Donald Ross of Heimra (Volume 3 of 3)

Mary turned to her companion, with her face aghast.

"We must go away back, Käthchen, and at once," she said, in a hurried undertone. "The embarrassment would be too dreadful. If he could imagine it was some stranger brought the flowers, that would be all right; but to go up to him – before his face – to make a parade – he would wonder what kind of creatures we were."

Käthchen hardly knew what to say. She had no more mind to go forward than her friend had; and yet she guessed with what a heavy heart, with what regretful lookings-back, Mary would set out on her voyage home again.

"Let us sit down and rest awhile," she said, at a venture.

But at this very instant Big Archie returned.

"Mr. Ross, mem, he has got up, and he is going aweh down the hill," he said, in an eager whisper.

"You are sure he is not coming this way?" she said, quickly.

"No, no, mem – come a bit forrit, and you will see."

So they followed, with rather timorous steps and anxious glances, the big fisherman; and at last they just caught a glimpse of Donald Ross making his way down the hill by the winding pathway leading up to this little plateau. And here was the large white block of marble, with its deep-graven letters of gold shining in the sunlight. Mary regarded this inscription with some curious fancies in her mind.

"I wish I had known her," she murmured, apparently to herself, as she took the white flowers out of the basket and reverently placed them on the stone. It was a simple ceremony – up here on the lofty crest of this solitary island, between the wide, over-arching sky and the far-extending plain of the sea.

Then they went back along these silent and lonely cliffs, and got down to the boat in safety; returning to the mainland, as they hoped, unobserved. Mary Stanley was unusually absorbed and thoughtful during the rest of that day; and only once did she refer to their visit to Heimra.

"It seems strange, Käthchen, does it not," she said, musingly, "that he should go away up there to read? … Do you think it is perhaps for some sense of companionship? … That would be strange, wouldn't it, in a young man?.." And Käthchen did not venture to reply: she could not even conjecture what secret influences, what mysterious cogitations, might not have prompted such a question.

But Kate herself grew to wonder whether Donald Ross had become aware of that thoughtful little act of kindness and sympathy; and whether, and in what way, he would make recognition of it. This was what happened. Some two days after their visit to the island Mary chanced to be standing at one of the windows, when she suddenly called to her companion —

"Käthchen, there's a boat coming out from Heimra."

She went quickly and got her binocular telescope, and returned to the window.

"It's the Sirène!" she exclaimed.

"He has seen those flowers," Kate Glendinning said quietly.

Mary turned to her friend, with something of concern in her look.

"And if he has, Käthchen, I hope he won't speak of them. Don't you think it would be better – if nothing were said? Besides, you don't know that he is coming here at all."

But there was little doubt; and, in fact, on getting ashore, young Ross made straight for the house. When he was announced in the drawing-room, Mary happened to be standing near the door – perhaps with the least touch of conscious colour in the beautiful face. He, on the contrary, was pale, and calm, and self-possessed as usual; only, when he took her hand in his, he held it for a second.

"I thank you," he said, in rather a low voice: that was all – and it was enough.

But presently it appeared that his visit had some other aim; for when he sate down they saw that he had brought a small parcel with him; and presently he said —

"I am going to ask a favour of you, Miss Stanley; and I hope you won't refuse. I have brought a little present, if you will be so kind as to accept it: you may look on it as a souvenir of your visit to Heimra – for perhaps you remember the piece of lace you looked at – "

She remembered very well; it was the exquisite Spanish mantilla to which Käthchen had drawn her attention. And it was not because this sumptuous piece of work was of great value that she hesitated about accepting it: would it not look like despoiling the dead woman? Instantly he appeared to divine her thought.

"If my mother were alive," he said, simply, "she would ask you to take it – and from her, not from me."

So there was no alternative: Mary silently accepted the gift. Nor was there any further word or hint on either side about that pious and secret pilgrimage to Heimra Island; but Donald Ross knew whose hand it was that had placed those flowers on the white grave.

One evening, about this time, two men were dining together in the Station Hotel, Inverness, in a corner of the long coffee-room; and these two were Mr. David Purdie, solicitor and agent, and Mr. James Watson, who was on his way through to his sheep-farm of Craiglarig. But if they were dining together, their fare was very different; for while the fresh-complexioned, twinkling-eyed farmer was content with such simple vegetarian dishes as an ordinary hotel could devise at short notice, the Troich Bheag Dhearg was attacking an ample plateful of boiled beef and carrots, while a decanter of port stood near to his elbow.

"Man, Watson," said the factor, with an expression of impatient disgust on his harsh, ill-tempered features, "I wonder to see ye swallowing that trash! It's not food for human beings. Have ye been so long among sheep that ye must imitate their very eating?"

"It's live and let live, each in his own way," said the well-contented sheep-farmer; and then he added: "But tell me this, friend Purdie: if ye object to my eemitating a sheep, what kind o' animal is't you eemitate? For there's only one kind o' crayture I've heard o' that would eat a dead cow – and that's a hoodie crow."

But this was an incidental remark: presently they returned to their main object, which was the condition of Lochgarra.

"It's just terrible to think of," said the Little Red Dwarf, with his mouth as vindictive as the process of eating would allow; "it's just terrible to think of, the waste and extravagance going forward, on what used to be a carefully-ordered, carefully-kept estate. And the pampering o' they idle, whining, deceitful, ill-thrawn wretches, that would be the better of a cat-o'-nine tails to make them work! Work? Not them! – if they can get money out o' the proprietors or out o' the Government, or out o' the rates. And what could ye expect to happen wi' a silly, ignorant woman coming into such a nest of liars, and believing everything she hears? What could ye expect? Born liars every one o' them – ay, from end to end of the West Highlands: there's not a man o' them that would not lie the very soul out o' his body for a dram of whisky!"

