tell
me what to do?"

He hesitated.  But here was a very beautiful
young woman, appealing to him, and apparently
in distress.

"Well," said he, at length, "I am not quite
sure, but I fancy if you wish to have those
men removed, you would have to take proceedings
under the Vagrant Act.  I am not quite
sure; I fancy that is so.  But then, if you do
that, you will be denounced by the Highland
Land League, and by plenty of the newspapers—natural
enough on the part of the newspapers,
for they would know nothing of the circumstances."

Käthchen thought that the outlaw and savage
(as he had been described to her) talked very
reasonably and intelligently; but Mary Stanley
was quite as much perplexed as before.

"I don't want to bring the law to bear on
anybody," she said.  "I don't want to injure
anybody.  Surely there are other ways.  If I
go to those men, and show them they have no
right to be there, and pay them for the
lobster-traps that were burned, and give them each
a sum of money, surely they would go away
home to their own island?"  And then she
added (for she wasn't a fool), "Or might not
that merely induce a lot more to come in their place?"

"I am afraid it would," said he.

But by this time the big steamer was slowing
in to the pier.

"Miss Stanley," said young Ross, "would
you mind coming this way a little—to be out
of the reach of the rope?"

She politely thanked him, and moved her
position; then he left her, making his way
through the people; and the next she saw of
him was that he was on the bridge, talking to
the captain.

There was a good deal of cargo—barrels,
bales, and what not—to be landed; but only
one passenger came ashore, a white-haired
little woman, whose luggage consisted of an
American-looking trunk and also the head and
enormous horns of a Wapiti deer, the head
swathed in canvas.  The little dame was of a
most pleasant appearance, with her silvery
hair, her bright eyes, and a complexion
unusually fresh and clear for one of her age; and
she was smartly and neatly dressed, too; but
when once she had come along the gangway,
and passed through the crowd, hardly any
further notice was taken of her, all attention
being concentrated on what was going forward
on board the steamer.  The poor old woman
seemed bewildered—and agitated; her hands
were trembling; she was staring back in a
curious way at the vessel she had just left.
Mary (of course) went up to her.

"Can I be of any assistance to you?" she
said, in her gentle way.

And then perhaps she would rather have
drawn back; for she found that the old dame's
eyes were overflowing with tears.

"That—is the young master?" the old
woman asked, in tones of eager and yet subdued
excitement—and she was still staring at the
two figures on the bridge.

"That is Mr. Ross of Heimra," Mary said,
"who is talking to the captain."

The silver-haired old dame clasped her
trembling hands together.

"Dear, dear me!" she said—and there were
tears trickling down her face—"the fine
gentleman he has grown!  And we were all saying
that long ago—we were all saying that—but
who could have told?—so fine and handsome
he has grown up as a man!—Ay, ay, I made
sure it was young Donald himself, when he
came on board, but he was not looking my way——"

"Would you like to speak to Mr. Ross?"
said Mary, in the same gentle fashion.

Then the little white-haired old woman
turned to this tall and beautiful young creature
who was addressing her; and a curious,
wondering, and glad light shone through her tears.

"You, mem," said she, timidly—"perhaps
you are his good lady, mem?"

Mary's face flushed.

"I hardly know Mr. Ross," said she coldly.
"But if you wish to see him, I will fetch
him—or send for him—"

"Mem," said the old dame, piteously, and
the tears were now running freely down her
face, "I have come all the way from Canada,
just—just to have one look at young
Donald—that—that was the lamb of my heart!  My
two boys, mem, they were thinking I should
go and pay a visit to their uncle, who is in
Sacramento; and they are very good boys:
one of them—one of them would have gone
as far with me as Detroit, and put me safe
there on the line; but—but I said to them, if
there is so much money to be spent, and if your
old mother can go travelling anywhere, well,
then, it is just away back to Lochgarra I am
going, to see the young master once again
before I die.  But no, mem," she said,
somewhat anxiously, "I do not wish to speak to him,
in case he is not remembering me.  I will wait
a little.  Maybe he will be remembering me,
and maybe not—it is sixteen years since I left
this place—and he was just ten, then—but
such a young gentleman as you never saw,
mem!—and the love of every one!  And I
will just wait and see, mem—perhaps he is not
remembering me at all—but that is no matter—I
will go back to my boys and tell them I
saw the young master, and him grown to be
such a fine gentleman—it is all I was coming
here for—ay, and I knew it was young Donald
the moment I saw him—but—but maybe he is
not remembering me——"

"Oh, but indeed you must speak to him!"
said Mary.  "I will go and fetch him myself."

For at this moment the steamer was making
preparations to be off again—there being little
traffic at Lochgarra.  The bell was rung, but
merely as a matter of form; there was no
passenger going on board.  Donald Ross bade
good-bye to the captain, and stepped ashore.
The gangway was withdrawn.  Then the
captain signalled down to the engine-room; the
blades of the screw began to churn up the clear
green water into seething foam; and the great
steamer was slowly moving out to sea again.

"Mr. Ross," said Mary (and he turned round
in quick surprise) "there is some one here who
wishes to speak to you."

He looked towards the old dame who was
standing there in piteous expectancy—went up
to her—and, after a moment of scrutiny and
hesitation, said—

"Why, surely you are Ann!"

The sudden shock of joy was almost too much
for her; she could not speak; she clung to the
hand he had frankly offered her, and held it
between her trembling palms; she was laughing
and crying at the same time—great tears
rolling down her cheeks.

"Well, well," said he, with a very friendly
and pleasant smile lighting up his face, "you
have come a long way.  And are you going to
live in the old place now—and leave the farm
to your sons?  They must be great big fellows
by this time, I suppose.  And that—what is
that you have brought with you?  You don't
have beasts like that coming about the house at
night, do you?"

She tried to speak; but it was only in
detached and incoherent sentences—and there was
a bewilderment of gladness in the shining eyes
with which she gazed on him.

"I was feared, sir, you might not be
remembering me—and—and you have not
forgotten Ann, after all these years—oh, yes, yes,
a long way—and every night I was saying
'Will the young master be remembering Ann?'  And
the deer's head, sir?—oh, no, there are
no deer at all in our part of the country—but—but
it was my boy Andrew, he had to go
down to Toronto, and he saw the head, and he
brought it back, and says he, 'Mother, if you
are going away back to Lochgarra, take this
head with you, and tell the young master it is
a present from the whole of us, and maybe he
will hang it up in the hall.'"

"We have no hall to hang it up in now,"
said he, but quite good-naturedly—for Mary
Stanley was standing by, not unnaturally
interested.  "However, you must come out and
see where I am living now—at Heimra Island.
You remember Martha?"

"Oh, yes, yes," said the old dame, who had
dried her tears now, and was looking most
delighted and proud and happy.

"But you have not told me yet what has
brought you all the way back to Lochgarra,"
said he.

She seemed astonished—and even disappointed.

"You cannot tell that, sir?  Well, it was
just to see yourself—nothing else but that—it
was just to see young Donald, that I used to
call the lamb of my heart.  But that was when
you were very young, sir."

Donald Ross laughed.

"Come away, Ann," said he, and he put his
hand affectionately on the old dame's shoulder.
"You must come out to Heimra Island, and
Martha will look after you, after all your
travelling.  Now let me see; we shan't be
getting up anchor for an hour or an hour and
a half; but I shall have your things put on
board, and in the meanwhile you can go round
to the inn and wait for me there.  Tell them to
give you a room with a good fire in it.  And,
by the way, you don't want me to call you by
your married name, do you?—for to tell you
the truth, I don't remember it!"

"Oh, no, no, no, sir!" said the trim little old
lady, who could not take her glad, and wondering,
and admiring eyes off 'the young master.'  "I'm
just Ann, if you please, sir—just Ann, as
I used to be."

Young Ross turned to call up Coinneach and
Calum, who were waiting at the end of the quay,
in order to give them instructions about the
luggage; and it was at this moment that Mary
stepped up to the stranger.

"Instead of going to wait at the inn," said
she, "wouldn't you rather come with me?
Lochgarra House is quite as near—and you
would not be sitting alone."

It was a gentle face that was regarding her,
and a gentle voice that spoke.

"Oh, yes, mem, if you will be so kind," was
the answer.

"Then tell Mr. Ross you have gone on with
me; and he can send one of the men for you
when he is ready," Mary said; and by this
little arrangement she was saved the necessity
of having any further conversation with young
Ross of Heimra, if such was her intention.

They moved away.

"Do you think you will know many of the
people about here, after so long a time?" asked
Mary of her new acquaintance, as they left the
quay—the silent, but not unobservant, nor yet
unamused, Käthchen accompanying.

"Oh, no, mem," was the answer (but, as she
talked, the old woman turned from time to time
to see if she could not get some brief further
glimpse of her heart's idol) "my people they
were all about Dingwall; and it was from
Dingwall I came over here to serve with
Mrs. Ross.  Ah, she was the noble lady, that!"
continued the faithful Ann, looking back over
many years.  "When we heard of her death,
it was then, more than ever, that I thought I
must go away to Lochgarra, to see the young
master.  For she was so careful of his upbringing;
and they were just constant companions;
and he was always the little gentleman, and
polite to everyone—except when Mrs. Ross had
a headache—and then he would come down
stairs, ay, into the servants' hall, or even to the
door of the kitchen—and proud and fierce, as if
he would kill some one, and he would say
'What is this noise?  I order you to be quiet,
when my mamma is asleep!'  And you would
have heard a pin drop after that, mem.  Rather
too fond of books he was," continued the
silver-haired old dame, whose newly-found happiness
had made her excitedly talkative, "and rather
delicate in health; and then Mrs. Ross would
be talking to him in different languages, neither
the Gaelic nor the English, and he would be
answering her as well as he could—the little
gentleman!—when they were sitting at the
table.  Indeed, now, that was making the old
Admiral—that was Mrs. Ross's uncle—very
angry; and he was swearing, and saying there
was no use for any language but the English
language; and many's and many's the time he
was taking young Donald away with him in
his yacht, and saying he would make a sailor
and a man of him.  Well, well, now, who would
think the young master had ever been delicate
like that, and fond of books—so fine and
handsome he has grown—and the laugh he has—ay,
a laugh that carries a good story of health and
happiness with it!"

"No, he does not look as if he had ever been
very delicate," said Mary, absently.  "Perhaps
the rough life out there on that island was the
very best thing for him."

When they got to the house, Mary escorted
her guest up to the drawing-room in the tower,
and was most assiduous in her pretty little
attentions, and had wine and biscuits brought
in, for Mrs. Armour (as the old woman's name
turned out to be) had breakfasted early on
board the steamer.  And Mrs. Armour repaid
these kindnesses by eagerly talking about young
Donald and nothing else; she seemed to think
that the two young ladies were as interested as
herself in that wonderful subject; and here was
the very house in which she had lived to
suggest innumerable reminiscences.  She did
not say anything about Miss Stanley's
occupation of the house; nor did she ask how it came
about that Donald Ross was now living on the
island they could see from this room: no doubt
she had heard something, in her remote
Canadian home, of the misfortunes that had
befallen the old family.  But even while she
talked her eyes would go wandering to the
window that commanded a view of the village;
it was like a girl of eighteen watching for her
first sweetheart: she was talking to these very
kind ladies—but it was young Donald of
Heimra that her heart was thinking of all the time.

Then the welcome summons came, and away
she went with Coinneach Breac.  The two girls
watched them go along to the boat in which
'the young master' was waiting; then the
men took to the oars, and made for the yacht.
The mainsail and jib of the *Sirène* had already
been hoisted; very soon the anchor was got
up; and with a light southerly breeze favouring
them they had set out for the solitary island
that was now Donald Ross's home.

"Well, Mamie," said Käthchen, who was
still standing at the window and looking at the
gradually receding yacht, "that is a very
strange young man.  I have been a spectator
this morning; and I have been interested.  I
have seen a young man approached by a
beautiful young woman—a damsel in distress,
you might almost say—who condescends to
appeal to him; and in return he is barely civil—oh,
yes, let us say civil—and even polite, but
in a curiously stand-off manner.  And then an
old Highland servant appears; and behold! his
face lights up with pleasure; and he is as kind
as kind can be, and affectionate; he puts his
hand on her shoulder as if she were some old
school-mate, and nothing will do but that she
must go away out to see his home.  To tell you
the truth, I did not think he had so much
human nature in him.  I thought living in
that lonely island would have made him a
misanthrope.  But I shall never forget the
expression of his face when he recognised the
old woman that had been his mother's servant."

Mary Stanley was silent for a little while;
then she said—

"It is a wonderful thing, the affection and
devotion that could bring an old woman like
that all the way across the Atlantic for a
glimpse of one she had known only as a child.
And it seems to be a thing you cannot purchase
with money, nor yet with good intentions, nor
by anything you can do, however hard you
may try."  She turned away from the window.
"But—but I haven't given up yet, Käthchen."

"You never will give up, Mamie," said her
friend; and then she added complacently: "For
you don't know how."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A DEFORCEMENT`:

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   CHAPTER II.


.. class:: center medium

   A DEFORCEMENT.

.. vspace:: 2

But wonders will never cease.  It was a couple
of days after these occurrences, and Mary
Stanley and Kate Glendinning were just about
to sit down to lunch, when the Highland maid
Barbara came into the room, with a curious
expression on her face.  And it was in almost
awe-stricken tones that she spoke:

"It's Mr. Ross, mem," said she—her pretty,
soft, shy eyes now full of a vague astonishment.

"Mr. Ross?—Mr. Ross of Heimra?  Well,
what about him?" Mary demanded, little
guessing at the true state of affairs.

"He's in the hall, mem," said the startled
Barbara.  "He says would Miss Stanley speak
with him for a moment, and he would not keep
you more than a moment, mem."

