ON GARRA'S BANKS.
It soon became sufficiently evident that it was not solely for fishing
and shooting that Mr. Frank Meredyth had come to Loch-garra; keepers,
gillies, dogs, guns, fly-books occupied but little of his attention,
while Mary Stanley occupied much; moreover, the zeal with which he
prosecuted his suit was favoured by an abundance of opportunities.
Indeed it must often have occurred to our country cousins--to those of
them, at least, who have ventured to speculate on such dark
mysteries--that courtship in a big and busy town like London must be a
very difficult thing, demanding all kinds of subterfuges, plans, and
lyings-in-wait. Or is it possible at all? they may ask, looking around
at their own happy chances. The after-service stroll home on a Sunday
morning, along a honeysuckle lane--the little groups of twos and threes
getting widely scattered--is a much more secret and subtle thing than
the crowded church-parade of Hyde Park, where every young maiden's
features are being watched by a thousand amateur detectives. To sit out
a dance is all very well--to take up a position on the staircase and
affect to ignore the never-ending procession of ascending and descending
guests; but it is surely inferior to the idle exploration of an
old-fashioned rustic garden, with its red-brick walls and courts, its
unintentional mazes, its leafy screens--while the tennis-lawn and the
shade of trees, and ices and strawberries, hold the dowagers remote.
And if these be the opportunities of the country, look at those of a
distant sea-side solitude--the lonely little bays, the intervening
headlands, the moonlight wanderings along the magic shores. Even in the
day-time, when all this small world of Loch-garra was busy, there were
many chances of companionship, of which he was not slow to avail
himself. The Twelfth was not yet; the water in the Garra was far too
low for fishing; what better could this young man do than go about with
Mary Stanley, admiring her bland, good-natured ways, sympathising in her
beneficent labour, and participating in it by the only method known to
him--that is to say, by the simple process of purchase? One consequence
of all which was that he gradually became the owner of a vast and quite
useless collection of home-shapen sticks, home-knitted stockings,
homespun plaids, and what not; although, being only the younger son of a
not very wealthy Welsh baronet, Frank Meredyth was not usually supposed
to be overburdened with cash. But he said he would have a sale of these
articles when he went south; and if there were any profit he would
return it to Miss Stanley, to be expended as she might think fit.
The truth is, however, that Mary was far from encouraging him to
accompany her on her expeditions; and would rather have had him go and
talk to the keepers about the dogs. For one thing, she did not wish him
to know how remote this little community still was from the Golden Age
which she hoped in time to establish. For another, she was half afraid
that those people whose obduracy she was patiently trying to overcome
might suddenly say among themselves, "Oh, here are more strangers come
to spy and inquire. And these are the fine gentlemen who have taken
away the shooting and the fishing that by rights should belong to Young
Donald. We do not want them here; no, nor the _Baintighearna_ either;
let her keep to her own friends. We do not wish to be interfered with;
we are not slaves; when her uncle bought Lochgarra, he did not buy us."
And thus it was that she did not at all approve of those two young men
coming with her to the door of this or that cottage, standing about
smoking cigarettes, and scanning everything with a cold and critical
Saxon eye: she wished that the Twelfth were here, and that she could
have them packed off up the hill out of everybody's way.
Meanwhile, what had become of Donald Ross of Heimra? Nothing had been
heard or seen of him since the moonlight night on which they had watched
him go out to the _Consuelo_; and next day the big steam-yacht left the
harbour. Mary, though not saying much, became more and more concerned;
his silence and absence made her think over things; sometimes Kaethchen
caught her friend looking out towards Heimra Island, in a curiously
wistful way. And at last there came confession--one evening that Fred
Stanley and Frank Meredyth had gone off on a stenlock-fishing
expedition.
"I hope I am not distressing myself about nothing, Kaethchen," Mary
said, "but the more I think of it the more I fear----"
"What?"
"That something happened to offend Mr. Ross the evening he dined here.
Oh, I don't mean anything very serious--any actual insult----"
"I should think not!" said Kaethchen. "I thought he was treated with
the greatest consideration. He took you in to dinner, to begin with.
