THE PRINCESS SHEILA.
“I should like,” said Mrs. Edward Ingram, sitting down and contentedly
folding her hands in her lap--I should so much like, Edward, to have my
own way for once, it would be so novel and so nice.”
Her husband was busy with a whole lot of plans all stretched out before
him, and with a pipe which he had some difficulty in keeping alight. He
did not even turn around as he answered. “You have your own way always.
But you can’t expect to have mine also, you know.”
“Do you remember,” she said, slowly, “anything your friend Sheila told
you about your rudeness to people? I wish, Edward, you would leave those
ragged children and their school-houses for three minutes. Do! I so much
want to see some places when we go to Scotland, for who knows when we
may be there again? I have set my heart on the Braes of Yarrow. And Loch
Awe by moonlight. And the Pass of Glencoe--”
“My dear child,” he said at last, turning around in his chair, “how can
we go to those places? Sheila says Oban on the fifteenth.”
“But what Sheila says isn’t an Act of Parliament,” said the young
American lady, plaintively and patiently. “Why should you regulate all
your movements by her? You are always looking to the North: you are like
the spires of the churches that are said to be always telling us that
Heaven is close by the Pole Star.”
“The information is inaccurate, my dear,” Ingram said, looking at his
pipe, “for the spires of the churches on the other side of the world
point the other way. However, that does not matter. How do you propose
to go rampaging all over Scotland, and still be at Oban on the
fifteenth?”
“Telegraph to Mr. and Mrs. Lavender to come on to Edinburgh, and leave
the trip to Lewis until we have seen those places. For, once we have got
to that wild island, who knows when we shall return? Now, do, like a
good boy. You know this new house of theirs will be all the drier in a
month’s time. And their yacht will be all the more ship-shape. And both
Sheila and her husband will be the better for coming down among
civilized folks for a week’s time--especially just now, when numbers of
their friends must be in the Highlands; and, of course, you get better
attention at the hotels when the season is going on, and they have every
preparation made; and I am told the heather and fern on the hills look
very fine in August; and I am sure Mr. and. Mrs. Lavender will enjoy it
very much if we get a carriage somewhere and leave the railways
altogether, and drive by ourselves all through the prettiest
districts.”
She wished to see the effect of her eloquence on him. It was peculiar.
He put his pipe down and gravely repeated these lines, with which she
was abundantly familiar:
“Sez vather to I, ‘Jack, rin arter him, du!’
Sez I to vather, ‘I’m darned if I du!’”
“You won’t?” she said.
“The proposal comes too late. How can you expect Sheila to leave her new
house, and that boy of hers, that occupies three-fourths of her letters,
just at this time. I think it was very kind of her, mind you, to come
away down to Oban to meet us; and Lavender, too, is giving up the time
out of the best working season of the year. Bless you! you will see far
more beautiful things as we go from Oban to Lewis than any you have
mentioned. For we shall probably cut down by Scarba and Jura before
going up to Skye; and then you will see the coast that you admired so
much in Lavender’s pictures.”
“Is the yacht a large one, Edward?” his wife asked, somewhat timidly.
“Oh, big enough to take our party a dozen times over.”
“Will she tumble about much, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Ingram said with an unkindly grin. “But as you are a
weak vessel, Lavender will watch the weather for you, and give it you as
smooth as possible. Besides, look at the cleanliness and comfort of a
smart yacht! You are thinking of one of those Channel steamers, with
their engines and oil.”
“Let us hope for the best,” said his wife, with a sigh.
