CHAPTER VII.
SECRET SCHEMES
The delight with which John of Skye heard that his friend Dr. Sutherland was coming back to the yacht, and that we were now setting out for Ballahulish or Corpach to meet him, found instant and practical expression on this fine, breezy, sunlit morning.
"Hector," says he, "we will put the gaff topsail on her!"
What did he care though this squally breeze came blowing down the Sound in awkward gusts?
"It is a fine wind, mem," says he to the Admiral, as we slowly leave the green waters and the pink rocks of Polterriv, and get into the open and breezy channel. "Oh, we will mek a good run the day. And I beg your pardon, mem, but it is a great pleasure to me that Mr. Sutherland himself is coming back to the yat."
"He understands your clever sailing, John: is that it?"
"He knows more about a yat as any chentleman I will ever see, mem. And we will try to get a good breeze for him this time, mem – and not to have the calm weather."
This is not likely to be a day of calm weather, at all events. Tide and wind together take us away swiftly from the little harbour behind the granite rocks. And is Iona over there all asleep; or are there some friends in the small village watching the White Dove bearing away to the south? We wave our handkerchiefs on chance. We take a last look at the gabled ruins over the sea; at the green corn-fields; and the scattered houses; and the beaches of silver sand. Good-bye – good-bye! It is a last look for this summer at least; perhaps it is a last look for ever. But Iona too – as well as Ulva – remains in the memory a vision of sunlight, and smooth seas, and summer days.
Harder and harder blows this fresh breeze from the north; and we are racing down the Sound with the driven waves. But for the rope round the tiller, Miss Avon, who is steering, would find it difficult to keep her feet; and her hair is blown all about her face. The salt water comes swishing down the scuppers; the churned foam goes hissing and boiling away from the sides of the vessel; the broad Atlantic widens out. And that small grey thing at the horizon? Can that speck be a mass of masonry a hundred and fifty feet in height, wedged into the lonely rock?
"No, no," says our gentle Queen Titania with an involuntary shudder, "not for worlds would I climb up that iron ladder, with the sea and the rocks right below me. I should never get half-way up."
"They will put a rope round your waist, if you like," it is pointed out to her.
"When we go out, then," says this coward. "I will see how Mary gets on. If she does not die of fright, I may venture."
"Oh, but I don't think I shall be with you," remarks the young lady quite simply.
At this there is a general stare.
"I don't know what you mean," says her hostess, with an ominous curtness.
"Why, you know," says the girl, cheerfully – and disengaging one hand to get her hair out of her eyes – "I can't afford to go idling much longer. I must get back to London."
"Don't talk nonsense," says the other woman, angrily. "You may try to stop other people's holidays, if you like; but I am going to look after yours. Holidays! How are you to work, if you don't work now? Will you find many landscapes in Regent Street?"
"I have a great many sketches," says Mary Avon, "and I must try to make something out of them, where there is less distraction of amusement. And really, you know, you have so many friends – would you like me to become a fixture – like the mainmast – "
"I would like you to talk a little common sense," is the sharp reply. "You are not going back to London till the White Dove is laid up for the winter – that is what I know."
"I am afraid I must ask you to let me off," she says, quite simply and seriously. "Suppose I go up to London next week? Then, if I get on pretty well, I may come back – "
"You may come back!" says the other with a fine contempt. "Don't try to impose on me. I am an older woman than you. And I have enough provocations and worries from other quarters: I don't want you to begin and bother."
"Is your life so full of trouble?" says the girl, innocently. "What are these fearful provocations?"
"Never mind. You will find out in time. But when you get married, Mary, don't forget to buy a copy of Doddridge on Patience. That should be included in every bridal trousseau."
"Poor thing – is it so awfully ill-used?" replies the steersman, with much compassion.
Here John of Skye comes forward.
"If ye please, mem, I will tek the tiller until we get round the Ross. The rocks are very bad here."
"All right, John," says the young lady; and then, with much cautious clinging to various objects, she goes below, saying that she means to do a little more to a certain slight water-colour sketch of Polterriv. We know why she wants to put some further work on that hasty production. Yesterday the Laird expressed high approval of the sketch. She means him to take it with him to Denny-mains, when she leaves for London.