The blood rushed to Mary's forehead, and for
a second she was embarrassed and speechless;
then, with a certain impatience of her own
confusion, she said—

"Well, ask Mr. Ross to go into the drawing-room,
Barbara—and tell him I will be there
directly."

She turned quickly to her friend.  "Käthchen,
would you mind going and speaking to
him?—I shall be down in a minute."

Possibly Käthchen did not quite like this
commission; but then she was in the habit of
reflecting that as a salaried companion she had
duties to perform; and so with much good
nature she went away into the drawing-room,
to receive this unexpected visitor.  It was some
minutes before Mary reappeared.  The male
eye could not have detected any difference
between the Mary Stanley of the dining-room
and the Mary Stanley of the drawing-room;
but Käthchen instantly perceived the minute
alteration.  Mary had whipped off to her room
to exchange the stiff linen collar that she wore
for a piece of soft frilling—a more feminine
adornment.  Moreover, she came into the room,
not radiant in her beauty and self-possessed as
was her wont, but with a kind of timid, modest,
almost shamefaced gratitude for this act of
neighbourliness, and in her clear eyes a manifest
pleasure shone.  Käthchen, now relieved of her
duties, and become a mere onlooker, said to
herself: "I don't know what Mamie means;
but that young man had better take care."

He, on his side, certainly showed no lack of
self-possession—though he still remained
standing, his yachting cap in his hand.

"I hope I am not inconveniencing you," said
he to Miss Stanley.  "The fact is, we got
becalmed just outside the bay——"

"But won't you be seated?" said she, and
she herself took a chair.  Käthchen retired
to one of the windows—not to look out,
however.

"First of all, I wish to thank you for your
kindness to Mrs. Armour," said he.  "She is
very grateful to you; for of course it was
pleasant to the old dame to have a friendly
hand held out to her, when she was rather
frightened she might be coming back among
strangers."

"Oh, that is nothing," said Mary; and then
she was emboldened to add, "The wonderful
thing was to find anyone connected with this
place who would accept of any civility.  But
then she has been away a long time."

If this was a taunt, unintentional or otherwise,
he took no heed of it.

"What I really wished to see you about,
however, was this," he went on.  "It was only
last night that I heard of the sheriff's judgment
in the case of James Macdonald—James
Macdonald, the crofter, at Cruagan——"

"I know him," said Mary.  "But what case?
I never heard of it!"

"An action brought by Mr. Purdie on your
behalf," he answered briefly.

"Why was I not told of this?" she said.

"The proceedings began some little time
ago," he said.  "And, indeed, Miss Stanley, I
must apologise to you for seeming to interfere.
I do not wish to interfere in any way
whatever; it would be most impertinent on my
part; and besides—besides, I have no desire to
interfere.  But in this particular case I think
you should know what is going on, for
Macdonald is a determined man; and if the sheriff's
officer and his concurrents come out this
afternoon by the mail-car, as they are likely to do,
I'm afraid there will be trouble.  The sheriff
has granted a decree of removal; but I don't
think Macdonald will go; while it is just
possible the other crofters may back him up.
I thought if you would go along and ask
the sheriff's officer to stay proceedings until
Macdonald could be talked to by his own
friends——"

"Well, of course I will!" said she, instantly.
"But I want to know what this action is all
about!  It seems to me that I ought to be
consulted before Mr. Purdie takes to evicting
any of the tenants."

There was a curious, covert gleam of satisfaction
in the young man's lustrous black eyes;
but he went on to say very quietly—

"I am afraid Macdonald has put himself
entirely in the wrong.  For one thing, he is
over two years in arrear with his rent; and
that of itself, according to the Crofters Holding
Act, forfeits his tenancy.  And then, again, he
refuses to pay because of reasons that won't
hold water.  He claims compensation for
improvements——"

"Why not?" said she—promptly taking the
side of the tenant, and talking to young Ross
as if he were advocating the landlord's interest.

"Well," said Young Donald, "he has cut a
few drains and covered them in; but the sheriff
found that this was counterbalanced by his
neglect of other parts of the croft, and that
there was no just claim.  His other reason for
refusal was that he wanted an allowance made
to him for Mr. Watson's sheep being permitted
to graze over the Cruagan crofts after the crops
were reaped."

"And why not?" said Mary again.  "Why
should Mr. Watson's sheep graze over the
crofts?  That seems to me a great
injustice—unless compensation is given."

"Well, it is a practice of long standing," said
the young man (and Käthchen, who cared very
little about rents and holdings and drains,
nevertheless thought he had so agreeable a
voice that it was quite a pleasure to listen to
him).  "The crofters took the crofts knowing
of this condition, and the rents were fixed
accordingly.  However, this is the present state
of affairs, that the sheriff-substitute has decided
against Macdonald—as he was bound to do, I
admit.  He has found him liable for arrears of
rent, with interest and costs; and he has
granted a warrant to turn him out.  Now
Macdonald is a stiff-necked man, a difficult man
to deal with; and he doesn't know much English;
it will be no use for the sheriff-officer to
argue, and say he is only doing his duty——"

"I disapprove of the whole proceedings,"
said Mary, with decision.  "Mr. Purdie had no
right to go to such extremes without consulting
me—and I will take care that it does not
happen again.  By the mail-car, did you say?
Well, that won't be coming by Cruagan before
half-past two; and I can be there by then.
The sheriff's officer and his—his what did you
call them?"

"His concurrents—assistants."

"They must wait for further instructions;
and I will inquire into the matter myself."

He rose.

"I hope you will forgive me, Miss Stanley,"
said he, as he had said before, "for seeming to
interfere.  I have no wish to do anything of
the kind.  But I thought you ought to know
in case there might be any trouble—which you
could prevent."

"Mr. Ross," said she, "I am very much
obliged to you.  I—I don't get very much
help—and—and I want to do what little I can for
the people."

"Good morning!" said he; and he bowed to
Kate Glendinning: he was going away without
so much as shaking hands with either of them,
so distant and respectful was his manner.  But
Mary, in a confused kind of fashion, did not
seem to think this was right.  She accompanied
him to the door; and that she left open; then
she went out with him into the hall.

"I cannot believe that James Macdonald
should have any serious grudge against me,"
she said, "for I told Mr. Purdie to tell him that
the tax for the dyke was abolished, and also
that fifteen years of it was to be given back.
And, besides that, I said to Macdonald myself
that thirty shillings an acre was too much for
that land; and I propose to have it reduced to
a pound an acre when I have all the rents of
the estate looked into."

"Do you think Purdie did tell him?" young
Donald Ross asked coldly.

"If he has not!" said Mary ... "But I am
almost sure he did—I spoke to Macdonald
myself almost immediately afterwards.  And—and
I wished to tell you, Mr. Ross," she
continued (as if she were rather pleading for
favour, or at least expecting approval), "that
I have been down to the stranger fishermen at
Ru-Minard, and I think it is all settled, and
that they are going away peaceably.  I am
paying them for the lobster-traps that were
burned—and perhaps a little more; and they
understand that the Vagrant Act can be
brought to bear on any others who may think
of coming."

"Oh, they are going away?" said he.

"Yes."

"Mr. Purdie will be sorry for that."

"Why?"

"He could have had them removed, if he
had wanted; but so long as they were an
annoyance and vexation to the people here, he
allowed them to remain—naturally."

These accents of contemptuous scorn: she
was sorry to hear them somehow; and yet
perhaps they were justified—she did not know.

"Good-bye," said she, at the hall door, and
she held out her hand.  "I am so much obliged
to you."

And then of course he did shake hands with
her in bidding her farewell—and raised his
cap—and was gone.

Mary returned to the dining-room.

"Well, Mamie," said Käthchen, with a
demure smile, "that is about the most
extraordinary interview I ever heard of.  A most
handsome young gentleman calls upon a young
lady—his first visit—and there is nothing talked
of on either side but sheriff officers and
summonses, rent, compensation, drains, crofts,
grazing, and Acts of Parliament.  Of course he
was quite as bad as you; but all the same, you
might at least have asked the poor man to stay
to lunch."

"Oh, Käthchen!" Mary exclaimed, starting
to her feet, her face on fire.  "Shall I send
Barbara after him?  I never thought of it!
How frightfully rude of me—and he has come
all the way over from Heimra to tell me about
this eviction.  What shall I do?  Shall I send
after him?"

"I don't think you can," said Käthchen; "it
would make the little oversight all the more
marked.  You'd better ask him the next time
you see him—if you have forgotten certain
warnings."

"What warnings?"

"Why, about his general character and his
occupations," said Kate Glendinning, regarding
her friend.

Mary was silent for a moment or two; then
she said—

"We need not believe the worst of any one;
and when you think of that old woman coming
all the way from Canada to see him, that of
itself is a testimonial to character that not
many could bring forward—"

"But you must remember," said Käthchen,
"the young master was a little boy of ten
when Mrs. Armour left; and little boys of
ten haven't had time to develop into dangerous
criminals."

"Dangerous criminal?" said Mary, rather
sharply; "that is hardly the—the proper phrase
to use—with regard to—to a stranger.  However,
it is not of much consequence.  Käthchen,
are you going to drive with me to Cruagan to
get that sheriff's officer and his men sent
back?"

"Yes, certainly," said Käthchen, in her usual
business-like fashion, "as soon as we have had
lunch.  And remember, Mamie, it wasn't *I* who
forgot to ask him to stay."

Luncheon did not detain them long, and
immediately thereafter they got into the
waggonette that was waiting for them, and drove
off.  But it was not of the eviction and the
possibility of another riot that Mary was mostly
thinking; something very different was weighing,
and weighing heavily, on her mind.  They
drove through the village in silence; they
crossed the bridge; and they had begun the
ascent of the steep hill before she spoke.

"The more I consider it," she said, "the
more ashamed I am."

"Consider what?" said Käthchen.

"Why, neglecting to ask him to stay to
lunch," she made answer—for this was what
she had been brooding over.

"Why should you worry about such a
trifle!" Käthchen protested.

"It isn't a trifle—in a Highlander's
estimation, as you know well enough.  They pride
themselves on their hospitality; and they judge
others by their own standards; so that I cannot
but keep wondering what he must be thinking
of me at this moment.  Remember, Käthchen,
when we went over to Heimra, even the old
housekeeper entertained us, and did her best
for us, in that out-of-the-world place; and here
he comes to Lochgarra House—his first visit—he
comes to do me a kindness—he comes to
prevent mischief—and comes into the house
that once was his own—and I don't offer him
even a biscuit and a glass of sherry——"

"Really, Mary, you needn't worry about such
a mere trifle!" Käthchen protested again.

"But I do worry!" she said.  "I can
imagine what he thought of me as he went
away.  For you must not forget this, Käthchen:
it was a very awkward position he put himself
into in order to do me a good turn.  Think of
his coming to the house, that ought to be his
own—asking the servants if he might be
admitted—sending up his name as a stranger—then
he remains standing in the drawing-room—and
he is for going away without shaking
hands—as if he were hardly to be considered
one's fellow-creature."  She was silent for a
second or two; then she said, with a sudden
touch of asperity: "At the same time there is
this to be remembered, that the pride that apes
humility is the very worst kind of pride.  Often
it simply means that the person is inordinately vain."

"Poor young man!" said Käthchen, with a
sigh.  "He is always in the wrong.  But I'm
sure I did not object to his manner when he
showed us the way out of the Meall-na-Fearn bog."

About a couple of hundred yards on the
Lochgarra side of Cruagan they met the
mail-car; and when, a minute or two thereafter,
they came in sight of the scattered crofts, it
was obvious from the prevailing commotion
that the sheriff's officer and his assistants had
arrived.  Indeed, when Mary and Käthchen
descended from the waggonette and walked up
to James Macdonald's cottage, the business of
getting out the few poor sticks of furniture had
already begun—the only onlooker being an old
white-haired man, Macdonald's father, who was
standing there dazed and bewildered, as if he
did not understand what was going forward.
Just as Mary got up, one of the concurrents
brought out a spinning-wheel and put it on the
ground.

"Here—what are you doing?" she said,
angrily, to the man who appeared to be the
chief officer.  "Leave that spinning-wheel
alone: that is the very thing I want to see in
every cottage!"

"I've got the sheriff's warrant, ma'am," said
the man, civilly enough.  "And we must get
everything out and take possession."

"Oh, no, you mustn't!" she said.  "This
man Macdonald claims compensation—the case
must be inquired into——"

"I have nothing to do wi' that, ma'am," said
the officer, who seemed a respectable,
quiet-spoken, quiet-mannered kind of a person.  "I'm
bound to carry out the warrant—that's all I've
to heed."

"But surely I can say whether I want the
man turned out or not?" she protested.  "He
is my tenant.  It is to me he owes the money.
Surely, if I am satisfied, you can leave the man
alone.  But where is he?  Where is Macdonald?"

"As for that, ma'am," said the officer, "he
is away down the road, and he says he is going
to fetch a gun.  Very well.  If he presents a
gun at either me or my concurrents I will
declare myself deforced, and he will have to
answer for it before the sheriff."

"A gun?" said Mary, rather faintly.  "Do
you mean to drive the poor man to desperation?"

But there was a more immediate danger to
be considered.  As the two girls had driven up
they had heard a good deal of shrill calling
from croft to croft and from house to house;
and now there had assembled a crowd of women—a
crowd hostile and menacing—that came
swarming up, uttering all sorts of angry and
reproachful cries.  Each time that the sheriff's
officer's assistants appeared at the door of the
cottage there was another outburst of hooting
and groaning; while here and there a
bare-armed virago had furnished herself with an
apron-full of rubbish—potato-peelings,
cabbage-stalks, stale fish, and the like—and these
unsavoury missiles began to hurtle through the
air, though for the most part they were badly
aimed.  The sheriff's officer affected to pay no
heed.  He calmly watched the proceedings of
his men; the rubbish flew past him unregarded;
and the women had not yet taken to stones.

