"Coinneach," said the young master, "if the Gillie Ciotach and his companions are talking like that, they will be getting themselves into trouble one of these days. They'd better let the Little Red Dwarf alone; for one thing, I dare say he is safe enough; the devil looks after his own brats. But do not forget what I am telling you now – about Mrs. Mac Vean. Old Martha will be wanting you to go over to the mainland to-morrow; and when you are there, you can seek out Mrs. Mac Vean, and bid her tell the factor how her cow was lost in the Meall-na-Fearn bog. She can do no harm by asking."
"It's very little she will get from the Troich Bheag Dhearg," said Coinneach, gloomily, "whether by asking or any other way."
At last the long pull was over; and the men, having landed the master at the slip, set out again for the yacht. Young Ross of Heimra went up to the house. But before going in, he paused at the porch, to have a final look at the wonderful glories of that vast firmament – the throbbing Sirius low down in the south, the gleaming belt and sword of Orion, the powdered diamond-dust of the Pleiades, the jewelled head of Medusa, Cassiopeia's silver throne. And perhaps he was not thinking so much of those distant and shining worlds as of her who had first taught him their various names – of the worse than widowed woman who had shut herself up here in proud isolation, himself her only care. Well, she was at peace now; her wrongs and sufferings and bitter memories all come to an end; surely there was nothing but quiet and sweet slumber around that white grave-stone, far up there on the top of the cliff, overlooking the wide and lonely western seas.
CHAPTER IV.
THE BAINTIGHEARNA
Next morning Mary went eagerly and joyously to the window, for here indeed was a welcome change: no more louring heavens and streaming roads, but a vast expanse of wind-driven sea, blue as the very heart of a sapphire, and yet with innumerable sudden flashes of white from the crest of its swift-hurrying waves. The sky cloudless; the fresh breeze blowing straight in from the Atlantic; the world all shining around her; even those long spurs and headlands, sterile as they were, looked quite cheerful in the prevailing sunlight. And out yonder, too, was the island of Heimra, to which her eyes would go back again and again with a curious interest. She thought of the lone mother, and of the boy brought up like a wild goat among the rocks. And if he had turned out a reckless and unscrupulous ne'er-do-well, an Ishmael with his hand against every man, well, that was a deplorable thing, though perhaps not to be wondered at; moreover it could matter little to her what such an outcast might think of her or of her family; but, nevertheless, deep down in her heart, there was an odd and ever-recurring feeling of compunction. She wished to be able to say "I am sorry." Certainly it was not she who had destroyed the last relic and monument of the ancient name – who had drained the loch and levelled the old stronghold with the ground; and he must know that; but she wished him to know more; she wished him to know how indignant she had been when she first heard of that monstrous and iniquitous act of vandalism. And then again (as she still stood gazing at the island out there in the wide blue waters, with the white foam springing high in the sunlight along its southern coasts) it seemed to her that she rather feared meeting this man. Rude and lawless and mannerless, might he not laugh at her stumbling apologies? Or in his Highland pride he might scorn her southern birth, and vouchsafe no word in reply? Well, being sorry was all that remained for her; what was done could not be undone; it was not within her power to bring back Castle Heimra from that waste of ruin.
She had got up very early, but she did not care to waken Kate, who was no doubt tired with the long drive of yesterday; she thought instead she would quietly slip outside and have some little investigation of her surroundings. So she quickly finished dressing; went down and through the lofty oak hall; passed out upon the stone terrace, and from thence descended into the garden, where she found herself quite alone. The air was sweet and soft; there was a pleasant scent of newly-delved earth; and everywhere there was abundant evidence that the Spring had already come to this sheltered space – for there were masses of daffodils and primroses and wallflower all aglow in the warm sunlight, and there were bunches of blossom on the cherry-trees trained up the high stone wall. She went away down to the end of the garden, opened a door she found there, and, passing through, entered the wilder solitude of the woods. And ever as she wandered idly and carelessly along, the sense that she was the mistress and owner of all these beautiful things around her seemed to grow on her and produce a certain not unnatural joy and pride. For the moment she had forgotten all the problems in human nature and in economics that lay ahead of her; here she had all the world to herself – this picturesque world of silver-grey rock, and golden gorse, and taller larch and spruce, all dappled with sun and shadow, while the fresh odours of the Spring were everywhere around, and a stirring of the new life of the year. And then, when she had fought her way through the thick underwood to the summit of one of the westward-looking cliffs – behold! the dark blue sea, and the sunny headlands, and Eilean Heimra, with its thunder-shocks of foam. Heimra island again; it seemed to be always confronting her; but however long she might gaze in that direction, there was no sign of any white-winged yacht coming sailing out into the blue.
