.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 43830
   :PG.Title: White Wings, Volume III (of 3)
   :PG.Released: 2013-09-27
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: William Black
   :DC.Title: White Wings, Volume III
              A Yachting Romance
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1880
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

=======================
WHITE WINGS, VOLUME III
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      WHITE WINGS:

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      A Yachting Romance.

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      BY

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      WILLIAM BLACK,

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      AUTHOR OF "THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON,"
      "GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY," ETC.

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      *IN THREE VOLUMES.*

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      VOL. III.

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      London:
      MACMILLAN AND CO.
      1880.

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      *The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved.*

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      LONDON:
      R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR.
      BREAD STREET HILL.

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   CONTENTS.

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CHAPTER I.

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`A CONFESSION`_


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CHAPTER II.

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`ONLY A HEADACHE`_


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CHAPTER III.

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`IN THE DARK`_


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CHAPTER IV.

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`TO ABSENT FRIENDS!`_


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CHAPTER V.

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`SUSPICIONS`_


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CHAPTER VI.

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`CERTAINTY`_


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CHAPTER VII.

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`A PARABLE`_


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CHAPTER VIII.

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`A RELEASE`_


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CHAPTER IX.

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`"WHILE THE RIPPLES FOLD UPON SANDS OF GOLD"`_


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CHAPTER X.

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`BACKWARD THOUGHTS`_


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CHAPTER XI.

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`A TOAST`_


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CHAPTER XII.

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`EXPECTATIONS`_


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CHAPTER XIII.

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`"YE ARE WELCOME, GLENOGIE!"`_


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CHAPTER XIV.

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`THE EQUINOCTIALS AT LAST`_


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CHAPTER XV.

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`"FLIEH!  AUF!  HINAUS!"`_


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CHAPTER XVI.

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`AFTER THE GALE`_


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CHAPTER XVII.

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`"A GOOD ONE FOR THE LAST"`_


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CHAPTER XVIII.

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`ADIEU`_





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.. _`A CONFESSION`:

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   WHITE WINGS:

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   A Yachting Romance.

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   CHAPTER I.

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   A CONFESSION.

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What could the solitary scouts, coming back
from the various points of the island, know of
this quick, unwilling cry of pain, and of the
forced calm that followed it?  They had their
own sorrows.  There was a gloom upon their
faces.  One and all bore the same story—not
a seal, not a wild duck, not even a rock
pigeon anywhere.

"But it is a fine thing to be able to
straighten one's back," says the Laird, who
always seizes on the cheerful side; "and we
have not given up hope of your getting the
sealskin yet, Miss Mary—no, no.  The Doctor
says they are away hunting just now; when
the tide gets low again they will come up on
the rocks.  So the best thing we can do is to
spend plenty of time over our luncheon, and
cross the island again in the afternoon.  Aye;
begun already?" adds the Laird, as he goes
up to the canvas, and regards the rough
outlines in charcoal with a critical air.  "Very
good! very good!" he says, following the
lines with his thumb, and apparently drawing
in the air.  "Excellent!  The composeetion
very clever indeed—simple, bold, striking.
And a fine blaze of colour ye'll have on a
day like this; and then the heavy black hull
of the smack bang in the foreground:
excellent, excellent!  But if I were you, I
would leave out that rock there; ye would
get a better sweep of the sea.  Don't distract
the eye in sea pieces; bold lines—firm, sound
colour: and there ye are.  Well, my lass, ye
have the skill of constructing a picture.
Tom Galbraith himself would admit that, I
know——"

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But here the Laird is called away by his
hostess.

"I would advise you, sir," says she, "to
have some luncheon while you can get it.  It
is a very strange thing, with all you gentlemen
on board, and with all those guns lying about,
but we are drawing nearer and nearer to
starvation.  I wish you would give up hunting
seals, and shoot something useful."

Here our young Doctor appears with certain
bottles that have been cooling in the water.

"There must be plenty of rock pigeons
in the caves we passed this morning, on the
other island," he says.

"Oh, not those beautiful birds!" says she
of the empty larder.  "We cannot have
Hurlingham transported to the Highlands."

"Whoever trys to shoot those pigeons won't
find it a Hurlingham business," he remarks.

But the Laird has a soul above luncheons,
and larders, and pigeon-shooting.  He is still
profoundly absorbed in thought.

"No," he says, at length, to the young
lady who, as usual, is by his side.  "I am
wrong!"

She looks up at him with some surprise.

"Yes, I am wrong," he says, decisively.
"Ye must keep in that island.  Ye must
sacrifice picturesqueness to truth.  Never mind
the picture: keep the faithful record.  In after
life ye will be able to get plenty of pictures;
but ye may not be able to get an exact record
of the things ye saw when ye were sailing
with the *White Dove*."

"Well, you know, sir," observes Miss Avon,
with a somewhat embarrassed smile, "you
don't give me much encouragement.  You
always speak as if I were to be compelled to
keep those sketches.  Am I to find nobody
silly enough to buy them?"

Now, somehow or other of late, the Laird
has been more and more inclined to treat the
sale of Mary Avon's pictures as a most
irresistible joke.  He laughs and chuckles at
the mere mention of such a thing, just as if
Homesh were somewhere about.

"Sell them!" he says, with another deep
chuckle.  "Ye will never sell them.  Ye could
not have the heart to part with them."

"The heart has to be kept in proper subjection,"
says she, lightly, "when one has to
earn one's living."

Queen Titania glances quickly at the girl;
but apparently there is no profound meaning
concealed in this speech.  Miss Avon has
taken her seat on a shelving piece of grey
rock; and, if she is concerned about anything,
it is about the safety of certain plates and
knives and such things.  Her hand is quite
steady as she holds out her tumbler for the
Youth to pour some water into the claret.

Luncheon over, she returns to her work;
and the band of seal-hunters, taking to cigars
and pipes, sit and watch the tide slowly ebb
away from the golden-brown seaweed.  Then,
with many a caution as to patience and silence,
they rise and get their guns and set out.
Already there is a disposition to slouch the
head and walk timidly; though as yet there is
no need of any precaution.

"*Glückliche Reise!*" says Miss Avon,
pleasantly, as we pass.

Angus Sutherland starts, and turns his head.
But the salutation was not for him; it was
meant for the Youth, who is understood to be
the most eager of the seal-hunters.  And
Mr. Smith, not having his answer pat, replies, "I
hope so;" and then looks rather confused as
he passes on, carefully stooping his head though
there is no occasion whatever.

Then, by following deep gullies and crawling
over open ledges, we reach points commanding
the various bays; and with the utmost caution
peer over or round the rocks.  And whereas
yesterday, being Sunday, the bays were alive
with seals, disporting themselves freely in full
view of a large party of people who were
staring at them, to-day, being Monday, finds not
a seal visible anywhere, though every one is in
hiding, and absolute silence must have reigned
in the island, ever since the lobster fishers left
in the morning.  No matter; the tide is still
ebbing; the true hunter must possess his soul.

And yet this lying prone for hours on a ledge
of exceedingly rough rock must have been
monotonous work for our good friend the Laird.
Under his nose nothing to look at but scraps
of orange lichen and the stray feathers of sea
birds; abroad nothing but the glassy blue sea,
with the pale mountains of Jura rising into the
cloudless sky.  At last it seemed to become
intolerable.  We could see him undergoing all
sorts of contortions in the effort to wrest
something out of his coat-pocket without raising
any portion of his body above the line of cover.
He himself was not unlike a grey seal in the
shadow of the rock, especially when he twisted
and turned himself about without rising an inch
from the surface.  And in time he succeeded.
We could see him slowly and carefully unfold
that newspaper—probably not more than a
week old—just beneath his face.  He had no
need of spectacles: his eyes were almost
touching the page.  And then we knew that he was
at rest; and the hard rock and the seals all
forgotten.  For we took it that this local paper
was one which had written a most important
leading article about the proposed public park
for Strathgovan, calling upon the ratepayers to
arise and assert their rights and put a check on
the reckless extravagance of the Commissioners.
The Laird himself was openly pointed at as
one who would introduce the luxury of the later
Romans into a sober Scotch community; and
there were obscure references to those who
seemed to consider that a man's dwelling-house
should become nothing more nor less than a
museum of pictures and statues, while they
would apply taxes raised from a hard-working
population in the adornment of places of
recreation for the idle.  But do you think that
the Laird was appalled by this fierce onslaught?
Not a bit of it.  He had read and re-read it
to us with delight.  He had triumphantly
refuted the writer's sophistries; he had exposed
his ignorance of the most elementary facts in
political economy; he was always rejoiced to
appear before Tom Galbraith and Mary Avon
as one who was not afraid to suffer for his
championship of art.  And then, when he had
triumphed over his enemy, he would fold the
paper with a sort of contented sigh; and
would say with a compassionate air, "Poor
crayture! poor crayture!" as if the poor
crayture could not be expected to know any
better.

At last—at last!  The Laird makes frantic
gestures with his newspaper—all the more
frantic that they have to be strictly lateral,
and that he dare not raise his hand.  And
behold! far away out there on the still, blue
surface, a smooth round knob, shining and
black.  Without a muscle moving, eager eyes
follow that distant object.  The seal is not
alarmed or suspicious; he sails evenly onward,
seldom looking to right or left.  And when he
disappears there is no splash; he has had
enough of breathing; he is off for his hunting
in the deep seas.

What is more, he remains there.  We catch
no further trace of him, nor of any other living
thing around those deserted bays.  Human
nature gives in.  The Youth gets up, and
boldly displays himself on a promontory, his
gun over his shoulder.  Then the Laird, seeing
that everything is over, gets up too, yawning
dreadfully, and folds his newspaper, and puts it
in his pocket.

"Come along!" he calls out.  "It is no use.
The saints have taught the seals tricks.  They
know better than to come near on a working day."

And so presently the sombre party sets out
again for the other side of the island, where the
gig awaits us.  Not a word is said.  Cartridges
are taken out; we pick our way through the
long grass and the stones.  And when it is
found that Miss Avon has roughed in all that
she requires of her present study, it is gloomily
suggested that we might go back by way of
the other island, that so haply we might secure
the materials for a pigeon pie before returning
to the yacht.

The evening sun was shining ruddily along
the face of the cliffs as we drew near the other
island; and there was no sign of life at all
about the lonely shores and the tall caves.  But
there was another story to tell when, the various
guns having been posted, the Youth boldly
walked up to the mouth of the largest of the
caves, and shouted.  Presently there were
certain flashes of blue things in the mellow
evening light; and the sharp bang! bang! of
the gun, that echoed into the great hollows.
Hurlingham?  That did not seem much of a
Hurlingham performance.  There were no
birds standing bewildered on the fallen trap,
wondering whether to rise or not; but there
were things coming whizzing through the air
that resembled nothing so much as rifle bullets
with blue wings.  The Youth, it is true, got
one or two easy shots at the mouth of the cave;
but when the pigeons got outside and came
flashing over the heads of the others, the
shooting was, on the whole, a haphazard
business.  Nevertheless, we got a fair number
for Master Fred's larder, after two of the men
had acted as retrievers for three-quarters of an
hour among the rocks and bushes.  Then away
again for the solitary vessel lying in the silent
loch, with the pale mists stealing over the
land, and the red sun sinking behind the Jura
hills.

Again, after dinner, amid the ghostly greys
of the twilight, we went forth on another
commissariat excursion, to capture fish.
Strange to say, however, our Doctor, though
he was learned on the subject of flies and
tackle, preferred to remain on board: he had
some manuscript to send off to London.
And his hostess said she would remain too;
she always has plenty to do about the saloon.
Then we left the *White Dove* and rowed
away to the rocks.

But the following conversation, as we
afterwards heard, took place in our absence:—

"I wished very much to speak to you,"
said Angus Sutherland, to his hostess, without
making any movement to bring out his desk.

"I thought so," said she; not without a
little nervous apprehension.

And then she said quickly, before he could
begin—

"Let me tell you at once, Angus, that I
have spoken to Mary.  Of course, I don't
wish to interfere; I wouldn't interfere for the
world; but—but I only asked her, lest there
should be any unpleasant misapprehension,
whether she had any reason to be offended
with you.  'None in the least,' she said.
She was most positive.  She even seemed to
be deeply pained by the misunderstanding;
and—and wished me to let you know; so you
must dismiss that from your mind any way."

He listened thoughtfully, without saying
anything.  At last he said—

"I have determined to be quite frank
with you.  I am going to tell you a secret—if
it is a secret——"

"I have guessed it," she said, quickly, to
spare him pain.

"I thought so," he said, quite quietly.
"Well; I am not ashamed of it.  I have no
reason to be ashamed of it.  But, since you
know, you will see that it would be very
embarrassing for me to remain longer on
board the yacht if—if there was no hope——"

He turned over the leaves of a guide-book
rapidly, without looking at them; the
hard-headed Doctor had not much command over
himself at this moment.

"If you have guessed, why not she?" he
said, in a somewhat hurried and anxious
manner.  "And—and—if I am to go, better
that I should know at once.  I—I have
nothing to complain of—I mean I have
nothing to reproach her with—if it is a
misfortune, it is a misfortune—but—but she used
to be more friendly towards me."

These two were silent.  What was passing
before their minds?  The long summer
nights in the far northern seas, with the glory
dying in the west; or the moonlight walks
on the white deck, with the red star of
Ushinish lighthouse burning in the south; or
the snug saloon below, with its cards, and
candles, and laughter, and Mary Avon singing
to herself the song of Ulva?  She sang no
song of Ulva now.

"Mary and I are very intimate friends,"
says the other deliberately.  "I will say
nothing against her.  Girls have curious
fancies about such things sometimes.  But I
must admit—for you are my friend
too—that I am not surprised you should have
been encouraged by her manner to you at
one time, or that you should wonder a little
at the change."

But even this mild possibility of Mary
Avon's being in the wrong she feels to be
incompatible with her customary championship
of her friend; and so she instantly says—

"Mind, I am certain of this—that
whatever Mary does, she believes to be right.
Her notion of duty is extraordinarily sensitive
and firm.  Once she has put anything before
her as the proper thing to be done, she goes
straight at it; and nothing will turn her aside.
And although there is something about it I
can't quite understand, how am I to
interfere?  Interference never does any good.
Why do not you ask her yourself?"

"I mean to do so, when I get the chance,"
said he, simply.  "I merely wished to tell
you that, if her answer is 'No,' it will be
better for me to leave you.  Already I fancy
my being on board the yacht is a trouble to
her.  I will not be a trouble to her.  I can
go.  If it is a misfortune, there is no one to
blame."

"But if she says '*Yes!*'" cried his friend;
and there was a wonderful joy in her eyes,
and in her excess of sympathy she caught
his hand for a moment.  "Oh, Angus, if
Mary were to promise to be your wife!
What a trip we should have then—we should
take the *White Dove* to Stornoway!"

That was her ultimate notion of human
happiness—sailing the *White Dove* up to
Stornoway!

"I don't think there is much hope," said
he, rather absently, "from her manner of late.
But anything is better than suspense.  If it
is a misfortune, as I say, there is no one to
blame.  I had not the least notion that she
knew Mr. Howard Smith in London."

"Nor did she."

He stared rather.

"They may have met at our house; but
certainly not more than once.  You see,
living in a country house, we have to have
our friends down in a *staccato* fashion, and
always by arrangement of a few at a time.
There is no general dropping in to afternoon tea."

"He never met her in London?" he repeated.

"I should think not."

"His uncle, then: did she never see him before?"

"Certainly not."

"Then what does he mean by treating her
as a sort of familiar friend who was likely to
turn up any time at Denny-mains?"

His companion coloured somewhat; for she
had no right to betray confidences.

"The Laird is very fond of Mary," she said,
evasively.  "It is quite beautiful to see those
two together."

He sate for a little time in silence; and then
begged to be excused—he would go on deck to
smoke.  But when, some little time thereafter,
we returned from our brief fishing, the dark
figure walking up and down the deck was not
smoking at all.  He paused as the gig was
hauled fast to the gangway.

"What luck?"

"About two dozen."

"All lithe?"

"About half-a-dozen mackerel."

And then he assisted Mary Avon to ascend
the small wooden steps.  She said "Thank
you!" as she withdrew her hand from his; but
the words were uttered in a low voice; and
she instantly crossed to the companion and went
below.  He stayed on deck, and helped to
swing the gig up to the davits.

Now something had got into the head of our
Admiral-in-chief that night.  She was very
merry; and very affectionate towards Mary.
She made light of her foolish wish to go away
to the south.  She pointed out that this
continuous fine weather was only hoarding up
electricity for the equinoctials; and then we
should have a spin!

"We are not going to let you go, Mary;
that is the long and the short of it.  And we
are going to keep hold of Angus, too.  He is
not going away yet—no, no.  We have something
for him to do.  We shall not rest satisfied
until we see him sail the *White Dove* into
Stornoway harbour!"





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.. _`ONLY A HEADACHE`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   ONLY A HEADACHE.

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Stornoway harbour, indeed!  The weather
was laughing at us.  The glass had steadily
fallen until it had got about as low as it could
go with decency; and yet this next morning
was more beautiful, and bright, and calm than
ever!  Were we to be for ever confined in this
remote Loch of the Burying Place?

"Angus!  Angus! where are you?" the
Admiral calls out, as she comes up on deck.

"Here I am," calls out a voice in return,
from the cross-trees.

She raises her head, and perceives the ruddy-faced
Doctor hanging on by the ratlines.

"Where is the fine sailing weather you were
to bring us—eh?"

"I have been looking for it," he replies, as
he comes down the rigging; "and there is not
a breath anywhere."

"Very well," she says, promptly; "I'll tell
you what you must do.  You must get everybody
who can handle a gun into the gig and go
away up to the head of the loch there, and
shoot every living thing you can see.  Do
you understand?  We are on the brink of
starvation!  We are perishing!  Do you want
us to boil tarred rope into soup?"

"No," he says, humbly.

"Very well.  Away you go.  If you can't
bring us any wind to take us into a civilised
place, you must provide us with food; is that
clear enough?"

Here Captain John comes aft, touching his cap.

"Good morning mem!  I was never seeing
the like of this weather, mem."

"I don't want to see any more of it," she
says, sharply.  "Did you bring us in here
because there was a convenient place to bury
us in?  Do you know that we are dying of
starvation?"

"Oh, no, mem!" says Captain John, with a
grin; but looking rather concerned all the
same.

However, her attention is quickly called
away by the sound of oars.  She turns and
regards this small boat approaching the yacht;
and the more she looks the more do her eyes
fill with astonishment.

"Well, I declare!" she says, "this is about
the coolest thing I have seen for ages."

For it is Miss Mary Avon who is rowing the
dingay back to the yacht; and her only
companion is the Youth, who is contentedly seated
in the stern, with his gun laid across his
knees.

"Good morning, Mr. Smith!" she says, with
the most gracious sarcasm.  "Pray don't exert
yourself too much.  Severe exercise before
breakfast is very dangerous."

The Youth lays hold of the rope; there is a
fine blush on his handsome face.

"It is Miss Avon's fault," he says; "she
would not let me row."

"I suppose she expected you to shoot?
Where are the duck, and the snipe, and the
golden plover?  Hand them up!"

"If you want to see anything in the shape of
game about this coast, you'd better wait till
next Sunday," says he, somewhat gloomily.

However, after breakfast, we set out for the
shallow head of the loch; and things do not
turn out so badly after all.  For we have only
left the yacht some few minutes when there is
a sudden whirring of wings—a call of
"Duck! duck!"—and the Doctor, who is at the bow,
and who is the only one who is ready, fires a
snap-shot at the birds.  Much to everybody's
amazement, one drops, and instantly dives.
Then begins an exciting chase.  The biorlinn
is sent careering with a vengeance; the men
strain every muscle; and then another cry
directs attention to the point at which the duck
has reappeared.  It is but for a second.  Though
he cannot fly, he can swim like a fish; and
from time to time, as the hard pulling enables
us to overtake him, we can see him shooting
this way or that through the clear water.  Then
he bobs his head up, some thirty or forty yards
off; and there is another snap-shot—the charge
rattling on the water the fifth part of an instant
*after* he disappears.

"Dear me!" says the Laird; "that bird
will cost us ten shillings in cartridges."

But at last he is bagged.  A chance shot
happens to catch him before he dives; he is
stretched on the water, with his black webbed
feet in the air; and a swoop of Captain John's
arm brings him dripping into the gig.  And
then our natural history is put to the test.
This is no gay-plumaged sheldrake, or
blue-necked mallard, or saw-toothed merganser.
It is a broad-billed duck, of a sooty black and
grey; we begin to regret our expenditure of
cartridges; experiments on the flavour of
unknown sea birds are rarely satisfactory.  But
Captain John's voice is authoritative and
definite.  "It is a fine bird," he says.  And
Master Fred has already marked him for
his own.

Then among the shallows at the head of
the loch there is many a wild pull after broods
of flappers, and random firing at the circling
curlew.  The air is filled with the calling of
the birds; and each successive shot rattles
away with its echo among the silent hills.
What is the result of all this noise and
scramble?  Not much, indeed; for right in
the middle of it we are attracted by a strange
appearance in the south.  That dark line
beyond the yacht: is it a breeze coming up the
loch?  Instantly the chase after mergansers
ceases; cartridges are taken out; the two or
three birds we have got are put out of the
way; and the Laird, taking the tiller ropes,
sits proud and erect.  Away go the four oars
with the precision of machinery; and the long
sweep sends the gig ahead at a swinging pace.
Behold! behold! the dark blue on the water
widening!  Is it a race between the wind and the
gig as to which will reach the *White Dove* first?
"Give me your oar, Fred!" says the
Doctor, who is at the bow.

There is but a momentary pause.  Again
the shapely boat swings along; and with the
measured beat of the oars comes the old
familiar chorus—

.. class:: italics

   |  ... Cheerily, and all together!
   |      Ho, ro, clansmen!
   |  A long, strong pull together!—
   |      Ho, ro, clansmen!
   |  Soon the flowing breeze will blow;
   |  We'll show the snowy canvas on her—
   |      Ho, ro, clansmen!
   |  A long, strong pull together!—
   |      Ho, ro, clansmen!
   |  Wafted by the breeze of morn
   |  We'll quaff the joyous horn together!—
   |      Ho, ro, clansmen!
   |  A long, strong pull together!—
   |      Ho, ro, clansmen!
   |

"We'll beat! we'll beat!" cries the Laird,
in great delight.  "Give it her, boys!  Not
one halfpennyworth o' that wind will we
lose!"

The bow cleaves the blue water; the foam
hisses away from her rudder.  It is a race
of the North against the South.  Then the
chorus again—

.. class:: italics

   |      Ho, ro, clansmen!
   |  A long, strong pull together!—
   |      Ho, ro, clansmen!
   |

Hurrah! hurrah!  As the gig is run
alongside, and guns and birds handed up, that
spreading blue has not quite reached the
yacht; there is no appreciable stir of the lazy
ensign.  But there is little time to be lost.
The amateurs swing the gig to the davits,
while the men are getting in the slack of the
anchor chain; the women are incontinently
bundled below, to be out of the way of
flapping sheets.  Then, all hands at the halyards!
And by the time the great White Wings are
beginning to spread, the breeze stirs the still
air around us; and the peak sways gently this
way and that; and they who are hard at work
at the windlass are no doubt grateful for this
cool blowing from the south.  Then there is
a cessation of noise; we become vaguely aware
that we are moving.  At last the *White Dove*
has spread her wings; her head is turned
towards the south.  Good-bye! you lonely
loch, with the silent shores and the silent
tombs—a hundred farewells to you, wherever
we may be going!

And slowly we beat down the loch, against
this light southerly breeze.  But as we get
further and further into the open, surely there
is something in the air and in the appearance
of the southern sky that suggests that the
glass has not been falling for nothing.  The
sea is smooth; but there is a strange gloom
ahead of us; and beyond the islands that we
visited yesterday nothing is visible but a wan
and sultry glare.  Then, afar, we can hear a
noise as of the approach of some storm; but
perhaps it is only the low sound of the
swirling of the tides round the shores.  Presently
another sound attracts attention—a murmured
hissing, and it comes nearer and nearer; dark
spots, about the size of a threepenny-piece,
appear on the white decks.  The women have
scarcely time to send below for their sunshades
when the slight shower passes by—the decks
are not even left damp.  Then further and
further we creep away towards the south;
but where we expected to catch some far
glimpse of the Irish coast—the blue line of
Rathlin or the Antrim cliffs—there is only
that dim, sultry haze.

Then another sound—a dull *flop! flop!*—in
the distance; and the stragglers who have
remained below after luncheon are hastily
summoned on deck.  And there, far away in
the haze, we can dimly descry the successive
curved forms of a school of dolphins, racing
each other, and springing twenty or thirty feet
in the air before they come down with that
heavy thud on the water.  Those of us who
have watched the beautiful lithe fish racing and
chasing by the side of an Atlantic vessel, would
fain have been somewhat nearer; but we can
only see the dim forms springing into the haze.
Then the dull pistol-shots in the south slowly
cease, and we are left alone on the low
murmuring sea.

"But where is Miss Mary?" says the Laird,
suddenly becoming aware of the absence of
his chief companion.

"Oh, she is in the saloon!" says his hostess,
quickly and anxiously.  "She is doing
something to one of her water-colours.  I suppose
we must not disturb her."

"No, no; certainly not," returns the Laird,
lightly; and then he adds, with a smile which
is meant to be very significant, "There is never
any harm in hard work.  Let her go on; she
will have a fine collection of sketches before
she leaves the *White Dove*."

But our Queen Tita does not respond to that
careless joke.  There is a curious, constrained
look on her face; and she quite peremptorily
negatives a suggestion of the Youth that he
should go below for the draught-board.  Then
one of us perceives that Angus Sutherland is
not on deck.

Has the opportunity come at last, then, for
the clearing away of all secret troubles?  What
end is there to be to this momentous interview?
Is it Stornoway harbour?  Is our frank-eyed
young Doctor to come up with a silent wonder
and joy on his face—a message that needs no
speech—a message that only says, "About with
the yacht, and let us run away to the northern
seas and Stornoway?"  The friend of these
two young people can hardly conceal her
anxiety.  She has got hold of the case of an
opera glass, and opens and shuts it quickly and
aimlessly.  Then there is a step on the
companion way; she does not look; she only
knows that Angus Sutherland comes on deck,
and then goes forward to the bow of the
gig, and stands by himself, and looks out
to sea.

There is silence on board; for a low rumble
of thunder has been heard once or twice, and
we are listening.  The mountains of Jura are
dark now, and the sultry mist in the south is
deeper in its gloom.  This condition of the
atmosphere produces a vague sense of
something about to happen, which is in itself
uncomfortable; one would almost like to see
a flash of lightning, or hear the thunderous
advance of a storm breaking in upon the
oppressive calm.

The Laird goes forward to Angus Sutherland.

"Well, Doctor, and what think ye of the
weather now?"

The younger man starts and turns round,
and for a second looks at the Laird as if he
had not quite comprehended the question.

"Oh, yes!" he says.  "You are quite right.
It does look as if we were going to have a
dirty night."

And with that he turns to the sea again.

"Aye," says the Laird, sententiously.  "I
am glad we are in a boat we need have no
fear of—none!  Keep her away from the
shore, and we are all right.  But—but I
suppose we will get into some harbour to-night,
after all?"

"It does not matter," he says, absently; and
then he goes away up to the bow.  He is alone
there; for the men have gone below for
dinner—with the exception of John of Skye, who is
at the helm.

Presently the special friend of the young
man puts aside that opera-glass case, and walks
timidly forward to the bow of the yacht.  She
regards him somewhat anxiously; but his face
is turned away from her—looking over to the
gloomy Jura hills.

"Angus," she says, briskly, "are we not
going very near Jura, if it is West Loch
Tarbert we are making for?"

He turned to her then, and she saw by his
face that something had happened.

"You have spoken to her, Angus?" she
said, in a low voice; and her earnest, kind
eyes regarded the young man as if to anticipate
his answer.

"Yes."

For a second or so he seemed disinclined to
say more; but presently he added, scarcely
looking at her—

"I am sorry that I must leave you the first
time we get near land."

"Oh, Angus!"

It was almost a cry—uttered in that low,
piteous voice.  Then he looked at her.

"You have been very kind to me," said he,
so that no one should hear.  "It is only a
misfortune.  But I wish I had never seen the
*White Dove*."

"Oh, Angus; don't say that!"

"It is my own fault.  I should never have
come from Edinburgh.  I knew that.  I knew
I was hazarding everything.  And she is not
to blame——"

He could say no more, for one or two of the
men now came up from the forecastle.  His
hostess left him and went aft, with a hurt and
indignant look on her face.  When the Laird
asked why Miss Mary did not come on deck,
she said, "I don't know," with an air which
said she had ceased to take any further care
in Mary Avon's actions.  And at dinner, what
heed did she pay to the fact that Mary Avon
was rather white, and silent, and pained-looking?
She had been disappointed.  She had
not expected the friend of her bosom to act
in this heartless manner.  And as for Howard
Smith, she treated that young gentleman with
a cold courtesy which rather astonished him.

After dinner, when the men folk had gone
on deck, and when she was preparing to go
too, a timid, appealing hand was laid on her arm.

"I would like to speak to you," said the low
voice of Mary Avon.

Then she turned—only for a second.

"I think I know enough of what has happened,
Mary," said she; "and it would not be
right for me to intermeddle.  Young people are
the best judges of their own affairs."

