"It is an angry-looking day to be leaving Heimra," young Ross said; "but perhaps there is no one wishing us to remain at Heimra; and you and I, Coinneach, have been companions before now. And if I am asking you to go away in a hurry, well, there will be time to get all we want at Portree."
"And what do I want," said Coinneach, "except tobacco? And it is not even that would hinder me from going wherever Mr. Ross wishes to be going."
The young master went aft to the tiller. As the yacht slowly crept forward he turned for a moment and glanced towards the island they were leaving.
"Poor old Martha," he said to himself; "I must try to find another place for her somewhere and get her away; it would be the breaking of her heart if she were to see strangers come to take possession of Eilean Heimra."
On Eilean Heimra he bestowed this single farewell glance; but on Lochgarra none. When they got outside into the heavily-running seas he did not turn once to look at the distant bay and its strip of cottages, nor yet at the promontory where the sharp gusts of the gale were already ploughing waves along the tops of the larchwoods surrounding Lochgarra House. The affected cheerfulness with which he had addressed the two sailors on setting forth was gone now; his face was pale and worn; the mouth stern; the eyes clouded and dark. But he had his hands full; for every moment the weather became more threatening.
"Calum," he called out, "go below and fetch me up my oil-skins. We are going to catch something pretty soon."
And so—amid this wild turmoil of driven skies and black-rolling seas—the Sirène bore away for the south.
And meanwhile at yonder big building among the wind-swept larches? All the long and terrible night Mary Stanley had neither slept nor thought of sleeping; she had not even undressed; she had kept walking up and down her room in a fever of agitation; or she had sate at the table, her hands clasped over her forehead, striving to shut out from her memory that dire succession of scenes, those haunting visions that seemed to have been burned into her brain. And if they would not go?—then blindly and stubbornly would she refuse to admit that they lent any air of credibility to this tale that had been told her. Nay, she abased herself; and overwhelmed herself with reproaches; and called herself the meanest of living creatures, in that she could have believed, even for one frantic moment, that base and malignant fabrication. Why, had she not known all along of the deadly animosity that Purdie, for some reason or another, bore towards young Ross and all his family? Had she not herself discovered that previous charges against Donald Ross owned no foundation other than a rancorous and reckless spite? And she had taken the unsupported testimony of one who appeared to be out of his mind with malice and hatred against the man who was her lover, as he and she knew in their secret hearts? In one second of unreasoning impulse she had destroyed all those fair possibilities that lay within her grasp; she had ruined her life; and wounded to the quick the one that was dearest to her in all the world. And well she knew how proud and relentless he was: he had forgiven much, to her and hers; but this he would never forgive. It was more than an insult; it was a betrayal: what would he think of her, even if she could go to him, and make humble confession, and implore his pardon? How could she explain that instant of panic following her first indignant repudiation—then the hapless chance that brought him face to face with her—then the fierce revolt of a maiden soul against contamination—alas! all in a sudden bewilderment of error, that could never be atoned for now. What must he think of her?—she kept repeating to herself—of her, faithless, shameless, who had spurned his loyal trust in her? If she went and grovelled in the very dust before him, and stretched out her hands towards him, he would turn away from her. remorseless and implacable. She was not worthy of his disdain.
And nevertheless, upbraid herself as she might, she still beheld before her aching eyes those two figures on the Garra bridge, followed by the swift disappearance of the girl into the woods; and again she saw her down at the shore, entreating to be taken out to Heimra Island and piercing the silence with her despair when she was left behind. It was not Purdie who had shown her these things; it was of her own knowledge she knew them; they had started up before her, in corroboration of his impeachment, even as he spoke. But what if she were to accept his challenge? What if she were to go to Anna Chlannach herself? He had declared she was his witness—his living witness. If there were any foundation for this terrible story, she would confess the truth: if, as Mary Stanley strove to convince herself, the charge was nothing but a deliberate and malevolent invention, she would be able to hurl the black falsehood back in his teeth. He had challenged her to go to Anna Chlannach: to Anna Chlannach she would go.
And then (as the blue-grey light of the dawn appeared in the window-panes) a sense of her utter helplessness came over her. That poor, half-witted creature knew no word of English. And how was she to appeal to any third person, asking for intervention? How could she demean herself by repeating such a story, and by admitting even the possibility of its being true? Nay more: might not her motives be misconstrued? What would the third person, the interpreter, think of these shamefaced inquiries? That the mistress of Lochgarra House was moved by an angry jealousy of that poor wandering waif? That Mary Stanley and Anna Chlannach were in the position of rivals? Her cheeks burned. Not in that way could she find the means of hurling back Purdie's monstrous accusation.