They not only hoped for it, but got it. When they left the Crinan and
got on board the big steamer that was to take them up to Oban, all
around them lay a sea of soft and shining blue, scarcely marred by a
ripple. Here and there sharp crags that rose out of the luminous plain
seemed almost black, but the farther islands lay soft and hazy in the
heat, with the beautiful colors of August tinting the great masses of
rock. As they steamed northward through the shining sea, new islands and
new channels appeared until they came in sight of the open Atlantic, and
that, too, was as calm and as still as a summer night. There was no
white cloud in the blue vault of the sky, there was no crisp curl of a
wave on the blue plain of the sea, but everywhere a clear, radiant,
salt-smelling atmosphere, the drowsy haze of which was only visible when
you looked at the distant islands and saw the fine and pearly vail of
heat that was drawn over the soft colors of the hills. The sea-birds
dipped and disappeared as the big boat churned its way onward. A white
solan, far away by the shores of Mull, struck the water as he dived, and
sent a jet of spray into the air. Colonsay and Oronsay became as faint
clouds on the Southern horizon, the jagged coast of Lorne drew near. And
then they went up through the Sound of Kerrara and steamed into the
broad and beautiful bay of Oban, and behold! here was Sheila on the
pier, already waving a handkerchief to them, while her husband held her
arm, lest in her excitement she should go too near the edge of the quay.
“And where is the boat that we have heard so much of?” said Mrs.
Kavanagh, when all the kissing and handshaking was over.
“There!” said Sheila, not without some shamefaced pride, pointing to a
shapely schooner that lay out in the bay, with her white decks and tall
spars shining in the afternoon sun.
“And what do you call her?” asked Mrs. Kavanagh’s daughter.
“We call her _Princess Sheila_,” said Lavender. “What do you think of
the name?”
“You couldn’t have got a better,” Ingram said, sententiously, and
interposing as if it was not within his wife’s province to form an
opinion of any sort. “And where is your father, Sheila? In Borva?”
“Oh, no, he is here,” the girl said, with a smile. “But the truth is, he
has driven away to see some gentlemen he knows, to ask if he can have
some grouse for you. He should have been back by this time.”
“I would not hurry him, Sheila,” Ingram said, gravely. “He could not
have gone on a more admirable errand. We must await his return with
composure. In the meantime, Lavender, do make your fellows stop that
man; he is taking away my wife’s trunk to some hotel or other.”
The business of getting the luggage on board the yacht was entrusted to
a couple of men whom Lavender left on shore, whereupon the newly-arrived
travelers put off in a little pinnace and were conveyed to the side of
the handsome schooner. When they were on board an eager exploration
followed; and if Sheila could only have undertaken to vouch for the
smoothness of the water for the next month, Mrs. Ingram was ready to
declare that at last she had discovered the most charming and beautiful
and picturesque fashion of living known to civilized man. She was
delighted with the little elegancies of the state-rooms; she was
delighted with the paintings on the under skylights, which had been done
by Lavender’s own hand; she was delighted with the whiteness of the
decks and the height of the tapering spars; and she had no words for her
admiration of the beautiful sweep of the bay, the striking ruins of the
old castle at the point, the rugged hills rising behind the white
houses, and out there in the West the noble panorama of mountain and
island and sea.
“I am afraid, Mrs. Ingram,” Lavender said, “you will have cause to know
Oban before we leave it. There is not a breath of wind to take us out of
the bay.”
“I am content,” she said, “with a gracious calm.”
“But we must get you up to Borva, somehow. There it would not matter how
long you were becalmed, for there is plenty to see about the island. But
this is a trifle commonplace, you know.”
“I don’t think so at all. I am delighted with the place,” she said. “And
so are you, Edward.”
Ingram laughed. He knew she was daring him to contradict her. He
proposed he should go ashore and buy a few lines with which they might
fish for young saithe or lythe over the side of the yacht, but this
project was stopped by the appearance of the King of Borva, who bore
triumphant proof of the success of his mission in a brace of grouse held
up in each hand as a small boat brought him out to the yacht.
“And I was seeing Mr. Hutcheson,” Mackenzie said to Lavender, as he
stepped on board, “and he is a ferry good-natured man whatever, and he
says if there is no wind at all he will let one of his steamers take the
yacht up to Loch Sunart, and if there is a breeze at all we will get it
there.”
“But why should we go in quest of a breeze?” Mrs. Ingram said,
petulantly.
