FACE TO FACE.
She was out in the solitude of the woods, and she was alone. It was
early morning, clear, and calm, and still; the sun lay warm on the
silver-lichened boulders that were dappled with velvet-green moss; the
wandering air that stirred the pendulous branches of the birches brought
with it a resinous odour, from the innumerable millions of opening buds.
A profound silence prevailed, save for the hushed continuous murmur of
an unseen rivulet, and the occasional distant call of a curlew.
A vague restlessness, and something even akin to despair, had brought
her hither. For of course like other young people of the day she had
coquetted with the modern doctrine that in times of trouble our great
and gentle Mother Nature is the true consoler and comforter; she had
read Wordsworth; and she had read Matthew Arnold upon Wordsworth:
"He too upon a wintry clime
Had fallen--on this iron time
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
He found us when the age had bound
Our souls in its benumbing round--
He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.
He laid us as we lay at birth
On the cool flowery lap of earth;
Smiles broke from us and we had ease.
The hills were round us, and the breeze
Went o'er the sun-lit fields again;
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth return'd; for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead,
Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,
The freshness of the early world."
And now if she wished to forget the untowardness of human nature--if she
wished to escape from her bitter disappointment on beholding her large
and generous schemes met and checked on every hand by a sullen
ingratitude--surely here was a seclusion that should have brought balm
to her wounded heart. Moreover the morning light was cheerful; April as
it was, a quiet warmth prevailed; she tried to please herself by
recollecting that this fairy paradise actually belonged to her. And if
human beings were so hard and unapproachable, why, then, she could
interest herself in these harmless living creatures that were all so
busy around her, under the quickening influences of the spring. From
the dusty pathway in the opener glades the yellow-hammers were picking
up bits of withered grass for their nest-building; black-caps swung
back-downward from the sprays, to wrench the buds off with their bills;
she stopped here and there to watch a beautiful beetle--shining bronze,
or opaque green with a touch of scarlet on its legs; a tiny grey lizard,
with its small eye bright as a diamond, lay basking on a shelf of rock,
and remained absolutely motionless, hoping to be passed unnoticed. Then
she came upon a little tuft of primroses--so shining pale--so full of
dim suggestions--and of associations with the poets. Well, she looked
at the primroses. They were very pretty. But somehow she could not keep
thinking of them, nor of the fine things the poets had said of them.
The fact was, in her present straits her heart was craving for human
sympathy; she wanted to be of some use in the world; she wished to see
eyes brighten when she appeared at the door, however poor the cottage
might be. Primroses were pretty, no doubt--the firstlings of the year
awoke pleasant and tender memories--but--but why were those people so
obdurate? No, there was no solace for her; the sweet and soothing
influences of nature were intruded upon, were obliterated, by the harsh
facts and problems of human life. With those men and women almost
openly declared her enemies, and with all her grand schemes gone away,
what good could she get from primroses? And so, humiliating herself
with the conviction that she was nothing but another Peter Bell, she
passed on through the woods, and eventually got down to the sheltered
little bay where she had first met Anna Chlannach.
And on this occasion also she was destined to make a new acquaintance.
She was idly walking up and down the lilac and cream-hued beach--and
trying to persuade herself that she had found a refuge from the
perplexities and mortifications that seemed to surround her in the
busier world she had left--when a sound she had distantly heard from
time to time now rose in tone until there could be no doubt about its
nature: it was a human voice, proceeding from the neighbouring bay. She
went as close as she could to the intervening promontory; then curiosity
led her stealthily to climb the heathery slope; she made her way between
rocks and under birches; and at last she paused and listened. It was a
man's voice, of an unnaturally high pitch, and curiously plaintive in
its monotonous sing-song. In the perfect silence she distinctly heard
these words--
"Oh, my brethren, I charge you--I charge you by all that you hold
dearest--that you keep the little children from the ruby wine!"
What could this mean? She pushed her way a little further through the
thick underwood, and peered over. There was a small boat drawn up on
the shore. Pacing slowly backwards and forwards on the shingle was a
man of about twenty-eight or thirty, with a long and lugubrious face, a
shaggy brown beard, and deep set eyes. Sometimes his head was bent
down, as if in deep thought; and then again he would raise it, and
extend his arm, as if addressing the opposite side of the bay, or
perhaps Eilean Heimra out at sea; while ever and anon the curious
feminine falsetto came back to the admonition--"Oh, my brethren, keep
the little children from the ruby wine!"
