THE BAINTIGHEARNA.
Next morning Mary went eagerly and joyously to the window, for here
indeed was a welcome change: no more louring heavens and streaming
roads, but a vast expanse of wind-driven sea, blue as the very heart of
a sapphire, and yet with innumerable sudden flashes of white from the
crest of its swift-hurrying waves. The sky cloudless; the fresh breeze
blowing straight in from the Atlantic; the world all shining around her;
even those long spurs and headlands, sterile as they were, looked quite
cheerful in the prevailing sunlight. And out yonder, too, was the
island of Heimra, to which her eyes would go back again and again with a
curious interest. She thought of the lone mother, and of the boy
brought up like a wild goat among the rocks. And if he had turned out a
reckless and unscrupulous ne'er-do-well, an Ishmael with his hand
against every man, well, that was a deplorable thing, though perhaps not
to be wondered at; moreover it could matter little to her what such an
outcast might think of her or of her family; but, nevertheless, deep
down in her heart, there was an odd and ever-recurring feeling of
compunction. She wished to be able to say "I am sorry." Certainly it
was not she who had destroyed the last relic and monument of the ancient
name--who had drained the loch and levelled the old stronghold with the
ground; and he must know that; but she wished him to know more; she
wished him to know how indignant she had been when she first heard of
that monstrous and iniquitous act of vandalism. And then again (as she
still stood gazing at the island out there in the wide blue waters, with
the white foam springing high in the sunlight along its southern coasts)
it seemed to her that she rather feared meeting this man. Rude and
lawless and mannerless, might he not laugh at her stumbling apologies?
Or in his Highland pride he might scorn her southern birth, and
vouchsafe no word in reply? Well, being sorry was all that remained for
her; what was done could not be undone; it was not within her power to
bring back Castle Heimra from that waste of ruin.
She had got up very early, but she did not care to waken Kate, who was
no doubt tired with the long drive of yesterday; she thought instead she
would quietly slip outside and have some little investigation of her
surroundings. So she quickly finished dressing; went down and through
the lofty oak hall; passed out upon the stone terrace, and from thence
descended into the garden, where she found herself quite alone. The air
was sweet and soft; there was a pleasant scent of newly-delved earth;
and everywhere there was abundant evidence that the Spring had already
come to this sheltered space--for there were masses of daffodils and
primroses and wallflower all aglow in the warm sunlight, and there were
bunches of blossom on the cherry-trees trained up the high stone wall.
She went away down to the end of the garden, opened a door she found
there, and, passing through, entered the wilder solitude of the woods.
And ever as she wandered idly and carelessly along, the sense that she
was the mistress and owner of all these beautiful things around her
seemed to grow on her and produce a certain not unnatural joy and pride.
For the moment she had forgotten all the problems in human nature and in
economics that lay ahead of her; here she had all the world to
herself--this picturesque world of silver-grey rock, and golden gorse,
and taller larch and spruce, all dappled with sun and shadow, while the
fresh odours of the Spring were everywhere around, and a stirring of the
new life of the year. And then, when she had fought her way through the
thick underwood to the summit of one of the westward-looking
cliffs--behold! the dark blue sea, and the sunny headlands, and Eilean
Heimra, with its thunder-shocks of foam. Heimra island again; it seemed
to be always confronting her; but however long she might gaze in that
direction, there was no sign of any white-winged yacht coming sailing
out into the blue.
And then she scrambled down from this height to the water's edge; and
here she discovered a most sequestered little haven--a small,
semicircular bay sheltered from the land-winds by rocks and trees, while
the pellucid green sea broke in ripples of silver along the cream-white
and lilac pebbles. A most solitary spot--quiet, and sunny, and
peaceful: she began to think that whatever might be done with other
portions of her property, she would keep this little bit of picturesque
seclusion entirely for herself. This, surely, could be of no use to
anybody--the pebbly beach, the rocks purple-black with mussels or
olive-green with seaweed, the clear water whispering along the shore.
