DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA

BY

WILLIAM BLACK

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.

LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY
LIMITED,
St. Dunstan's House,
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1891.

[All rights reserved.]

LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

CONTENTS OF VOL. III.

1. [Smoke and Flame]
2. [A Summons]
3. [A Forecast]
4. [Slow but Sure]
5. [A Pious Pilgrimage]
6. [Habet!]
7. ["'Twas when the Seas were roaring"]
8. [A Mission]
9. [The Banabhard]

DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA.

CHAPTER I.

SMOKE AND FLAME.

But that was not at all the view that Fred Stanley took of this amazing and incomprehensible incident.

"There's some trick in it, Frank," he said vehemently, as he hurried his friend along with him, on their way back to the house. "There's some underhand trick in it, and I want to know what it means. I tell you, we must get the keepers, and go up the hill at once, and see what is going on. There's something at the bottom of all this jugglery."

"Jugglery or no jugglery," his companion said, with much good-humour, "it has come in very handy. If a riot had been started, who knows what the end might have been? It wasn't the raid into the Glen Orme forest that concerned me, nor yet the driving of the sheep off Meall-na-Fearn; but I confess I was anxious about your sister. If she had been denounced before an angry and excited meeting——"

"Oh, we should have been able to take care of ourselves!" the younger man said, dismissing that matter contemptuously.

"And if it was Ross of Heimra who stepped in to prevent all this," Meredyth continued, "I, for one, am very much obliged to him."

"Oh, don't be an ass, Frank!" the other said, with angry impatience. "If it is Donald Ross who has done all this, I'll swear he has done it for his own purposes. And I want to know. I want to find out. I want to see what the trick means. And of one thing I am absolutely certain, and that is, that Donald Ross is up on the moor at this very moment. Oh, yes," the young man went on, seeing that his wild suspicions received no encouragement from his more cautious companion, "a fine stratagem, to keep us idling and kicking our heels about here all the morning—and on the Twelfth, too! I thought it was odd that the meeting should be fixed for the Twelfth; but now I begin to see. Now I begin to understand why Donald Ross came over from Heimra yesterday afternoon."

"Well, what do you imagine?" Meredyth asked.

"Why, it's as clear as daylight!" the younger man exclaimed—jumping from vague surmises to definite conclusions. "Here have we been hanging about all the morning, like a couple of simpletons, waiting for a general riot or some nonsense of that kind, while Ross and his gang of poachers have been up on the moor, sweeping the best beats clean of every bird! That has been the little programme!—and a fine consignment of game to be sent away to Inverness to-night, as soon as the dark comes down. But they may not be off the hill yet; and we'll hurry up Hector and Hugh, and have a look round." And then he added, vindictively: "I'd let the Twelfth go—I shouldn't mind a bit having had the Twelfth spoilt—if only I could catch those scoundrels—and the chief of them—red-handed."

"All I have to say is," observed the more phlegmatic Meredyth, "that if we are going up the hill we may as well take our guns with us and a brace of dogs. We can have an hour or two. The fag-end of the Twelfth is better than no Twelfth; and your sister says she wants some birds."

"Birds?" the other repeated. "What do you expect to find on the ground after those poaching thieves have been over it?"

However, in the end he consented; and as they found that Hector—undisturbed by all those alarming rumours of riot and pillage—had kept everything in readiness for them, the two young men snatched a hasty sandwich and set forth. It was not a very eager shooting party. There was a sensation that the great possibilities of the Twelfth had been ruined for them. Nevertheless, there would be some occupation for the afternoon, and the mistress of the household wanted some grouse.

But, indeed, it soon became evident that it was not shooting that was uppermost in Fred Stanley's mind. He overruled Hector's plan for taking the nearest beats. He would have his companions hold away up the Corrie Bhreag, which leads to the Glen Orme forest; and ever he was making for the higher ranges—scanning the ground far ahead of him, and listening intently in the strange silence; while he was clearly unwilling to have the dogs uncoupled.

"Look here, man," at length said Meredyth, who, though new to the place, had a trained eye for the features of a moor; "surely we have come down wind far enough? It will take us all our time to get back before dinner, even if we pick the beats on the way home——"

The answer was unexpected—a half-smothered exclamation of mingled anger and triumph.

"Didn't I tell you so?" young Stanley exclaimed, with his eyes fixed on a small, dark object a long distance up the glen. "Didn't I tell you we should find him here? Don't you see him—away up yonder? My lad, when you come poaching, you shouldn't put on sailor's clothes; they're too conspicuous. What do you say, Hector: can you make him out? Well, whether you can or not, I will tell you his name. That is Mr. Donald Ross, if you want to know—and I guessed we should find him here or hereabouts!"

"I am not sure," said Hector, slowly, also with his eyes fixed on the distant and dark figure.

"But I am!" Fred Stanley went on. "And perhaps you can tell me what he is doing up on our shooting?"

"Mebbe," said the serious-visaged keeper, with a little hesitation, "mebbe he was waiting to see that none of the lads would be for going into the forest. Or mebbe he was up at Glen Orme."

"Oh, stuff and nonsense!" the young man cried, scornfully. "Do you think we are children! I tell you, we have caught him at last; and wherever the rest of the gang have sneaked off to, he is bound to come along here and face it out. Yes, he is coming: I can see he is moving this way. Very well, Frank, you have the dogs uncoupled now, and begin to shoot back home: I'm going to meet my gentleman—and I will take my gun with me, just to keep a wholesome check on insolence."

"You will not," said Meredyth, with decision—for he knew not whither this young man's obvious wrath and enmity might not lead him. "I will wait here with you: whoever that is, he is clearly coming this way."

"Why, of course he must!" was the rejoinder. "He sees he is caught: what else is there left for him but to come along and try to put some kind of face on it?" Then presently he exclaimed: "Well, of all the effrontry that I ever beheld! He is carrying a gun under his arm!—how's that for coolness?"

"I am not thinking it is a gun, sir," said the tall, brown-bearded keeper; "it is more like a steeck."

"Yes, it is a stick, Fred," Meredyth put in, after a moment.

"Oh, why should he have a gun? What does he want with a gun?" the young man said, without being disconcerted for a moment. "He has only to direct the operations of his confederates. A stick?—very likely!—the master-poacher doesn't want to be encumbered with a gun!"

And so they waited. It was a singular scene for the Twelfth of August on the side of a Highland hill: no ranging of dogs, no cracking of breechloaders, no picking up of a bird here and there from the thick heather, but a small group, standing silent and constrained, and dimly aware that pent-up human passions were about to burst forth amid these vast and impressive solitudes. Young Ross of Heimra—for it was unmistakably he—came leisurely along; his attention was evidently fixed on the sportsmen; perhaps he was wondering that they did not let loose the dogs and get to work. But as he drew nearer he must have perceived that they were awaiting his approach; and so—with something of interrogation and surprise in his look—he came up to them.

"I hope you have had good sport," said Fred Stanley.

Donald Ross stared: there was something in the young man's tone that seemed to strike him.

"I—I don't quite understand," said he.

"Oh, well, it's only this," replied the other, striving to keep down his rising rage, and speaking in a deliberately taunting fashion, "that when you find anyone on a Highland moor on the Twelfth of August you naturally suppose that he has come for grouse. And why not? I am sorry we have interrupted you. When you have the fishing and the stalking, why shouldn't you have the shooting as well? I am sorry if we have disturbed you——"

They formed a curious contrast, those two: the tall, handsome, light-haired youth, with his fair complexion and his boyish moustache causing him to look almost effeminate, and yet with his nostrils dilated, his haughty grey eyes glistening with anger, a tremor of passion about the lines of his lips; the other, though hardly so tall, of more manly presence, his pale, proud, clear-cut features entirely reticent, his coal-black eyes, so far, without flame in them, an absolute self-possession and dignity governing his manner.

"I hardly know what you mean," said he, slowly, fixing those calmly observant black eyes on the young lad. "What is it all about? Do I understand you to accuse me of shooting over your moor—here—now?—do you imagine——"

"Oh, it isn't that only!—it is half-a-dozen things besides!" the young man exclaimed, letting his passion get entirely the mastery of him. "Who has this place? Not those who bought it! It is you who have the shooting and fishing and everything; and not content with that but you play dog-in-the-manger as well—heaving stones into the pools when anyone else goes down to the river. And who does the scringeing about here?—answer me that!—do you think we don't know well enough? Let us have an end of hypocrisy——"

"Let us have an end of madness!" said Donald Ross, sternly; and for a second there was a gleam of fire in his black eyes. But that sudden flame, and a certain set expression of the mouth, almost instantly vanished; this young fellow, with the girlish complexion, was even now so curiously like his sister. "I do not answer you," Donald Ross went on, with a demeanour at once simple and austere. "You have chosen to insult me. I do not answer you. You are in my country: it is the same as if you were under my roof."

"Your country!" the hot-headed young man cried, in open scorn, "What part of the country belongs to you! That rock of an island out there!—and I wish you would keep to it; and you'd better keep to it; for we don't mean to have this kind of thing going on any longer. We mean to have an end of all this scringeing and poaching! We have been precious near getting hold of those scringe-nets: we'll make sure of them the next time. And I want once for all to tell you that we mean to have the fishing for ourselves, and the shooting, too; and we want you to understand that there is such a thing as the law of trespass. What right have you to be here, at this moment, on this moor?" he demanded. "How can you explain your being here? What are you doing here—on the Twelfth? Do you know to whom this moor belongs? And by what right do you trespass on it?"

