White Heather: A Novel (Volume 2 of 3)

Pale in the moonlight sheen;
And each has over her forehead
A star of golden green.

O what is their song? – of sailors
That never again shall sail;
And the music sounds like the sobbing
And sighing that brings a gale.

But who is she who comes yonder? —
And all in white is she;
And her eyes are open, but nothing
Of the outward world can she see.

O haste you back, Meenie, haste you,
And haste to your bed again;
For these are the wild witch-maidens
Down from the northern main.

They open the magic circle;
They draw her into the ring;
They kneel before her, and slowly
A strange, sad song they sing —

A strange, sad song – as of sailors
That never again shall sail;
And the music sounds like the sobbing
And sighing that brings a gale.

O haste you back, Meenie, haste you,
And haste to your bed again;
For these are the wild witch-maidens
Down from the northern main.

'O come with us, rose-white Meenie,
To our sea-halls draped with green:
O come with us, rose-white Meenie,
And be our rose-white queen!

'And you shall have robes of splendour,
With shells and pearls bestrewn;
And a sceptre olden and golden,
And a rose-white coral throne.

'And by day you will hear the music
Of the ocean come nigher and nigher:
And by night you will see your palace
Ablaze with phosphor fire.

'O come with us, rose-white Meenie,
To our sea-halls draped with green;
O come with us, rose-white Meenie,
And be our rose-white queen!'

But Clebrig heard; and the thunder
Down from his iron hand sped;
And the band of the wild witch-maidens
One swift shriek uttered, and fled.

And Meenie awoke, and terror
And wonder were in her eyes;
And she looked at the moon-white valley,
And she looked to the starlit skies.

O haste you back, Meenie, haste you,
And haste to your bed again;
For these are the wild witch-maidens
Down from the northern main.

O hear you not yet their singing
Come faintly back on the breeze? —
The song of the wild witch-sisters
As they fly to the Iceland seas.

O hark – 'tis a sound like the sobbing
And sighing that brings a gale:
A low, sad song – as of sailors
That never again shall sail!

Slowly he pulled in to the shore again, and fastened up the boat; and slowly he walked away through the silent and moonlit landscape, revolving these verses in his mind, but not trying in the least to estimate their value, supposing them to have any at all. Even when he had got home, and in the stillness of his own room – for by this time Maggie had gone to bed – was writing out the lines, with apparent ease enough, on a large sheet of paper, it was with no kind of critical doubt or anxiety. He could not have written them otherwise; probably he knew he was not likely to make them any better by over-refining them. And the reason why he put them down on the large sheet of paper was that Meenie's name occurred in them; and she might not like that familiarity to appear in her album; he would fold the sheet of paper and place it in the book, and she could let it remain there or burn it as she chose. And then he went and had his supper, which Maggie had left warm by the fire, and thereafter lit a pipe – or rather two or three pipes, as it befel, for this was the last night before his leaving Inver-Mudal, and there were many dreams and reveries (and even fantastic possibilities) to be dismissed for ever.

The next morning, of course, there was no time or room for poetic fancies. When he had got Maggie to take along the little book to the Doctor's cottage, he set about making his final preparations, and here he was assisted by his successor, one Peter Munro. Finally he went to say good-bye to the dogs.

'Good-bye, doggies, good-bye,' said he, as they came bounding to the front of the kennel, pawing at him through the wooden bars, and barking and whining, and trying to lick his hand. 'Good-bye, Bess! Good-bye, Lugar – lad, lad, we've had many a day on the hill together.'

And then he turned sharply to his companion.

'Ye'll not forget what I told you about that dog, Peter?'

'I will not,' said the other.

'If I thought that dog was not to be looked after, I would get out my rifle this very minute and put a bullet through his head – though it would cost me £7. Mind what I've told ye now; if he's not fed separate, he'll starve; he's that gentle and shy that he'll not go near the trough when the others are feeding. And a single cross word on the hill will spoil him for the day – mind you tell any strange gentlemen that come up with his lordship – some o' them keep roaring at dogs as if they were bull-calves. There's not a better setter in the county of Sutherland than that old Lugar – but he wants civil treatment.'

'I'll look after him, never fear, Ronald,' his companion said. 'And now come away, man. Ye've seen to everything; and the mail-gig will be here in half an hour.'

Ronald was still patting the dogs' heads, and talking to them – he seemed loth to leave them.

'Come away, man,' his companion urged. 'All the lads are at the inn, and they want to have a parting glass with you. Your sister and every one is there, and everything is ready.'

'Very well,' said he, and he turned away rather moodily.