Then you simply devoted yourself to him all the evening----"
"But don't you think, Kaethchen," Mary said--and she rose and went to
the window, evidently in considerable trouble--"don't you think that
Fred and Mr. Meredyth--yes, and you, too--that you kept yourselves just
a little too openly to yourselves--it was hardly fair, was it?"
"Hardly fair!" Kaethchen exclaimed. "To leave you entirely to him? I
wonder what young man would complain of that! I think he ought to be
very grateful to us. If he had wished, he could have listened to Mr.
Meredyth--who was most amusing, really; but as you two seemed to have
plenty to say to each other--we could not dream of interfering----"
"But you never know how any little arrangement of that kind may be
taken," Mary said, absently. "The intention may entirely be
misunderstood. And then, brooding over some such thing in that lonely
island may make it serious. I would not for worlds have him imagine
that--that--he had not been well-treated. If you consider the peculiar
circumstances--asked to a house that used to be his own--knowing he was
to meet a nephew of my uncle--indeed I was not at all sure that he would
come."
"Neither was I!" said Kaethchen, with a bit of a laugh. "It was very
generous of him, in my opinion: he must have had to make up his mind."
"Well, I will admit this," said Mary, with some colour mounting to her
face, "that I put the invitation so that it would have been rather
difficult for him to refuse--I--I asked him to come as a favour to
myself. But that makes it all the worse if he has gone away with any
consciousness of affront--and--and, as I say, brooding over it in that
island would only deepen his sense of injury." She hesitated for a
second or two, and then went on again, in a desperate kind of a way:
"Why, for myself, the thinking over the mere possibility of such a thing
has made me perfectly miserable. I don't know what to do, Kaethchen,
and that is the truth. If Fred and his friend weren't here I would go
away out to Heimra--I mean you and I could go--so that I might see for
myself why he has never sent me a line, or called. There must be
something the matter. And as you say, it was a great concession to
me--his coming to the house; and I can't bear the idea of anything
having happened to give him offence."
"If you want to know," said the practical Kaethchen, "why don't you get
Fred to write and ask him over for a day's shooting?"
Mary was walking up and down: she stopped.
"Yes," she said, thoughtfully. "That might do--if Fred were a little
reasonable. It would show Mr. Ross, at all events, that there was no
wish to make a stranger of him."
Her two guests came home late; they had got into a good shoal of
stenlock, and had been loth to give up. When they made their appearance
they found supper awaiting them; and not only that, but the young ladies
had let their dinner go by, in order to give them of their company; so
they ought to have been in an amiable mood.
"Where did you go, Fred?" Mary asked, as they took their places at
table.
"Oh, a long way," said he. "We got Big Archie's boat, and then we had
her towed by the steam-launch: we made first of all for the headlands
south of Minard Bay."
"Then you would be in sight of Eilean Heimra most of the time?" she
said, timidly.
"Oh, yes."
"You did not see any one coming or going from the island?" she
continued, with eyes cast down.
"No; but we were not paying much heed. I can tell you, those big
stenlock gave us plenty of occupation."
"It is rather odd we should have heard nothing of Mr. Ross," she
ventured to say.
"He may have gone up to London," Mr. Meredyth put in, in a casual kind
of fashion. "Didn't you say he is studying for the Bar? Then he must go
up from time to time to keep his terms and eat his dinners."
"No, no--not just now," Fred Stanley interposed, and he spoke as one
having authority, for he was himself looking forward to being called.
"There's nothing of that sort going on at this time of year: the next
term is Michaelmas--in November. My dear Frank, do you imagine that
that fellow Ross would go away from Lochgarra at the beginning of
August?--why, it's the very cream of the shooting!--a few days in
advance of the legal time--the very pick of the year!--especially if you
have a convenient little arrangement with a game-dealer in Inverness."
Then he corrected himself. "No, I don't suppose he carries on this kind
of thing for money; I will do him that justice; he doesn't look that
kind of a chap. More likely malice: revenge for my uncle having come in
and robbed him of what he had been brought up to consider his own:
perhaps, too, the natural instinct of the chase, which is strong in some
people, even when the law frowns on them."