And then she scrambled down from this height to the water's edge; and here she discovered a most sequestered little haven – a small, semicircular bay sheltered from the land-winds by rocks and trees, while the pellucid green sea broke in ripples of silver along the cream-white and lilac pebbles. A most solitary spot – quiet, and sunny, and peaceful: she began to think that whatever might be done with other portions of her property, she would keep this little bit of picturesque seclusion entirely for herself. This, surely, could be of no use to anybody – the pebbly beach, the rocks purple-black with mussels or olive-green with seaweed, the clear water whispering along the shore. Political economy should not follow her hither; here would be her place of rest – her place of dreaming – when she was done with studying the wants of others, and wished to commune with her own soul.
But all of a sudden she found she was not alone: an apparition had become visible – a solitary figure that had quietly come round the rocky point, and was now regarding her with dumb apprehension. This was a girl of about five-and-twenty, who had something of an Irish cast of face: fair-complexioned, freckled, a tilted nose, grey eyes wide-apart and startled-looking, and curly light-brown hair that was mostly concealed by the scarlet shawl she wore round her head and shoulders. She regarded Miss Stanley with obvious fear, and did not advance; her eyes, that had the timidity of a wild animal in them, had something more than that; they seemed to say that the poor creature was but half-witted. Nevertheless the young proprietress instantly concluded that this was one of "her people," and that, therefore, she was bound to make friends.
"Good morning!" said Mary, and she brought her wonder-working smile and dimple into play, as well she knew how.
A quick light, of wonder and pleasure, sprang into the girl's eyes. She came forward a little way, timidly. She smiled, in a pleading sort of fashion. And then she ventured to hold out her hand, timidly. Mary went forward at once.
"I am very glad to make your acquaintance," she said, in her bland tones, "and you must tell me who you are."
But the girl, taking the hand that was offered to her, bent one knee and made a humble and profound curtsy (where she could have learnt this trick it is hard to say), and then she uplifted her smiling and beseeching eyes to the great lady (who was considerably taller than she), and still held her hand, and repeated several times something that sounded like Bentyurna veen – Bentyurna veen.7
"I am very sorry I don't know Gaelic," said Mary, rather disappointedly. "Don't you know a little English?"
The girl still held her hand, and patted it; and looked into her face with pleased and wistful eyes; and again she was addressed as Bentyurna veen. And then, in this unknown tongue, something more was said, of which Mary could only make out the single word Heimra.
"Oh, do you come from Heimra island?" she asked, quickly.
But of the girl's further and rapid speech she could make nothing at all. So she said —
"I am really very sorry; but I don't know any Gaelic. Come with me to the house, and I will get some one to speak between us. Come with me, to Lochgarra House, do you understand?"
The girl smiled, as if in assent; and thereupon the two of them set out, following a winding path through the woods that eventually brought them to the garden gate. But here a curious incident occurred. Mary opened the gate, and held it for her unknown friend to follow; but at the same moment the girl caught sight of Mr. Purdie, who had come along for instructions, and was now in the garden awaiting Miss Stanley's return. The instant that this stranger girl beheld the Little Red Dwarf, she uttered a quick cry of terror, and turned and fled; in a moment she was out of sight in the thick underwood. Mary stood still, astounded. It was no use her trying to follow. And so, after a second or two of bewilderment, she turned and went on to the house, saying a few words to Mr. Purdie in passing, but not with reference to this encounter. Some instinct suggested that she ought to seek for information elsewhere.
When she went into the dining-room she found that Käthchen had come down, and also that Barbara was bringing in breakfast.
"Barbara," said she, "do you know of a girl about here who seems to be not quite in her right mind, poor thing? A fair-complexioned girl, who wears a red shawl round her head and shoulders – "
"Oh, that was just Anna Chlannach8 that Miss Stanley would be seeing," said Barbara, in her soft-spoken way.