But Käthchen beheld this advancing crowd
with undisguised alarm.

"Mary," she said, hurriedly, "don't you
think we should go back to the waggonette?
Those people think it is you who are setting
the sheriff's officers on—they are hooting at us
as well——"

There could be no doubt of the fact; and the
infuriated women were drawing nearer and
nearer; while, if their taunts and epithets were
to her unintelligible, their wrathful glances and
threatening gestures were unmistakeable.  Mary
Stanley found herself helpless.  She could not
explain to them.  She had not the self-possession
with which to address this exasperated
mob, even if she knew the language in which
alone it was possible to appeal to them.  Nor
dared she retreat, for would not that be simply
inviting a general attack?  So she was standing,
irresolute and bewildered, when there was a
new diversion of interest: the man Macdonald
made his appearance.  She looked at him; she
hardly recognised him—so ashen-grey had his
cheeks become with excitement and wrath.
One trembling hand held a gun; the other he
clenched and shook in the face of the officer as
he went up to him.

"I—not owing any money!" said the
Russian-looking crofter, and his features were
working with passion, and his eyes were filled
with a baleful light under his shaggy eyebrows.
"No—no—God's curse to me if I pay money
when I not owing any money!  Go away,
now—go away back to Dingwall—or it is
murder there will be——"

Mary was very pale; but she went forward
to him all the same.

"Put away that gun," she said, and she
spoke with firmness, though her lips had lost
their natural colour.  "Put away that gun!
These men are doing their duty—you have
brought it on yourself."

He turned upon her savagely.

"You—it's not you—my laird—Ross of
Heimra, he my laird—you come here, ay, to
steal the land—and—and put me from my
croft—ay—will you be putting me from my croft?"

In his fury he could find no more English;
but he advanced towards her, his clenched fist
raised; and here it was that Käthchen (though
her heart was beating wildly) thrust herself
forward between them.

"How dare you!" she said, indignantly.
"Stand back!  How dare you!"

For an instant the man's eyes glared at her—as
if in his indescribable rage he knew neither
what to do or say; but just at this moment his
attention was drawn else-whither; a volley of
groans and yells from the crowd had greeted the
reappearance of the assistants.  At sight of these
enemies bringing out his poor bits of things,
Macdonald's wrath was turned in a new
direction; he made a dash for the cottage—managed
to get inside—and the next second the two men
were flung headlong out, while the door was
instantly slammed to behind them.  A great
shout of triumph and laughter arose from the
crowd, while the discomfited officers picked
themselves up and gazed blankly at the barred way.

"I call you to witness," said their chief to
Miss Stanley—and he spoke in the calmest
manner, as if this were quite an every-day
occurrence—"that I have been deforced in the
execution of my duty.  This man will have to
answer for it at Dingwall."

But his assistants were not so imperturbable.
Smarting under the jeers of the crowd, they
proceeded to cast about for some implement
with which to effect an entrance; and presently
they found an axe.  With this one of them
set to work; and crash! crash! went the
weight of iron on to the trembling door.  The
wood began to yield.  Splinters showed—then
a narrow breach was made—the hole grew
wider—and just as it became evident that the
demolition of the door was but a matter of a
few minutes, a heavier stroke than usual
snapped the shaft of the axe in twain, the iron
head falling inside the cottage.  By this time
the attitude of the crowd had again altered—from
derision to fierce resentment; there were
groans renewed again and again; missiles flew
freely.  And then again, and quite suddenly, an
apparently trivial incident entirely changed the
aspect of affairs.  At that ragged opening that
had been made in the door there appeared two
small black circles, close together; and these
were pushed outward a few inches.  The
concurrents fell back—and the crowd was silent;
well they perceived what this was; those two
small circles were the muzzle of a gun; at any
moment, a violent death—a shattered
corpse—might be the next feature of the scene.

"What does that madman mean to do!"
Mary exclaimed, in a paralysis of terror—for it
appeared to her that she was responsible for all
that was happening or might happen.

"Mary," said Käthchen, under her breath—and
she was all trembling with excitement,
"you must come away at once—now—while
they are watching the gun.  Perhaps they
won't interfere with us—we may get down to
the waggonette—we may have to run for it, too,
if those women should turn on us."

"I cannot go and leave these poor men here,"
Mary said, in her desperation.  "They will be
murdered.  That man in there is a madman—a
downright madman——"

Käthchen lowered her voice still further.

"There is Mr. Ross coming—and oh! I wish
he would be quick!"

Indeed it was no other than Donald Ross,
who, immediately after leaving Lochgarra
House, had struck off across the hills, hoping by
a short cut to reach Cruagan not long after
Miss Stanley's arrival.  And now that he
appeared, all eyes were turned towards him;
there was no further groaning, or hooting, or
hurling of missiles.  He seemed to take in the
situation at a glance.  He asked a question of
the sheriff's officer.

"I'll just have to come back, sir," said the
man, "with an inspector and a dozen police;
but in the meantime I declare that I have been
deforced, and this man Macdonald must answer
for it.  I hope ye'll give evidence, sir, if the
leddies would rather not come over to
Dingwall.  You were not here when my assistants
were thrown out of the house; but at least you
can see a gun pointed at us—there it
is—through that door."

Young Ross did not go directly forward to
the muzzle of the gun—which would have been
the act of a lunatic, for the man inside the
cottage might make a mistake; but he went
towards the front of the house, then approached
the door, and struck up the gun with his fist.
One barrel went off—harmlessly enough.

"Hamish!"

He called again; and added something in
Gaelic.  The door was opened.  There was
some further speech in the same tongue; the
shaggy-browed crofter laid aside the gun, and
came out into the open air, looking about him
like a wild-beast at bay, but following the
young master submissively enough.  Donald
Ross went up to Miss Stanley.

"I was afraid there might be a little trouble,"
said he.  "Well, I can answer for this man—if
you will get the sheriff's officer and his
assistants to go away."

"I want them to go away!" she said.  "I
have no wish at all to put James Macdonald out
of his croft—not in the least—and I will give
him time to pay up arrears, especially as there
is to be a re-valuation.  I wish you would tell
him that.  I wish you would tell him that I
had nothing to do with these proceedings.
Tell him I want to deal fairly with everybody.
You can talk to him—I cannot—I cannot
explain to him——"

But Macdonald had been listening all the same.

"That woman," said he, sullenly, "she—no
business here.  The land—Ross of Heimra's——"

Young Ross turned to him with a muttered
exclamation in Gaelic, and with a flash of flame
in the coal-black eyes that did not escape
Käthchen's notice.  The stubborn crofter was silent
after that—standing aside in sombre indifference.

"The officer can bring his action for
deforcement, if he likes," Ross said, "and I suppose
Macdonald will be fined forty shillings.  But
no one has been hurt; and it seems a pity there
should be any further proceedings, if, as you
say, you are going to have a re-valuation of the
crofts"—and then he suddenly checked himself.
"I hope you will forgive me for interfering,"
he said, quite humbly; "I did not intend to
say anything; it is Mr. Purdie's business—and
I do not wish even to offer you advice."

"I wish I could tell you how much I am
obliged to you," she said, warmly.  "If you
had not let me know about those men coming,
and if you had not appeared yourself, I believe
there would have been murder done here this
day.  And now, Mr. Ross, would you get them
to go on at once to Lochgarra, so as to be out
of harm's way—and to-morrow they can go
back by the mail-car?  I will write to
Mr. Purdie.  There must be no further proceedings;
and James Macdonald will not be put out
of his croft—not if I have any say in the
matter."

So the three officials were started off for the
village; the morose crofter proceeded to pick
up his bits of furniture and get them into the
house again; and the crowd of women began to
disperse—not silently, however, but with much
shrill and eager decision—towards their own
homes.  Young Ross of Heimra went down
with the two young ladies to the waggonette,
which was waiting for them below in the road.

He saw them into the carriage.

"But won't you drive back with us?" said Mary.

"Oh, thank you—if I may," he said, rather
diffidently; and therewith he went forward to
get up beside the coachman, just as Mr. Purdie
would have done.

The colour rushed to Mary's forehead.

"Mr. Ross," she said, "not there!"—and she
herself opened the door of the waggonette for
him, so that perforce he had to take his place
beside them.  And was this again (she may
have asked herself) the pride that apes
humility; or was it only part of his apparent
desire to keep a marked distance between
himself and her?  She was vexed with him for
causing her this embarrassment.  He had no
right to do such things.  He might be a little
more friendly.  She, on her part, had been
frank enough in expressing her obligations to
him; nay, she had gone out of her way to ask,
in a kind of fashion, for his approval.  Were all
the advances to come from her side?

But Kate Glendinning noticed this—that as
they drew near to the dried-up waste that had
once been Loch Heimra, and as they were
passing the tumbled-down ruins of the ancient
stronghold, he pretended that he did not see
anything.  He rather turned away his face.
He talked of indifferent matters.  Mary had
forgotten that they would have to pass by Loch
and Castle Heimra, or perhaps she might have
thought twice about inviting him to drive with
them.  But quite simply and resolutely he
turned away from those things that all too
eloquently spoke of the irreparable wrong that
had been done to him and his, and affected not
to see them or remember them; and Käthchen—a
not uninterested observer—said proudly to
herself: "If that is not Highland courtesy, I
do not know what is."

Wonders will never cease, truly.  That
evening the astounding rumour had found its way
through the length and breadth of the
township: there were eye-witnesses who could
testify: Young Donald of Heimra had been
seen in the same carriage with the two ladies
from Lochgarra House.





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.. _`A CROFTERS' COMMISSION`:

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   CHAPTER III.


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   A CROFTERS' COMMISSION.

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One morning Mary Stanley and her companion
had been away on some distant errand, and when
on their return they came to the summit of the
hill overlooking the bay, Mary paused for a
moment to take in the prospect—the wide, grey,
wind-swept plain of the sea, the long headlands,
and the lonely Heimra Island out in the west.
But Käthchen did not cease her discourse—in
which she was endeavouring to account for the
comparative failure, so far, of her friend's fine
philanthropic schemes.

"The truth is, Mamie," said she, "what has
disappointed you here has been the prevalence
of hard facts—very hard facts—facts as hard
as the rocks on which the poor people try to
live.  You wanted to play the part of Lady
Bountiful; and you yourself are just full of
enthusiasm, and generous emotion, and ideals of
duty and self-sacrifice, and—and—romanticism
generally, if I may say so.  And for all these
qualities you find no exercise, no outlet.  I can
imagine you in very different circumstances—in
London, perhaps, or in some English village:
I can imagine your going into a squalid room
where there is a poor widow by the bedside of
her dying boy; and the Lady Bountiful brings
little comforts for the sick child, and words of
kindness and consolation for the mother; and
the poor woman looks on you as an angel, and
would kiss the hem of your gown; and it's all
very pretty and touching.  But, you see,"
continued the practical Käthchen, "how you are
baffled and thwarted in this obdurate place; for
there isn't a single case of illness in the whole
district—not one—which is no doubt owing to
the valuable antiseptic properties of peat-smoke!"

"Oh, well," said Mary, cheerfully, as they
went on again.  "I can put up with being
disappointed on that score—and the longer the
better.  But, Käthchen, when you said there
was nothing but hard facts about here—no
pretty sentiment and sympathy—you weren't
keeping your eyes open.  Look down there at
the bridge; what is that if not pretty sentiment?—two
lovers talking—why, it is quite a charming
picture!—and isn't there some rustic custom
of pledging troth over a running stream?"

Her face suddenly grew grave; and Käthchen,
also regarding those two figures, was struck by
the same surmise.

"It is Mr. Ross, Mamie!" she exclaimed, in
an undertone—though they were still a long way off.

Mary said nothing.  She walked on calmly
and indifferently, sometimes looking up to the
hills, sometimes looking out to Heimra Island
and the sea.  It was Käthchen, keeping her
eyes covertly on those two figures by the bridge,
who observed that the girl suddenly separated
herself from her companion, and disappeared
into the woods by the side of the Garra.  As
for Donald Ross, he made no sign of going
away: on the contrary, he remained idling by the
rude stone parapet, occasionally looking into
the water underneath.  And he must have
known that he was intercepting the two ladies
from Lochgarra House—there was no escape
for them.

Mary maintained a perfect self-possession;
and when they came up to him she was for
passing with a little bow of recognition; but
he spoke.

"I have a small petition to put before you,"
said he, with a smile (Käthchen thought that,
though he looked extremely handsome, this
pleasant and familiar smile was in the
circumstances something of an impertinence).

"Indeed," said Mary—and she waited.

"From a very humble petitioner," he continued
(and Käthchen began to consider him a most
unabashed young man—so easily and lightly he
spoke), "one who has no English, and she has
asked me to interfere and tell you all about her
case.  She was talking to me just now; but
when she caught sight of you she fled off into
the woods, like a hare."

"Why?" said Mary, coldly.

"Because she is afraid of you," said he.
"She thinks you are a friend of the *Troich
Bheag Dhearg*—the Little Red Dwarf—as they
call Mr. Purdie about here.  And that is quite
enough to frighten Anna——"

"Anna?" said Mary.  "Do you mean Anna
Chlannach—the half-witted girl?"—and as she
guessed the simple and harmless truth an
indescribable confusion appeared on her forehead
and in the self-consciousness of her eyes.

"Yes," said he, apparently not noticing.
"Anna says that you spoke to her once; but
she has no English, and could not tell you
anything; and she saw Purdie with you,
and ran away.  So much I made out, though
she talks rather wildly, and mysteriously as well."