"I will confess this," Frank Meredyth struck in (for he noticed that
Mary was looking deeply vexed, and yet was too proud to speak), "that if
I had been born the son of a horny-handed peasant--or more particularly
still, the son of the village publican--I should have been an inveterate
poacher. I can't imagine anything more exciting and interesting; the
skill and cunning you have to exercise; the spice of danger that comes
in; the local fame you acquire, when late hours and deep draughts lead
to a little bragging. A poacher?--of course I should have been a
poacher!--it is the only thing for one who has the instincts of a
gentleman, and no money. And in the case of that young Ross, what could
be more natural, with all the people round about recognising that that
is the inalienable part of your inheritance? The land may have gone,
and crops, and sheep, and what not: but the wild animals--the game--the
birds of the air--the salmon in the stream--they still belong to the old
family--they were never sold."
"I beg your pardon--they were sold," said Fred Stanley, bluntly, "and
whoever takes them in defiance of the law, steals: that's all about it."
"I dare say the lawyers could say something on behalf of that form of
stealing," Frank Meredyth answered, good-naturedly, "only that they're
all busy justifying the big stealings--the stealings of emperors, and
statesmen, and financial magnates. However, I will admit this also: it
is uncommonly awkward when you have poaching going on. It is an
annoyance that worries. And you suspect everybody; and go on
suspecting, until you can trust nobody; and you get disgusted with the
whole place. Your abstract sympathy with the life of a poacher won't
comfort you when you imagine that the moor has been shot over before you
are out in the morning, and when you suspect the keepers of connivance.
It isn't pleasant, I must say; indeed, it is a condition of affairs that
can but rarely exist anywhere, for naturally the keepers are risking a
good deal--risking their place, in fact----"
"I quite agree with you, Mr. Meredyth," Mary said at this point, with
some emphasis. "Indeed, it is a condition of affairs that looks to me
absurdly improbable. I should like to have some sort of definite proof
of it before believing it. No doubt, there may be some such feeling as
you suggest among the people--that Mr. Ross should still have the
fishing and shooting: it is easy enough to believe that, when you find
you cannot convince them that the land does not belong to him too; but
it is quite another thing to assume that he takes advantage of this
prevailing sentiment. However, in any case, isn't the remedy quite
simple? Why shouldn't Fred ask him to go shooting with you? Surely
there is room for three guns?"
"Oh," said Fred Stanley, with some stiffness, "if you wish to invite him
to shoot on the Twelfth, very well. It is your shooting; it is for you
to say. Of course, I did not understand when I left London that there
was any stranger going to join the party, or I should have explained as
much to Frank----"
"I am sure I shall be only too delighted, Miss Stanley," Frank Meredyth
put in, quickly, "if any friend of yours should join us--quite
delighted--naturally--another gun will be all the better. And when I
spoke of the joys of poaching, I assure you it was without any
particular reference to anybody: I was telling you what would be my own
ambition in other circumstances. Fred will write to Mr. Ross----"
"I beg your pardon," said the young gentleman, with something of
coldness. "Mamie, you'd better write yourself."
"Not if there is going to be any disinclination on your part," she said.
"Disinclination?" he repeated. "Well, the way I look at it is simply
this: you suspect that poaching is going on, and you ask the poacher to
go shooting--why? Because you are afraid of him. It is a confession of
weakness. What I would do, if the place were mine, is this: I'd send
the keepers packing--and every man-jack of the gillies, too--until I
knew I was master. It is perfectly preposterous that your own servants
should connive at your being cheated----"
"Doesn't that sometimes happen in other spheres of life?" Frank Meredyth
asked--he was evidently bent on being pacificator.
"I don't know--I don't care," said young Stanley, stubbornly. "What I
do know is that if Ross is to come shooting with us on the Twelfth,
well, then, Mamie had better send him the invitation: I'm not hypocrite
enough to do it."
So matters remained there for the present; but the very next evening a
singular incident occurred which caused a renewal of this
discussion--with its conflict of prejudices and prepossessions. All
night there had been heavy and steady rain; in the morning the Garra had
risen considerably; towards the afternoon it was discovered that the
river was fining down again; whereupon Fred Stanley proposed to his
friend and companion that they should go along as soon as the sun was
likely to be off the water, and try for a grilse or a sea-trout in the
cool of the twilight. They did not propose to take either gillie or
keeper with them; they had found out which were the proper flies; and
they would have greater freedom without professional supervision. So
Frank Meredyth shouldered a grilse-rod of moderate length and weight;
his companion took with him both landing-net and gaff; and together they
walked along to the banks of the stream, passing through the village on
their way.
