After the busiest week known in the island by anybody living there, the
Sabbath-day came in, calm and mild. The winters, however stormy, were
never severely cold in this sea-beaten spot. It was seldom that ice was
seen; and it was never more than half an inch thick. When, as on this
Sunday, the wind was lulled and the sky was clear, the climate was as
mild as in spring on the mainland. As soon as the aspect of the sunrise
showed the experienced that the day would be fair, busy hands moved into
the old roofless chapel the pulpit and benches which the pastor had
brought with him--the pulpit being a mere desk of unpainted wood, and
the benches of the roughest sort. For these the interior space of the
old building had been cleared during the week; the floor was trodden
hard and even; the walls were so far repaired as to make a complete
enclosure; and some rough stones were placed as steps whereby to enter
the burying-ground. Some willing hands had done more--had cleared the
burying-ground of stones, so that the graves, though sunk, and unmarked
by any memorial but a rough and broken headstone here and there, could
be distinguished by an eye interested in searching out the dead of a
century ago.
Another week, if sufficiently fair, was to see the walls finished and
the roof on: and afterwards would be discharged the pious task of
enclosing the burying-ground, and preparing room for those whom death
would lay to rest in their own island. While the minister remained
here, no more of the dead would be carried over the sea to some place
where there was a pastor to commit them to the grave. Room was to be
secured for the graves of the fifty people who were now living on the
island, and for their children after them: and to all the inhabitants
the island appeared a better place when this arrangement was made.
In the weak sunlight of that Sunday morning appeared gay groups of
people, all excited with the great thought that they were going to the
kirk. They were wonderfully cell clad. How such clothes could come out
of such dwellings would have been a marvel to any stranger. Festival
days were so rare that a holiday dress lasted for many years. The
women's cloth coats fitted at any age; and the caps with gay ribbons and
bright cotton handkerchiefs did not wear out. On this remarkable day
all wore their best, and a pretty sight it was to see the whole fifty
people drawing towards the chapel as the pastor, his wife, and two
children, issued from their lowly abode to meet the flock for the first
time.
Presently the island might have appeared deserted. Far round as the eye
could reach not a human being was visible outside the chapel. But
something was heard which told that the place was not only inhabited,
but Christianised. The slow psalm rose into the still air. Everyone
who could speak could sing a psalm. It was a practice lovingly kept up
in every house. Some voices were tremulous, and a few failed; but this
was from emotion. The strongest was Annie's, for hers was the most
practised. It was her wont to sing some of the many psalms she knew on
summer days, when she sat at work on the platform of her house, and on
winter nights, when Rollo was away. Now that she was once more joining
in social worship, her soul was joyful, and she sang strong and clear--
perhaps the more so for the thought of the one absent person, pining in
the cavern on the shore, or looking from afar, in desolation of heart,
at the little throng who came privileged to worship. Perhaps Annie's
voice might unconsciously rise as if to reach the lonely one, and invite
her to come to the house of God and seek rest. However this might be,
Annie's tones so animated some hearts and strengthened some voices as
that the psalm might be, and was, heard a long way off. It reached an
unwilling ear, and drew forward reluctant steps. The links of old
association, are, however, the strongest of chains, and no charm is so
magical as that of religious emotion. Lady Carse was drawn nearer and
nearer, in hope of hearing ano, her psalm, till the solemn tones of
prayer reached her, and presently she was crouching under the wall
outside, weeping like a sinner who dares not knock at the gate of
heaven.
Before the service was quite finished, angry voices were heard from
without, almost overpowering that of the pastor as he gave the blessing.
One of Macdonald's people, who had stepped out to collect the ponies
for some of the women and children, had seen the lady, and, after one
start back as from the ghost of a drowned woman, had laid hold of her
gown, and said she must stay where she could be spoken with by Macdonald
on his return from Skye. She struggled to escape, and did break away--
not down the hill, but into the chapel.
The consternation was inexpressible. The people, supposing her drowned,
took her for a ghost, though there was no ghostly calm about her; but
her eyes were swollen, her hair disordered, her lips quivering with
violent emotion. There was a solemnity about her, too; for extreme
anguish is always solemn, in proportion as it approaches to despair.
She rushed to the front of the pulpit, and held out her hands,
exclaiming aloud to Mr Ruthven that she was the most persecuted and
tormented of human beings; that she appealed to him against her
persecutors; and if he did not see her righted, she warned him that he
would be damned deeper than hell. Mrs Ruthven shuddered, and left her
seat to place herself by her husband. And now she encountered the poor
lady's gaze, and, moreover, had her own grasped as it had never been
before.
"Are these children yours?" she was asked.
"Yes," faltered Mrs Ruthven.
"Then you must help me to recover mine. Had you ever,"--and here she
turned to the pastor--"had you ever an enemy?" Her voice turned hoarse
as she uttered the word.
"No--yes--Oh, yes!" said he. "I have had enemies, as every man has."
