THE VOYAGE OVER.
And now the brave old _Umpire_ is nearing her Northern home once more;
and surely this is a right royal evening for the reception of her. What
although the sun has just gone down, and the sea around them become a
plain of heaving and wrestling blue-black waves? Far away, in that
purple-black sea, lie long promontories that are of a still pale
rose-color; and the western sky is a blaze of golden-green; and they
know that the wild, beautiful radiance is still touching the wan walls
of Castle Dare. And there is Ardalanish Point; and that the ruddy Ross
of Mull; and there will be a good tide in the Sound of Iona. Why, then,
do they linger, and keep the old _Umpire_ with her sails flapping idly
in the wind?
"As you pass through Jura's Sound
Bend your course by Scarba's shore;
Shun, oh shun, the gulf profound
Where Corrievreckan's surges roar!"
They are in no danger of Corrievreckan now; they are in familiar waters;
only that is another Colonsay that lies away there in the south. Keith
Macleod, seated up at the bow, is calmly regarding it. He is quite
alone. There is no sound around him but the lapping of the waves.
"And ever as the year returns,
The charm-bound sailors knows the day;
For sadly still the Mermaid mourns
The lovely chief of Colonsay."
And is he listening now for the wild sound of her singing? Or is he
thinking of the brave Macphail, who went back after seven long months of
absence, and found the maid of Colonsay still true to him? The ruby ring
she had given him had never paled. There was one woman who could remain
true to her absent lover.
Hamish came forward.
"Will we go on now, sir?" said he, in the Gaelic.
"No."
Hamish looked round. The shining clear evening looked very calm,
notwithstanding the tossing of the blue-black waves. And it seemed
wasteful to the old sailor to keep the yacht lying-to or aimlessly
sailing this way and that while this favorable wind remained to them.
"I am not sure that the breeze will last, Sir Keith."
"Are you sure of anything, Hamish?" Macleod said, quite absently. "Well,
there is one thing we can all make sure of. But I have told you, Hamish,
I am not going up the Sound of Iona in daylight: why, there is not a man
in all the islands who would not know of our coming by to-morrow
morning. We will go up the Sound as soon as it is dark. It is a new moon
to-night; and I think we can go without lights, Hamish."
"_Dunara_ is coming south to-night, Sir Keith," the old man said.
"Why, Hamish, you seem to have lost all your courage as soon as you put
Colin Laing ashore."
"Colin Laing! Is it Colin Laing!" exclaimed Hamish, indignantly. "I will
know how to sail this yacht, and I will know the banks, and the tides,
and the rocks better than any fifteen thousands of Colin Laings!"
"And what if the _Dunara_ is coming south? If she cannot see us, we can
see her."
But whether it was that Colin Laing had, before leaving the yacht,
managed to convey to Hamish some notion of the risk he was running, or
whether it was that he was merely anxious for his master's safety, it
was clear that Hamish was far from satisfied. He opened and shut his big
clasp-knife in an awkward silence. Then he said,--
"You will not go to Castle Dare, Sir Keith?"
Macleod started; he had forgotten that Hamish was there.
"No. I have told you where I am going."
"But there is not any good anchorage at that island sir!" he protested.
"Have I not been round every bay of it; and you too, Sir Keith? and you
know there is not an inch of sand or of mud, but only the small loose
stones. And then the shepherd they left there all by himself; it was mad
he became at last, and took his own life too."
"Well, do you expect to see his ghost?" Macleod said. "Come, Hamish, you
have lost your nerve in the South. Surely you are not afraid of being
anywhere in the old yacht so long as she has good sea-room around her?"
"And if you are not wishing to go up the Sound of Iona in the daylight,
Sir Keith," Hamish said, still clinging to the point, "we could bear a
little to the south, and go round the outside of Iona."
"The Dubh-Artach men would recognize the _Umpire_ at once," Macleod
said, abruptly; and then he suggested to Hamish that he should get a
little more way on the yacht, so that she might be a trifle steadier
when Christina carried the dinner into the English lady's cabin. But
indeed there was now little breeze of any kind. Hamish's fears of a dead
calm was likely to prove true.
