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."