"And does she come from Heimra Island?" was the next question.
"Oh, no, she is not from Eilean Heimra," said Barbara. "Maybe she would be speaking to Miss Stanley, and it is about her mother she would be speaking. Her mother died about two years ago; but Anna thinks she has been changed into one of the white sea-birds that fly about Eilean Heimra, and that she is coming back, and so she goes along the shore and watches for her. That is what she would be saying to Miss Stanley."
"Barbara, can you tell me why the girl should be afraid of Mr. Purdie?"
"Oh, well, indeed, ma'am, they were saying that Mr. Purdie was for having her sent away to an asylum; and it is no doubt Anna would rather be among her own people."
"To an asylum?" Mary demanded sharply. "For what reason? She does no harm?"
"There is no harm about Anna Chlannach," said Barbara, simply and seriously, as she busied herself with the table things. "There is no harm at all about Anna Chlannach, poor girl. But when Mr. Purdie wishes a thing to be done, then it has to be done."
The hot blood mounted to Mary Stanley's face.
"Oh, do you think so?" said she. "For I do not think so – not at all! It is not Mr. Purdie who is to be the master here – when I am here. I will let Mr. Purdie understand that he is not to – to interfere with my people – "
"Mary!" said Kate Glendinning, in an undertone.
Mary was silent; she knew she had been indiscreet. But presently she said —
"Well, Käthchen, I see I must learn Gaelic."
"Gaelic," observed Kate, sententiously, "is a very intricate key; and then when you've got it, and put it in the lock, and turned it, you find the cupboard empty."
"Perhaps so with regard to literature – I do not know; but I want to be able to talk to the people here, without the intervention of an interpreter. Barbara," said she, to the parlour-maid, who had come into the room again, "do you know what bentyurna veen is?"
"Baintighearna mhin?" said Barbara, with a smile. "Oh, that is 'the gentle lady,' And that is what Anna Chlannach would be calling Miss Stanley, I have no doubt of that."
"Well, now, Barbara," Mary continued, "you must tell me how to say this in Gaelic – 'Am I welcome?' What is that in Gaelic?"
But here Barbara became very much embarrassed.
"I am sure it is not necessary that Miss Stanley should say that – oh no, indeed," she answered with averted eyes.
"I am not so sure," said Mary, in her direct way. "I hope the time will come when I shall not have to ask such a question in going into any one's cottage; but at present I am a stranger, and I must make my way gradually. Now, Barbara, what is the Gaelic for 'Am I welcome?"
But still Barbara hesitated.
"If you would ask Mr. Purdie, ma'am, he would give you the good Gaelic."
"No, I will not," said the imperative young mistress. "I dare say your Gaelic is quite as good as Mr. Purdie's."
"And you would be saying 'Am I welcome?' in going into a house?" said Barbara, slowly – for translation is a serious difficulty to the untutored mind. "Oh, I think you would just say 'An e mo bheatha?'; but why would Miss Stanley be saying such a thing as that?"
"'An e mo bheatha?' – is that right? Very well!"
"And how will you understand their answer, Mamie?" Kate Glendinning asked.
"I will read that in their faces," was the reply.
It was quite clear that the young proprietress had in no wise been disheartened by that first interview with one of her tenants on the previous evening. This fair-shining morning found her as full of ardent enthusiasm, of generous aspirations, as ever; and here was the carriage awaiting them; and here was Mr. Purdie, obsequious; and even Käthchen looked forward with eagerness to getting a general view of the estate. Then their setting forth was entirely cheerful; the Spring air was sweet around them; the sunlight lay warm on the larches and on the tall and thick-stemmed bushes of gorse that were all a blaze of gold. But it was not of landscape that Mary Stanley was thinking; it was of human beings; and the first human being she saw was a little old woman who was patiently trudging along with a heavy creel of peats strapped on her back.
"The poor old woman!" she exclaimed, with an infinite compassion in her eyes. "Doesn't it seem hard she should have to work at her time of life?"
"She's a good deal better off than if she were in Seven Dials or the Bowery," said Käthchen. "But perhaps you would like to give her a seat in the carriage?"
"You may laugh if you like," said Mary, quite simply, "but it seems to me it would be more becoming if that poor old woman were sitting here and I were carrying the creel. However, I suppose we shall have to begin with something more practicable."