"Fred," interposed Frank Meredyth, who was painfully conscious that the two keepers—though they had discreetly turned away—must be hearing something of this one-sided altercation, "enough of this: if there is any dispute, it can be settled another time—not before third persons."

"One moment," said Donald Ross, turning with a grave courtesy to this intervener. "You have heard the questions I have just been asked. Well, I do not choose to account for my actions to any one. But this I wish to explain. I have no right to be where I am, I admit; I have trespassed some dozen yards on to this moor, in order to come up and speak to you. When you saw me first I was on the old footpath—there it is, you can see for yourself—that leads up this corrie, and through the Glen Orme forest to Ledmore; it is an old hill road that everyone has the right of using."

"Oh, yes, thieves' lawyers are always clever enough!" Fred Stanley said, disdainfully.

Donald Ross regarded him for a moment—with a strange kind of look, and that not of anger: then he quietly said, "Good afternoon!" to Meredyth, and went on his way. Hector got out of the prevailing embarrassment by uncoupling the dogs; and Frank Meredyth put cartridges in his gun. This encounter did not augur well for steady shooting.

Meanwhile Donald Ross was making down for the coast, slowly and thoughtfully. What had happened had been a matter of a few swift seconds; it had now to be set in order and considered; the scene had to be conjured up again—with all its minute but vivid incidents. And no longer was there any need for him to affect a calm and proud indifference; phrases that he had seemed to pass unheeded began to burn; the rapid glances and tones of those brief moments, now that they were recalled, struck deep. Indeed, the first effect of a blow is but to stun and bewilder—the pain comes afterwards; and there are words that cause more deadly wounds than any blows. Taunt and insult: these are hard things for a Highlander to brook—and yet—and yet—that handsome, headstrong boy, even in the white-heat of his passion, had looked so curiously like his sister.

"Ah, well," said Ross, aloud, and there was a kind of smile on his face, "it is, perhaps, a wholesome lesson. Hereafter I'd better mind my own business. And if I have been ordered off the mainland—sent back to my little island—very well: the sea-gulls and gannets won't accuse me of trespass."

In time he drew near the village. But as he went down the hill from Minard, and had to pass Lochgarra House, he did not turn his eyes in that direction. He held straight on; and at length encountered a small boy who had just been engaged in hauling a dinghy up on the beach.

"Alan," said he, "have you seen Big Archie anywhere about?"

"Ay," said the boy, "he was at the inn to look at the people driving aweh."

"What people? The strangers who were at the church this morning?"

"Ay, chist that. There was many a one laughing at them," said Alan, with a bit of a grin.

"Well, run along now, and see if you can find Big Archie, and tell him I am going out to Heimra. Then you can come back with him, and pull us out to the lugger."

And away went Alan, with a will, eager to earn the sixpence that he foresaw awaiting his return, while the young laird of Heimra, having nothing else to do until Big Archie should put in an appearance, seated himself on the gunwale of the dinghy, with his eyes turned towards the sea. Not once had he glanced in the direction of Lochgarra House.

But Lochgarra House had taken notice of him. Mary Stanley chanced to be passing one of the windows, when of a sudden her face grew animated, and her eyes—those liquid grey-green eyes that were at all times so clear and radiant—those bland, good-humoured, kind eyes—shone with a quick interest and delight.

"Käthchen! Käthchen!" she called. "There is Mr. Ross just gone by—tell Barbara to run after him—quick! quick!—and—and my compliments—and I want to see him most particularly. He must not go out to Heimra before I have seen him—tell her not to lose a minute—I'm afraid he may be going along now to get Big Archie's boat."

But at such a crisis Kate Glendinning did not choose to wait for any servant. She flew into the hall, snatched a straw hat from the table, tripped down the wide stone steps, and made her way as quickly as might be round the sea-wall and along the beach. He did not hear her approach; he seem plunged in a profound reverie.

"Mr. Ross!" she said, rather breathlessly and timidly, to attract his attention.

He started to his feet; and, when he saw who this was, his naturally pale, dark face grew suddenly suffused—an almost school-boyish constraint visible there for a moment! Käthchen was surprised; but she made haste to deliver Miss Stanley's message.

"She happened to see you from the window; and she is most anxious you should not go back to Heimra before she has a chance of thanking you for your great kindness. For she quite understands it was you who prevented all the mischief that might have arisen from those people coming here; and she is very grateful; and wishes to say so to yourself. And I was to give you her compliments, and say that she wished particularly to see you—if you wouldn't mind coming along for a few moments."

This time he did throw a brief glance in the direction of Lochgarra House—perhaps thinking of what otherwise might have been. But now, how could he ever again be under that roof?

"Will you tell Miss Stanley," said he—and though that temporary confusion had gone, there was still a curious reserve in his manner—"that I am very glad if I have been of any service to her—very glad that she should think so, I mean; but it isn't worth speaking about; and she must not say anything more about it."

"But she wishes to see you!" exclaimed Käthchen, who naturally had expected an instant acquiescence. "Surely she is the best judge as to whether she ought to thank you, or not. And that was the message I was to take to you, that she wished most particularly to see you, before you went out to Heimra. A few moments only—she will not detain you——"

"If you will excuse me, I would rather not go along," said he, looking uneasily towards the cottages and the inn. "I have just sent for Big Archie."

Käthchen was astounded. What kind of a young man was this, to refuse the invitation of a beautiful young woman—one, indeed, who had shown herself singularly interested in him, even as he had gone out of his way to render friendly little services to her? Käthchen's secret conjectures, founded on what she had recently observed as between these two, seemed to have been suddenly and rudely stultified. What was the key to this enigma? Jealousy? Was it the presence of Frank Meredyth that interposed? Would he decline to visit the house until that possible rival had been removed? She could not understand; she was bewildered; but still she had her commission to execute; and the faithful Kate was staunch.

"Miss Stanley will be disappointed," said she. "She is most anxious to see you. A couple of minutes would be enough. And surely you could let Big Archie wait."

"Thank you," said he—and it was clear that it was with the greatest reluctance he was forcing himself to refuse—"but I would rather not. I am very sensible of Miss Stanley's kindness; but—but she must not make too much of this trifling thing."

Käthchen paused irresolute. But, after all, she had no more to say. She could not appeal to him, she could not beg of him, as a favour, to accept Miss Stanley's invitation: Käthchen also had a little pride; so she civilly bade him good afternoon, and hoped he would have a pleasant voyage home; and set out on her way back to the house.

"Well?" said Mary, when Käthchen came into the room. But she had already seen, from the window, that her messenger was returning alone.

"Oh," said Käthchen, in an indifferent sort of fashion—and she began to gather up some samples of homespun that were strewn on the table—"he says he is going out to Heimra at once. He has sent for Big Archie. He says—he says—that he is glad if he has rendered you any little service—but you are not to think of it."

Mary's eyes had grown full of wonder. For out of these windows she could plainly see that he was still waiting on the beach: the fact being that the boy Alan had failed to find Big Archie at the inn, and had gone off to seek him throughout the cottages.

"But did you tell Mr. Ross that I wished to speak with him?" she asked.

"I said that you most particularly wished to speak with him."

"Yes—and then?"

"Then he—he begged to be excused," said Käthchen, bluntly.

Mary turned sharply away from the window, and for a second or two she was silent.

"Why did you say 'most particularly'? What right had you to give him any such message?" she demanded, with something of a cold and dignified air, but not looking towards Käthchen.

"Those were your very words, Mamie!" Käthchen protested.

"I may have said something like that—in the hurry of calling to you," Mary said, with flushed face. "But you ought to have known. You might have known it was not a message I wanted given to anyone—not to anyone. However, it is of little consequence." She advanced to the table—her head somewhat erect. "I suppose," she said, in a matter-of-fact way, "you will be writing about those samples to the Frasers, in Inverness?"

"Yes, Mamie—you told me to."

"Very well," she continued, still with that air of unconcern; "you might say to them at the same time that we can get patchwork quilts made for them at from ten to twelve shillings the piece, if they send us the materials. That is the price I promised to the women here. And if they prefer the stockings made longer, I will have them made longer; only they must give me a little more for them—there is so much more wool and so much more work."

She glanced furtively over her shoulder: it was only now that Big Archie had made his appearance—coming down the beach to the spot at which young Ross was idly walking about.

"Käthchen," she said of a sudden, with something of piteous vexation in her tone, "are you certain you said 'most particularly'?—are you quite certain?—I—I did not mean it—I was in a hurry—you did not say 'most particularly,' did you? At the same time," she went on, with an abrupt affectation of carelessness, "it is of very little consequence—no consequence whatever: the only thing is that the Highlanders appear to have odd manners—and that again, as I say, is a matter of perfect indifference. Don't forget to mention the patchwork quilts and the stockings."

But Kate Glendinning rose and went to the window. By this time Donald Ross, Big Archie, and the young lad were all in the dinghy, on their way out to the lugger.