The appealing hand was withdrawn; the girl
retired to the saloon, and sate down alone.

But here, on deck, an eager council of war
was being held; and Angus Sutherland was as
busy as any one with the extended chart—the
soundings barely visible in the waning light—and
proposals and counter proposals were being
freely bandied about.  Night was coming on;
dirty-looking weather seemed to be coming up
from the south; and the mouth of West Loch
Tarbert is narrow and shallow in parts, and
studded with rocks—a nasty place to enter in
the dark.  Moreover, when should we get
there, beating against this south-easterly wind?
What if we were to put her head round, and
run for some improvised harbour among the
small islands under the shadow of the Jura
hills, and wait there for daylight to show us
across the Sound?

There was but one dissentient.  Angus
Sutherland seemed oddly anxious to get to
West Loch Tarbert.  He would himself take
the helm all night; if only the men would
take their turn at the look-out, one at a time.
He was sure he could make the channel, if we
reached the mouth of the loch before daylight.
What! with nothing shallower on the chart
than four fathoms!  How could there be any
danger?

But the more prudent counsels of John of
Skye at length prevail, and there is a call to the
men forward to stand by.  Then down goes
the helm; her head slews round with a rattling
of blocks and cordage; the sheets of the head-sails
are belayed to leeward; and then, with the
boom away over the starboard davits, we are
running free before this freshening breeze.

But the night is dark as we cautiously creep
in under the vast shadows of the Jura hills.
Fortunately in here the wind is light; the
*White Dove* seems to feel her way through the
gloom.  All eyes are on the look-out; and
there is a general shout as we nearly run on
a buoy set to mark a sunken ship.  But we
glide by in safety; and in due course of time
the roar of the anchor chain tells us that we
are snug for the night.

"But where is Miss Mary?" says the Laird,
in the cheerfully-lit saloon.  He looks around
him in an uncomfortable and unsettled way.
The saloon is not the saloon when Mary Avon
is out of it; here is her chair next to his as
usual, but it is vacant.  How are we to spend
the last happy hour of chatting and joking
without the pleased, bright face, and the timid,
gentle, shy, dark eyes?

"Mary has gone to her cabin," says her
hostess.  "I suppose she has a headache."

She supposes the girl has a headache, and
has not asked!  And can it be really Mary
Avon that she is speaking of in that cold, hurt,
offended way?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE DARK`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE DARK.

.. vspace:: 2

And then the next morning the Laird is
infinitely distressed.

"What! not better yet?" he says.  "Dear
me!  I wish I could be a woman for a while, to
take some tea in to her, and read to her, and
coax her into better spirits.  What a bad
headache it must be!"

But this generous sympathy on the part of
one who is little more than an acquaintance
touches the heart of Mary Avon's particular
friend.  She reproaches herself for her cruelty.
She not only gets the tea and takes it into the
cabin, but she adopts a domineering tone, and
declares that until the young lady begins her
breakfast she will not leave the place.  And
then she looks at the timid, worn face; and her
hand is placed gently on the hand of her friend,
and she says in a lower voice—

"Mary, don't think I am angry.  I am only
a little bit disappointed.  But I don't blame
you—you could not help it.  It is a pity; that
is all."

The girl's face remains rather sad; but she
is quite self-possessed.

"You will let me go away," she says, looking
down, "when we get to some harbour?"

"There is no need," says her friend, regarding
her.  "Angus will leave us to-day, as soon
as we get across to Cantyre."

"Oh!" she said, quickly, and looking tip
with a brief appeal in her eyes.  "I hope not!
Why should he go away?  I must go; I would
rather go."

"Oh, no, Mary!" her friend said.  "If there
is any 'must' in the matter, it is on his side;
for you know his time is very valuable, and you
must have guessed why he has already far
exceeded what he proposed to himself as his
holiday.  No, no, Mary; let us forget what
has happened as soon as we can, and make the
best of the rest of our sailing.  The Laird
would have a fit if you seriously threatened
to go.  And I am sure you are not to blame."

So she kissed her on the cheek, by way of
reconciliation, and left.  And she told the Laird
that Mary had been dutiful, and had taken
some breakfast, and would be up on deck in
course of time.

Meanwhile, those who had gone on deck had
found the *White Dove* lying in a dead calm,
some three miles away from her anchorage of
the previous night; her sails hanging limp; a
scorching sun on the white decks, and a glare
of light coming from the blue sky and the
glassy blue sea.

"Well, Angus," says his hostess, very
merrily—for she does not wish to let the
others guess the reason of his sudden
departure; "you see the weather does not
approve of your leaving us.  What has
become of your thunderstorm?  Where is
the gale from the south, John?"

"I was never seeing the like of this weather,
mem," said the bearded skipper.  Then he
added, anxiously, "And is Dr. Sutherland
himself going away from the yat?"

"He would like to," she says; "but how is
he ever to see land again if you banish the
wind so?"

"But it will no be like this long!" says
Captain John, eagerly—for he appears to
think that Dr. Sutherland has got tired of the
fine weather.  "Oh, no, mem!  I will answer
for it.  If Dr. Sutherland will wait another day,
or two days, I am sure there will be plenty of
wind.  And we can lie in West Loch Tarbert
for one day, or two days——"

"And starve?" she says, abruptly.

But now it appears that one or two of the
men have heard of a mysterious village lying
somewhere inland from the mouth of the loch;
and from a comparison of these vague rumours
we gather that we may not be so far from

civilisation after all.  Perhaps we may once
again behold loaf-bread.  Visions of cutlets,
fowls, grouse, and hares arise.  We shall once
more hear some echo of the distant world
if perchance there be in the place a worn and
ancient newspaper.

"Ay," said the Laird, hastily.  "I would like
to see a Glasgow newspaper!  I'm thinking
they must have got the steam fire-engine by
now; and fine games the bairns will have when
they begin to practise with it, skelping about in
the water.  It would be a grand thing to try it
in the public garden when we get it; it would
keep the shrubs and the borders fine and wet—eh?"

"And it would be quite as interesting as
any plaster fountain," says his hostess,
encouragingly.

"As handsome every bit," says the Laird,
laughing heartily at his play of imagination,
"as any bit laddie done up in stucco, standing
on one leg, and holding up a pipe!  It's a
utilitarian age, ma'am—a utilitarian age; we
will have instead of a fountain a steam
fire-engine—very good! very good!—and they
bodies who are always crying out against
expenditure on decoration will be disappointed
for once."

The Laird had at last discovered the whereabouts
of the mysterious village on the
Admiralty chart.

"But what newspaper will we get in a place
hidden away like that?—out of the reach of all
communication wi' the world.  They'll be a
century behind, mark my words.  It is when
ye live within a reasonable distance of a great
centre of ceevilisation, like Glasgow, that ye feel
the life of it stirring your own place too; and
ye must keep up with the times; ye must be
moving.  Conservative as I am, there is no
supersteetious obstinacy about me;
moving—moving—that's the word.  The more important
the matter in the interest of the public, the
more necessary is it that we should have an
impartial mind.  If ye show me a new sort of
asphalte, do ye think I would not examine it,
jist because I recommended Jamieson and
MacGregor's patent?"

He appealed boldly to his hostess.

"Oh, certainly; certainly you would!" she
says, with an earnestness that might have made
Jamieson and MacGregor quail.

"For three weeks," says the Laird, solemnly,
"I was on that committee, until it seemed that
my breakfast, and my dinner, and my supper
every day was nothing but tar-smoke.  What
wi' the experiments without and within, I was
just filled with tar-smoke.  And would ye
believe it, ma'am, one o' they Radical newspapers
went as far as to say there were secret
influences at work when Jamieson and
MacGregor was decided on.  My friends said,
'Prosecute the man for libel;' but I said,
'No; let the poor crayture alone; he has got
to earn his living!'"

That was very wise of you, sir," says his
hostess.

"Bless me!  If a man in public life were to
heed everything that's said about him," observes
the Laird, with a fine air of unconcern, "what
would become of his time?  No, no; that is
not the principle on which a public man should
found his life.  Do your best for your
fellow-creatures, and let the squabblers say what they
like.  As ah say, the poor wretches have to earn
their living."

Here Mary Avon appeared, somewhat pale
and tired-looking; and the Laird instantly went
to condole with her, and to get her a deck chair,
and what not.  At the same moment, too, our
young Doctor came along—perhaps with a
brave desire to put an end to her embarrassment
at once—and shook hands with her, and
said "Good morning; I hope your headache is
better."  Her hand was trembling as it fell
away from his; and her " Yes, thank you," was
almost inaudible.  Then she sate down, and the
Laird resumed his discourse.

"I was once taken," said he, "by a fellow
commissioner of mine to a sort of singing place,
or music hall, in Glasgow."

"What?"

"They wanted to have some such place in
Strathgovan," continued the Laird, paying no
heed; "and I was asked to go and see what
sort of entertainment was provided in such
places.  It was a sorrowful sight, ma'am—a
sorrowful sight; the wretched craytures on the
stage laughing at their own songs, and the
people not laughing at all, but given over to
tobacco smoking, and whisky, and talking
amongst themselves.  No glint of humour—stupid,
senseless stuff.  But there was one
young man sung a song that had a better sound
in it—I cannot remember the words—but I
sometimes think there was common sense in
them: it was about minding your own business,
and doing your own work, and letting fools say
or think of ye what they please.  Aye, I think
there was something in that young man; though
I doubt, by the look of his eyes, but he was a
drinker."

He turned to Mary Avon, who had been
content to be a mute and unobserved listener.

"Well, Miss Mary," said he, brightly, "and
the headache is going?  And are ye looking
forward to getting letters and newspapers
when we get back to the world?  There is
a post-office at that village of Clachan, John?"

"Oh, aye, sir!" said John; "there will be
a post-office."

The Laird looked up at him reproachfully.

"But why cannot ye learn the English
pronunciation, man?  What's the necessity for
ye to say *posht offus*?  Cannot ye pronounce
the plain English—*post oafficc*?"

"I am not very good at the English, sir,"
said Captain John, with a grin.

"Ye'll never learn younger."

Then he went to Mary Avon, and suggested
that a walk up and down the deck might do
her headache good; and when she rose he
put her hand on his arm.

"Now," said he, as they started off, "I do
not like headaches in young people; they are
not natural.  And ye may think I am very
inqueesitive; but it is the privilege of old
men to be talkative and inqueesitive—and I
am going to ask you a question."

There was certainly no effort at keeping
a secret on the part of the Laird; every one
might have heard these two talking as they
quietly walked up and down.

"I am going to ask ye, plump and plain,
if ye are not anxious about going to London,
and worrying yourself about the selling of
your pictures?  There now; answer me that."

"Not very much, sir," she says, in a low voice.

"Listen to me," he said, speaking in a
remarkably emphatic way.  "If that is on
your mind, dismiss it.  I tell you what: I
will undertake, on my own responsibeelity,
that every painting in oil, and every sketch
in oil, and every water-colour drawing, and
every sketch in water-colour that ye have on
board this yacht, will be sold within one
fortnight of your leaving the yacht.  Do ye
understand that?"

"You are very kind, sir."

"I am not bletherin'," said he; "no man
ever knew me draw back from my word.  So
put that anxiety away from your mind
altogether, and let us have no more troubles.  I
could sell—I could sell four times as many
for ye in a fortnight!  Bless ye, lassie, ye do
not know the people in the West of Scotland
yet—ye'll know them better by and by.  If
there's one thino- thev understand better than
another it is a good picture; and they are
ready to put their hand in their pocket.  Oh! they
Edinburgh bodies are very fine creetics—they
have what they believe to be an elegant
society in Edinburgh—and they talk a great
deal about pictures; but do they put their
hand in their pocket?  Ask Tom Galbraith.
Ask him where he sets three-fourths of his
income.  He lives in Edinburgh; but he gets
his income from the West of Scotland.  Tom's
a wise lad.  He knows how to feather his
nest.  And when he has become independent
of the picture-dealers, then he'll go to London,
and fight the men there on their own ground."

"I should like to see some of Mr. Galbraith s
work," she said, "before I return to England."

"You will have plenty of leisure to look
at them by and by," replied the Laird, quite
simply.  "I have some of Tom's very best
things at Denny-mains."

It was not until the cool of the afternoon that
a light breeze sprung up to fill the sails of the
*White Dove*, and press her gently on towards
the coast of Cantyre.  By this time every one
on board knew that Angus Sutherland was
leaving, and leaving for good.

"I hope ye will come and see me at Denny-mains,
Dr. Sutherland," said the Laird, good-naturedly,
"when ye happen to be in Scotland.
I have a neighbour there ye would be glad to
meet—a man who could talk to ye on your
own subjects—Mr. Stoney."

Our Doctor paid but little heed.  He was
silent, and distraught.  His eyes had an
absent and heavy look in them.

"A most distinguished man," the Laird
continued.  "I am told his reputation in
England is just as great as it is in this
country.  A very distinguished man indeed.
He read a paper before the British Association
not many years ago."

"About what, do you remember?" said the
other, at last.

"H'm!" said the Laird, apparently puzzling
his memory.  "Ye see, a man in my poseetion
has so much to do with the practical business
of life, that perhaps he does not pay just
attention to the speculations of others.  But
Mr. Stoney is a remarkable man; I am
astonished ye should have forgotten what the
paper was about.  A most able man, and a
fine, logical mind; it is just beautiful to hear
him point out the close fitness between the
charges in the major proposeetion in the
Semple case, and the averments and extracts
in the minor.  Ye would be greatly delighted
and instructed by him, Doctor.  And there's
another thing."

Here the Laird looked slyly at Mary Avon.

"There's a young leddy here who has a
secret of mine; and I'm thinking she has not
said much about it.  But I will make a public
confession now: it has been on my mind for
some time back that I might buy a screw
yacht."

The Laird looked triumphantly around; he
had forgotten that it was a very open secret.

"And wouldn't it be a strange thing if
this very party, just as we are sitting now,
were to be up at this very spot next year, on
board that yacht?—wouldn't that be a strange
thing?"

"It would be a jolly pleasant thing," said
the Youth.

"You are very kind to include me in the
invitation," said Angus Sutherland; "but I
doubt whether I shall ever be in Scotland
again.  My father is a very old man now;
that is the only thing that would call me north.
But I think I could q-et on better with my
own work by going abroad for some years
to Naples, probably.  I have to go to Italy
before long, any way."

He spoke in a matter-of-fact way; we did
not doubt that he might pursue his researches
better in Naples.

It was in the dusk of the evening that we
slowly sailed into West Loch Tarbert—past
a series of rocks and islands on which, as we
were given to understand, seals were more
abundant than limpets.  But whereas the last
haunt of the seals we had visited had
introduced us to a solitary and desolate loch, with
sterile shores and lonely ruins, this loch, so
far as we could see, was a cheerful and in-
habited place, with one or two houses shining
palely white amid the dark woods.  And when
v/e had come to anchor, and sent ashore,
although there were no provisions to be got,
the men returned with all the necessary
information for Angus Sutherland.  By getting
up very early next morning, and walking a
certain distance, he would catch a certain
coach, which would take him on to Tarbert
on Loch Fyne in time to catch the steamer.
And so that nicrht, before we turned in to
our respective cabins, the Doctor bade us all
formally good-bye; and Mary Avon among
the rest.  No one could have noticed the
least difference in his manner.

But in the middle of the night, in the ladies'
cabin, a sound of stifled sobbing.  And the
other woman goes over to the berth of her
companion, and bends her head down, and
whispers—

"Mary, why are you crying?  Tell me!"

She cannot speak for a time; her whole
frame is shaken with the bitter-sobs.  And
then she says, in a low, trembling, broken
voice—

"He has not forgiven me.  I saw it in his face."





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.. _`TO ABSENT FRIENDS!`:

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   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   TO ABSENT FRIENDS!

.. vspace:: 2

Next morning, however, every one
perceived an extraordinary change in the
appearance and manner of the girl.  Mary
Avon had come back to us again, with all
the light and life of her face, and the
contented gentleness of the soft black eyes.
What had wrought the transformation?
Certain confidential assurances in the silence of
the night that Angus Sutherland, so far from
not forgiving her, had insisted that she was
not to blame at all.  Or the natural reaction
after a long strain of anxiety?  Or merely
the welcome fresh breeze of the morning, with
the cheerful, wooded shores, and the white
houses shining in the sunlight?  Any how there
was quite a new expression in her face; and
we heard the low, sweet laugh again.  It is
true that, once or twice, as she walked up and
down the deck with the Laird, her eyes grew
pensive as she looked away along the hills
on the southern shores of the loch.  That was
the direction in which Angus had left in the
morning.  And these hills were somewhat
overcast; it seemed to be raining inland.

Moreover, there was something else to make
our breakfast party a glad one.  The two men
who had rowed our young Doctor across the
loch at break of day had had the curiosity to
pierce inland as far as the village of Clachan;
and the scouts had brought back the most
glowing accounts of the Promised Land which
they had discovered.  They had penetrated a
fertile and deeply-wooded valley; and they
had at length come upon a centre of the
highest civilisation.  There was a post-office.
There was a telegraph-office.  There
was a church, the clock of which struck the
hours.

"Just fancy that!" exclaimed our hostess.
"A clock that strikes the hours!—and a
telegraph-office!  We might send a telegram
to ask whether the country has been invaded
anywhere, or whether the Prime Minister has
committed suicide."

"I would like to hear about the steam
fire-engine," said the Laird almost to himself.

"However, breeze or no breeze, seals or no
seals," she says, with decision, "we must stay
over a day here, to have the yacht thoroughly
provisioned.  We cannot go on skating on
the edge of tinned meats.  We must have a
plentiful supply of fresh vegetables, and fresh
milk, and eggs and butter; and then two or
three joints are always so serviceable—cold,
I mean, for luncheon; and if Fred cannot get
any game, at least he must get us some fowls.
What do you say, Mary?  Shall we walk over
to this place, and clear the way for Fred?"

"Oh, no!" says the other, lightly; "you
and I are going with the seal shooters.  They
never get near anything; so we cannot be in
the way.  I assure you, sir, we shall be as
quiet as mice," she adds, addressing the
Laird.

"Ye will come with us, and ye will speak
just as much as ye please," said the Laird,
dogmatically.  "What signifies a seal?  The
crayture is good for nothing!  And the idea
of you two going away by yourselves into the
country!  No—no; come away and get ready,
Howard.  If ye cannot shoot a seal with the
two leddies in the boat, ye will never do it
without.  And the sea breezes, Miss Mary,"
he added, with an approving air, "are better
for ye than the land breezes.  Oh, aye; ye
are looking just fine this morning."

A short time thereafter he was on deck,
looking around him at the pleasant trees and
the blue waters, when Miss Avon joined him,
fully equipped for the expedition; and just
at this moment they began to hear a sound
of music in the stillness of the morning air.
And then they perceived a rude old rowing-boat,
pulled by a small boy of twelve or so,
coming nearer and nearer; while another small
boy of about the same age was peacefully
reclining in the stern, his head thrown back
so that it met the full glare of the morning
sun, while he played vigorously but rather
inaccurately "The Campbells are coming" on
a tin whistle.

"Look at that!" said the Laird with
delight; "is not that perfect happiness?  Look
at his pride and laziness—having another boy
to pull him about, while he shows off on the
penny whistle.  Dear me, I wish I was that
young rascal!"

"He seems happy enough," she said, with a sigh.

"That is because he does not know it,"
remarked the Laird, profoundly.  "If you
proved to him that he was happy, it would
immediately vanish."

"You cannot be consciously happy; but
you may be consciously unhappy—that is
rather hard," said she, absently.

However, these two philosophers were
withdrawn from this occult point by a summons
from the Youth, who had already got the rifles
and cartridges into the bow of the gig.  And,
indeed, as we rowed away from the yacht, in
the direction of the rocks at the mouth of the
loch, Miss Avon seemed determined to prove
that, consciously or unconsciously, she was
happy enough.  She would not even allow
that Angus Sutherland could have felt any
pang of regret at leaving the *White Dove*
and his friends.

"Poor chap!" said the Laird, with some
compassion, as he turned his head and looked
away towards those gloomy hills; "it must
have been a lonesome journey for him this
morning.  And he so fond of sailing too;
I'm thinking when he saw what a nice breeze
there was, he was rather sorry to go away.
I should not wonder if it was wi' a heavy
heart that he went on board the steamer."

"Oh, no, sir! why should you think that?"
said Mary Avon, quickly and anxiously.  "If
Dr. Sutherland had nothing to consider but
yachting, he might have been sorry to go
away.  But think what lies before him; think
what calls him!  Look at the position he has
won for himself already, and what is expected
of him! and you would have him throw away
his splendid opportunities in yachting?  There
is not a University in Europe where he is not
known; there is not a man of science in
Europe who does not expect great things of
him; and—and—how proud his father must
be of him!"

She spoke eagerly and almost breathlessly;
there was a pink flush in her cheek, but it was
not from shamefacedness.  She seemed
desperately anxious to convince the Laird that our
Doctor ought to have left the yacht, and must
have left the yacht, and could not do anything
else but leave the yacht.  Meanwhile, her
friend and hostess regarded her curiously.

"A man with such capacities as he has,"
continued the girl, warmly, "with such a great
future before him, owes it to himself that he
should not give way to mere sentiment.  The
world could not get on at all if people—I
mean if the great people, from whom we
expect much—were always to be consulting
their feelings.  Perhaps he was sorry to leave
the yacht.  He does like sailing; and—and I
think he liked to be among friends.  But what
is that when he knows there is work in the
world for him to do?  If he was sorry at
leaving the yacht, you may depend on it that
that had passed away before he stepped on
board the steamer.  For what was that trifling
sentiment compared with the consciousness that
he had acted rightly?"

Something about the precision of these
phrases—for the girl but rarely gave way to
such a fit of earnest talking—seemed to
suggest to the silent person who was watching
her, that this was not the first time the
girl had thought of these things.

"Idle people," said this youthful controversialist,
"can afford to indulge in sentiment; but
not those who have to do great things in the
world.  And it is not as if—Dr. Sutherland"—she
always faltered the least bit just before
pronouncing the name—"were only working
for his own fame or his own wealth.  It is for
the good of mankind that he is working; and
if he has to make this or that sacrifice, he
knows that he is doing right.  What other
reward does a man need to have?"

"I am thinking of the poor old man in
Banffshire," said her friend to her, thoughtfully.
"If Angus goes away to Italy for some years,
they may not see each other again."

At this the girl turned strangely pale, and
remained silent; but she was unnoticed, for
at this moment all attention was attracted
towards the seals.

There they were, no doubt, and in large
numbers.  We could see the occasionally
moving forms, scarcely distinguishable from
the brown sea-weed, on the long projecting
points of the low rocks; while here and there
one of the animals could be made out, poising
himself in a semi-circle—head and tail in the
air—like a letter O with the upper four-fifths
cut off.  But the problem was, how to get
anywhere within shot.  The rocks, or small
islands, had no doubt certain eminences in
the middle; but they were low and shallow
all round.  Obviously it was no use bearing
straight down on them from our present
position; so it was resolved to give them a
wide berth, to pull away from the islands
altogether, and then approach them from the
south, if haply there might in this wise be
some possibility of shelter.  It was observed
that Queen Titania, during these whispered
and eager consultations, smiled gravely and
was silent.  She had been in the Highlands
before.

Seals are foolish animals.  We were half a
mile away from them; and we were going still
farther away.  The rocking of the water made
it impossible for us to try a haphazard shot
even if we had had a rifle that would have
carried anything like 800 yards with precision.
There was not the least reason for their being
alarmed.  But all the same, as we silently
and slowly paddled away from them—actually
away from them—the huge bodies one by one
flopped and waddled and dropped into the
water with a splash.  In about a minute or
so there was not a seal visible through our
best binoculars.  And Queen Titania calmly
smiled.

But, as everybody knows, there are two
sides to an island, as to everything else.  So
we boldly bore down on the shores nearest
us, and resolved, on getting close, on a cautious
and silent landing.  After many a trial we
found a creek where the stern of the gig could
be backed into fairly deep water, along a
ledge of rock, and then two of us got out.
The ladies produced their knitting materials.

With much painful stooping and crawling,
we at length reached the middle ridge, and
there laid down our rifles to have a preliminary
peep round.  That stealthy glance revealed
the fact that, on the other side also, the seals
had been alarmed and had left the rocks; but
still they were not far away.  We could see
here and there a black and glistening head
moving among the lapping waters.  Of course
it would have been madness to have risked
our all on a random shot at sea.  Hit or miss,
the chances were about equal we should not
get the seal; so we quietly retired again
behind the ridge, and sate down.  We could
see the gig and its occupants.  It seemed to
one of us at least that Queen Titania was
still amused.

A dead silence: while we idly regard the
washed-up stores of sea-shells around us, and
patiently await the return of the seals to the
rocks.  Then a sudden noise that makes one's
heart jump: a couple of terns have discovered
us, and the irate birds go wheeling and shrieking
overhead with screams that would have
aroused the Sleeping Beauty and all her
household.  In their fright and wrath they come
nearer and nearer; at times they remain
motionless overhead; but ever continues the
shrill and piercing shriek.  The face of the
Youth is awful to see.  Again and again he
puts up his rifle; and there is no doubt that,
if he were to fire, he might accomplish that
feat which is more frequently heard of in novels
than elsewhere—shooting a bird on the wing
with a rifle.  But then he is loth to throw
away his last chance.  With a gesture of
despair, he lowers his weapon, and glances
towards the gig.  Queen Titania has caught
his eye, and he hers.  She is laughing.

At length we venture to hazard everything.
Furtively each rifle is protruded over the ledge
of rock; and furtively each head creeps up by
the stock, the hand on the trigger-guard.  The
caution is unnecessary.  There is not a sign of
any living thing all around the shores.  Even
the two sea-swallows, alarmed by our moving,
have wheeled away into the distance; we are
left in undisturbed possession of the island.
Then the Youth clambers up to the top of the
rocks and looks around.  A skart, perched on
a far ledge, immediately takes flight—striking
the water with his heavy wings before he can
get well on his way: thereafter a dead silence.

"It was the tern that did that," says the
Youth, moodily, as we return to the gig.  "The
seals must have known well enough."

"They generally do contrive to know
somehow," is the answer of one who is not much
disappointed, and who is still less surprised.

But this wicked woman all a-laughing, when
we return to the gig!

"Come, children," says she, "we shall barely
be back in time for lunch; and we shall be all
the longer that Angus is not here to sing his
'*Ho, ro, clansmen!*'  But the quicker the
sooner, as the Highlandman said.  Jump in!"

"It was all owing to those sea-swallows,"
remarks the Youth, gloomily.

"Never mind," says she, with great
equanimity.  "Mary and I knew you would not
shoot anything, or we should not have come.
Let us hasten back to see what Fred has shot
for us, with his silver sixpences."

And so we tumble into the gig; and push
away, and have a long swinging pull back to
the *White Dove*.

There is still some measure of justice meted
out upon the earth.  The face of this fiend
who has been laughing at us all the morning
becomes a trifle more anxious when she draws
near the yacht.  For there is Master Fred
idling up at the bow, instead of being below
looking after the vast stores he has got on
board; and moreover as we draw near, and as
he comes along to the gangway, any one can
perceive that our good Frederick d'or is not
in a facetious frame of mind.

"Well, Fred, have you got a good supply at
last?" she cries, taking hold of the rope, and
putting her foot on the step.

Fred mumbles something in reply.

"What have you got?" she says, when she
is on deck.  "Any game?"

"No, mem."

"Oh, never mind; the fowls will do very well."

Fred is rather silent, until he explains that he
could not get any fowls.

"No fowls?  What butcher's meat, then?"
says she, somewhat indignantly.

"None?  Nothing?" says she; and a low
titter begins to prevail among the assembled
crowd.  "Have you not got a joint of any
sort?"

Fred is almost unwilling to confess—he is
ashamed, angry, disconcerted.  At last he
blurts out—

"I could get nothing at all, mem, but fower
loaves."

At this there was a roar of laughter.  What
had become of all her fresh milk, and butter,
and eggs; her mutton, and fowls, and cutlets;
her grouse, and snipe, and hares?  We did not
care for our privation; we only rejoiced in her
discomfiture.

"That is just like a Scotch village," says
she, savagely; "spending all its money on a
church bell, and not able to keep a decent shop
open!  Do you mean to say you could not
get a carrot, or a cabbage, or a pennyworth
of milk?"

"No, mem."

"John," she says, in a domineering way,
"why *don't* you get the sails up?  What is the
use of staying in a place like this?"

John comes forward timidly, and stroking
his great beard: he half believes in these
furious rages of hers.

"Oh, yes, mem, if ye please, mem, I will get
the sail set—but—but the tide will be turning
soon, mem, and the wind, she will be against
us as soon as we get out of the loch; and it
will be a long, long time before we get to
Crinan.  I not well aquent with this place,
mem: if we were up in our own part of the
Highlands, do you think the people would let
the *White Dove* be so long without the fresh
cabbage and the milk?  No; I not think that, mem."

"But we are not in our own part of the
Highlands," says she, querulously; "and do
you think we are going to starve?  However,
I suppose Fred can give us a biscuit.  Let us
go below."