Mary began to guess. Was this the Minister? Had he returned home; and
had he seized the first opportunity to come away over to this solitary
place, to rehearse his sermon for the following Sabbath, with
appropriate intonation and gesture? She listened again:
"'Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath
babbling? who hath wounds without cause? who hath redness of eyes?' Ah,
my friends, now that I have addressed each section of the community,
each member of the family circle, now we come to the little babes--those
tender flowers--those blossoms along the rough roadway of life--smiling
upon us like the rainbows of the morning--and bedewing the earth with
their consecrated tears. When I behold those gems of purest ray
serene," continued the Minister, in his elevated chant, "my soul is
filled with misgivings and sad prognostications. I observe in my daily
walk the example that is set before them; the fathers in Israel are a
stumbling-block to their own children; nay, even of the wisest it has
been said, 'The priest and the prophet have erred through strong drink,
they are swallowed up of wine, they are out of the way through strong
drink; they err in vision, they stumble in judgment.' My friends, is it
not a terrible thing to think of these blessed babes--these innocent
tendrils sprouting up into glorious flowers, even as the Rose of Sharon
and the lily of the valley--to think of them babbling with red mouths
curses they cannot comprehend? Hold them back, I say! Snatch the fatal
goblet from them! Let pleasure wave her ambrosial locks when and where
she pleases--let mirth and joy prevail--but when the timbrel sounds and
the cymbal is heard in the hall--then, at all events let those innocent
ones be restrained from the deadly snare--keep, oh, keep the little
children from the ruby wine!"
Unluckily this last appeal was addressed to Mary herself, or at least
she thought so in her fright when she found the Minister's eyes turned
towards her: instantly she bobbed her head down in the heather, and
remained hidden there until the sermon--or perhaps it was a temperance
lecture?--was ended. It did not last much longer. After the sonorous
sentences had ceased, there was a moment's silence; then a grating on
the beach; then a measured sound of oars: she concluded that the
Minister, his flowery harangue rehearsed, was now making for home again;
and she was free to get up from her concealment and return to Lochgarra
House.
"Kaethchen," she said, "the Minister has come back. I have seen
him--though I--I, didn't speak to him. Now don't you think we ought to
go along and make his acquaintance at once? He might help us: you say
yourself the Free Church Ministers have an enormous influence in the
Highlands."
Kate Glendinning did not receive this proposal with any great
enthusiasm.
"There is one thing he might do," said she, "as I told you before,
Mamie. It would be much easier for us to go and see Mr. Ross, if the
Minister would take us under his escort."
"Mr. Ross!" said Mary, impatiently. "It is Mr. Ross, and Mr. Ross, with
you from morning till night, Kaethchen! You would think he owned the
whole place!"
"Yes," said Kaethchen, demurely, "that is just what he seems to do."
However, the interview to which both the young ladies had looked forward
with so much anxiety came about in the most natural way in the world;
and that without any intervention whatever. Mary and Kaethchen, being
down in the village, had gone into the post-office to buy some packets
of sweets--bribes for the children, no doubt; and they were coming out
again from the little general store when, in broad and full daylight,
they met young Ross of Heimra face to face. There was no escape
possible on either side; he was going into the post-office; they were
coming out; and here they were, confronted. Well, it must be admitted
that at this crisis Mary Stanley's presence of mind entirely forsook
her. Ten hundred thousand things seemed to go through her brain at
once; she could not speak; confusion burned red in her cheeks and on her
forehead. And then he was so pale and calm and collected; for a second
he regarded them both--and with no furtive glance; he slightly raised
his peaked cap, and would have passed them without more ado. It was
Kaethchen who made bold to detain him.