"There is something strange, Mamie," Käthchen said, thoughtfully. "I cannot imagine what made him refuse to come along to this house—and refuse with such embarrassment. And these are not Highland manners at all. But sometimes a Highlander is too proud to speak."

They were soon to learn what all this meant. When the two young men returned from their afternoon expedition, it appeared that they had got thirteen and a half brace of grouse, and a few odds and ends—a very fair bag, considering the size of the moor and the length of time they had been out. But it was not the success of the shooting that caused Fred Stanley to come into the drawing-room with something of a gay and triumphant air.

"Well, we have caught your poaching friend at last," he said to his sister, "and I think we have sent him home with a flea in his ear. I knew we should corner him sooner or later, in spite of his cunning. And a very pretty trick it was—to plan this insurrectionary meeting for the Twelfth, so that we should be kept away from the hill, keepers and all. But it didn't work, you see; for we lost no time in getting up to the Corrie Bhreag, and there he was, sure enough. And very little he had to say for himself—not a word!—but I had something to say to him; and I don't think we shall be troubled with his presence about Lochgarra for some little time to come."

"Are you speaking of Mr. Ross?" said Mary, with a certain calmness of manner that did not quite conceal her alarm.

"I should think I was!"

"And what did you find him doing?"

"I found him on the moor—where he had no right to be; and if the rest of the gang managed to hide themselves or to get safe away, well, I did not care much about that; he was there to answer for them; and so we had it out. Yes, I may say we had it out."

Mary turned to Frank Meredyth.

"Mr. Meredyth, what is all this about? What happened? Did you find Mr. Ross shooting on the moor?"

"Well, no," said Meredyth, with something of disquiet, for he was now placed in a most unenviable position. "The fact is, it would be difficult to bring any definite charge against him; for he was coming down from the direction of the Glen Orme forest, and when we first saw him he was following an old hill-path that everybody has the right to use—so he says. No, he wasn't shooting—not then, certainly; nor did we see any one with him: but as regards Fred's suspicions—well, you know, I have said before, that when you imagine there is poaching going on, you see it in every circumstance."

"What was he doing up there at all?" the younger man broke in. "Why, he had no defence to make. He had not a word to say for himself. It's all very well to be high and mighty: you won't account for your actions to any body—no, of course not, when you can't without convicting yourself!"

"I suppose he had a gun with him?" said she, still addressing Frank Meredyth.

"Well, no; he had not," Meredyth confessed, looking somewhat anxious and disconcerted.

"A game-bag, at least? and a dog?" she went on; "or something that entitled you to suspect him?"

"Oh, no, not at all. The truth is, he was simply coming down the strath, and he had nothing under his arm but a walking-stick."

"Oh, indeed," said she; and she drew herself up a little proudly. "Very well. You meet a stranger—no, not a stranger—but one of my friends, whom you have seen under my roof, and he is walking along a public footpath carrying a stick in his hand. Well, and then? I want to know what happens then?"

Meredyth was grievously embarrassed.

"I am afraid there were a few hard words said—and—and I must say for Mr. Ross that he showed great forbearance and self-control. Yes, I must admit that; and also that Fred was rather too—too outspoken. I must say I rather admired Mr. Ross because of his composure; for, indeed, I thought at one time—well, it was a very awkward meeting. When there is bad blood, you see—when one suspects poaching—everything points that way."

"Oh, I am responsible for everything that occurred!" Fred Stanley broke in again, impetuously. "Meredyth had nothing to do with it—nothing at all! And I tell you I spoke plainly. I thought the time for pretence and hypocrisy had gone by; I thought it was time my gentleman-poacher should understand we weren't going to be made fools of any longer. Oh, I spoke plainly enough, if that is what you want to find out!" continued this confident lad, who seemed to be rather vain of his achievement. "I told him we had had quite enough of him about Lochgarra—quite enough of him, and his scringe-nets, and his thieving of salmon, and heaving of stones into the pools. I told him we wanted this place to ourselves now. I recommended him to keep to that small island out there——"

"It is infamous—it is shameless!" said Mary Stanley—and the beautiful, proud face had grown suddenly pale, and there was a curious indignant vibration in her voice. "Do you know what that man has done for me, this very day? What does he value most in the world—what remains to him of all the possessions which his family used to hold—what but the devotion and affection with which these people about here regard him? And he risked it all—for my sake! He took my side—against his own people! They were appealed to by everything that could tempt them; and they had been taught to regard me as their enemy; and who knows what might have happened if he had not stepped in, and confronted them, and said—'No.' He has forgiven the injuries, the irreparable injuries, my family have done him and his; he has met me with friendliness at every turn—and always keeping out of the way and claiming no thanks for it; and now the return he gets is—insult!—and insult that he would scorn to answer." She went on, with increasing indignation: "Shooting and fishing! What do I care for the shooting and fishing! I would rather have every fish in the river and every bird on the hill destroyed than that the disgrace of such ingratitude should have fallen on this house!" She paused—hesitated—her lips began to quiver. "I—I beg your pardon, Mr. Meredyth—I am sorry you should have met with any annoyance to-day." And the next second, and in despite of herself, she had burst into a passionate fit of weeping; while with the proud head bent, her handkerchief covering her eyes, and her frame shaken with sobbing, she left the room. Instantly Käthchen went with her—leaving silence behind.

It was about half an hour thereafter that the dinner-gong sounded upward from the big, empty, echoing hall. Käthchen came down to the drawing-room.

"Miss Stanley would rather that you did not wait for her," said she to the two gentlemen. And therewith Käthchen also withdrew.

CHAPTER II.

A SUMMONS.

"What can I do, Käthchen? What can I do?" she was saying, in accents almost of despair; and in her agitation she was walking up and down before the windows, glancing out from time to time towards the far island that was now shining in the morning sunlight, while the driven blue sea was springing white along its rocky shores. "What can I do? What atonement can I make? Or is it quite hopeless? Is he to be sent away as a stranger, without a word of excuse, or apology, or appeal?" And then she said: "Käthchen, surely there is some fatality in it, that this young man, who has heaped kindness on me since ever I came to this place—but always keeping aloof in a strange, proud way, as if to avoid the possibility of thanks—surely there is some fatality that he should receive nothing but insult and wrong at our hands. First, my uncle—now, my brother——"

"At all events," said Kate Glendinning, boldly, "I don't see why you should torture your mind about it, Mamie. It has been none of your doing. You are not responsible for what your uncle may have done; and if Fred has spoken in a moment of anger, well, I don't suppose Mr. Ross will prove to be so unforgiving."

"It is the whole family he must think of, Käthchen!" Mary broke in bitterly. "I shouldn't wonder if he hated the very name of Stanley! What a despicable race he must think us! But I suppose there is an end now. He has borne too much already: this puts a climax to it. Unforgiving? Why, even if I could persuade Fred to go out to Heimra and offer him an apology, he would treat it with scorn—and rightly too. I know he would!"

The shrewd Käthchen, though she did not say so, had her doubts on this score. In the dim recesses of her consciousness there was an echo of two lines from 'Maud'—

'Peace, angry spirit, and let him be!

Has not his sister smiled on me?'

And she fancied, for reasons of her own, that if the headstrong lad could be brought to ask for pardon, the somewhat haughty features of the young owner of Heimra would not long remain stern and implacable. But she dared not reveal those reasons, even as she dared not repeat those two lines. She was a prudent lass; and careful not to presume unwarily.

Of a sudden Mary said, in her impetuous way—

"Käthchen, I will take the sheep off Meall-na-Fearn!"

Kate Glendinning looked up, startled.

"Yes," the young proprietress said, with decision. "After breakfast you and I must drive away out and see Mr. Watson. If he will give up Meall-na-Fearn on the same terms as Meall-na-Cruagan, good and well; the sheep must go; and the crofters can have the pasturage divided amongst them. I suppose," she added, with something of embarrassment in the clear-shining eyes, "some one would be sure to—to carry the news—out to Heimra? Or a line, perhaps—you might have occasion to send out to him——"

"Mamie!" said Käthchen, in warm protest. "What are you thinking of? Is that the atonement you want to make? Do you mean to cut down Mr. Watson's farm still further just to please Donald Ross? Why, it is madness! To begin with, it would not please him—not in the least; he has told you that you have already been far too generous; and I don't know what he would think of such a needless and useless sacrifice."

"Oh, you think he would not approve?" said Mary, slowly. She was now standing at one of the windows, looking out towards the distant island beyond the wide blue plain of the sea.

"I am pretty sure he would not," Käthchen responded, "especially if he fancied it was done to propitiate him: it would put him in a very awkward position. But I'll tell you what I should do if I were in your place, Mamie——"

"Yes," she said, instantly turning from the window. "What is it? Is there anything I can do, Käthchen? It seems so terrible—and so shameful; and here am I helpless. And then he is so proud—yes, proud and disdainful; I have said it before; only this time he has an ample right to be."

"Well, Mamie, if I were you, I would simply take no notice of what happened yesterday afternoon;" this was Käthchen's advice. "I would assume that the friendly relations between him and you were precisely as they always had been."

"Yes, but how to let him know that that is what I am thinking?" said Mary eagerly—and rather piteously withal.

"I would send him a note," said the intrepid Käthchen.

"About what?"

"About anything!"

"Shall I ask him to come over and dine with us?" Mary asked, rather nervously.

