"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——"