"Oh, but Mr. Ross," said Mary, with some
eagerness, "I wish you would tell Anna
Chlannach that she has no reason to be afraid
of me—surely not!  Why, she was the first
creature in the place who seemed a little friendly.
Will you tell her I will do everything for her I
can; and that she must come and see me; and
there will be no fear of her meeting Mr. Purdie;
and Barbara can be the interpreter between us?
Will you tell her that?  Could you find her now?"

"There's no one in this neighbourhood who
could find Anna Chlannach if she wants to be
hidden," he said, with a bit of a laugh that showed
beautiful teeth—as Käthchen remarked.  "But
I shall come across her some other time, and of
course, if you grant her petition, she must go
to you and thank you."

"What is her petition?" said Mary, who had
recovered from her momentary confusion, and
was now prepared to be entirely bland and
magnanimous—which, indeed, was her natural mood.

"Well," said he, "Purdie—Mr. Purdie—has
been threatening to have her shut up in some
asylum for imbeciles—so they say—-and Anna
is in a great state about the possibility of her
being taken away from among the people she
knows.  I don't think it is true, myself; indeed
I doubt whether he could do anything of the
kind, without the consent of her relatives, and
she has got none now; but I am not quite sure
what the law is; anyhow, what I imagine to be
the case is simply that Mr. Purdie has been
making use of these threats to spite the people
with whom Anna Chlannach is a favourite.
For she is a general favourite—there is no harm
in the girl——"

"Why, so Barbara said!" Mary exclaimed.

"It is quite true that she is rather useless
about the place," Donald Ross went on.
"Sometimes they have tried her with a bit of
herding; but then, if she saw a boat out at sea,
she would imagine her mother was coming back,
and she would go away down to the shore to
meet her, and spend her time in gathering white
shells, that she thinks is money, to give to her
mother.  Well, you see, that is awkward.  You
couldn't leave sheep or cows under Anna's care
without asking somebody to keep an eye on
Anna herself.  The truth is, she is useless.  But
there's no harm in the lass; and the people
are fond of her; there's always a bit of food,
or a corner for her to sleep in; so that she's
not a cost to anyone except to those that are
willing to pay it—a mere trifle—and in any
case it does not come out of Mr. Purdie's
pocket——"

"She shall not be shut up in any asylum, if I
have any say in the matter!" Mary interposed,
with a touch of indignation.

"I asked her to stay and appeal to yourself,"
he continued.  "But she was frightened of
you——"

"Yes," said Mary, "everyone is frightened
of me—or set against me—in this place!"

"There is another thing I should mention,"
he proceeded—ignoring this taunt, if it was
meant as a taunt; "the young girls and lads
about here are not very considerate if there's
any fun going on; and they've heard of this
proposal of Purdie's; and so they amuse
themselves by telling Anna Chlannach that
she is going to be taken away and shut up
in an asylum, and the poor girl is dreadfully
frightened.  But if you can assure her that
you will not allow Purdie to do any such
thing——"

"Well, of course I will, if you will only
bring her to me!" said Mary, impetuously.
"Why haven't you brought her to me before?"

He hesitated.  Then he said—

"I am very much obliged to you.  I will tell
Anna Chlannach the first time I see her.  Good
morning, Miss Stanley!"

But Mary would not have that; she said boldly—

"Are you not going down to the village?—won't
you walk with us?"

He could hardly refuse the invitation; and
as they went on towards the little township,
what she was saying in her heart was this—'Here,
you people, all of you, if you are at
your cottage doors or working on your crofts,
don't you see this now, that Mr. Ross of Heimra
is walking with me, with all the world to
witness?  Do you understand what that means?
It is true my uncle drained Loch Heimra and
tore down Castle Heimra into a heap of ruins;
and the Rosses of Heimra, and you also, may
have had reason to hate the name of Stanley;
But look at this—look at Young Donald
walking with me—in a kind of a way proclaiming
himself my friend—and consider what that
means.  A feud?  There is no feud if he and I
say there shall be none.  I cannot restore
Castle Heimra, but it is within his power to
forgive and to forget.'

That is what she was somewhat proudly
saying to herself as they walked into the
village—past the smithy—past the weaver's
cottage—past the school-house—past the post-office—past
the inn and its dependencies; and she hoped
that everyone would see, and reflect.  But of
course she could not speak in that fashion to
Donald Ross.

"You might have told me about Anna
Chlannach before," she said.

"I did not like to interfere," he made answer.

"You seem very sensitive on that point!"
she retorted.

"Well, it is natural," he said, with something
of reserve; and instinctively she felt that she
could go no further in that direction.

"Are you remaining long on the mainland
at present?" she asked, in an ordinary kind
of way.

"Until this afternoon only: I shall go back
to Heimra after the mail-cart has come in."

"It must be very lonely out there," she
said—glancing towards the remote island among
the grey and driven seas.

"It is lonely—now," he said.

And then she hesitated.  For he had never
spoken to her of his circumstances in any way
whatever; he had always been so distant and
respectful; and she hardly knew whether she
might venture to betray any interest.  But at
length she said—

"I can very well understand that there must
be a charm in living all by one's self in a lonely
island like that—for a time, at least—and
yet—yet—it does seem like throwing away
one's opportunities.  I think I should want
some definite occupation—among my fellow creatures."

"Oh, yes, no doubt," said he, in no wise
taking her timorous suggestion as a reproach.
"In my own case, I could not leave the island
so long as my mother was alive; I never even
thought of such a thing; so that being shut up
in Eilean Heimra was not in the least irksome
to me.  Not in the least.  She and I were
sufficient companions for each other—anywhere.
But now it is different.  Now I am free to look
about.  And I am reading up for the Bar as a
preliminary step."

"Oh, indeed?" said she.  "Do you mean to
practise as a lawyer?"

"No, I think not," he made reply; and now
Käthchen was indeed listening with interest—more
interest than she usually displayed over
rents and drains and sheriff's decrees.  "But
being a barrister is a necessary qualification for
a good many appointments; and if I were once
called to the Bar I might perhaps get some sort
of post in one of the colonies."

"In one of the colonies?" Mary repeated;
"and leave Eilean Heimra for ever?"

"Well, I don't know about that," said he,
absently.  "At all events, I should not like to
part with the island—I mean, I should not like
to sell it.  It is the last little bit of a foothold;
and the name has been in our family for a long
while; and—and there are other associations.
No; rather than sell the bit of an island, I
think I should be content to remain a prisoner
there for the rest of my life.  However, all
that is in the air at present," he continued more
lightly.  "The main thing is that I am not
quite so lonely out at Eilean Heimra as you
might imagine—I have my books for
companions any way."

"Then you are very busy?" she said,
thoughtfully.  "I must not say I am sorry;
and yet I was going to ask you——"

"I should be very busy indeed," said he, "if
I could not find time to do anything for you
that you wished me to do."  (And here
Käthchen said proudly to herself:  'Well, Mamie,
and what do you think of that as a speech for
a Highlander?')

"Ah, but this is something rather serious,"
said she.  "The fact is, I want to form a little
private commission—a commission among
ourselves—for the resettlement of the whole estate.
I want every crofter's case fully investigated;
every grievance, if he has any, inquired into;
all the rents overhauled and reduced to what is
quite easy and practicable and just; and a
percentage of the arrears—perhaps all the
arrears—cut off, if it is found desirable.  I
want to be able to say: 'There, now, I have
done what is fair on my side: are you going
to do what is fair on yours?'  And I have
got Mr. Watson to consent to give up the
pasturage of Meall-na-Cruagan; and that must
be valued and taken off his rent; and then
when the pasturage is divided among the
Cruagan crofters—oh, well, perhaps I shan't
ask them for anything!"

"You seem to wish to act very generously
by them," said he, with a grave simplicity.

"Oh, I tell you I have plenty of schemes!"
she said, half laughing at her own enthusiasm.
"But I get no sympathy—no encouragement.
There is Miss Glendinning, who simply sits
and mocks——"

"Mamie, how can you say such things!"
Käthchen protested—for what would this
handsome young gentleman from Heimra think
of her?

"I have two new hand-looms coming next
week," Mary continued; "and I am going to
send to the Inverness Exhibition, and to
Dudley House, if there is another bazaar held
there; and I am going to give local prizes, too;
and I may get over some of the Harris people
to show them the best dyes, and so forth.  But
all that will take time; and in the meanwhile I
am chiefly anxious to put myself right with the
tenants by means of this commission and a
complete revision of the rents.  A commission
they can trust—formed of people they
know——"

"They will be ill to please if they don't
meet you half way—and gladly," said young
Ross.

Mary Stanley's eyes shone with pleasure at
these hopeful words: she had not met with
much encouragement hitherto.

"Does Mr. Watson know Gaelic?" was her
next question.

"In a kind of a way, I should imagine," he
said.  "He is a south countryman; but I
should think he knew as much Gaelic as was
necessary for his business."

"And to talk to the people about general
things—about their crops—and their rents?"
she asked again.

"In a kind of a way he might."

"But you—you know Gaelic very well?" she said.

"I think I may fairly say that I do," he
confessed frankly enough.

"Then," said she, "if you could find the
time, would not that be sufficient to form a
commission—Mr. Watson, and you, and I?
There would be no kind of conflicting interests;
and we should all want to do what was equitable
and right by the people."

"Oh," said he, in a wondering sort of way,
"there would be only these three—Mr. Watson,
yourself, and I?"

"Mr. Purdie," said she, "would simply be
a kind of clerk——"

And instantly his face changed.

"Mr. Purdie," said he, "is he coming to
take part in it?"

"Only as a kind of clerk," she said quickly.
"He would merely register our decisions.  And
of course he knows the people and all the
circumstances; he could give us what
information we wanted, and we could form our own
judgment."

But there was no return to his face of that
sympathetic interest that she had read there
for a brief moment or two.  His manner
had entirely altered; and as they were now
close to Lochgarra House, he had to take his
leave.

"As far as I am concerned, Miss Stanley,"
said he, "I would rather leave this resettlement
in Mr. Purdie's hands.  Intermeddlers only
make mischief, and get little thanks for their
pains."

She was disappointed and hurt; and yet too
proud to appeal further.  He bade them good-bye—a
little coldly, as Käthchen thought—and
left; and Mary Stanley and her friend went
into the house.  All that Mary said was—

"Well, we must do the best we can,
Mr. Watson, Mr. Purdie, and myself.  I don't
suppose Mr. Watson has any reason to be
stiff-necked, and malevolent, and revengeful."

A couple of days thereafter Mr. Purdie
arrived; and the Little Red Dwarf appeared to
bear with much equanimity the rating that
Miss Stanley administered to him over his
action in the James Macdonald case.

"Oh, ay," said he, "Macdonald will find out
now who is master—the law, or himself.  He
is the most ill-condeetioned man in the whole
district—an ill-condeetioned, thrawn, contentious
rascal, and the worst example possible for
his neighbours; but he'll find out now; he'll
find out that the law is not to be defied with
impunity——"

"What do you mean?" said she.  "I told
you to stop all proceedings."

"I cannot stop the Procurator-Fiscal," said
the Troich Bheag Dhearg, grimly, "when he
institutes a prosecution for deforcement of the
sheriff's officer."

"But I got the sheriff's officer to go away
peaceably," said she; "and I told him that the
case would be inquired into."

"Just that," replied Mr. Purdie, with a
certain self-assurance.  "But it was not the
business of the sheriff's officer to inquire into
the case at all.  He had merely to execute the
sheriff's warrant; and in doing that, as he now
declares, he was deforced.  Macdonald will find
out whether he can set the law at defiance—even
with that mischief-making ne'er-do-weel
Donald Ross at his elbow egging him on."

"Mr. Ross did not egg him on!" said Mary
Stanley, indignantly; "for I was there, and
saw the whole transaction.  Mr. Ross interfered
for the sake of peace, or there would have
been murder done."

"Ay? and I wonder what right has Mr. Ross
to interfere wi' the Lochgarra tenants!"
said Mr. Purdie, rather scornfully—but with
an angry light twinkling in his small blue eyes.

"Because I asked him," said Mary, drawing
herself up.  "And I will ask him again, when
it suits me."

Mr. Purdie said nothing.  His heavily
down-drawn mouth was more than usually dogged in
expression; and it was with difficulty Mary
extracted from him the information that the
punishment the sheriff would most likely inflict
on Macdonald was a fine of forty shillings,
with the alternative of three weeks' imprisonment.

"I will pay the fine," said she, promptly.
"I did not authorise you to have that man
turned out of his croft; and I won't have
anyone turned out until I have a thorough
investigation made, and the rents revised, and the
arrears cancelled."

But when she proceeded to place before him
the comprehensive project she had formed—to
carry out which he had been summoned from
Inverness—the factor abandoned his obstinate
attitude, and became almost plaintive.

"Ye'll ruin the estate, Miss Stanley; and
ye'll not make these people one whit more
contented.  Have I not had experience of them,
years and years before you ever came to the
place?  And now that the Land League is
their god, nothing will satisfy them but getting
crofts and farms, arable land and pasture, all
rent free, and the landlords taking the first train
for the South.  The poor, deluded craytures—if
it was not for their spite and ill-will—one
could almost peety them; for what would be the
advantage to them of a lot of useless land, with
no stock to put on it?  But maybe they expect
to have the stock bought and given to them as
well?—I would not wonder!  There's they
scoundrels in the newspapers, that do not know
the difference between a barn-door and a
peat-stack, they've filled the heads o' the ignorant
craytures with all kinds of nonsense, and they
would have the deer-forests divided up—the
deer-forests!—they might as well try to plough,
sow, and reap the Atlantic—"

"All that does not concern me," she said,
interrupting him without scruple.  "What does
concern me is to have myself put right, in the
first place.  That is to say, I wish to have
rents fixed that the people can pay without
getting into arrears—just rents, so that they
can have no right to complain."

