"And so you have made acquaintance with the young lord--tell us what
kind of person he is, Mrs. Forrester--tell us what you think of him,
Oona."
This was the unanimous voice which rose from the party assembled on the
second day after Walter's visit in the drawing-room in the Isle.
It was by no means out of the world, though to all appearances so far
removed from its commotions. A low cottage-mansion on the crest of a
rock, in the middle of Loch Houran, six miles from the railway at the
nearest spot on which you could land, and with a mile or so of water,
often rough, between you and the post-office, is it possible to imagine
a more complete seclusion? and yet it was not a seclusion at all. Oona
cared very little for the roughness of the water between the Isle and
the post-office, and Hamish nothing at all, and news came as constantly
and as regularly to the two ladies on their island as to any
newspaper--news from all quarters of the world. The mail days were
almost as important to them--in one way far more important than to any
merchant in his office. Budgets came and went every week, and both Oona
and her mother would be busy till late at night, the little gleam of
their lighted windows shining over the dark loch, that no one might miss
his or her weekly letter. These letters went up into the hill countries
in India, far away to the borders of Cashmere, round the world to
Australia, dropt midway into the coffee groves of Ceylon. When one of
the boys was quartered in Canada, to which there is a mail three times a
week, _that_ looked like next parish, and they thought nothing of it.
Neither need it be supposed that this was the only enlivenment of their
lives. The loch, though to the tourist it looks silent enough, was in
fact fringed by a number of houses in which the liveliest existence was
going on. The big new house at the point, which had been built by a
wealthy man of Glasgow, with every possible splendour, threw the
homelier houses of the native gentry a little into the shade; but nobody
bore him any malice, his neighbours being all so well aware that their
own "position" was known and unassailable, that his finery and his
costliness gave them no pang. They were all a little particular about
their "position:" but then nobody on the loch could make any mistake
about that, or for a moment imagine that Mr. Williamson from Glasgow
could rival the Scotts of Inverhouran, the Campbells of Ellermore, of
Glentruan, and half a dozen names beside, or the Forresters of
Eaglescairn, or the old Montroses, who, in fact, were a branch of the
Macnabs, and held their house on the Isle from that important but
extinct clan. This was so clearly understood that there was not an
exception made to the Williamsons, who knew their place, and were very
nice, and made a joke of their money, which was their social standing
ground. They had called their house, which was as big as a castle, in
the most unobtrusive manner, Birkenbraes, thus proving at once that they
were new people and Lowlanders: so much better taste, everybody said,
than any pretence at Highland importance or name. And this being once
acknowledged, the gentry of the loch adopted the Williamsons cordially,
and there was not a word to be said. But all the Campbells about, and
those excellent Williamsons, and a few families who were not Campbells,
yet belonged to Loch Houran, kept a good deal of life "on the loch,"
which was a phrase that meant in the district generally. And the Isle
was not a dull habitation, whatever a stranger might think. There was
seldom a day when a boat or two was not to be seen, sometimes for hours
together, drawn up upon the rocky beach. And the number of persons
entertained by Mrs. Forrester at the early dinner which was politely
called luncheon would have appeared quite out of proportion with her
means by any one unacquainted with Highland ways. There was trout from
the loch, which cost nothing except Hamish's time, a commodity not too
valuable, and there was grouse during the season, which cost still less,
seeing it came from all the sportsmen about. And the scones, of every
variety known in Scotland, which is a wide word, were home-made. So
that hospitality reigned, and yet Mrs. Forrester, who was a skilled
housekeeper, and Mysie, to whom the family resources were as her own,
and its credit still more precious than her own, managed somehow to make
ends meet.
On this particular afternoon the drawing-room with all its slim sofas
and old-fashioned curiosities was full of Campbells, for young Colin of
Ellermore was at home for his holiday, and it was a matter of course
that his sisters and Tom, the youngest, who was at home reading (very
little) for his coming examination, should bring him to the Isle. Colin
was rather a finer gentleman than flourished by nature upon the loch. He
had little company ways which made his people laugh; but when he had
been long enough at home to forget these he was very nice they all said.
He was in London, and though in trade, in "tea," which is rather
aristocratic, he was in society too.
"What kind of person is he, Mrs. Forrester? Tell us what you think of
him, Oona," was what this youthful band said.