Our lunch was, in truth, simple enough;
but perhaps it was this indirect appeal to Fred
that determined that worthy to surprise us at
dinner that evening.  First of all, after we had
returned from another ineffectual seal-hunt, we
found he had decorated the dinner-table in an
elaborate manner.  There was a clean cloth,
shining with the starch in it.  There was a
great dish of scarlet rowans in the middle of
the table; and the rowans had a border of
white heather—fathered at Loch-na-Chill:
the rowans were for lovely colour, the heather
was for luck.  Then, not content with that, he
had put all our available silver on the table,
including the candlesticks and the snuffer-tray,
though the sun had not yet sunk behind the
Jura hills.  But the banquet defies description.
The vast basin of steaming kidney soup, the
boiled lithe, the fried mackerel, the round of
tongue, the corned beef, the tomatoes, the
pickles, the sardines, the convolutions of
pudding and apricot jam: what Fishmonger
or Drysalter or Gunmaker could have wanted
more?  Nor was there any Apemantus at the
feast; there was the smiling and benign
countenance of the Laird, who again and again
made facetious remarks about the kirk bell of
Clachan.  Then he said more formally—

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to ask
ye to drink a toast."

"Oh, uncle!" said the Youth deprecatingly;
"we are not at a commissioners' meeting at
Strathgovan."

"And I will thank ye to fill your glasses,"
said the Laird, taking no heed of Young
England and his modern want of manners.  "I
have to ask ye, ladies and gentlemen, to drink
the health of one who is an old and valued
friend of some of us, who is admired and
respected by us all.  It would ill become us, now
that he has been separated from us but by a
day, that we should forget him in his absence.
We have come in close contact with him; we
have seen his fine qualities of temper and
character; and I am sure no one present will
contradict me when I say that, great as are his
abeelities, they are not more remarkable than
his modesty, and his good humour, and his
simple, plain, frank ways.  With a man of less
solid judgment, I might be afraid of certain
dangerous tendencies of these times; but our
friend has a Scotch head on his shoulders; he
may be dazzled by their newfangled speculations,
but not convinced—not convinced.  It is
a rare thing—I will say it, though I am but a
recent acquaintance, and do not know him as
well as some now at this hospitable board—to
find such powers of intellect united with such a
quiet and unassuming manliness.  Ladies and
gentlemen, I give ye the health of Dr. Angus
Sutherland.  We regret that he has gone from
us; but we know that duty calls, and we honour
the man who stands to his guns.  It may be
that we may see him in these waters once
more; it may be that we may not; but whatever
may be in store for him or for us, we know
he will be worthy of the hopes we build on
him, and we drink his health now in his
absence, and wish him God-speed!"

"Hear! hear!" cried the Youth, who was
greatly amused by this burst of old-fashioned
eloquence.  But Mary Avon sate white and
trembling, and quite forgot to put the glass
to her lips.  It was her hostess who spoke
next, with a laugh.

"I think, sir," said she, "I might give you
a hint.  If you were to go up on deck and
ask the men whether they would like to drink
Angus's health, I don't think they would
refuse."

"It is a most capital suggestion," said the
Laird, rising to take down his wideawake.





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.. _`SUSPICIONS`:

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   CHAPTER V.


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   SUSPICIONS.

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It was handsomely done on the part of
the Laird to pay that tribute to his vanquished
and departed enemy.  But next morning, as
we were getting under weigh, he got a chance
of speaking to his hostess alone; and he could
not quite forego a little bit of boasting over
his superior astuteness and prescience.

"What did I say, ma'am," he asked, with
a confident chuckle, "when ye made a
communication to me on the subject of our friend
who has just left us?  Did I not offer to
make ye a wager, though I am but little of
a gambler?  A gold ring, a sixpence, and
a silver thimble: did I not offer to wager
ye these three articles that your guesses were
not quite correct?  And what has become of
Dr. Sutherland now?"

His hostess is not in this gay humour.  She
answers with a touch of reserve—

"If I made any mistake, it was about Mary.
And I had no right to suspect anything, for
she never took me into her confidence; and
I do not approve of elderly people prying
into the affairs of young people."

"Pry?" says the Laird, loftily and
graciously.  "No, no; no prying.  But
judgment?—is there any harm in one keeping
one's eyes open?  And did not I tell ye,
ma'am, to be of good heart—that everything
would go properly and smoothly?"

"And has it?" she says, sharply, and looking
up with a glance of indignation.

The Laird, however, is so wrapped up in
his own thoughts that he does not notice this
protest.

"She is a fine lass, that," he says, with
decision.  "Did ye ever hear a young girl
speak such clear common sense as she spoke
yesterday, about that very Doctor?  There
is no affected sentiment—there is nothing of
your Clarinda and Philander noavel-writing—about
that lass: did ye ever hear such good,
sound, clear common sense?"

"I heard her," says his hostess, shortly.

By this time we had weighed anchor, and
the *White Dove* was slowly sailing down the
loch, before a light northerly breeze.  Then
Mary Avon came on deck, followed by the
attentive Youth.  And while everybody on
board was eagerly noticing things ahead—the
seals on the rocks at the mouth of the loch,
the windy grey sea beyond, and the blue
mountains of Jura—Mary Avon alone looked
backward, to the low lines of hills we were
leaving.  She sate silent and apart.

The Laird stepped over to her.

"We have just been talking about the
Doctor," says he, cheerfully.  "And we were
saying there was plenty of good common sense
in what ye said yesterday about his duties
and his prospects.  Oh, ay!  But then ye
ken, Miss Mary, even the busiest and the
wisest of men must have their holiday at
times; and I have just been thinking that,
if we can get Dr. Sutherland to come with
us next year, we will, maybe, surprise him
by what ye can do wi' a steam yacht.  Why,
during the time we have been lying here,
we might have run across to Ireland and
back in a steam yacht!  It is true there
would be less enjoyment for him in the
sailing; but still there are compensations."

His hostess has overheard all this.  She
says, in her gentle way, but with a cold and
cruel clearness—

"You know, sir, that is quite impossible.
Angus will not be in Scotland for many a
day to come."

The girl's face is hidden; apparently she
is still gazing back on those slowly receding
hills.

"Toots! toots!" says the Laird, briskly.
"The lad is not a fool.  He will make an
occasion if he considers it desirable: there
is no compulsion that he must remain in
Eetaly.  I think I would even lay a wager
that we will have just the same party, and
the Doctor included, on that steam yacht next
year, and in this very place: is it a wager,
ma'am?"

"I am afraid you must leave us out," she
remarks, "at all events.  And as for Angus
Sutherland, I shall be surprised if ever he
sees West Loch Tarbert again."

Why had not Mary Avon spoken?  The
Laird went a step nearer her, and put his
hand gently on her shoulder.

"Well, Miss Mary," said he; "what are
we to do to show these people their lolly
and wickedness—eh?  I think I will leave
it to you."

"Oh, no, sir!"  This, or something like
this, she was understood to say, in a low
voice; but at the same moment she rose
quickly, crossed the deck, put a trembling
hand on the companion way, and went below.
Just as she disappeared, she could not quite
conceal her face; and there was a look on
it that startled the Laird.  Had the girl
been stealthily crying all the time she had
been looking back at those distant hills?

The Laird was greatly disturbed.  He said
nothing, for he would not have it understood
that anything had happened; but any one
could see by his preoccupied manner that he
was seriously troubled.  He had directed a
quick, sharp glance of surprise and inquiry
at his hostess; but just then she was stepping
aside to get out of the way of Captain John.
The Laird sate down by himself, and remained
in a profound silence.  He seemed to pay no
attention to what was going on.

But there was brisk work enough all over
the yacht.  For now we had got clear of the
long promontory and its islands; and out here
in the open there was a pretty heavy sea
running, while the wind began to freshen up
a bit.  There was a squally look about the
sea and sky; it was considered prudent to
lower the topsail.  Now and again there was
a heavy shock at the bows, and then a dipping
of heads to dodge the flying shreds of spray.
In the midst of all this Miss Avon appeared
again.

"I thought we should catch it," said she,
in the blithest of tones; and she addressed
herself particularly to the Laird.  "And it is
better to be prepared.  But, oh dear me! what
a nuisance a waterproof is!"

And indeed the wind was blowing that
hooded and caped garment all about her head,
so that her dark hair was becoming
considerably dishevelled.  The Youth came to
her assistance; put a cushion and a shawl for
her just beside her hostess, under the lee of
the weather bulwarks; then she snugly
ensconced herself there, and seemed to be very
merry and happy indeed.

"Don't you often wish you were a fish,
when the weather is wet?" she says, gaily,
to her friend; "so that you might be perfectly
indifferent?"  And here she cries "Oh!"
again, because a drop or two of spray has
come flying past the keel of the gig and just
caught her on the crown of her waterproof.

Nothing can exceed her talk, her laughter,
her cheerfulness.  She nestles close to her
friend; she is like a spoiled child; she makes
fun of the Youth's attempts to steer.  And
the Laird is regarding her with a grave
wonder—perhaps with some dark suspicion—when
she lightly addresses herself to him again:

"But what about that strong man, sir?
You were going to tell us the story yesterday,
when you were interrupted."

It was a cunning device.  How could a
professed story-teller refuse to rise to the
bait?  The watchfulness disappeared from
the face of the Laird: in its place a sort of
anticipatory laughter began to shine.

"But it was Tom Galbraith heard of that
man," said he, in a deprecating way.  "Did
I not tell ye?  Oh, ay! it was Tom
Galbraith heard of him when he was in
Rossshire; and it was he told me of the wonderful
things that man could do, according to the
natives.  Did not I tell ye of his rolling an
enormous stone up a hill, and of the stone
being split into nine pieces; yet not any one
man could roll up one of the nine pieces?
But I was going to tell ye of his being in
Prince's Street, Edinburgh; and a coach and
four was coming whirling along; the horses
had run away, and no one could stop them.
M'Kinlay was walking along the street, when
the people called to him to look out, for the
four horses were running mad; but the
Rossshire Samson was not afraid.  No, no——"

Here a wisp of spray somewhat disconcerted
the Laird; but only for a moment.  He wiped
the salt water from the side of his neck, and
continued, with suppressed laughter bubbling
up in his eyes.

"The man that told Tom Galbraith," said
he, "was a solemn believer, and spoke with
reverence.  'M'Kinlay,' says he, 'he will turn
to the street, and he will grab at the four
horses and the coach, and he will took them
up in his two hands—*shist like a mice*.'"

"*Shist like a mice.*"  The Laird preserved
a stern silence.  The humour of this story
was so desperately occult that he would leave
the coarse applause to us.  Only there was
an odd light in his eyes; and we knew that
it was all he could do to prevent his bursting
out into a roar of laughter.  But Mary Avon
laughed—until John of Skye, who had not
heard a word, grinned out of pure sympathy.

"He must have been the man," said Miss
Avon, diffidently—for she did not like to
encroach on the Laird's province—"whom
Captain John told me about, who could drink
whisky so strong that a drop of it would
burn a white mark on a tarred rope."

But the Laird was not jealous.

"Very good—very good!" he cried, with
extreme delight.  "Excellent—a real good
one!  'Deed I'll tell that to Tom Galbraith!"

And the high spirits and the facetiousness
of these two children continued through lunch.
That was rather a wild meal, considering that
we were still sawing across the boisterous
Sound of Jura, in the teeth of a fresh northerly
breeze.  However, nothing could exceed the
devotion of the Youth, who got scarcely any
luncheon at all in his efforts to control the
antics of pickle jars and to bolster up bottles.
Then when everything was secure, there would
be an ominous call overhead, "*Stand by
forrard, boys!*" followed by a period of frantic
revolution and panic.

"Yes," continued the Laird, when we got
on deck again; "a sense of humour is a great
power in human affairs.  A man in public life
without it is like a ship without a helm: he
is sure to go and do something redeeclous
that a smaller man would have avoided
altogether.  Ay, my father's sense of humour was
often said by people to be quite extraordinar'—quite
extraordinar'.  I make no pretensions
that way myself."

Here the Laird waved his hand, as if to
deprecate any courteous protest.

"No, no; I have no pretensions that way;
but sometimes a bit joke comes in verra well
when ye are dealing with solemn and
pretentious asses.  There is one man in
Strathgovan——"

But here the Laird's contempt of this dull
person could not find vent in words.  He put
up both hands, palm outwards, and shook
them, and shrugged his shoulders.

"A most desperately stupid ass, and as
loquacious as a parrot.  I mind fine when I
was giving my earnest attention to the subject
of our police system.  I may tell ye, ma'am,
that our burgh stretches over about a mile
each way, and that it has a population of
over 8,000 souls, with a vast quantity of
valuable property.  And up till that time we
had but two policemen on duty at the same
time during the night.  It was my opeenion
that that number was quite inahdequate; and
I stated my opeenion at a meeting of the
commissioners convened for that purpose.
Well, would ye believe it, this meddlesome
body, Johnny Guthrie, got up on his legs
and preached and preached away; and all
that he had to tell us was that we could not
add to the number of police without the
consent of the Commissioners of Supply and
the Home Secretary.  Bless me! what bairn
is there but knows that?  I'll be bound Miss
Mary there, though she comes from England,
would know as much about public affairs
as that?"

"I—I am afraid not, sir," said she.

"No matter—no matter.  Live and learn.
When ye come to Strathgovan, we'll begin
and teach ye.  However, as I was saying,
this bletherin' poor crayture went on and on,
and it was all about the one point, until I got
up and, 'Mr. Provost,' says I, 'there are some
human beings it would be idle to answer.
Their loquacity is a sort of function; they
perspire through their tongue—like a doag.'  Ye
should have seen Johnny Guthrie's face
after that!"

And here the Laird laughed and laughed
again at Johnny Guthrie's discomfiture.

"But he is a poor bletherin' crayture,"
he continued, with a kind of compassion.
"Providence made him what he is: but
sometimes I think Johnny tries to make himself
even more rideeklous than Providence could
fairly and honestly have intended.  He
attacked me most bitterly because I got a
committee appointed to represent to the
Postmaster that we should have a later delivery
at night.  He attacked me most bitterly; and
yet I think it was one of the greatest reforms
ever introduced into our Burgh."

"Oh, indeed, sir?" says his hostess, with
earnest attention.

"Yes, indeed.  The Postmaster is a most
civil, worthy, and respectable man, though it
was a sore blow to him when his daughter took
to going to the Episcopal Church in Glasgow.
However, with his assistance we now get the
letters that used to be delivered in the forenoon
delivered late the night before; and we have a
mail made up at 10 P.M., which is a great
convenience.  And that man Johnny Guthrie
gabbling away as if the French Revolution
were coming back on us!  I am a Conservative
myself, as ye know, ma'am; but I say that we
must march with the times.  No standing still
in these days.  However, ye will get Johnny
Guthries everywhere; poor bletherin' craytures
who have no capacity for taking a large view of
public affairs—bats and blindworms as it were:
I suppose there is a use for them, as it has
pleased Providence to create them; but it
would puzzle an ordinary person to find it out."

With much of the like wise discourse did the
Laird beguile our northward voyage; and
apparently he had forgotten that little incident
about Mary Avon in the morning.  The girl
was as much interested as any one; laughed
at the "good ones;" was ready to pour her
contempt on the Johnny Guthries who opposed
the projects of the Laird's statesmanship.
And in this manner we fought our way against
the stiff northerly breeze, until evening found
us off the mouth of Loch Crinan.  Here we
proposed to run in for the night, so that we
should have daylight and a favourable tide to
enable us to pass through the Dorus Mor.

It was a beautiful, quiet evening in this
sheltered bay; and after dinner we were all
on deck, reading, smoking, and what not.  The
Laird and Mary Avon were playing chess
together.  The glow of the sunset was still
in the western sky, and reflected on the smooth
water around us; though Jura and Scarba were
of a dark, soft, luminous rose-purple.

Chess is a silent game; the Laird was not
surprised that his companion did not speak to
him.  And so absorbed was he with his knights
and bishops that he did not notice that, in the
absolute silence of this still evening, one of the
men forward was idly whistling to himself the
sad air of Lochaber.

.. class:: italics

   |  *Lochaber no more!  And Lochaber no more!*
   |  *We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more!*

It was the old and familiar refrain: Hector
of Moidart was probably not thinking of
Lochaber at all.

But suddenly the Laird, staring down at the
board, perceived some little tiny thing drop on
the farther edge from him; and he quickly
looked up.  The girl was crying.  Instantly
he put out his great hand and took hers, and
said, in a low voice, full of gentleness and a
tender sympathy—

"Dear me, lassie, what is the matter?"

But Mary Avon hastily pulled out her handkerchief,
and passed it across her eyes, and said
hurriedly—

"Oh, I beg your pardon! it is nothing: I—I
was thinking of something else.  And is it
your move or mine, sir?——"

The Laird looked at her; but her eyes were
cast down.  He did not pay so much attention
to the game after that.





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.. _`CERTAINTY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   CERTAINTY.

.. vspace:: 2

Next morning there is a lively commotion
on board.  The squally, blustering-looking
skies, the glimpses of the white horses out
there on the driven green sea, and the fresh
northerly breeze that comes in gusts and swirls
about the rigging—all tell us that we shall
have some hard work before we pierce the
Dorus Mor.

"You won't want for wind to-day, Captain
John," says the Youth, who is waiting to give
the men a hand at the windlass.

"'Deed, no," says John of Skye, with a grim
smile.  "This is the kind of day that
Dr. Sutherland would like, and the *White Dove*
through the Dorus Mor too!"

However, the Laird seems to take no interest
in what is going forward.  All the morning he
has been silent and preoccupied; occasionally
approaching his hostess, but never getting an
opportunity of speaking with her alone.  At
last, when he observes that every one is on
deck, and eagerly watching the *White Dove*
getting under weigh, he covertly and quietly
touches our Admiral on the arm.

"I would speak to ye below for a moment,
ma'am," he says, in a whisper.

And so, unnoticed amid all this bustle, she
follows him down into the saloon, wondering
not a little.  And as soon as he has shut the
door, he plunges *in medias res*.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am; but I must
speak to ye.  It is about your friend, Miss
Mary: have ye not observed that she is sorely
troubled about something—though she puts a
brave face on it and will not acknowledge it?
Have ye not seen it—have ye not guessed that
she is grievously troubled about some matter
or other?"

"I have guessed it," said the other.

"Poor lass! poor lass!" said the Laird; and
then he added, thoughtfully, "It is no small
matter that can affect so light-hearted a
creature: that is what I want to ask ye.  Do ye
know?  Have ye guessed?  Surely it is
something that some of us can help her wi'.  Indeed,
it just distresses me beyond measure to see that
trouble in her face; and when I see her try to
conceal it—and to make believe that everything
is well with her—I feel as if there was nothing
I would not do for the poor lass."

"But I don't think either you or I can help.
Young people must manage their affairs for
themselves," says his hostess, somewhat coldly.

"But what is it?—what is it?  What is
troubling her?"

Queen Titania regards him for a moment,
apparently uncertain as to how far she should
go.  At last she says—

"Well; I am not revealing any confidence of
Mary's; for she has told me nothing about it.
But I may as well say at once that when we
were in West Loch Tarbert, Dr. Sutherland
asked her to be his wife; and she refused him.
And now I suppose she is breaking her heart
about it."

"Dear me! dear me!" says the Laird, with
eyes opened wide.

"It is always the way with girls," says the
other, with a cruel cynicism.  "Whether they
say 'Yes' or 'No' they are sure to cry over it.
And naturally; for whether they say 'Yes' or
'No,' they are sure to have made an
irretrievable blunder."

The Laird is slowly recovering from his first
shock of surprise.

"But if she did refuse him, surely that is
what any one would have expected?  There
is nothing singular in that."

"Pardon me; I think there is something
very singular," she says, warmly.  "I don't see
how any one could have been with these two
up in the north, and not perceived that there
was an understanding between them.  If any
girl ever encouraged a man, she did.  Why,
sir, when you proposed that your nephew should
come with us, and make love to Mary, I said
'Yes' because I thought it would be merely
a joke!  I thought he would please you by
consenting, and not harm anybody else.  But
now it has turned out quite different; and
Angus Sutherland has gone away."

And at this there was a return of the proud
and hurt look into her eyes: Angus was her
friend; she had not expected this idle boy
would have supplanted him.

The Laird was greatly disturbed.  The
beautiful picture that he had been painting
for himself during this summer idleness of
ours—filling in the details with a lingering
and loving care—seemed to fade away into
impalpable mist; and he was confronted by
blank chaos.  And this, too, just at the
moment when the departure of the Doctor
appeared to render all his plans doubly
secure.—He rose.

"I will think over it, ma'am," he said, slowly.
"I am obliged to ye for your information:
perhaps I was not as observant as I should
have been."

Then she sought to stay him for a moment.

"Don't you think, sir," said she, timidly, "it
would be better for neither you nor me to
interfere?"

The Laird turned.

"I made a promise to the lass," said he, quite
simply, "one night we were in Loch Leven, and
she and I were walking on the deck, that when
she was in trouble I would try to help her; and
I will not break my promise through any fear
of being called an intermeddler.  I will go to
the girl myself—when I have the opportunity;
and if she prefers to keep her own counsel—if
she thinks I am only an old Scotch fool
who should be minding my own business—I
will not grumble."

And again he was going away, when again
she detained him.

"I hope you do not think I spoke harshly of
Mary," said she, penitentially.  "I own that I
was a little disappointed.  And it seemed
so certain.  But I am sure she has sufficient
reason for whatever she has done—and that
she believes she is acting rightly——"

"Of that there is no doubt," said he,
promptly.  "The girl has just a wonderful
clear notion of doing what she ought to do;
and nothing would make her flinch."  Then
he added, after a second, "But I will think
over it; and then go to herself.  Perhaps she
feels lonely, and does not know that there is a
home awaiting her at Denny-mains."

So both of them went on deck again; and
found that the *White Dove* was already sailing
away from the Trossachs-like shore of Loch
Crinan, and getting farther out into this squally
green sea.  There were bursts of sunlight
flying across the rocks and the white-tipped
waves; but ordinarily the sky was overcast,
masses of grey and silvery cloud coming
swinging along from the north.


Then the Laird showed himself discreet
"before folk."  He would not appear to have
any designs on Mary Avon's confidences.  He
talked in a loud and confident fashion to John
of Skye, about the weather, and the Dorus
Mor, and Corrievrechan.  Finally, he
suggested, in a facetious way, that as the younger
men had occasionally had their turn at the
helm, he might have his now, for the first time.

"If ye please, sir," said Captain John,
relinquishing the tiller to him with a smile of
thanks, and going forward to have a quiet pipe.

But the Laird seemed a little bit confused
by the rope which John had confided to him.
In a light breeze, and with his hand on the
tiller, he might have done very well; but
this looped rope, to which he had to cling so
as to steady himself, seemed puzzling.  And
almost at the same time the *White Dove*
began to creep up to the wind; and presently
the sails showed an ominous quiver.

"Keep her full, sir!" called John of Skye,
turning round.

But instead of that the sails flapped more
and more; there was a rattling of blocks; two
men came tumbling up from the forecastle,
thinking the yacht was being put about.

"Shove your hand from ye, sir!" called out
the skipper to the distressed steersman; and
this somewhat infantine direction soon put the
vessel on her course again.

In a few minutes thereafter John of Skye
put his pipe in his waistcoat pocket.

"We'll let her about now, sir," he called
to the Laird.

The two men who happened to be on deck
went to the jib-sheets; John himself leisurely
proceeding to stand by the weather fore-sheet.
Then, as the Laird seemed still to await further
orders, he called out—

"Helm hard down, sir, if ye please!"

But this rope bothered the Laird.  He
angrily untwisted it, let it drop on the deck, and
then with both hands endeavoured to jam the
tiller towards the weather bulwarks, which were
certainly nearer to him than the lee bulwarks.

"The other way, sir!" Mary Avon cried
to him, anxiously.

"Bless me! bless me!  Of course!" he
cried, in return; and then he let the tiller
go, and just managed to get out of its way
as it swung to leeward.  And then as the
bow sheered round, and the *White Dove*
made away for the mouth of Loch Craignish
on the port tack, he soon discovered the use
of the weather tiller rope, for the wind was
now blowing hard, and the yacht pitching
a good deal.

"We are getting on, Miss Mary!" he cried
to her, crushing his wideawake down over his
forehead.  "Have ye not got a bit song for
us?  What about the two sailors that pitied
all the poor folk in London?"

She only cast down her eyes, and a faint
colour suffused her cheeks: our singing-bird
had left us.

"Howard, lad!" the Laird called out again,
in his facetious manner, "ye are not looking
well, man.  Is the pitching too much for you?"

The Youth was certainly not looking very
brilliant; but he managed to conjure up a
ghastly smile.

"If I get ill," said he, "I will blame it on
the steering."

"'Deed, ye will not," said the Laird, who
seemed to have been satisfied with his
performances.  "I am not going to steer this
boat through the Dorus Mor.  Here, John,
come back to your post!"

John of Skye came promptly aft; in no
case would he have allowed an amateur to
pilot the *White Dove* through this narrow
strait with its swirling currents.  However,
when the proper time came we got through
the Dorus Mor very easily, there being a
strong flood tide to help us; and the brief
respite under the lee of the land allowed the
Youth to summon back his colour and his
cheerfulness.

The Laird had ensconced himself beside
Mary Avon; he had a little circle of admiring
listeners; he was telling us, amid great shouts
of laughter, how Homesh had replied to one
tourist, who had asked for something to eat,
that that was impossible, "bekass ahl the
plates was cleaned;" and how Homesh had
answered another tourist, who represented that
the towel in the lavatory was not as it should
be, that "more than fifty or sixty people was
using that towel this very day, and not a
complaint from any one of them;" and how
Homesh, when his assistant stumbled and
threw a leg of mutton on to the deck, called
out to him in his rage, "Ye young teffle, I
will knock the stairs down your head!"  We
were more and more delighted with Homesh
and his apocryphal adventures.

But now other things than Homesh were
claiming our attention.  Once through the
Dorus, we found the wind blowing harder
than ever, and a heavy sea running.  The
day had cleared, and the sun was gleaming
on the white crests of the waves; but the air
was thick with whirled spray, and the decks
were running wet.  The *White Dove* listed
over before the heavy wind, so that her
scuppers were a foot deep in water; while
opening the gangway only relieved the
pressure for a second or two; the next moment
a wave would surge in on the deck.  The
jib and fore-staysail were soaked half-mast
high.  When we were on the port tack the
keel of the gig ploughed the crests of those
massive and rolling waves.  This would,
indeed, have been a day for Angus Sutherland.

On one tack we ran right over to Corrievrechan;
but we could see no waterspouts or
other symptoms of the whirling currents; we
could only hear the low roar all along the
Scarba coast, and watch the darting of the
white foam up the face of the rocks.  And
then away again on the port tack; with the
women clinging desperately to the weather
bulwarks, lest perchance they should swiftly
glide down the gleaming decks into the hissing
water that rolled along the lee scuppers.
Despite the fact of their being clad from
top to toe in waterproofs, their faces were
streaming with the salt water; but they were
warm enough, for the sun was blazing hot, and
the showers of spray were like showers of
gleaming diamonds.

Luncheon was of an extremely pantomimic
character; until, in the midst of it, we were
alarmed by hearing quick tramping overhead,
and noise and shouting.  The Youth was
hastily bidden to leave his pickle jars, and go
on deck to see what was happening.  In a
second or two he returned—somewhat
grueful—his hair wild—his face wet.

"They are only taking in the mizen," says
he; "but my cap has been knocked overboard,
and I have got about a quart of water down
my neck."

"It will do ye good, lad," observed the
Laird, in the most heartless manner; "and I
will now trouble ye to pass me the marmalade."

Patiently, all day long, we beat up against
that inexorable north wind, until, in the
afternoon, it veered a point or two to the east,
which made an appreciable difference in our
rate of progress.  Then, the farther the wind
veered, the more it became a land wind; and
the sea abated considerably: so that long
before we could make out Castle Osprey on the
face of the hill, we were in fairly calm waters,
with a light breeze on our starboard beam.
The hot sun had dried the decks; there was a
possibility of walking; some went below to
prepare for going ashore.

We were returning to the world of telegrams,
and letters, and newspapers; we should soon
know what the Commissioners of Strathgovan
were doing, and whether Johnny Guthrie had
been fomenting sedition.  But it was not these
things that troubled the Laird.  He had been
somewhat meditative during the afternoon.  At
last, finding an occasion on which nearly
everybody was below but his hostess, he said to her,
in a low voice—

"The more I reflect on that matter we spoke
of this morning, the more I am driven to a
conclusion that I would fain avoid.  It would
be a sad blow to me.  I have built much on
the scheme I was telling ye of: perhaps it was
but a toy; but old people have a fondness for
their toys as well as young people."

"I don't quite understand you, sir," said the
other.

"We will soon learn whether I am right,"
said the old Laird, with a sigh; and then he
turned to her and regarded her.

"I doubt whether ye see this girl's character
as clearly as I do," said he.  "Gentle, and soft,
and delicate as she seems to be, she is of the
stuff the martyrs in former days were made of:
if she believes a thing to be right, she will do
it, at any cost or sacrifice.  Do ye mind the
first evening I met her at your house—how she
sate and talked, and laughed, with her sprained
ankle swollen and black all the time, just that
she might not interfere with the pleasure of
others?"

The Laird paused for a moment or two.

"I have been putting things together," he
continued—but he did not seem proud or
boastful of his perspicacity: perhaps he would
rather have fought against the conclusion
forced on him.  "When she was up in the
north, it seemed to you as if she would have
married the young man Sutherland?"