"Ay, and ye'll go on remitting this and
remitting that," said the factor; "and if ye
remitted everything they would still grumble!
I tell ye, Miss Stanley, I've had experience;
and it's not the way to treat these people.
The more ye give them, the more they'll ask.
What you consider justice, they will consider
weakness; they will expect more and more;
and complain if they do not get it.  I'm telling
ye the truth, Miss Stanley, about these idle,
and ill-willed, and ill-thrawn craytures: what
you propose is no the way to deal wi' them
at all——"

"But I propose to take that way none the
less," said Mary.  And Käthchen, sitting there,
and listening, and regarding the Troich Bheag
Dhearg, said to herself: 'My good friend, you
have tremendous shoulders, and a powerful
mouth, and suspicious and vindictive eyes; but
you don't in the least know with whom you
have to do.  Your obstinacy won't answer; and
if you are discreet, you will allow it to subside.'

"I have done my best for the estate," he said,
with some stiffness.

"Yes," said Mary, "no doubt.  But then
the result that has been arrived at is not quite
satisfactory—according to modern notions.
Perhaps the old way was the best; but I am
going to try the new—and I suppose I can do
what I like with my own, as the saying is.
And so, Mr. Purdie, I wish you to go out
to-morrow morning and call on Mr. Watson, and
give him my compliments—oh, no," she said,
interrupting herself: "on second thoughts
I will drive out to Craiglarig myself—for it is
a great favour I have to ask.  Will you dine
with us this evening, Mr. Purdie?"

"I thank ye, but I hope ye'll excuse me,"
said the factor.  "I have some various things
to look into, and I'll just give the evening to
them at the inn."

"Then we shall see you in the morning"—and
therewithal the Little Red Dwarf took his
departure.

Now to tell the truth, when the sheep-farmer
of Craiglarig was asked to assist in this scheme,
he did not express himself very hopefully as to
the issue; but he was a good-natured man; and
he said he would place as much of his time at
Miss Stanley's disposal as he reasonably could.
And so they set to work to revalue the crofts.
No doubt the composition of this amateur court
might have been impugned; for it consisted
of the owner of the estate, her factor, and her
chief tenant; but then again Mary constituted
herself, from the very outset, the champion of
the occupants of the smaller holdings,
Mr. Purdie took the side of the landlords, while
Mr. Watson, apart from his services as
interpreter, maintained a benevolent neutrality.  It
was slow and not inspiriting work; for the
crofters did not seem to believe that any
amelioration of their condition was really meant;
they were too afraid to speak, or too sullen to
speak; and when they did speak, in many cases
their demands were preposterous.  But Mary
stuck to her task.

"I must put myself right, to begin with,"
she said, as she had said all along.  "Thereafter
we will see."

And sometimes she would look out towards
Heimra Island; and there was a kind of
reproach in her heart.  How much easier would
all this have been for them, if only young Ross
had consented to put aside for the moment that
fierce internecine feud between him and the
factor!  Was Mr. Purdie, she asked herself,
the sort of man that Donald Ross of Heimra
should raise to the rank of being his enemy?
However, the days passed, and there was no
sign—no glimmer of the white sails of the
*Sirène* coming away from the distant shores—no
mention of the young master having been
seen anywhere on the mainland.

"I warrant," said Mr. Purdie, when some
remark chanced to be made, "I warrant I can
tell where that cheat-the-gallows is off
to—away to France for more o' that smuggled
brandy so that he can spend his days and nights
in drunkenness and debauchery!"

"You forget, Mr. Purdie," said Käthchen,
with something very nearly approaching
disdain, "that we have made the acquaintance of
Mr. Ross, and know something of himself and
his habits."

"Do ye?" he said, turning upon her.  "I
tell ye, ye do not!  And a good thing ye do
not!  A smooth-tongued hypocrite—specious—sly—it
is well for ye that ye are ignorant of
what that poaching, mischief-making dare-devil
really is; but ye'll find out in time—ye'll
find out in time."

And indeed it was not until the self-appointed
commission had done its work, and Mr. Purdie
had gone away to the south again, that
young Ross of Heimra reappeared: he said he
had heard of what had been arranged; and he
thought Miss Stanley had been most generous.
This casual encounter took place just as Mary
and Kate Glendinning were nearing Lochgarra
House; and when they had gone inside,
Käthchen said—

"Well, I don't know what has come over you,
Mamie.  You used always to be so
self-possessed—to seem as if you were conferring a
favour by merely looking at anyone.  And
now, when you stand for a few minutes talking
to Mr. Ross, you are quite nervous and
shamefaced—and apparently anxious for the smallest
sign of approval——"

"You have far too much imagination, Käthchen,"
said Mary, as she went off to her own room.

And then again, that same night, Käthchen
was at one of the windows, looking out.  She
could not distinguish anything, for it was quite
dark; she could only hear the wind howling in
from the sea.

"Do you know where you should be at this
moment, Mamie?" she said.  "You ought to
be going up the grand staircase of some great
opera-house—your cloak of crimson velvet,
white-furred—the diamonds in your hair
shining through your lace hood—and you
should have at least three gentlemen to escort
you to your box, carrying opera-glasses, and
flowers.  That's more like you.  And yet here
you banish yourself away to this out-of-the-world
place—you seek for no amusement—you
busy yourself all day about peats, and drains,
and seed-potatoes—and the highest reward you
set before yourself is to get a half-hearted
'Thank you' from a sulky crofter——"

"Käthchen," said Mary, "I would advise
you to read the third chapter of the General
Epistle of James."

"Ah, well," said Käthchen—and she was not
deeply offended by that hint about the bridling
of the tongue—"wait till your brother and
Mr. Frank Meredyth come up—and you'll find them
saying the same thing.  Philanthropy is all
very well; but you need not make yourself a
white slave."  And then she turned to the
black window again, and to her visions.
"There's one thing, Mamie: I wish Mr. Ross
could see you going up that grand staircase."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HER GUEST`:

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   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium

   HER GUEST.

.. vspace:: 2

"It will be all different now," said Käthchen,
one evening, when they were come to within a
week of the arrival of Mary's brother and his
friend Frank Meredyth.  "And you deserve
some little rest, Mamie, and some little
amusement, after all your hard work.  And I want
you to be considerate—towards Mr. Meredyth,
I mean.  It isn't merely grouse and grilse that
are bringing him here.  You know what your
brother says—that there is no one in such
request for shooting parties; he could just have
his pick of invitations, all over Scotland, every
autumn; so you may be sure it isn't merely for
the grouse and the salmon-fishing he is coming
to a little place like Lochgarra.  Oh, you need
not pretend to deny it, Mamie!  And all I
want is that you should be a little considerate.
He may be very anxious to have you, and yet
not quite so anxious to take over your hobby
as well.  He may not even be interested in the
price of home-knitted stockings."

Mary Stanley did not answer just at once.
The two girls were slowly walking up and
down the stone terrace outside the house.  It
was ten o'clock at night; but it was not yet
dark, nor anything approaching to dark.  All
the world was of a pale, clear, wan lilac colour:
and in this coldly luminous twilight any white
object—the front of a cottage, for example, or
the little Free Church building across the
bay—appeared startlingly distinct.  There was an
absolute silence; the sea was still; two hours
ago the sun had gone down behind what seemed
a vast and motionless lake of molten copper;
and now there was a far-reaching expanse of
pearly grey, with the long headlands and
Eilean Heimra gathering shadows around them.
The heavens were cloudless and serene; over
the sombre hills in the east a star throbbed here
and there, but it had to be sought for.  There
appeared to be neither lamp nor candle down in
the village—there was no need of them on
these magical summer nights.

"I do not see that it will be so different,"
said Mary, presently.  "Fred will have to look
after Mr. Meredyth.  No doubt there will be
something of a commotion in so quiet a place—the
dogs, and keepers, and ponies; by the way,
there will be gillies wanted for the fishing as
well as for the shooting later on——"

Käthchen began to snigger a little.

"I do believe, Mamie," she said, "that that
is all the interest you have in the shooting—it
will provide so much more employment for
your beloved crofters."

"Oh, yes, I suppose the place will be a little
more brisk and lively," Mary continued,
"though that won't improve it much in my
estimation.  I wonder what made Fred hire
that wretched little steam-launch."  She looked
towards the tiny vessel that was lying close to
the quay: the small white funnel and the
decks forward were visible in the mystic
twilight; the hull was less clearly defined.
"Fancy that thing coming sputtering and
crackling into the bay on a beautiful night
like this!"

"It would be very handy to take a message
out to Heimra Island," said Käthchen, demurely.

Mary glanced at her, and laughed.

"My dear Käthchen, curiosity is a humiliating
weakness; but I will tell you what is in
the letter that is lying on the hall table—and
that is likely to lie there, unless a wind springs
up from some quarter to-morrow.  It is an
invitation to Mr. Ross to come and dine with us
on Monday next."

"Monday?" said Kate Glendinning, looking
surprised.  "The very day your brother and
Mr. Meredyth come here?"

"For that very reason," said Mary.  "I wish
Mr. Ross to understand why we have never
asked him to dine with us—well, of course he
would understand for himself—two girls, living
by themselves—and—and knowing him only
for so short a time.  But now, you see, I ask
him for the very first evening that my brother
is in the house—and that's all right and
correct—if there's any Mrs. Grundy in Lochgarra."

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

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

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

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

Käthchen retreated quickly: it had been a
careless remark.

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

"Yes, at the same time?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?" said she.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"Definitely promised?"

"Yes."

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

"Why?"

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

Mary flushed slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mamie!" she said.

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





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.. _`ON GARRA'S BANKS`:

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   CHAPTER V.


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   ON GARRA'S BANKS.

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary was walking up and down: she stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" asked his companion—being discreet.

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

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

Then he called out—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary rang the bell; Barbara came.

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

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

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

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

Hector paused for a moment, and then answered—

"Indeed, sir, I could not seh."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just that, mem."

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

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

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

"Very well, mem."

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

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

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

"Does he know the Garra well?"

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

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

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

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

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

That seemed to be enough for the cross-examiner.

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Ross, mem!" said Barbara.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A THREATENED INVASION`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium

   A THREATENED INVASION.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She forced herself to read the letter—

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

"Armadale, Minnesona, Canada.

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

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

"ANGUS MACKAY."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Forbye—besides.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At this she brightened up a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he rose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will.  Good-bye!"

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

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

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

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

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

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large

THE HEATHER ON FIRE!

.. class:: center medium

THE HEATHER ON FIKE!

.. class:: italics

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

.. class:: center medium white-space-pre-line

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

.. class:: italics noindent

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

.. class:: center

ADMISSION FREE.

Men of Lochgarra!—attend in your hundreds:

.. class:: center italics

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

.. vspace:: 2

Well, Mary was not the least bit frightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Käthchen looked disconcerted for a second.

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

"It is quite needless, Käthchen!"

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"KAIN TO THE KING THE MORN!"`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium

   "KAIN TO THE KING THE MORN!"

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did he cry out then?—did he tell his
master what he had seen?" Calum asked, in a
low voice.

"He was not caring much to tell any one,"
Coinneach replied.  "It was what he felt
within him that concerned him; and he knew
that the touch of death had been put upon
him.  Oh, yes, he told the story, though they
found him so weak that he could not say
much; and they put him to bed—but he was
shivering all the time; and he had no heart
for living left in him.  He was not caring to
speak much about it.  When they asked him
what the people were like, he said the gentlemen
had velvet coats, and white hair tied with
black ribbons behind; and the ladies were rich
in their dresses; but he could not say what
language they were speaking, for he could see
their lips moving, but there was no sound.
He was not caring to speak much about it.
The life seemed to have been taken out of his
body; he said he would never rise again from
his bed.  He said more than once, 'It was
that one that breathed on me; he wanted me
to go with them to be one of the servants;
and if the cock had not crowed I would have
gone with them.  But now I am going.'  And
he got weaker and weaker, until about the
end of the third day; and then it was all over
with the poor lad; and there was no struggle—he
knew that the death-touch had been put
upon his heart."

"And I suppose now," said Calum, meditatively,
"they will have him bringing in the
tables for them every time they come to play
cards in the middle of the night.  Aw, *Dyeea*,
I know what I would do if I was the master
of that place: I would have the keepers hidden,
and when those people came in I would have
three or four guns go off at them all at once:
would not that settle them?"

"You are a foolish lad, Calum, to think you
can harm people like that with a gun," said
Coinneach.  "No, if it was I, I would say the
Lord's Prayer to myself, very low, so that they
could not hear; and if they did hear, and still
came towards me, I would cry out, 'God on
the cross!'—and that would put the people
away from me, as it made the Woman take her
hands from my throat the dreadful night I was
coming by the Black Bay."

"Ay, but tell me this, Coinneach," said the
younger of the two men.  "I have heard
that in great terror your tongue will cleave to
your mouth; and you cannot cry out.  And
what is to happen to you then, if one of those
people came near to put a cold breath on you?"

Coinneach did not answer this question: for
the last few seconds he had been carefully
scanning the darkened plain before him.

"The boat is coming now, Calum," he
whispered.  "And it is just as noiseless as
any ghost she is."  And with that the two
men got up from the rock on which they had
been sitting, and went down to the water's
edge, where they waited in silence.