But this heavy sea: how is the artist getting on with her work amid such pitching and diving? Now that we are round the Ross, the White Dove has shifted her course; the wind is more on her beam; the mainsheet has been hauled in; and the noble ship goes ploughing along in splendid style; but how about water-colour drawing?
Suddenly, as the yacht gives a heavy lurch to leeward, an awful sound is heard below. Queen T. clambers down the companion, and holds on by the door of the saloon; the others following and looking over her shoulders. There a fearful scene appears. At the head of the table, in the regal recess usually occupied by the carver and chief president of our banquets, sits Mary Avon, in mute and blank despair. Everything has disappeared from before her. A tumbler rolls backwards and forwards on the floor, empty. A dishevelled bundle of paper, hanging on to the edge of a carpet-stool, represents what was once an orderly sketch-book. Tubes, pencils, saucers, sponges – all have gone with the table-cloth. And the artist sits quite hopeless and silent, staring before her like a maniac in a cell.
"Whatever have you been and done?" calls her hostess.
There is no answer: only that tragic despair.
"It was all bad steering," remarks the Youth. "I knew it would happen as soon as Miss Avon left the helm."
But the Laird, not confining his sympathy to words, presses by his hostess; and, holding hard by the bare table, staggers along to the scene of the wreck. The others timidly follow. One by one the various objects are rescued, and placed for safety on the couch on the leeward side of the saloon. Then the automaton in the presidential chair begins to move. She recovers her powers of speech. She says – awaking from her dream —
"Is my head on?"
"And if it is, it is not of much use to you," says her hostess, angrily. "Whatever made you have those things out in a sea like this? Come up on deck at once; and let Fred get luncheon ready."
The maniac only laughs.
"Luncheon!" she says. "Luncheon in the middle of earthquakes!"
But this sneer at the White Dove, because she has no swinging table, is ungenerous. Besides, is not our Friedrich d'or able to battle any pitching with his ingeniously bolstered couch – so that bottles, glasses, plates, and what not, are as safe as they would be in a case in the British Museum? A luncheon party on board the White Dove, when there is a heavy Atlantic swell running, is not an imposing ceremony. It would not look well as a coloured lithograph in the illustrated papers. The figures crouching on the low stools to leeward; the narrow cushion bolstered up so that the most enterprising of dishes cannot slide; the table-cover plaited so as to afford receptacles for knives and spoons; bottles and tumblers plunged into hollows and propped; Master Fred, balancing himself behind these stooping figures, bottle in hand, and ready to replenish any cautiously proffered wine-glass. But it serves. And Dr. Sutherland has assured us that, the heavier the sea, the more necessary is luncheon for the weaker vessels, who may be timid about the effect of so much rolling and pitching. When we get on deck again, who is afraid? It is all a question as to what signal may be visible to the white house of Carsaig – shining afar there in the sunlight, among the hanging woods, and under the soft purple of the hills. Behold! – behold! – the red flag run up to the top of the white pole! Is it a message to us, or only a summons to the Pioneer? For now, through the whirl of wind and spray, we can make out the steamer that daily encircles Mull, bringing with it white loaves, and newspapers, and other luxuries of the mainland.
She comes nearer and nearer; the throbbing of the paddles is heard among the rush of the waves; the people crowd to the side of the boat to have a look at the passing yacht; and one well-known figure, standing on the hurricane deck, raises his gilt-braided cap, – for we happen to have on board a gentle small creature who is a great friend of his. And she waves her white handkerchief, of course; and you should see what a fluttering of similar tokens there is all along the steamer's decks, and on the paddle boxes. Farewell! – farewell! – may you have a smooth landing at Staffa, and a pleasant sail down the Sound, in the quiet of the afternoon! The day wears on, with puffs and squalls coming tearing over from the high cliffs of southern Mull; and still the gallant White Dove meets and breasts those rolling waves, and sends the spray flying from her bows. We have passed Loch Buy; Garveloch and the Island of Saints are drawing nearer; soon we shall have to bend our course northward, when we have got by Eilean-straid-ean. And whether it is that Mary Avon is secretly comforting herself with the notion that she will soon see her friends in London again, or whether it is that she is proud of being again promoted to the tiller, she has quite recovered her spirits. We hear our singing-bird once more – though it is difficult, amid the rush and swirl of the waters, to do more than catch chance phrases and refrains. And then she is being very merry with the Laird, who is humorously decrying England and the English, and proving to her that it is the Scotch migration to the south that is the very saving of her native country.