"Well, my dears," said Mrs. Forrester, "he is just a very nice young
man. I don't know how I can describe him better, for young men
now-a-days are very like one another. They all wear the same
clothes--not but what," she added graciously, "I would know Colin
anywhere for a London gentleman with his things all so well made: but
Lord Erradeen was just in a kind of tweed suit, and nothing remarkable.
And his hands in his pockets, like all of ye. But he answered very
nicely when I spoke to him, and said he was more used to Walter Methven
than to any other name, and that to be neighbourlike would just be his
pleasure. It is not possible to be more pleasant and well-spoken than
the young man was."
"Oh, but I want a little more," cried Marjorie Campbell; "that tells
nothing; is he fair, or is he dark? is he tall or is he little--is he--"
"He couldn't be little," cried Janet, indignantly, "or he would not be a
hero: and I've made up my mind he's to be a hero. He'll have to do
something grand, but I don't know what: and to spoil it all with making
him small--"
"Heroes are all short," said Tom, "and all the great generals. You don't
want weedy, long-legged fellows like Colin and the rest of them. But you
know they all run to legs in our family, all but me."
"All this is irrelevant," said Colin with a smile which was somewhat
superior, "and you prevent Mrs. Forrester from giving us the masterly
characterisation which I know is on her lips."
"You are just a flatterer," said that simple lady, shaking her finger at
him; "there was no character coming from my lips. He is just a fine
simple-hearted young man. It appears he never knew what he was heir to,
and has no understanding even now, so far as I could learn, about the
Erradeens. He told me he had been a thoughtless lad, and, as well as I
could judge just a handful to his poor mother; but that all that was
over and gone."
"You are going too far, mamma," said Oona. "He said he had 'loafed.'
Loafing means no harm, does it, Colin? It means mere idleness, and no
more."
"Why should you think I am an authority on the subject?" said Colin. "I
never loaf: I go to the City every day. When I come back I have to keep
up society, so far as I can, and hunt about for invitations, otherwise I
should never be asked out. That is not loafing, it is hard work."
"Ask me, Oona," said young Tom; "I can tell you. It is the nicest thing
in the world. It means just doing nothing you are wanted to do, taking
your own way, watching nature, don't you know, and studying men, and
that sort of thing, which all the literary people say is better than
cramming. But only it does not pay in an exam."
"Oh, hold your tongue, Tommy," cried his sister. "You will fail again,
you know you will, and papa will be in despair. For you are not like
Colin, who is clever; you are good for nothing but soldiering, and next
year you will be too old."
"It's a shame," cried Tom hotly, "to make a fellow's commission depend
upon his spelling. What has spelling to do with it? But I'm going into
the militia, and then I shall be all right."
"And did Erradeen," said Colin to Mrs. Forrester, "let out any of the
secrets of his prison-house?"
"Bless me, he looked just as cheerful as yourself or even as Tom. There
was nothing miserable about him," Mrs. Forrester replied. "He had been
all the morning enjoying himself on the loch, and he came up and ate his
lunch just very hearty, and as happy as possible, with Oona and me. He
was just very like my own Ronald or Rob: indeed I think there's
something in his complexion and his way of holding himself that is very
like Rob; and took my opinion about the old castle, and what was the
meaning of the light on the tower. Indeed," added Mrs. Forrester with a
laugh, "I don't know if it is anything in me that draws people to tell
me their stories, but it is a very general thing, especially for young
persons, to ask for my advice."
"Because you're so kind," said Janet Campbell, who was romantic and
admired the old beauty.
"Because you're so clever," said Marjorie, who had a turn for satire.
Oona, whose ear was very quick for any supposed or possible ridicule,
such as her mother's little foibles occasionally laid her open to,
turned quickly round from Tom, leaving him speaking, and with a little
heightened colour interposed.
"We are opposite to the castle night and day," she said. "We cannot go
out to the door or gather a flower without seeing it; and at night there
it is in the moonlight. So naturally we are better acquainted with what
happens than anybody else can be."
"And do you really, really believe in the light?" said Marjorie.