There was a low whistle; Coinneach
answered it.  Presently a dark object became
dimly visible in the gloom.  It was a
rowing-boat; and as she slowly drew near the prow
sent ripples of phosphorescence trembling away
into the dusk, while the blades of the muffled
oars, each time they dipped, struck white fire
down into the sea.  It looked as if some huge
and strange creature, with gauzy silver wings,
was coming shoreward from out of the unknown
deeps.  Not a word was uttered by anyone.
When the bow of the boat came near Coinneach
caught it and checked it, so that it should not
grate on the shingle.  Then he and his
companion tumbled in; two other oars, also muffled,
were put in the rowlocks; and silently she
went away again, under the guidance of a
fifth man, who sate at the helm.  Very soon
the lights of Lochgarra were lost to view;
they had got round one of the promontories.
Out to seaward there was nothing visible at
all; while the 'loom' of the land was hardly
to be distinguished from the overhanging;
heavens that did not show a single star.

And yet the steersman seemed to be sufficiently
sure of his course.  There was no calling a
halt for consultation, nor any other sign of
uncertainty.  Noiselessly the four oars kept
measured time; there were simultaneously the
four sudden downward flashes of white—followed
by a kind of seething of silver radiance
deep in the dark water; then, here and there
on the surface, a large and lambent jewel would
shine keenly for a second or two, floating away
on the ripples as the boat left it behind.  Not
one of the men smoked: that of itself showed
that something unusual was happening.  They
kept their eyes on the sombre features of the
adjacent shore—of which a landsman could
have made next to nothing; or they turned to
the dimly-descried outline of the low range of
hills, where that could be made out against the
sky.  It was a long and monotonous pull—with
absolute silence reigning.  But at length
a whispered "Easy, boys, easy!" told them
that this part of their labour was about over;
and now they proceeded with greater caution—merely
dipping the tips of their oars in the
water, while all their attention was concentrated
on the blurred and vague shadows of the land.

They were now in a small and sheltered bay,
the stillness of which was so intense that they
could distinctly hear the murmur of some
mountain burn.  On the face of the hill rising
from the sea there were certain darker
patches—perhaps these were birch-woods: also down
by the shore there were spaces of deeper
gloom—these might be clumps of trees.  No light
was visible anywhere: this part of the coast
was clearly uninhabited, or else the people were
asleep.  And yet, before venturing nearer, they
ceased rowing altogether; and watched; and
listened.  Not a sound: save for that
continuous murmur of the stream, that at times
became remote, and then grew more distinct
again—as some wandering breath of wind
passed across the face of the hill.  The world
around them lay in a trance as deep as death:
the bark of a dog, the call of a heron, would
have been a startling thing.  Meanwhile two
of the oars had been stealthily shipped; the
remaining two were sufficient to paddle the
boat nearer to the rocks, when that might be
deemed safe.

And at last the steersman, who appeared to
be in command, gave the word.  As gently as
might be, the boat was headed in for the shore,
until Coinneach, who was up at the bow,
whispered "That'll do now;" the rowing
ceased; there was a pause, and some further
anxious scrutinising of that amorphous gloom;
then two black figures stepped over the side
into the water, taking with them the lug-line
of the net that was carefully arranged in the
stern.  They were almost immediately lost
sight of; for the boat was again noiselessly
paddled away, until the full length of the line
was exhausted; while he in the stern began to
pay out the net—each cork float that dropped
into the water sending a shower of tremulous
white stars spreading from it, and all the meshes
shivering in silver as they were straightened
out.  A wonderful sight it was; but not the
most likely to procure a good fishing; for, of
course, that quivering, lustrous, far-extended
web would be visible at some little distance.
However, out went the net easily and steadily—with
just the faintest possible "swish" as
each successive armful soused into the sea; and
then, as quick as was consistent with silence,
the boat was pulled ashore, and two of the men
jumped out with the other lug-line.  They, too,
vanished in the impenetrable dusk.  The
solitary occupant of the mysterious craft, standing
up at the bow, was now left to watch the result
of these operations and to direct, in low and
eager whispers, his unseen comrades.  Slowly,
slowly the semicircular net was being hauled
in; as it got nearer and nearer the men at the
lug-lines splashed the water with them, so as
to frighten the fish into the meshes; the sea
glimmered nebulous in white fire; here and
there a larger star burned clear on the black
surface for a moment, and then gradually faded
away.  The commotion increased—in the water
and out of it; it was evident from the fluttering
and seething that there was a good haul; and
in their excitement the scringers who were
ashore forgot the danger of their situation—there
were muttered exclamations in Gaelic as
the net was narrowed in and in.  And then,
behold!—in the dark meshes those shining
silver things—each entangled fish a gleaming,
scintillating wonder—a radiant prize, here in
the deep night.  If this was *Kain* for Donald
Ross of Heimra, it was *Kain* fit to be paid to a
king.

It was at this moment that three men came
across the rocky headland guarding the bay on
its northern side.  They had just completed a
careful inspection of the neighbouring creek—as
careful as the darkness would allow; they
had followed the windings of the coast, searching
every inlet; and so far their quest had
been in vain.  Now they stood on this
promontory, peering and listening.

"No, sir, I do not see or hear anything,"
said Hector, the tall keeper, who had a gun
over his shoulder; and he seemed inclined to
give up further pursuit.

"But I tell you they must be somewhere,"
said Fred Stanley, in an excited fashion.
"There was no mistake about what they were
after.  What would they be going out in a
boat for at this time of the night, if it wasn't
for scringeing?"

"Maybe they would be for setting night-lines,"
said the keeper, evasively.

"Not a bit of it!" the young man retorted
with impatience.  "I know better than that.
And I know who is in that boat—I know
perfectly well.  It isn't for nothing that the
*Sirène* is lying in Camus Bheag: I know who
is out with those poaching nets—and I'm going
to catch him if I can.  I want to have certain
things made public: I want an explanation: I
want to have the Sheriff at Dingwall called in
to settle this matter."

"Are you quite sure you saw the boat, sir?"
said the keeper—all this conversation taking
place in lowered tones, except when Fred
Stanley grew angry and indignant.

"Why," said he, turning to his friend
Meredyth, "how far was she from the
steam-launch when she passed—not half a dozen
yards, I'll swear!  It was a marvellous stroke
of luck we thought of going out for that
draught-board; they little thought there would
be any one on the launch at that hour; and I
tell you, if the punt had been a bit bigger, I
would have given chase to them there and
then.  Never mind, we ought to be able to
catch them yet—catch them in the act—and I
mean to see it out——"

"Yes, but we haven't caught them," said
Frank Meredyth, discontentedly; for he had
stumbled again and again, and knocked his
ankles against the rocks; and he would far
rather have been at home, talking to Mary
Stanley.  "And it's beastly dark: we shall be
slipping down into the water sooner or later.
What's the use of going on, Fred?  What
about a few sea-trout?  Everybody does it——"

"But it's against the law all the same; and
I mean to catch this poaching scoundrel
red-handed, if I can," was the young man's answer.
"Come, Hector, you must know perfectly well
where they put out the scringe-nets.  What's
this place before us now?"

"It's the Camus Mhor, sir," said Hector, "in
there towards the land."

"Well, is it any use scringeing in this bay?"
the young man demanded.

"There's the mouth of the burn that comes
down by the plantation," was the reply.

"Very well, take us there!" Fred Stanley
said, impatiently.  "Those fellows must be
somewhere; and I'll bet you they're not far off.
I must say, Hector, you don't seem particularly
anxious to get hold of them.  Are there any of
them friends of yours?"

Hector did not answer this taunt.  He
merely said—

"It is a dark night, sir, to make any one out."

And then they went on again, but with
caution; for besides the danger of breaking
a leg among the rocks, they knew that the
yawning gulfs of the sea were by their side.
Hector led the way, Fred Stanley coming next,
Meredyth—with muttered grumblings—bringing
up the rear.  In this wise they followed
the inward bend of the bay, until the keeper
leapt from the rocks into a drifted mass of
seaweed: they were at the corner of the
semi-circular beach.

Suddenly Fred Stanley caught Hector's arm,
and held him for a second.

"Do you hear that?" he said, in an eager
whisper.  "They are there—right ahead of
us—fire a shot at them, Hector!—give them a
peppering—give their coats a dusting!"

"Oh, no, sir," said the serious-mannered
keeper, "I cannot do that.  But I will go
forward and challenge them.  When you get
to know who they are, then you will apply for
a summons afterwards."

"Come on, then!—come along!" the young
man said, and he began to run—stumbling over
seaweed, stones, and shingle—but guided by
the subdued commotion in front of him.

All at once that scuffle ceased.  There was
another sound—slight and yet distinct: it was
the hurried dip of oars.  Nay, was not that
the "loom" of a boat, not twenty yards away
from them—the dark hull receding from the land?

"Here, Hector!" the young man cried—furious
that his prey had just escaped him.
"Fire, man!—give them a charge!—give the
thieving scoundrels a dose of shot amongst them!"

Hector made no answer to this appeal.  He
called aloud—

"Who are you?  Whose is that boat?"

There was no word in reply—only the slight
sound of the dipping oars.  Fred Stanley
caught at the gun; but the keeper held it
away from him.

"No, sir, no," he said gravely.  "We
must keep within the law, whatever they do."

"Yes—and now they're off—and laughing at
us!" the young man angrily exclaimed.  And
then he said: "Do you mean to tell me you
don't know who these men are?  Do you
mean to tell me you don't know quite well
that it is Ross of Heimra who is in that boat?"

"I am not thinking that, sir," Hector
answered slowly.

"You took precious good care not to find
out!" Fred Stanley said, for he was grievously
disappointed.  "If you had come up with me
you might have compelled them to stop and
declare themselves: even if you had fired in
the air, that would have brought them to
reason fast enough.  When shall we get such
another chance?  I knew things like this were
going on—knew it quite well.  And it's your
place to stop it—it's your business.  It is a
monstrous thing that the fishing in the rivers
should be destroyed by those thieves."

He continued looking out to sea; but the
boat had disappeared in the dark.

"No, we shall not get another chance like
that," said he, turning to his friend Meredyth.
"And it is a thousand pities—for I would have
given anything to have caught that fellow
red-handed: I hate to think of my sister being
imposed upon."

"Well, I suppose we'd better be getting
back," said Frank Meredyth, who had displayed
no great interest in this expedition.  "And I
dare say Hector can show us some inland way—I
don't want to go round those infernal rocks again."

"Hector?" said Fred Stanley, in a savage
undertone, "I'm pretty sure of this—that
when Hector took us all round those rocks,
he knew precious well where the scringers were!"

And very indignant was he, and sullenly
resentful, when he carried this story home to
Lochgarra House and to his sister.  He roundly
accused the keepers of connivance.  They could
put down the scringeing if they chose; but
it was all part and parcel of the poaching
system that existed for the benefit of Donald
Ross.  He it was who had the fishing and
shooting of this estate.  A fine condition of
affairs, truly!

"I am afraid," said Mary Stanley, who
seemed to take this stormy complaint with
much composure, "that Mr. Ross has not quite
enough skill to make much of a poacher, even
if he were inclined that way.  If you had been
here yesterday, you would have heard himself
say that he was a very indifferent shot, and a
very poor fisherman also——"

"And you believed him, of course!" her
brother said, with contempt.  "Of course he
would say that!  That is the very thing he
would profess——"

"But, you see, Fred," she continued,
without taking any offence, "he gave us a very
good reason why he should be but a poor
sportsman.  There is neither fishing nor
shooting on Heimra Island."

He laughed scornfully.

"Fishing and shooting on Heimra Island?"
he repeated.  "What need has he of them,
when he has the fishing and shooting of
Lochgarra?"

"You may be mistaken, Fred," Frank
Meredyth interposed—careful to be on Miss
Stanley's side, as usual.  "You may be going
too much by what Purdie said that evening at
Inverness.  At the same time, I quite know
this, that when once you suspect any one of
poaching, it is desperately difficult to get the
idea out of your head.  All kinds of small
things are constantly happening that seem to
offer confirmation——"

"I will bet you twenty pounds to five
shillings," said the young man hotly, "that
if we go out to Heimra to-morrow, and stay to
luncheon, we shall find sea-trout on the table.
There may be no fishing on the island—that is
quite possible; but I tell you there will be
sea-trout in Ross's house.  I dare you all to put it
to the proof.  It is a fair offer.  We can run out
in the steam-launch if the sea is as calm as it is
now—Mamie, you can come too, and Miss
Glendinning; and my bet is twenty pounds
to five shillings that you will find sea-trout
produced."

"Surely it would be rather shabby to go
and ask a man to give you lunch in order to
prove something against him?" she made
answer.  "And even then that would not show
he had been himself in the boat.  As for
any of the people about here using a scringe-net
now and again to pick up a few fish—well,
that is not a very heinous offence."

"If it is," said Meredyth (still siding with
her), "it is committed every summer by a large
number of highly respectable persons.  Why,
only the other day the Fishery Board had to
issue a circular reminding owners of yachts
that netting in territorial seas wasn't allowed."

"Oh, very well," said Fred Stanley, with a
sort of affected resignation.  "Very well.  It
is no concern of mine.  The place does not
belong to me.  And of course, Mamie, you are
only following out the programme which will be
laid before the free and independent—the very
free and independent—natives of this parish,
on Monday.  No doubt they will be told they
have the right to take salmon and sea-trout
wherever they can find them, either in the
rivers, or round the mouths of the rivers, or in
the sea.  *They* have that right, you understand,
but *you* haven't; if *you* try to catch a salmon,
you will have a stone hurled into the pool in
front of you!  And what will be the rest of the
programme when the English demagogue, and
the French anarchist, and the Yankee platform-woman,
come to set the heather on fire?  How
much more are you going to surrender, Mamie?
You've cut down the rents everywhere—given
up more pasture—given up more peat-land.
What next?  Don't you think it's an awful
shame you should be living in a great big
house like this, when those poor people are
living in thatched hovels——"

"Well," said Mary, with an honest laugh,
"if I must tell you the truth, I do sometimes
think so.  Sometimes, when I go outside, and
look at the contrast, it does seem to me too
great——"

"Oh, very well!" he said ironically.  "When
these are your sentiments, I don't wonder that
the place is considered ripe for a general riot.
But whatever your theories may be, I'm going
to draw the line at personal violence and
destruction of property.  I shall have my
six-chambered Colt loaded on Monday; and if any
impudent blackguard dares to come near this
place——"

"You are going up the hill on Monday,"
said she briefly.  "Both you and Mr. Meredyth.
I want some grouse for the kitchen; and as
many more to send away as you can get for me."