"The Lord Chief Justice of England, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the President of the Royal Academy – the heads and leading men everywhere – all Scotch – all Scotch," says he.
"But the weak point about the Scotch, sir," says this philosopher in the ulster, who is clinging on to the tiller rope, "is their modesty. They are so distrustful of their own merits. And they are always running down their own country."
"Ha, ha! – ho! ho! ho!" roars the Laird. "Verra good! verra good! I owe ye one for that. I owe ye one. Howard, have ye nothing to say in defence of your native country?"
"You are speaking of Scotland, sir?"
"Ay."
"That is not my native country, you know."
"It was your mother's, then."
Somehow, when by some accident – and it but rarely happened – the Laird mentioned Howard Smith's mother, a brief silence fell on him. It lasted but a second or two. Presently he was saying, with much cheerfulness —
"No, no, I am not one of those that would promote any rivalry between Scotland and England. We are one country now. If the Scotch preserve the best leeterary English – the most pithy and characteristic forms of the language – the English that is talked in the south is the most generally received throughout the world. I have even gone the length – I'm no ashamed to admit it – of hinting to Tom Galbraith that he should exheebit more in London: the influence of such work as his should not be confined to Edinburgh. And jealous as they may be in the south of the Scotch school, they could not refuse to recognise its excellence – eh? No, no; when Galbraith likes to exheebit in London, ye'll hear a stir, I'm thinking. The jealousy of English artists will have no effect on public opeenion. They may keep him out o' the Academy – there's many a good artist has never been within the walls – but the public is the judge. I am told that when his picture of Stonebyres Falls was exheebited in Edinburgh, a dealer came all the way from London to look at it."
"Did he buy it?" asked Miss Avon, gently.
"Buy it!" the Laird said, with a contemptuous laugh. "There are some of us about Glasgow who know better than to let a picture like that get to London. I bought it myself. Ye'll see it when ye come to Denny-mains. Ye have heard of it, no doubt?"
"N – no, I think not," she timidly answers.
"No matter – no matter. Ye'll see it when ye come to Denny-mains."
He seemed to take it for granted that she was going to pay a visit to Denny-mains: had he not heard, then, of her intention of at once returning to London?
Once well round into the Frith of Lorn, the wind that had borne us down the Sound of Iona was now right ahead; and our progress was but slow. As the evening wore on, it was proposed that we should run into Loch Speliv for the night. There was no dissentient voice.
The sudden change from the plunging seas without to the quiet waters of the solitary little loch was strange enough. And then, as we slowly beat up against the northerly wind to the head of the loch – a beautiful, quiet, sheltered little cup of a harbour among the hills – we found before us, or rather over us, the splendours of a stormy sunset among the mountains above Glen More. It was a striking spectacle – the vast and silent gloom of the valleys below, which were of a cold and intense green in the shadow; then above, among the great shoulders and peaks of the hills, flashing gleams of golden light, and long swathes of purple cloud touched with scarlet along their edges, and mists of rain that came along with the wind, blotting out here and there those splendid colours. There was an absolute silence in this overshadowed bay – but for the cry of the startled wild-fowl. There was no sign of any habitation, except perhaps a trace of pale blue smoke rising from behind a mass of trees. Away went the anchor with a short, sharp rattle; we were safe for the night.
We knew, however, what that trace of smoke indicated behind the dark trees. By and by, as soon as the gig had got to the land, there was a procession along the solitary shore – in the wan twilight – and up the rough path – and through the scattered patches of birch and fir. And were you startled, Madam, by the apparition of people who were so inconsiderate as to knock at your door in the middle of dinner, and whose eyes, grown accustomed to the shadows of the valleys of Mull, must have looked bewildered enough on meeting the glare of the lamps? And what did you think of a particular pair of eyes – very soft and gentle in their dark lustre – appealing, timid, friendly eyes, that had nevertheless a quiet happiness and humour in them? It was at all events most kind of you to tell the young lady that her notion of throwing up her holiday and setting out for London was mere midsummer madness. How could you – or any one else – guess at the origin of so strange a wish?
CHAPTER VIII.