Ellermore lay quite at the other end of the great loch, among another
range of hills, and was shut out from personal acquaintance with the
phenomena of Kinloch Houran. Colin gave a slight laugh, the faintest
possible indication of incredulity, to repeat with an increase of force
the doubt in his sister's tone. Oona was not without a healthful little
temper, which showed in the flash of her eye and the reddening of her
cheek. But she answered very steadily, with much suppressed feeling in
her tone--
"What do you call believing?" she said. "You believe in things you
cannot see? then I don't believe in the Kinloch Houran light. Because I
see it, and have seen it a hundred times as clear as day."
At this there was a little pause among the party of visitors, that pause
of half-amused superiority and scepticism, with which all believers in
the mysterious are acquainted. And then Marjorie, who was the boldest,
replied--
"Papa says it is a sort of phosphorescence, which is quite explainable:
and that where there is so much decaying matter, and so much damp, and
so much----"
"Faith, perhaps," said Colin, with that slight laugh; "but we are
outsiders, and we have no right to interfere with the doctrines of the
loch. Oona, give us that credit that we are outside the circle, and you
must not send us to the stake."
"Oh, my dears," said Mrs. Forrester, "and that is quite true. I have
heard very clever men say that there was nothing made so much difference
in what you believed as just the place you were born in, and that people
would go the stake, as you say, on one side of the border for a thing
they just laughed at on the other."
This, which was a very profound deliverance for Mrs. Forrester, she
carried off at the end with a pretty profession of her own disabilities.
"I never trust to my own judgment," she said. "But Oona is just very
decided on the subject, and so are all our people on the isle, and I
never put myself forward one way or another. Are you sure you will not
take a cup of tea before you go? a cup of tea is never out of place. It
is true that the day is very short, and Colin, after his town life, will
be out of the way of rowing. You are just going across by the ferry, and
then driving? Well, that is perhaps the best way. And in that case there
is plenty of time for a cup of tea. Just ring the bell, or perhaps it
will be safer, Oona, if you will cry upon Mysie and tell her to lose no
time. Just the tea, and a few of the cream scones, and a little cake.
She need not spread the table as there is so little time."
The interlude of the tea and the cream scones made it late before the
visitors got away. Their waggonette was visible waiting for them on the
road below Auchnasheen, and five minutes were enough to get them
across, so that they dallied over this refreshment with little thought
of the waning afternoon. Then there was a little bustle to escort them
down to the beach, to see them carefully wrapped up, to persuade
Marjorie that another "hap" would be desirable, and Janet that her
"cloud" should be twisted once more about her throat. The sunset was
waning when at last they were fairly off, and the loch lay in a still,
yellow radiance, against which every tree and twig, every rock and
stone, stood out dark in full significance of outline. It was cold, and
Mrs. Forrester shivered in her furred cloak.
"The shore looks so near that you could touch it," she said; "there will
be rain to-morrow, Oona."
"What does it matter about to-morrow?" cried the girl; "it's beautiful
to-night. Go in, mamma, to the fireside; but I will stay here and see
them drive away."
The mother consented to this arrangement, which was so natural; but a
moment afterwards came back and called from the porch, where she stood
sheltered from the keen and eager air.
"Oona! Come in, my dear. That Colin one, with his London ways, will
think you are watching him."
There was something sublime in the fling of Oona's head, and the
erection of her slim figure, as she rejected the possibility.
"Watching _him_!" She was too proud even to permit herself to resent it.
"Ah! but you never can tell what a silly lad may take into his head,"
said Mrs. Forrester; and, having thus cleared her conscience, she went
in and took off her cloak, and shut the drawing-room door, and made
herself very comfortable in her own cosy chair in the ruddy firelight.
She laid her head back upon the soft cushions and looked round her with
a quiet sense of content. Everything was so comfortable, so pretty and
homelike; and by-and-by she permitted herself, for ten minutes or so, to
fall into a soft oblivion. "I just closed my eyes," was Mrs. Forrester's
little euphemism to herself.
Meanwhile Oona stood and looked at sky and sea and shore. The soft plash
of the oars came through the great stillness, and, by-and-by, there was
the sound of the boat run up upon the shingle, and the noise of the
disembarkation, the voices swelling out in louder tones and laughter. As
they waved their hands in a final good-night to the watcher on the isle
before they drove away, the young people, as Mrs. Forrester had said,
laughed and assured Colin that it was not for them Oona stood out in the
evening chill. But, as a matter of fact, there was nothing so little in
Oona's mind. She was looking round her with that sort of exaltation
which great loneliness and stillness and natural beauty so naturally
give: the water gleaming all round, the sky losing its orange glow and
melting into soft primrose tints the colour of the daffodil.