They were rather too early; the sun was still on the pools; but they had
the rod to put together, the casting-line to soak, the flies to choose.
Then they sate down on the breckan, and cigarettes were produced.
"Don't you think my sister puts me into a very awkward position?" said
the younger man, discontentedly.
"Why?" asked his companion--being discreet.
"Keeping up those friendly relations, or apparently friendly relations,
with this fellow Ross," Fred Stanley said. "Wouldn't it be very much
better, much honester, if we were declared enemies--as the people about
here think we are? Then we could give fair notice to the keepers that
they must either have him watched or they themselves must go. You see,
my sister doesn't care what happens to the fishing or the shooting; but
it is a shame she should be imposed upon; and a still greater shame that
this fellow should come to the house, and pretend to be on friendly
terms with her. You know, Frank, he must be a thundering hypocrite. Do
you mean to tell me he has forgiven any one of our family for what my
uncle did--you know what Mamie told you--draining the loch and pulling
down the old castle? Of course he hasn't! And perhaps I don't blame
him: it was too bad; and that's a fact. But what I do blame him for is
pretending to be on good terms; coming to the house; and so taking it
out of our power to treat him as he ought to be treated--that is, as a
person who is defying the law, whom we ought to try to catch. You see,
Mamie is so soft; she hasn't that dimple in her cheek for nothing; she's
far too good-natured; and this stuck-up Spaniard, or Portuguese, or
whatever he is, seems to have impressed her because he looks mysterious
and says nothing. Or perhaps she thinks that we have ill-treated
him--that my uncle has, I mean. Or perhaps she hopes that through him
she will get at those ill-conditioned brutes about here--you heard what
Purdie said. I don't know; I can't make out women; they're not
sufficiently aboveboard for the humble likes of me; but this I do know,
that I should like to catch that fellow Ross red-handed, carrying a
salmon or a brace of grouse, and then we should have it out!"
Frank Meredyth did not reply to this resentful little oration: he had
been watching the westering sun, that was now slowly sinking behind the
topmost trees of the steep bank on the other side of the river. And at
length, when there was no longer a golden flash on the tea-brown ripples
that came dancing over the shingle, he went down to the edge of the
stream and began to cast, throwing a very fair line. But he was not very
serious about it; in this rapid run there was little chance of anything
beyond a sea-trout; he had his eye on a deeper, and smoother, and
likelier pool lower down, where perchance there might be a lively young
grilse lying, up that morning from the sea.
Then he called out--
"Come along, Fred, and take the next pool: it amuses me quite as much to
look on."
"It amuses me more," the younger man said, taking out another cigarette.
"You're throwing a beautiful line--go ahead--you'll come upon something
down there."
And indeed Frank Meredyth now began to cast with more caution as he
approached this smoother and deeper pool--sending his fly well over to
the other side, letting it come gradually round with almost
imperceptible jerks, and nursing it in the water before recovery. It
was one of the best stretches of the river--they had been told that; and
there was a fair chance after the rain. But all of a sudden, as he was
carefully watching his fly being carried slowly round by the current,
there was a terrific splash right in the midst of the stream: a large
stone had been hurled from among the trees on the opposite bank: the
pool was ruined. The fisherman, without a word, let his fly drift
helplessly, and turned and looked at his companion. The same instant
Fred Stanley had thrown away his cigarette, ran down the bank, and
sprang into the water--careless of everything but getting across in time
to capture their cowardly assailant. He had no waders on; but he did
not heed that; all his endeavour was to force his way across the current
before their unseen enemy could have escaped from among those birches.
Meredyth could do nothing but look on. The point at which his companion
had entered the stream was rather above the pool, and shallower; but
none the less there was a certain body of water to contend with; and out
in the middle young Stanley, despite his arduous efforts, made but slow
progress. Then there was the catching at the bushes on the opposite
bank--a hurried scrambling up--the next second he had disappeared among
the birch trees. Frank Meredyth laid down his rod, and quietly took out
a cigarette: fishing in this kind of a neighbourhood did not seem to
attract him any more.