“Why, mem,” said Mackenzie, taking the matter seriously, “you was not
thinking we could sail a boat without wind? But I am no sure that there
will not be a breeze before night.”
Mackenzie was right. As the evening wore on and the sun drooped in the
West, the aspect of affairs changed somewhat, and there was now and
again a sort of shiver apparent on the surface of the lake-like bay.
When, indeed, the people on board came up on deck, just before dinner
they found a rather thunderous-looking sunset spreading over the sky.
Into the clear saffron glory of the Western sky some dark and massive
purple clouds had risen. The mountains of Mull had grown light and
milk-like, and yet they seemed near. The glass-like bay began to move,
and the black shadow of a ship that lay on the gleaming yellow plain
began to tremble as the water cut lines of light across the reflection
of the masts. You could hear voices afar off. Under the ruins of the
castle and along the curves of the coast the shadows of the water were a
pure green, and the rocks were growing still more sharp and distinct in
the gathering dusk. There was a cold smell of the sea in the air. And
then swiftly the pale colors of the West waxed lurid and fierce, the
mountains became of a glowing purple, and then all the plain of the sea
was dashed with a wild glare of crimson, while the walls of Dunolly grew
black, and overhead the first scouts of the marshaling forces of the
clouds came up in flying shreds of gold and fire.
“Oh, ay, we may hef a breeze the night,” Mackenzie said.
“I hope we shan’t have a storm,” Mrs. Ingram said.
“A storm? Oh, no; no storm at all. It will be a ferry good thing if the
wind lasts till the morning.”
Mackenzie was not at all sure that there would be storm enough, and went
down to dinner grumbling over the fineness of the weather. Indeed, when
they came on deck again later on in the night, even the slight breeze
that he had hoped for seemed impossible. The night was perfectly still.
A few stars had come out overhead, and their light scarcely trembled on
the smooth waters of the bay. A cold, fresh scent of seaweed was about,
but no wind. The orange lights in Oban burned pale and clear, the red
and green lamps of the steamers and yachts in the bay did not move. And
when Mrs. Ingram came up to take Sheila forward to the bow of the boat,
to sit down there to have a confidential talk with her, a clear and
golden moon was rising over the sharp black ridge of Kerrara into the
still and beautiful skies, and there was not a ripple of the water along
the sides of the yacht to break the wonderful silence of the night.
“My dear,” she said, “you have a beautiful place to live in.”
“But we do not live here,” Sheila said, with a smile. “This is to me as
far away from home as England can be to you when you think of America.
When I came here for the first time I thought I had got into another
world, and that I should never be able to get back again to the Lewis.”
“And is the island you live in more beautiful than this place?” she
asked, looking around on the calm sea, the lambent skies and the far
mountains beyond, which were gray and ghost-like in the pale glow of the
moon.
“If you see our island on such a night as this, you will say it is the
most beautiful place in the world. It is the Winter-time that is bad,
when we have rain and mist for weeks together. But after this year I
think we shall spend all the Winters in London, although my husband does
not like to give up the shooting and boating; and that is very good
amusement for him when he is tired with his work.”
“That island life certainly seems to agree with him,” said Mrs. Ingram,
not daring even to hint that there was any further improvement in
Sheila’s husband than that of mere health: “I have never seen him look
so well and strong. I scarcely recognized him on the pier, he was so
brown; and--and--and I think his sailor clothes suit him so well. They
are a little rough, you know; indeed, I have been wondering whether you
made them yourself.”
Sheila laughed: “I have seen you look at them. No, I did not make them.
But the cloth, that was made on the island, and it is very good cloth
whatever.”
“You see what a bad imitation of your costume I am compelled to wear.
Edward would have it, you know. I think he’d like me to speak like you,
if I could manage it.”
“Oh, no, I am sure he would not like that,” Sheila said, “for many a
time he used to correct me; and when he first came to the island I was
very much ashamed, and sometimes angry with him.”
“But I suppose you got accustomed to his putting everybody right?” said
Mr. Ingram’s wife, with a smile.
