"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—
"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,