Donald Ross of Heimra (Volume 3 of 3)

"Mr. Purdie," she said – with a sudden change of tone he did not fail to note, "what do you mean? I – I beg you to be a little more respectful in your language."

"It's the old story," said the factor, with affected resignation. "Ye may work and work, and do the best for your employers; and then some stranger is called in, new advice is taken, and all you have done is destroyed. And I wonder if the people will be any the better off. I wonder what change in their condeetion it will make – what permanent change, when once you stop putting your hand in your pocket. Improvements? Oh, yes, yes; improvements are all very fine. But I'm thinking that spending money on free libraries and the like o' that will not help them much in getting in their crops."

"As for that," she retorted – but with no displeasure, only a little quiet confidence, "I can merely say that I am trying to do my best, in a great many different ways; and the result, whatever it may be, is a long way off yet. And I live in hope. Of course, there is much more that I should like to do, and do at once; but I cannot; for I haven't sufficient money. I don't deny that there is a great deal still to be amended: I can't work miracles. The people are very poor – and many of them not too industrious; the soil is bad; the fishing is uncertain; and communication difficult. I dare say there is even a good deal of wretchedness – or rather, what a stranger would regard as extreme wretchedness and misery; but all that cannot be changed in a moment, even if it turns out that it can be changed at all. And at least there is little sickness; the poorest cottages have the fresh air blowing around them – they're better than the London slums, at all events. And one must just do what one can; and hope for the best."

"I tell ye, ye are going entirely the wrong way to work wi' these people, Miss Stanley," said he, as they were crossing the bridge and about to enter the village. "It's my place to tell ye. It's my bounden duty to tell ye. And I say they are just making sport wi' ye. They are born beggars; work of any kind is an abomination to them; and you'll find they'll be like leeches – give, give always; and when you've ruined the estate on their behalf, what then?"

"I don't see any such prospect – not at present," said Mary, cheerfully.

"Who is likely to know most about them, you or me?" he went on with dogged persistence. "Who has had most experience of them? Who has had dealings with them for years and years, and learned their tricks? A whining, cringing, useless set, cunning as the very mischief, and having not even an idea of what speaking the truth is. Plausible enough – oh, ay – plausible with a stranger – especially when they expect to get anything."

"Mr. Purdie," said Mary, interrupting him, "I presume from your name you belong to the south of Scotland. Well, I have been told that the Scotch – the people in the southern half of Scotland – do not understand the Highland character at all; and cannot understand it, for they have no sympathy with it. I have been told that the English have far more sympathy with the Highland nature. And I am English."

"Ay, and who told ye that about the Scotch and the Highlanders?" he said, suddenly and sharply.

She hesitated for a second.

"It is of little consequence," she answered him. "But I would like to add this – that denunciations of the inhabitants of a whole country-side do not seem to me of much value. I suppose human nature is pretty much the same in Lochgarra as it is elsewhere. And – and – besides, Mr. Purdie – I do not wish to hear evil spoken of a people amongst whom I have many friends."

She spoke with some dignity.

"Evil speaking?" said he, with louring eyebrows, "I for one am not given to evil speaking – or the truth might have been told you ere now."

"The truth? – what truth?" she demanded.

"The truth about one that is too much at your right hand, Miss Stanley, if I may make bold to say so." At this moment they arrived at the door of the inn; and she paused, expecting him to leave her; but he said: "No, I will go on with you as far as Lochgarra House. It is time I should open my lips at last. I have been patient. I have stood by. I have heard what has been going on – and I have held my tongue. And why? – because there are things that it is difficult to speak of to an unmarried young woman."

Mary was a trifle bewildered. They were walking along through the village, on this quiet afternoon, with nothing to interrupt the peaceful stillness save the recurrent plash of the ripples on the beach: it was hardly the time or the place to be associated with any tragic disclosure. Moreover, had she heard aright? Was it of Donald Ross he was speaking?

