Donald Ross of Heimra (Volume 3 of 3)

"I?" said he, in amazement – for it was clear she meant herself and Kate Glendenning to remain out of the picture – "What should I do there? That is your place, surely – in front of your own house."

"Oh, what does Mrs. Armour want with me!" she protested. "It is you she wants, naturally. Of course she associates Lochgarra House with you, not with me at all. Who am I? A stranger – an interloper. What does Mrs. Armour care about me? No, really, I must insist on your going and standing on the terrace."

"But indeed I cannot: what right have I to be there?" said he, with the faintest touch of colour coming to the keen, pale, dark face.

"Mrs. Armour would tell you you had a better right to be there than I have!" said Mary, rather ruefully. "I knew what she was thinking, if she was kind enough to say nothing. Now, go, Mr. Ross, to please me! I must not appear in this picture at all – indeed, I will not."

"And I cannot," he said, simply.

"Very well, then," said the shifty Käthchen, cheerfully stepping into the breach, "it is evident that I, at least, can't be expected to take up a position as owner of Lochgarra House; but figures are wanted; and so, if you are both resolved to remain out, I will go and get the keepers and gillies and servants, and range them along the front there, at the foot of the steps. I dare say Mrs. Armour will recognise some of them."

"Then you positively refuse me?" Mary said to him.

"You ought to understand why," he answered her – and then she was silent.

But on the following morning she was deeply impressed by his thoughtful forbearance and consideration. They wished to get a view of the little hamlet of Cruagan, Mrs. Armour having lived there formerly; and, as the place was some distance off, they drove thither – the artist and his camera up beside the coachman. Now, it was inevitable they should pass the desert plain that used to be Loch Heimra, with the tumbled stones of the ancient keep; and on coming in sight of these the photographer, recognising a subject, and yet a little puzzled, called on the coachman to stop.

"That, sir – what is that, sir?" he asked of Donald Ross, whom he generally consulted.

"Oh, that is nothing," said Ross (and this time it was Mary who look distressed and embarrassed). "Never mind; go on."

"Isn't that an old ruin, sir?" said the photographer, with professional instinct. Subjects did not abound in this neighbourhood, and he wished to do his best.

"That is of no use: that would not make a picture – a heap of stones like that," said young Donald; and so the artist gave way; and the carriage went on again. There was a space of silence thereafter.

But Mary was none the less grateful to him. And when they came to a stretch of the Connan, where there were some rocks in mid-stream and a bit of a waterfall, with some birches by the side of the river, she said:

"Now, Mr. Ross, Mrs. Armour is sure to remember this place; and it is very pretty; and since you want me to come into some of the pictures, I will come in this time, and the three of us can sit on the bank as if we were a pic-nic party. And if it turns out well, mightn't we have it enlarged and some copies printed for our own friends? We will send on the carriage a bit, so that there shall be nothing but ourselves in this solitude."

"Let me go on with the carriage, Mamie!" interposed Käthchen at once.

"Don't be silly, Käthchen!" Mary made answer, with quickly lowered lashes. "We are supposed to be a pic-nic party, or a fishing party, taking a rest – anything you please; but of course we must all be together."

So that group also was taken, with the Highland river-scene for its background; and then they went forward and overtook the carriage. Mary was much more cheerful now, after getting away from that reproachful sight of Castle Heimra.

"Do you know, Mr. Ross," she was saying, "I am about to encounter the bitterest enemy I have in the world?"

"I cannot believe you have any enemy," was his reply. "But who is this?"

"James Macdonald."

"Oh, Macdonald the crofter at Cruagan. Well, what have you been doing to him?"

"What have I been doing to him?" she said with some spirit. "You should rather ask what I have been doing for him. I have been doing far too much for him: I suppose that is why he hates me. What haven't I done for him? I took off the tax for the dyke; I handed over the pasturage of Meall-na-Cruagan; I lowered his rent; I forgave him arrears; I had the decree of removal quashed, and gave him back his holding after he had forfeited it; I stopped the action against him for deforcing the sheriff's officer. What more? What more? And yet he looks as if he would like to murder me if I try to speak to him."

"Have you any idea of the reason?"

"Yes," said Mary, a little proudly. "He says that you are his laird, and not I: he says I have nothing to do with the land or the people here."