"Most undoubtedly."

"The lass had her bit fortune then," said the
Laird, thoughtfully.  "Not much, as ye say;
but it would have been an independence.  It
would have helped him in the world; it would
have left him free.  And she is proud of what
he has done, and as ambeetious as himself that
he should become a great man.  Ay?"

The Laird seemed very anxious about the
varnishing of the gig; he kept smoothing it
with his forefinger.

"And when he came to her the other day—it
is but a guess of mine, ma'am—she may
have said to herself beforehand that she would
not be a drag on him, that she would leave him
free to become great and famous, that the
sentiment of the moment was a trifling thing
compared to what the world expected from
Dr. Sutherland.  Ye will not forget what she
said on that point only the other day.  And
she may have sent him away—with her own
heart just like to break.  I have just been
putting one or two possibeelities together,
ma'am——"

The colour had forsaken the cheeks of the
woman who stood by his side.

"And—and—if she was so cruel—and, and
heartless—and, and monstrous—she ought to
be horsewhipped!" she exclaimed quite
breathlessly, and apparently not knowing what she
was saying.

But the Laird shook his head.

"Poor lass! poor lass!" he said, gently;
"she has had her troubles.  No doubt the loss
of her bit fortune seemed a desperate thing to
her; and you know her first anxiety is
conteenually for other people—particularly them
that have been kind to her—and that she
thinks no more of herself than if she had no
feelings at all.  Well, ma'am, if what I am
guessing at is true—it is only a speculation
o' mine, and I am far from sure; but if that is
all that has to be put right, I'm thinking it
might be put right.  We should thank God
that we are now and again able to put some
small matter straight in the world."

The Laird was more busy than ever with
the varnish, and he went nearer the boat.  His
fingers were nervous, and there was a strange,
sad look in the sunken grey eyes.

"Poor lass! if that is all her trouble, it might
not be difficult to help her," said he; and then
he added slowly—and the woman beside him
knew, rather than saw, that the sad grey eyes
were somehow wet—"But I had thought to see
her living at Denny-mains: it was—it was a
sort of toy of my old age."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A PARABLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A PARABLE.

.. vspace:: 2

Now we had not been five minutes within
the walls of Castle Osprey when great shouts
of laughter were heard in the direction of the
library; and presently the Laird came quickly
into the room where the two women were
standing at the open window.  He was
flourishing a newspaper in his hand; delight,
sarcasm, and desperate humour shone in his
face.  He would not notice that Queen Titania
looked very much inclined to cry, as she gazed
out on the forlorn remains of what had once
been a rose-garden; he would pay no heed to
Mary Avon's wan cheek and pensive eyes.

"Just listen to this, ma'am, just listen to
this," he called out briskly; and all the
atmosphere of the room seemed to wake up into
cheerfulness and life.  "Have I not told ye
often about that extraordinary body, Johnny
Guthrie?  Now just listen!"

It appeared that the Laird, without even
bestowing a glance on the pile of letters lying
waiting for him, had at once dived into the
mass of newspapers, and had succeeded in
fishing out the report of the last meeting of the
Strathgovan Police Commissioners.  With a
solemnity that scarcely veiled his suppressed
mirth, he said—

"Just listen, ma'am: 'The fortnightly
meeting of the Strathgovan Police Commissioners
was held on Monday, Provost McKendrick in
the chair.  Mr. Robert Johnstone said he had
much pleasure in congratulating the chairman
and the other gentlemen assembled on the
signal and able manner in which the fire
brigade had done their duty on the previous
Saturday at the great conflagration in Coulterside
buildings; and he referred especially to the
immense assistance given by the new fire engine
recently purchased by the commissioners.
(Hear! hear!)  He could assure the meeting
that but for the zealous and patriotic ardour
of the brigade—aided, no doubt, by the efficient
working of the steam-engine—a most valuable
property would have been devoted *holus bolus*
to the flames.'"

The Laird frowned at this phrase.

"Does the crayture think he is talking
Latin?" he asked, apparently of himself.

However, he continued his reading of the
report—

"'Provost McKendrick, replying to these
observations, observed that it was certainly a
matter for congratulation that the fire brigade
should have proved their efficiency in so distinct
a manner, considering the outlay that had been
incurred; and that now the inhabitants of the
Burgh would perceive the necessity of having
more plugs.  So far all the money had been
well spent.  Mr. J. Guthrie'"—but here the
Laird could not contain his laughter any
longer.

"That's the Johnny, ma'am," he cried, in
explanation, "that's the Johnny Guthrie I was
telling ye about—the poor, yaumering, pernickity,
querulous crayture!  'Mr. J. Guthrie begged to
say he could not join in these general felicitations.
They were making a great deal of noise
about nothing.  The fire was no fire at all; a
servant-girl could have put it out with a pail.
He had come from Glasgow by the eleven
o'clock 'bus, and there was then not a trace
of a fire to be seen.  The real damage done
to the property was not done by the fire, but
by the dirty water drawn by the fire brigade
from the Coulter-burn, which dirty water had
entirely destroyed Mrs. MacInnes's best
bedroom furniture."

The Laird flourished the newspaper, and
laughed aloud in his joy; the mere reading of
the extract had so thoroughly discomfited his
enemy.

"Did ye ever hear the like o' that body?" he
cried.  "A snarlin', quarlin', gruntin', growlin',
fashious crayture!  He thinks there could not
be any fire, just because he was not in time to
see it.  Oh, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, I'm just
fair ashamed o' ye."

But at this point the Laird seemed to become
aware that he had given way too much to his
love of pure and pithy English.  He
immediately said, in a more formal manner—

"I am glad to perceive, ma'am, that the
meeting paid no heed to these strictures, but
went on to consider whether the insurance
companies should not share the expense of
maintaining the fire brigade.  That was most
proper—most judeecious.  I'm thinking that
after dinner I could not do better than
express my views upon that subject, in a letter
addressed to the Provost.  It would be in
time to be read at the monthly sederunt."

"Come along, then, Mary, and let us get
through our letters," said his hostess, turning
away with a sigh from the dilapidated rose-garden.

As she passed the piano, she opened it.

"How strange it will sound!" she said.

She played a few bars of Mary Avon's
favourite song; somehow the chords seemed
singularly rich and full and beautiful after our
long listening to the monotonous rush of the
sea.  Then she put her hand within the girl's
arm and gently led her away, and said to her
as they passed through the hall

   |  "'Oh, little did my mither think
   |  When first she cradled me'

that ever I should have come back to such a
picture of desolation.  But we must put a
brave face on it.  If the autumn kills the
garden, it glorifies the hills.  You will want
all your colour-tubes when we show you Loch
Hourn."

"That was the place the Doctor was anxious
to veesit," said the Laird, who was immediately
behind them.  "Ay.  Oh, yes, we will show
Miss Mary Loch Hourn; she will get some
material for sketches there, depend on't.  Just
the finest loch in the whole of the Highlands.
When I can get Tom Galbraith first of all
persuaded to see Bunessan——"

But we heard no more about Tom Galbraith.
Queen Titania had uttered a slight exclamation
as she glanced over the addresses of the
letters directed to her.

"From Angus!" she said, as she hurriedly
opened one of the envelopes, and ran her eye
over the contents.

Then her face grew grave, and inadvertently
she turned to the Laird.

"In three days," she said, "he was to start
for Italy."

She looked at the date.

"He must have left London already!" said
she, and then she examined the letter further.
"And he does not say where he is going."

The Laird looked grave too—for a second.
But he was an excellent actor.  He began
whistling the air that his hostess had been
playing.  He turned over his letters and
papers carelessly.  At length he said, with
an air of fine indifference—

"The grand thing of being away at sea is
to teach ye the comparateevely trifling
importance of anything that can happen on land."

He tossed the unopened letters about, only
regarding the addresses.

"What care I what the people may have
been saying about me in my absence?—the
real thing is that we got food to eat and were
not swept into Corrievrechan.  Come, Miss
Mary, I will just ask ye to go for a stroll
through the garden wi' me, until dinner-time;
our good friends will not ask us to dress on
an evening like this, just before we have got
everything on shore.  Twenty-five meenutes,
ma'am?  Very well.  If anybody has been
abusing me in my absence, we'll listen to the
poor fellow after dinner, when we can get the
laugh made general, and so make some good
out of him; but just now we'll have the quiet
of the sunset to ourselves.  Dear, dear me! we
used to have the sunset after dinner when
we were away up about Canna and Uist."

Mary Avon seemed to hesitate.

"What! not a single letter for ye?  That
shows very bad taste on the pairt of the young
men about England.  But I never thought
much o' them.  From what I hear, they are
mostly given over to riding horses, and
shooting pheasants, and what not.  But never mind.
I want ye to come out for a stroll wi' me, my
lass: ye'll see some fine colour about the
Morven hills presently, or I'm mistaken."

"Very well, sir," said she, obediently; and
together they went out into the garden.

Now it was not until some minutes after the
dinner-gong had sounded that we again saw
these two, and then there was nothing in the
manner of either of them to suggest to any
one that anything had happened.  It was not
until many days afterwards that we obtained,
bit by bit, an account of what had occurred,
and even then it was but a stammering, and
disjointed, and shy account.  However, such
as it was, it had better appear here, if only to
keep the narrative straight.

The Laird, walking up and down the gravel
path with his companion, said that he did not
so much regret the disappearance of the roses,
for there were plenty of other flowers to take
their place.  Then he thought he and she
might go and sit on a seat which was placed
under a drooping ash in the centre of the lawn,
for from this point they commanded a fine
view of the western seas and hills.  They had
just sat down there when he said—

"My girl, I am going to take the privilege
of an old man, and speak frankly to ye.  I
have been watching ye, as it were—and your
mind is not at ease."

Miss Avon hastily assured him that it was
quite, and begged to draw his attention to the
yacht in the bay, where the men were just
lowering the ensign, at sunset.

The Laird returned to the subject; entreated
her not to take it ill that he should
interfere; and then reminded her of a certain
night on Loch Leven, and of a promise he had
then made her.  Would he be fulfilling that
solemn undertaking if he did not, at some risk
of vexing her, and of being considered a
prying, foolish person, endeavour to help her if
she was in trouble?

Miss Avon said how grateful she was to
him for all his kindness to her; and how his
promise had already been amply fulfilled.  She
was not in trouble.  She hoped no one thought
that.  Everything that had happened was for
the best.  And here—as was afterwards
admitted—she burst into a fit of crying, and was
very much mortified, and ashamed of herself.

But at this point the Laird would appear
to have taken matters into his own hand.
First of all he began to speak of his nephew—of
his bright good nature, and so forth—of
his professed esteem for her—of certain
possibilities that he, the Laird, had been dreaming
about with the fond fancy of an old man.  And
rather timidly he asked her—if it were true
that she thought everything had happened
for the best—whether, after all, his nephew
Howard might not speak to her?  It had
been the dream of his old age to see these
two together at Denny-mains, or on board
that steam yacht he would buy for them on
the Clyde.  Was that not possible?

Here, at least, the girl was honest and
earnest enough—even anxiously earnest.  She
assured him that that was quite impossible.  It
was hopeless.  The Laird remained silent for
some minutes, holding her hand.

"Then," said he, rather sadly, but with an
affectation of grave humour, "I am going to
tell you a story.  It is about a young lass, who
was very proud, and who kept her thoughts
very much to herself, and would not give her
friends a chance of helping her.  And she was
very fond of a—a young Prince we will call
him—who wanted to go away to the wars, and
make a great name for himself.  No one was
prouder of the Prince than the girl, mind ye,
and she encouraged him in everything, and
they were great friends, and she was to give
him all her diamonds, and pearls, and
necklaces—she would throw them into his treasury,
like a Roman matron—just that he might go
away and conquer, and come back and marry
her.  But lo, and behold! one night all her
jewels and bracelets were stolen!  Then what
does she do?  Would ye believe it?  She
goes and quarrels with that young Prince,
and tells him to go away and fight his battles
for himself, and never to come back and see
her any more—just as if any one could fight
a battle wi' a sore heart.  Oh, she was a
wicked, wicked lass, to be so proud as that,
when she had many friends that would
willingly have helped her....  Sit down, my
girl, sit down, my girl, never mind the dinner;
they can wait for us....  Well, ye see, the
story goes on that there was an old man—a
foolish old man—they used to laugh at him,
because of his fine fishing-tackle, and the
very few fish he caught wi' the tackle—and
this doited old body was always intermeddling
in other people's business.  And what do you
think he does but go and say to the young
lass: 'Ha, have I found ye out?  Is it left
for an old man like me—and me a bachelor
too, who should know but little of the quips
and cranks of a young lass's ways—is it left
for an old man like me to find out that fine
secret o' yours?'  She could not say a word.
She was dumbfounded.  She had not the face
to deny it: he *had* found out what that wicked
girl, with all her pride, and her martyrdom,
and her sprained ankles, had been about.
And what do you think he did then?  Why,
as sure as sure can be, he had got all the
young lass's property in his pocket; and before
she could say Jack Robinson, he tells her
that he is going to send straight off for the
Prince—this very night—a telegram to
London——"

The girl had been trembling, and struggling
with the hand that held hers.  At last she
sprang to her feet, with a cry of entreaty.

"Oh, no, no, no, sir!  You will not do that!
You will not degrade me!"

And then—this is her own account, mind—the
Laird rose too, and still held her by the
hand, and spoke sternly to her.

"Degrade you?" said he.  "Foolish lass!
Come in to your dinner."

When these two did come in to dinner—nearly
a quarter of an hour late—their hostess
looked anxiously from one to the other.  But
what could she perceive?  Mary Avon was
somewhat pale, and she was silent: but that
had been her way of late.  As for the Laird,
he came in whistling the tune of the Queen's
Maries, which was a strange grace before
meat, and he looked airily around him at
the walls.

"I would just like to know," said he lightly,
"whether there is a single house in all Scotland
where ye will not find an engraving of one or
other of Mr. Thomas Faed's pictures in some
one of the rooms?"

And he preserved this careless and
indifferent demeanour during dinner.  After
dinner he strolled into the library.  He would
venture upon a small cigar.  His sole
companion was the person whose humble duty
in this household is to look after financial
matters, so that other folks may enjoy
themselves in idleness.

The Laird lay back in an easy chair,
stretched out his legs, lit his cigar, and held
it at arm's length, as if it were something
that ought to be looked at at a distance.

"You had something to do with the
purchase of Miss Mary's American stock, eh?"
said he, pretending to be concerned about the
end of the cigar.

"Yes."

"What was it?"

"Funded Five per Cent."

"What would be about the value of it now?"

"Just now?  Oh, perhaps 106, or 107."

"No, no, no.  I mean, if the bonds that
that ill-faured scoondrel carried away with
him were to be sold the now, what money,
what English money, would they fetch?"

But this required some calculation.

"Probably about 7,300*l*."

"I was asking," said the Laird, "because
I was wondering whether there was any chance
of tracing them."

"Not the least.  They are like bank-notes—more
useful indeed, to a swindler than even
bank-notes."

"Ay, is that so?" said the Laird; and he
seemed to be so charmed with his whistling
of the air of Queen's Maries that he returned
to that performance.  Oddly enough, however,
he never ventured beyond the first line:
perhaps he was afraid of missing the tune.

"Seven thousand, three hundred," said he,
meditatively.  "Man, that's a strong cigar—little,
and black, and strong.  Seven thousand,
three hundred.  Girls are strange craytures.
I remember what that young Doctor was
saying once about weemen being better able
to bear pain than men, and not so much afraid
of it either——"

And here the Queen's Maries came in again.

"It would be a strange thing," said the
Laird, with a sort of rueful laugh, "if I were
to have a steam yacht all to myself, and cruise
about in search of company, eh?  No, no;
that will not do.  My neighbours in
Strathgovan will never say that I deserted them,
just when great improvements and serious
work have to be looked forward to.  I will
not have it said that I ran away, just to
pleasure myself.  Howard, my lad," he added,
imaginatively addressing his absent nephew,
"I doubt but ye'll have to whistle for that
steam yacht."

The Laird rose.

"I think I will smoke in the garden now:
it is a fine evening."

He turned at the door, and seemed suddenly
to perceive a pair of stag's horns over the
chimney-piece.

"That's a grand set o' horns," said he; and
then he added carelessly, "What bank did ye
say they American bonds were in?"

"The London and Westminster."

"They're just a noble pair o' horns," said
he emphatically.  "I wonder ye do not take
them with ye to London."  And then he left.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A RELEASE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A RELEASE.

.. vspace:: 2

We had a long spell ashore at this time,
for we were meditating a protracted voyage,
and everything had to be left ship-shape
behind us.  The Laird was busy from morning
till night; but it would appear that all his
attention was not wholly given to the affairs
of Strathgovan.  Occasionally he surprised
his hostess by questions which had not the
least reference to asphalte pavements or
gymnasium chains.  He kept his own counsel,
nevertheless.

By and by his mysterious silence so piqued
and provoked her that she seized a favourable
opportunity for asking him, point-blank, whether
he had not spoken to Mary Avon.  They were
in the garden at the time, he seated on an
iron seat, with a bundle of papers beside him;
she standing on the gravel-path with some
freshly-cut flowers in her hand.  There was a
little colour in her face, for she feared that
the question might be deemed impertinent;
yet, after all, it was no idle curiosity that
prompted her to ask it.  Was she not as much
interested in the girl's happiness as any one
could be?

"I have," said he, looking up at her calmly.

Well, she knew that.  Was this all the
answer she was to get?

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," said he, after
a second, "if I seem to be making a mystery
where there is no mystery.  I hate all foolishness
like that.  I do not myself believe there
is anything of the kind; but I will just ask
ye to wait for a day or two before speaking
to the lass herself.  After that, I will leave it
all in your hands.  I trust ye will consider that
I have done my part."

"Oh, I am sure of that, sir," said she:
though how could she be sure?

"There is not much I would not do for
that lass," said he, somewhat absently.  "She
has a wonderful way of getting a grip of one's
heart, as it were.  And if I could have wished
that things had turned out otherwise——"

The Laird did not finish the sentence.  He
seemed to rouse himself.

"Toots! toots!" said he, frowning.  "When
we are become men, we have to put away
childish things.  What is the use of crying
for the moon?  There, ma'am, is something
serious and practical to consider—something
better worth considering than childish dreams
and fancies."

And then, with much lucidity and with a
most dispassionate parade of arguments on
both sides, he put before her this knotty
question: whether it was a fit and proper
thing for a body like the Strathgovan
Commissioners to own public-house property?
That was the general question.  The
immediate question was whether the "William
Wallace" public-house, situated in the
Netherbiggins road, should be re-let or summarily
closed?  On the one hand it was contended
that the closing of the "William Wallace"
would only produce a greater run on the other
licensed houses; on the other hand, it was
urged that a body like the commissioners
should set an example and refuse to encourage
a mischievous traffic.  Now the Laird's own
view of the liquor question—which he always
put forward modestly, as subject to the opinion
of those who had had a wider legislative and
administrative experience than himself—was,
that the total suppression of the liquor traffic
was a chimera; and that a practical man should
turn to see what could be done in the way of
stringent police regulations.  He was
proceeding to expound these points when he
suddenly caught sight of the Youth, who had
appeared at the gate, with two long fishing rods
over his shoulder.  He dropped his voice.

"That just reminds me, ma'am," said he.
"I am greatly obliged to ye—my nephew
equally so—for your great kindness to him.
I think it will not be necessary for him to
trespass on your forbearance any longer."

"I don't quite understand you."

"I think I will let him go back to his own
pursuits now," said the Laird.

"Oh, no," she said.  "By all means let him
come with us to Stornoway.  He has been
very good in not grumbling over any
inconvenience.  You would not send him
away—just as we are going to start on our longest
cruise?"

She could not say anything further at the
moment, for the Youth came up the gravel-path
and threw the two huge rods on to the lawn.

"Look there, uncle!" he cried.  "I don't
care what size of lithe you get on the line, I'll
bet those rods won't break, any way.  Sutherland
used to be lamenting over the big fish
you lost up in the north: try them with those
things!"

Here their hostess passed on and into the
house with her flowers.  Uncle and nephew
were left by themselves.

"Howard, lad," said the elder of the two
men, "bring that chair over, and sit opposite
me, I do not want my papers to be disturbed.
There are one or two matters of business I
would like to put before ye."

The Youth did as he was bid.  The Laird
paused for a second or two; then he began—

"When I asked ye to come to the Highlands,"
said he, slowly, "I put an alternative
before ye, with certain consequences.  There
were two things, one of which I wanted ye to
do.  Ye have done neither."

Howard Smith looked somewhat alarmed:
his hostess was not there to put a jocular air
over that bargain.

"Well, sir," he stammered, "I—I could not
do what was impossible.  I—I have done my best."

"Nevertheless," said the Laird, in a
matter-of-fact way, "neither has been done.  I will
not say it has been altogether your fault.  So
far as I have seen, ye have been on very good
terms with the young leddy; and—and—yes,
paid her what attention was expected of ye;
and——"

"Well, you see, uncle," he interposed,
eagerly, "what was the use of my proposing
to the girl only to be snubbed?  Don't I know
she cares no more about me than about the
man in the moon?  Why, anybody could see
that.  Of course, you know, if you insist on
it—if you drive me to it—if you want me to go
in and get snubbed—I'll do it.  I'll take my
chance.  But I don't think it's fair.  I mean,"
he added hastily, "I don't think it is necessary."

"I do not wish to drive ye to anything,"
said the Laird—on any other occasion he might
have laughed at the Youth's ingenuousness,
but now he had serious business on hand.  "I
am content to take things as they are.  Neither
of the objects I had in view has been
accomplished; perhaps both were impossible; who
can tell what lies in store for any of us, when
we begin to plan and scheme?  However, I
am not disposed to regard it as your fault.  I
will impose no fine or punishment, as if we
were playing at theatre-acting.  I have neither
kith nor kin of my own; and it is my wish
that, at my death, Denny-mains should go to
you——"

The Youth's face turned red; yet he did not
know how to express his gratitude.  It did not
quite seem a time for sentiment; the Laird was
talking in such a matter-of-fact way.

"—Subject to certain conditions," he
continued.  "First of all, I spoke some time ago
of spending a sum of 3,000*l.* on a steam yacht.
Dismiss that from your mind.  I cannot afford
it; neither will you be able."

The young man stared at this.  For although
he cared very little about the steam yacht—having
a less liking for the sea than some of us—he
was surprised to hear that a sum like
3,000*l.* was even a matter for consideration to
a reputedly rich man like his uncle.

"Oh, certainly, sir," said he.  "I don't at all
want a steam yacht."

"Very well, we will now proceed."

The Laird took up one of the documents
beside him, and began to draw certain lines
on the back of it.

"Ye will remember," said he, pointing with
his pencil, "that where the estate proper of
Denny-mains runs out to the Coulter-burn Road,
there is a piece of land belonging to me, on
which are two tenements, yielding together, I
should say, about 300*l.* a year.  By and by, if
a road should be cut so—across to the Netherbiggins
road—that land will be more valuable;
many a one will be wanting to feu that piece
then, mark my words.  However, let that stand
by.  In the meantime I have occasion for a
sum of ten thousand three hundred pounds—"

The Youth looked still more alarmed: had
his uncle been speculating?

"—and I have considered it my duty to ask
you, as the future proprietor of Denny-mains
in all human probability, whether ye would
rather have these two tenements sold, with as
much of the adjoining land as would make up
that sum, or whether ye would have the sum
made a charge on the estate generally, and
take your chance of that land rising in value?
What say ye?"

The Laird had been prepared for all this;
but the Youth was not.  He looked rather
frightened.

"I should be sorry to hear, sir," he stammered,
"that—that—you were pressed for money——"

"Pressed for money!" said the Laird
severely; "I am not pressed for money.
There is not a square yard of Denny-mains
with a farthing of mortgage on it.  Come,
let's hear what ye have to say."

"Then," said the young man, collecting his
wits, "my opinion is, that a man should do
what he likes with his own."

"That's well said," returned the Laird, much
mollified.  "And I'm no sure but that if we
were to roup[#] that land, that quarrelsome body
Johnny Guthrie might not be trying to buy it;
and I would not have him for a neighbour on
any consideration.  Well, I will write to Todd
and Buchanan about it at once."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

[#] To roup, to sell by public auction.

.. vspace:: 2

The Laird rose and began to bundle his
papers together.  The Youth laid hold of the
fishing-rods, and was about to carry them off
somewhere, when he was suddenly called back.

"Dear me!" said the Laird, "my memory's
going.  There was another thing I was about
to put before ye, lad.  Our good friends here
have been very kind in asking ye to remain so
long.  I'm thinking ye might offer to give up
your state-room before they start on this long
trip.  Is there any business or occupation ye
would like to be after in the south?"

The flash of light that leapt to the young
man's face!

"Why, uncle!" he exclaimed eagerly, diving
his hand into his pocket, "I have twice been
asked by old Barnes to go to his place—the
best partridge shooting in Bedfordshire——"

But the Youth recollected himself.

"I mean," said he seriously, "Barnes, the
swell solicitor, don't you know—Hughes,
Barnes, and Barnes.  It would be an
uncommonly good thing for me to stand well with
them.  They are just the making of a young
fellow at the bar when they take him up.  Old
Barnes's son was at Cambridge with me; but
he doesn't do anything—an idle fellow—cares
for nothing but shooting and billiards.  I really
ought to cultivate old Barnes."

The Laird eyed him askance.

"Off ye go to your pairtridge-shooting, and
make no more pretence," said he; and then
he added, "And look here, my lad, when ye
leave this house I hope ye will express in a
proper form your thanks for the kindness ye
have received.  No, no; I do not like the way
of you English in that respect.  Ye take no
notice of anything.  Ye receive a man's
hospitality for a week, a fortnight, a month; and
then ye shake hands with him at the door;
and walk out—as if nothing had happened!
These may be good manners in England;
they are not here."

"I can't make a speech, uncle," said the
Youth slyly.  "They don't teach us those
things at the English public schools."

"Ye gowk," said the Laird severely, "do ye
think I want ye to make a speech like Norval
on the Grampian Hills?  I want ye to express
in proper language your thankfulness for the
attention and kindness that have been
bestowed on ye.  What are ye afraid of?  Have
ye not got a mouth?  From all that I can
hear the English have a wonderful fluency of
speech, when there is no occasion for it at all:
bletherin' away like twenty steam-engines, and
not a grain of wheat to be found when a' the
stour is laid."





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.. _`"WHILE THE RIPPLES FOLD UPON SANDS OF GOLD"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   "WHILE THE RIPPLES FOLD UPON SANDS OF GOLD."

.. vspace:: 2

The days passed, and still the Laird
professed to be profoundly busy; and our
departure for the north was further and further
postponed.  The Youth had at first expressed
his intention of waiting to see us off; which
was very kind on his part, considering how
anxious he was to cultivate the acquaintance
of that important solicitor.  His patience,
however, at last gave out; and he begged to be
allowed to start on a certain morning.  The
evening before we walked down to the shore
with him, and got pulled out to the yacht, and
sate on deck while he went below to pack such
things as had been left in his state-room.

"It will be a strange thing," said our gentle
Admiral-in-chief, "for us to have a cabin
empty.  That has never happened to us in the
Highlands, all the time we have been here.  It
will be a sort of ghost's room; we shall not
dare to look into it for fear of seeing something
to awaken old memories."

She put her hand in her pocket, and drew
out some small object.

"Look," said she, quite sentimentally.

It was only a bit of pencil: if it had been
the skull of Socrates she could not have
regarded it with a greater interest.

"It is the pencil Angus used to mark our
games with.  I found it in the saloon the day
before yesterday;" and then she added,
almost to herself, "I wonder where he is now."

The answer to this question startled us.

"In Paris," said the Laird.

But no sooner had he uttered the words than
he seemed somewhat embarrassed.

"That is, I believe so," he said hastily.  "I
am not in correspondence with him.  I do not
know for certain.  I have heard—it has been
stated to me—that he might perhaps remain
until the end of this week in Paris before going
on to Naples."

He appeared rather anxious to avoid being
further questioned.  He began to discourse
upon certain poems of Burns, whom he had
once or twice somewhat slightingly treated.
He was now bent on making ample amends.
In especial, he asked whether his hostess did
not remember the beautiful verse in "Mary
Morison," which describes the lover looking on
at the dancing of a number of young people,
and conscious only that his own sweetheart is
not there?

"Do ye remember it, ma'am?" said he;
and he proceeded to repeat it for her—

   |  'Yestreen, when to the trembling string
   |    The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
   |  To thee my fancy took its wing,
   |    I sat, but neither heard nor saw.

   |  'Though this was fair, and that was braw,
   |    And yon the toast of a' the town,
   |  I sighed and said amang them a',
   |    "Ye are na Mary Morison."'