"Well, no: that would be useless; he would not accept—at present," Käthchen made answer. "But indeed, Mamie, I would not send him any invitation, nor would I say anything that needed an answer: I should write so that he might answer or not just as he pleased."

"Yes, yes," said Mary, with some animation. "Your advice is excellent, Käthchen. I will write at once. And about what? Oh, about kelp. I have got all the information I wanted about the burning of kelp; and I will tell him that any time he comes over to the mainland I should like to show him the report." And then as abruptly she discarded this idea. "No. Kelp is too common-place. It would be like asking for his advice about something connected with the estate; and I want him to understand that I can get on by myself. Oh, I'll tell you, Käthchen!—the photographs!—the photographs I promised to send to Mrs. Armour. You know how proud he was of the old woman's coming all the way from Canada to have but a glimpse of Young Donald; and I could see how he was pleased by the little attentions I was able to show her—quite grateful he seemed—though you know he doesn't say much."

She was all excitement now, and as happy and sanguine as hitherto she had been despondent. She went and got writing materials forthwith, and hastily, and yet with some consideration, penned this note:—

"Lochgarra House, Tuesday Morning.

"Dear Mr. Ross,—I do not know whether I told you that, before Mrs. Armour left to return to Canada, I promised to send her a series of photographs of Lochgarra and the neighbourhood. I am arranging to have a photographer come through from Inverness, and any time that you happen to be over here I should be exceedingly obliged if you would spare me a few minutes to let me know what places would be likely to prove most interesting to her.

"Yours sincerely,

"MARY STANLEY."

"Now, you see," she said, as she rather triumphantly handed the letter to Käthchen, "that demands nothing. He does not need to reply unless he happens to have plenty of time and nothing else to do. It merely shows that, as far as I am concerned, I don't consider that anything has occurred to disturb our friendly relations. It was so clever of you to think of it, Käthchen! And I must send word to Big Archie that I shall want him and his boat. I'm afraid it's too rough to try the steam-launch. I'm so much obliged to you, Käthchen, for thinking about it!"

Indeed, she was quite joyous and radiant. Her keen remorse, and shame, and piteous despair seemed wholly to have fled; she was possessed with an audacious confidence; a sort of gratitude towards all the world shone in her eyes. And Käthchen, who had studied this young woman closely, and who was capable of drawing conclusions, knew perfectly the origin of this buoyancy of spirit: the letter Mary had just written demanded no answer, it is true, but none the less was she in her heart convinced that an answer—an answer confirming all her best anticipations—would be forthcoming, and that without delay. Big Archie was bidden to haste and get his lugger ready: he was to set out for Heimra at once.

Kate Glendinning was not the only one in this house who could draw conclusions, or at least form suspicions. When the two gentlemen returned that evening from the hill, they found the letters and newspapers that had arrived by the mid-day post spread out on the hall-table; and they began to glance at addresses and tear open envelopes. Fred Stanley was soon satisfied; he went off to his room to change for dinner; but his elder companion remained—holding a letter in his hand, and apparently much concerned about something. At this moment Käthchen appeared, passing across to the door leading out into the garden; and the instant he caught sight of her his eyes seemed to light up with interest. Here was a friend in need.

"Miss Glendinning," said he, in something of an anxious undertone, "could you give me a couple of minutes? Are you going into the garden? May I come with you? I want to ask you to do me a great service—how great I can hardly tell you."

Käthchen was surprised; for this trim, brisk, bronze-cheeked, shrewd-eyed sportsman generally took things in a very happy-go-lucky, imperturbable fashion. But her instant conjecture was a natural one: "Be sure this is about Mamie!" she said to herself.

Well, he accompanied her down the stone steps and into the garden, where she began to employ herself in cutting flowers for the dining-room table, while she listened attentively enough.

"The fact is," said he, "I have just had a letter from home, with no very good news. My father, who is an old man, has been an invalid for a great many years, varying in health from time to time; but now it seems he has had a very bad attack of asthma along with his other ailments, and the doctors have ordered him off to Bournemouth——"

"I am very sorry," said Käthchen, as in duty bound.

"And—I have received an intimation that I may be telegraphed for—I might have to leave here at a moment's notice almost." He hesitated for a second or so. "Miss Glendinning," he said, "you see how I am situated: I may be called away at any moment—with something that is of great importance to me left unsettled. I have been living in a fool's paradise; I thought there was plenty of time. And then, again, I did not care to confide in any one. But now I am going to appeal to you. Will you tell me something in strictest confidence—something you are likely to know? It might save your friend—you can guess whom I mean—much embarrassment, even pain; and it would be the greatest favour you could possibly confer on me."

And now Käthchen knew her surmise was correct; and perhaps she may have been inclined to think that there was something incongruous, something even humorous, in this ordinarily cool and firm-nerved person appearing to be afflicted by the hesitation of an anxious lover, only that she was also aware of the gravity of the situation. For tragic things may happen even to the steeled.

"Miss Glendinning," said he, "I want you to tell me if there is anything between Mr. Ross and Miss Stanley?"

Well, this was a frank challenge; and she answered it as frankly.

"I do not think there is," she said; "but I think there might be at any moment. That is only my impression; and I may be quite wrong; and indeed I have no right to say so——"

"But I have appealed to you as a friend, to do me this great favour," said he; and then he paused for a second. "The fact is," he went on, as if with some unwillingness, "I have noticed one or two odd things—Miss Stanley's indignation with her brother if he said anything against Mr. Ross—and the painful scene of yesterday evening—these things might lead one to conjecture——"

"Oh, but I'm sure there is nothing between them—nothing at present, at least," said Käthchen, with some earnestness; for this assurance she could honestly give him; and when did a perplexed and troubled lover ever appeal in vain to a woman's heart? "There is nothing between them at present, I am certain of that; and whether there ever may be, who can tell? Both of them have peculiar natures. Both of them are proud; and she, besides that, is wilful and impulsive; while he is reserved—and—and you might almost think cold—only that I imagine his studiously keeping away from her, and treating her with a kind of distant civility, has some meaning and intention in it. I don't think he would like to become the slave of any woman; and she—well, she is very independent, too. And then both of them are very peculiarly situated: there is the old-standing feud between the two families; it must have been hard on him and on his mother to have strangers coming into the neighbourhood, tearing down the old landmarks. There are things that the Highland nature can never forget; and Mary knows that well; more than once she has said to me, 'Käthchen, there are wrongs that can never be undone; I can never rebuild Castle Heimra.'"

"Yes, yes, I quite understand," said he, rather absently; "and yet Ross does not seem to bear any resentment—not against her. No, nor against any one belonging to her. I must say for him that his forbearance yesterday towards Fred Stanley was most remarkable: that was another thing that struck me as peculiar. And yet you say there is nothing between him and Miss Stanley?"

"Nothing, I am certain," Käthchen assured him again.

"I am so awfully obliged to you!" he said, with some little expression of relief; and yet he was thoughtful and silent as they walked back to the house—Käthchen having got all the flowers she wanted.

That night, after dinner, when the two young ladies retired to the drawing-room, Mary seemed somewhat disturbed.

"Don't you think it rather strange, Käthchen," she said, "that Big Archie brought no message back from Heimra? I don't mean an answer. I don't mean an answer to my note. That was not necessary—it was hardly to be expected. But why has he not come to say he delivered my letter?"

She went to one of the windows, and pulled aside part of the blind. The night had turned out rather dark and squally; and there were spots of rain on the glass that caught the light of the lamps within.

"I should like to see Big Archie," said she, with a vague restlessness. And then of a sudden she made this abrupt proposal: "Käthchen, won't you come down with me into the village? Barbara says the gentlemen have gone into the billiard-room, for there is a threatening of rain; but we could put on waterproofs, and run away down there and back, without anything being known of it."

"Is it worth while, Mamie?" Käthchen remonstrated. "He must have delivered your note!"

"Yes; but it is so strange there should be no message of any kind!" said Mary. And then she instantly added, changing her tone: "Of course, it is not at all strange. Only—only, Big Archie sometimes takes a glass of whisky, you know; and he might have got some answer that he has forgotten—perhaps a note that he has left in his pocket——"

"Oh, if you like, I will go with you," said Käthchen at once, rather welcoming a little bit of adventure; and forthwith both of them hurried away to get their waterproofs.

The night was dark and blustering; the ordinarily clear twilight of these northern regions was obscured by heavy clouds; and the wind that blew in from the sea brought with it a sense of moisture that promised to become actual rain. The two black figures made their way with little difficulty in the direction of the orange lights of the village, the unseen sea washing up on the beach close by them. Neither spoke; but both walked quickly; perhaps they wanted to be back at Lochgarra House before their absence should be known.

Then, just as they were getting near to the inn, Kate suddenly put her hand on her friend's arm. Ahead of them were two other figures, as black as themselves, but looming larger through the dusk.

"That is Big Archie," said Käthchen, in a whisper, "and isn't the other Hector?—yes, I am sure that is Hector!"

At this moment the two men disappeared.

"I know where they have gone," Mary said promptly. "They have gone into the tap-room behind. Well, we will follow, in case the people in the inn should deny them. Come along, Käthchen, I know the way."