"Then, as you wish them abased and tormented, you must help me to abase
and torment mine--my husband, and Lord Lovat--"
"Lord Lovat!" repeated many wondering voices.
"And Sir Alexander Macdonald; and his tenant of this place; and--"
As Mr Ruthven looked round him, perplexed and amazed, one of
Macdonald's people went up to him, and whispered into his ear that this
lady had come from some place above or below, for she was drowned last
week. Mr Ruthven half smiled.
"I will know," cried the lady, "what that fellow said. I will hear what
my enemies tell you against me. My only hope is in you. I am stolen
from Edinburgh; they pretended to bury me there--Eh? what?" she cried,
as another man whispered something into the pastor's other ear. "Mad!
There! I heard it. I heard him say I was mad. Did he not tell you I
was mad?"
"He did; and one cannot--really I cannot--"
As he looked round again in his perplexity, the widow rose from her
seat, and said, "I know this lady; my son and I know her better than
anyone else in the island does; and we should say that she is not mad."
"_Not_ mad!" Mr Ruthven said, with a mingling of surprise in his tone
which did not escape the jealous ear of Lady Carse.
"Not mad, sir; but grievously oppressed. If you could quietly hear the
story, sir, at a fitting time--"
"Ay, ay; that will be best," declared Mr Ruthven.
"Let me go home with you," said Lady Carse. "I will go home with you;
and--"
Mrs Ruthven exchanged a glance with her husband, and then said, in an
embarrassed way, while giving a hand to each of the two children who
were clinging to her, that their house was very small, extremely small
indeed, with too little room for the children, and none whatever left
over.
"It is my house," exclaimed Lady Carse, impatiently. "It was built with
a view to you; but it was done under my orders, and I have a claim upon
it. And what ails the children?" she cried, in a tone which made the
younger cry aloud. "What are they afraid of?"
"I don't know, I am sure," said their mother, helping them, however, to
hide their faces in her gown. "But--"
Again Annie rose and said, "There could be no difficulty about a place
for the lady if she would be pleased to do as she did before--live in
her cottage. The two dwellings might almost be called one, and if the
lady would go home with her--"
Gratitude was showered on Annie from all the parties. As the lady moved
slowly towards the widow's house, holding Annie's arm, and weeping as
she went, and followed by the Ruthvens, the eyes of all the Macdonalds
gazed after her, in a sort of doubt whether she were a witch, or a
ghost, or really and truly a woman.
As soon as Macdonald's sloop could be discerned on its approach the next
day, Mr Ruthven went down, and paced the shore while daylight lasted,
though assured that the vessel would not come up till night. As soon as
a signal could be made in the morning for the yawl, he passed to the
sloop, where he had a conference with Macdonald, the consequence of
which was, that as soon as he was set ashore the sloop again stood out
to sea.
Mrs Ruthven and Lady Carse saw this, as they stood hand in hand at the
door of the new dwelling. They kissed each other at the sight. They
had already kissed each other very often, for they called themselves
dear and intimate friends who had now one great common object in life--
to avenge Lady Carse's wrongs.
"Well, what news?" they both cried, as Mr Ruthven came towards them,
panting from the haste with which he had ascended.
"The tenant is gone back," said he, "he has returned to Sir Alexander to
contradict his last news--of your being drowned. By-the-way, I promised
to contradict it, too--to the man who is watching for the body every
tide."
"Oh, he must have heard the facts from some of the people at the
chapel."
"If he had he would not believe them, Macdonald says, on any other
authority than his. Nor will he leave his post till he finds the body,
or--"
"Or sees me," cried Lady Carse, laughing. "Come, let us go and call to
him, and tell him he may leave off poking among the weeds. Come; I will
show you the way."
And she ran on with the spirits and pace of a girl. Mr and Mrs
Ruthven looked at each other with smiles, and Mrs Ruthven exclaimed,
"What a charming creature this was, and how shocking it was to think of
her cruel fate." Mr Ruthven shook his head and declared that he
regarded the conduct of her persecutors with grave moral disapprobation.
Meantime Lady Carse looked back, beckoned to them with her hand, and
stamped with her foot, because they were stopping to talk.
"What a simple creature she is! So childlike!" exclaimed Mrs Ruthven.
"We must quicken our pace, my dear," replied her husband. "It would not
be right to detain the lady when she wishes to proceed."
But now Lady Carse was beckoning to somebody else--to little Kate
Ruthven, who, with her brother Adam, was peeping from the door of their
new home.
"Come, Katie," said her mother, "don't you see that Lady Carse calls
you? Bring Adam, and go with us."
Kate turned very red, but did not come. Lady Carse came laughing back
to fetch them; but they bolted into the house, and, when still pursued,
scrambled under a bed. When caught, they screamed.
"Well, to be sure," cried their mother; "what behaviour when a lady asks
you to go with her! I declare I am quite ashamed."