—Beautiful, beautiful, is it not?  And that is
an extraordinary business—and as old as the
hills too—of one young person waling[#] out
another as the object of all the hopes of his or
her life; and nothing will do but that one.  Ye
may show them people who are better to look
at, richer, cleverer; ye may reason and argue;
ye may make plans, and what not: it is all of
no use.  And people who have grown up, and
who forgot what they themselves were at
twenty or twenty-five, may say what they like
about the foolishness of a piece of sentiment;
and they may prove to the young folks that this
madness will not last, and that they should
marry for more substantial reasons; but ye
are jist talking to the wind!  Madness or not
madness, it is human nature; and ye might jist
as well try to fight against the tides.  I will
say this, too," continued the Laird, and as he
warmed to his subject, he rose, and began to
pace up and down the deck, "if a young man
were to come and tell me that he was ready to
throw up a love-match for the sake of prudence
and worldly advantage, I would say to him:
'Man, ye are a poor crayture.  Ye have not
got the backbone of a mouse in ye.'  I have
no respect for a young man who has prudence
beyond his years; not one bit.  If it is human
nature for a man of fifty years to laugh at
sentiment and romance, it is human nature for
a man at twenty-five to believe in it; and he
who does not believe in it then, I say is a poor
crayture.  He will never come to anything.
He may make money; but he will be a poor
stupid ass all his days, just without those
experiences that make life a beautiful thing to
look back on."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

[#] *Waling*—choosing.

.. vspace:: 2

He came and sate down by Mary Avon.

"Perhaps a sad thing, too," said he, as he
took her hand in his; "but even that is better
than a dull causeway, with an animal trudging
along and sorely burdened with the world's
wealth.  And now, my lass, have ye got
everything tight and trim for the grand
voyage?"

"She has been at it again, sir," says his
hostess, interposing.  "She wants to set out
for the south to-morrow morning."

"It would be a convenient chance for me,"
said the girl simply.  "Mr. Smith might be
good enough to see me as far as Greenock—though,
indeed, I don't at all mind travelling
by myself.  I must stop at Kendal—is that
where the junction is?—for I promised the
poor old woman who died in Edinburgh that
I would call and see some relations of hers
who live near Windermere."

"They can wait, surely?" said the Laird,
with frowning eyebrows, as if the poor people
at Windermere had attempted to do him some
deadly injury.

"Oh, there is no hurry for them," said
she.  "They do not even know I am coming.
But this chance of Mr. Smith going by the
steamer to-morrow would be convenient."

"Put that fancy out of your head," said he
with decision.  "Ye are going to no Greenock,
and to no Kendal, at the present time.  Ye
are going away with us to the north, to see
such things as ye never saw before in your
life.  And if ye are anxious to get on with
your work, I'll tell ye what I'll do.  There's
our Provost M'Kendrick has been many a
time telling me of the fine salmon-fishing he
got at the west side of Lewis—I think he
said at a place called Gometra——"

"Grimersta," is here suggested.

"The very place.  Ye shall paint a picture
of Grimersta, my lass, on commission for the
Provost.  I authorise ye: if he will not take
it, I will take it myself.  Never mind what
the place is like—the Provost has no more
imagination than a boiled lobster; but he
knows when he has good friends, and good
fishing, and a good glass of whisky; and,
depend on it, he'll be proud to have a picture
of the place, on your own terms.  I tell ye
I authorise ye."

Here the Youth came on deck, saying he
was now ready to go ashore.

"Do you know, sir," said his hostess, rising,
"what Mary has been trying to get me to
believe?—that she is afraid of the equinoctials!"

The Laird laughed aloud.

"That *is* a good one—that *is* a good one!"
he cried.  "I never heard a better story about
Homesh."

"I know the gales are very wild here
when they begin," said Miss Avon seriously.
"Every one says so."

But the Laird only laughs the more, and is
still chuckling to himself as he gets down into
the gig: the notion of Mary Avon being
afraid of anything—of fifteen dozen of
equinoctial gales, for example—was to him simply
ludicrous.

But a marked and unusual change came
over the Laird's manner when we got back
to Castle Osprey.  During all the time he
had been with us, although he had had
occasionally to administer rebukes, with more or
less of solemnity, he had never once lost his
temper.  We should have imagined it impossible
for anything to have disturbed his serene
dignity of demeanour.  But now—when he
discovered that there was no letter awaiting
any one of us—his impatience seemed
dangerously akin to vexation and anger.  He
would have the servants summoned and
cross-examined.  Then he would not believe them;
but must needs search the various rooms for
himself.  The afternoon post had really brought
nothing but a newspaper—addressed to the
Laird—and that he testily threw into the
waste-paper basket, without opening it.  We
had never seen him give way like this before.

At dinner, too, his temper was no better.
He began to deride the business habits of
the English people—which was barely civil.
He said that the English feared the Scotch
and the Germans just as the Americans feared
the Chinese—because the latter were
the more indefatigable workers.  He
declared that if the London men had less
Amontillado sherry and cigarettes in their
private office-rooms, their business would be
conducted with much greater accuracy and
dispatch.  Then another thought struck him:
were the servants prepared to swear that no
registered letter had been presented in the
afternoon, and taken away again because there
was no one in the house to sign the receipt?
Inquiry being made, it was found that no such
letter had been presented.  But finally, when
the turmoil about this wretched thing was at
its height, the Laird was pressed to say from
which part of the country the missive was
expected.  From London, he said.  It was
then pointed out to him that the London
letters were usually sent along in the
evening—sometimes as late as eight or nine o'clock.
He went on with his dinner, grumbling.

Sure enough, before he had finished dinner,
a footstep was heard on the gravel outside.
The Laird, without any apology, jumped up
and went to the window.

"There's the postman," said he, as he
resumed his seat.  "Ye might give him a shilling,
ma'am: it is a long climb up the hill."

It was the postman, no doubt; and he had
brought a letter, but it was not for the Laird.
We were all apprehensive of a violent storm
when the servant passed on and handed this
letter to Mary Avon.  But the Laird said
nothing.  Miss Avon, like a properly-conducted
school-girl, put the letter in her pocket.

There was no storm.  On the contrary, the
Laird got quite cheerful.  When his hostess
hoped that no serious inconvenience would
result from the non-arrival of the letter, he
said, "Not the least!"  He began and told us
the story of the old lady who endeavoured to
engage the practical Homesh—while he was
collecting tickets—in a disquisition on the
beauties of Highland scenery, and who was
abruptly bidden to "mind her own pussness"; we
had heard the story not more than thirty-eight
times, perhaps, from various natives of Scotland.

But the letter about which the Laird had
been anxious had—as some of us suspected—actually
arrived, and was then in Mary Avon's
pocket.  After dinner the two women went
into the drawing-room.  Miss Avon sate down
to the piano, and began to play, idly enough,
the air called *Heimweh*.  Of what home was
she thinking then—this waif and stray among
the winds of the world?

Tea was brought in.  At last the curiosity
of the elder woman could no longer be
restrained.

"Mary," said she, "are you not going to
read that letter?"

"Dear me!" said the girl, plunging into her
pocket.  "I had forgotten I had a letter to
read."

She took it out and opened it, and began to
read.  Her face looked puzzled at first, then
alarmed.  She turned to her friend.

"What is it?  What can it mean?" she said,
in blank dismay; and the trembling fingers
handed her the letter.

Her friend had less difficulty in understanding;
although, to be sure, before she had
finished this perfectly plain and matter-of-fact
communication, there were tears in her eyes.
It was merely a letter from the manager of a
bank in London, begging to inform Miss Avon
that he had just received, through
Messrs. Todd and Buchanan, of Glasgow, a sum of
10,300*l.* to be placed to her credit.  He was
also desired to say, that this sum was entirely
at her own free disposal; but the donor would
prefer—if she had no objection—that it should
be invested in some home security, either in a
good mortgage, or in the Metropolitan Board
of Works Stock.  It was a plain and simple
letter.

"Oh, Mary, don't you understand—don't you
understand?" said she.  "He meant to have
given you a steam yacht, if—if you married
Howard Smith.  He has given you all the
money you lost; and the steam yacht too.
And there is not a word of regret about all his
plans and schemes being destroyed.  And this
is the man we have all been making fun of."

In her conscious self-abasement she did not
perceive how bewildered—how absolutely
frightened—this girl was.  Mary Avon took
back the letter mechanically; she stood silent
for a second or two; then she said, almost
in a whisper—

"Giving me all that money!  Oh, I cannot
take it—I cannot take it!  I should not have
stayed here—I should not have told him
anything—I—I—wish to go away——"

But the common sense of the elder woman
came to her rescue.  She took the girl's hand
firmly, and said—

"You shall not go away.  And when it is
your good fortune to meet with such a friend as
that, you shall not wound him and insult him
by refusing what he has given to you.  No;
but you will go at once and thank him."

"I cannot—I cannot," she said, with both her
hands trembling.  "What shall I say?  How
can I thank him?  If he were my own father
or brother, how could I thank him?——"

Her friend left the room for a second, and
returned.

"He is in the library alone," said she.  "Go
to him.  And do not be so ungrateful as to
even speak of refusing."

The girl had no time to compose any speech.
She walked to the library door, timidly tapped
at it, and entered.  The Laird was seated in an
easy-chair, reading.

When he saw her come in—he had been
expecting a servant with coffee, probably—he
instantly put aside his book.

"Well, Miss Mary?" said he cheerfully.

She hesitated.  She could not speak; her
throat was choking.  And then, scarcely
knowing what she did, she sank down before him,
and put her head and her hands on his knees,
and burst out crying and sobbing.  And all
that he could hear of any speech-making, or of
any gratitude, or thanks, was only two words—

"*My father!*"

He put his hand gently on the soft black
hair.

"Child," said he, "it is nothing.  I have
kept my word."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BACKWARD THOUGHTS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X.


.. class:: center medium bold

   BACKWARD THOUGHTS.

.. vspace:: 2

That was a beautiful morning on which
we got up at an unearthly hour to see the
Youth depart—all of us, that is to say, except
Mary Avon.  And yet she was not usually
late.  The Laird could not understand it.  He
kept walking from one room to another, or
hovering about the hall; and when the
breakfast-gong sounded, he refused to come in and
take his place without his accustomed
companion.  But just at this moment whom should
he behold entering by the open door but Mary
Avon herself—laden with her artistic
impedimenta?  He pounced on her at once, and
seized the canvas.

"Bless me, lassie, what have ye been about?
Have ye done all this this morning?  Ye must
have got up in the middle of the night!"

It was but a rough sketch, after all—or the
beginnings of a sketch, rather—of the wide,
beautiful sea and mountain view from the
garden of Castle Osprey.

"I thought, sir," said she, in a somewhat
hesitating way, "that you might perhaps be
so kind as to accept from me those sketches
I have made on board the *White Dove*—and—and
if they were at Denny-mains, I should like
to have the series complete—and—and it
would naturally begin with a sketch from the
garden here——"

He looked at her for a moment, with a
grave, perhaps wistful, kindness in his face.

"My lass, I would rather have seen you
at Denny-mains."

That was the very last word he ever uttered
concerning the dream that had just been
destroyed.  And it was only about this time, I
think, that we began to recognise the simple,
large, noble nature of this man.  We had
been too much inclined to regard the mere
husks and externals of his character—to laugh
at his assumption of parochial importance, his
solemn discussions of the Semple case, his
idiotic stories about Homesh.  And it was
not a mere freak of generosity that revealed
to us something of the finer nature of this old
Scotchman.  People as rich as he have often
paid bigger sums than 10,300*l.* for the
furtherance of a hobby.  But it was to put away his
hobby—it was to destroy for ever the "dream
of his old age"—that he had been thus
munificent towards this girl.  And there was no
complaint or regret.  He had told us it was
time for him to put away childish things.
And this was the last word said—"My lass,
I would rather have seen you at Denny-mains."

The Laird was exceedingly facetious at this
breakfast-party, and his nephew had a bad time
of it.  There were mysterious questions about
Messrs. Hughes, Barnes, and Barnes; as to
whether consultations were best held in
stubble or in turnips; or whether No. 5 shot
was the best for bringing down briefs; and
so forth.

"Never mind, uncle," said the Youth good-naturedly.
"I will send you some partridges
for the larder of the yacht."

"You need not do anything of the kind,"
said the Laird; "before you are in Bedfordshire
the *White Dove* will be many a mile away
from the course of luggage steamers."

"Oh, are you ready to start, then, sir?"
said his hostess.

"This very meenute, if it pleases you," said he.

She looked rather alarmed, but said nothing.
In the meantime the waggonette had come to
the door.

By and by there was a small party assembled
on the steps to see the Youth drive off.  And
now the time had come for him to make that
speech of thanks which his uncle had pointed
out was distinctly due from him.  The Laird,
indeed, regarded his departure with a critical
air; and no doubt waited to see how his
nephew would acquit himself.

Perhaps the Youth had forgotten.  At all
events, having bidden good-bye to the others,
he shook hands last of all with his hostess,
and said lightly—

"Thank you very much.  I have enjoyed
the whole thing tremendously."

Then he jumped into the waggonette, and
took off his cap as a parting salute; and
away he went.  The Laird frowned.  When
he was a young man that was not the way
in which hospitality was acknowledged.

Then Mary Avon turned from regarding the
departing waggonette.

"Are we to get ready to start?" said she.

"What do you say, sir?" asks the hostess of
the Laird.

"I am at your service," he replies.

And so it appeared to be arranged.  But
still Queen Titania looked irresolute and
uneasy.  She did not at once set the whole
house in an uproar; or send down for the men;
or begin herself to harry the garden.  She
kept loitering about the door; pretending to
look at the signs of the weather.  At last
Mary said—

"Well, in any case, you will be more than
an hour in having the things carried down; so
I will do a little bit more to that sketch in the
meantime."

The moment she was gone, her hostess says
in a hurried whisper to the Laird—

"Will you come into the library, sir, for a
moment?"

He obediently followed her; and she shut
the door.

"Are we to start without Angus Sutherland?"
she asked, without circumlocution.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," said the wily
Laird.

Then she was forced to explain, which she
did in a somewhat nervous manner.

"Mary has told me, sir, of your very, very
great generosity to her.  I hope you will let
me thank you too."

"There is not another word to be said about
it," he said simply.  "I found a small matter
wrong in the world that I thought I could put
right; and I did it; and now we start fresh
and straight again.  That is all."

"But about Angus Sutherland," said she
still more timidly.  "You were quite right in
your conjectures—at least, I imagine so—indeed,
I am sure of it.  And now, don't you
think we should send for him?"

"The other day, ma'am," said he slowly,
"I informed ye that when I considered my part
done I would leave the matter in your hands
entirely.  I had to ask some questions of the
lass, no doubt, to make sure of my ground;
though I felt it was not a business fit for an
old bachelor like me to intermeddle wi'.  I am
now of opinion that it would be better, as I
say, to leave the matter in your hands entirely."

The woman looked rather bewildered.

"But what am I to do?" said she.  "Mary
will never allow me to send for him—and I
have not his address in any case——"

The Laird took a telegram from his breast-pocket.

"There it is," said he, "until the end of
this week, at all events."

She looked at it hesitatingly; it was from
the office of the magazine that Angus Sutherland
edited; and was in reply to a question of
the Laird's.  Then she lifted her eyes.

"Do you think I might ask Mary herself?"

"That is for a woman to decide," said he;
and again she was thrown back on her own resources.

Well, this midge of a woman has some
courage too.  She began to reflect on what
the Laird had adventured, and done, for the
sake of this girl; and was she not prepared to
risk something also?  After all, if these two
had been fostering a vain delusion, it would be
better to have it destroyed at once.

And so she went out into the garden, where
she found Miss Avon again seated at her easel.
She went gently over to her; she had the
telegram in her hand.  For a second or two
she stood irresolute; then she boldly walked
across the lawn, and put her hand on the girl's
shoulder.  With the other hand she held the
telegram before Mary Avon's eyes.

"Mary," said she, in a very low and gentle
voice, "will you write to him now and ask
him to come back?"

The girl dropped the brush she had been
holding on to the grass, and her face got very
pale.

"Oh, how could I do that?" said she, in an
equally low—and frightened—voice.

"You sent him away."

There was no answer.  The elder woman
waited; she only saw that Mary Avon's fingers
were working nervously with the edge of the palette.

"Mary," said she at length, "am I right
in imagining the cause of your sending him
away?  May I write and explain, if you will not?"

"Oh, how can you explain?" the girl said,
almost piteously.  "It is better as it is.  Did
you not hear what the kindest friend I ever
found in the world had to say of me yesterday,
about young people who were too prudent,
and were mercenary; and how he had no
respect for young people who thought too
much about money——"

"Mary, Mary!" the other said, "he was
not speaking about you.  You mercenary!  He
was speaking about a young man who would
throw over his sweetheart for the sake of
money.  You mercenary!  Well, let me appeal
to Angus!  When I explain to him, and ask
him what he thinks of you, I will abide by his
answer."

"Well, I did not think of myself; it was for
his sake I did it," said the girl, in a somewhat
broken voice; and tears began to steal down
her cheeks, and she held her head away.

"Well then, I won't bother you anymore,
Mary," said the other, in her kindliest way.
"I won't ask you to do anything, except to get
ready to get down to the yacht."

"At once?" said the girl, instantly getting
up, and drying her eyes.  She seemed greatly
relieved by this intimation of an immediate start.

"As soon as the men have the luggage
taken down."

"Oh, that will be very pleasant," said she,
immediately beginning to put away her colours.
"What a fine breeze!  I am sure I shall be
ready in fifteen minutes."

Then the usual bustle began; messages
flying up and down, and the gig and dingay
racing each other to the shore and back again.
By twelve o'clock everything had been got on
board.  Then the *White Dove* gently glided
away from her moorings; we had started on
our last and longest voyage.

It seemed innumerable ages since we had
been in our sea-home.  And that first glance
round the saloon—as our absent friend the
Doctor had remarked—called up a multitude
of recollections, mostly converging to a general
sense of snugness, and remoteness, and good
fellowship.  The Laird sank down into a
corner of one of the couches, and said—

"Well, I think I could spend the rest of
my days in this yacht.  It seems as if I had
lived in it for many, many years."

But Miss Avon would not let him remain
below; it was a fine sailing day; and very
soon we were all on deck.  A familiar scene?—this
expanse of blue sea, curling with white
here and there; with a dark blue sky overhead,
and all around the grand panorama of
mountains in their rich September hues?  The
sea is never familiar.  In its constant and
moving change, its secret and slumbering
power, its connection with the great unknown
beyond the visible horizon, you never become
familiar with the sea.  We may recognise the
well-known landmarks as we steal away to
the north—the long promontory and white
lighthouse of Lismore, the ruins of Duart, the
woods of Scallasdale, the glimpse into Loch
Aline—and we may use these things only to
calculate our progress; but always around us
is the strange life, and motion, and infinitude
of the sea, which never becomes familiar.

We had started with a light favourable wind,
of the sort that we had come to call a
Mary-Avon-steering breeze; but after luncheon this
died away, and we lay icily for a long time
opposite the dark green woods of Fuinary.
However, there was a wan and spectral look
about the sunshine of this afternoon, and there
were some long, ragged shreds of cloud in
the southern heavens—just over the huge
round shoulders of the Mull mountains—that
told us we were not likely to be harassed by
any protracted calms.  And, in fact, occasional
puffs and squalls came over from the south
which, if they did not send us on much farther,
at least kept everybody on the alert.

And at length we got it.  The gloom over
the mountains had deepened, and the streaks
of sunlit sky that were visible here and there
had a curious coppery tinge about them.
Then we heard a hissing in towards the shore,
and the darkening band on the sea spread
rapidly out to us; then there was a violent
shaking of blocks and spars, and, as the *White
Dove* bent to the squall, a most frightful clatter
was heard below, showing that some careless
people had been about.  Then away went the
yacht like an arrow!  We cared little for the
gusts of rain that came whipping across from
time to time.  We would not even go down
to see what damage had been done in the
cabins.  John of Skye, with his savage hatred
of the long calms we had endured, refused to
lower his gaff topsail.  At last he was "letting
her have it."

We spun along, with the water hissing away
from our wake; but the squall had not had
time to raise anything of a sea, so there was
but little need for the women to duck their
heads to the spray.  Promontory after
promontory, bay after bay was passed, until far
ahead of us, through the driving mists of rain,
we could make out the white shaft of Ru-na-Gaul
lighthouse.  But here another condition
of affairs confronted us.  When we turned her
nose to the south, to beat in to Tobermory
harbour, the squall was coming tearing out of
that cup among the hills with an exceeding
violence.  When the spray sprang high at the
bows, the flying shreds of it that reached us
bore an uncommon resemblance to the thong
of a whip.  The topsail was got down, the
mizen taken in, and then we proceeded to fight
our way into the harbour in a series of tacks
that seemed to last only a quarter of a second.
What with the howling of the wind, that blew
back his orders in his face; and what with
the wet decks, that caused the men to stumble
now and again; and what with the number of
vessels in the bay, that cut short his tacks at
every turn, Captain John of Skye had an
exciting time of it.  But we knew him of old.
He "put on" an extra tack, when there was
no need for it, and slipped though between a
fishing-smack and a large schooner, merely for
the sake of "showing off."  And then the
*White Dove* was allowed to go up to the
wind, and slowly slackened her pace, and the
anchor went out with a roar.  We were
probably within a yard of the precise spot where
we had last anchored in the Tobermory bay.

It blew and rained hard all that evening,
and we did not even think of going on deck
after dinner.  We were quite content as we
were.  Somehow a new and secret spirit of
cheerfulness had got possession of certain
members of this party, without any
ostensible cause.  There was no longer the
depression that had prevailed about West Loch
Tarbert.  When Mary Avon played bezique
with the Laird, it was to a scarcely audible
accompaniment of "The Queen's Maries."

Nor did the evening pass without an
incident worthy of some brief mention.  There
is, in the *White Dove*, a state-room which
really acts as a passage, during the day,
between the saloon and the forecastle; and when
this state-room is not in use, Master Fred is
in the habit of converting it into a sort of
pantry, seeing that it adjoins his galley.  Now,
on this evening, when our shifty Friedrich d'or
came in with soda-water and such like things,
he took occasion to say to the Rear-Admiral
of the Fleet on board—

"I beg your pardon, mem, but there is no
one now in this state-room, and will I use it
for a pantry?"

"You will do nothing of the kind, Fred,"
said she quite sharply.





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.. _`A TOAST`:

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   CHAPTER XI.


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   A TOAST.

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"I am almost afraid of what I have done;
but it is past recall now:" this is the
mysterious sentence one hears on climbing up the
companion next morning.  It is Queen Titania
and the Laird who are talking; but as soon
as a third person appears they become
consciously and guiltily silent.  What does it
matter?  We have other work on hand than
prying into twopenny-halfpenny secrets.

For we have resolved on starting away for
the north in spite of this fractious weather.  A
more unpromising-looking morning indeed for
setting out could not well be imagined—windy,
and wet, and squally; the driven green sea
outside springing white where it meets the line of
the coast; Loch Sunart and its mountains
hidden away altogether behind the mists of
rain; wan flashes of sunlight here and there
only serving to show how swiftly the clouds
are flying.  But the *White Dove* has been
drying her wings all the summer; she can
afford to face a shower now.  And while the
men are hoisting the sail and getting the
anchor hove short, our two women-folk array
themselves in tightly-shaped ulsters, with
hoods drawn over their heads; and the Laird
appears in a waterproof reaching to his heels;
and even the skylights have their tarpaulins
thrown over.  Dirty weather or no, we mean
to start.

There are two or three yachts in the bay,
the last of the summer-fleet all hastening away
to the south.  There is no movement on the
decks of any one of them.  Here and there,
however, in sheltered places—under a bit of
awning, or standing by the doors of
deck-saloons—we can make out huddled groups of
people, who are regarding, with a pardonable
curiosity, the operations of John of Skye and
his merry men.

"They take us for maniacs," says Queen
Titania from out of her hood, "to be setting
out for the north in such weather."

And we were nearly affording those amiable
spectators a pretty sight.  The wind coming in
variable gusts, the sails failed to fill at the proper
moment, and the *White Dove* drifted right on
to the bows of a great schooner, whose
bowsprit loomed portentous overhead.  There was
a wild stampede for boat-hooks and oars; and
then with arms, and feet, and poles—aided by
the swarming crew of the schooner—we managed
to clear her with nothing more serious than
an ominous grating along the gig.  And then the
wind catching her, she gradually came under
the control of Captain John; and away we
went for the north, beating right in the teeth
of the gusts that came tearing over from the
mouth of Loch Sunart.

"It's a bad wind, mem, for getting up
to Isle Ornsay," says John of Skye to the
Admiral.  "Ay, and the sea pretty coorse,
too, when we get outside Ardnamurchan."

"Now, listen to me, John," she says severely,
and with an air of authority—as much authority,
that is to say, as can be assumed by a midge
enclosed in an ulster.  "I am not going to
have any of that.  I know you of old.  As
soon as you get out of Tobermory, you immediately
discover that the wind is against our going
north; and we turn round and run away down
to Iona and the Bull-hole.  I will not go to the
Bull-hole.  If I have to sail this yacht myself,
night and day, I will go to Isle Ornsay."

"If ye please, mem," says John of Skye,
grinning with great delight over her facetiousness.
"Oh, I will tek the yat to Isle Ornsay
very well, if the leddies not afraid of a little
coorse sea.  And you will not need to sail the
yat at all, mem.  But I not afraid to let you
sail the yat.  You will know about the sailing
now shist as much as Mr. Sutherland."

At the mention of this name, Queen Titania
glanced at Mary Avon, perceived she was not
listening, and went nearer to John of Skye, and
said something to him in a lower voice.  There
was a quick look of surprise and pleasure on
the handsome, brown-bearded face.

"Oh, I ferry glad of that, mem," said he.

"Hush, John!  Not a word to anybody," said she.

By this time we had beat out of the harbour,
and were now getting longer tacks; so that,
when the sheets were properly coiled, it was
possible for the Laird and Miss Avon to
attempt a series of short promenades on the
wet decks.  It was an uncertain and unstable
performance, to be sure; for the sea was
tumultuous; but it served.

"Mutual help—that's the thing," said the
Laird to his companion, as together they
staggered along, or stood steady to confront a
particularly fierce gust of wind.  "We are
independent of the world—this solitary vessel
out in the waste of waters—but we are not
independent of each other.  It just reminds me of
the small burghs outside Glasgow; we wish to
be independent of the great ceety lying near
us; we prefer to have a separate existence;
but we can help each other for all that in a
most unmistakeable way——"

Here the Laird was interrupted by the
calling out of Captain John—"*Ready about!*"
and he and his companion had to get out of the
way of the boom.  Then they resumed their
promenade, and he his discourse.

"Do ye think, for example," said this
profound philosopher, "that any one burgh
would have been competent to decide on a
large question like the clauses of the Police
Act that refer to cleansing and lighting?"

"I am not sure," Miss Avon admitted.

"No, no," said he confidently, "large
questions should be considered in common
council—with every opportunity of free discussion.
I do not much like to speak about local matters,
or of my own share in them, but I must take
credit for this, that it was myself recommended
to the Commissioners to summon a public
meeting.  It was so, and the meeting was
quite unanimous.  It was Provost McKendrick,
ye must understand, who formally made the
proposal that the consideration of those clauses
should be remitted to the clerks of the various
burghs, who were to report; but the suggestion
was really mine—I make no scruple in claiming
it.  And then, see the result!  When the six
clerks were agreed, and sent in their report, look
at the authority of such a document!  Who but
an ass would make freevolous objections?"

The Laird laughed aloud.

"It was that crayture, Johnny Guthrie," said
he, "as usual!  I am not sure that I have
mentioned his name to ye before?"

"Oh, yes, I think so, sir," remarked Miss Avon.

"It was that crayture, Johnny Guthrie—in
the face of the unanimous report of the whole
six clerks!  Why, what could be more
reasonable than that the lighting of closes and
common stairs should fall on the landlords, but
with power to recover from the tenants; while
the cleansing of back-courts—being a larger
and more general measure—should be the work
of the commissioners and chargeable in the
police rates?  It is a great sanitary work that
benefits every one; why should not all have a
hand in paying for it?"

Miss Avon was understood to assent; but the
fact was that the small portion of her face left
uncovered by her hood had just then received
an unexpected bath of salt water; and she had
to halt for a moment to get out a handkerchief
from some sub-ulsterian recess.

"Well," continued the Laird, as they resumed
their walk, "what does this body Guthrie do
but rise and propose that the landlords—mind
ye, the landlords alone—should be rated for
the expense of cleaning the back-courts!  I
declare there are some folk seem to think that
a landlord is made of nothing but money, and
that it is everybody's business to harry him, and
worry him, and screw every farthing out of
him.  If Johnny Guthrie had half a dozen
lands of houses himself, what would he say
about the back-courts then?"

This triumphant question settled the matter;
and we haled the Laird below for luncheon.
Our last glance round showed us the Atlantic
of a silvery grey, and looking particularly
squally; with here and there a gleam of pale
sunshine falling on the long headland of
Ardnamurchan.

There was evidently some profound secret about.

"Well, ma'am, and where will we get to the
night, do ye think?" said the Laird, cheerfully,
as he proceeded to carve a cold fowl.

"It is of no consequence," said the other,
with equal carelessness.  "You know we must
idle away a few days somewhere."

Idle away a few days?—and this *White Dove*
bent on a voyage to the far north when the
very last of the yachts were fleeing south!

"I mean," said she hastily, in order to
retrieve her blunder, "that Captain John is not
likely to go far away from the chance of a
harbour until he sees whether this is the
beginning of the equinoctials or not."

"The equinoctials?" said the Laird, anxiously.

"They sometimes begin as early as this; but
not often.  However, there will always be
some place where we can run in to."