"And I will say this for myself," the factor continued, "that I warned ye about the character of that young man, as plainly as I dared – ay, the very first day ye set foot in the place – "

"You mean Mr. Ross?" said she, lightly. "Pray spare yourself the trouble, Mr. Purdie. You forget I have had some opportunities of studying Mr. Ross's character. I know him a little. What did you say? – that you had something to tell? Oh, no; don't give yourself the trouble. I know him a little."

"You do not know him at all!" he said, with a vehemence that startled her. "I tell ye there is not one in this place who would dare to tell ye the story; and would I, unless I was bound to do it? If there was a married woman at Lochgarra House, it's to her I would go; and she would tell ye; but I say it is my bounden duty to speak – and to speak plainly – "

"Mr. Purdie, I do not wish to hear," she said, with some touch of alarm.

"But ye must hear," he said, with set lips and slow, emphatic utterance. "Ye are bound to hear – and to understand the character of the man ye are publicly associating yourself with. A scoundrel of that kind has no right to be going about with a virtuous and respectable young woman – "

"Mr. Purdie," she said, hurriedly, "I don't want to know – I don't believe – I wouldn't believe – "

"Miss Stanley," he said, with measured deliberation, "ye have some knowledge of that poor half-witted creature they call Anna Chlannach. But did it never occur to ye to ask how she came to lose her reason? Ay, but if ye had asked, they would not have told ye; there's not one o' them about here but would lie through thick and thin to screen that scapegrace; and what then would be the use o' your asking? But I can tell ye; and I say it's my bounden duty to speak, if there's none else here to warn ye. And there is my witness – there is the living witness to that scoundrel's licentiousness and wicked cruelty: go to her – ask herself – ask her what makes her wander about the shore watching for him, looking out to Heimra as if the ill he has done her could now be repaired. The poor lass, betrayed, deserted: no wonder she lost her reason – ay, and it's a good thing the currents along this coast are strong, or I'm thinking there might have been a trial for infanticide as well – "

Mary heard no more: she did not know that he was still talking to her; she did not know that he accompanied her almost to the house, where he left her. For – after the first fierce and indignant denial that involuntarily rushed to her mind – what she saw before her burning eyes was a series of visions, each of them of the most terrible distinctness, and all of them related in some ghastly way to this story she had just been told. What were these things, then, that seemed to sear her very eyeballs? She saw the little harbour of Camus Bheag; she saw the figure of a young girl rocking herself in an utter abandonment of misery and despair; she saw piteous hands held out; she heard that heart-broken wail piercing the silence as the boat made slowly away for Eilean Heimra. And then again she was on the heights above the Garra, and looking down upon the bridge. Those two there? – she had taken them for lovers – she had called Käthchen's attention – it was a pretty scene. Then the sudden, swift disappearance of the girl into the woods; and the young man's easy, confident professions: all those things grew manifest before her with an appalling clearness; a blinding light burned upon them. Nay, her very first interview with Anna Chlannach came back to startle her: she remembered the poor demented girl wandering among the rocks, all her intelligible talk being about Heimra: she remembered her being easily persuaded to walk towards the house; she remembered, too, how Anna Chlannach fled in terror the moment she came in sight of the stranger who knew her history. What hideous tale was it that seemed to summon up these scenes, appealing to them for corroboration? What was it they seemed to say was true – true as if written up before her in letters of fire?

There was no time for her to reason or think. For here, as it chanced, was this very man – this Donald Ross – coming down the wide steps from her own door. And all her soul was in revolt. Her wounded pride – her sense of humiliation – scorched her like flame. How had this man dared to lift his eyes to her? Unabashed he had come into the same room with her – he had breathed the same air – he had touched her hand: a contamination that was a poisoned sting. And the people of Lochgarra, who had seen him and her walking together: were they cognisant of his low amours? They had wagged their heads, perhaps? They had looked the one to the other?

"I half-expected to meet you," said Donald Ross.