But was it more practicable? – that was the question she had speedily to put to herself. For no sooner had they left the wooded 'policies' and surroundings of Lochgarra House than they entered upon a stretch of country the sterility of which might have appalled her if only she had fully comprehended it. Land such as the poorest of Galway peasants would have shunned – an Arabia Petræa – rocks, stones, and heather – wave upon wave of Hebridean gneiss, the ruddy-grey knolls and dips and heights showing hardly a trace of vegetation or of soil. And yet there were human beings here, busy on their small patches; and there were hovels, some of them thatched, others covered over with turf tied down by ropes; while now and again there appeared a smarter cottage, with a slated roof, and lozenge-panes of glass in the window. Moreover, they had now come in sight of the sea again; yonder was a far-stretching bay of silvery sand; and out at the margin of the water, which was at lowest ebb, there were a number of people, mostly women and young lads and girls, stooping at work; while an occasional small dark figure, with a hump on its back, was seen to be crossing the expanse of white.
"What are they doing, Mr. Purdie?" Mary asked.
"They're cutting seaware for manure to put on their crofts," was the answer.
And at the same moment her attention was drawn to a man not far from the roadside who, in his little bit of rocky ground, was making use of an implement the like of which she had never seen or heard of.
"What is that, Mr. Purdie? Is it some kind of spade?"
"Oh, just a foot-plough – there's no other kind of plough would be of any use in this district."
And nothing would do but that she must descend and examine this novel method of tillage. She went boldly up to the man: he was a tall, lean, swarthy person, severe of aspect, who kept a pair of hawk-like eyes fixed on the factor all the time he rather unwillingly answered her questions. For Mary, to her great delight, discovered that this man could speak English; and she wanted information at first hand; and indeed she immediately showed a very definite knowledge of what she was after. The man clearly did not like being cross-examined; again and again he resumed his delving operations with that long-coultered instrument that he worked with foot and arms; but she would take no heed of his sullen humour. What stock had he? – two cows, two stirks, eight sheep up on the common pasture, and a pony. What potatoes did he raise? – well, he would plant about two barrels, and maybe get ten or twelve barrels. Did he make any meal? – hardly any; the cows and stirks did not let his crops come to the threshing. And so forth, until Mary said —
"But I don't see where you get any capital to work the croft, or to increase the stock if we could give you more land. You don't seem to be getting any money."
"No, no money at ahl," said the crofter.
"Listen to him!" interposed Mr. Purdie, with an angry frown. "Let me tell you this, Miss Stanley: that man gets twenty-five shillings a week, gillie's wages, when the gentlemen are here for the shooting, and besides that he hires his pony to them at twenty-three shillings a week; and I suppose he's just the one to cry out that not a sportsman should be allowed to come into the country."
"Is it true that you get that money?" said Mary, calmly.
"Ay, that is true," he admitted, in rather a sulky fashion; "but it is not from the croft I get the money."
"Well, I am only making enquiries at present," said Miss Stanley. "I wish to know what improvements are possible – I wish to know what the people want – "
But here, to her surprise, she was interrupted.
"A railway," said the tall, black-a-vised crofter.
"A railway?" she repeated.
"Ay – a railway to Bonar."
"A railway to Bonar Bridge?" she said, staring at the man. "Why, what good would that do you? Take your own case. You say you have nothing to sell. Even if there were a railway to Bonar Bridge – and there couldn't be, for the cost would be enormous, and there would be no traffic to speak of – but supposing there were a railway, how would that benefit you?"
He made no reply; he merely worked away with the long and narrow coulter, turning up the poor soil. So she saw it was no use arguing with him; she bade him a cheerful "Good-morning!" and came away again.
And with a right gallant courage did she continue her house-to-house visitation, desperately trying to win friends for herself, and wondering more and more that she was so ill received. She was not accustomed to sour looks and sullen manners; and in casting about for some possible reason for this strange behaviour she began to ask herself whether she might not get on better with these people if Mr. Purdie were well away back in his office in Inverness. One point struck her as being very peculiar; not a single man or woman of them asked for a reduction of rent. She thought that would have been the first thing for them to demand, and the simplest for her to consider; but it was never mentioned. They asked for all kinds of other things – when they would speak at all. They wanted herring-nets from the Government; they wanted more boats from the Government – and the instalments of repayment to be made smaller; they wanted the steamer to call in thrice a week, during the ling season; they wanted their arrears of debt to the curers to be wiped off; they wanted more pasture land; they wanted more arable land.