Political economy should not follow her hither; here would be her place
of rest--her place of dreaming--when she was done with studying the
wants of others, and wished to commune with her own soul.
But all of a sudden she found she was not alone: an apparition had
become visible--a solitary figure that had quietly come round the rocky
point, and was now regarding her with dumb apprehension. This was a
girl of about five-and-twenty, who had something of an Irish cast of
face: fair-complexioned, freckled, a tilted nose, grey eyes wide-apart
and startled-looking, and curly light-brown hair that was mostly
concealed by the scarlet shawl she wore round her head and shoulders.
She regarded Miss Stanley with obvious fear, and did not advance; her
eyes, that had the timidity of a wild animal in them, had something more
than that; they seemed to say that the poor creature was but
half-witted. Nevertheless the young proprietress instantly concluded
that this was one of "her people," and that, therefore, she was bound to
make friends.
"Good morning!" said Mary, and she brought her wonder-working smile and
dimple into play, as well she knew how.
A quick light, of wonder and pleasure, sprang into the girl's eyes. She
came forward a little way, timidly. She smiled, in a pleading sort of
fashion. And then she ventured to hold out her hand, timidly. Mary
went forward at once.
"I am very glad to make your acquaintance," she said, in her bland
tones, "and you must tell me who you are."
But the girl, taking the hand that was offered to her, bent one knee and
made a humble and profound curtsy (where she could have learnt this
trick it is hard to say), and then she uplifted her smiling and
beseeching eyes to the great lady (who was considerably taller than
she), and still held her hand, and repeated several times something that
sounded like _Bentyurna veen--Bentyurna veen_.[#]
[#] _Baintighearna mhin_--the gentle lady.
"I am very sorry I don't know Gaelic," said Mary, rather disappointedly.
"Don't you know a little English?"
The girl still held her hand, and patted it; and looked into her face
with pleased and wistful eyes; and again she was addressed as _Bentyurna
veen_. And then, in this unknown tongue, something more was said, of
which Mary could only make out the single word Heimra.
"Oh, do you come from Heimra island?" she asked, quickly.
But of the girl's further and rapid speech she could make nothing at
all. So she said--
"I am really very sorry; but I don't know any Gaelic. Come with me to
the house, and I will get some one to speak between us. Come with me,
to Lochgarra House, do you understand?"
The girl smiled, as if in assent; and thereupon the two of them set out,
following a winding path through the woods that eventually brought them
to the garden gate. But here a curious incident occurred. Mary opened
the gate, and held it for her unknown friend to follow; but at the same
moment the girl caught sight of Mr. Purdie, who had come along for
instructions, and was now in the garden awaiting Miss Stanley's return.
The instant that this stranger girl beheld the Little Red Dwarf, she
uttered a quick cry of terror, and turned and fled; in a moment she was
out of sight in the thick underwood. Mary stood still, astounded. It
was no use her trying to follow. And so, after a second or two of
bewilderment, she turned and went on to the house, saying a few words to
Mr. Purdie in passing, but not with reference to this encounter. Some
instinct suggested that she ought to seek for information elsewhere.
When she went into the dining-room she found that Kaethchen had come
down, and also that Barbara was bringing in breakfast.
"Barbara," said she, "do you know of a girl about here who seems to be
not quite in her right mind, poor thing? A fair-complexioned girl, who
wears a red shawl round her head and shoulders----"
"Oh, that was just Anna Chlannach[#] that Miss Stanley would be seeing,"
said Barbara, in her soft-spoken way.
[#] _Anna Chlannach_--Anne of the many curls.
"And does she come from Heimra Island?" was the next question.
"Oh, no, she is not from Eilean Heimra," said Barbara. "Maybe she would
be speaking to Miss Stanley, and it is about her mother she would be
speaking. Her mother died about two years ago; but Anna thinks she has
been changed into one of the white sea-birds that fly about Eilean
Heimra, and that she is coming back, and so she goes along the shore and
watches for her. That is what she would be saying to Miss Stanley."