"Macdonald is a foolish man – and stubborn: I will talk to him," he said; and he was thoughtful for a second or two.

Indeed, when they arrived at the scattered little hamlet of Cruagan, it was not the sun-pictures that occupied Mary Stanley's attention. The photographer was allowed to choose his subjects as he liked. For, in driving up, they had perceived the sullen-browed, Russian-looking crofter at work in his patch of potatoes; and as soon as the carriage stopped, young Ross left his companions, stepped over the bit of wire fence, and went along the potato drills. Macdonald ceased working, and respectfully raised his cap. Ross began speaking in a low voice, and yet with some emphasis, and increasing emphasis, as the ladies in the waggonette could gather. It was impossible for them to overhear the words, even if they had been able to understand; but as he proceeded it was clear enough that he was becoming angry and indignant, the man with the shaggy eyebrows and the determined jaw having answered once or twice. Then almost suddenly there came a strange termination to this fierce encounter. Young Ross remained behind, glancing around him as if merely wanting to know whether the crop promised well; but Macdonald came down the drills, in the direction of the carriage.

"Käthchen," said Mary, in an eager whisper, "he is coming to speak to me! Let me get out – quick!"

She stepped into the roadway. As Macdonald came slowly towards her, he raised his eyes and regarded her for a second, in silence. He took off his cap – and forgot to put it on again. He was thinking what to say.

"I – not mich English. It is thanks to you – for many things. The young laird says that. And I – am to ask your pardon – and sorry I am if there is not goodwill – and there is good-will now – and it is sorry I am – "

"Not at all – not at all; we are going to be quite good friends, Mr. Macdonald – and there's my hand on it," said she in her frank, impetuous way. "And you are going to ask me into your house; and will you give me a little bit of oat-cake, or something of the kind? – and when you are next over at Lochgarra you must not forget to come and see me. And at any time, mind you, if you have anything to complain of, come to me first; come direct to me; don't go to Mr. Purdie, or anybody; for perhaps I might be able to settle the matter for you at once."

And with that she called on Mr. Ross, and told him they were going into the cottage to get a bit of oat-cake; for Macdonald was already leading the way thither. When they came out of Macdonald's cottage, they found that the photographer had quite completed his work; so they at once set out for home again. Mary was in an extraordinary state of delight over this vanquishment of her obdurate enemy, and said she should take means to remind him of their compact of goodwill. But young Ross only laughed.

"'Wherefore he called that place Beersheba,'" he said, "'because there they sware both of them.'"

The following Saturday was Mary Stanley's birthday. Early in the morning she and Kate, in fulfilment of a long-standing engagement, drove away out to Craiglarig to pay a visit to Mr. Watson, and talk over some matters connected with his farm; and as they stayed for lunch, they did not get back till the afternoon. By that time the mail had come in, and there was an astonishing number of letters and parcels addressed to Miss Stanley, for she had a large number of friends in the south, who held her in kindly remembrance. She was looking at these and guessing at the senders, when she came to one that was larger and heavier than the others; moreover, it had not come by post, but by hand. Something impelled her to tear off the brown wrapper, and behold, here was the Rhodian dish she had so particularly admired when they were out at Heimra Island.

"I saw he noticed how long you looked at it," said Käthchen, with smiling eyes.

Well, she did not look at it long now, beautiful as it was. She had turned again to the wrapper, and she seemed to take a curious interest in studying her own name as she found it there.

"It is an unusual handwriting, don't you think so, Käthchen?" she said, slowly, and almost as if she were talking to herself. "Firm and precise… How odd one's own name appears when you see it written for the first time by some one you know! … Do you think character can be read in handwriting, Käthchen? … firmness – yes, apparently; and precision – well, I don't object to that so much, … but don't you think he is a little too – a little too confident in himself … careless of what others may think … a little too independent … and proud in his own domain?"

"I don't know about that at all. But I am going to tell you something now, and you may be angry or not as you please," said Käthchen; and she went up to her friend, and put her hand on her arm: perhaps she wanted to watch the expression of her face: "Mamie," she said, "that man loves you."