It was some time before Fred Stanley came back: of course his quest had
been unsuccessful--his hampered progress through the water had allowed
his foe to get clear away.
"You see you were wrong, Frank," he said, with affected indifference,
when he had waded across the stream again. "Our friendly neighbour
hasn't gone south to keep the last of his terms, or for any other
reason. A pretty trick, wasn't it? I knew there was a
dog-in-the-manger look about the fellow; well, I don't care: Mamie can
choose her own friends. As for you and me, we are off by the mail-car
that leaves to-morrow morning."
He was simply wild with rage, despite all his outward calmness. Frank
Meredyth looked very grave indeed.
"We can't do that, Fred," said he. "It would be an affront to your
sister----"
"Well, then, and she allows my friend--her guest--to be insulted!" he
exclaimed. "And all because no one dare speak out! But I've had enough
of it. This last is too much--this shows you what the neighbourhood is
like; and it is all to be winked at! As I say, I've had enough. I'm
off. You can stay if you choose----"
"You know I can't stay here if you go," said Meredyth, in the same grave
way: indeed, he did not at all like this position in which he found
himself. And then he said: "Come, Fred, don't make too much of a
trifle----"
"Do you call that a trifle?" the other demanded. "It is an indication
of the spirit of the whole place; and more than that, it shows you the
miserable, underhand enmity of this very fellow who has been pretending
to make friends with my sister. It is not on my account--it is on your
account--that I am indignant. I asked you to come here. This is pretty
treatment, is it not?--and a pleasant intimation of what we may expect
all the way through, if we stay on----"
"Of course we must stay on," said Meredyth. "I would not for anything
have your sister vexed. I would not even tell her of what has just
happened. Why should you? Neither you nor I care so much for the
fishing----"
"That is not the point, Frank," said young Stanley. "Reel up--and we
will go back to the house. I want Mamie to understand what all her
pampering of this place has resulted in--nothing but miserable,
underhand spite and enmity. And if we do stop on, do you think I'd be
frightened away from the fishing? Not if I had to get water-bailiffs up
from Inverness, and give them each a double-barrelled breech-loader and
a hiding-place in the woods. Pitching stones into salmon pools and then
running away is a very pretty amusement; but that skulking and poaching
thief would sing another tune if he were brought down by a charge of No.
6 shot!"
And he was in the same indignant mood whey they got back to Lochgarra
House. He went straight to his sister. He told her the story--and in
silence awaited her answer. What was it to be?--an excuse? an apology?
a promise of inquiry and stricter government?
But for a second or two Mary Stanley was thoroughly alarmed. She
recalled with a startling distinctness her own experience--her wandering
up the side of the river--her coming upon the almost invisible poacher
in the mysterious dusk of the twilight--the strange and vivid circles of
blue-white fire on the dark surface of the stream whenever he
moved--then his noiseless escape into the opposite woods; and she
recalled, too, her own sudden suspicions as to who that ghostly
fisherman was. Since then she had seen a good deal of Donald Ross, and
she had gradually ceased to connect him in any way with that illegal
haunting of the salmon-stream; but this new incident--following upon her
brother's protests and remonstrances--frightened her, for one breathless
moment. Then she strove to reassure herself. The young man who had sate
by her side at dinner a few evenings ago--proud, reserved, and
self-possessed, and yet timidly respectful towards herself and grateful
for the attention she paid him--was not the kind of person to go
spitefully throwing stones into a salmon-pool in order to destroy a
stranger's fishing. It was absurd to think so!
"I am very sorry, Mr. Meredyth," said she, "that such a thing should
have happened. It is a vexatious annoyance----"
"Oh, don't consider me, Miss Stanley!" said he, at once. "I assure you
I don't mind in the least. I did not even wish to have it mentioned."
"It is annoying, though--very," she said. "It seems a pity that any one
should have such ill-will----"
"But what are you going to do?" her brother demanded. "Sit tamely down
and submit to this tyranny? And what will be the next thing?--trampling
the nests in the spring, I suppose, so that there won't be a single
grouse left on the whole moor. Then why shouldn't they help themselves
to a sheep or two, when they want mutton for dinner, or go into the Glen
Orme forest for a stag, if they prefer venison?"