"The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration."
All the sensations that belong to such a moment are exquisite; a
visionary elevation above the earth and all things earthly, a soft
pensiveness, an elation, yet wistful longing of the soul. Before her the
old castle of Kinloch Houran lay gloomy and dark on the edge of the
water. If she thought of anything it was of the young neighbour, to whom
she felt so strangely near in wonder and sympathy. Who might be with him
at that moment in the ghostly quiet? What thoughts, what suggestions,
were being placed before him? Oona put her hands together, and breathed
into the still air a wish of wondering and wistful pity which was almost
a prayer. And then, rousing herself with a slight shiver and shake, she
turned and went in, shutting out behind her the lingering glory of the
water and sky.
Mysie was lighting the candles when she went in, and Mrs. Forrester had
opened her eyes. Two candles on the mantelpiece and two on the table
were all the ladies allowed themselves, except on great occasions, when
the argand lamp, which was the pride of the household, was lighted in
honour of a visitor. The warmth of this genial interior was very welcome
after the cold of the twilight, and Oona brought her work to the table,
and the book from which her mother was in the habit of reading aloud.
Mrs. Forrester thought she improved her daughter's mind by these
readings; but, to tell the truth, Oona's young soul, with all the world
and life yet before it, often fled far enough away while her mother's
soft voice, with the pretty tricks of elocution, which were part of her
old-fashioned training, went on. Never was there a prettier indoor
scene. In the midst of that great solitude of woods and water, the
genial comfort of this feminine room, so warm, so softly lighted, so
peaceful and serene, struck the imagination like a miracle. Such a
tranquil retirement would have been natural enough safely planted amid
the safeguards and peaceful surroundings of a village: but in being here
there was a touching incongruity. The little play of the mother's voice
as she read with innocent artifice and the simple vanity which belonged
to her, the pretty work, of no great use, with which the girl was busy,
both heightened the sense of absolute trust with which they lived in the
bosom of nature. A sudden storm, one could not but think, might have
swept them away into the dark gleaming water that hemmed them round.
They were not afraid: they were as safe as in a citadel. They were like
the birds in their nests; warm and soft, though in the heart of Loch
Houran. Mrs. Forrester was reading a historical novel, one of the kind
which she thought so good for improving Oona's mind; amusing, yet
instructing her. But Oona's mind, refusing to be improved, was giving
only a mechanical attention. It was away making a little pilgrimage of
wonder about the mystic house which was so near them, longing to know,
and trying to divine, what was going on there.
But when the afternoon closes in at four o'clock, and the candles are
lighted shortly after, the night is long. It seemed endless on this
occasion, because of the too early tea, which Mrs. Forrester had thought
it would be "just a farce" to produce again at six o'clock, their usual
hour; and from half-past four till nine, when the small and light repast
known in the house under the pleasantly indefinite name of "the tray"
made its appearance, is a long time. There had been two or three
interruptions of a little talk, and the book had been laid down and
resumed again, and Oona's work had dropped two or three times upon her
knee, when Mysie, coming in, announced that it was just an uncommon fine
night, though all the signs (including the glass, which, however, does
not always count in the west of Scotland) pointed to rain, and that
Hamish was going to take advantage of the moonlight to do an errand at
the village above Auchnasheen. Would Miss Oona like to go? It was just
awfu' bonny, and with plenty of haps she could take no harm, Mysie said.
To see how the girl sprang from her seat was a proof of the gentle
tedium that had stolen upon her soul.
"But, my dear, it will be cold, cold. I am afraid of you catching cold,
Oona," Mrs. Forrester cried.
"Oh, mother, no. I never catch cold; and besides, if I did, what would
it matter? Tell him I'm coming, Mysie; tell him to wait for me. I'll put
on my thick ulster, or the fur cloak, if you like."
"Certainly, the fur cloak, Oona. I will not hear of it without that.
But, my dear, just think, Hamish will have to leave you in the boat
while he goes to the village; and what would you do, Oona, if there is
any one on the road?"
