IN THE CAVE OF GOLD.
"Duncan, Duncan, but I hef promised!" It was the next night, and
Ishbel stood before the cottage in her dark wincey skirt and green
cotton jacket, her face turned up to her cousin's. All last night,
all through the day, old Catriona's stories had haunted her. The
old woman had gone cunningly to work. She began, in a rambling way,
once they were both seated at the spinning-wheel, by remarking
that to-morrow would be Midsummer's Night, and the fairies would
be holding high frolic in the Cave of Gold. She herself was old,
and frail, and feeble, else how gladly would she have gone! She had
the second sight--she would perhaps see what no other could! For,
with a branch of rowan--and she had a branch of dry rowan in her
kist, ready for her burial--or a naked dagger--Duncan's big knife
would do--there was no danger! To see the little green folk dancing!
And--here her voice fell, and she glanced into all the dark shadows
of the kitchen, and up by the oak settle near the window--perhaps to
hear the faint and far-off skirl of Angus Macdonald's pipes! They
said that sound was heard still. At first Ishbel had risen uneasily,
saying she would go and see if there were enough oat-cakes for
supper--or was that anyone in the barn?
But Catriona bade her be seated, sharply--the girl should not escape
her thus--and then she asked if she (Catriona) had ever told Ishbel
the story of Angus Macdonald and the Cave of Gold? No, Ishbel
answered unwillingly, and sat down again, the wheel idle, the soft
grey carded wool lying in her lap. Catriona, spinning fast--with
the low dirl of the wheel acting as a sort of accompaniment to her
voice--told the story. She spoke in Gaelic, of course, and it is
difficult to put in English the creeping, insidious fear and mystery
of the tale.
How the piper, Angus Macdonald, loved a MacLeod of Dunvegen, a
follower of the great MacLeod, and how this lady-love's father would
have none of him, but set him some of those foolish and impossible
tasks so dear to the story-teller of all ages and climes and
nationalities.
One task bade him enter the Cave of Gold at midnight, on Midsummer's
Night, and play "MacLeod of Dunvegen," passing through the little
dancing folk, and penetrating far into the mystery of the cave's
windings, where no Skye man had ever been. Macdonald, of course,
took up the challenge, and with his tartan ribbands waving wildly
from the pipes, and the mouth-piece at his lips, he was seen
standing at the shingly edge of the cave, his kilt tossing against
his brown knees in the sudden gust of wind. The men who rowed him
up saw this, and heard the first wild pealing notes. Thus, playing
proudly and happily, he entered the cave with his dog at his heels.
They waited and watched, and listened, and at last heard one awful
cry! Then there was silence. He had passed the fairies, but--
"Never home came he!"
Then, changing her tone, Catriona told of the only woman who had
ever caught sight of the wee green folk, and how, ever after, riches
and wealth were hers, and she had never a wish unsatisfied! It was
the going on into the inner caves that had undone the piper! The
lass who had seen the fairies was a certain Eilidh Macdonald, and
she married a chief, and went to live far away in Oban, and all her
days she was clad in green silk. Yes, all her days!
"How did she go?" Ishbel cried.
"In a boat, with a man. It is easy, if the man is strong, and you
hef the rowan with you. Last of all, Eilidh died, and she wished to
be buried beside Flora Macdonald's granite cross at Kilmuir, and
they granted her even that! She lies near the great Flora, who saved
the Prince. And all through seeing the wee green folk in the Cave of
Gold!"
"Grandmother, would you lend me the rowan branch if--if I were to
go?" Ishbel whispered in the dusk. "Would you, grandmother?"
Her own voice seemed to terrify her then, and Rory's face rose up
before her; but the old woman got up without a word, and, going to
her kist, took something, rolled in a fine kerchief, from it, with
the smell of bog-myrtle in its folds, and she laid the brown faded
leaves and the red, dry berries on Ishbel's lap.
"There it is! But you will give it me back safe?--or else ill will
befall us all!"
"I will give it you back," Ishbel whispered.
She had the rowan in her pocket as she stood with Duncan, tampering
with her conscience and her promise now.
"It was a very foolish thing to promise," he said craftily.
"Besides, Rory was afraid of the squalls, that is all--and there
will be no squalls at all! You can come with me, and see if there is
anything, and if my mother's stories are true. If not, there is no
harm done. It is a lovely cave whateffer."
Ishbel yielded, as Catriona knew she would yield. Would she see
anything? Would the wee folk be there?
[Illustration: "I will hef none but Ishbel."--_p. 127._]
She found herself in the little boat, and rowing towards the cave
before she knew she had consented. The night seemed only a paler
day. They rowed close into the shore, till they discovered a place
where the rock-face was cleft, and showed a pale light within.
There was just space for the boat to float in, passing through a
low, overhanging archway. Ishbel drew her breath sharply and clasped
her hands, as Duncan paused, watching her face, once they were
through it.
[Illustration: "It is a pretty boat to take a lass out in."]
They were in a deep circular basin, the water, a lovely pale green,
darker in the shadows. The rocky sides were cut, here and there,
into long narrow openings, into one of which Catriona's piper must
have wandered; here Ishbel saw the water lying dark and mysterious,
shadow-haunted.