"Pardon me, Miss Stanley," Meredyth said,
and he spoke with a certain quiet decision,
"you are asking a little too much.  It is
impossible for us to go away shooting and leave
you at the mercy of what may turn out to be a
riotous mob.  It is quite impossible: you have
no right to ask it."

"Yes, but I do ask it!" she said, somewhat
petulantly—for she wished to be left free to
follow her own designs on that fateful Monday.
"You are my guest; you are here for the
Twelfth; and I particularly want you—both
you and Fred—to go away after the grouse;
and never mind about this—this lecture, or
whatever it is——"

"I for one, cannot," he said, firmly; "and
I know Fred will not."

Mary glanced half-imploringly at Käthchen.
But Käthchen sate mute.  Perhaps she was
considering that, whether Mary went to the
meeting or not, it was just as well the two
gentlemen were to be within hail.  Besides,
before then it was just possible Mary might be
induced to confess to them her mad resolve:
in which case it would become their duty to
reason and remonstrate, seeing that Käthchen's
protests had been of no avail.  Or would they
insist on accompanying her to the meeting, if
she was determined to go?  For one thing,
Käthchen did not at all like Fred Stanley's
reference to his Colt's revolver; if there was
going to be any serious disturbance, that
was not likely to prove a satisfactory means
of quelling it.





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.. _`A REVOLUTION THAT FAILED`:

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   CHAPTER VIII.


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   A REVOLUTION THAT FAILED.

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But at first the two young men—especially
when they were in the society of the young
women—professed to make light of the
threatened invasion.  What harm could come
of allowing a parcel of notoriety-hunting
adventurers to air their eloquence—and their
ignorance?  The crofters would at once perceive
that Ogden, M.P., knew no more about them
and their ways of life than he knew about the
inhabitants of the moon.  As for Mademoiselle
Ernestine—the fiery Ernestine would find it
difficult to set the Highland peat-bogs in a blaze
with her little tin can of paraffin.  And as for
Mrs. Jackson Noyes of Connecticut—but here
the young men had to confess that they knew
nothing of Mrs. Jackson Noyes; and so, to
amuse themselves, at dinner, they set to work
to construct an imaginary Mrs. Noyes out of a
series of guesses.

"She is a passionate sympathiser with all
suffering races—especially married women,"
said Mr. Meredyth, confidently.

"Men are brutes," observed Fred Stanley.

"She will denounce the hideous cruelty of
landlords stalking grouse with express rifles,"
said Meredyth, keeping the ball rolling.

"She will call on the crofters to arise in their
wrath and demand that of every stag killed two
haunches must be delivered over to them, the
remaining two to be retained by the landlord."

"But doesn't that sound reasonable?" said
Käthchen, innocently—whereat there was a roar.

"Miss Glendinning," said Meredyth, apologetically,
"you forget: the haunches of a stag
are limited in number.  It was Mrs. Jackson
Noyes's idea of a stag we were dealing with.
Well, Fred, what next?"

"Any landlord or farmer," continued the
younger man, with a matter-of-fact air, "found
guilty of killing a sheep without the aid of
chloroform to be sent to jail for twenty-five
years.  No lamb to be taken away from its
mother without the mother's consent—in writing,
stamped, sealed, and delivered before the
Sheriff of Dingwall."

"A compulsory rate," suggested Frank Meredyth,
"levied on landlords, of course—for the
relief of bed-ridden peat-hags——"

"Oh, stop that nonsense!" Mary interposed,
laughing in a shamefaced kind of way.  "They
can't be as ignorant as all that."

"Oh, can't they?" said he, coolly.  "I've
seen lots of worse things—accompanied by
eloquent, if occasionally ungrammatical,
denunciations of the brutal landlords.  You are a
landlord, Miss Stanley; and you have taken
the wages of blood and sin.  If I were you I
should feel inclined to throw down the thirty
pieces of silver and depart and go and hang
myself."

"She won't do that," said her brother.  "But
what she is more likely to do is to give up the
pasture of Meall-na-Fearn that those people
demand.  And then Mrs. Jackson Noyes will
telegraph to the *Connecticut Radiator* that a
great triumph has been achieved, and that the
American banner has begun to wave over the
benighted Highlands."

"I wish the American banner didn't wave
over so many Highland deer-forests," said
Meredyth, briefly; and there an end for the
moment.

But the talk of the two young men when
they were by themselves was very different.

"What ought to be done, and done at once,"
said Fred Stanley, "is to send over to Dingwall
for a body of police.  Indeed, the meeting
should be suppressed altogether: it is a clear
instigation to riot.  I don't see how a riot can
be avoided—if those howlers are allowed to
rave.  But my sister won't hear of it.  Oh, no!
Everything is to be amiable and friendly and
pleasant.  She is quite sure that the crofters
are grateful to her for their lowered rents and
all that.  Grateful!—they don't know what
gratitude is!"

"But at all events you must remember this,"
said Meredyth, "that your sister has been here
a much longer time than you; and she has
been doing her best to get to understand these
people and their wants and their habits of
thinking.  She may be a little too confident:
in that case, it is for you and me to see that
she is kept out of harm's way.  And as far as
I can judge, the main event of the day is to be
a raid into Glen Orme forest——"

"By the Lord, they'll get a warm reception
if they try that!" young Stanley broke in.
"I can tell you, from what I've heard of him,
Colonel Tomlins isn't the sort of man to let a
lot of vagabonds march past Glen Orme Lodge
and take possession of the forest—I should
think not.  The ragged army will find a
sufficient force awaiting them—keepers, foresters,
gillies, and the guns of the house-party: there
may be driving—but it won't be the deer that
will be driven off."

"That as it may be," said Meredyth, with
much calmness.  "But even if there is a
scrimmage up there, what has that got to do with
us?  I don't care a brass farthing about the
Glen Orme deer; I want to see your sister
safe.  And if the torrent of revolution flows
peacefully past this house, and goes to expend
itself in Glen Orme—let it, and welcome!"

"Yes, but that is too much to expect," Fred
Stanley said, gloomily.  "It is my sister who
will be preached against by those fanatics.  It
is she who is the representative here of the
landlord interest.  Gratitude!—it's precious
little gratitude they'll show, when they have
this fellow Donald Ross secretly egging them
on.  Of course, he is annoyed that you and I
should have come up to interfere with him; he
thought he would only have a woman to deal
with; and that the keepers could make all
kinds of excuses to her.  But now he finds it
different.  I imagine he knows very well that
he is suspected and watched, and that there is
a chance of his being caught at any moment—a
chance that I mean to make a certainty of
before I leave this place!"

"My young friend," said Meredyth,
dispassionately, "I'm afraid you are becoming
*entêté* about this Donald Ross.  And yet I
don't wonder at it.  I've seen a similar state of
affairs, many a time, before now.  The fact is,
when once you suspect poaching, the suspicion
becomes a sort of mania, and all your comfort
in the shooting is gone.  It is precisely the
same on board a yacht.  If you once suspect
your skipper or your steward of drinking, it's
all over with you; you are always looking
out—mistrusting—imagining; you may as well
go ashore at once, or get another skipper or
steward.  Of course, the poaching is still more
vexatious; for you feel you are being defied
and cheated at the same time; and you want
revenge; and the poacher is generally a devil
of a clever fellow.  But, after all, Fred, your
sister is right: even if you are convinced that
there is poaching going on—as there has
certainly been some little ill-will shown against
us now and then—still, you have nothing
to prove that Donald Ross is the culprit—nothing."

"I will catch him yet," said Fred Stanley
under his breath.

Next morning being Sunday morning, they
all went to church.  In going down through
the village they could perceive no sign of
excitement, anticipatory of the next day: on the
contrary, all was decorous quiet.  Shutters
were shut; in some cases the blinds were
drawn down; the few people they saw were
dressed in black, and were certainly not
breaking the Lord's day by idle or frivolous
conversation.  But here was John the policeman.

"Well, John," said Mary, to the plump and
placid Iain, who smiled good-naturedly when
she addressed him, "are we to have civil war
to-morrow?"

"Mem?" said John—not understanding.

"Is there going to be a riot to-morrow?"
she repeated.

"Aw, no, mem," said John, in a mildly
deprecating way.  "I am not thinking that.
The meeting it will be in the church, and
there is the Minister."

"And what are you going to do?" said she.
"I suppose you know they threaten to drive
the sheep off Meall-na-Fearn, and there is a
proposal to go into Glen Orme forest.  Well,
what are you going to do?"

"I am not sure," said Iain, with a vague,
propitiatory grin.

"You have taken no steps to preserve the
peace, then?" she demanded—but, indeed, she
was well aware of John's comfortable,
easy-going optimism.

"Aw, well," said the round-cheeked
representative of the law, "mebbe the lads will no
do anything at ahl; and if they go into the
forest, mebbe they will no do mich harm."

"But I suppose you have heard that Colonel
Tomlins's keepers and foresters mean to stop
them, if they should attempt any such thing;
and it isn't at all likely that Mr. Watson's
shepherds will let them drive the sheep off
Meall-na-Fearn without some kind of resistance.
What then?  What are you going to do?"

"Aw, well," said John—letting his eyes
rove aimlessly away towards Heimra Island,
and then to the little white Free Church
beyond the bay, and then back to the ground
in front of Miss Stanley's feet, "mebbe there
will be no mich harm; and the Minister will be
in charge whatever——"

"Look here, John," Fred Stanley broke in,
peremptorily, "it is quite clear to me that you
mean to stand by and let anything happen that
is likely to happen.  Very well, I wish to give
you notice—and I wish the people about here
to understand—that if there's any demonstration
made against Lochgarra House, we've got
a gun or two there—half a dozen of them—and
we don't mean to stand any nonsense."

"Fred!" said she, and she drew her head up:
he was put to silence in a moment.  Then she
turned to the phlegmatic Iain.  "You must do
what you can to give good advice to any of the
young men you may hear talking.  These
strangers that are coming—what do they know
about Lochgarra?  They only wish to stir up
strife, for their own purposes.  And it would
be a very bad thing for any of the men about
here to be sent for trial to Edinburgh, merely
because these strangers were bent on making
mischief.

"Yes, mem," answered Iain, obediently—but
in a vague way: perhaps he did not quite
comprehend.

"John," said Fred Stanley, coming to the
front again, "do you know anything about the
scringeing that goes on about here?"

This time John did understand.

"Me, sir?" he replied—as if such a question
were an insult to the dignity of his office.
And perhaps he would have gone on to protest
as earnestly as his good-humoured laziness
would allow, that he had no knowledge of any
such illegal practices, but that Mary Stanley
intervened, and carried her party off with her
to church.

Of course it was the English portion of the
day's services that they attended, in the little,
plain, ill-ventilated building.  The sermon was
so severely doctrinal that they could not follow
it very well; while the occasional appeals to
the heart, uttered in that high falsetto
sing-song, fell with a somewhat unnatural note on
the ear.  Yet the small congregation listened
devoutly—with an occasional sigh.  Mary
Stanley's attention was not occupied much with
the pulpit: she was looking rather at the sad,
withered, weather-worn faces of certain of the
older people—and thinking what their lot in
life had been.  She recalled a saying she had
heard somewhere in the Black Forest—"The
world grows every day harder for us poor folk
that are so old;" and she was wondering when
her modest, but at least assiduous and sincere,
efforts to somewhat better their condition and
introduce a measure of cheerfulness into their
surroundings would be accepted with a little
goodwill.  As for the middle-aged and younger
men, she was less concerned about them.  If
they meant to break the windows of Lochgarra
House next day, or pillage the garden, or set
fire to the kennels, she would stand by and let
them do their worst.  But she did not think
she had deserved such treatment at their hands.
When they came out of church again Miss
Stanley and her friends lingered awhile, for
she wished to intercept the Minister; and
eventually Mr. Pettigrew made his appearance.
As he approached them, Mr. Pettigrew's gaunt
and grey-hued face wore a certain look of
apprehension, and he was nervously stroking
his long and straggling beard.  But Mary
received him pleasantly enough.

"How do you do, Mr. Pettigrew?" said she.
"I thought I should like to know whether you
are going to the gathering to-morrow.  If
these placards that are scattered about mean
anything, it may be necessary for someone who
is well acquainted with the people to be present
to speak a quieting word; and as you have lent
the church for the purposes of the meeting, I
suppose you accept a certain responsibility——"

"Oh, no, Miss Stanley, I would not say
that," the Minister responded, rather anxiously,
"I would not say that.  I think it is a wise
thing and a just thing that the people should
have an opportunity of conferring one with
another about their temporal interests; but it
is not for me to be a partisan.  I would fain
see all men's minds contented as regards their
worldly affairs, so that they might the more
readily turn to their spiritual requirements and
needs.  Ay.  It is hardly for me to give
counsel—either the counsel of Ahitophel or the
counsel of Hushai the Archite—"

"And so," said Käthchen, striking in (for
she had not yet had a chance of opening her
mind to Mr. Pettigrew), "you invite these
strangers to come here and stir up contention
and mischief—you give them your pulpit to
preach from—and then you step aside, and
wash your hands of all responsibility!  I
should have thought a minister of the gospel
would have been on the side of peace, not on
the side of disturbance and riot——"

"Dear me—dear me—it is all a mistake!"
the bewildered Minister exclaimed.  "I assure
ye it is all a mistake.  I did not
invite them—Mr. Fraser wrote to me—and I thought I was
justified in giving them permission—so that all
men's minds might be leeberated.  Is not that
on the side of peace?  Let the truth be spoken,
though the heavens fall!—it's a noble axiom—a
noble axiom.  If the message that these
people bring with them have not the truth in
it, it will perish; if it have the truth in it, it
will endure——"

"Yes, that's all very well," said the intrepid
Käthchen.  "But in the meantime?  What's
going to happen in the meantime?  And if
there is a general riot to-morrow, and property
destroyed, and people injured—the truth of the
message won't mend that.  And what do those
people know about Lochgarra?  How can they
know anything?  They are coming here merely
to incite a lot of ignorant crofters and cottars
to break the law; and you lend them your pulpit,
so that the people about here will think the
church is on their side, even if they should take
it into their heads to set fire to Lochgarra
House!"