"Barbara, can you tell me why the girl should be afraid of Mr. Purdie?"
"Oh, well, indeed, ma'am, they were saying that Mr. Purdie was for
having her sent away to an asylum; and it is no doubt Anna would rather
be among her own people."
"To an asylum?" Mary demanded sharply. "For what reason? She does no
harm?"
"There is no harm about Anna Chlannach," said Barbara, simply and
seriously, as she busied herself with the table things. "There is no
harm at all about Anna Chlannach, poor girl. But when Mr. Purdie wishes
a thing to be done, then it has to be done."
The hot blood mounted to Mary Stanley's face.
"Oh, do you think so?" said she. "For I do not think so--not at all!
It is not Mr. Purdie who is to be the master here--when I am here. I
will let Mr. Purdie understand that he is not to--to interfere with my
people----"
"Mary!" said Kate Glendinning, in an undertone.
Mary was silent; she knew she had been indiscreet. But presently she
said--
"Well, Kaethchen, I see I must learn Gaelic."
"Gaelic," observed Kate, sententiously, "is a very intricate key; and
then when you've got it, and put it in the lock, and turned it, you find
the cupboard empty."
"Perhaps so with regard to literature--I do not know; but I want to be
able to talk to the people here, without the intervention of an
interpreter. Barbara," said she, to the parlour-maid, who had come into
the room again, "do you know what _bentyurna veen_ is?"
"_Baintighearna mhin_?" said Barbara, with a smile. "Oh, that is 'the
gentle lady,' And that is what Anna Chlannach would be calling Miss
Stanley, I have no doubt of that."
"Well, now, Barbara," Mary continued, "you must tell me how to say this
in Gaelic--'_Am I welcome?_' What is that in Gaelic?"
But here Barbara became very much embarrassed.
"I am sure it is not necessary that Miss Stanley should say that--oh no,
indeed," she answered with averted eyes.
"I am not so sure," said Mary, in her direct way. "I hope the time will
come when I shall not have to ask such a question in going into any
one's cottage; but at present I am a stranger, and I must make my way
gradually. Now, Barbara, what is the Gaelic for 'Am I welcome?"
But still Barbara hesitated.
"If you would ask Mr. Purdie, ma'am, he would give you the good Gaelic."
"No, I will not," said the imperative young mistress. "I dare say your
Gaelic is quite as good as Mr. Purdie's."
"And you would be saying 'Am I welcome?' in going into a house?" said
Barbara, slowly--for translation is a serious difficulty to the
untutored mind. "Oh, I think you would just say '_An e mo bheatha?_';
but why would Miss Stanley be saying such a thing as that?"
"'_An e mo bheatha?_'--is that right? Very well!"
"And how will you understand their answer, Mamie?" Kate Glendinning
asked.
"I will read that in their faces," was the reply.
It was quite clear that the young proprietress had in no wise been
disheartened by that first interview with one of her tenants on the
previous evening. This fair-shining morning found her as full of ardent
enthusiasm, of generous aspirations, as ever; and here was the carriage
awaiting them; and here was Mr. Purdie, obsequious; and even Kaethchen
looked forward with eagerness to getting a general view of the estate.
Then their setting forth was entirely cheerful; the Spring air was sweet
around them; the sunlight lay warm on the larches and on the tall and
thick-stemmed bushes of gorse that were all a blaze of gold. But it was
not of landscape that Mary Stanley was thinking; it was of human beings;
and the first human being she saw was a little old woman who was
patiently trudging along with a heavy creel of peats strapped on her
back.
"The poor old woman!" she exclaimed, with an infinite compassion in her
eyes. "Doesn't it seem hard she should have to work at her time of
life?"
"She's a good deal better off than if she were in Seven Dials or the
Bowery," said Kaethchen. "But perhaps you would like to give her a seat
in the carriage?"
"You may laugh if you like," said Mary, quite simply, "but it seems to
me it would be more becoming if that poor old woman were sitting here
and I were carrying the creel. However, I suppose we shall have to begin
with something more practicable."