Bending over the edge of the boat, she could see the yellow sand
far below; in bright sunshine her own fair face would have been
reflected. Tiny jelly-fish edged with lilac spots, and with long
white fringe, floated beside the seaweed, like strange jewels, and
far above them they could see the pale opalescence of the summer
sky, soft, exquisite, pearly. Fringing the opening were ferns and
heather, and tall fox-gloves, but the fairy bells did not stir in
the breathless air. Were the wee folk, the good folk, the green
folk, lurking within? If she watched, would she see a tiny face peep
out? She waited--watched--and waited--and the time passed.
"Duncan, I do not see anything!" Ishbel spoke at last, breathlessly,
eagerly. She had forgotten Rory, she had forgotten everything but
her desire. "Row me further in, Duncan."
He pushed the boat forward, and Ishbel sat with her dark blue
eyes--they seemed black in the shadow--strained eagerly forward,
listening, waiting. Nothing moved, except that now and then little
waves would break with a plashing ripple against the boat. Far up on
the rocks, a passing breath of wind now and then swayed the flowers
and the grasses; but no fairy face peeped anywhere, there was no tap
of dancing feet, no note of elfin music.
"Duncan, Duncan, there is nothing, nothing at all!"
The note of bitter disappointment in her voice roused Duncan. Once
or twice he had essayed to speak, having no desire for a silent
adventure, but Ishbel had raised her little brown hand sharply. He
might disturb the fairies. At last the silence had chilled even
her. It was all of no use. She could see and hear nothing.
"We will chust be going home then," he said practically, caring
not at all for her disappointment, for, of course, it was all
"foolishness." "Maybe they are not dancing to-night; we will better
chust go home."
"She said I would be sure to see them."
There was a sob in her voice; as he pushed the boat out, she crushed
the rowans bitterly in her lap, and they fell into the bottom of
the boat. She remembered Rory suddenly, as, once outside, she
noticed that the weather had changed during her long waiting, that
the light seemed obscured, that there were white horses leaping in
the distance, and that the wind swept sharply in their faces as
they looked seaward. It would be dangerous now to keep quite close
to the rocks, for a heavy groundswell had risen. Duncan, glancing
round, expended some forcible Gaelic, for he knew he would need all
his muscles to row the clumsy boat, if they were to be safe, and he
hated trouble. He would have to keep out to sea to avoid the rocks.
During the long pull home, through the now angry waters, Ishbel sat
quite silent. When Duncan bade her "Bale!" almost furiously, the
boat having an ugly leak, she did so almost mechanically.
Nothing seemed to matter. There were no fairies, and she would have
to tell Rory she had broken her word!
They found a sandy, sheltered bay at last where they could land.
Duncan alone knew how hard had been the struggle against wind and
tide in the clumsy and leaky craft; but Ishbel did not see a tall
waiting figure on the shore, till she was preparing to leap from the
boat.
Then a strong hand took hers, and she glanced, with a startled cry,
to see Rory himself, grim, grave, silent, with something new in his
face which chilled her through and through. How was he there?
He helped Duncan to pull up the boat, almost disdainfully, looking
at it when it lay out of the water with a kind of scornful rage.
"It is a pretty boat," he said then in Gaelic, "a pretty boat to
take a lass out in, I will be saying that, Duncan MacLeod."
MacLeod called to Ishbel sharply, making no reply, and all three
walked up to the cottage in heavy silence. The night, grown gusty
and wet, seemed to have changed as suddenly and mysteriously as
Ishbel's life.
At the door she paused and faced her lover; his silence galled and
tormented her.
"Well!" she said, "well!"
If she had pleaded with him--been penitent, sorrowful! Alas! it was
no penitent face which met his, and jealousy and wrath broke forth
fiercely, sweeping love aside.
"Are you asking what I am thinking, Ishbel?" he cried, "of the lass
who promised me, and who broke her word, and went out with Duncan
MacLeod? Well, I am thinking chust nothing at all of her! I hef
warned her that the boat was not safe, and of the squalls, and that
it was not the thing for a lass like her to go so late; and she
had promised, and yet she went! And this was the claymore brooch
made of Iona pebbles I hef bought for you; and it can go there!" He
flung the little packet remorselessly into the heather. "And as for
yourself, I think nothing of you at all, and everything is over. And
I am sailing for New Zealand with Mr. Campbell to-morrow. He asked
me, and I said 'No,' but I will go now, and will walk into Portree
this very night! _Beannachd leibh_ (good-bye)."
He had turned away then, furiously. It had all passed as suddenly,
swept up as unexpectedly as had the squall outside the Cave of
Gold. Ishbel stood as if dazed, staring straight before her. A
Highlander's rage is like a Highland storm; one bends before it
instinctively. Ishbel did so now.
Rory did not look back. Duncan, in the doorway, saw him stride on to
the road, through the little patch of oats before the door. He set
his face towards the high road for Portree. In a very few moments
the sound of his footsteps died away and the night swallowed him.
That was all right, Duncan thought. New Zealand! Capital!