CHAPTER V

A PIOUS PILGRIMAGE

All things appeared to be going well at Lochgarra: Mary was radiant and jubilant, and would pay no heed to Käthchen's underhand jibes and warnings. Her numerous schemes were thriving all along the line; she had orders for homespun webs and hand-knitted stockings far beyond what she could execute in the coming winter; she had been guaranteed two fishing-boats, with their furnishing of nets, for the next season; she was in treaty for more looms, for which there would be abundant employment; and to add to all this, the as yet ungarnered harvest – that poor, scattered, patchwork harvest, among the sterile rocks – promised a fair return if only the weather would leave it alone. But it was the attitude of the people towards her that warmed her heart. Since her open association with young Donald of Heimra, a miracle had been wrought in this neighbourhood; the dumb could speak; men and women who had sulkily turned away from the ban-sassunnach, shaking their heads, now managed to find quite sufficient English to answer her, and would ask her into their cottages, and offer her of their little store. Even the sad-faced, silent, morose Peter Grant, of the inn, had been brought to see that there might be something in Miss Stanley's proposals. If he were to take the April fishing on the Garra at an annual rental of £15, she providing a water-bailiff, and if, by advertising in the sporting papers, he were to find two gentlemen who would pay him £25 for the month's salmon-fishing, and use the inn at the same time, would not that serve? Peter (committing one illegal act in order to prevent another) could give an occasional glass of whiskey to the rosy-cheeked policeman: the placid and easy-going Iain, having little else to do, could now and again stroll down to the bridge of a morning or evening – there would be no fear of poachers at that end of the water.

But it was over the terrible rascal and outlaw, Gillie Ciotach, that she obtained (as she thought) her most signal triumph. She sent for that notorious scamp to thank him for the couple of lythe he had presented to her; and one evening the Gillie Ciotach sauntered along towards Lochgarra House, his fisherman clothes as clean as might be, and a brand-new Balmoral set jauntily on his short brown curls. When he arrived at the house, he dismissed a quid of tobacco he had been chewing, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and ascended the steps. Barbara received him, and went and told her mistress, who directed her to bring some whiskey into the hall. Then Mary came down.

"Good evening!" said she, rather nervously, to this young fellow with the bold brown eyes and the heavy scar across his forehead, who stood twirling his Balmoral in his fingers. "Won't you be seated? I hope I have not put you to any inconvenience. The fact is, I wished to thank you for your kindness in leaving the two stenlock for me – I am sorry I was out – and – and perhaps you will take a glass of whiskey – will you help yourself?"

For Barbara had brought in a little tray, and placed it on the hall-table, and retired. Now, when the Gillie Ciotach received this invitation, which he had no thought of refusing, he went to the table; and finding there a tumbler, a wineglass, a decanter, and a carafe of water, and being far too polite to think of drinking by himself, he filled the wine-glass with whiskey, and half-filled the tumbler with the same fluid, and brought the former, as being the more elegant of the two, to Miss Stanley.

"Oh, no, thank you," said she, with an involuntary shudder.

"No, mem?" said he, in great surprise. "Well, well, now!" But not to waste good liquor he poured the contents of the wine-glass into the tumbler, and took that between his hands as he sate down, nursing it, as it were, while he listened respectfully.

"But first of all," she said, with a fine effort at jollity and good-comradeship, "I ought to know your real name, you know; I don't consider nicknames fair – even although they may not be meant to be nicknames. And I wish to be good friends with everybody in the place – and to get to know all about them – "

"Aw, my own name?" said the Gillie Ciotach, after having, with careful manners, sipped a little of the whiskey. "Aw, it's just Andrew Mac Vean."

"Very well, then, Andrew, I am very pleased to see you; and I am sure we shall be friends; and I wished to say, besides, that I hope everything will go peaceably here, and that there will be no more riotous proceedings, like the assault on the lobster-fishermen at Ru Minard – "

"Aw, God, that was a fine thing!" cried the Gillie Ciotach, with a loud laugh that led Mary to suspect he must have had a glass, or even two, before coming along. "Aw, it was a fine thing, that! And Miss Stanley has only to send us word, as she did before, and we'll drive the squatters into the sea – them and their traps, and their huts, ahltogether into the sea! Never mind where they settle! – you send to me, mem, and we will drive the duvvles into the sea, and let them tek their chance of swimming the Minch! – "