“He was always a very good friend to me,” Sheila said, simply.
“Yes, and I think he is now,” said her companion, taking the girl’s hand
and forcing herself to say something of that which lay at her heart, and
which had been struggling for utterance during all this beating about
the bush. “I am sure you could not have a better friend than he is; and
if you only knew how pleased we both are to find you so well and so
happy--”
Sheila saw the great embarrassment in her companion’s face, and she knew
the good feeling that had driven her to this stammering confession. “It
is very kind of you,” she said, gently. “I am very happy; yes, I do not
think I have anything more to wish for in the world.”
There was no embarrassment in her manner as she made this simple avowal,
her face was clear and calm in the moonlight, and her eyes were looking
somewhat distantly at the sea and the island near. Her husband came
forward with a light shawl and put it around her shoulders. She took his
hand and for a moment pressed it to her lips. Then he went back to where
Ingram and old Mackenzie were smoking, and the two women were left to
their confidences. Mrs. Kavanagh had gone below.
What was this great noise next morning of the rattling of chains and the
flapping of canvas overhead? There was a slight motion in the boat and a
plashing of water around her sides. Was the _Princess Sheila_ getting
under weigh?
The various noises ceased, so also did the rolling of the vessel, and
apparently all was silent and motionless again. But when the ladies had
dressed and got up on deck, behold they were in a new world! All around
them were the blue waters of Loch Linnhe, lit up by the brilliant
sunshine of the morning. A light breeze was just filling the great white
sails, and the yacht, heeling over slightly, was cutting her placid way
through the lapping waves. How keen was the fresh smell of the air!
Sea-gulls were swooping down and around the tall masts; over there the
green island of Lismore lay bright in the sunshine; the lonely hills of
Morven and the mountains of Mull had a thousand shades of color growing
on their massive shoulders and slopes; the ruins of Duart Castle, out at
the point, seemed too fair and picturesque to be associated with dark
legends of blood. Were these faint specks in the South the far islands
of Colonsay and Oronsay? Lavender brought his glass to Mrs. Ingram, and,
with many apologies to all the ladies for having woke them up so soon,
bade her watch the flight of two herons making in for the mouth of Loch
Etive.
They had postponed for the present that Southward trip to Jura. The
glass was still rising, and the appearance of the weather rendered it
doubtful whether they might have wind enough to make such a cruise
anything but tedious. They had taken advantage of the light breeze in
the morning to weigh anchor and stand across for the Sound of Mull; if
it held out, they would at least reach Tobermony, and take their last
look at a town before rounding Ardnamurchan and making for the wild
solitudes of Skye.
“Well, Cis,” Ingram said to his wife, as he busied himself with a
certain long fishing-line, “what do you think of the Western Highlands?”
“Why did you not tell me of these places before?” she said, rather
absently, for the mere height of the mountains along the Sound of
Mull--the soft green woods leading up to the great bare shoulders of
purple and gray and brown above--seemed to draw away one’s eyes and
thoughts from surrounding objects.
“I have often. But what is the use of telling?”
“It is the most wonderful place I have ever seen,” she said. “It is so
beautiful and so desolate at the same time. What lovely colors there are
everywhere--on the sea, and on the shores there, and up the hills--and
everything is so bright and gleaming! But no one seems to live here. I
suppose you couldn’t; the loneliness of the mountains and the sea would
kill you.”
“My dear child, these are town-bred fancies,” he said, in his usual calm
and carelessly sententious manner. “If you lived there, you would have
plenty to do besides looking at the hills and the sea. You would be glad
of a fine day to let you go out and get some fish or go up the hills and
get some blackcock for your dinner; and you would not get sad by looking
at fine colors, as towns-folk do. Do you think Lavender and Sheila spend
their time in mooning up in that island of theirs? and that, I can tell
you, is a trifle more remote and wild than this is. They’ve got their
work to do, and when that is done they feel comfortable and secure in a
well-built house, and fairly pleased with themselves that they have
earned some rest and amusement. I dare say if you built a cottage over
there, and did nothing but look at the sea and the hills and the sky at
night, you would very soon drown yourself. I suppose if a man were to
give himself up for three months to thinking of the first formation of
the world, and the condition of affairs before that happened, and the
puzzle about how the materials ever came to be there, he would grow mad.