"As for pasture land," said Käthchen, in an undertone, as they were leaving one of these poor steadings, "I don't know whether you will be able to persuade Mr. Watson to give up a slice of his sheep-farm; but as regards arable land, Mary, you should tell those people they have made a mistake about you. You are not the Creator of the Universe: you can't make arable land out of nothing."
"Don't be profane," said Mary, severely. "And mind, I'm not going to have any giggling disparagement of my work: I can tell you, it promises to be very serious."
Serious enough! When they got back to Lochgarra House in the afternoon, her head was fairly in a whirl with conflicting statements and conflicting demands. She knew not how or where to begin; the future seemed all in a maze; while the personal reception accorded her (though she tried to think nothing of that for the moment) had been distinctly repellent. And yet, not satisfied with this long day's work, she would go down to the village in the evening, to see what was expected of her there.
"I suppose I can interfere?" she said, to Mr. Purdie, who was having tea with them.
"Beg pardon?"
"I suppose I can interfere? The village belongs to me, does it not?" she demanded.
"In a measure it does," said the factor. "Of course you are the Superior; but where feus have been granted, they have the land in perpetuity, while you have only the rent – "
"Oh, I can't interfere, then?" said she, with some disappointment that her sphere of activity seemed limited in that direction.
"You can step in to see that the conditions of the leases have been respected – "
"But I can't do things?
"They'll let you do whatever ye like – so long as it means spending money on them," said Mr. Purdie, with grim sarcasm.
"The inn, for example?"
"The inn is different. We built the inn. The landlord is only a yearly tenant."
"We will go down and see him at once, if you please, Mr. Purdie," said Mary, with promptitude. "I have a scheme in my head. Käthchen, are you tired?"
Kate laughed, and dragged herself from her chair. Indeed, she was dead tired; but none the less she was determined to see this thing out. So the three of them proceeded along to the village as far as the inn – which was a plain little two-storeyed building, with not even a sign hanging over the door; and there they went into the stuffy little parlour, and sate down, Mr. Purdie ringing the bell and sending for the landlord.
"Aren't those things dreadful?" said Mary, glancing around at the hideous stone and china ornaments on the mantelshelf and elsewhere – pink greyhounds chasing a yellow hare; bronze stags that could only have been designed in wild delirium; impossible white poodles on a ground of cobalt blue, and the like; while on the walls were two gaudy lithographs – German-looking nymphs with actual spangles in their hair and bits of gold and crimson tinsel round their neck. "I must have all this altered throughout the cottages – "
"Oh, yes, Mamie," said Käthchen; "Broussa silks – Lindos plates – a series of etchings – "
But here was the landlord, a rather youngish and shortish man, who seemed depressed and dismal, and also a little apprehensive.
"Well, Peter," said Mr. Purdie, in his merry way, "what are ye frightened for? Ye've got a face as if ye'd murdered somebody. We're not going to raise your rent."
"It would be little use that – for I could not pay it," said the sad-looking young man with the cadaverous grey face and grey eyes.
"Won't you take a seat?" said Miss Stanley, interposing. "I have a proposal to make to you."
Peter Grant did not answer: he remained standing, stolidly and in silence.
"It seems to me," she went on, "that something should be done to bring visitors here in the spring, as well as the few that come through this way in the autumn. It would be a benefit all round – to the inn, and to the gillies who would be required, I mean for the salmon-fishing in the Garra. Now I don't particularly want the salmon-fishing in the spring months; and it seems to me if you were enterprising you would rent it from me, and advertise it, and let it to two or three gentlemen, who would come and live in your house, and give you a good profit. Do you see?"
He answered not a word; he kept his eyes mostly fixed on the carpet; so she continued —
"Gentlemen will go very far for salmon-fishing now-a-days, so I am told; and you might give them quiet quarters here, and make them comfortable, and every year they would come back. And I should not be hard upon you in fixing the rent. Indeed, I would rather the proposal came from you. What do you think you could afford to give me for the spring fishing in the Garra?"