"Do, mamma? Look at them, to see if I knew them. And, if it was a
stranger, just sit still and say nothing."
"But, my dear! It might be somebody that would speak to you, and--annoy
you, Oona."
"There is no person up the loch or down the loch that would dare to do
that, mem," said Mysie, composedly.
"How can we tell? It might be some tourist or gangrel body."
"Annoy _me_!" said Oona, as if indeed this suggestion was too
far-fetched for possibility. "If anything so ridiculous happened I would
just push out into the loch. Don't you trouble, mother, about me."
Mrs. Forrester got up to envelop her child's throat in fold after fold
of the fleecy white "cloud." She shook her head a little, but she was
resigned, for such little controversies occurred almost daily. The
evening had changed when Oona ran lightly down the bank to the boat in
which Hamish was waiting. Everything about was flooded with the keen,
clear white moonlight, which in its penetrating chilly fashion was
almost more light than day. The loch was shining like silver, but with a
blackness behind the shining, and all the shadows were like midnight
profound in inky gloom. The boat seemed to hang suspended in the keen
atmosphere rather than to float, and the silence was shrill, and seemed
to cut into the soul. It was but a few minutes across the cold white
glittering strait that lay between the isle and the mainland. Hamish
jumped out with an exaggerated noise upon the slippery shingle, and
fastened the boat with a rattle of the ring to which it was attached,
which woke echoes all around both from land and water, everything under
the mingled influence of winter and night being so still. A chance
spectator would have thought that the mother had very good cause for her
alarm, and that to sit there in the rough boat absolutely alone, like
the one living atom in a world all voiceless and asleep, was not a
cheerful amusement for a girl. But Oona had neither fear nor sense of
strangeness in an experience which she had gone through so often. She
called out lightly to Hamish to make haste, and looked after him as he
set out on the white road, the peculiarities of his thick-set figure
coming out drolly in the curious dab of foreshortened shadow flung upon
the road by his side. She laughed at this to herself, and the laugh ran
all about with a wonderful cheerful thrill of the silence. How still it
was! When her laugh ceased, there was nothing but the steps of Hamish in
all the world--and by and by even the steps ceased, and that stillness
which could be felt settled down. There was not a breath astir, not
enough to cause the faintest ripple on the beach. Now and then a pebble
which had been pushed out of its place by the man's foot toppled over,
and made a sound as if something great had fallen. Otherwise not a
breath was stirring; the shadows of the fir-trees looked as if they
were gummed upon the road. And Oona held her breath; it seemed almost
profane to disturb the intense and perfect quiet. She knew every hue of
every rock, and the profile of every tree. And presently, which no doubt
was partly because of this perfect acquaintance, and partly because of
some mesmeric consciousness in the air, such as almost invariably
betrays the presence of a human being, her eyes fixed upon one spot
where the rock seemed higher than she had been used to. Was it possible
that somebody was there? She changed her place to look more closely; and
so fearless was the girl that she had nearly jumped out of the boat to
satisfy herself whether it was a man or a rock. But just when she was
about making up her mind to do so, the figure moved, and came down
towards the beach. Oona's heart gave a jump; several well-authenticated
stories which she had heard from her childhood came into her mind with a
rush. She took the end of the rope softly in her hand so as to be able
to detach it in a moment. To row back to the isle was easy enough.
"Is it you, Miss Forrester?" a voice said.
Oona let go the rope, and her heart beat more calmly. "I might with more
reason cry out, Is it you, Lord Erradeen? for if you are at the old
castle you are a long way from home, and I am quite near."
"I am at Auchnasheen," he said. A great change had come over his tone;
it was very grave; no longer the airy voice of youth which had jested
and laughed on the Isle. He came down and stood with his hand on the
bow of the boat. He looked very pale, very serious, but that might be
only the blackness of the shadows and the whiteness of the light.
"Did you ever see so spiritual a night?" said Oona. "There might be
anything abroad; not fairies, who belong to summer, but serious things."
"Do you believe then in--ghosts?" he said.
"Ghosts is an injurious phrase. Why should we call the poor people so
who are only--dead?" said Oona. "But that is a false way of speaking
too, isn't it? for it is not because they are dead, but living, that
they come back."
