"Yes, but that is too much to expect," Fred Stanley said, gloomily. "It is my sister who will be preached against by those fanatics. It is she who is the representative here of the landlord interest. Gratitude!—it's precious little gratitude they'll show, when they have this fellow Donald Ross secretly egging them on. Of course, he is annoyed that you and I should have come up to interfere with him; he thought he would only have a woman to deal with; and that the keepers could make all kinds of excuses to her. But now he finds it different. I imagine he knows very well that he is suspected and watched, and that there is a chance of his being caught at any moment—a chance that I mean to make a certainty of before I leave this place!"
"My young friend," said Meredyth, dispassionately, "I'm afraid you are becoming entêté about this Donald Ross. And yet I don't wonder at it. I've seen a similar state of affairs, many a time, before now. The fact is, when once you suspect poaching, the suspicion becomes a sort of mania, and all your comfort in the shooting is gone. It is precisely the same on board a yacht. If you once suspect your skipper or your steward of drinking, it's all over with you; you are always looking out—mistrusting—imagining; you may as well go ashore at once, or get another skipper or steward. Of course, the poaching is still more vexatious; for you feel you are being defied and cheated at the same time; and you want revenge; and the poacher is generally a devil of a clever fellow. But, after all, Fred, your sister is right: even if you are convinced that there is poaching going on—as there has certainly been some little ill-will shown against us now and then—still, you have nothing to prove that Donald Ross is the culprit—nothing."
"I will catch him yet," said Fred Stanley under his breath.
Next morning being Sunday morning, they all went to church. In going down through the village they could perceive no sign of excitement, anticipatory of the next day: on the contrary, all was decorous quiet. Shutters were shut; in some cases the blinds were drawn down; the few people they saw were dressed in black, and were certainly not breaking the Lord's day by idle or frivolous conversation. But here was John the policeman.
"Well, John," said Mary, to the plump and placid Iain, who smiled good-naturedly when she addressed him, "are we to have civil war to-morrow?"
"Mem?" said John—not understanding.
"Is there going to be a riot to-morrow?" she repeated.
"Aw, no, mem," said John, in a mildly deprecating way. "I am not thinking that. The meeting it will be in the church, and there is the Minister."
"And what are you going to do?" said she. "I suppose you know they threaten to drive the sheep off Meall-na-Fearn, and there is a proposal to go into Glen Orme forest. Well, what are you going to do?"
"I am not sure," said Iain, with a vague, propitiatory grin.