But was it more practicable?--that was the question she had speedily to
put to herself. For no sooner had they left the wooded 'policies' and
surroundings of Lochgarra House than they entered upon a stretch of
country the sterility of which might have appalled her if only she had
fully comprehended it. Land such as the poorest of Galway peasants
would have shunned--an Arabia Petraea--rocks, stones, and heather--wave
upon wave of Hebridean gneiss, the ruddy-grey knolls and dips and
heights showing hardly a trace of vegetation or of soil. And yet there
were human beings here, busy on their small patches; and there were
hovels, some of them thatched, others covered over with turf tied down
by ropes; while now and again there appeared a smarter cottage, with a
slated roof, and lozenge-panes of glass in the window. Moreover, they
had now come in sight of the sea again; yonder was a far-stretching bay
of silvery sand; and out at the margin of the water, which was at lowest
ebb, there were a number of people, mostly women and young lads and
girls, stooping at work; while an occasional small dark figure, with a
hump on its back, was seen to be crossing the expanse of white.
"What are they doing, Mr. Purdie?" Mary asked.
"They're cutting seaware for manure to put on their crofts," was the
answer.
And at the same moment her attention was drawn to a man not far from the
roadside who, in his little bit of rocky ground, was making use of an
implement the like of which she had never seen or heard of.
"What is that, Mr. Purdie? Is it some kind of spade?"
"Oh, just a foot-plough--there's no other kind of plough would be of any
use in this district."
And nothing would do but that she must descend and examine this novel
method of tillage. She went boldly up to the man: he was a tall, lean,
swarthy person, severe of aspect, who kept a pair of hawk-like eyes
fixed on the factor all the time he rather unwillingly answered her
questions. For Mary, to her great delight, discovered that this man
could speak English; and she wanted information at first hand; and
indeed she immediately showed a very definite knowledge of what she was
after. The man clearly did not like being cross-examined; again and
again he resumed his delving operations with that long-coultered
instrument that he worked with foot and arms; but she would take no heed
of his sullen humour. What stock had he?--two cows, two stirks, eight
sheep up on the common pasture, and a pony. What potatoes did he
raise?--well, he would plant about two barrels, and maybe get ten or
twelve barrels. Did he make any meal?--hardly any; the cows and stirks
did not let his crops come to the threshing. And so forth, until Mary
said--
"But I don't see where you get any capital to work the croft, or to
increase the stock if we could give you more land. You don't seem to be
getting any money."
"No, no money at ahl," said the crofter.
"Listen to him!" interposed Mr. Purdie, with an angry frown. "Let me
tell you this, Miss Stanley: that man gets twenty-five shillings a week,
gillie's wages, when the gentlemen are here for the shooting, and
besides that he hires his pony to them at twenty-three shillings a week;
and I suppose he's just the one to cry out that not a sportsman should
be allowed to come into the country."
"Is it true that you get that money?" said Mary, calmly.
"Ay, that is true," he admitted, in rather a sulky fashion; "but it is
not from the croft I get the money."
"Well, I am only making enquiries at present," said Miss Stanley. "I
wish to know what improvements are possible--I wish to know what the
people want----"
But here, to her surprise, she was interrupted.
"A railway," said the tall, black-a-vised crofter.
"A railway?" she repeated.
"Ay--a railway to Bonar."
"A railway to Bonar Bridge?" she said, staring at the man. "Why, what
good would that do you? Take your own case. You say you have nothing
to sell. Even if there were a railway to Bonar Bridge--and there
couldn't be, for the cost would be enormous, and there would be no
traffic to speak of--but supposing there were a railway, how would that
benefit you?"
He made no reply; he merely worked away with the long and narrow
coulter, turning up the poor soil. So she saw it was no use arguing
with him; she bade him a cheerful "Good-morning!" and came away again.