The two young women left the main street, crossed a stable-yard, and, guided by the dull glow of a window, went up to a door, which Mary entered. The next moment they were gazing into a small sanded parlour, where Gilleasbuig Mor and his friend the keeper were standing: indeed, the two men had not had time to sit down nor yet to order anything to drink. The oil-lamp on the table shed a feeble light, but it was quite sufficient to show that Hector, thus caught, was looking terribly guilty; while the great, heavy-shouldered fisherman, whose deep-set grey eyes under the bushy eyebrows seemed to say that he had already had a glass, instantly came to his companion's help.

"Aw, well now," Archie said, in his plaintive Argyllshire accent, "iss it Miss Stanley herself that would be coming in here—indeed, indeed!—and Hector, the honest lad, chist feenished up with ahl his work—oh, aye—the guns ahl cleaned, and the dogs fed, and everything ready for the chentlemen to-morrow—and me coming bye from the Camus Bheag, and says I, 'Hector, will you come along with me and hef a dram when your work is feenished?' And Miss Stanley need not be thinking there wass any more in our minds than that; for Hector is a fine lad, and a fine keeper, and what harm will a dram do to anyone when ahl the work is done?"

"Sit down, Archie—sit down, Hector!" said Mary, quite good-naturedly. "I saw you come in this way, Archie, and I merely wished to ask you what happened at Heimra."

"Aw, Heimra," said Archie, collecting his thoughts—and his English. "Iss it at Heimra? Aw, well, now, Martha is a ferry nice woman, and she wass giving me some bread and cheese, ay, and a glass of spirits the like of it is not ahlways—a good woman Martha——'

"Yes, but my note, Archie," said Mary. "The note you took out: I suppose you gave it to Mr. Ross? And he did not say anything? Well, there was no need for an answer—none in the least——"

"Aw, the letter?" said Archie. "Well, I wass not seeing Mr. Ross at ahl, for he wass aweh up on the north side of the island, setting snares for the rabbits."

"Oh, you did not see Mr. Ross?" said Mary, quickly. "He could not possibly have sent any answer?" She seemed greatly pleased—as Käthchen observed. "No, of course, he could not send an answer if he was away at the other end of the island." Then she turned to Hector; and the tall, swarthy, brown-bearded keeper perceived that the fair young Englishwoman—the Baintighearna—had no mind to rebuke him or to be in any way angry with him. "Why, Hector," she said, quite pleasantly, "that is a very strange thing, that he should go snaring rabbits: why doesn't he shoot them?"

"Mr. Ross, mem," said Hector, in his grave and respectful fashion, "he does not care much about shooting. And the rabbits, if they are not kept down, would do a dale of mischief on a smahl island like that."

"He is not fond of shooting, then? No; I think he told me so himself." Then, with one of her sudden impulses, she said—"Come, Hector, let me know what all this is about poaching on this place. Ever since I came here I have heard of all kinds of rumours and charges and suspicions; and I want to know the truth. I shan't blame anybody. I want to know the actual truth. Tell me frankly. It isn't such an important thing, after all. I only want to know what is happening around us."

The tall keeper looked concerned—not to say alarmed: the violent scene of the day before was fresh in his mind. But the big, good-natured giant from Cantire broke in.

"Aw, he is a fine lad, Hector, Miss Stanley may be sure of that; and there's no mich poaching going on about this country-side—at least, not about Lochgarra whatever. It's myself that wass hearing Hector seh that if he wass catching the Gillie Ciotach with a gun, he would brek the gun over his head."

"Gillie Ciotach?" said Mary. "I know him—a wild-looking young fellow, with a mark across his forehead. Well, is he a poacher, Hector?"

"It is in this way, mem," Hector said, slowly and carefully; "there's very little poaching about Lochgarra, as Archie says, and Hugh and myself we know it well; but there's some of the young lads, ay, and some of the older men, too, that if they came across a salmon, or a few sea-trout, or a hare, they would be for taking it out to Heimra, and slipping round by the back-door, and Martha there to take the present. Mr. Ross, he does not pay attention to such things; for he is ahlways having a salmon, or a capercailzie, or a box of grouse sent him by the big families that he knows, when their friends are up for the shooting; and he will believe anything that Martha says; and he pays no more heed to such things."

"Yes, but, Hector, what I want you to tell me is this," she interposed—and she spoke with a certain air of proud confidence—"what I want you to tell me distinctly is this: do you mean to say that Mr. Ross himself would take a gun or a fishing-rod and go where he had no right to go, either fishing or shooting?"

It was a challenge; and Hector met it unflinchingly. He said, in his serious way—

"Oh, no, mem—no, no: there is not anyone about here that would think such a thing of Mr. Ross."

Mary turned to Käthchen, with a quick, triumphant glance. Then she addressed herself again to Hector.

"Well, sit down, and have a chat with your friend, Hector," said she, very pleasantly. "We shan't interrupt you any longer. And if now and again one of the lads about here should be taking out a little present of fish or game to old Martha, for the housekeeping, well, that is a trifling matter; and I dare say she gives them a glass of whiskey for their trouble. And, Archie, any other time you go out to Heimra with a message from me, mind you come back and tell me whether there is an answer or not, even when I am not expecting an answer, because that makes everything certain and correct. So good-night to you both—good-night!—good-night!" And therewith the two young ladies, who, even in the dull light of this little sanded parlour, had formed such a curious contrast to those two big, swarthy, heavily-bearded men, withdrew, and shut the door after them, and set out for home through the darkness and the drizzling rain.

Next morning Mary said, with a casual glance out towards Eilean Heimra—

"Käthchen, don't you think, if you lived on that island, you would rather have a good-sized steam-launch than any sailing-boat? It would be so much more handy—ready at a moment's notice almost—and taking up so much less time, if you wanted to send a message to the mainland. I suppose Mr. Ross has to think twice before telling his men to get the yacht ready, or even that big lugsail boat."

But as the day wore on there was no sign of either yacht or lugger coming away from Heimra; the grey and squally sea remained empty; indeed, towards the afternoon, the wind freshened up into something like half a gale, and it grew to be a matter of certainty that Donald Ross would not seek to communicate with the shore. Mary was not disheartened. On the contrary, her face wore the same happy look—that Frank Meredyth could not quite understand. He had become observant and thoughtful: not about grouse.

The following morning broke with a much more cheerful aspect.

"Käthchen," said Mary, before they went down to breakfast together, "don't you think that any time Mr. Ross comes across to the mainland he might as well walk along here for lunch, instead of going to the inn? Talking to us should interest him as much as talking to that soft-headed John, the policeman, or to the sulky Peter Grant, or even to the sing-song Minister. And it would be very pleasant for us, too, with the gentlemen away on the moor all day."

But again the slow hours of the day passed; and, whatever may have been her secret hopes, her anxious fears, or even, at times, her disposition to be proudly resentful, that width of rough blue water gave no answer to her surreptitiously questioning gaze. There was a fresh westerly breeze blowing; either the smart little cutter or the more cumbrous lugger could have made an easy and rapid passage. However, neither brown sail nor white sail appeared outside the distant headland; and so the afternoon drew on towards evening; and here were the sportsmen come down from the hill, and the dressing-bell about to sound.

After dinner, when the two young ladies were alone together, Mary said—with a curious affectation of indifference—

"I did not ask for an answer, Käthchen. Oh, certainly not. There was no answer needed—but still—it seems to me he might have acknowledged the receipt of my note. Of course I am rather anxious to know on what terms we are—naturally—and—and naturally I should like to know whether he absolves me——" She was silent for a moment. When she spoke again she was more honest: there was something of a proud, hurt feeling in her tone. "I do think he might have sent me a message. Don't you, Käthchen? Either yesterday morning or to-day—the whole of to-day has been fine weather. I went out of my way to make the first overtures—after—after what happened. I held out the olive-branch. It seems to me that common courtesy would suggest some little acknowledgment: one is not used to being treated in this way——"

"Perhaps to-morrow——" suggested Käthchen, vaguely.

"Oh, if he is not in a hurry, neither am I," said she, with a sudden air of haughty unconcern; and she would have no more said.

Nay, from this moment she seemed to dismiss Donald Ross from her mind. When, on the following day, Eilean Heimra remained as mute and unresponsive as before, she made no remark to Käthchen; she resolutely dismissed an involuntary habit she had formed of scanning the space of sea intervening between the island and the coast; and if Käthchen mentioned Mr. Ross's name, she would either not reply at all, or reply with a cold indifference, as much as to say, "Who is the stranger whom you speak of?" All the day long she busied herself with her multifarious duties, and was particularly cheerful; in the evening she showed herself most complaisant towards the two young men who were her guests. She talked of giving a ball to the keepers, the gillies, and their friends; and wondered whether there was anywhere a barn big enough for the purpose.

So time went by; and these four young people occupying Lochgarra House appeared to be as merry and happy as though they had belonged to a certain little band of Florentines of the fourteenth century. For Mary was not always deep-buried in her industrial schemes. Sometimes she and Kate Glendinning would go away up to join the sportsmen at lunch-time; and thereafter, perched high on these sterile and lonely altitudes, she would set to work to add to a series she was forming of sea-views and coast-views—drawings in most of which the horizon-line was close up to the top of the sheet. It is true that in these spacious sketches she had sometimes to include the island of Heimra; but no mention was made of Donald Ross; it was as if he had gone away, and for ever, into some unknown clime. Even Fred Stanley was almost ready to believe that the poaching had ceased; and so there was peace in the land.