There was no answer. But Mary Stanley did not lower her head, or avert her face; she was too proud for that; her heart might be beating as though it would burst its prison, but to all outward appearance she was quite unmoved. She passed him, pale and cold and silent; and he stood on one side, looking at her, without a word. She went into the house; she took no notice of Käthchen, who was still in the hall; she made for her own room, and locked herself in there – voiceless, tearless, with all the fair fabric of her life, its aims, and dreams, and ideals, its still more secret and trembling hopes, become suddenly and at one blow a tragic desolation of wreckage and ruin.

CHAPTER VII

"'TWAS WHEN THE SEAS WERE ROARING."

It was early morning out at Heimra; the sky comparatively clear as yet, though there was a squally look about the flying rags of cloud; the sea obviously freshening up, and already springing white along the headlands. And here at the little landing-slip were Coinneach Breac and Calum, waiting by the side of the yacht's boat, and from time to time conversing in their native tongue.

"I am not liking the look of this morning," said Coinneach, "with the glass down near half-an-inch since last night. But if the master wishes me to go, then it is I who am ready to go, and I do not care where it is that I may be going. For who knows the anchorages better than himself, and the tides, and the currents, and the navigation?"

And then presently he said, in a more sombre tone:

"There is something that I do not understand. Did you look at the master when he was coming away from the mainland last evening? There has a trouble fallen on him: mark my words, Calum; for you are a young man and not quick to see such things. And do you know what Martha was telling me when I went up to the house this morning? – she was telling me that the master was not coming near the house all the night through; and it is I myself that saw him coming slowly down the hill not more than half-an-hour ago. And if he was up by the white grave all the night through, that is not a good thing for a young man. A grave without a wall round it is not a good thing."

And then again he said:

"It is I who would like to know who brought the trouble on the young master; and last night, as I was lying in my bunk, thinking over this thing and that thing, and wondering what it was that had happened, I was remembering that the Little Red Dwarf came to Lochgarra yesterday – yes, and he the only stranger that came to Lochgarra yesterday."

"I wish the Little Red Dwarf were with his father the devil," said Calum, with calm content.

"And if I thought it was the Little Red Dwarf that was the cause of the master's trouble," said Coinneach, with his deep-set grey eyes full of a dark hatred, "do you know what I would do, Calum? I would put the orra-an-donaison him. That is what I would do, ay, this very night. This very night I would take two branches of hawthorn, and I would nail them as a cross, and at twelve o'clock I would put them against his door; and then I would say this: 'God's wrath to be set against thy face, whether thou art drowning at sea or burning on land; and a branch of hawthorn between thy heart and thy kidneys; and for thy soul the lowermost floor in hell, for ever and ever.' He is a powerful man, the Little Red Dwarf, and he has wide shoulders; but how would he fare with the orra-an-donais on his wide shoulders?"

But Calum shook his head.

"No, no," said the long, loutish, good-humoured-looking lad, "I do not think well of such things. They are dangerous things. They are like the bending of a stick; and who knows but that the stick may fly back and strike you? But this is what I have in my mind, Coinneach: if the master wishes, then I would just take the Little Red Dwarf and I would put him in a pool in the Garra, ay, and I would hold his head down until he was as dead as a rat. Aw, Dyeea, there would be no trouble with the Little Red Dwarf after that!"

"The master!" said Coinneach – and there was silence.

Young Donald appeared somewhat pale and tired; but otherwise did not seem out of spirits.

"Well, Coinneach," he said, cheerfully enough, as he came up – and he spoke in the tongue that was most familiar to them – "what do you think of taking the world for your pillow – as they say in the old stories; and would you set out at this very moment?"

"But with you, sir?" said Coinneach, quickly.

"Oh, yes, yes – in the Sirène?"

"I am willing to go wherever Mr. Ross wishes, and at any time, and for any length of time – it is Mr. Ross himself knows that," Coinneach made answer.

"And you, Calum?"

"It is the same that I am saying," responded the younger lad, with downcast eyes.

"And where would you like to go, Coinneach, if you have all the world to choose from?" the young master asked.

"That is not for me to say – that is for Mr. Ross to say."

"And if you were never to see Eilean Heimra again?"

"That also to me is indifferent," said Coinneach, with dogged obedience.