BEFORE BREAKFAST
Who is this who slips through the saloon, while as yet all on board are asleep – who noiselessly ascends the companion-way, and then finds herself alone on deck? And all the world around her is asleep too, though the gold and rose of the new day is shining along the eastern heavens. There is not a sound in this silent little loch: the shores and the woods are as still as the far peaks of the mountains, where the mists are touched here and there with a dusky fire.
She is not afraid to be alone in this silent world. There is a bright and contented look on her face. Carefully and quietly, so as not to disturb the people below, she gets a couple of deck stools, and puts down the large sketch-book from under her arm, and opens out a certain leather case. But do not think she is going to attack that blaze of colour in the east, with the reflected glare on the water, and the bar of dark land between. She knows better. She has a wholesome fear of chromo-lithographs. She turns rather to those great mountain masses, with their mysteriously moving clouds, and their shoulders touched here and there with a sombre red, and their deep and silent glens a cold, intense green in shadow. There is more workable material.
And after all there is no ambitious effort to trouble her. It is only a rough jotting of form and colour, for future use. It is a pleasant occupation for this still, cool, beautiful morning; and perhaps she is fairly well satisfied with it, for one listening intently might catch snatches of songs and airs – of a somewhat incoherent and inappropriate character. For what have the praises of Bonny Black Bess to do with sunrise in Loch Speliv? Or the saucy Arethusa either? But all the same the work goes quietly and dexterously on – no wild dashes and searchings for theatrical effect, but a patient mosaic of touches precisely reaching their end. She does not want to bewilder the world. She wants to have trustworthy records for her own use. And she seems content with the progress she is making.
Here's a health to the girls that we loved long ago,
this is the last air into which she has wandered – half humming and half whistling —
Where the Shannon, and Liffey, and Blackwater flow.
– when she suddenly stops her work to listen. Can any one be up already? The noise is not repeated; and she proceeds with her work.
Here's a health to old Ireland: may she ne'er be dismayed;
Then pale grew the cheeks of the Irish Brigade!
The clouds are assuming substance now: they are no mere flat washes but accurately drawn objects that have their fore-shortening like anything else. And if Miss Avon may be vaguely conscious that had our young Doctor been on board she would not have been left so long alone, that had nothing to with her work. The mornings on which he used to join her on deck, and chat to her while she painted, seem far away now. He and she together would see Dunvegan no more.
But who is this who most cautiously comes up the companion, bearing in his hand a cup and saucer?
"Miss Avon," says he, with a bright laugh, "here is the first cup of tea I ever made; are you afraid to try it?"
"Oh, dear me," said she, penitently, "did I make any noise in getting my things below?"
"Well," he says, "I thought I heard you; and I knew what you would be after; and I got up and lit the spirit-lamp."
"Oh, it is so very kind of you," she says – for it is really a pretty little attention on the part of one who is not much given to shifting for himself on board.
Then he dives below again and fetches her up some biscuits.
"By Jove," he says, coming closer to the sketch, "that is very good. That is awfully good. Do you mean to say you have done all that this morning?"
"Oh, yes," she says, modestly. "It is only a sketch."
"I think it uncommonly good," he says, staring at it as if he would pierce the paper.
Then there is a brief silence, during which Miss Avon boldly adventures upon this amateur's tea.
"I beg your pardon," he says, after a bit, "it is none of my business, you know – but you don't really mean that you are going back to London?"
"If I am allowed," she answers with a smile.
"I am sure you will disappoint your friends most awfully," says he, in quite an earnest manner. "I know they had quite made up their minds you were to stay the whole time. It would be very unfair of you. And my uncle: he would break his heart if you were to go."
"They are all very kind to me," was her only answer.
"Look here," he says, with a most friendly anxiety. "If – if – it is only about business – about pictures I mean – I really beg your pardon for intermeddling – "
"Oh," said she, frankly, "there is no secret about it. In fact, I want everybody to know that I am anxious to sell my pictures. You see, as I have got to earn my own living, shouldn't I begin at once and find out what it is like?"
"But look here," he said eagerly, "if it is a question of selling pictures, you should trust to my uncle. He is among a lot of men in the West of Scotland, rich merchants and people of that sort, who haven't inherited collections of pictures, and whose hobby is to make a collection for themselves. And they have much too good sense to buy spurious old masters, or bad examples for the sake of the name: they prefer good modern art, and I can tell you they are prepared to pay for it too. And they are not fools, mind you; they know good pictures. You may think my uncle is very prejudiced – he has his favourite artists – and – and believes in Tom Galbraith, don't you know – but I can assure you, you won't find many men who know more about a good landscape than he does; and you would say so if you saw his dining room at Denny-mains."