But there came a thunder-clap into this idyllic quiet. One evening, when the two young men returned from their long day on the hill, there was a telegram among the letters on the hall-table. It was for Frank Meredyth. He tore open the envelope.

"I was afraid of it," he said to his companion. "I must be off, Fred, by the mail-car to-morrow morning. Very sorry, old chap, to have to leave you."

"I hope it is nothing serious," young Stanley put in, with his grey eyes grown grave.

"They don't say anything very definite," was the reply. "Only I am summoned, and I must go."

"Then I will go with you," said the other promptly, "as far as London. This just decides it. I'll accept Nugent's invitation, after all; and if he has started, I'll pick him up at Marseilles. We've seen pretty well what the moor is like; and perhaps some other time my sister asks us down, we may wait on and have a try for a stag or two. Very sorry, though, you must go."

Dinner that evening, in view of this summons, was rather a sombre affair: it was Käthchen who, when the young men subsequently made their appearance in the drawing-room, suggested they should all go out for a stroll up to the top of the Minard road. She thought this little excursion would remove some of the prevailing constraint. Besides, it promised to be a beautiful moonlight night; and from the summit of the hill they would have a view of the wide southern seas, with the black headlands running out into the shimmering pathway of silver.

Well, the expedition, so far as pictorial effects were concerned, was entirely successful; but it was not moonlight that was in Frank Meredyth's mind. He was going away on the morrow; he did not know what might happen in his absence; and he thought his departure was a fair and reasonable excuse for his revealing to Mary Stanley certain hopes and aspirations that had gradually, and for some long time back, been taking possession of him. On their way back to the house Fred and Käthchen were walking on in front; the night was still, so that half-murmured words were enough; the surroundings lent a certain charm. And so it came about that Frank Meredyth asked Mary to become his wife.

Now it cannot be said that the language in which this proposition was couched was quite in accordance with these poetical accessories of moonlit vale, and larch wood, and hill; for the average young Englishman, however honest and sincere he may be, does not express himself fluently on such occasions; probably he would be ashamed of himself if he could and did. Nevertheless, a proposal of marriage, however stumblingly and awkwardly conveyed, is a very serious thing to a young woman; and Mary, startled and frightened, had only the one immediate and overwhelming desire—to postpone the terrible necessity of giving a definite answer. For it was all too bewildering. She wanted to think. To tell the truth, Frank Meredyth's wooing had not been too open and avowed. A man of the world in other things, in this he had been a little shy—one touch of nature among a thousand conventionalities. Then, again, was not a refusal a very cruel thing, that should be administered gently?

"Oh, Mr. Meredyth," she said, in a very low and rather breathless voice, "I think—I think—this is hardly the time——"

"But surely it is!" said he. "For I am going away to-morrow morning. And I don't know when I may see you again. And I should like to take with me some little word of hope—something to remember——"

"Did you see that hare?" Fred Stanley called to them, looking back for a moment.

Meredyth did not pay much heed to the hare.

"Perhaps I have asked you too abruptly," he went on, in the same hurried and confused undertone. "Perhaps I am asking too much—that you should say something definite all at once. Very well: I will not press for an answer—I will wait—I will wait——"

They were emerging from the shadow of the larch trees; before them was an open space of gravel, white in the moonlight, and beyond that rose the grey walls and turrets of Lochgarra House.

"Only tell me this," said he, in a still lower voice, "tell me if there is any one before me. I have hesitated about speaking earlier because I imagined certain things—perhaps I was mistaken—at least you will tell me that—tell me if there is some one else——"

"No," said Mary, as they crossed that space of white moonlight, and perhaps she spoke a little proudly. "That—at least—I can assure you——"

"No one?" he said, eagerly, in the same undertone.

But here they were at the house—with Fred and Käthchen waiting for them on the grey stone terrace: these two had turned to look at the wonderful beauty of the night.

CHAPTER III.

A FORECAST.

Now, among the numerous undertakings on which the young proprietress of Lochgarra had set her heart was the establishment of a Public Reading-room and Free Library; and to that end she had planned and built—employing local labour only—a large, long, one-storeyed erection, of a solid and substantial cast, fit to withstand the buffetings of the western storms. The interior was as simple and unpretentious as the exterior; there was nothing beyond a strip of platform, a series of plain wooden benches, a few deal tables and chairs, and a small space partitioned off as kitchen. The rules and regulations, of her own sketching out, were likewise of an artless nature. The place was to be open to the whole community. Tea and coffee at cheap rates were to be procurable between five and seven a.m., and from seven till nine in the evening: the morning hours were for the benefit of bachelor workmen on their way to work, or of fishermen coming in cold and wet after a night at sea. Although reading was the ostensible aim, women were free to bring their knitting or sewing: good lamps would be provided, and a good fire in winter. There were to be no set entertainments of any kind; but on certain evenings such of the young people as could sing or play on any instrument would be expected to do their best for the amusement of their neighbours. Thus far only had she drawn out her simple code; she wished to get the opinions of the villagers themselves as to minor details; and so, all being ready, there one day appeared the following modest little handbill—-"On Tuesday next, at six o'clock in the evening, Miss Stanley will open the Public Reading Room for the use of the inhabitants of Lochgarra. Everyone is invited to attend."

It was on the Monday afternoon that she and Kate Glendinning went along to have a final look. Apparently all was in order; though, to be sure, the supply of books, magazines, and newspapers was as yet somewhat scanty. But it was something else that was uppermost in Mary's mind at this moment.

"You don't think me really nervous, Käthchen?" said she, in a half-laughing and yet concerned way.

"No, I do not," her friend said explicitly. "Why, you, of all people!—you have courage for anything——"

"Look at that platform," Mary went on. "It is only a few inches raised above the floor. Yes, but those few inches make all the difference. Standing here I might perhaps be able to say something; but I declare to you, Käthchen, that the moment I set foot on that platform I shall be frozen into a voiceless statue. Why, I am trembling now, even to think of it! I feel the choking in my throat already. And to have all those eyes fixed on you—and your brain going round—and you unable to say a word; I know I shall tumble down in a faint—and the ignominy of it——"

"It is very unfortunate," Käthchen admitted, as they left the building and set out for home again, "that Mr. Meredyth was called away so suddenly. He could have done it for you. Or even your brother. But if you are so terrified, Mamie, why don't you ask the Minister?—he is accustomed to conduct all sorts of meetings."

"No, I could not do that either," Mary said. "You see, I want the people thoroughly to understand that they are not going to be lectured or preached at. They are not even to be amused against their will. The whole place is to be their own: I have no educational fad to thrust on them. Do you remember Mrs. Armour talking about the Ceilidh of the old days?—well, I want to revive the Ceilidh; and I am not sure that Mr. Pettigrew would approve. No; I suppose I must get up on that platform, even if my knees should be knocking against each other. And if my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth, well, you must come forward, Käthchen, and make an apology, and tell them that I give them the use of the building and its contents, and that there's no more to be said."

Now Kate Glendinning, during these last few seconds, seemed to be occupied with something far ahead of them, on which she was fixing an earnest gaze. The afternoon around them was clear and golden, with an abundance of light everywhere; but the sun was getting over to the west, so that the larches threw a shadow across the Minard highway, whither her eyes were directed. Presently, however, she seemed to have satisfied herself.

"Well, Mamie," said she, "I have never tried to address a meeting, so I don't know what it is like; but I should have thought you had nerve and courage for anything."

"It isn't nerve, Käthchen; it isn't courage!" she exclaimed, in a kind of mock despair. "Why, at a Lord Mayor's dinner, I have seen one of the bravest soldiers that England possesses—I have seen him with his hands shaking like a leaf as he stood up to answer to a toast."

"Very well, then, Mamie," said her companion, calmly, "if you are so frightened, why don't you get Mr. Donald Ross to take your place? I am sure he would do it for you at once. And as for asking him, there can be no trouble about that; because if you look along there you will see him at the foot of the Minard road, and he is coming this way."

For one startled second Mary stood stock still, her eyes filled with alarm: perhaps some wild notion that escape might even yet be possible had flashed through her brain. But that was only for a moment. Käthchen had just been complimenting her on her courage: she could not show the white feather the very next minute. So instantly she resumed her onward walk, and that with something of an air of proud confidence. She was 'more than common tall,' and there was a certain freedom and dignity in her gait: how could any bystander have told that under that brave demeanour her heart was going like the heart of a captured hare?

"Oh, what were you saying, Käthchen?" she resumed, with a fine assumption of carelessness. "The Mansion House dinner—oh, yes, I assure you—a very famous soldier—and his hand was shaking—you see, I happened to be sitting next him——"

"Mamie, are you going to ask Mr. Ross about the photographs?" Käthchen asked, in a low voice, for young Donald of Heimra was drawing nearer.

But what could she say in reply? This encounter was altogether too abrupt and unexpected a thing. She had not even time to recall what she had decided was her position with regard to this solitary neighbour of hers. If he had wronged her by neglect, she had vehemently professed to Käthchen that that was of no consequence. If, on the other hand, he was still haughtily indignant over the insults that had been heaped upon him by her brother, how could she make him any fit apology? In fact, she hardly knew whether to treat him as friend or foe; and yet here he was approaching them—every moment coming nearer—and her heart going faster than ever.