And with a right gallant courage did she continue her house-to-house
visitation, desperately trying to win friends for herself, and wondering
more and more that she was so ill received. She was not accustomed to
sour looks and sullen manners; and in casting about for some possible
reason for this strange behaviour she began to ask herself whether she
might not get on better with these people if Mr. Purdie were well away
back in his office in Inverness. One point struck her as being very
peculiar; not a single man or woman of them asked for a reduction of
rent. She thought that would have been the first thing for them to
demand, and the simplest for her to consider; but it was never
mentioned. They asked for all kinds of other things--when they would
speak at all. They wanted herring-nets from the Government; they wanted
more boats from the Government--and the instalments of repayment to be
made smaller; they wanted the steamer to call in thrice a week, during
the ling season; they wanted their arrears of debt to the curers to be
wiped off; they wanted more pasture land; they wanted more arable land.
"As for pasture land," said Kaethchen, in an undertone, as they were
leaving one of these poor steadings, "I don't know whether you will be
able to persuade Mr. Watson to give up a slice of his sheep-farm; but as
regards arable land, Mary, you should tell those people they have made a
mistake about you. You are not the Creator of the Universe: you can't
make arable land out of nothing."
"Don't be profane," said Mary, severely. "And mind, I'm not going to
have any giggling disparagement of my work: I can tell you, it promises
to be very serious."
Serious enough! When they got back to Lochgarra House in the afternoon,
her head was fairly in a whirl with conflicting statements and
conflicting demands. She knew not how or where to begin; the future
seemed all in a maze; while the personal reception accorded her (though
she tried to think nothing of that for the moment) had been distinctly
repellent. And yet, not satisfied with this long day's work, she would
go down to the village in the evening, to see what was expected of her
there.
"I suppose I can interfere?" she said, to Mr. Purdie, who was having tea
with them.
"Beg pardon?"
"I suppose I can interfere? The village belongs to me, does it not?"
she demanded.
"In a measure it does," said the factor. "Of course you are the
Superior; but where feus have been granted, they have the land in
perpetuity, while you have only the rent----"
"Oh, I can't interfere, then?" said she, with some disappointment that
her sphere of activity seemed limited in that direction.
"You can step in to see that the conditions of the leases have been
respected----"
"But I can't do things?
"They'll let you do whatever ye like--so long as it means spending money
on them," said Mr. Purdie, with grim sarcasm.
"The inn, for example?"
"The inn is different. We built the inn. The landlord is only a yearly
tenant."
"We will go down and see him at once, if you please, Mr. Purdie," said
Mary, with promptitude. "I have a scheme in my head. Kaethchen, are you
tired?"
Kate laughed, and dragged herself from her chair. Indeed, she was dead
tired; but none the less she was determined to see this thing out. So
the three of them proceeded along to the village as far as the
inn--which was a plain little two-storeyed building, with not even a
sign hanging over the door; and there they went into the stuffy little
parlour, and sate down, Mr. Purdie ringing the bell and sending for the
landlord.
"Aren't those things dreadful?" said Mary, glancing around at the
hideous stone and china ornaments on the mantelshelf and elsewhere--pink
greyhounds chasing a yellow hare; bronze stags that could only have been
designed in wild delirium; impossible white poodles on a ground of
cobalt blue, and the like; while on the walls were two gaudy
lithographs--German-looking nymphs with actual spangles in their hair
and bits of gold and crimson tinsel round their neck. "I must have all
this altered throughout the cottages----"
"Oh, yes, Mamie," said Kaethchen; "Broussa silks--Lindos plates--a
series of etchings----"
But here was the landlord, a rather youngish and shortish man, who
seemed depressed and dismal, and also a little apprehensive.
"Well, Peter," said Mr. Purdie, in his merry way, "what are ye
frightened for? Ye've got a face as if ye'd murdered somebody. We're
not going to raise your rent."
"It would be little use that--for I could not pay it," said the
sad-looking young man with the cadaverous grey face and grey eyes.
"Won't you take a seat?" said Miss Stanley, interposing. "I have a
proposal to make to you."
Peter Grant did not answer: he remained standing, stolidly and in
silence.