Meanwhile another conversation had been going forward in the small cabin
below, that was now suffused by a strange warm light reflected from the
evening sky. Miss White was looking very well now, after her long
sea-voyage. During their first few hours in blue water she had been very
ill indeed; and she repeatedly called en Christina to allow her to die.
The old Highland-woman came to the conclusion that English ladies were
rather childish in their way; but the only answer she made to this
reiterated prayer was to make Miss White as comfortable as was possible,
and to administer such restoratives as she thought desirable. At length,
when recovery and a sound appetite set in, the patient began to show a
great friendship for Christina. There was no longer any theatrical
warning of the awful fate in store for everybody connected with this
enterprise. She tried rather to enlist the old woman's sympathies on her
behalf, and if she did not very well succeed in that direction, at least
she remained on friendly terms with Christina and received from her the
solace of much gossip about the whereabouts and possible destination of
the ship.
And on this evening Christina had an important piece of news.
"Where have we got to now, Christina?" said Miss White, quite
cheerfully, when the old woman entered.
"Oh yes, mem, we will still be off the Mull shore, but a good piece
away from it, and there is not much wind, mem. But Hamish thinks we will
get to the anchorage the night whatever."
"The anchorage!" Miss White exclaimed eagerly. "Where? You are going to
Castle Dare, surely?"
"No, mem, I think not," said Christina. "I think it is an island; but
you will not know the name of that island--there is no English for it at
all."
"But where is it? Is it near Castle Dare?"
"Oh no, mem; it is a good way from Castle Dare; and it is out in the
sea. Do you know Gometra, mem?--wass you ever going out to Gometra?"
"Yes, of course, I remember something about it anyway."
"Ah, well, it is away out past Gometra, mem; and not a good place for an
anchorage whatever; but Hamish he will know all the anchorages."
"What on earth is the use of going there?"
"I do not know, mem."
"Is Sir Keith going to keep me on board this boat forever?"
"I do not know, mem."
Christina had to leave the cabin just then; when she returned she said,
with some little hesitation,
"If I wass mekking so bold, mem, ass to say this to you: Why are you not
asking the questions of Sir Keith himself? He will know all about it;
and if you were to come into the saloon, mem--"
"Do you think I would enter into any communication with him after his
treatment of me?" said Miss White, indignantly, "No; let him atone for
that first. When he has set me at liberty, then I will speak with him;
but never so long as he keeps me shut up like a convict."
"I wass only saying, mem," Christina answered, with great respect, "that
if you were wishing to know where we were going, Sir Keith will know
that; but how can I know it? And you know, mem, Sir Keith has not shut
you up in this cabin; you hef the saloon, if you would please to hef
it."
"Thank you, I know!" rejoined Miss White. "If I choose, my gaol may
consist of two rooms instead of one. I don't appreciate that amount of
liberty. I want to be set ashore."
"That I hef nothing to do with, mem," Christina said, humbly,
proceeding with her work.
Miss White, being left to think over these things, was beginning to
believe that, after all, her obduracy was not likely to be of much
service to her. Would it not be wiser to treat with the enemy--perhaps
to outwit him by a show of forgiveness? Here they were approaching the
end of the voyage--at least, Christina seemed to intimate as much; and
if they were not exactly within call of friends, they would surely be
within rowing distance of some inhabited island, even Gometra, for
example. And if only a message could be sent to Castle Dare? Lady
Macleod and Janet Macleod were women. They would not countenance this
monstrous thing. If she could only reach them, she would be safe.
The rose-pink died away from the long promontories, and was succeeded by
a sombre gray; the glory in the west sank down; a wan twilight came over
the sea and the sky; and a small golden star, like the point of a
needle, told where the Dubh-Artach men had lit their beacon for the
coming night. The _Umpire_ lay and idly rolled in this dead calm;
Macleod paced up and down the deck in the solemn stillness. Hamish threw
a tarpaulin over the skylight of the saloon, to cover the bewildering
light from below; and then, as the time went slowly by, darkness came
over the land and the sea. They were alone with the night, and the
lapping waves, and the stars.