As for him, he kept his eyes fixed on her, with a calm and even respectful attention. He, at least, was not embarrassed; and Mary, in a desperate kind of way, was conscious that it was for her to decide; she was aware, without looking, that he was expectant; she was mortified to think that her face was flushed and confused, while he was tranquilly regarding her. Then of a sudden she rebelled angrily against this calm superiority; and just as he came up she glanced towards him and coldly bowed. He raised his cap. Was he going on—without a word?

"Oh, Mr. Ross," said she, stammering and embarrassed, and yet affecting to treat this meeting as quite an everyday affair, "it is strange we should just have been talking about you—you—you haven't been much over to the mainland of late, have you?—perhaps you haven't seen the reading-room since it was finished—no, I suppose not—do you think it will be of any use?—do you think it will be of any service?—do you think the people will care for it?"

"They ought to be very grateful to you," said he. "I wonder what you are going to do for them next?"

The sound of his voice seemed immensely to reassure her.

"Grateful?" she said, quite cheerfully, and despite her conscious colour she managed to meet his eyes. "Well, I, for one, should be exceedingly grateful to you if would do me a very particular favour with regard to this same reading-room. Miss Glendinning was talking about you only a moment or two ago—and—and the fact is, I propose to hand over the building to-morrow afternoon——"

"I saw the little handbill," said he, with a smile.

"Then I hope," said she, with an answering smile, "that you haven't come over to turn away my audience, as you did in the case of the people who wanted to create a disturbance."

"Oh, no," said he, "I hope you did not suspect me of any such intention. Oh, no; it was quite the other way, indeed—if any one had asked me——"

"But I want more than that from you," said she—and all her confusion seemed to have fled: she was regarding him in the most friendly way, and talking with a happy confidence. "I want far more than that, Mr. Ross, if you will be so kind. Do you know, I was telling Käthchen here that the moment I put my foot on the platform to-morrow evening I should expire, or faint, or do something terrible; for what experience have I in addressing a meeting? I assure you I am in an absolute fright about it; I tremble when I think of it; when I try to imagine what I am going to say, my throat seems to gasp already. Now would you do this speechmaking for me—what little is needed? Would it be too much of a favour? Is it asking too much?"

This was her brief prayer; and Käthchen, standing by, a not uninterested spectator, was saying to herself, "Well, Mamie, you have the most extraordinary eyes, when they choose to be friendly, and interested, and appealing; I wonder what mortal man could resist them?" It was not Donald Ross, at all events.

"Oh yes, certainly; I will do that for you with pleasure," said he at once. "I have never in my life addressed a meeting; but I don't suppose there can be any trouble about it—especially when one knows the people. Only, you must tell me what I am to say: if I am to be your counsel, you must give me instructions——"

"Oh, yes, yes," said she, quite eagerly. "I will tell you all the regulations I mean to propose; and the points on which I want to have the public opinion. Are you very busy just now? Will you come along and have tea with us? Then I could tell you all I wish to have said."

He hesitated; and the least tinge of colour appeared in the pale, keen, resolute face. He had not expected to be asked so soon to cross the threshold of Lochgarra House. Nevertheless, after that momentary indecision, he said—

"Thank you, yes, I will go with you and get my brief. Though it does seem a little impertinent in me to presume to be your spokesman."

"Oh, don't say that," she remonstrated, warmly. "I cannot tell you how much I am obliged to you. Why, Käthchen will assure you that I was just about dying with fear."

And all this had taken place so rapidly that even Käthchen was a little bewildered. How had such a mighty revolution come about within the space of two or three swift seconds? A few minutes before, and Mary Stanley would not have allowed this young man's name to have passed her lips; and now she was regarding him with the most obvious favour, and smiling and talking with an eager delight; while his keen, dark face and expressive eyes answered her in kind. Kate Glendinning, as they walked on towards the house, did not seek to interfere in this conversation: to watch the demeanour of those two was of far greater interest to her than any question connected with the Free Library. And Käthchen, if she did not talk to them, could commune with herself. 'Mamie,' she was saying, in this secret fashion, 'you should not show yourself so anxious to please. It isn't like you. If you are overjoyed to be on friendly terms with him again, don't make it so manifest. You shouldn't seek him; let him seek you. And don't allow your eyes to say quite so much: do you know that they are just laughing with gladness?' And then, as they were passing into the hall, the door leading out on to the garden-terrace recalled a certain little incident. 'Poor Mr. Meredyth!' said Käthchen to herself.

In the drawing-room, again, Mary plied this guest of hers with every kind of pretty attention; and seemed very pleased and happy; while she grew almost reckless in her philanthropic schemes. Indeed, it was Donald Ross himself who had to interpose to put a check on her generous enthusiasm.

"No, no," he said, with a smile, and yet with a certain quiet and masterful air that was habitual with him, "you must not do anything of the kind. Giving them Meall-na-Cruagan was quite enough. You must not think of giving up Meall-na-Fearn as well. You would be crippling Mr. Watson to no purpose. The crofters have quite enough pasture now for their stock.

"Yes, but I want to do everything," she insisted, "I want to try everything that can be thought of—everything—before coming to the last confession of failure: and you know what that is?"

"What?"

"Why, emigration. Oh, I haven't forgotten your threat," she said, with some little touch of confusion in her smiling eyes, "to take away the people with you to Canada or New South Wales, or some such place. And—and I don't want that. That seems to me ignominious. That seems to me simply a confession of failure."

"At all events," said he, "it was not as a threat that I made the suggestion. I thought it would help you."

"Oh," said she, with her face flushing a little, "but I don't want anybody to go away. Surely something else should be tried first. There are many things to be done. I want to have many more looms going; and the fishing developed; and several new industries started—perhaps even kelp-burning, if there are sufficient beds of seaweed. Why, I consider I am only beginning now. I have been simply clearing the way—getting fair rents fixed—and all that; and—and I don't want to be interfered with, in that rude fashion. Give me time. Let me have my chance first. Then if I fail——"

"Oh, but we shan't talk of failure," said he, good-naturedly. "Failure would be too cruel a return for all your kindness to these people."

He stayed till very near dinner-time: those two seemed to have so much to say to each other—and not about the Lochgarra estate only. Directly he had gone, Mary said, in quite an eager and excited fashion—

"Käthchen, if I had had the courage of a mouse, I'd have asked him to dine with us! Why shouldn't I? Don't you think I might—the next time? Don't you think I might? It is so pleasant for neighbours to be on neighbourly terms. And just imagine what his life must be out in that little island, seeing no one. It seems to me that, situated as we are, it is almost a duty to ask him to come to the house. And why not to dinner? If he comes in, and has tea with us, why not dinner? What is the difference between tea and dinner?"

"He has very eloquent eyes," said Käthchen, demurely. "He seemed much pleased with his visit this evening."

"Käthchen," said Mary, and she seemed a little restless, and yet very happy withal: she went to the window occasionally to look at nothing, and appeared quite oblivious of the fact that the dinner-gong had just sounded—"Käthchen, do you remember the blue and gold embroidered scarf that I told you could be so easily turned into a hood for the opera?"

"I'm sure I do!" said Käthchen, little dreaming of what was coming.

"Then I'm going to give you that—yes, I will—now, don't protest——"

"Indeed I must, though, Mamie," said Käthchen, warmly. "Why, what use would it be to me? And you know how admirably it suited your complexion and the colour of your hair. What mania for giving has seized you this afternoon? I thought you were going to throw away the whole of the Lochgarra estate; and I was glad to see Mr. Ross put some curb on your wildness. And I must say you were very amenable, Mamie. You're not quite so self-willed when Mr. Ross is talking to you——"

"I'm going to be self-willed enough to make you take that scarf, Käthchen," said Mary, with a gay impetuosity. "Yes, I am. I will send for it to-morrow. Why, you know it is a pretty thing, Käthchen—the Albanian needlework is so quaint—and I remember perfectly that you admired it——"

"But what use would a hood for the theatre be in a place like this!" Käthchen exclaimed.

"Don't I tell you it is a pretty thing to look at, here or anywhere else?" was the imperious rejoinder. "And I want to give it to you, Käthchen—and that's all about it—and so not another word!"

When at length they went in to dinner, Mary sate silent and thoughtful for a little while: then she said—

"Käthchen, did you ever hear a voice that gave you such a curious impression of sincerity?"

"Do you mean Mr. Ross's?" said Käthchen, gravely.

"Yes," said Mary, with a bit of a start: she had been forgetting. "I mean quite apart from the quality of the voice, and that of itself seems to me remarkable. For you know most men's voices are repellent—unnecessarily harsh and grating—you are not interested—you would rather keep away. But his voice, quiet as it is, thrills; it is so clear, and soft, and persuasive; I don't know that you can say of a man that he has a musical voice in talking, but if you can, then his is distinctly musical. Only that is not what you chiefly think of. It is the honesty of his tone that is so marked. He never seems to talk for effect; he does not want to impress you, or make any display; it is the truth he aims at, and you feel that it is the truth, and that you can believe down to the very depths every word he is uttering. And you seem to feel that he makes you honest too. It is no use trying any pretence with him. He would laugh at you if you did—and yet not cruelly. He is so direct, so simple, so manly, not a grain of affectation to be discovered. I wonder, now, when he is called to the Bar, if he will practise in the courts? For don't you think I rather effectually stopped the emigration scheme—didn't I, Käthchen? Oh, yes, I don't think he will talk any more about Canada or Australia—not, at least, until I have had my chance. But on the other hand, if he were to remain in this county, and practise at the Bar, don't you think he would succeed? I know if I were a judge, and Mr. Ross were pleading before me, I should have little difficulty in deciding who was speaking the truth."