Mary rang the bell; Barbara came.
"Barbara," said she, "send a message to Hector that I want to see him."
When the tall and bronze-complexioned keeper made his
appearance--looking somewhat concerned at this unusual summons--she
briefly related to him what had occurred; and her tone implied that he
was responsible for this petty outrage.
"I was offering," said Hector, in his serious and guarded way, "to go
down to the ruvver with the chentlemen----"
"Yes, that is true enough," Fred Stanley broke in. "Hector did offer to
go down with us. But surely it is a monstrous thing that we shouldn't
be able to stroll along to a pool and have a cast by ourselves without
being interfered with in this way. Come now, Hector, you must know who
was likely to do a thing like that."
Hector paused for a moment, and then answered--
"Indeed, sir, I could not seh."
"Who is it who thinks the fishing in the Garra belongs to him, and is
determined no one else shall have it? Isn't there anyone about with
that idea in his head?" The question was put pointedly; it was clear
what Fred Stanley meant; but there was no definite reply.
"There's some of the young lads they are fond of mischief," Hector said
ambiguously. "And there's others nowadays that will be saying everyone
has the right to fish."
"And perhaps that is your opinion, too," said Fred Stanley, regarding
him.
"Oh, no, sir, not that at ahl," the keeper answered, simply enough.
"But such things get into their heads, and sometimes they will be
reading it from a newspaper, and the one talking to the other about what
the Land League was saying at the meetings. The young lads they speak
about new things nowadays amongst themselves."
"And I suppose they want to have the shooting, too?" Fred Stanley
continued; "and if we don't give them the shooting they will go up the
hill in the spring and trample the eggs?"
"Oh, no, sir, the shepherds are friendly with us," said Hector.
Mary interposed; for this badgering seemed to lead to nothing.
"Couldn't you get some old man to act as water-bailiff, Hector?--some
old man to whom a small weekly wage would be a consideration."
"Oh, yes, mem, I could do that," said the keeper.
"And if there are any of those mischievous lads about, why, if he were
to catch one of them, a little trip across to Dingwall might frighten
the others, wouldn't it?"
"Just that, mem."
"There is old John at the inn--he seems to do nothing--does he know
anything about the river?"
"Oh, yes, indeed--he was many a day a gillie," Hector made answer.
"Very well; see what wages he wants; and tell him that when he suspects
there's any poaching going on, or any mischief of any kind, you and Hugh
will give him a hand in the watching."
"Very well, mem."
And so the tall, bushy-bearded Hector was going away; but Fred Stanley
stopped him. The young man's sombre suspicions had not been dissipated
by those vague references to mischievous lads.
"Hector," said he, "is Mr. Ross of Heimra a keen fisherman?"
"I could not seh, sir," was Hector's grave and careful answer.
"Does he know the Garra well?"
"I could not seh, sir," Hector repeated.
"You don't happen to have seen or heard anything of him of late?"
"No, sir," said Hector; and then he added, "but I was noticing the yat
coming over from Heimra this morning."
"Oh, really," exclaimed the young man, with a swift glance towards Frank
Meredyth. "The yacht came over this morning? So Mr. Ross is in the
neighbourhood?"
"Maybe, sir; but I have not seen him whatever."
That seemed to be enough for the cross-examiner.
"All right, Hector--thank you. Good evening!"
The head keeper withdrew; and Fred Stanley turned to his sister.
"I thought as much," said he. "I had a notion that Robinson Crusoe had
come ashore from his desolate island. And no doubt he was very much
surprised and disgusted to find two strangers intruding upon his
favourite salmon pools--on the very first evening there has been a
chance of a cast for some time. But he should not have allowed his
anger to get the better of him; it was a childish trick, that flinging a
stone into the water; a poor piece of spite--for one who claims to
represent an old Highland family. Don't you think so, Mamie?"
Well, this at least was certain--that the _Sirene_ had come across from
Heimra, and was now lying in the Camus Bheag, or Little Bay. And the
very next afternoon, as Mary Stanley and her friend Kaethchen were
seated at a table in the drawing-room busily engaged in comparing
samples of dyed wool, the door was opened, and Barbara appeared.
"Mr. Ross, mem!" said Barbara.