The equinoctials, indeed!  When we went
on deck again we found not only that those
angry squalls had ceased, but that the wind had
veered very considerably in our favour, and we
were now running and plunging past
Ardnamurchan Point.  The rain had ceased too;
the clouds had gathered themselves up in
heavy folds; and their reflected blackness lay
over the dark and heaving Atlantic plain.  Well
was it for these two women that luncheon had
been taken in time.  What one of them had
dubbed the Ardnamurchan Wobble—which she
declared to be as good a name for a waltz as the
Liverpool Lurch—had begun in good earnest;
and the *White Dove* was dipping, and rolling, and
springing in the most lively fashion.  There was
not much chance for the Laird and Mary Avon
to resume their promenade; when one of the
men came aft to relieve John of Skye at the
wheel, he had to watch his chance, and come
clambering along by holding on to the shrouds,
the rail of the gig, and so forth.  But
Dr. Sutherland's prescription had its effect.
Despite the Ardnamurchan Wobble and all
its deeds, there was no ghostly and silent
disappearance.

And so we ploughed on our way during the
afternoon, the Atlantic appearing to grow
darker and darker, as the clouds overhead
seemed to get banked up more thickly.  The
only cheerful bit of light in this gloomy
picture was a streak or two of sand at the foot
of the sheer and rocky cliffs north of
Ardnamurchan Light; and those we were rapidly
leaving behind as the brisk breeze—with a
kindness to which we were wholly strangers—kept
steadily creeping round to the south.

The dark evening wore on, and we were
getting well up towards Eigg, when a strange
thing became visible along the western horizon.

First the heavy purple clouds showed a tinge
of crimson, and then a sort of yellow smoke
appeared close down at the sea.  This golden
vapour widened, cleared, until there was a
broad belt of lemon-coloured sky all along the
edge of the world; and in this wonder of
shining light appeared the island of Rum—to
all appearance as transparent as a bit of the
thinnest gelatine, and in colour a light purple
rose.  It was really a most extraordinary sight.
The vast bulk of this mountainous island,
including the sombre giants Haleval and
Haskeval, seemed to have less than the
consistency of a cathedral window; it resembled
more a pale, rose-coloured cloud; and the
splendour of it, and the glow of the golden sky
beyond, were all the more bewildering by
reason of the gloom of the overhanging clouds
that lay across like a black bar.

"Well!" said the Laird—and here he paused,
for the amazement in his face could not at once
find fitting words.  "That beats a'!"

And it was a cheerful and friendly light too,
that now came streaming over to us from
beyond the horizon-line.  It touched the sails
and the varnished spars with a pleasant colour.
It seemed to warm and dry the air, and tempted
the women to put aside their ulsters.  Then
began a series of wild endeavours to achieve a
walk on deck, interrupted every second or two
by some one or other being thrown against the
boom, or having to grasp at the shrouds in
passing.  But it resulted in exercise, at all
events; and meanwhile we were still making
our way northward, with the yellow star of
Isle Ornsay lighthouse beginning to be visible
in the gathering dusk.

That evening at dinner the secret came out.
There cannot be the slightest doubt that the
disclosure of it had been carefully planned by
these two conspirators; and that they
considered themselves amazingly profound in
giving to it a careless and improvised air.

"I never sit down to dinner now, ma'am,"
observed the Laird, in a light and graceful
manner, "without a feeling that there is
something wanting in the saloon.  The table is not
symmetrical.  That should occur to Miss
Mary's eye at once.  One at the head, one
my side, two yours; no, that is not as
symmetrical as it used to be."

"Do you think I do not feel that too?"
says his hostess.  "And that is not the only
time at which I wish that Angus were back
with us."

No one had a word to say for poor Howard
Smith, who used to sit at the foot of the
table, in a meek and helpful capacity.  No
one thought of summoning him back to make
the arrangement symmetrical.  Perhaps he
was being consoled by Messrs. Hughes,
Barnes, and Barnes.

"And the longer the nights are growing,
I get to miss him more and more," she says,
with a beautiful pathos in her look.  "He
was always so full of activity and cheerfulness—the
way he enjoyed life on board the yacht
was quite infectious; and then his constant
plans and suggestions.  And how he looked
forward to this long trip! though, to be sure,
he struggled hard against the temptation.  I
know the least thing would have turned the
scale, Italy or no Italy."

"Why, ma'am," says the Laird, laughing
prodigiously, "I should not wonder, if you
sent him a message at this minute, to find him
coming along post-haste and joining us, after
all.  What is Eetaly?  I have been in Eetaly
myself.  Ye might live there a hundred years,
and never see anything so fine in colour as
that sunset we saw this very evening.  And
if it is business he is after, bless me! cannot
a young man be a young man sometimes, and
have the courage to do something imprudent?
Come now, write to him at once!  I will take
the responsibility myself."

"To tell you the truth, sir," said the other
timidly—but she pretends she is very anxious
about the safety of a certain distant wine-glass—"I
took a sudden notion into my head
yesterday morning, and sent him a message."

"Dear me!" he cries.  The hypocrite!

And Mary Avon all the while sits mute,
dismayed, not daring to turn her face to the
light.  And the small white hand that holds
the knife: why does it tremble so?

"The fact is," says Queen Titania carelessly,
just as if she were reading a bit out of a
newspaper, "I sent him a telegram, to save
time.  And I thought it would be more
impressive if I made it a sort of round-robin,
don't you know—as far as that can be done
on a telegraph-form—and I said that each
and all of us demanded his instant return,
and that we should wait about Isle Ornsay
or Loch Hourn until he joined us.  So you
see, sir, we may have to try your patience for
a day or two."

"Ye may try it, but ye will not find it
wanting," said the Laird, with serious courtesy.
"I do not care how long I wait for the young
man, so long as I am in such pleasant society.
Ye forget, ma'am, what life one is obliged to
live at Denny-mains, with public affairs
worrying one from the morning till the night.
Patience?  I have plenty of patience.  But
all the same I would like to see the young
man here.  I have a great respect for him,
though I consider that some of his views may
not be quite sound—that will mend—that will
mend; and now, my good friends, I will take
leave to propose a toast to ye."

We knew the Laird's old-fashioned ways,
and had grown to humour them.  There was
a pretence of solemnly filling glasses.

"I am going," said the Laird, in a formal
manner, "to propose to ye the quick and safe
return of a friend.  May all good fortune
attend him on his way, and may happiness
await him at the end of his journey!"

There was no dissentient; but there was
one small white hand somewhat unsteady, as
the girl, abashed and trembling and silent,
touched the glass with her lips.





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.. _`EXPECTATIONS`:

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   CHAPTER XII.


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   EXPECTATIONS.

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It was a fine piece of acting.  These two
continued to talk about the coming of our
young Doctor as if it were the most simple
and ordinary affair possible.  All its bearings
were discussed openly, to give you to
understand that Mary Avon had nothing in the
world to do with it.  It was entirely a practical
arrangement for the saving of time.  By
running across to Paris he would jump over
the interval between our leaving West Loch
Tarbert and this present setting-out for the
north.  Mary Avon was asked about this
point and that point: there was no reason why
she should not talk about Angus Sutherland
just like any other.

And, indeed, there was little call for any
pale apprehension on the face of the girl, or
for any quick look round when a sudden sound
was heard.  It was not possible for Angus to
be anywhere in our neighbourhood as yet.
When we went on deck next morning, we
found that we had been idly drifting about
all night, and that we were now far away from
any land.  The morning sun was shining on
the dark green woods of Armadale, and on
the little white sharp point of Isle Ornsay
lighthouse, and on the vast heather-purpled
hills in the north; while over there the
mountains above Loch Hourn were steeped
in a soft mysterious shadow.  And then, by
and by, after breakfast, some light puffs of
westerly wind began to ruffle the glassy surface
of the sea; and the *White Dove* almost
insensibly drew nearer and nearer to the entrance
of that winding loch that disappeared away
within the dusky shadows of those overhanging
hills.  Late on as it was in the autumn, the
sun was hot on the sails and the deck; and
these cool breezes were welcome in a double
sense.

We saw nothing of the accustomed gloom
of Loch Hourn.  The sheer sides of the
great mountains were mostly in shadow, it is
true; but then the ridges and plateaus were
burning in the sunlight; and the waters of the
loch around us were blue, and lapping, and
cheerful.  We knew only that the place was
vast, and still, and silent; we could make out
scarcely any sign of habitation.

Then, as the *White Dove* still glided on her
way, we opened out a little indentation of the
land behind an island; and there, nestled at
the foot of the hill, we descried a small
fishing-village.  The cottages, the nets drying on the
poles, the tiny patches of cultivated ground
behind, all seemed quite toy-like against the
giant and overhanging bulk of the hills.  But
again we drew away from Camus Ban—that is,
the White Bay—and got further and further
into the solitudes of the mountains, and away
from any traces of human life.  When about
mid-day we came to anchor, we found ourselves
in a sort of cup within the hills, apparently
shut off from all the outer world, and in a
stillness so intense that the distant whistle of
a curlew was quite startling.  A breath of
wind that blew over from the shore brought
us a scent of honeysuckle.

At luncheon we found to our amazement that
a fifth seat had been placed at table, and that
plates, glasses, and what not had been laid for
a guest.  A guest in these wilds?—there was
not much chance of such a thing, unless the
King of the Seals or the Queen of the
Mermaids were to come on board.

But when we had taken our seats, and were
still regarding the vacant chair with some
curiosity, the Laird's hostess was pleased to
explain.  She said to him, with a shy smile,

"I have not forgotten what you said; and I
quite agree with you that it balances the table
better."

"But not an empty chair," said the Laird,
severely; perhaps thinking it was an evil omen.

"You know the German song," said she,
"and how the last remaining of the comrades
filled the glasses with wine, and how the ghosts
rattled the glasses.  Would you kindly fill
that glass, sir?"

She passed the decanter.

"I will not, begging your pardon," said the
Laird, sternly, for he did not approve of these
superstitions.  And forthwith he took the deck
chair and doubled it up, and threw it on the
couch.  "We want the young man Sutherland
here, and not any ghost.  I doubt not but that
he has reached London by now."

After that a dead silence.  Were there any
calculations about time; or were we wondering
whether, amid the roar and whirl and moving
life of the great city, he was thinking of the
small floating-home far away, amid the solitude
of the seas and the hills?  The deck-chair
was put aside, it is true, for the Laird
shrank from superstition; but the empty glass,
and the plates and knives, and so forth,
remained; and they seemed to say that
our expected guest was drawing nearer and
nearer.

"Well, John," said Queen Titania, getting
on deck again, and looking round, "I think we
have got into Fairyland at last."

John of Skye did not seem quite to understand,
for his answer was—

"Oh, yes, mem, it is a fearful place for
squahls."

"For squalls!" said she.

No wonder she was surprised.  The sea
around us was so smooth that the only motion
visible on it was caused by an exhausted wasp
that had fallen on the glassy surface and was
making a series of small ripples in trying to
get free again.  And then, could anything be
more soft and beautiful than the scene around
us—the great mountains clad to the summit
with the light foliage of the birch; silver
waterfalls that made a vague murmur in the
air; an island right ahead with picturesquely
wooded rocks; an absolutely cloudless sky
above—altogether a wonder of sunlight and
fair colours?  Squalls?  The strange thing
was, not that we had ventured into a region
of unruly winds, but that we had got enough
wind to bring us in at all.  There was now
not even enough to bring us the scent of the
honeysuckle from the shore.

In the afternoon we set out on an expedition,
nominally after wild-duck, but in reality in
exploration of the upper reaches of the loch.
We found a narrow channel between the
island and the mainland, and penetrated into
the calm and silent waters of Loch Hourn
Beg.  And still less did this offshoot of the
larger loch accord with that gloomy name—the
Lake of Hell.  Even where the mountains
were bare and forbidding, the warm evening
light touched the granite with a soft rose-grey;
and reflections of this beautiful colour were
here and there visible amid the clear blue of
the water.  We followed the windings of the
narrow and tortuous loch; but found no
wild-duck at all.  Here and there a seal stared at
us as we passed.  Then we found a crofter's
cottage, and landed, to the consternation of
one or two handsome wild-eyed children.  A
purchase of eggs ensued, after much voluble
Gaelic.  We returned to the yacht.

That evening, as we sate on deck, watching
the first stars beginning to tremble in the blue,
some one called attention to a singular light
that was beginning to appear along the
summits of the mountains just over us—a silvery-grey
light that showed us the soft foliage of
the birches, while below the steep slopes grew
more sombre as the night fell.  And then we
guessed that the moon was somewhere on the
other side of the loch, as yet hidden from us
by those black crags that pierced into the
calm blue vault of the sky.  This the Lake
of Hell, indeed!  By and by we saw the
silver rim appear above the black line of
the hills; and a pale glory was presently
shining around us, particularly noticeable
along the varnished spars.  As the white
moon sailed up, this solitary cup in the
mountains was filled with the clear radiance,
and the silence seemed to increase.  We
could hear more distinctly than ever the
various waterfalls.  The two women were
walking up and down the deck; and each
time that Mary Avon turned her profile to
the light the dark eyebrows and dark
eyelashes seemed darker than ever against the
pale, sensitive, sweet face.

But after a while she gently disengaged
herself from her friend, and came and sate
down by the Laird: quite mutely, and waiting
for him to speak.  It is not to be supposed
that she had been in any way more
demonstrative towards him since his great act of
kindness; or that there was any need for him
to have purchased her affection.  That was of
older date.  Perhaps, if the truth were told,
she was rather less demonstrative now; for we
had all discovered that the Laird had a nervous
horror of anything that seemed to imply a
recognition of what he had done.  It was
merely, he had told us, a certain wrong thing
he had put right: there was no more to be
said about it.

However, her coming and sitting down by
him was no unusual circumstance; and she
meekly left him his own choice, to speak to her
or not as he pleased.  And he did speak—after
a time.

"I was thinking," said he, "what a strange
feeling ye get in living on board a yacht in
these wilds: it is just as if ye were the only
craytures in the world.  Would ye not think,
now, that the moon there belonged to this
circle of hills, and could not be seen by any
one outside it?  It looks as if it were coming
close to the topmast; how can ye believe
that it is shining over Trafalgar Square in
London?"

"It seems very close to us on so clear a
night," says Mary Avon.

"And in a short time now," continued the
Laird, "this little world of ours—I mean the
little company on board the yacht—must be
dashed into fragments, as it were; and ye will
be away in London; and I will be at Denny-mains:
and who knows whether we may ever
see each other again?  We must not grumble.
It is the fate of the best friends.  But there is
one grand consolation—think what a
consolation it must have been to many of the poor
people who were driven away from these
Highlands—to Canada, and Australia, and
elsewhere—that after all the partings and sorrows of this
world there is the great meeting-place at last.
I would just ask this favour frae ye, my lass,
that when ye go back to London, ye would get
a book of our old Scotch psalm-tunes, and
learn the tune that is called *Comfort*.  It begins
'Take comfort, Christians, when your friends.'  It
is a grand tune that: I would like ye to
learn it."

"Oh, certainly I will," said the girl.

"And I have been thinking," continued the
Laird, "that I would get Tom Galbraith to
make ye a bit sketch of Denny-mains, that ye
might hang up in London, if ye were so
minded.  It would show ye what the place
was like; and after some years ye might begin
to believe that ye really had been there, and
that ye were familiar with it, as the home of an
old friend o' yours."

"But I hope to see Denny-mains for myself,
sir," said she, with some surprise.

A quick, strange look appeared for a moment
on the old Laird's face.  But presently
he said—

"No, no, lass, ye will have other interest
and other duties.  That is but proper and
natural.  How would the world get on at all
if we were not to be dragged here and there
by diverse occupations?"

Then the girl spoke, proudly and bravely—

"And if I have any duties in the world, I
think I know to whom I owe them.  And it is
not a duty at all, but a great pleasure; and you
promised me, sir, that I was to see Denny-mains;
and I wish to pay you a long, long,
long visit."

"A long, long, long visit?" said the Laird
cheerfully.  "No, no, lass.  I just couldna be
bothered with ye.  Ye would be in my way.
What interest could ye take in our parish
meetings, and the church *soirées*, and the like?
No, no.  But if ye like to pay me a short,
short, short visit—at your own convenience—at
your own convenience, mind—I will get
Tom Galbraith through from Edinburgh, and
I will get out some of the younger Glasgowmen;
and if we do not, you and me, show
them something in the way of landscape-sketching,
that will just frighten them out of their
very wits, why then I will give ye leave to say
that my name is not Mary Avon."

He rose then and took her hand, and began
to walk with her up and down the moonlit
deck.  We heard something about the Haughs
o' Cromdale.  The Laird was obviously not
ill-pleased that she had boldly claimed that
promised visit to Denny-mains.





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.. _`"YE ARE WELCOME, GLENOGIE!"`:

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   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   "YE ARE WELCOME, GLENOGIE!"

.. vspace:: 2

When, after nearly three months of glowing
summer weather, the heavens begin to look
as if they meditated revenge; when, in a
dead calm, a darkening gloom appears behind
the further hills, and slight puffs of wind, come
down vertically, spreading themselves out on
the glassy water; when the air is sultry, and
an occasional low rumble is heard, and the
sun looks white; then the reader of these
pages may thank his stars that he is not in
Loch Hourn.  And yet it was not altogether
our fault that we were nearly caught in this
dangerous cup among the hills.  We had lain
in these silent and beautiful waters for two
or three days, partly because of the exceeding
loveliness of the place, partly because we had
to allow Angus time to get up to Isle Ornsay,
but chiefly because we had not the option of
leaving.  To get through the narrow and
shallow channel by which we had entered
we wanted both wind and tide in our favour;
and there was scarcely a breath of air during
the long, peaceful, shining days.  At length,
when our sovereign mistress made sure that
the young Doctor must be waiting for us at
Isle Ornsay, she informed Captain John that
he must get us out of this place somehow.

"'Deed, I not sorry at all," said John of
Skye, who had never ceased to represent to
us, that, in the event of bad weather coming
on, we should find ourselves in the lion's jaws.

Well, on the afternoon of the third day, it
became very obvious that something serious
was about to happen.  Clouds began to bank
up behind the mountains that overhung the
upper reaches of the loch, and an intense
purple gloom gradually spread along those
sombre hills—all the more intense that the
little island in front of us, crossing the loch,
burned in the sunlight a vivid strip of green.
Then little puffs of wind fell here and there
on the blue water, and broadened out in a
silvery grey.  We noticed that all the men
were on deck.

As the strange darkness of the loch increased,
as these vast mountains overhanging
the inner cup of the loch grew more and more
awful in the gloom, we began to understand
why the Celtic imagination had called this
place the Lake of Hell.  Captain John kept
walking up and down somewhat anxiously,
and occasionally looking at his watch.  The
question was whether we should get enough
wind to take us through the narrows before
the tide turned.  In the meantime mainsail
and jib were set, and the anchor hove short.

At last the welcome flapping and creaking
and rattling of blocks!  What although this
brisk breeze came dead in our teeth?  John
of Skye, as he called all hands to the windlass,
crave us to understand that he would rather
beat through the neck of a bottle than lie in
Loch Hourn that night.

And it was an exciting piece of business
when we got further down the loch, and
approached this narrow passage.  On the one
side sharp and sheer rocks; on the other
shallow banks that shone through the water;
behind us the awful gloom of gathering
thunder; ahead of us a breeze that came tearing
down from the hills in the most puzzling and
varying squalls.  With a steady wind it would
have been bad enough to beat through those
narrows; but this wind kept shifting about
anyhow.  Sharp was the word indeed.  It
was a question of seconds as we sheered away
from the rocks on the one side, or from the
shoals on the other.  And then, amidst it all,
a sudden cry from the women—

"John!  John!"

John of Skye knows his business too well
to attend to the squealing of women.

"Ready about!" he roars; and all hands
are at the sheets, and even Master Fred is
leaning over the bows, to watch the shallowness
of the water.

"John, John!" the women cry.

"Haul up the main tack, Hector!  Ay,
that'll do.  Ready about, boys!"

But this starboard tack is a little bit longer,
and John manages to cast an impatient glance
behind him.  The sailor's eye in an instant
detects that distant object.  What is it?  Why,
surely some one in the stern of a rowing-boat,
standing up and violently waving a white
handkerchief, and two men pulling like mad
creatures.

"John, John!  Don't you see it is Angus
Sutherland!" cries the older woman pitifully.

By this time we are going bang on to a
sandbank; and the men, standing by the
sheets, are amazed that the skipper does not
put his helm down.  Instead of that—and all
this happens in an instant—he eases the helm
up, the bows of the yacht fall away from the
wind, and just clear the bank.  Hector of
Moidart jumps to the mainsheet and slacks
it out, and then, behold! the *White Dove* is
running free, and there is a sudden silence
on board.

"Why, he must have come over from the
Caledonian Canal!" says Queen Titania, in
great excitement.  "Oh, how glad I am!"

But John of Skye takes advantage of this
breathing space to have another glance at his
watch.

"We'll maybe beat the tide yet," he says confidently.

And who is this who comes joyously clambering
up, and hauls his portmanteau after him,
and throws a couple of half-crowns into the
bottom of the black boat?

"Oh, Angus!" his hostess cries to him, "you
will shake hands with us all afterwards.  We
are in a dreadful strait.  Never mind us—help
John if you can."

Meanwhile Captain John has again put the
nose of the *White Dove* at these perilous
narrows; and the young Doctor—perhaps
glad enough to escape embarrassment among
all this clamour—has thrown his coat off to
help; and the men have got plenty of anchor-chain
on deck, to let go the anchor if necessary;
and then again begins that manoeuvring
between the shallows and the rocks.  What
is this new sense of completeness—of added
life—of briskness and gladness?  Why do the
men seem more alert? and why this cheeriness
in Captain John's shouted commands?  The
women are no longer afraid of either banks
or shoals; they rather enjoy the danger; when
John seems determined to run the yacht
through a mass of conglomerate, they know
that with the precision of clock-work she will
be off on the other tack; and they are laughing
at these narrow escapes.  Perhaps it would be
more accurate to say that only one of them
laughs.  Mary Avon is somewhat silent, and
she holds her friend's hand tight.

Tide or no tide, we get through the narrow
channel at last; and every one breathes more
freely when we are in the open.  But we are
still far from being out of Loch Hourn; and
now the mountains in the south, too—one of
them apparently an extinct volcano—have
grown black as night; and the wind that
comes down from them in jerks and squalls
threatens to plunge our bulwarks under water.
How the *White Dove* flees away from this
gathering gloom!  Once or twice we hear
behind us a roar, and turning we can see
a specially heavy squall tearing across the
loch; but here with us the wind continues to
keep a little more steady, and we go bowling
along at a whirling pace.  Angus Sutherland
comes aft, puts on his coat, and makes his
formal entry into our society.

"You have just got out in time," says he,
laughing somewhat nervously, to his hostess.
"There will be a wild night in Loch Hourn
to-night."

"And the beautiful calm we have had in
there!" she says.  "We were beginning to
think that Loch Hourn was Fairyland."

"Look!" he said.

And indeed the spectacle behind us was of a
nature to make us thankful that we had slipped
out of the lion's jaws.  The waters of the loch
were being torn into spindrift by the squalls;
and the black clouds overhead were being
dragged into shreds as if by invisible hands;
and in the hollows below appeared a darkness
as if night had come on prematurely.  And
still the *White Dove* flew and flew, as if she
knew of the danger behind her; and by and
by we were plunging and racing across the
Sound of Sleat.  We had seen the last of
Loch Hourn.

The clear golden ray of Isle Ornsay
lighthouse was shining through the dusk as we
made in for the sheltered harbour.  We had
ran the dozen miles or so in a little over the
hour; and now dinner-time had arrived; and
we were not sorry to be in comparatively
smooth water.  The men were sent ashore
with some telegram—the sending off of which
was the main object of our running in here;
and then Master Fred's bell summoned us
below from the wild and windy night.

How rich and warm and cheerful was this
friendly glow of the candles, and how compact
the table seemed now, with the vacant space
filled at last!  And every one appeared to be
talking hard, in order to show that Angus
Sutherland's return was a quite ordinary and
familiar thing; and the Laird was making
his jokes; and the young Doctor telling his
hostess how he had been sending telegrams
here and there until he had learned of the
*White Dove* having been seen going in to Loch
Hourn.  Even Miss Avon, though she said
but little, shared in this general excitement
and pleasure.  We could hear her soft laughter
from time to time.  But her eyes were kept
away from the corner where Angus Sutherland sate.

"Well, you *are* lucky people," said he.  "If
you had missed getting out of that hole by
half an hour, you might have been shut up
in it a fortnight.  I believe a regular gale
from the south has begun."

"It is you who have brought it then," said
his hostess.  "You are the stormy petrel.  And
you did your best to make us miss the tide."

"I think we shall have some sailing now,"
said he, rubbing his hands in great delight—he
pretends to be thinking only of the yacht.
"John talks of going on to-night, so as to
slip through the Kyle Rhea narrows with the
first of the flood-tide in the morning."

"Going out to-night!" she exclaimed.  "Is
it you who have put that madness into his
head?  It must be pitch dark already.  And
a gale blowing!"

"Oh, no!" he said, laughing.  "There is
not much of a gale.  And it cannot be very
dark with the moon behind the clouds."

Here a noise above told us the men had
come back from the small village.  They
brought a telegram too; but it was of no
consequence.  Presently—in fact, as soon as
he decently could—Angus left the dinner-table,
and went on deck.  He had scarcely
dared to glance at the pale sensitive face
opposite him.

By and by Queen Titania said, solemnly:

"Listen!"

There was no doubt about it; the men were
weighing anchor.

"That madman," said she, "has persuaded
Captain John to go to sea again—at this time
of night!"

"It was Captain John's own wish.  He
wishes to catch the tide in the morning,"
observed Miss Avon, with her eyes cast down.

"That's right, my lass," said the Laird.
"Speak up for them who are absent.  But,
indeed, I think I will go on deck myself now,
to see what's going on."

We all went on deck, and there and then
unanimously passed a vote of approval on
Captain John's proceedings, for the wind had
moderated very considerably; and there was a
pale suffused light telling of the moon being
somewhere behind the fleecy clouds in the
south-east.  With much content we perceived
that the *White Dove* was already moving out
of the dark little harbour.  We heard the rush
of the sea outside without much concern.

It was a pleasant sailing night after all.
When we had stolen by the glare of the
solitary lighthouse, and got into the open, we
found there was no very heavy sea running,
while there was a steady serviceable breeze
from the south.  There was moonlight abroad
too, though the moon was mostly invisible behind
the thin drifting clouds.  The women, wrapped
up, sate hand-in-hand, and chatted to each
other; the Doctor was at the tiller; the Laird
was taking an occasional turn up and down,
sometimes pausing to challenge general
attention by some profound remark.

And very soon we began to perceive that
Angus Sutherland had by some inscrutable
means got into the Laird's good graces in a
most marked degree.  Denny-mains, on this
particular night, as we sailed away northward,
was quite complimentary about the march of
modern science, and the service done to
humanity by scientific men.  He had not even an
ill word for the *Vestiges of Creation*.  He went
the length of saying that he was not scholar
enough to deny that there might be various
ways of interpreting the terms of the Mosaic
chronology; and expressed a great interest in
the terribly remote people who must have lived
in the lake-dwellings.

"Oh, don't you believe that!" said our
steersman good-naturedly.  "The scientifics
are only humbugging the public about those
lake-dwellings.  They were only the
bath-houses and wash-houses of a comparatively
modern and civilised race, just as you see
them now on the Lake of a Thousand Islands,
and at the mouths of the Amazon, and even on
the Rhine.  Surely you know the bath-houses
built on piles on the Rhine?"

"Dear me!" said the Laird, "that is
extremely interesting.  It is a novel view—a
most novel view.  But then the remains—what
of the remains?  The earthen cups and
platters: they must have belonged to a very
preemitive race?"

"Not a bit," said the profound scientific
authority, with a laugh.  "They were the
things the children amused themselves with,
when their nurses took them down there to be
out of the heat and the dust.  They were a
very advanced race indeed.  Even the children
could make earthen cups and saucers, while
the children now-a-days can only make mud-pies."

"Don't believe him, sir!" their hostess called
out; "he is only making a fool of us all."

"Ay, but there's something in it—there's
something in it," said the Laird seriously;
and he took a step or two up and down the
deck, in deep meditation.  "There's something
in it.  It's plausible.  If it is not sound, it is an
argument.  It would be a good stick to break
over an ignorant man's head."

Suddenly the Laird began to laugh aloud.

"Bless me," said he, "if I could only inveigle
Johnny Guthrie into an argument about that!
I would give it him!  I would give it him!"

This was a shocking revelation.  What had
come over the Laird's conscience that he
actually proposed to inveigle a poor man into a
controversy and then to hit him over the head
with a sophistical argument?  We could not
have believed it.  And here he was laughing
and chuckling to himself over that shameful
scheme.

Our attention, however, was at this moment
suddenly drawn away from moral questions.
The rapidly driving clouds just over the wild
mountains of Loch Hourn parted, and the
moon glared out on the tumbling waves.  But
what a curious moon it was!—pale and watery,
with a white halo around it, and with another
faintly-coloured halo outside that again
whenever the slight and vapoury clouds crossed.
John of Skye came aft.

"I not like the look of that moon," said John
of Skye to the Doctor, but in an undertone,
so that the women should not hear.

"Nor I either," said the other, in an equally
low voice.  "Do you think we are going to
have the equinoctials, John?"