"Oh, as for that," said the young landlord, rather uncivilly, "I do not see that there should be any rent. For the people about here were saying that no one has a right to the salmon more than anyone else."
"Now you know you're talking nonsense," said Mary, with decision. "For if everyone had a right to the salmon, in a fortnight's time there would not be a single fish left in the river. And besides, do you forget that there is the law?"
"Oh, yes, Peter knows there is the law," interposed Mr. Purdie, who seemed to be in a most facetious mood. "Not more than two months ago Peter found that out when the Sheriff at Dingwall fined him ten shillings and ten shillings expenses for having carried and used a gun without a license. There is quite sufficient of law in the land, as Peter has just found out."
The young man's eyes were filled with a sullen fire; but he said nothing.
"However," continued Miss Stanley, not heeding this interruption, "I would not insist much on rent: I might even give you the spring fishing for nothing, if you thought it would induce the gentlemen to come and occupy the inn. It is an out-of-the-way place; but perhaps you would not be charging them very much either – not very much – I don't quite know what would be a fair rent to ask – "
"I would charge them £30 a month," said he.
She looked up, a trifle indignant.
"Oh, I see. The fishing is worth nothing while I have it; but it's worth £30 a month when you have it: is that how the matter stands? Do you call that fair dealing? Well, I haven't given you the fishing yet – not on those terms." She rose – rather proudly. "Come, Käthchen, I think we might go and have a look at this fishing that seems to alter in value so remarkably the moment it changes hands. We need not trouble you, Mr. Purdie. Good evening!" This last salutation was addressed to the landlord, who seemed to have no word of explanation to offer: then the two girls went out from the inn, and walked off in the direction of the river, which they had seen in passing on the previous evening.
Mary was no doubt considerably hurt and offended; and there were still further trials in store for her before the end of this arduous and disappointing day. She had proposed this excursion to the river chiefly in order to get rid of Mr. Purdie; but when she and Käthchen found themselves by the side of the Garra, a vague curiosity drew them on, until they had penetrated into solitudes where the stream for the most part lay still and dark under the gloom of the steep overhanging banks. There was something strangely impressive in the silence and in the dusk; for while a distant range of hill flamed russet in the western light – an unimaginable glory – the stealthily creeping river was here almost black in shadow, under the thick birchwoods. And then suddenly she caught Käthchen by the arm. Surely there was some one there – a figure out in the stream – a faint grey ghost in the mysterious twilight? And then a startling thing occurred. The figure moved; and instantly, on the black and oily surface of the water there was a series of vivid blue-white circles widening out and out, and slowly subsiding into the dark again. Each time the grey ghost moved onward (and the two girls stood motionless, watching this strange phenomenon) there was this sudden gleam (the reflection of the clear-shining heavens overhead) that lasted for a moment or two; then the vague obscurity once more encompassed the unknown person, and he became but an almost imperceptible phantom. And was there not some sound in the all-pervading stillness? – an occasional silken 'swish' through the air? Mary understood what this was well enough.
"That man is poaching," said she, calmly – and she took no pains to prevent herself being overheard. "And I suppose you and I, Käthchen, have no means of arresting him, and finding out who he is."
Her voice was clear, and no doubt carried a considerable distance in this perfect silence. Immediately after she had spoken there were two or three further series of those flashing rings – nearing the opposite bank: then darkness again, and stillness; the spectral fisherman, whoever he was, had vanished into the thick birchwood.
But Mary Stanley made no doubt as to who this was.
"Now I understand," she said, bitterly, as she and her companion set out for home again, "why the salmon-fishing isn't worth £30 a month to me – when it does not belong to me! And now I understand what Mr. Purdie said about the poaching – and the connivance of everybody around. And yet I suppose Mr. Ross of Heimra calls himself a gentleman? I suppose he would not like to be called a thief? Well, I call him a thief! I call poaching thieving – and nothing but thieving – whatever the people about here may think. And I say it is not the conduct of a gentleman."
She was very angry and indignant; and the moment she got back to Lochgarra House she sent for the head-keeper. In a few minutes the tall and bushy-bearded Hector presented himself at the door of the room, cap in hand a handsome man he was, with a grave and serious face.