But few people luckily have the chance of trying. They’ve got their
bread to earn: if they haven’t, they’re bent on killing something or
other--foxes, grouse, deer, and what not--and they don’t bother about
the stars, or what lies just outside the region of the stars. When I
find myself getting miserable about the size of a mountain, or the
question as to how and when it came there, I know that it is time to eat
something. I think breakfast is ready, Cis. Do you think you have the
nerve to cut this hook out of my fingers? and then we can go below.”
She gave a little scream and started up. Two drops of blood had fallen
on Lavender’s white decks.
“No, I see you can’t,” he said. “Open this knife, and I will dig it out
myself. Bless the girl! are you going to faint because I have scratched
my finger?”
Lavender, however, had to be called in to help, and while the surgical
operation was going forward Mrs. Ingram said, “You see we have got
towns-folks’ hands as yet. I suppose they will get to be leather by and
by. I am sure I don’t know how Mrs. Lavender can do those things about a
boat with the tiny little hands she has.”
“Yes, Sheila has small hands, hasn’t she?” Lavender said, as he bound up
his friend’s finger; “but then she makes up for that by the bigness of
her heart.”
It was a pretty and kindly speech, and it pleased Mrs Ingram, though
Sheila did not hear it. Then, when the doctoring was over, they all went
below for breakfast, and an odor of fish and ham and eggs and coffee
prevailed throughout the yacht.
“I have quite fallen in love with this manner of life,” Mrs. Ingram
said. “But, tell me, is it always as pleasant as this? Do you always
have those blue seas around you, and green shores? Are the sails always
white in the sunlight?”
There was a dead silence.
“Well, I would not say,” Mackenzie observed seriously, as no one else
would take up the question--I would not say it is always ferry good
weather off this coast--oh no, I would not say that--for if there was no
rain, what would the cattle do, and the streams?--they would not hef a
pool left in them. Oh, yes, there is rain sometimes, but you cannot
always be sailing about, and when there will be rain you will hef your
things to attend to in-doors. And there is always plenty of good
weather if you wass wanting to tek a trip around the islands or down to
Oban--oh, yes, there is no fear of that; and it will be a ferry good
coast whatever for the harbor, and there is always some place you can
put into if it wass coming on rough, only you must know the coast and
the lie of the islands and the rocks about the harbors. And you would
learn it ferry soon. There is Sheila there; there is no one in the Lewis
will know more of the channels in Loch Roag than she does--not one, I
can say that; and when you go farther away, then you must tek some one
with you who wass well acquainted with the coast. If you wass thinking
of having a yacht, Mr. Ingram, there is one I hef heard of just now in
Rothesay that is for sale, and she is a ferry good boat, but not so big
as this one.”
“I think we’ll wait till my wife knows more about it, Mr. Mackenzie,”
Ingram said. “Wait till she gets round Ardnamurchan, and has crossed the
Munch, and has got the fine Atlantic swell as you run into Borvapost.”
“Edward, you frighten me,” his wife said: “I was beginning to give
myself courage.”
“But it is mere nonsense,” cried Mackenzie, impatiently. “Kott pless me!
there is no chance of your being ill in this fine weather; and if you
had a boat of your own, you would ferry soon get accustomed to the
weather--oh, ferry soon, indeed--and you would hef no more fear of the
water than Sheila has.”
“Sheila has far too little fear of the water,” her husband said.
“Indeed, and that is true,” said her father; “and it is not right that a
young lass should go about by herself in a boat.”
“But you know very well, papa, I never do that now.”
“Oh, you do not do it now,” grumbled Mackenzie. “No, you do not do it
now. But some day you will forget when there is something to be done,
and you will run a great danger, Sheila.”