About ten o'clock there was a loud rattling of blocks and cordage--the
first puff of a coming breeze had struck her. The men were at their
posts in a moment; there were a few sharp, quick orders from Hamish; and
presently the old _Umpire_, with her great boom away over her quarter,
was running free before a light southeasterly wind.
"Ay, ay!" said Hamish, in sudden gladness, "we will soon be by
Ardalanish Point with a fine wind like this, Sir Keith; and if you would
rather hef no lights on her--well, it is a clear night whateffer; and
the _Dunara_ she will hef up her lights."
The wind came in bits of squalls, it is true; but the sky overhead
remained clear, and the _Umpire_ bowled merrily along. Macleod was still
on deck. They rounded the Ross of Mull, and got into the smoother waters
of the Sound. Would any of the people in the cottages at Drraidh see
this gray ghost of a vessel go gliding past over the dark water? Behind
them burned the yellow eye of Dubh-Artach; before them a few small red
points told them of the Iona cottages; and still this phantom gray
vessel held on her way. The _Umpire_ was nearing her last anchorage.
And still she steals onward, like a thief in the night She has passed
through the Sound; she is in the open sea again; there is a calling of
startled birds from over the dark bosom of the deep. Then far away they
watch the light of a steamer; but she is miles from their course; they
cannot even hear the throb of her engines.
It is another sound they hear--a low booming as of distant thunder. And
that black thing away on their right--scarcely visible over the darkened
waves--is that the channelled and sea-bird haunted Staffa, trembling
through all her caves under the shock of the smooth Atlantic surge? For
all the clearness of the starlit sky, there is a wild booming of waters
all around her rocks; and the giant caverns answer; and the thunder
shudders out to the listening sea.
The night drags on. The Dutchman is fast asleep in his vast Atlantic
bed; the dull roar of the waves he has heard for millions of years is
not likely to awake him. And Fladda and Lunga; surely this ghost-gray
ship that steals by is not the old _Umpire_ that used to visit them in
the gay summer-time, with her red ensign flying, and the blue seas all
around her? But here is a dark object on the waters that is growing
larger and larger as one approaches it. The black outline of it is
becoming sharp against the clear dome of stars. There is a gloom around
as one gets nearer and nearer the bays and cliffs of this lonely island;
and now one hears the sound of breakers on the rocks. Hamish and his men
are on the alert. The topsail has been lowered. The heavy cable of the
anchor lies ready by the windlass. And then, as the _Umpire_ glides into
smooth water, and her head is brought round to the light breeze, away
goes the anchor with a rattle that awakes a thousand echoes; and all the
startled birds among the rocks are calling through the night--the
sea-pyots screaming shrilly, the curlews uttering their warning note,
the herons croaking as they wing their slow flight away across the sea.
The _Umpire_ has got to her anchorage at last.
And scarcely was the anchor down when they brought him a message from
the English lady. She was in the saloon, and wished to see him. He could
scarcely believe this; for it was now past midnight, and she had never
come into the saloon before. But he went down through the forecastle,
and through his own stateroom, and opened the door of the saloon.
For a second the strong light almost blinded him; but, at all events, he
knew she was sitting there; and that she was regarding him with no
fierce indignation at all, but with quite a friendly look.
"Gertrude!" said he, in wonder; but he did not approach her. He stood
before her, as one who was submissive.
"So we have got to land at last," said she; and more and more he
wondered to hear the friendliness of her voice. Could it be true, then?
Or was it only one of those visions that had of late been torturing his
brain?
"Oh yes, Gerty!" said he. "We have got to an anchorage."
"I thought I would sit up for it," said she. "Christina said we should
get to land some time to-night; and I thought I would like to see you.
Because, you know, Keith, you have used me very badly. And won't you sit
down?"