"Oh no, not yet.  It is not the time for the
equinoctials yet."

And as we crept on through the night, now
and again from amid the wild and stormy
clouds above Loch Hourn the wan moon still
shone out; and then we saw something of the
silent shores we were passing, and of the awful
mountains overhead, stretching far into the
darkness of the skies.  Then preparations
were made for coming to anchor; and by
and by the *White Dove* was brought round
to the wind.  We were in a bay—if bay it
could be called—just south of Kyle Rhea
narrows.  There was nothing visible along
the pale moonlit shore.

"This is a very open place to anchor in,
John," our young Doctor ventured to remark.

"But it is a good holding-ground; and
we will be away early in the morning
whatever."

And so, when the anchor was swung out,
and quiet restored over the vessel, we
proceeded to get below.  There were a great
many things to be handed down; and a
careful search had to be made that nothing was
forgotten—we did not want to find soaked
shawls or books lying on the deck in the
morning.  But at length all this was settled
too, and we were assembled once more in the
saloon.

We were assembled—all but two.

"Where is Miss Mary?" said the Laird
cheerfully: he was always the first to miss
his companion.

"Perhaps she is in her cabin," said his
hostess somewhat nervously.

"And your young Doctor—why does he not
come down and have his glass of toddy like
a man?" said the Laird, getting his own
tumbler.  "The young men now-a-days are
just as frightened as children.  What with
their chemistry, and their tubes, and their
percentages of alcohol: there was none of that
nonsense when I was a young man.  People
took what they liked, so long as it agreed
with them; and will anybody tell me there
is any harm in a glass of good Scotch
whisky?"

She does not answer; she looks somewhat
preoccupied and anxious.

"Ay, ay," continues the Laird, reaching over
for the sugar; "if people would only stop
there, there is nothing in the world makes
such an excellent night-cap as a single glass
of good Scotch whisky.  Now, ma'am, I will
just beg you to try half a glass of my brewing."

She pays no attention to him.  For first of
all she now hears a light step on the
companion-way, and then the door of the ladies'
cabin is opened, and shut again.  Then a
heavy step on the companion-way, and
Dr. Sutherland comes into the saloon.  There is
a strange look on his face—not of dejection;
but he tries to be very reticent and modest,
and is inordinately eager in handing a knife
to the Laird for the cutting of a lemon.

"Where is Mary, Angus?" said his hostess,
looking at him.

"She has gone into your cabin," said he,
looking up with a sort of wistful appeal in his
eyes.  As plainly as possible they said, "Won't
you go to her?"

The unspoken request was instantly answered;
she got up and quietly left the saloon.

"Come, lad," said the Laird.  "Are ye
afraid to try a glass of Scotch whisky?  You
chemical men know too much: that is not
wholesome; and you a Scotchman too—take
a glass, man!"

"Twelve, if you like," said the Doctor,
laughing; "but one will do for my purpose.
I'm going to follow your example, sir; I am
going to propose a toast.  It is a good old
custom."

This was a proposal after the Laird's own
heart.  He insisted on the women being
summoned; and they came.  He took no notice
that Mary Avon was rose-red, and downcast of
face; and that the elder woman held her hand
tightly, and had obviously been crying a little
bit—not tears of sorrow.  When they were
seated, he handed each a glass.  Then he
called for silence, waiting to hear our Doctor
make a proper and courtly speech about his
hostess, or about the *White Dove*, or John of
Skye, or anything.

But what must have been the Laird's surprise
when he found that it was his own health
that was being proposed!  And that not in
the manner of the formal oratory that the Laird
admired, but in a very simple and straightforward
speech, that had just a touch of personal
and earnest feeling in it.  For the young
Doctor spoke of the long days and nights we
had spent together, far away from human ken;
and how intimately associated people became
on board ship; and how thoroughly one could
learn to know and love a particular character
through being brought into such close
relationship.  And he said that friendships thus
formed in a week or a month might last for a
lifetime.  And he could not say much, before
the very face of the Laird, about all those
qualities which had gained for him something
more than our esteem—qualities especially
valuable on board ship—good humour,
patience, courtesy, light-heartedness——

"Bless me," cried the Laird, interrupting the
speaker in defiance of all the laws that govern
public oratory, "I maun stop this—I maun stop
this!  Are ye all come together to make fun
of me—eh?  Have a care—have a care!"

He looked round threateningly; and his
eye lighted with a darker warning on Mary
Avon.

"That lass, too," said he; "and I thought
her a friend of mine; and she has come to
make a fool of me like the rest!  And so ye
want to make me the Homesh o' this boat?
Well, I may be a foolish old man; but my eyes
are open.  I know what is going on.  Come
here, my lass, until I tell ye something."

Mary Avon went and took the seat next him;
and he put his hand gently on her shoulder.

"Young people will have their laugh and
their joke," said he.

"It was no joke at all!" said she warmly.

"Whisht, now.  I say young people will
have their laugh and their joke at a foolish old
man; and who is to prevent them?  Not me.
But I'll tell ye what: ye may have your sport
of me, on one condition."

He patted her once or twice on the shoulder,
just as if she was a child.

"And the condition is this, my lass—that ye
have the wedding at Denny-mains."





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.. _`THE EQUINOCTIALS AT LAST`:

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   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE EQUINOCTIALS AT LAST.

.. vspace:: 2

There was no dreaming of weddings at
Denny-mains, or elsewhere, for some of us
that night.  It had been blowing pretty hard
when we turned in; but towards two or three
o'clock the wind increased to half a gale, while
heavy showers kept rattling along the decks.
Then there were other sounds.  One of the
men was heard to clamber up the iron ladder
of the forecastle; and as soon as he had put
his head out, his contented exclamation was,
"Oh, ferry well; go on!"  Then he came
below and roused his companions.  Presently
there was a loud commotion on deck.  This
was enough for our Doctor.  One could hear
him rapidly dressing in his little
state-room—then staggering through the saloon, for the
wind was knocking about the *White Dove*
considerably—then groping his way up the dark
companion.  For some time there was a fine
turmoil going on above.  Another anchor was
thrown out.  The gig and dingay were brought
in on deck.  All the skylights were fastened
down, and the tarpaulins put over.  Then a
woman's voice—

"Angus!  Angus!"

The Doctor came tumbling down the companion;
by this time we had got a candle lit
in the saloon.

"What is it?" was heard from the partly
opened door of the ladies' cabin.

"Nothing at all.  A bit of a breeze has sprung up."

"Mary says you must stay below.  Never
mind what it is.  You are not to go on deck again."

"Very well."

He came into the saloon—all wet and
dripping, but exceedingly pleased to have
been thus thought of—and then he said in a
tragic whisper:

"We are in for it at last."

"The equinoctials?"

"Yes."

So we turned in again, leaving the *White
Dove* to haul and strain at her cables all
through the night—swaying, pitching, groaning,
creaking, as if she would throw herself
free of her anchors altogether, and sweep away
over to Glenelg.

Then, in the early morning, the gale had
apparently increased.  While the women-folk
remained in their cabin, the others of us
adventured up the companion-way, and had a
look out.  It was not a cheerful sight.  All
around the green sea was being torn along
by the heavy wind; the white crests of the
waves being whirled up in smoke; the surge
springing high on the rocks over by Glenelg;
the sky almost black overhead; the mountains
that ought to have been quite near us invisible
behind the flying mists of the rain.  Then
how the wind howled!  Ordinarily the sound
was a low, moaning bass—even lower than the
sound of the waves; but then again it would
increase and rise into a shrill whistle, mostly
heard, one would have said, from about the
standing rigging and the crosstrees.  But our
observation of these phenomena was brief,
intermittent, and somewhat ignominious.  We
had to huddle in the companion-way like
Jacks-in-the-box; for the incautiously protruded head
was liable to be hit by a blast of rain that
came along like a charge of No. 6 shot.  Then
we tumbled below for breakfast, and the scared
women-folk made their appearance.

"The equinoctials, Angus?" said Queen
Titania, with some solemnity of face.

"Oh, I suppose so," said he cheerfully.

"Well, I have been through them two or
three times before," said she, "but never in
an exposed place like this."

"We shall fight through it first-rate," said
he—and you should have seen Mary Avon's
eyes; she was clearly convinced that fifteen
equinoctial gales could not do us the slightest
harm so long as this young Doctor was on
board.  "It is a fine stroke of luck that the
gale is from the south-west.  If it had come
on from the east, we should have been in a
bad way.  As it is, there is not a rock between
here and the opposite shore at Glenelg, and
even if we drag our anchors, we shall catch
up somewhere at the other side."

"I hope we shall not have to trust to that,"
says Queen Titania, who in her time has seen
something of the results of vessels dragging
their anchors.

As the day wore on, the fury of the gale still
increased: the wind moaning and whistling
by turns, the yacht straining at her cables,
and rolling and heaving about.  Despite the
tender entreaties of the women, Dr. Angus
would go on deck again; for now Captain
John had resolved on lowering the topmast,
and also on getting the boom and mainsail
from their crutch down on to the deck.  Being
above in this weather was far from pleasant.
The showers occasionally took the form of
hail; and so fiercely were the pellets driven
by the wind that they stung where they hit
the face.  And the outlook around was dismal
enough—the green sea and its whirling
spindrift; the heavy waves breaking all along
the Glenelg shores; the writhing of the
gloomy sky.  We had a companion, by the
way, in this exposed place—a great black
schooner that heavily rolled and pitched as
she strained at her two anchors.  The skipper
of her did not leave her bows for a moment
the whole day, watching for the first symptom
of dragging.

Then that night.  As the darkness came
over, the wind increased in shrillness until it
seemed to tear with a scream through the
rigging; and though we were fortunately
under the lee of the Skye hills, we could hear
the water smashing on the bows of the yacht.
As night fell that shrill whistling and those
recurrent shocks grew in violence, until we began
to wonder how long the cables would hold.

"And if our anchors give, I wonder where
we shall go to," said Queen Titania, in rather
a low voice.

"I don't care," said Miss Avon, quite contentedly.

She was seated at dinner; and had
undertaken to cut up and mix some salad that
Master Fred had got at Loch Hourn.  She
seemed wholly engrossed in that occupation.
She offered some to the Laird, very prettily;
and he would have taken it if it had been
hemlock.  But when she said she did not
care where the *White Dove* might drift to,
we knew very well what she meant.  And
some of us may have thought that a time
would perhaps arrive when the young lady
would not be able to have everything she
cared for in the world within the compass of
the saloon of a yacht.

Now it is perhaps not quite fair to tell tales
out of school; but still the truth is the truth.
The two women were on the whole very
brave throughout this business; but on that
particular night the storm grew more and
more violent, and it occurred to them that
they would escape the risk of being rolled
out of their berths if they came along into
the saloon and got some rugs laid on the
floor.  This they did; and the noise of the
wind and the sea was so great that none of
the occupants of the adjoining state-rooms
heard them.  But then it appeared that no
sooner had they lain down on the floor—it
is unnecessary to say that they were dressed
and ready for any emergency—than they were
mightily alarmed by the swishing of water
below them.

"Mary!  Mary!" said the one, "the sea is
rushing into the hold."

The other, knowing less about yachts, said
nothing; but no doubt, with the admirable
unselfishness of lovers, thought it was not of
much consequence, since Angus Sutherland
and she would be drowned together.

But what was to be clone?  The only way
to the forecastle was through the Doctor's
state-room.  There was no help for it; they
first knocked at his door, and called to him
that the sea was rushing into the hold; and
then he bawled into the forecastle until Master
Fred, the first to awake, made his appearance,
rubbing his knuckles into his eyes and saying,
"Very well, sir; is it hot water or cold water
ye want?" and then there was a general
commotion of the men getting on deck to try
the pumps.  And all this brave uproar for
nothing.  There was scarcely a gallon of
water in the hold; but the women, by putting
their heads close to the floor of the saloon,
had imagined that the sea was rushing in on
them.  Such is the story of this night's
adventures as it was subsequently—and with
some shamefacedness—related to the writer of
these pages.  There are some people who,
when they go to sleep, sleep, and refuse to pay
heed to twopenny-halfpenny tumults.

Next morning the state of affairs was no
better; but there was this point in our favour,
that the *White Dove*, having held on so long,
was not now likely to drag her anchors and
precipitate us on the Glenelg shore.  Again
we had to pass the day below, with the running
accompaniment of pitching and groaning on
the part of the boat, and of the shrill clamour
of the wind, and the rattling of heavy showers.
But as we sat at luncheon, a strange thing
occurred.  A burst of sunlight suddenly came
through the skylight and filled the saloon,
moving backwards and forwards on the blue
cushions as the yacht swayed, and delighting
everybody with the unexpected glory of colour.
You may suppose that there was little more
thought of luncheon.  There was an instant
stampede for waterproofs and a clambering up
the companion-way.  Did not this brief burst
of sunlight portend the passing over of the
gale?  Alas! alas! when we got on deck, we
found the scene around us as wild and stormy
as ever, with even a heavier sea now racing
up the Sound and thundering along Glenelg.
Hopelessly we went below again.  The only
cheerful feature of our imprisonment was the
obvious content of those two young people.
They seemed perfectly satisfied with being
shut up in this saloon; and were always
quite surprised when Master Fred's summons
interrupted their draughts or bezique.

On the third day the wind came in
intermittent squalls, which was something; and
occasionally there was a glorious burst of
sunshine that went flying across the grey-green
driven sea.  But for the most part it rained
heavily; and the Ferdinand and Miranda
business was continued with much content.
The Laird had lost himself in Municipal
London.  Our Admiral-in-chief was writing
voluminous letters to two youths at school in
Surrey, which were to be posted if ever we
reached land again.

That night about ten o'clock a cheering
incident occurred.  We heard the booming of
a steam-whistle.  Getting up on deck, we could
make out the lights of a steamer creeping along
by the Glenelg shore.  That was the Clydesdale
going north.  Would she have faced
Ardnamurchan if the equinoctials had not moderated
somewhat?  These were friendly lights.

Then on the fourth day it became quite
certain that the gale was moderating.  The
bursts of sunshine became more frequent;
patches of brilliant blue appeared in the sky;
a rainbow from time to time appeared between
us and the black clouds in the east.  With
what an intoxication of joy we got out at last
from our long imprisonment, and felt the warm
sunlight around us, and watched the men get
ready to lower the gig so as to establish once
more our communications with the land.  Mary
Avon would boldly have adventured into that
tumbling and rocking thing—she implored to
be allowed to go; if the Doctor were going
to pull stroke, why should she not be allowed
to steer?  But she was forcibly restrained.
Then away went the shapely boat through
the plunging waters—showers of spray sweeping
her from stem to stern—until it disappeared
into the little bight of Kyle Rhea.

The news brought back from the shore of
the destruction wrought by this gale—the
worst that had visited these coasts for
three-and-twenty years—was terrible enough; and
it was coupled with the most earnest warnings
that we should not set out.  But the sunlight
had got into the brain of these long-imprisoned
people, and sent them mad.  They implored
the doubting John of Skye to get ready to
start.  They promised that if only he would
run up to Kyle Akin, they would not ask
him to go further, unless the weather was
quite fine.  To move—to move—that was
their only desire and cry.

John of Skye shook his head; but so far
humoured them as to weigh one of the anchors.

By and by, too, he had the topmast hoisted
again: all this looked more promising.  Then,
as the afternoon came on, and the tide would
soon be turning, they renewed their entreaties.
John, still doubting, at length yielded.

Then the joyful uproar!  All hands were
summoned to the halyards, for the mainsail,
soaked through with the rain, was about as stiff
as a sheet of iron.  And the weighing of the
second anchor—that was a cheerful sound
indeed.  We paid scarcely any heed to this
white squall that was coming tearing along
from the south.  It brought both rain and
sunlight with it: for a second or two we were
enveloped in a sort of glorified mist—then the
next minute we found a rainbow shining
between us and the black hull of the smack;
presently we were in glowing sunshine again.
And then at last the anchor was got up, and
the sails filled to the wind, and the mainsheet
slackened out.  The *White Dove*, released
once more, was flying away to the northern seas!





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.. _`"FLIEH!  AUF!  HINAUS!"`:

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   CHAPTER XV.


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   "FLIEH!  AUF!  HINAUS!"

.. vspace:: 2

This splendid sense of life, and motion, and
brisk excitement!  We flew through the narrows
like a bolt from a bow; we had scarcely time
to regard the whirling eddies of the current.
All hands were on the alert too, for the wind
came in gusts from the Skye hills, and this
tortuous strait is not a pleasant place to be
taken unawares in.  But the watching and
work were altogether delightful, after our long
imprisonment.  Even the grave John of Skye
was whistling "Fhir a bhata" to
himself—somewhat out of tune.

The wild and stormy sunset was shining all
along the shores of Loch Alsh as we got out
of the narrows and came in sight of Kyle
Akin.  And here were a number of vessels
all storm-stayed, one of them, in the distance,
with her sail set.  We discovered afterwards
that this schooner had dragged her anchors
and run ashore at Balmacara; she was more
fortunate than many others that suffered in this
memorable gale, and was at the moment we
passed returning to her former anchorage.

The sunlight and the delight of moving
had certainly got into the heads of these
people.  Nothing would do for them but that
John of Skye should go on sailing all night.
Kyle Akin? they would not hear of Kyle
Akin.  And it was of no avail that Captain
John told them what he had heard ashore—that
the *Glencoe* had to put back with her
bulwarks smashed; that here, there, and
everywhere vessels were on the rocks; that
Stornoway harbour was full of foreign craft, not one
of which would put her nose out.  They
pointed to the sea, and the scene around them.
It was a lovely sunset.  Would not the moon
be up by eleven?

"Well, mem," said John of Skye, with a
humorous smile, "I think if we go on the
night, there not mich chance of our rinning
against anything."

And indeed he was not to be outbraved by
a couple of women.  When we got to Kyle
Akin, the dusk beginning to creep over land
and sea, he showed no signs of running in
there for shelter.  We pushed through the
narrow straits, and came in view of the
darkening plain of the Atlantic, opening away
up there to the north, and as far as we could
see there was not a single vessel but
ourselves on all this world of water.  The gloom
deepened; in under the mountains of Skye
there was a darkness as of midnight.  But
one could still make out ahead of us the line
of the Scalpa shore, marked by the white
breaking of the waves.  Even when that grew
invisible we had Rona light to steer by.

The stormy and unsettled look of the sunset
had prepared us for something of a dirty
night, and as we went on both wind and sea
increased considerably.  The south-westerly
breeze that had brought us so far at a
spanking rate began to veer round to the north,
and came in violent squalls, while the long
swell running down between Raasay and
Scalpa and the mainland caused the *White
Dove* to labour heavily.  Moreover, the night
got as black as pitch, the moon had not arisen,
and it was lucky, in this laborious beating up
against the northerly squalls, that we had the
distant Rona light by which to judge of our
whereabouts.

The two women were huddled together in
the companion-way; it was the safest place for
them; we could just make out the two dark
figures in the ruddy glow coming up from
the saloon.

"Isn't it splendid to be going like this,"
said Miss Avon, "after lying at anchor so
long?"

Her friend did not answer.  She had been
chiefly instrumental in persuading Captain John
to keep on during the night, and she did not
quite like the look of things.  For one thing,
she had perceived that the men were all now
clad from head to foot in oilskins, though as yet
there was nothing but spray coming on board.

Our young Doctor came aft, and tried to
get down the companion-way without disturbing
the two women.

"I am going below for my waterproof and
leggings," said he, with a slight laugh.
"There will be some fun before this night
is over."

The tone of the girl altered in a moment.

"Oh, Angus," said she, grasping him by
the arm.  "Pray don't do that!  Leave the
men to work the boat.  If there is any danger,
why don't they make away for the land
somewhere?"

"There is no danger," said he, "but there
will be a little water by and by."

The volume of the great waves was certainly
increasing, and a beautiful sight it was to mark
the red port-light shining on the rushing masses
of foam as they swept by the side of the vessel.
Our whereabouts by this time had become
wholly a matter of conjecture with the amateurs,
for the night was quite black; however, Rona
light still did us good service.

When Angus Sutherland came on deck
again, she was on the port tack, and the wind
had moderated somewhat.  But this proved
to be a lull of evil omen.  There was a low
roar heard in the distance, and almost directly
a violent squall from the east struck the yacht,
sending the boom flying over before the
skipper could get hold of the mainsheet.  Away
flew the *White Dove* like an arrow, with the
unseen masses of water smashing over her bows!

"In with the mizen, boys!" called out John
of Skye, and there was a hurried clatter and
stamping, and flapping of canvas.

But that was not enough, for this unexpected
squall from the east showed permanence, and
as we were making in for the Sound of Scalpa
we were now running free before the wind.

"We'll tek the foresail off her, boys!" shouted
John of Skye again, and presently there was
another rattle down on the deck.

Onwards and onwards we flew, in absolute
darkness but for that red light that made the
sea shine like a foaming sea of blood.  And
the pressure of the wind behind increased until
it seemed likely to tear the canvas off her
spars.

"Down with the jib, then!" called out John
of Skye; and we heard, but could not see, the
men at work forward.  And still the *White
Dove* flew onwards through the night, and the
wind howled and whistled through the rigging,
and the boiling surges of foam swept away from
her side.  There was no more of Rona light to
guide us now; we were tearing through the
Sound of Scalpa; and still this hurricane
seemed to increase in fury.  As a last resource,
John of Skye had the peak lowered.  We had
now nothing left but a mainsail about the size
of a pocket-handkerchief.

As the night wore on, we got into more
sheltered waters, being under the lee of Scalpa;
and we crept away down between that island
and Skye, seeking for a safe anchorage.  It
was a business that needed a sharp look-out,
for the waters are shallow here, and we
discovered one or two smacks at anchor, with
no lights up.  They did not expect any vessel
to run in from the open on a night like this.

And at last we chose our place for the night,
letting go both anchors.  Then we went below,
into the saloon.

"And how do you like sailing in the equinoctials,
Mary?" said our hostess.

"I am glad we are all round this table again,
and alive," said the girl.

"I thought you said the other day you did
not care whether the yacht went down or not?"

"Of the two," remarked Miss Avon shyly,
"it is perhaps better that she should be
afloat."

Angus was passing at the moment.  He put
his hand lightly on her shoulder, and said, in a
kind way—

"It is better not to tempt the unknown,
Mary.  Remember what the French proverb
says, 'quand on est mort, c'est pour longtemps.'  And
you know you have not nearly completed
that great series of *White Dove* sketches for the
smoking-room at Denny-mains."

"The smoking-room!" exclaimed the Laird,
indignantly.  "There is not one of her sketches
that will not have a place—an honoured
place—in my dining-room: depend on that.  Ye
will see—both of ye—what I will do with
them; and the sooner ye come to see the better."

We this evening resolved that if, by favour
of the winds and the valour of John of Skye,
we got up to Portree next day, we should at
once telegraph to the island of Lewis (where
we proposed to cease these summer wanderings)
to inquire about the safety of certain friends of
ours whom we meant to visit there, and who
are much given to yachting; for the
equinoctials must have blown heavily into Loch
Roag, and the little harbour at Borva is
somewhat exposed.  However, it was not
likely that they would allow themselves to be
caught.  They know something about the sea,
and about boats, at Borva.





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.. _`AFTER THE GALE`:

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   CHAPTER XVI.


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   AFTER THE GALE.

.. vspace:: 2

"Well, indeed!" exclaimed the Laird, on
putting his head out next morning.  "This
is wonderful—wonderful!"

Was it the long imprisonment in the darkness
of the equinoctials that made him welcome
with so much delight this spectacle of fair skies
and sapphire seas, with the waves breaking
white in Scalpa Sound, and the sunlight shining
along the Coolins?  Or was it not rather our
long isolation from the ordinary affairs of the
world that made him greet with acclamation
this picture of brisk and busy human life, now
visible from the deck of the yacht?  We were
no longer alone in the world.  Over there,
around the big black smacks—that looked like
so many hens with broods of chickens—swarmed
a fleet of fishing-boats; and as
rapidly as hands could manage it, both men
and women were shaking out the brown nets
and securing the glittering silver treasure of the
sea.  It was a picturesque sight—the stalwart
brown-bearded men in their yellow oilskins
and huge boots; the bare-armed women in
their scarlet short-gowns; the masses of ruddy
brown nets; the lowered sails.  And then the
Laird perceived that he was not alone in
regarding this busy and cheerful scene.

Along there by the bulwarks, with one
hand on the shrouds and the other on the
gig, stood Mary Avon, apparently watching
the boats passing to and fro between the
smacks and the shore.  The Laird went
gently up to her, and put his hand on her
shoulder.  She started, turned round suddenly,
and then he saw, to his dismay, that her eyes
were full of tears.

"What, what?" said he, with a quick
doubt and fear coming over him.  Had all
his plans failed, then?  Was the girl still
unhappy?

"What is it, lass?  What is the matter?"
said he, gripping her hand so as to get the
truth from her.

By this time she had dried her eyes.

"Nothing—nothing," said she, rather
shame-facedly.  "I was only thinking about the song
of 'Caller Herring;' and how glad those
women must be to find their husbands come
back this morning.  Fancy their being out
on such a night as last night.  What it must
be to be a fisherman's wife—and alone on
shore——"

"Toots, toots, lass!" cried the Laird, with
a splendid cheerfulness; for he was greatly
relieved that this was all the cause of the wet
eyes.  "Ye are jist giving way to a sentiment.
I have observed that people are apt to be
sentimental in the morning, before they get
their breakfast.  What! are ye peetying these
folk?  I can tell ye this is a proud day for
them, to judge by they heaps o' fish.  They
are jist as happy as kings; and as for the risk
o' their trade, they have to do what is appointed
to them.  Why, does not that Doctor friend
o' yours say that the happiest people are they
who are hardest worked?"

This reference to the Doctor silenced the
young lady at once.

"Not that I have much right to talk about
work," said the Laird, penitently.  "I believe
I am becoming the idlest crayture on the face
of this world."

At this point a very pretty little incident
occurred.  A boat was passing to the shore;
and in the stern of her was a young fisherman—a
handsome young fellow, with a sun-tanned
face and yellow beard.  As they were going
by the yacht, he caught a glimpse of Miss
Avon; then when they had passed, he said
something in Gaelic to his two companions,
who immediately rested on their oars.  Then
he was seen rapidly to fill a tin can with two
or three dozen herrings; and his companions
backed their boat to the side of the yacht.
The young fellow stood up in the stern, and
with a shy laugh—but with no speech, for he
was doubtless nervous about his English—offered
this present to the young lady.  She
was very much pleased; but she blushed quite
as much as he did.  And she was confused,
for she could not summon Master Fred to
take charge of the herrings, seeing this
compliment was so directly paid to herself.
However, she boldly gripped the tin can, and said,
"Oh, thank you very much;" and by this
time the Laird had fetched a bucket, into
which the glittering beauties were slipped.
Then the can was handed back, with further
and profuse thanks, and the boat pushed off.

Suddenly, and with great alarm, Miss Avon
remembered that Angus had taught her what
Highland manners were.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" she called out to
the bearded young fisherman, who instantly
turned round, and the oars were stopped.  "I
beg your pardon," said she, with an extreme and
anxious politeness, "but would you take a glass
of whisky?"

"No, thank ye, mem," said the fisherman,
with another laugh of friendliness on the frank
face; and then away they went.

The girl was in despair.  She was about to
marry a Highlander, and already she had
forgotten the first of Highland customs.  But
unexpected relief was at hand.  Hearing
something going on, John of Skye had tumbled up
from the forecastle, and instantly saw that the
young lady was sorely grieved that those friendly
fishermen had not accepted this return
compliment.  He called aloud, in Gaelic, and in a
severe tone.  The three men came back, looking
rather like schoolboys who would fain escape
from an embarrassing interview.  And then at
the same moment Captain John, who had asked
Fred to bring up the whisky-bottle, said in a low
voice to the young lady—

"They would think it ferry kind, mem, if you
would pour out the whisky with your own hand."

And this was done, Miss Mary going through
the ceremony without flinching; and as each of
the men was handed his glass, he rose up in the
boat, and took off his cap, and drank the health
of the young lady, in the Gaelic.  And Angus
Sutherland, when he came on deck, was greatly
pleased to hear of what she had done; though
the Laird took occasion to remark at breakfast
that he hoped it was not a common custom
among the young ladies of England to get up
early in the morning to have clandestine
flirtations with handsome young fishermen.

Then all hands on deck: for now there are
two anchors to be got in, and we must not lose
any of this pleasant sailing breeze.  In these
sheltered and shining waters there are scarcely
any traces of the recent rough weather, except
that the wind still comes in variable puffs, and
from all sorts of unexpected directions.  In the
main, however, it is N. by E., and so we have
to set to work to leisurely beat up the Sound
of Raasay.

"Well, this is indeed like old times, Mary!"
Queen Titania cries, as she comfortably
ensconces herself in a camp-chair: for Miss Avon
is at the helm, and the young Doctor, lying at
full length on the sunlit deck, is watching the
sails and criticising her steering; and the Laird
is demonstrating to a humble listener the
immeasurable advantages enjoyed by the Scotch
landscape-painters, in that they have within so
small a compass every variety of mountain, lake,
woodland, and ocean scenery.  He becomes
facetious, too, about Miss Mary's sketches.
What if he were to have a room set apart for
them at Denny-mains, to be called the *White
Dove* Gallery?  He might have a skilled
decorator out from Glasgow to devise the
furniture and ornamentation, so that both should
suggest the sea, and ships, and sailors.