"I am no judge," he said, with a little shiver. "I never have thought on
the subject. I suppose superstition lingers longer up among the
mountains."
"Superstition!" said Oona, with a laugh. "What ugly words you use!"
Once more the laugh seemed to ripple about, and break the solemnity of
the night. But young Lord Erradeen was as solemn as the night, and his
countenance was not touched even by a responsive smile. His gravity
produced upon the girl's mind that feeling of visionary panic and
distrust which had not been roused by the external circumstances. She
felt herself grow solemn too, but struggled against it.
"Hamish has gone up with some mysterious communication to the
game-keeper," she said; "and in these long nights one is glad of a
little change. I came out with him to keep myself from going to sleep."
Which was not perhaps exactly true: but there had arisen a little
embarrassment in her mind, and she wanted something to say.
"And I came out--" he said; then paused. "The night is not so ghostly as
the day," he added, hurriedly; "nor dead people so alarming as the
living."
"You mean that you disapprove of our superstitions, as you call them,"
said Oona. "Most people laugh and believe a little; but I know some are
angry and think it wrong."
"I----angry! That was not what I meant. I meant----It is a strange
question which is living and which is----To be sure, you are right, Miss
Forrester. What is dead cannot come in contact with us, only what is
living. It is a mystery altogether."
"You are not a sceptic then?" said Oona. "I am glad of that."
"I am not----anything. I don't know how to form an opinion. How lovely
it is, to be sure," he burst out all at once; "especially to have some
one to talk to. That is the great charm."
"If that is all," said Oona, trying to speak cheerfully, "you will soon
have dozens of people to talk to, for everybody in the county--and that
is a wide word--is coming to call. They will arrive in shoals as soon as
they know."
"I think I shall go--in a day or two," he said.
At this moment the step of Hamish, heard far off through the great
stillness, interrupted the conversation. It had been as if they two were
alone in this silent world; and the far-off step brought in a third and
disturbed them. They were silent, listening as it came nearer and
nearer, the sound growing with every repetition. When Hamish appeared in
the broad white band of road coming from between the shadows of the
trees the young man dropped his hand from the bow of the boat. He had
not spoken again, nor did Oona feel herself disposed to speak. Hamish
quickened his pace when he saw another figure on the beach.
"Ye'll no' have been crying upon me, Miss Oona," he said, with a
suspicious look at the stranger.
"Oh no, Hamish!" cried Oona, cheerfully. "I have not been wearying at
all, for this is Lord Erradeen that has been so kind as to come and keep
me company."
"Oh, it'll be my Lord Erradeen?" said Hamish, with a curious look into
Walter's face.
Then there was a repetition of the noises with which the still loch
rang, the rattle of the iron ring, the grating of the bow on the shingle
as she was pushed off. Hamish left no time for leave-taking. There were
a few yards of clear water between the boat and the beach when Oona
waved her hand to the still figure left behind. "My mother will like to
see you to-morrow," she cried, with an impulse of sympathy. "Good
night."
He took his hat off, and waved his hand in reply, but said nothing, and
stood motionless till they lost sight of him round the corner of the
isle. Then Hamish, who had been exerting himself more than usual, paused
a little.
"Miss Oona," he said, "yon will maybe be the young lord, but maybe no. I
would not be speaking to the first that comes upon the loch side----"
"Oh, if you are beginning to preach propriety----" the girl cried.
"It'll not be propriety, it will just be that they're a family that is
not canny. Who will tell you if it's one or if it's the other? Did ye
never hear the tale of the leddy that fell off the castle wall?"
"But this is not the castle," cried Oona, "and I know him very well--and
I'm sorry for him, Hamish. He looks so changed."
"Oh, what would you do being sorry for him? He has nothing ado with
us--nothing ado with us," Hamish said.
And how strange it was to come in again from that brilliant whiteness
and silence--the ghostly loch, the visionary night--into the ruddy room
full of firelight and warmth, all shut in, sheltered, full of
companionship.
"Come away, come away to the fire; you must be nearly frozen, Oona, and
I fear ye have caught your death of cold," her mother said.
Oona remembered with a pang the solitary figure on the water's edge, and
wondered if he were still standing there forlorn. A whole chapter of
life seemed to have interposed between her going and coming, though she
had been but half an hour away.