He accepted that invitation. _Could it be true? could it be true?_ This
was ringing in his ears. He heard her only in a bewildered way.
"And I want you to tell me what you mean to do with me," said she,
frankly and graciously: "I am at your mercy, Keith."
"Oh, not that--not that," said he; and he added, sadly enough, "it is I
who have been at your mercy since ever I saw you, Gerty; and it is for
you to say what is to become of you and of me. And have you got over
your anger now? And will you think of all that made me do this, and try
to forgive it for the sake of my love for you, Gerty? Is there any
chance of that now?"
She rather avoided the earnest gaze that was bent on her. She did not
notice how nervously his hand gripped the edge of the table near him.
"Well, it is a good deal to forgive, Keith; you will acknowledge that
yourself: and though you used to think that I was ready to sacrifice
everything for fame, I did not expect you would make me a nine-days'
wonder in this way. I suppose the whole thing is in the papers now."
"Oh no, Gerty; I sent a message to your father."
"Well, that was kind of you--and audacious. Were you not afraid of his
overtaking you? The _Umpire_ is not the swiftest of sailors, you used
to say; and you know there are telegraphs and railways to all the
ports."
"He did not know you were in the _Umpire_, Gerty. But of course, if he
were very anxious about you, he would write or come to Dare. I should
not be surprised if he were there now."
A quick look of surprise and gladness sprang to her face.
"Papa--at Castle Dare!" she exclaimed. "And Christina says it is not far
from here."
"Not many miles away."
"Then, of course, they will know we are here in the morning!" she cried,
in the indiscretion of sudden joy. "And they will come out for me."
"Oh no, Gerty, they will not come out for you. No human being but those
on board knows that we are here. Do you think they could see you from
Dare? And there is no one living now on the island. We are alone in the
sea."
The light died away from her face; but she said, cheerfully enough,--
"Well, I am at your mercy, then, Keith. Let us take it that way. Now you
must tell me what part in the comedy you mean me to play; for the life
of me I can't make it out."
"Oh, Gerty, Gerty, do not speak like that!" he exclaimed. "You are
breaking my heart! Is there none of the old love left? Is it all a
matter for jesting?"
She saw she had been incautious.
"Well," said she, gently, "I was wrong; I know it is more serious than
that; and I am not indisposed to forgive you, if you treat me fairly. I
know you have great earnestness of nature; and--and you were very fond
of me; and although you have risked a great deal in what you have done,
still, men who are very deeply in love don't think much about
consequences. And if I were to forgive you, and make friends again, what
then?"
"And if we were as we used to be," said he, with a grave wistfulness in
his face, "do you not think I would gladly take you ashore, Gerty?"
"And to Castle Dare?"
"Oh yes, to Castle Dare! Would not my mother and Janet be glad to
welcome you!"
"And papa may be there?"
"If he is not there, can we not telegraph for him? Why, Gerty, surely
you would not be married anywhere but in the Highlands?"
At the mention of marriage she blanched somewhat; but she had nerved
herself to play this part.
"Then, Keith," said she, gallantly, "I will make you a promise. Take me
to Castle Dare to-morrow, and the moment I am within its doors I will
shake hands with you, and forgive you, and we will be friends again as
in the old days."
"We were more than friends, Gerty," said he, in a low voice.
"Let us be friends first, and then who knows what may not follow?" said
she, brightly. "You cannot expect me to be overprofuse in affection just
after being shut up like this?"
"Gerty," said he, and he looked at her with those strangely tired eyes,
and there was a great gentleness in his voice, "do you know where you
are? You are close to the island that I told you of--where I wish to
have my grave on the cliff. But instead of a grave, would it not be a
fine thing to have a marriage here? No, do not be alarmed, Gerty! it is
only with your own goodwill; and surely your heart will consent at last!