Here John of Skye comes aft.

"I think," says he to Miss Avon, with a
modest smile, "we might put the gaff topsail
on her."

"Oh, yes, certainly," says this experienced
mariner; and the Doctor, seeing an opportunity
for bestirring himself, jumps to his feet.

And so, with the topsail shining white in the
sun—a thing we have not seen for some time—we
leave behind us the gloomy opening into
Loch Sligachan, and beat up through the Raasay
narrows, and steal by the pleasant woods of
Raasay House.  The Laird has returned to that
project of the Marine Gallery, and he has
secured an attentive listener in the person of
his hostess, who prides herself that she has a
sure instinct as to what is "right" in mural
decoration.

This is indeed like old times come back
again.  The light, cool breeze, the warm decks,
the pleasant lapping of the water, and our
steerswoman partly whistling and partly
humming—

   |  "They'll put a napkin round my e'en,
   |  They'll no let me see to dee;
   |  And they'll never let on to my faither and mither,
   |  But I am awa' o'er the sea."

And this she is abstractedly and contentedly
doing, without any notice of the fact that the
song is supposed to be a pathetic one.

Then our young Doctor: of what does he
discourse to us during this delightful
daydreaming and idleness?  Well, it has been
remarked by more than one of us that
Dr. Angus has become tremendously practical of
late.  You would scarcely have believed that
this was the young F.R.S. who used to startle
the good Laird out of his wits by his wild
speculations about the origin of the world and
similar trifles.  Now his whole interest seemed
to be centred on the commonest things: all the
Commissioners of the Burgh of Strathgovan
put together could not have been more fierce
than he was about the necessity of supplying
houses with pure water, for example.  And the
abuse that he heaped on the Water Companies
of London, more especially, and on the Government
which did not interfere, was so distinctly
libellous that we are glad no alien overheard it.

Then as to arsenic in wall-papers: he was
equally dogmatic and indignant about that; and
here it was his hostess, rather than the Laird,
who was interested.  She eagerly committed
to her note-book a recipe for testing the
presence of that vile metal in wall-papers or
anything else; and some of us had mentally
to thank Heaven that she was not likely to get
test-tubes, and zinc filings, and hydrochloric
acid in Portree.  The woman would have blown
up the ship.

All this and much more was very different
from the kind of conversation that used so
seriously to trouble the Laird.  When he
heard Angus talk with great common sense
and abundant information about the various
climates that suited particular constitutions,
and about the best soils for building houses
on, and about the necessity for strict municipal
supervision of drainage, he was ready to believe
that our young Doctor had not only for his
own part never handled that dangerous book
the *Vestiges of Creation*, but that he had never
even known any one who had glanced at its
sophistical pages except with a smile of pity.
Why, all the time that we were shut up
by the equinoctials, the only profound and
mysterious thing that Angus had said was
this: "There is surely something wrong when
the man who takes on himself all the trouble
of drawing a bottle of ale is bound to give his
friend the first tumbler, which is clear, and
keep the second tumbler, which is muddy, for
himself."  But if you narrowly look into it, you
will find that there is really nothing dangerous
or unsettling in this saying—no grumbling
against the ways of Providence whatsoever.
It is mysterious, perhaps; but then so would
many of the nice points about the Semple case
have been, had we not had with us an able
expositor.

And on this occasion, as we were running
along for Portree, our F.R.S. was chiefly
engaged in warning us against paying too
serious heed to certain extreme theories about
food and drink which were then being put
put forward by a number of distinguished
physicians.

"For people in good health, the very worst
adviser is the doctor," he was saying; when
he was gently reminded by his hostess that
he must not malign his own calling, or destroy
a superstition that might in itself have
curative effects.

"Oh, I scarcely call myself a doctor," he
said, "for I have no practice as yet.  And
I am not denying the power of a physician
to help nature in certain cases—of course
not; but what I say is that for healthy people
the doctor is the worst adviser possible.  Why,
where does he get his experience?—from the
study of people who are ill.  He lives in an
atmosphere of sickness; his conclusions about
the human body are drawn from bad specimens;
the effects that he sees produced are
produced on too sensitive subjects.  Very
likely, too, if he is himself a distinguished
physician, he has gone through an immense
amount of training and subsequent hard work;
his own system is not of the strongest; and
he considers that what he feels to be injurious
to him must be injurious to other people.
Probably so it might be—to people similarly
sensitive; but not necessarily to people in sound
health.  Fancy a man trying to terrify people
by describing the awful appearance produced
on one's internal economy when one drinks
half a glass of sherry!  And that," he added,
"is a piece of pure scientific sensationalism;
for precisely the same appearance is produced
if you drink half a glass of milk."

"I am of opinion," said the Laird, with the
gravity befitting such a topic, "that of all
steemulants nothing is better or wholesomer
than a drop of sound, sterling whisky."

"And where are you likely to get it?——"

"I can assure ye, at Denny-mains——"

"I mean where are the masses of the people
to get it?  What they get is a cheap white
spirit, reeking with fusel-oil, with just enough
whisky blended to hide the imposture.  The
decoction is a certain poison.  If the Government
would stop tinkering at Irish franchises,
and Irish tenures, and Irish Universities, and
would pass a law making it penal for any
distiller to sell spirits that he has not had in
bond for at least two years, they would do
a good deal more service to Ireland, and to
this country too."

"Still, these measures of amelioration must
have their effect," observed the Liard,
sententiously.  "I would not discourage wise
legislation.  We will reconcile Ireland sooner or
later, if we are prudent and conseederate."

"You may as well give them Home Rule
at once," said Dr. Angus, bluntly.  "The
Irish have no regard for the historical grandeur
of England; how could they?—they have lost
their organ of veneration.  The coronal region
of the skull has in time become depressed,
through frequent shillelagh practice."

For a second the Laird glanced at him:
there was a savour of George Combe about
this speech.  Could it be that he believed in
that monstrous and atheistical theory?

But no.  The Laird only laughed; and said:

"I would not like to have an Irishman hear
ye say so."

It was now abundantly clear to us that
Denny-mains could no longer suspect of
anything heterodox and destructive this young
man who was sound on drainage, pure air,
and a constant supply of water to the tanks.

Of course, we could not get into Portree
without Ben Inivaig having a tussle with us.
This mountain is the most inveterate brewer
of squalls in the whole of the West Highlands,
and it is his especial delight to catch
the unwary, when all their eyes are bent on
the safe harbour within.  But we were equal
with him.  Although he tried to tear our
masts out and frighten us out of our senses,
all that he really succeeded in doing was to
put us to a good deal of trouble and break
a tumbler or two below.  We pointed the
finger of scorn at Ben Inivaig.  We sailed
past him, and took no more notice of him.
With a favouring breeze, and with our
topsail still set, we glided into the open and
spacious harbour.

But that first look round was a strange one.
Was this really Portree Harbour, or were we
so many Rip Van Winkles?  There were
the shining white houses, and the circular
bay, and the wooded cliffs; but where were
the yachts that used to keep the place so
bright and busy?  There was not an inch
of white canvas visible.  We got to anchor
near a couple of heavy smacks; the men
looked at us as if we had dropped from the skies.

We went ashore and walked up to the telegraph
office to see whether the adjacent islands
of great Britain and Ireland—as the Cumbrae
minister called them—had survived the
equinoctials; and learned only too accurately what
serious mischief had been done all along these
coasts by the gale.  From various points,
moreover, we subsequently received congratulations
on our escape, until we almost began to
believe that we had really been in serious peril.
For the rest, our friends at Borva were safe
enough; they had not been on board their
yacht at all.

That evening, in the silent and deserted bay,
a council of war was held on deck.  We were
not, as it turned out, quite alone; there had
also come in a steam yacht, the master of which
informed our John of Skye that such a gale he
had not seen for three-and-twenty years.  He
also told us that there was a heavy sea running
in the Minch; and that no vessel would try to
cross.  Stornoway Harbour, we already knew,
was filled with storm-stayed craft.  So we had
to decide.

Like the very small and white-faced boy who
stood forth to declaim before a school-full of
examiners and friends, and who raised his
hand, and announced in a trembling falsetto
that his voice was still for war, it was the
women who spoke first, and they were for
going right on the next morning.

"Mind," said Angus Sutherland, looking
anxiously at certain dark eyes; "there is
generally a good sea in the Minch in the best
of weathers; but after a three or four
days'—well——"

"I, for one, don't care," said Miss Avon,
frankly regarding him.

"And I should like it," said the other
woman, "so long as there is plenty of wind.
But if Captain John takes me out into the
middle of the Minch and keeps me rolling
about on the Atlantic in a dead calm, then
something will befall him that his mother
knew nothing about."

Here Captain John was emboldened to
step forward, and to say, with an embarrassed
politeness—

"I not afraid of anything for the leddies;
for two better sailors I never sah ahl my life
lang."

However, the final result of our confabulation
that night was the resolve to get under
way next morning, and proceed a certain
distance until we should discover what the
weather was like outside.  With a fair wind,
we might run the sixty miles to Stornoway
before night; without a fair wind, there was
little use in our adventuring out to be knocked
about in the North Minch, where the Atlantic
finds itself jammed into the neck of a bottle,
and rebels in a somewhat frantic fashion.  We
must do our good friends in Portree the justice
to say that they endeavoured to dissuade us;
but then we had sailed in the *White Dove*
before, and had no great fear of her leading
us into any trouble.

And so, good-night!—good-night!  We can
scarcely believe that this is Portree Harbour,
so still and quiet it is.  All the summer fleet
of vessels have fled; the year has gone with
them; soon we, too, must betake ourselves to
the south.  Good-night!—good-night!  The
peace of the darkness falls over us; if there
is any sound, it is the sound of singing in
our dreams.

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.. _`"A GOOD ONE FOR THE LAST"`:

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   CHAPTER XVII.


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   "A GOOD ONE FOR THE LAST."

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"Ah, well, well," said the Laird, somewhat
sadly, to his hostess, "I suppose we may now
conseeder that we have started on our last
day's sailing in the *White Dove*?"

"I suppose so," said she; and this was
before breakfast, so she may have been
inclined to be a bit sentimental too.

"I'm thinking," said he, "that some of us
may hereafter look back on this sailing as
the longest and grandest holiday of their life,
and will recall the name of the *White Dove*
with a certain amount of affection.  I, for one,
feel that I can scarcely justify myself for
withdrawing so long from the duties that
society demands from every man; and no
doubt there will be much to set right when
one goes back to Strathgovan.  But perhaps
one has been able to do something even in
one's idleness——"

He paused here, and remained silent for a
moment or two.

"What a fine thing," he continued, "it must
be for a doctor to watch the return of health
to a patient's face—to watch the colour coming
back, and the eyes looking happy again, and
the spirits rising; and to think that maybe he
has helped.  And if he happens to know the
patient, and to be as anxious about her as if
she were his own child, do not ye think he
must be a proud man when he sees the results
of what he has done for her, and when he
hears her begin to laugh again?"

Despite the Laird's profound ingenuity, we
knew very well who that doctor was.  And
we had learned something about the affection
which this mythical physician had acquired
for this imaginary patient.

"What a sensitive bit crayture she is!"
said he, suddenly, as if he were now talking
of some quite different person.  "Have ye
seen the difference the last few days have
made on her face—have ye not observed it?"

"Yes, indeed I have."

"Ye would imagine that her face was just
singing a song from the morning till the
night—I have never seen any one with such
expressive eyes as that bit lass has—and—and—it
is fairly a pleasure to any one to look at
the happiness of them."

"Which she owes to you, sir."

"To me?" said the Laird.  "Dear me!—not
to me.  It was a fortunate circumstance
that I was with ye on board the yacht, that
is all.  What I did no man who had the
chance could have refused to do.  No, no;
if the lass owes any gratitude to anybody or
anything it is to the Semple case."

"What?"

"Just so, ma'am," said the Laird composedly.
"I will confess to ye that a long
holiday spent in sailing had not that attraction
for me it might have had for others—though I
think I have come to enjoy it now with the
best of ye; but I thought, when ye pressed
me to come, that it would be a grand
opportunity to get your husband to take up the
Semple case, and master it thoroughly, and
put its merits in a just manner before the
public.  That he does not appear to be as
much interested in it as I had reason to expect
is a misfortune—perhaps he will grow to see
the importance of the principles involved in
it in time; but I have ceased to force it on
his attention.  In the meanwhile we have had
a fine, long holiday, which has at least given
me leisure to consider many schemes for the
advantage of my brother pareeshioners.  Ay;
and where is Miss Mary though?"

"She and Angus have been up for hours,
I believe," said his hostess.  "I heard them
on deck before we started anyway."

"I would not disturb them," said the Laird,
with much consideration.  "They have plenty
to talk about—all their life opening up before
them—like a road through a garden, as one
might say.  And whatever befalls them
hereafter I suppose they will always remember the
present time as the most beautiful of their
existence—the wonder of it, the newness, the
hope.  It is a strange thing that.  Ye know,
ma'am, that our garden at Denny-mains, if I
may say so, is far from insigneeficant.  It has
been greatly commended by experienced
landscape gardeners.  Well, now, that garden,
when it is just at its fullest of summer
colour—with all its dahlias and hollyhocks and what
not—I say ye cannot get half as much
delight from the whole show as ye get from
the first glint o' a primrose, as ye are walking
through a wood, on a bleak March day, and
not expecting to see anything of the kind.
Does not that make your heart jump?"

Here the Laird had to make way for Master
Fred and the breakfast tray.

"There is not a bairn about Strathgovan,"
he continued, with a laugh, "knows better
than myself where to find the first primroses
and bluebells and the red deadnettle, ye
know, and so on.  Would ye believe it, that
poor crayture, Johnny Guthrie was for cutting
down the hedge in the Coulterburn Road, and
putting up a stone dyke!"  Here the Laird's
face grew more and more stern, and he spoke
with unnecessary vehemence.  "I make bold
to say that the man who would cut down a
hawthorn hedge where the children go to gather
their bits o' flowers, and would put in its
place a stone wall for no reason on the face of
the earth, I say that man is an ass—an
intolerable and perneecious ass!"

But this fierceness instantly vanished, for
here was Mary Avon come in to bid him good
morning.   And he rose and took both her
hands in his and regarded the upturned
smiling face and the speaking eyes.

"Ay, ay, lass," said he, with great satisfaction
and approval, "ye have got the roses into
your cheeks at last.  That is the morning air—the
'roses weet wi' dew'—it is a fine habit
that of early rising.  Dear me, what a shilpit
bit thing ye were when I first saw ye about
three months ago.  And now I daresay ye are
just as hungry as a hawk with walking up and
down the deck in the sea-air—we will not keep
ye waiting a moment."

The Laird got her a chair, next his own of
course; and then rang Master Fred's bell
violently.

"How's her head, skipper?" said Queen T.,
when the young Doctor made his appearance—he
had roses, too, in his cheeks, freshened by
the morning air.

"Well," said he frankly, as he sate down,
"I think it would be judicious to have
breakfast over as soon as possible; and get the
things stowed away.  We are flying up the
Sound of Raasay like a witch on a broom;
and there will be a roaring sea when we get
beyond the shelter of Skye."

"We have been in roaring seas before," said
she, confidently.

"We met a schooner coming into Portree
Harbour this morning," said he, with a dry
smile.  "She left yesterday afternoon just
before we got in.  They were at it all night,
but had to run back at last.  They said they
had got quite enough of it."

This was a little more serious, but the
women were not to be daunted.  They had
come to believe in the *White Dove* being
capable of anything, especially when a certain
aid to John of Skye was on board.  For the
rest, the news was that the day was lovely,
the wind fair for Stornoway, and the yacht
flying northward like an arrow.

There was a certain solemnity, nevertheless,
or perhaps only an unusual elaborateness, about
our preparations before going on deck.
Gun-cases were wedged in in front of canvases, so
that Miss Avon's sketches should not go
rolling on to the floor; all such outlying
skirmishers as candlesticks, aneroids,
draught-boards, and the like, were moved to the rear
of compact masses of rugs; and then the
women were ordered to array themselves in
their waterproofs.  Waterproofs?—and the sun
flooding through the skylight!  But they
obeyed.

Certainly there did not seem to be any great
need for waterproofs when we got above and
had the women placed in a secure corner of
the companion-way.  It was a brilliant, breezy,
blue-skied morning, with the decks as yet
quite white and dry, and with the long
mountainous line of Skye shining in the sun.  The
yacht was flying along at a famous pace before
a fresh and steady breeze; already we could
make out, far away on the northern horizon,
a pale, low, faint-blue line, which we knew
to be the hills of southern Lewis.  Of course,
one had to observe that the vast expanse of
sea lying between us and that far line was
of a stormy black; moreover, the men had
got on their oilskins, though not a drop of
spray was coming on board.

As we spun along, however, before the
freshening wind, the crashes of the waves at the
bows became somewhat more heavy, and
occasionally some jets of white foam would spring
up into the sunlight.  When it was suggested
to Captain John that he might set the gaff
topsail, he very respectfully and shyly shook
his head.  For one thing, it was rather strange
that on this wide expanse of sea not a solitary
vessel was visible.

Farther and farther northward.  And now
one has to look out for the white water
springing over the bows, and there is a
general ducking of heads when the crash
forward gives warning.  The decks are
beginning to glisten now; and Miss Avon has
received one sharp admonition to be more
careful, which has somewhat damped and
disarranged her hair.  And so the *White Dove*
still flies to the north—like an arrow—like a
witch on a broom—like a hare, only that none
of these things would groan so much in getting
into the deep troughs of the sea; and not
even a witch on a broom could perform such
capers in the way of tumbling and tossing,
and pitching and rolling.

However all this was mere child's play.  We
knew very well when and where we should
really "get it": and we got it.  Once out of
the shelter of the Skye coast, we found a
considerably heavy sea swinging along the Minch,
and the wind was still freshening up, insomuch
that Captain John had to take the mizen and
foresail off her.  How splendidly those
mountain masses of waves came heaving
along—apparently quite black until they came near,
and then we could see the sunlight shining
green through the breaking crest; then there
was a shock at the bows that caused the
yacht to shiver from stem to stern; then a
high springing into the air, followed by a
heavy rattle and rush on the decks.  The
scuppers were of no use at all; there was a
foot and a half of hissing and seething salt
water all along the lee bulwarks, and when
the gangway was lifted to let it out the next
rolling wave only spouted an equal quantity
up on deck, soaking Dr. Angus Sutherland to
the shoulder.  Then a heavier sea than usual
struck her, carrying off the cover of the fore
hatch and sending it spinning aft; while, at
the same moment, a voice from the forecastle
informed Captain John in an injured tone that
this last invader had swamped the men's
berths.  What could he do but have the main
tack hauled up to lighten the pressure of the
wind?  The waters of the Minch, when once
they rise, are not to be stilled by a bottle of
salad oil.

We had never before seen the ordinarily
buoyant *White Dove* take in such masses of
water over her bows; but we soon got
accustomed to the seething lake of water along the
lee scuppers, and allowed it to subside or
increase as it liked.  And the women were now
seated a step lower on the companion-way, so
that the rags of the waves flew by them
without touching them; and there was a good deal
of laughing and jesting going on at the
clinging and stumbling of any unfortunate person
who had to make his way along the deck.  As
for our indefatigable Doctor, his face had been
running wet with salt water for hours; twice
he had slipped and gone headlong to leeward;
and now, with a rope double twisted round the
tiller, he was steering, his teeth set hard.

"Well, Mary," shrieked Queen Titania into
her companion's ear.  "We are having a good
one for the last!"

"Is he going up the mast?" cried the girl
in great alarm.

"I say we are having a good one for the last!"

"Oh, yes!" was the shout in reply.  "She
is indeed going fast!"

But about mid-day we passed within a few
miles to the east of the Shiant Islands, and
here the sea was somewhat moderated, so
we tumbled below for a snack of lunch.  The
women wanted to devote the time to dressing
their hair and adorning themselves anew; but
purser Sutherland objected to this altogether.
He compelled them to eat and drink while
that was possible; and several toasts were
proposed—briefly, but with much enthusiasm.
Then we scrambled on deck again.  We found
that John had hoisted his foresail again, but
he had let the mizen alone.

Northward and ever northward—and we
are all alone on this wide, wide sea.  But
that pale line of coast at the horizon is
beginning to resolve itself into definite
form—into long, low headlands, some of which are
dark in shadow, others shining in the sun.
And then the cloudlike mountains beyond;
can these be the far Suainabhal and Mealasabhal,
and the other giants that look down
on Loch Roag and the western shores?  They
seem to belong to a world beyond the sea.

Northward and ever northward; and there
is less water coming over now, and less
groaning and plunging, so that one can hear
oneself speak.  And what is this wagering
on the part of the Doctor that we shall do
the sixty miles between Portree and Stornoway
within the six hours?  John of Skye shakes
his head; but he has the main tack hauled down.

Then, as the day wears on, behold! a small
white object in that line of blue.  The cry
goes abroad: it is Stornoway Light!

"Come, now, John!" the Doctor calls aloud.
"Within the six hours—for a glass of whisky
and a lucky sixpence!"

"We not at Styornaway Light yet," answered
the prudent John of Skye, who is no gambler.
But all the same, he called two of the men
aft to set the mizen again; and as for himself,
he threw off his oilskins and appeared in his
proud uniform once more.  This looked like
business.

Well, it was not within the six hours, but
it was within the six hours and a half, that we
sailed past Stornoway lighthouse and its
outstanding perch; and past a floating target
with a red flag, for artillery practice; and past
a barque which had been driven ashore two
days before, and now stuck there, with her
back broken.  And this was a wonderful
sight—after the lone, wide seas—to see such a
mass of ships of all sorts and sizes crowded
in here for fear of the weather.  We read
their names in the strange foreign type as
we passed—*Die Heimath*, *Georg Washington*,
*Friedrich der Grosse*, and the like—and we
saw the yellow-haired Norsemen pulling
between the vessels in their odd-looking
double-bowed boats.  And was not John of Skye a
proud man that day, as he stood by the tiller
in his splendour of blue and brass buttons,
knowing that he had brought the *White Dove*
across the wild waters of the Minch, when not
one of these foreigners would put his nose
outside the harbour?

The evening light was shining over the quiet
town, and the shadowed castle, and the
fir-tipped circle of hills, when the *White Dove*
rattled out her anchor chain and came to rest.
And as this was our last night on board, there
was a good deal of packing and other trouble.
It was nearly ten o'clock when we came together
again.

The Laird was in excellent spirits that night,
and was more than ordinarily facetious; but
his hostess refused to be comforted.  A
thousand Homeshes could not have called
up a smile.  For she had grown to love this
scrambling life on board; and she had
acquired a great affection for the yacht itself;
and now she looked round this old and familiar
saloon, in which we had spent so many snug
and merry evenings together; and she knew
she was looking at it for the last time.

At length, however, the Laird bethought
himself of arousing her from her sentimental
sadness, and set to work to joke her out of it.
He told her she was behaving like a school-girl
come to the end of her holiday.  Well,
she only further behaved like a schoolgirl by
letting her lips begin to tremble; and then she
stealthily withdrew to her own cabin; and
doubtless had a good cry there.  There was
no help for it, however: the child had to give
up its plaything at last.





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.. _`ADIEU`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII.


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   ADIEU.

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Next morning, also: why should this tender
melancholy still dwell in the soft and mournful
eyes?  The sunlight was shining cheerfully on
the sweep of wooded hill, on the grey castle,
on the scattered town, and on the busy quays.
Busy was scarcely the word: there was a wild
excitement abroad, for a vast take of herring
had just been brought in.  There, close in by
the quays, were the splendidly-built luggers,
with their masts right at their bows; and
standing up in them their stalwart crews,
bronze-faced, heavy-bearded, with oilskin caps,
and boots up to their thighs.  Then on the
quays above the picturesquely-costumed women
busy at the salting; and agents eagerly chaffering
with the men; and empty barrels coming
down in unknown quantities.  Bustle, life,
excitement pervaded the whole town; but our
tender-hearted hostess, as we got ashore,
seemed to pay no heed to it.  As she bade
good-bye to the men, shaking hands with each
there were tears in her eyes; if she had
wished to cast a last glance in the direction of
the *White Dove*, she could scarcely have seen
the now still and motionless craft.

But by and by, when we had left our heavier
luggage at the inn, and when we set out to
drive across the island to visit some friends of
ours who live on the western side, she grew
somewhat more cheerful.  Here and there a
whiff of the fragrant peat-smoke caught us as
we passed, bringing back recollections of other
days.  Then she had one or two strangers to
inform and instruct; and she was glad thai
Mary Avon had a bright day for her drive
across the Lewis.

"But what a desolate place it must be on a
wet day," that young person remarked, as she
looked away across the undulating moors, vast,
and lonely, and silent.

Now, at all events, the drive was pleasant
enough: for the sunlight brought out the soft
ruddy browns of the bog-land, and ever and
again the blue and white surface of a small
loch flashed back the daylight from amid that
desolation.  Then occasionally the road crossed
a brawling stream, and the sound of it was
grateful enough in the oppressive silence.  In
due course of time we reached Garra na-hina.

Our stay at the comfortable little hostelry
was but brief, for the boat to be sent by our
friends had not arrived, and it was proposed
that in the meantime we should walk along
the coast to show our companions the famous
stones of Callernish.  By this time Queen
Titania had quite recovered her spirits, and
eagerly assented, saying how pleasant a walk
would be after our long confinement on shipboard.

It was indeed a pleasant walk, through a
bright and cheerful piece of country.  And as
we went along we sometimes turned to look
around us—at the waters of the Black River,
a winding line of silver through the yellow and
brown of the morass; and at the placid blue
waters of Loch Roag, with the orange line of
seaweed round the rocks; and at the far blue
bulk of Suainabhal.  We did not walk very
fast; and indeed we had not got anywhere
near the Callernish stones, when the sharp eye
of our young Doctor caught sight of two new
objects that had come into this shining picture.
The first was a large brown boat, rowed by
four fishermen; the second was a long and
shapely boat—like the pinnace of a yacht—also
pulled by four men, in blue jerseys and
scarlet caps.  There was no one in the stern
of the big boat; but in the stern of the gig
were three figures, as far as we could make out.

Now no sooner had our attention been called
to the two boats which had just come round the
point of an island out there, than our good
Queen Titania became greatly excited, and
would have us all go out to the top of a small
headland and frantically wave our handkerchiefs
there.  Then we perceived that the second boat
instantly changed its course, and was being
steered for the point on which we stood.  We
descended to the shore and went out on to
some rocks, Queen Titania becoming quite
hysterical.

"Oh, how kind of her! how kind of her!"
she cried, "to come so far to meet us!"

For it now appeared that these three figures
in the stern of the white pinnace, were the
figures of a young lady, who was obviously
steering, and of two small boys, one on each
side of her, and both dressed as young sailors.
And the steerswoman—she had something of
a sailor-look about her too; for she was dressed
in navy blue; and she wore a straw hat with a
blue ribbon and letters of gold.  But you would
scarcely have looked at the smart straw hat
when you saw the bright and laughing face,
and the beautiful eyes that seemed to speak
to you long before she could get to shore.

And then the boat was run into a small creak;
and the young lady stepped lightly out—she
certainly was young-looking, by the way, to be
the mother of those two small sailors—and
she quickly and eagerly and gladly caught
Queen Titania with both her hands.

"Oh, indeed I beg your pardon," said she—and
her speech was exceedingly pleasant to
hear—"but I did not think you could be so
soon over from Styornaway."

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[*Note by Queen Titania*.—It appears that now all our voyaging
is over, and we are about to retire into privacy again, I am
expected, as on a previous occasion, to come forward and address
to you a kind of epilogue, just as they do on the stage.  This
seems to me a sort of strange performance at the end of a
yachting cruise, for what if a handful of salt water were to come
over the bows and put out my trumpery footlights?  However,
what must be must, as married women know: and so I would
first of all say a word to the many kind people who were so
*very* good to us in these distant places in the north.  You may
think it strange to associate such things as fresh vegetables, or
a basket of flowers, or a chicken, or a bottle of milk, or even a
bunch of white heather, with sentiment; but people who have
been sailing in the West Highlands do not think so—indeed,
they know which is the most obliging and friendly and hospitable
place *in the whole world*.  And then a word to the reader.
If I might hope that it is the same reader who has been with
us in other climes in other years—who may have driven with us
along the devious English lanes; and crossed the Atlantic, and
seen the big cañons of the Rocky Mountains; and lived with
us among those dear old people in the Black Forest; and
walked with us on Mickleham Downs in the starlight, why,
then, he may forgive us for taking him on such a tremendous
long holiday in these Scotch lochs.  But we hope that if ever
he goes into these wilds for himself, he will get as good a
skipper as John of Skye, and have as pleasant and *true* a
friend on board as the Laird of Denny-mains.  Perhaps I
may add, just to explain everything, that we are all invited
to Denny-mains to spend Christmas; and something is going
to happen there; and the Laird says that so far from objecting
to a ceremony in the Episcopal Church, he will himself be
present and give away the bride.  It is even hinted that Mr. Tom
Galbraith may come from Edinburgh as a great compliment:
and then no doubt we shall all be introduced to him.  And
so—Good-bye!—Good-bye!—and another message—*from the
heart*—to all the kind people who befriended us in those places
far away!——T.]

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   THE END.

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   LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.

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