"That's an old contention o' yours, friend Purdie," said the farmer; and then he proceeded, with a twinkle of humour in his eyes: "But I'll just tell ye this, man, that it's a mercy there's one thing in the West Highlands that will not lie. One thing at least, I tell ye. Among the universal lying, isn't it a mercy there's one thing will not lie – and that's the snow. It's a blessing for the sheep – and for the sheep-farmers."

"And what am I? Where am I?" resumed Mr. Purdie, paying no heed to this little jocosity, for his small, piggish eyes had grown heated with anger and indignation. "What is my poseetion? I ask ye that. What have I to do wi' the estate except to collect what rent there is left? It's this fashionable young dame that must come in to manage the place, snipping off here and snipping off there, ordering this and ordering that, building byres and sheds for nothing, and putting advertisements in the papers about druggets and blankets to sell, as if Lochgarra House was a warehousemen's shop. I tell ye, it's enough to make her uncle turn in his grave. He knew better how to dale wi' they ill-thrawn paupers! And what will she not give them, after giving them Meall-na-Cruagan? – and that without consulting any one – no 'by your leave' or 'with your leave,' but 'this is what I have decided, and you can carry it out like a clerk.' Man, Watson, ye were a silly creature to consent to that Meall-na-Cruagan business! That was but a beginning – where is to be the end? Well, I'll tell ye the end! She'll snip here, and snip there, until she has divided every acre of ground among the crofters; and then, when they've resolved among themselves to pay no more rent, I suppose they'll be happy. No, d – n them if they will! – they'll want her to sell Lochgarra House, and give them the money to buy more stock." And here Mr. Purdie poured himself out a glass of port, and gulped it as a dog grabs at a rat.

"Ye've never forgiven the folk out there," said Mr. Watson, with an amused and demure air, "since the procession and the burning in effigy. Dod, that was a queer business! – I heard of it away up in Caithness. But I'm thinking ye might let bygones be bygones; ye've had them under your thumb a good while now – and – and – well, ye might consider that ye've paid off that score. But as for the young leddy – well, I tell ye, friend Purdie, it's just wonderful what she has done since she cam' to the place. A busy, industrious creature; ay, and she has a way of talking folk over to her way of thinking; she seems to get on famously wi' them, though they cannot have too friendly recollections of her uncle. Yes, I will say that for her: an active, well-meaning creature; and light-hearted as a lintie; dod, she takes her own way, and gets it too! But I'm thinking there's a great deal owing to young Mr. Ross – he goes about wi' her just conteenually."

"Ay," said the factor, with a malignant scowl, "I'm told my young gentleman doesna shut himself up as much wi' his brandy-drinking as he used to do. So he comes over to the mainland sometimes, and goes about wi' her, does he?"

"Faith, ye may say that," Mr. Watson made answer, with a laugh. "They're just insayperable, as ye might say, any time that he comes over from Heimra, and that's often enough." He regarded the factor curiously. "Purdie, my man, that's going to be a match."

For a second Purdie looked startled and incredulous, but instantly he lowered his eyes again.

"It's a match, Purdie, depend on't," Mr. Watson proceeded, still looking at his companion with an odd sort of scrutiny. "And I have been thinking, if such a thing were to come about, it might be a wee bit difficult for you – with young Ross the master at Lochgarra, eh? What d'ye think? Dod, ye'd have to make friends with him and keep a civil tongue besides, or he might be for bringing up old scores."

Mr. Purdie's dinner did not seem to interest him much after that. He remained plunged in a profound reverie, with his truculent mouth drawn down, the shaggy red eyebrows shading the small irascible eyes that were now grown intent and thoughtful. And when at length Mr. Watson haled him off to the smoking-room he did not speak for some considerable time. But by and by he said —

"Are ye off by the early train to-morrow, Watson?"

"Yes, indeed.'

"And you go right through?"

"Just that."

"Well, I think I'll bear ye company," said the Troich Bheag Dhearg, with the heavily down-drawn mouth expressing something more than mere decision. "There's a few things I want to see to. And I havena been out to Lochgarra for some time."

CHAPTER VI

HABET!

Mary went singing through the house: her step free and agile, her face radiant, her eyes shining with good-humour and the delight of life.

"Käthchen," she said, one morning, "the proofs of the photographs should come to-day, and if they turn out well I mean to have the whole of them enlarged, every one of them, to make a handsome series for Mrs. Armour. Don't you think they should be very interesting to those people away over there – 'where wild Altama murmurs to their woe'? Woe, indeed! I wish we could import some of their woeful circumstances into this neighbourhood. Forty bushels of wheat to the acre: what do you say to that? A hundred and sixty acres of land for two pounds! I don't like to think of it, Käthchen: to tell you the truth, I just hate to hear Mr. Ross begin and talk about emigration: it all sounds so horribly reasonable, and practicable, and right. Sometimes I lie awake convincing myself that the very next day or the next again he will make his appearance with the announcement that he has decided to go back to his original intention; and then – then he will say good-bye to Lochgarra – he and half the people from about here – and be off to the Gilbert Plains or the Lake Dauphin District – "

"You need not be afraid," said Käthchen, quietly. "It is neither wheat-fields nor gold-fields that are likely to allure Mr. Ross. There's metal more attractive nearer home. By the way, Mamie," she continued, with a certain significance, "you remember there was a group taken on the banks of the Connan – and you and Mr. Ross are standing together. When you get the pictures enlarged, are you going to send any copies of that one to your friends in the south?"

"Why not?" said she, boldly.