"Oh, Mr. Ross," said she, breathlessly, "we have never had an
opportunity of thanking you--you left the cottage before we
knew--and--and it was so kind of you to send the carriage----"
And here for a moment Kaethchen also lost her head, for she had a
horrible consciousness that when a man has saved your life it is
ridiculous to thank him for sending a carriage. And then those
coal-black eyes were so calmly observant; they were not generously
sympathetic; they seemed merely to await what she had to say with a
respectful attention. But Kaethchen bravely began again: "You--you must
not think us ungrateful--you see, you had left the cottage before we
knew--and when we went out to Heimra, we did not find you at home----"
"I am sorry I was not there," he said.
"And--and of course we knew quite well what a dreadful position we were
in--I mean that night when we wandered into the morass," continued
Kaethchen. "But for you we never should have got out again--we dared
not move--and in the darkness what could we have done?"
"It is a dangerous place," he said.
"I--I am going to give Mrs. MacVean a cow in place of the one that was
lost," Mary now ventured to put in; and here was she--the bold, the
dauntless, the proud-spirited one!--here was she standing timidly there,
her face still suffused, her eyes downcast. And this little speech of
hers was like a plea for merciful consideration! He turned to her.
"The MacVeans have had a bad time of it since the shepherd died," the
young man said, in a distant sort of way--but he was regarding her
curiously.
Then all of a sudden it occurred to Mary that she ought not to stand
there as a suppliant. Some sense of her wrongs and her recent trials
came back to her; and here was the one whom she suspected of being
responsible--here was her secret enemy--the antagonist who had hitherto
concealed himself in the dark.
"I hope the widow will condescend to accept it, but who can tell?" said
she, with greater spirit. "Really, they are the most extraordinary
people! They seem to resent your trying to do them a kindness. I have
been offering them all sorts of things they stand in need of; I am
willing to lower their rents; I am going to arrange for more pasture; I
propose to give prizes for the best homespun materials; and I would pay
for getting over some of the Harris people, if instruction were wanted
in dyeing or weaving--but they seem to suspect it is all for my own
interest. I make them these offers--they will hardly look at them!"
"You may teach a dog to love you by feeding it," said young Donald Ross,
coldly; "but the Highlanders are not dogs."
At this she fired up--and there was no more shamefaced girlish blushing
in her cheeks. Her eyes were as proud as his own.
"They are human beings, I suppose," said she, "and a human being might
at least say 'Thank you.' But I do not know that I blame them," she
continued--to Kaethchen's great anxiety. "It seems to me there must be
secret influences at work about here. It is not natural for people to
be so ungrateful. Self-interest would make them a little more--a little
more--amenable--if it were not for some evil instigation at work among
them. And what can any one gain by stirring up ill-will? What can be
the motive? At any rate, whatever the motive, and whoever he is, he
might consider this--he might consider the mischief he is doing these
poor people in making them blind to their own welfare. It seems a
strange thing that in order to gratify envy, or hatred, or revenge, he
should sacrifice the interests of a number of poor people who don't know
any better."
Kaethchen glanced apprehensively from the one to the other; but there
was no flash of anger in those dark eyes, nor any tinge of resentment in
the pale, olive-tinted face. The young man maintained a perfectly
impassive demeanour--respectful enough, but reserved and distant.
"I wish them nothing but good," Mary went on, in the same indignant way,
"but how can I do anything if they turn away from me? Why do they not
come and tell me what they want?"
"Come and tell you what they want?--when they daren't call their souls
their own!" he said.
"Of whom are they afraid, then?" she demanded.
"Of your agent, Miss Stanley," said he (and here indeed Kaethchen did
notice something strange in his eyes--a gleam of dark fire in spite of
all his studied restraint). "What do they care about philanthropic
schemes, or how can you expect them to talk about their wants and
wishes, when what they actually know is that Purdie has the face of
every one of them at the grindstone?" He altered his tone. "I beg your
pardon. I have no right to interfere--and no wish to interfere. If you
should think of coming out again to Heimra, Miss Stanley, to have a look
over the island, I hope I may be at home. Good-morning!"
He again raised his cap--and passed on into the office. Mary stood
undecided for a moment; then moved slowly away, accompanied by
Kaethchen. Before them was the wide sweep of the bay, with Lochgarra
House at the point, and its background of larches. The sea was calm;
the skies clear; it was a peaceful-looking morning.
Of a sudden Mary Stanley stopped--her eyes full of disappointment and
vexation.