“But she has promised never to go out by herself, haven’t you, Sheila?”
her husband said.
“I did; I promised that to you. And I have never been out since by
myself.”
“Well, don’t forget, Sheila,” said her father, not very sure but that
some sudden occasion might tempt the girl to her old deeds of
recklessness.
The two American ladies had little to fear. The Hebrides received them
with fair sunshine and smooth seas, and all the day long their
occupation was but to watch the wild birds flying from island to island,
and mark the gliding by of the beautiful coasts, and listen to the light
rushing of the waves as the fresh sea-breeze flew through the rigging.
And Sheila was proud to teach them something of the mystery of sailing a
small craft, and would give them the tiller sometimes, while her eye, as
clear and keen as her father’s, kept watch and ward over the shapely
vessel that was making for the Northern seas. One evening she said to
her friends, “Do you see that point that runs out on this side of the
small island? Round that we enter Loch Roag.”
The last pale light of the sun was shining along the houses of Borvapost
as the Princess Sheila passed. The people there had made out the yacht
long ere she came close to land, and Mackenzie knew that twenty eager
scouts would fly to tell the news to Scarlett and Duncan, so that ample
preparation would be made in the newly-finished house down by the sea.
The wind, however, had almost died away, and they were a long time
getting into Loch Roag in this clear twilight. They who were making
their first visit to Sheila’s island sat contentedly enough on deck,
however, amazed and bewildered by the beauty of the scene around them.
For now the sun had long sunk, but there was a glow all over the
heavens, and only in the far East did the yellow stars begin to glimmer
over the dark plain of the loch. Mealasabhal, Suainabhal, Cracabhal
lifted their grand shoulders and peaks into this wondrous sky, and stood
dark and clear there, with the silence of the sea around them.
As the night came on the yellow stars grew more intense overhead, but
the lambent glow in the North did not pale.
They entered a small bay. Up there on a plateau of the rocks stood a
long, low house, with all its windows gleaming in the dusk. The pinnace
was put off from the yacht; in the strange silence of the night the
ripples plashed around her prow; her oars struck fire in the water as
the men rowed into the land. And then, as Sheila’s guests made their way
up to the house, and when they reached the verandah and turned to look
at the sea and the loch and the far mountains opposite, they beheld the
clear and golden sickle of the moon rising from behind the black
outline of Suainabhal into the soft and violet skies. As the yellow moon
rose in the South a pathway of gold began to tremble on Loch Roag, and
they could see the white curve of sand around the bay. The air was sweet
with the cold smell of the sea. There was a murmur of the far Atlantic
all around the silent coast.
It was the old familiar picture that had charmed the imagination of
Sheila’s first and only lover, when as yet she was to him as some fair
and wonderful princess living in a lonely island and clothed around
about with the glamor of old legends and stories of the sea. Was she any
longer this strange sea-princess, with dreams in her eyes and the
mystery of the night and the stars written in her beautiful face? Or was
she to him now, what all the world long ago perceived her to be, a
tender wife, a faithful companion and a true and loyal-hearted woman?
Sheila walked quietly into the house; there was something there for her
friends to see, and, with a great pride and gentleness and gladness,
Scarlett was despatched on a particular errand. The old King of Borva
was still down at the yacht, looking after the landing of certain small
articles of luggage. Duncan had come forward to Ingram and said, “And
are you ferry well, sir?” and Mairi, come down from Mackenzie’s house,
had done the same. Then there was a wild squeal of the pipes in the long
apartment where supper was laid, the unearthly gathering cry of a clan,
until Sheila’s husband dashed into the place and threatened to throw
John into the sea if he did not hold his peace. John was offended, and
would probably have gone up the hillside and, in revenge, played
“Mackrimmon shall no more return,” only that he knew the irate old King
of Borva would, in such a case, literally fulfill the threat that had
been lightly uttered by his son-in-law. In another room, where two or
three women were together, one of them suddenly took both of Sheila’s
hands in hers and said, with a great look of kindness in her eyes, “My
dear, I can believe now what you told me that night at Oban.”