"I quite believe that," said she, beginning to put up her materials: she had done her morning's work.
"Well," he says, "you trust to him; there are lots of those Glasgow men who would only be too glad to have the chance – "
"Oh, no, no," she cried, laughing. "I am not going to coerce people into buying my pictures for the sake of friendship. I think your uncle would buy every sketch I have on board the yacht; but I cannot allow my friends to be victimised."
"Oh, victimised!" said he, scornfully. "They ought to be glad to have the chance. And do you mean to go on giving away your work for nothing? That sketch of the little creek we were in – opposite Iona, don't you know – that you gave my uncle, is charming. And they tell me you have given that picture of the rocks and sea-birds – where is the place? – "
"Oh, do you mean the sketch in the saloon – of Canna?"
"Yes; why it is one of the finest landscapes I ever saw. And they tell me you gave it to that doctor who was on board!"
"Dr. Sutherland," says she, hastily – and there is a quick colour in her face – "seemed to like it as – as a sort of reminiscence, you know – "
"But he should not have accepted a valuable picture," said the Youth, with decision. "No doubt you offered it to him when you saw he admired it. But now – when he must understand that – well, in fact, that circumstances are altered – he will have the good sense to give it you back again."
"Oh, I hope not," she says, with her embarrassment not diminishing. "I – I should not like that! I – I should be vexed."
"A person of good tact and good taste," says this venturesome young man, "would make a joke of it – would insist that you never meant it – and would prefer to buy the picture."
She answers, somewhat shortly —
"I think not. I think Dr. Sutherland has as good taste as any one. He would know that that would vex me very much."
"Oh, well," says he, with a sort of carelessness, "every one to his liking. If he cares to accept so valuable a present, good and well."
"You don't suppose he asked me for it?" she says, rather warmly. "I gave it him. He would have been rude to have refused it. I was very much pleased that he cared for the picture."
"Oh, he is a judge of art, also? I am told he knows everything."
"He was kind enough to say he liked the sketch; that was enough for me."
"He is very lucky; that is all I have to say."
"I dare say he has forgotten all about such a trifle. He has more important things to think about."
"Well," said he, with a good-natured laugh, "I should not consider such a picture a trifle if any one presented it to me. But it is always the people who get everything they want who value things least."
"Do you think Dr. Sutherland such a fortunate person?" says she. "Well, he is fortunate in having great abilities; and he is fortunate in having chosen a profession that has already secured him great honour, and that promises a splendid future to him. But that is the result of hard work; and he has to work hard now. I don't think most men would like to change places with him just at present."
"He has one good friend and champion, at all events," he says, with a pleasant smile.
"Oh," says she, hastily and anxiously, "I am saying what I hear. My acquaintance with Dr. Sutherland is – is quite recent, I may say; though I have met him in London. I only got to know something about him when he was in Edinburgh, and I happened to be there too."
"He is coming back to the yacht," observes Mr. Smith.
"He will be foolish to think of it," she answers, simply.
At this stage the yacht begins to wake up. The head of Hector of Moidart, much dishevelled, appears at the forecastle, and that wiry mariner is rubbing his eyes; but no sooner does he perceive that one of the ladies is on deck than he suddenly ducks down again – to get his face washed, and his paper collar. Then there is a voice heard in the saloon calling: —
"Who has left my spirit-lamp burning?"
"Oh, good gracious!" says the Youth, and tumbles down the companion incontinently.
Then the Laird appears, bringing up with him a huge red volume entitled Municipal London; but no sooner does he find that Miss Avon is on deck than he puts aside that mighty compendium, and will have her walk up and down with him before breakfast.
"What?" he says, eyeing the cup and saucer, "have ye had your breakfast already?"
"Mr. Smith was so kind as to bring me a cup of tea."
"What," he says again – and he is obviously greatly delighted. "Of his own making? I did not think he had as much gumption."
"I beg your pardon, sir?" said she. She had been startled by the whistling of a curlew close by, and had not heard him distinctly.