"Everything is at sixes and sevens--and worse than before!" she
exclaimed to her companion. "What did I say, Kaethchen? What did he
say? Wasn't he very insolent?--well, not that, exactly--not exactly
insolent--but--well, I am not used to being treated with disdain. Why
did he break off like that--with everything unsettled? Wasn't he very
insolent?--or, at least, disdainful?--what did I say that he should
treat me like that?"
"I know this," said the frivolous Kaethchen, "that he has the most
splendid eyes I ever saw in a human creature. I call him just
distressingly handsome!"
"There is nothing so contemptible as a beauty man," said Mary,
impatiently. "What has that got to do with it? I want to know why he
treated me like that!"
"I thought he behaved with very great courtesy and self-respect,"
Kaethchen made answer, "considering that you plainly intimated to him
that it was he who stirred up all that ill-feeling against you."
"Very well: he had nothing to say for himself!" Mary exclaimed. "He
made no defence. And then, you see, I--I wasn't quite prepared--I did
not expect to see him--and I forgot about the fishing and shooting, or
that might have made him a little ashamed of himself, and a little less
arrogant." She turned and looked towards the post-office. "I wonder
whether that was a map that he had rolled up in his hand or a chart? If
he is going on board his yacht again, he must pass this way. I cannot
have things left as they are--worse than ever!"
"I don't see how you are to mend them at present," said Kaethchen. "If
you had kept on as you began, in that friendly way, it might have been
all very well; but then you grew indignant, and almost charged him with
being the mischief-maker. And I must say I think he behaved with very
great consideration and courtesy."
"Do you really think so?" said Mary, quickly--with her eyes still fixed
on the post-office. And then she hesitated. And then she said: "Come,
Kaethchen, let us go back. I wish to make an apology to him----"
"Mary!" her friend protested. "How can you think of such a thing!"
"Oh, but you do not know. It is not about anything that has just
happened. It is about the lake and the old castle. I quite forgot. And
perhaps it is that that makes him so unforgiving. I must tell him that
I am sorry."
But Kaethchen shrank back.
"Make an apology for that?" said she. "You don't seem to understand,
Mary. It is too serious for an apology. If you murder a man's father
or mother, you can't go to him and say 'I am very sorry.'
"Will you go on to the house, then, Kaethchen?" said Mary, simply. "I
must put myself right with him--and after that he can be as disdainful
as he chooses."
Of course Kaethchen refused to be released; she went back with her; and
just as they reached the little building, young Ross of Heimra came out.
He had neither chart nor map in his hand now; whichever it had been, he
had no doubt sent it away by post.
He seemed a little surprised; but was just as attentive and respectful
as before.
"There was something I forgot to say," she began, with obvious
embarrassment, "and--and it is difficult to say it. It was not till I
came here that I knew what my uncle had done--about--about Loch
Heimra--and Castle Heimra. Well, there are some injuries, my friend
here says, that can never be repaired. I suppose that is so. But at
least you will allow me to say that I am sorry--more deeply sorry than
you can imagine perhaps----"
"And there are some things that are best not spoken of," he said,
calmly.
"Yes, I daresay that is so," she made answer, with a hopeless feeling at
her heart that his tone and manner were alike implacable. "No doubt
that is so. And yet--yet some little consideration might be shown
towards any one who wishes to express regret. It was none of my doing;
it never would have been of my doing. And though you, of course, would
rather hear no apology--would rather not have the subject
mentioned--still, there is another thing. The people about here--if
they have any resentment against me because of the pulling down of
Castle Heimra--then that is not fair. And any one having influence with
them--well, it would be ill done of him to stir up anger against me on
that account. I had nothing to do with it--I am very sorry it ever
happened."
"Miss Stanley," said he--for he plainly did not wish to speak of this
thing--"I think you are mistaken in supposing that any one is stirring
up ill-will against you; and even the most ignorant of the people must
know that you are not responsible for what happened before you came
here. As regards myself, I do not wish for any apology or expression of
regret; I wish for only one thing--forgetfulness. I think in such a case
silence is the only amends."
So they parted for the second time; and when the two girls had gone some
way towards Lochgarra House, Mary said,--
"Yes; but all the same I told him I was sorry."