"Counsel are not paid to speak the truth: quite the reverse," said Käthchen.

"And when he laughs, there is nothing sarcastic in his laugh—nothing but good-nature," continued the young lady, who was not paying much attention to Barbara's ministrations. "Is there anything so horrid as a cackling laugh—the conceited laugh of a small nature? Yes, it is a very good thing he has so pleasant and good-humoured a laugh—for—after all—yes, perhaps he is just a little blunt and peremptory. What do you think, Käthchen? Did you think he was a little dictatorial? And you said something—that I was amenable? But was I too amenable, Käthchen? I hope he did not imagine that I was subservient—especially if he was rather masterful and plain-spoken——"

"Come, come, Mamie, don't quarrel with him when he has hardly had time to get out of the house," Käthchen interposed, with a smile. "I consider that the manner of both of you was quite perfect, if what you wanted to convey was that you were both highly pleased to meet in this way and have a confidential and friendly chat. Dictatorial? Not in the least! Of course he knows a good many things about this place; and it was to save you yourself from being excessive in your generosity that he spoke plainly. And speaking plainly—why, wasn't it that very thing you were praising only a moment ago, when you spoke of the simplicity and sincerity of his speech?"

"Because," said Mary, drawing up her head a little, "if—if I thought he considered me too complaisant and submissive—if I thought so—well, I would show him something different."

"Now, are you determined to quarrel?" Käthchen exclaimed, with laughing eyes. "Here is this poor young man who meets you in the road, and he is as respectful and distant as could possibly be, waiting to see how you mean to treat him; and you seem a little doubtful; then of a sudden you resolve to make the first advances; and the next thing is that you appear so glad to find that both of you are on friendly terms, that nothing will do but he must come away home and have tea with you; and you are exceedingly kind to him, and he is exceedingly grateful—as those black eyes of his showed. What is there in all that? Yet now you must alarm yourself by thinking you have been too complaisant!"

"No, Käthchen, no; not that I think so; what I dread is that he may have been thinking so."

"If I were to tell you, Mamie," said Käthchen, "what I imagine to have been in Donald Ross's mind when you and he were sitting talking together, eyes fixed on eyes, with never a thought for anything or anybody else in the whole wide world, well, I suppose you would be indignant, and would probably tell me to attend to my own affairs. Which I mean to do—only I am not blind." For a second Mary regarded her friend with a scrutinizing glance; but she had not the courage to speak; she changed the subject—and hardly mentioned Donald Ross's name for the rest of that evening.

Next day, and especially towards the afternoon, there was quite a commotion in the village, for small things become great in a remote little community like Lochgarra; and when it drew near to six o'clock there were various groups of people scattered around the new building, walking about and chatting, sometimes peeping in at the door with a vague curiosity.

"I wonder if he expects us to go along and meet him there?" said Mary, rather anxiously to Käthchen.

"You mean Mr. Ross?" said Käthchen, though well she knew to whom the "he" referred. "I should think he would call for us. The Sirène is not in the bay; she must be round in the Camus Bheag; so Mr. Ross will be coming down from Minard."

Käthchen's anticipations proved correct; young Ross, in passing Lochgarra House, stopped for a moment to ask if the ladies had gone on; and, finding that they were just about ready to set out, he waited for them. And thus it was that the inhabitants of Lochgarra again witnessed a strange sight—something far more wonderful than the opening of a Free Library: they beheld young Donald of Heimra acting as escort to this English woman—this alien—this representative of the family that had drained the waters out of Heimra Loch, and torn down the walls of the old Castle. And not only that, but when they came along, he seemed to manage everything for her. He drove the people into the large, long room, and got the benches filled up; he had two chairs placed on the platform, one for Miss Stanley and one for Miss Glendinning; and then, standing by the side of the Baintighearna, proceeded to speak for her, and to explain the conditions attaching to this bequest.

And here once more Mary, sitting there silent and observant, may have been struck by the curious directness and simplicity of his speech. Concise, explicit sentences: they seemed to accord well with his own bearing, which was distinctly straightforward, intrepid, resolute. Indeed, so little of effort, so little of talking for effect was there about this address, that once or twice, and in the most natural way in the world, he turned to Miss Stanley and asked her for information on certain points. Finally, he told them that Miss Stanley wished for no ceremony, opening or otherwise; they were merely to take possession; and they would now be left to examine the resources of the building including the duplicate catalogues of the library.

"Three cheers for Donald Ross of Heimra!" called out a voice—and a cap was twirled to the roof.

"Don't make a fool of yourself, Gillie Ciotach!" said Ross, with a quick frown; and then he went on calmly: "It is Miss Stanley's express wish that there should be no formalities whatever, otherwise I should have proposed a vote of thanks to her for her very great kindness and thoughtfulness. However, that is not to be; and the best way you can show what you think of her munificent gift is by making a good use of it and taking every care of it." He turned to the Baintighearna. "I suppose that is about all I have to say, Miss Stanley?"

"Yes, I think so: thank you so much!" she said, in rather a low voice—for she was a trifle self-conscious before all those people.

Then she rose. He stepped down from the platform, and led the way along the hall. There was some covert clapping of hands and stamping of feet; but the Gillie Ciotach had been snubbed into silence; and, indeed, the majority of those sad and weather-worn countenances remained stolidly indifferent, as if they hardly knew what was happening around them. Ross opened the door for his two companions, and followed them out into the golden-clear afternoon; the villagers were left to overhaul at their leisure this new possession, and to become familiar with its opportunities.

But no sooner were those three out in the open, and by themselves, than Mary Stanley's manner underwent a complete change. She had thrown off that platform constraint; she was profuse in her expressions of gratitude; her eyes were shining with pleasure.

"How can I ever sufficiently thank you?" said she. "I could never have got through it by myself—never! And of course they will remember everything you said: any word of yours is all-important with them. I am a stranger. I am suspected. But when you are on my side all goes well. And now that this serious business has been got over, I feel as if we had earned a holiday for the rest of the day," she continued, in a very radiant and light-hearted fashion. "What shall we do, Käthchen? Can't you devise something? Can't you devise some wild escapade—something terrible—something unheard of?"

"The Lady Superior of Lochgarra," said Donald Ross, "is much too distinguished a person to indulge in wild escapades."

"At least," said she, turning to him—and they were now on their way to Lochgarra House—"it would be very hard if we three, having so successfully got through the solemn duties and labours of the day, were to separate now. Don't you think we are entitled to a little relaxation? Now, tell me, Mr. Ross, where you are going at this moment. Back to the Sirène, are you not? And you will be dining alone? And after that a book and a pipe in the solitary saloon—isn't that about how you will pass the evening?"

"You have guessed pretty near the truth, Miss Stanley," said he, with a smile.

"Then," said she, boldly, "why should we separate? Come in and dine with us. Give up your book, and let two frivolous creatures talk to you. We will allow you to go away at ten; and it will be a clear starlight night—you will have no difficulty in finding your way round to the Camus Bheag. Now, will you?"

"Indeed, I shall be most happy," said he, without an instant's hesitation; and again Miss Stanley's clear grey-green eyes thanked him as they could, when she had a mind.

And really this proved to be a most joyous and careless evening, without an atom of restraint or reserve; the little group of friends, brought together in that far-away corner of the world, developed a very frank and informal intimacy; the time sped swiftly. Mary was in especial merry-hearted and audacious; occasionally betraying new moods of wilful petulance; and then again becoming suddenly honest, as much as to say, "No, don't believe that of me; it was only mischief." Even Käthchen was less demurely observant than usual; she had become a little more accustomed to the flame of those coal-black eyes; moreover, the young man had a winning smile. He was no longer the proud and austere person whom she had regarded with a little anxiety and even awe. Implacable she was no longer ready to call him: surely one who could laugh in that frankly good-humoured way was not likely to prove revengeful and unforgiving? As for his being haughty and imperious, she noticed one small circumstance—that ever and again, amid this familiar and sprightly intercourse, he checked himself a little, and would address Miss Stanley with something almost of deference. It was as if he were saying, 'It is exceedingly kind of you to treat me in so very friendly a fashion; but still—still—you are the Lady Superior of Lochgarra—and I am your guest.' And sometimes he seemed to veil his eyes a little—those burning eyes that might unawares convey too much.

The lightning moments fled; ten o'clock came ere he knew. Indeed, it was half-an-hour thereafter before he chanced to look at his watch; and instantly he rose, with a quite boyish confusion on his clear, finely-cut face.

"When do you go back to Heimra?" said Mary to him—the two young ladies having accompanied him out into the hall.

"I hardly know," said he. "I am waiting for a rather important letter that I must answer at once."