"It seems to me," she went on, "that something should be done to bring
visitors here in the spring, as well as the few that come through this
way in the autumn. It would be a benefit all round--to the inn, and to
the gillies who would be required, I mean for the salmon-fishing in the
Garra. Now I don't particularly want the salmon-fishing in the spring
months; and it seems to me if you were enterprising you would rent it
from me, and advertise it, and let it to two or three gentlemen, who
would come and live in your house, and give you a good profit. Do you
see?"
He answered not a word; he kept his eyes mostly fixed on the carpet; so
she continued--
"Gentlemen will go very far for salmon-fishing now-a-days, so I am told;
and you might give them quiet quarters here, and make them comfortable,
and every year they would come back. And I should not be hard upon you
in fixing the rent. Indeed, I would rather the proposal came from you.
What do you think you could afford to give me for the spring fishing in
the Garra?"
"Oh, as for that," said the young landlord, rather uncivilly, "I do not
see that there should be any rent. For the people about here were
saying that no one has a right to the salmon more than anyone else."
"Now you know you're talking nonsense," said Mary, with decision. "For
if everyone had a right to the salmon, in a fortnight's time there would
not be a single fish left in the river. And besides, do you forget that
there is the law?"
"Oh, yes, Peter knows there is the law," interposed Mr. Purdie, who
seemed to be in a most facetious mood. "Not more than two months ago
Peter found that out when the Sheriff at Dingwall fined him ten
shillings and ten shillings expenses for having carried and used a gun
without a license. There is quite sufficient of law in the land, as
Peter has just found out."
The young man's eyes were filled with a sullen fire; but he said
nothing.
"However," continued Miss Stanley, not heeding this interruption, "I
would not insist much on rent: I might even give you the spring fishing
for nothing, if you thought it would induce the gentlemen to come and
occupy the inn. It is an out-of-the-way place; but perhaps you would
not be charging them very much either--not very much--I don't quite know
what would be a fair rent to ask--"
"I would charge them L30 a month," said he.
She looked up, a trifle indignant.
"Oh, I see. The fishing is worth nothing while I have it; but it's
worth L30 a month when you have it: is that how the matter stands? Do
you call that fair dealing? Well, I haven't given you the fishing
yet--not on those terms." She rose--rather proudly. "Come, Kaethchen, I
think we might go and have a look at this fishing that seems to alter in
value so remarkably the moment it changes hands. We need not trouble
you, Mr. Purdie. Good evening!" This last salutation was addressed to
the landlord, who seemed to have no word of explanation to offer: then
the two girls went out from the inn, and walked off in the direction of
the river, which they had seen in passing on the previous evening.
Mary was no doubt considerably hurt and offended; and there were still
further trials in store for her before the end of this arduous and
disappointing day. She had proposed this excursion to the river chiefly
in order to get rid of Mr. Purdie; but when she and Kaethchen found
themselves by the side of the Garra, a vague curiosity drew them on,
until they had penetrated into solitudes where the stream for the most
part lay still and dark under the gloom of the steep overhanging banks.
There was something strangely impressive in the silence and in the dusk;
for while a distant range of hill flamed russet in the western light--an
unimaginable glory--the stealthily creeping river was here almost black
in shadow, under the thick birchwoods. And then suddenly she caught
Kaethchen by the arm. Surely there was some one there--a figure out in
the stream--a faint grey ghost in the mysterious twilight? And then a
startling thing occurred. The figure moved; and instantly, on the black
and oily surface of the water there was a series of vivid blue-white
circles widening out and out, and slowly subsiding into the dark again.
Each time the grey ghost moved onward (and the two girls stood
motionless, watching this strange phenomenon) there was this sudden
gleam (the reflection of the clear-shining heavens overhead) that lasted
for a moment or two; then the vague obscurity once more encompassed the
unknown person, and he became but an almost imperceptible phantom. And
was there not some sound in the all-pervading stillness?--an occasional
silken 'swish' through the air? Mary understood what this was well
enough.