And then again she turned and looked. Donald Ross had passed through the
village, and was now going up to the Free Church minister's cottage.
"Kaethchen," said she, rather absently, "there are a good many of them
about here who seem to hate me; but I know there is not one of them who
hates me as he does. And what had I to do with the pulling down of
Heimra Castle?"
And that afternoon, as she stood at one of the windows in the tower,
looking away out to sea, she saw the little white-winged yawl making for
Heimra Island. She knew who was at the tiller--the man before whom she
had abased herself, craving, and craving in vain, for some word of
consideration and sympathy.
"Proud and implacable," she said to herself; and her wounded spirit was
sore within her, and perhaps a trifle indignant, too; but she would make
no further utterance. He had asked for silence and forgetfulness; and
he had the right to say what was to be.
Meanwhile the message that Mary had sent to the Fishery Board in
Edinburgh had been duly received and considered; and when, after two or
three days' interval, the answer came back to Lochgarra, it was to the
effect that the alien lobster fishermen had either been misinformed or
were making wilful mis-statements: the Fishery Board had not given them
the right to build huts, and, indeed, had no power to confer any such
right. At once Mary sent for Hector the head-keeper; and bade him seek
out Archie MacNicol, and convey to him this news.
"And tell him from me," she said, "that all he has to do is to explain
to these men that they have no right to come here and build huts and use
the fishing-grounds that naturally belong to the crofters in possession;
and that they must go--and go peaceably."
"Would Miss Stanley be for having a sheriff's-officer over from
Dingwall?" suggested the tall and handsome keeper, in his serious way.
"No, no, not at all!" she said. "The men must go, when they learn they
have no right to be here. And if they refuse to go, haven't we got our
own policeman?"
"Very well, mem," said Hector, and he left.
It was towards the dusk of evening, and raining heavily; but all the
same Hector found Big Archie at work in his little bit of a garden. When
Archie heard the news, he struck his spade in the ground, and stood
upright.
"Aw, that's the fine news!" he exclaimed, joyfully, in Gaelic. "And we
will soon be putting an end to the squatters now, Hector! Was I not
saying it myself that they had no right to come here?--but now there is
the message from the Fishery Board; and we will soon have the devils
away from the lobster-ground. And when there is good news coming, you
will be for taking a dram with me, Hector?"
Well, it is said there was once a Highland keeper who refused a glass of
whiskey; but his name and neighbourhood are not known now. Hector
followed Big Archie into the cottage, and there a black bottle was
produced. Thereafter, the two men, having lit their pipes, set out
through the dark and wet again, for Hector was returning to his own
home, and Archie was going a certain distance with him in search of the
Gillie Ciotach.
The stiff glass of whiskey had warmed Big Archie's heart; and as he
strode along, the huge and heavy-shouldered giant grew garrulous.
"The young lady that has come here," said he, in his native tongue, "you
know as well as I do, Hector, she means very well, but it is not the
place for her at all. I say it is not the place for her at all. What
can a young lady know about the price of sheep and the price of
lobsters? It is a foolish thing! The place for her, now, Hector, that
place is London, at the court of the Queen, among the great ladies, in
their fine clothes and jewels. You think I do not know about such
things; but I do know; for I myself have relations with London; and it
is from London I am hearing every fortnight, from Corstorphine. And the
other day, when she was in my boat, I was saying to myself 'There is a
fine and beautiful lady to be sitting in a coarse lobster-boat; and it
is at the court of the Queen she ought to be; and not going about asking
people to put in better chimneys, and the like of that. A woman--a
woman has no right to be at the head of an estate; and I am not sure
that the law allows it; maybe she is here only through Purdie, and he
the master of the estate. Just think of that, Hector--if it is only
Purdie that keeps out Young Donald from the estate: would not that be a
thing to be considered? Now you know I am not from this place myself; I
am from much farther south; but I am a Gael; I have no love for any
Albannach or Sassunnach coming into this country against the wishes of
the people; and if it is only Purdie, aw, God, it's myself that would
willingly give Purdie a crack on the head. And think of young Donald of
Heimra coming into the estates, would it not be a grand day that,
Hector?--ay, and many a gun fired off, and the bagpipes, and flags, and
taking the horses out of the carriage. Sure I am the Gillie Ciotach
would go mad that day."