"I said he was a smart lad," said the Laird, unblushingly. "Oh, ay, a good lad; ye will not find many better lads than Howard. Will I tell ye a secret?"
"Well, sir – if you like," said she.
There was a mysterious, but humorous look about the Laird; and he spoke in a whisper.
"It is not good sometimes for young folk to know what is in store for them. But I mean to give him Denny-mains. Whish! Not a word. I'll surprise him some day."
"He ought to be very grateful to you, sir," was her answer.
"That he is – that he is," said the Laird; "he's an obedient lad. And I should not wonder if he had Denny-mains long before he expects it; though I must have my crust of bread, ye know. It would be a fine occupation for him, looking after the estate; and what is the use of his living in London, and swallowing smoke and fog? I can assure ye that the air at Denny-mains, though it's no far from Glasgow, is as pure as it is in this very Loch Speliv."
"Oh, indeed, sir."
They had another couple of turns in silence.
"Ye're verra fond of sailing," says the Laird.
"I am now," she says. "But I was very much afraid before I came; I have suffered so terribly in crossing the Channel. Somehow one never thinks of being ill here – with nice clean cabins – and no engines throbbing – "
"I meant that ye like well enough to go sailing about these places?"
"Oh yes," says she. "When shall I ever have such a beautiful holiday, again?"
The Laird laughed a little to himself. Then he said with a business-like air:
"I have been thinking that, when my nephew came to Denny-mains, I would buy a yacht for him, that he could keep down the Clyde somewhere – at Gourock, or Kilmun, or Dunoon, maybe. It is a splendid ground for yachting – a splendid! Ye have never been through the Kyles of Bute?"
"Oh, yes, sir; I have been through them in the steamer."
"Ay, but a yacht; wouldn't that be better? And I am no sure I would not advise him to have a steam-yacht – ye are so much more independent of wind and tide; and I'm thinking ye could get a verra good little steam-yacht for 3,000*l*."
"Oh, indeed."
"A great deal depends on the steward," he continues, seriously. "A good steward that does not touch drink, is jist worth anything. If I could get a first-class man, I would not mind giving him two pounds a week, with his clothes and his keep, while the yacht was being used; and I would not let him away in the winter – no, no. Ye could employ him at Denny-mains, as a butler-creature, or something like that."
She did not notice the peculiarity of the little pronoun: if she had, how could she have imagined that the Laird was really addressing himself to her?
"I have none but weeman-servants indoors at Denny-mains," he continued, "but when Howard comes, I would prefer him to keep the house like other people, and I will not stint him as to means. Have I told ye what Welliam Dunbaur says —
Be merry, man, and tak not sair in mind —"
"Oh, yes, I remember."
"There's fine common sense in that. And do not you believe the people who tell ye that the Scotch are a dour people, steeped in Calvinism, and niggardly and grasping at the last farthing – "
"I have found them exceedingly kind to me, and warm-hearted and generous – " says she; but he interrupted her suddenly.
"I'll tell ye what I'll do," said he, with decision. "When I buy that yacht, I'll get Tom Galbraith to paint every panel in the saloon – no matter what it costs!"
"Your nephew will be very proud of it," she said.
"And I would expect to take a trip in her myself, occasionally," he added, in a facetious manner. "I would expect to be invited – "
"Surely, sir, you cannot expect your nephew to be so ungrateful – "
"Oh," he said, "I only expect reasonable things. Young people are young people; they cannot like to be always hampered by grumbling old fogeys. No, no; if I present any one wi' a yacht, I do not look on myself as a piece of its furniture."
The Laird seemed greatly delighted. His step on the deck was firmer. In the pauses of the conversation she heard something about —
tántará! Sing tántará!
"Will ye take your maid with ye?" he asked of her, abruptly.
The girl looked up with a bewildered air – perhaps with a trifle of alarm in her eyes.
"I, sir?"
"Ha, ha!" said he, laughing, "I forgot. Ye have not been invited yet. No more have I. But – if the yacht were ready – and – and if ye were going – ye would take your maid, no doubt, for comfort's sake?"
The girl looked reassured. She said, cheerfully:
"Well, sir, I don't suppose I shall ever go yachting again, after I leave the White Dove. And if I were, I don't suppose I should be able to afford to have a maid with me, unless the dealers in London should suddenly begin to pay me a good deal more than they have done hitherto."