Would not that be a strange wedding, too; with the minister from Salen;
and your father on board; and the people from Dare? Oh, you would see
such a number of boats come out that day, and we would go proudly back;
and do you not think there would be a great rejoicing that day? Then all
our troubles would be at an end, Gerty! There would be no more fear; and
the theatres would never see you again; and the long happy life we
should lead, we two together! And do you know the first thing I would
get you, Gerty?--it would be a new yacht! I would go to the Clyde and
have it built all for you. I would not have you go out again in this
yacht, for you would then remember the days in which I was cruel to you;
but in a new yacht you would not remember that any more; and do you not
think we would have many a pleasant, long summer day on the deck of her,
and only ourselves, Gerty? And you would sing the songs I first heard
you sing, and I think the sailors would imagine they heard the singing
of the mermaid of Colonsay; for there is no one can sing as you can
sing, Gerty. I think it was that first took away my heart from me."
"But we can talk about all these things when I am on shore again," said
she, coldly. "You cannot expect me to be very favorably disposed so
long as I am shut up here."
"But then," he said, "if you were on shore you might go away again from
me, Gerty! The people would get at your ear again; they would whisper
things to you; you would think about the theatres again. I have saved
you, sweetheart; can I let you go back?"
The words were spoken with an eager affection, and yearning; but they
sank into her mind with a dull and cold conviction that there was no
escape for her through any way of artifice.
"Am I to understand, then," said she, "that you mean to keep me a
prisoner here until I marry you?"
"Why do you speak like that, Gerty?"
"I demand an answer to my question."
"I have risked everything to save you; can I let you go back?"
A sudden flash of desperate anger--even of hatred--was in her eyes; her
fine piece of acting had been of no avail.
"Well, let the farce end!" said she, with frowning eyebrows. "Before I
came on board this yacht I had some pity for you. I thought you were at
least a man, and had a man's generosity. Now I find you a coward, and a
tyrant--"
"Gerty!"
"Oh, do not think you have frightened me with your stories of the
revenge of your miserable chiefs and their savage slaves! Not a bit of
it! Do with me what you like; I would not marry you if you gave me a
hundred yachts!"
"Gerty!"
The anguish of his face was growing wild with despair.
"I say, let the farce end! I had pity for you--yes, I had! Now--I hate
you!"
He sprang up with a quick cry, as of one shot to the heart. He regarded
her, in a bewildered manner, for one brief second; and then he gently
said, "Good-night, Gerty! God forgive you!" and he staggered backward,
and got out of the saloon, leaving her alone.
See! the night is still fine. All around this solitary bay there is a
wall of rock, jet black, against the clear, dark sky, with its myriad
twinkling stars. The new moon has arisen; but it sheds but little
radiance yet down there in the south. There is a sharper gleam from one
lambent planet--a thin line of golden-yellow light that comes all the
way across from the black rocks until it breaks in flashes among the
ripples close to the side of the yacht. Silence once more reigns around;
only from time to time one hears the croak of a heron from the dusky
shore.
What can keep this man up so late on deck? There is nothing to look at
but the great bows of the yacht black against the pale gray sea, and the
tall spars and the rigging going away up into the starlit sky, and the
suffused glow from the skylight touching a yellow-gray on the main-boom.
There is no need for the anchor-watch that Hamish was insisting on: the
equinoctials are not likely to begin on such a night as this.
He is looking across the lapping gray water to the jet-black line of
cliff. And there are certain words haunting him. He cannot forget them;
he cannot put them away.
* * * * *
WHEREFORE IS LIGHT GIVEN TO HIM THAT IS IN MISERY, AND LIFE UNTO THE
BITTER IN SOUL? * * * WHICH LONG FOR DEATH, BUT IT COMETH NOT; AND DIG
FOR IT MORE THAN FOR HIDDEN TREASURES. * * * WHICH REJOICE EXCEEDINGLY,
AND ARE GLAD WHEN THEY CAN FIND THE GRAVE.
* * * * *
Then, in the stillness of the night, he heard a breathing. He went
forward, and found that Hamish had secreted himself behind the windlass.
He uttered some exclamation in the Gaelic, and the old man rose and
stood guiltily before him.
"Have I not told you to go below before? and will I have to throw you
down into the forecastle?"