The mention of the Gillie Ciotach recalled the keeper to his own
immediate affairs.
"If you see Gillie Ciotach, Archie," said he, "perhaps you will give him
a word of caution. The other evening I heard a shot up by the Crom-allt;
and I did not look. But the next time I hear a shot, I will look; and
if I catch Gillie Ciotach, I will break his gun over his head, yes, and
I will shoot his thief of a dog, too; for I am not going to get myself
into trouble on account of the Gillie Ciotach. This you know, Archie,
that when old Mr. Stanley was here, there was not much goodwill; and
perhaps some of us may have shut our eyes a little; but things are
different now; for here is my sister Barbara telling me again and again
that the Baintighearna is the kindest lady she has ever known in the
world, and that it is not at all what Purdie wishes to have done that
she means to have done. Well, well, that is not my business; but my
business is to look after myself; and I am not going to get into trouble
on account of Gillie Ciotach."
At this point the two parted; and Big Archie went on to the inn. But he
did not enter by the front-door; he passed round by the stable-yard, and
made his way to a small lighted window that was partly open. He peeped
in and listened at the same time--with a grin of satisfaction on his
face, for he had found what he sought.
There were three men in this little sanded parlour, which was a sort of
adjunct to the inn. They were seated round a table on which was an
oil-lamp; and in front of each man stood a small pewter measure and also
a glass. Two of the men were middle-aged, and of a sailor-like type;
the third was a young fellow of about four-and-twenty, whose bronzed
complexion, regular features, and short-cropped curly brown hair made
him rather good-looking, only that in regarding him one did not notice
these things so much as the dare-devil expression of both eye and mouth.
He also was dressed in something of sailor-like attire; while his broad
Balmoral bonnet, pushed far back on his brown curls, revealed the fact
that in his earlier youth he must have received a mighty slash along the
side of his forehead. This was the Gillie Ciotach; and the Gillie
Ciotach was singing--in high and nasal tones, while his two companions
listened solemnly. Yet this was not really a melancholy song, this _Linn
an aigh_, for it described the happy state of affairs that existed long
ago, when the heather yielded abundance of honey, and the pastures
abundance of milk, when there was no rent to pay, when any one could
fish or shoot wherever he pleased, and when there was neither hatred nor
fighting, nor thirst of wealth. Indeed, there was perhaps a touch of
sarcasm in the verses; for the refrain informed whosoever might wish to
know at what period of the world's history this golden age existed that
it was _An uair bha Gailig aig na h-eoin_--that is to say, _When all the
birds in Gaelic sang_. However, whether the song was or was not intended
to be merry, the audience received it in precisely the same fashion:
when it ended, the one said 'Ay, ay' in a sad tone; the other sighed
deeply; and then each mechanically proceeded to pour out a glass of
whiskey. The Gillie Ciotach did likewise; by all three the whiskey was
drank in absolute silence; there was a pause of internal meditation--and
at this point Big Archie thought fit to open the door and enter, for he
had been long enough out in the rain.
And no sooner had he told his story than the dare-devil leapt to his
feet, a wild delight in his eyes.
"Aw, _Dyeea_, this is a fine thing!" he cried, sniffing the battle from
afar. "I tell you now we will make short work of it--we will drive the
squatters into the Minch, and if the devils can swim across the Minch,
let them swim across the Minch, and if they cannot swim across the
Minch, they can go down to their master below! Come away, boys, and
make the preparation; for there will be a gay dance to-morrow!"
The big giant caught him by both shoulders, and threw him back into the
chair.
"Did you hear me?" said he (but there was an ominous mirth in his eyes
too). "Peaceably, peaceably; the Baintighearna says peaceably--they are
to go peaceably."
"Aw, is it peaceably?" the Gillie Ciotach cried, with a loud laugh.
"Well, if they will go peaceably, that is very good; but if they will
not go peaceably, then we will make them sing a little song
to-morrow--by God, Archie MacNicol, we will make them sing 'Farewell to
Fiunary,' and maybe it is on the wrong side of their mouth they will be
singing the 'Farewell to Fiunary!"