"Dear me!" said the Minister—who had not
expected any such attack from this amiable and
rather nice-looking young lady, "I hope
nothing of the kind will happen."

"At all events, Mr. Pettigrew," said Mary,
interposing, "I understand you don't mean to
be present at this meeting?  You will let those
strangers talk whatever inflammatory stuff they
choose without any word of protest or caution.
Well, I suppose you have the right to decide
for yourself.  But I mean to go.  If they have
anything to say against me, I want to hear it.
If I have no one to defend me, I must defend myself——"

"Oh, but I beg your pardon, Miss Stanley!"
Frank Meredyth broke in.  "You are not
quite so defenceless—not at all!  For my own
part, I don't think you ought to go to this
meeting—I think it will be unwise and uncalled
for; but if you do go, you sha'n't go alone—I
will see to that."

And again, after they had left the Minister,
and were on their way back to Lochgarra
House, he urgently begged her to abandon
this enterprise; and her brother joined in, and
quite as warmly.

"Why, you are the very person they have
come to denounce!" Fred Stanley exclaimed.
"You are the representative of the landlords.
And what will they think of your appearing at
the meeting?  They will take it as an open
challenge!"

"I mean it as an open challenge," she said,
proudly.  "I want to know what I am accused
of.  I want to ask what more I could have
done—with my limited means.  For of course
my means are limited.  I can't build breakwaters,
and buy fleets of fishing-boats, and
make railways; for I haven't the money.  And
I can't change the soil, or alter the climate, or
even alter the habits of the people."

"What did I tell you, Mamie, at Invershin
Station?" said Käthchen; but Mary Stanley
went on unheeding—

"If there are grievances still to be redressed,
I want to hear of them."

"Their real grievance is that they haven't
got the land for nothing," observed her brother,
who had a short and summary way of dealing
with such questions.

"Well, if you must go, at least we can
promise you a body-guard," said Frank
Meredyth, as they were ascending the wide stone
steps.  "At the same time, I think you would
be very much better advised to stay at home."

That afternoon the ordinary dull somnolence
of a Lochgarra Sunday gave way to a
quite unusual, if subdued, excitement.  To
begin with, about half-past three a waggonette
came rattling into the silent little village,
and drew up at the inn; while its occupants—the
three apostles of Land Liberation—descended
and disappeared from view.  They
were not gone long, however.  The cottagers,
furtively peeping from behind door or window-blind,
beheld the strangers come out again and
set off for a walk along the sea-front, scanning
every object on each hand of them as they
passed.  The central figure of the three was
a large and heavily-built man, pale and flabby
of face, with small, piggish, twinkling eyes,
close-cropped and stubbly yellow hair, and a
wide but thin-lipped and resolute mouth.  He
wore a loose-flapping frock-coat, and a black
felt wideawake; his hands were clasped
behind him; he waddled as he walked.  On his
right was a tall and elderly woman, spare, and
rather elegant of figure; with a thin, sharp
face which, either from constitutional acridity
of blood or perhaps from driving in the sun,
was distinctly violent in colour: this was
Ernestine—the fiery Ernestine—who had no
doubt brought with her her torch and can of
paraffin.  As for the lady who had come all
the way across the Atlantic to enlighten these
poor souls of crofters, no one could say what
she was like; for she was entirely enveloped
in a brown dust-coat and a blue veil.  But
she was shorter than either of her companions.

"There are only three of them—there ought
to be four," said Frank Meredyth, as the
Lochgarra House party were regarding these
passing strangers from the drawing-room window.
"The big man is Ogden—he is easily
recognisable—I'm afraid he has puffed himself out
with too much tea-drinking; but where is the
Highland Land Leaguer?"

"Why, you don't suppose the vice-president
of a branch of the Highland Land League
would travel on a Sunday?" said Käthchen.
"He will be coming along to-morrow
morning,—even if he has to walk or drive all
night."

Mary was also regarding the strangers.

"If the American woman, whichever she
is," said she, quietly, "is going to denounce
me to-morrow, she has not left herself much
time to get information about this place.  She
will have to begin at once, if she wishes to
ascertain the facts."

"The facts!" said Meredyth.  "She won't
have to search about for them.  She has
brought them with her—from Connecticut."

Truly this was an afternoon of surprises.
For while on a rare occasion it might happen
that someone arrived at Lochgarra on Sunday
by road, it was almost an unheard-of thing
that anyone should come in by sea.  Boating
of any description was quite unknown on the
sacred day; there was no ferry—no Queen's
highway to be kept open; while as for going
on the water for pleasure, such sacrilege never
entered the brain of a native of Lochgarra.
And yet here, unmistakeably, was a small
black-hulled lugger, with a ruddy brown sail,
coming steadily in before the light westerly
breeze; and when, having at length gained the
shelter of the quay, she was rounded into the
wind, and yard and sail lowered, her occupants
presently got into the little dinghey astern,
and came ashore.  From the drawing-room of
Lochgarra House they were easily distinguishable:
they were Big Archie, Donald Ross of
Heimra, and the young lad who was usually
in charge of the lugger.  When they landed,
young Ross left his companions, and went
directly up to the inn.

"Ha! didn't I tell you?" Fred Stanley cried,
with an air of triumph.  "Before the storm the
petrel!—I thought we should see him somewhere
about, when this affair was coming off.
Only, he has missed his confederates.  I wonder
if they have gone far.  I suppose Mr. Ogden
has taken his American friend up Minard way
to show her what a crofter's cottage is like—or
perhaps she wants to look at the bed-ridden
peat-hags.  We shall find Ross following them
in a moment—only he won't know which way
they have gone."  Of a sudden he rose from
his seat, as if struck by some new idea.  "I've
a great mind to go down to the inn.  What do
you say, Frank?  I should like to step up to
him and tell him that he'll find his friends if he
goes up the Minard road."

"You shall do nothing of the kind!" said Mary, angrily.

"I should like to see the expression of his
face!" her brother observed.

"If they are friends of Mr. Ross, he can find
them for himself," said she.  "It is none of our
business.  And—and—if they are not—I won't
have him insulted by anyone going from this house!"

He looked at her: she did not often talk in
this indignant and vehement way.

"Oh, very well," he said.  "Very well.  It
doesn't matter to me.  You may have cause to
change your opinion to-morrow."

All that evening very little mention was
made of the subject about which everyone was
secretly thinking.  Frank Meredyth, finding it
was of no use to try to move Mary from her
purpose, thought the best thing he could do
was to reassure her: he said he hoped Ernestine
would prove amusing.  And next morning,
too, he professed to treat the whole affair as a
jest; but all the same he kept going to the
window from time to time, to have a look at
the little groups of twos and threes who were
congregated here and there, talking amongst
themselves.  For there was clearly some small
commotion prevailing; the people were not
attending to their ordinary affairs; the most
trifling occurrence—a dog-fight in the
street—attracted all eyes.

Mary insisted on setting out early; she
wished everyone to see that she was going to
attend the meeting.  And hardly had they
left the house—they were going round by
the end of the quay—when Fred Stanley
said in an undertone to his neighbour Meredyth—

"I don't know what's going to happen; but
if they try on any games, I've got a little
friend in my pocket here that can bark—and bite."

Mary overheard, and turned on him at once.

"What is that?" said she.  "Your revolver?
Let me see it."

He looked round: there was no one by.

"Oh, it is an elegant little companion to
have with you," he said, bringing forth the
silver-mounted weapon from his pocket, and
regarding it quite affectionately.

She took it from him—he thinking that she
merely wished to look at it—and, without more
ado, she pitched it over the low sea-wall: there
was a splash in the clear green water, and a
bubble or two of air.

"Things of that sort are not fit for children,"
she said—and she took no heed of the angry
flush that at once rose to his forehead: anger
more probably caused by the reference to his
youth than to the loss of his revolver.
However, he said nothing; and so they went on
again; and eventually arrived at the church.

When they entered the little building and
modestly took their places in the nearest of the
pews, there ensued a rather awkward moment;
for they had come early; and, on looking round,
they found that the only other persons present
were they who had summoned the meeting; so
that the hostile camps had a good opportunity
of contemplating each other.  The pulpit (like
the body of the church) was empty; but in the
precentor's box was a serious-visaged,
brown-bearded man, who was no doubt Mr. Fraser, of
the Stratherrick Branch of the Highland Land
League; while underneath him, in the square
space partitioned off for the pews of the elders,
sate the three persons who were to address the
meeting.  They were all gravely silent, as was
fit and proper; but their eyes were alert; and
it was as clear as daylight to Mary's friends
that the strangers had recognised in her the
lady of Lochgarra House, whom they had come
to impeach as the representative in these parts
of the iniquitous landlord interest.  It was
indeed an awkward moment; and Mr. Ogden's
glances of scrutiny were furtive, until he
turned away altogether; but the thin and
feverish-faced Mlle. Ernestine took more
confident survey; and her bold black eyes went
from one to the other of the group, but were
most frequently fixed on Mary Stanley.  The
lady from Connecticut, also, was obviously
curious: most probably she had never beheld
before any of those people whose malevolent
turpitude had brought the Highlands to such
a pass.

The time went slowly by, in this constrained
silence.  The vice-president of the Stratherrick
Branch, from his seat in the precentor's box,
began to look rather anxiously towards the
door.  Mr. Ogden glanced at his watch.  Frank
Meredyth did likewise—it was ten minutes
after one.  And yet there had been no sign
of any human being—except for a small boy
who had thrust his shock head in for a second,
and gazed wonderingly around the empty
church, and then withdrawn with a scared
face.  At length the chairman leaned over the
edge of the precentor's box, and in an audible
whisper said—

"Mr. Ogden, I'm thinking ye'd better go out
and tell them?"

Mr. Ogden hesitated for a moment, and then
made answer—

"Don't you think we should begin the
proceedings?—that will be the best announcement."

"Very well," said Mr. Fraser; and he rose
in his place with a heavy sigh of preparation.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "before
coming to local matters, I will ask Mrs. Jackson
Noyes to read a paper that she has prepared.
Mrs. Noyes has recently completed a two days'
trip round the West Highlands in the steamer
*Dunara Castle*; and where she has been unable
to land—for the steamer does not give ye much
time at any place—she has used her eyes, or
her opera-glass, impartially; and what she has
seen she has put down.  The title of the paper
is; '*The Horrible Desolation of the Highlands,
as Descried from the Deck of the Dunara*.'  Would
ye get up on the bench, mem?"

This last murmured invitation was addressed
to Mrs. Noyes, who rose to her feet, but seemed
to shrink from taking up any more prominent
position.  Indeed, the poor woman looked
dreadfully embarrassed; her face was all
aflame; instead of proceeding with her paper,
she kept glancing helplessly towards the door,
whither Mr. Ogden had gone to reconnoitre;
and it was clear she could not bring herself
to begin without an audience, or, rather, with
that small audience that was a hundred times
worse than none.  And presently Mr. Ogden
came back—his face black as thunder.  He
went up to the precentor's box, and muttered
something to the chairman.  He returned to
the elders' enclosure, and said something to the
two ladies—who seemed entirely bewildered.
The next moment the four of them had filed
out of the church, without a word.

"Well, this is the most astounding thing!"
Frank Meredyth exclaimed, when his party had
also left their places, and got into the open air.
"What is the matter with the people?  Not a
living soul has come near the place!  No
wonder the big Parliament-man was in a furious rage!"

But Mary had turned to Kate Glendinning,
who had fallen a step or two behind.

"Käthchen," she said, in an undertone,
"what is the meaning of all this?  I can see
perfectly well you know something about it."

For indeed Käthchen was all tremblingly
triumphant, and joyous, and also inclined to
tears—half-hysterical, in short.

"Mamie—Mamie," she said, between that
laughing and crying, "I knew he could do it
if he liked—and—and—I thought he would—for
your sake—"

"What are you talking about?" said Mary:
but a sudden self-conscious look showed that
she had guessed.

"You needn't be angry, Mamie," said Käthchen,
her wet eyes shining with a half-concealed
pride and delight; "but—but I was terribly
frightened about what might happen to you;
and yesterday I sent Big Archie out to Heimra—I
told him to go as soon as the people had
got into church—and I gave him a note.  For
I knew he would answer the message at once—and
that he would see you came to no harm—"

"Do you mean Donald Ross?" said Mary,
rather breathlessly.

"Who else could have done it?" said
Käthchen, with something of reproach.  "And I
knew he would do that—or anything—for your
sake.  Oh, do you think I can't see?—do you
think I have no eyes?"

Mary did not answer: she walked on in
silence for a little while.  But by and by she
said—

"Käthchen, don't you think I ought to see
Mr. Ross—before he goes back to Heimra?"

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   END OF VOL. II.

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   LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
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