THE END.
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES:
[1] “My black-haired girl, my pretty girl, my black-haired girl, don’t
leave me.” “Nighean dubh” is pronounced “Nyean du.”
[2] Literally, “Gearaidh-na’k-Aimhne,” the cutting of the river.
[3] Another name given by the islanders to these stones, is
“Fir-bhreige,” false men. Both names, False Men and the Mourners,
should be of some interest to antiquarians, for they will suit pretty
nearly any theory.
[4] Pronounced _Argyud-chark_; literally, “hen money.”
* * * * *
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
will Miss Shelia do for that=> will Miss Sheila do for that {pg 5}
the western sea seemed already=> the western sea seemed seemed already
{pg 6}
which Sheila thought=> which Shiela thought {pg 59}
It was Shelia who told=> It was Sheila who told {pg 66}
powerful little grisle=> powerful little grilse {pg 69}
the acquaintence of a young man=> the acquaintance of a young man {pg
77}
aud drown for a while=> and drown for a while {pg 90}
hundreds and hundreds of peogle=> hundreds and hundreds of people {pg
99}
what is the use of marryung=> what is the use of marrying {pg 118}
cry of a drownning=> cry of a drowning {pg 121}
put upon the admissson=> put upon the admission {pg 127}
then boldy asked=> then boldly asked {pg 127}
had phophesied in the way=> had prophesied in the way {pg 138}
the Scotch pronunication=> the Scotch pronunciation {pg 140}
the sort of custume=> the sort of costume {pg 152}
not kept here for taht purpose=> not kept here for that purpose {pg 165}
whan she was startled=> when she was startled {pg 174}
Is is a silly thing altogether=> It is a silly thing altogether {pg 189}
she went up into the vestible=> she went up into the vestibule {pg 200}
fear of being implicacated=> fear of being implicated {pg 207}
that he expeeted to see=> that he expected to see {pg 216}
Shiela said she was very tired=> Sheila said she was very tired {pg 227}
they doubtless know that=> they doubtless knew that {pg 229}
her old pronounciation=> her old pronunciation {pg 239}
notion of Shiela’s position=> notion of Sheila’s position {pg 243}
Shiela’s waiting-maid=> Sheila’s waiting-maid {pg 244}
his sympathy with Shiela=> his sympathy with Sheila {pg 244}
play and sing a litile=> play and sing a little {pg 260}
decended from the clouds=> descended from the clouds {pg 261}
Muss ich verkünden mein susses Weh!=> Muss ich verkünden mein süsses
Weh! {pg 262}
Dir schlagt dies Herz.=> Dir schlägt dies Herz. {pg 262}
with some suddeness=> with some suddenness {pg 263}
the same thing occured=> the same thing occurred {pg 269}
Is is really too bad=> It is really too bad {pg 274}
whan he suddenly found=> when he suddenly found {pg 287}
in the afterneon=> in the afternoon {pg 296}
may be in impostor to you=> may be an impostor to you {pg 330}
rest if youv’e got rheumatism=> rest if you’ve got rheumatism {pg 335}
to see to whom see could go=> to see to whom she could go {pg 339}
only for five minutess=> only for five minutes {pg 348}
thruogh the furze=> through the furze {pg 357}
Ahn as for sa sweerin=> And as for sa sweerin {pg 361}
steering almost mechancally=> steering almost mechanically {pg 362}
money given to Shelia=> money given to Sheila {pg 376}
will hef a litttle more whushky=> will hef a little more whushky {pg
381}
disappearing altogether every second second=> disappearing altogether
every second {pg 386}
her daugher in London=> her daughter in London {pg 392}
leave the the thing open=> leave the thing open {pg 419}
been very lucky, Mr. Mackenze=> been very lucky, Mr. Mackenzie {pg 445}
There was no embarassment=> There was no embarrassment {pg 457}