"That man is poaching," said she, calmly--and she took no pains to
prevent herself being overheard. "And I suppose you and I, Kaethchen,
have no means of arresting him, and finding out who he is."
Her voice was clear, and no doubt carried a considerable distance in
this perfect silence. Immediately after she had spoken there were two or
three further series of those flashing rings--nearing the opposite bank:
then darkness again, and stillness; the spectral fisherman, whoever he
was, had vanished into the thick birchwood.
But Mary Stanley made no doubt as to who this was.
"Now I understand," she said, bitterly, as she and her companion set out
for home again, "why the salmon-fishing isn't worth L30 a month to
me--when it does not belong to me! And now I understand what Mr. Purdie
said about the poaching--and the connivance of everybody around. And
yet I suppose Mr. Ross of Heimra calls himself a gentleman? I suppose he
would not like to be called a thief? Well, I call him a thief! I call
poaching thieving--and nothing but thieving--whatever the people about
here may think. And I say it is not the conduct of a gentleman."
She was very angry and indignant; and the moment she got back to
Lochgarra House she sent for the head-keeper. In a few minutes the tall
and bushy-bearded Hector presented himself at the door of the room, cap
in hand a handsome man he was, with a grave and serious face.
"Is any one allowed to fish in that river who pleases?" she demanded.
"I was not aware of any one fishing, ma'am," said the keeper, very
respectfully.
"But is there no one watching?" she demanded, again. "Can any poacher
who chooses have the run of the stream? Does it belong to everybody?
Is it common property? Because--because I merely wish to know."
She was somewhat perturbed and excited; she did not think she was being
dealt with justly; and she saw in the grave and reticent manner of the
head-keeper only an intention of screening the culprit whom she herself
had by accident detected a little while before.
"The fishing in the Garra is not very good in the spring," said the
weather-browned Hector, "and we were not thinking it was much use to
have a water-bailiff whatever."
"But surely it is your business to see that no poaching goes on, either
on the river or anywhere else? Surely that is your duty? And if there
were no fishing, would anyone fish?--you may trust a poacher to know!
I'm sure," she went on, with something of a hurt manner, "it is very
little I ask. I only want to be treated fairly. I am trying to do my
best for every one in the place--I wish to do what is right by every
one. But then I want to be treated fairly in return. And poaching is
not fair; nor do I think it fair that you, as a keeper, should make
excuses for it, or try to screen anyone, whoever he may be."
The man's face became rather pale--even under the weather tan.
"If Miss Stanley would be wanting to get another gamekeeper," he said,
slowly and respectfully, "I would not be asking to stay."
"Oh, you would rather leave than interfere with Mr.----" She did not
complete the sentence. She turned away and walked to the window. The
fact is, it had been a long and harassing day; her nerves had got
unstrung; and all of a sudden a fit of helplessness and despair came
over her; it seemed impossible. she could ever struggle against this
misconstruction and opposition and dislike.
Kate Glendinning turned to the keeper.
"You need not wait, Hector," said she, in an undertone.
Then she went to her friend. Mary had broken down completely--and was
sobbing bitterly.
"Mamie!"
"I--I am not used to it," she said, between her sobs. "All day long, it
has been nothing but hatred--and--and I am not used to being hated.
What have I done to deserve it? I wish to--to do what is right by every
one--and--and I tried my--my very hardest to make friends with every
one. It is not fair--"
"No, it is not," said Kaethchen, and she took her companion by the hand
and led her back into the room. "But you must not be disheartened all
at once. Give them time. They don't understand you yet. And I will
back you to win over people against any one I ever knew: the fact is,
Mary, you have always found it so easy, that when you meet with a little
trouble you are terribly disappointed. They don't hate you, those
people; they don't know you--that is all."
And indeed the girl's naturally sunny temperament soon broke through
these bitter mortifications.
"After all, Kaethchen," she said, "I have not quite lost a day: I was
forgetting that I made one friend." There was an odd smile shining from
behind her tears. "It is true she is half-witted; but all the same I am
glad that Anna Chlannach seemed to approve of me."