The old man stood irresolute for a moment. Then he said, also in his
native tongue,--
"You should not speak like that to me, Sir Keith: I have known you many
a year."
Macleod caught Hamish's hand.
"I beg your pardon, Hamish. You do not know. It is a sore heart I have
this night."
"Oh, God help us! Do I not know that!" he exclaimed, in a broken voice;
and Macleod, as he turned away, could hear the old man crying bitterly
in the dark. What else could Hamish do now for him who had been to him
as the son of his old age?
"Go below now, Hamish," said Macleod in a gentle voice and the old man
slowly and reluctantly obeyed.
But the night had not drawn to day when Macleod again went forward, and
said, in a strange, excited whisper,--
"Hamish, Hamish, are you awake now?"
Instantly the old man appeared; he had not turned into his berth at all.
"Hamish, Hamish, do you hear the sound?" Macleod said, in the same wild
way; "do you not hear the sound?"
"What sound, Sir Keith?" said he; for indeed there was nothing but the
lapping of the water along the side of the yacht and a murmur of ripples
along the shore.
"Do you not hear it, Hamish? It is a sound as of a brass-band!--a
brass-band playing music--as if it was in a theatre. Can you not hear
it, Hamish?"
"Oh, God help us! God help us!" Hamish cried.
"You do not hear it, Hamish?" he said. "Ah, it is some mistake. I beg
your pardon for calling you, Hamish: now you will go below again."
"Oh no, Sir Keith," said Hamish. "Will I not stay on deck now till the
morning? It is a fine sleep I have had; oh yes, I had a fine sleep. And
how is one to know when the equinoctials may not come on?"
"I wish you to go below, Hamish."
And now this sound that is ringing in his ears is no longer of the
brass-band that he had heard in the theatre. It is quite different. It
has all the ghastly mirth of that song that Norman Ogilvie used to sing
in the old, half-forgotten days. What is it that he hears?
"King Death was a rare old fellow,
He sat where no sun could shine;
And he lifted his hand so yellow,
And poured out his coal-black wine!
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! for the coal-black wine!"
It is a strange mirth. It might almost make a man laugh. For do we not
laugh gently when we bury a young child, and put the flowers over it,
and know that it is at peace? The child has no more pain at the heart.
Oh, Norman Ogilvie, are you still singing the wild song? and are you
laughing now?--or is it the old man Hamish that is crying in the dark?
* * * * *
"There came to him many a maiden,
Whose eyes had forgot to shine;
And widows with grief o'erladen,
For a draught of his sleepy wine.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! for the coal-black wine!"
It is such a fine thing to sleep--when one has been fretting all the
night, and spasms of fire go through the brain! Ogilvie, Ogilvie, do you
remember the laughing Duchess? do you think she would laugh over one's
grave; or put her foot on it, and stand relentless, with anger in her
eyes? That is a sad thing; but after it is over there is sleep.
* * * * *
"All came to the rare old fellow,
Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,
As he gave them his hand so yellow,
And pledged them, in Death's black wine!
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! for the coal-black wine!"
Hamish!--Hamish!--will you not keep her away from me! I have told Donald
what pibroch he will play; I want to be at peace now. But the
brass-band--the brass-band--I can hear the blare of the trumpets; Ulva
will know that we are here, and the Gometra men, and the sea-birds too,
that I used to love. But she has killed all that now, and she stands on
my grave. She will laugh, for she was light-hearted, like a young child.
But you, Hamish, you will find the quiet grave for me; and Donald will
play the pibroch for me that I told him of; and you will say no word to
her of all that is over and gone.
* * * * *
See--he sleeps. This haggard-faced man is stretched on the deck; and the
pale dawn, arising in the east, looks at him; and does not revive him,
but makes him whiter still. You might almost think he was dead. But
Hamish knows better than that; for the old man comes stealthily forward;
and he has a great tartan plaid in his hand's; and very gently indeed he
puts it over his young master. And there are tears running down Hamish's
face; and he says "The brave lad! the brave lad!"