CHAPTER XVIII.

ADIEU

*WHITE WINGS:*

*A Yachting Romance.*

*CHAPTER I.*

*A CONFESSION.*

What could the solitary scouts, coming back from the various points of

the island, know of this quick, unwilling cry of pain, and of the forced

calm that followed it? They had their own sorrows. There was a gloom

upon their faces. One and all bore the same story--not a seal, not a

wild duck, not even a rock pigeon anywhere.

"But it is a fine thing to be able to straighten one's back," says the

Laird, who always seizes on the cheerful side; "and we have not given up

hope of your getting the sealskin yet, Miss Mary--no, no. The Doctor

says they are away hunting just now; when the tide gets low again they

will come up on the rocks. So the best thing we can do is to spend

plenty of time over our luncheon, and cross the island again in the

afternoon. Aye; begun already?" adds the Laird, as he goes up to the

canvas, and regards the rough outlines in charcoal with a critical air.

"Very good! very good!" he says, following the lines with his thumb, and

apparently drawing in the air. "Excellent! The composeetion very

clever indeed--simple, bold, striking. And a fine blaze of colour ye'll

have on a day like this; and then the heavy black hull of the smack bang

in the foreground: excellent, excellent! But if I were you, I would

leave out that rock there; ye would get a better sweep of the sea.

Don't distract the eye in sea pieces; bold lines--firm, sound colour:

and there ye are. Well, my lass, ye have the skill of constructing a

picture. Tom Galbraith himself would admit that, I know----"

But here the Laird is called away by his hostess.

"I would advise you, sir," says she, "to have some luncheon while you

can get it. It is a very strange thing, with all you gentlemen on

board, and with all those guns lying about, but we are drawing nearer

and nearer to starvation. I wish you would give up hunting seals, and

shoot something useful."

Here our young Doctor appears with certain bottles that have been

cooling in the water.

"There must be plenty of rock pigeons in the caves we passed this

morning, on the other island," he says.

"Oh, not those beautiful birds!" says she of the empty larder. "We

cannot have Hurlingham transported to the Highlands."

"Whoever trys to shoot those pigeons won't find it a Hurlingham

business," he remarks.

But the Laird has a soul above luncheons, and larders, and

pigeon-shooting. He is still profoundly absorbed in thought.

"No," he says, at length, to the young lady who, as usual, is by his

side. "I am wrong!"

She looks up at him with some surprise.

"Yes, I am wrong," he says, decisively. "Ye must keep in that island.

Ye must sacrifice picturesqueness to truth. Never mind the picture:

keep the faithful record. In after life ye will be able to get plenty

of pictures; but ye may not be able to get an exact record of the things

ye saw when ye were sailing with the _White Dove_."

"Well, you know, sir," observes Miss Avon, with a somewhat embarrassed

smile, "you don't give me much encouragement. You always speak as if I

were to be compelled to keep those sketches. Am I to find nobody silly

enough to buy them?"

Now, somehow or other of late, the Laird has been more and more inclined

to treat the sale of Mary Avon's pictures as a most irresistible joke.

He laughs and chuckles at the mere mention of such a thing, just as if

Homesh were somewhere about.

"Sell them!" he says, with another deep chuckle. "Ye will never sell

them. Ye could not have the heart to part with them."

"The heart has to be kept in proper subjection," says she, lightly,

"when one has to earn one's living."

Queen Titania glances quickly at the girl; but apparently there is no

profound meaning concealed in this speech. Miss Avon has taken her seat

on a shelving piece of grey rock; and, if she is concerned about

anything, it is about the safety of certain plates and knives and such

things. Her hand is quite steady as she holds out her tumbler for the

Youth to pour some water into the claret.

Luncheon over, she returns to her work; and the band of seal-hunters,

taking to cigars and pipes, sit and watch the tide slowly ebb away from

the golden-brown seaweed. Then, with many a caution as to patience and

silence, they rise and get their guns and set out. Already there is a

disposition to slouch the head and walk timidly; though as yet there is

no need of any precaution.

"_Glueckliche Reise!_" says Miss Avon, pleasantly, as we pass.

Angus Sutherland starts, and turns his head. But the salutation was not

for him; it was meant for the Youth, who is understood to be the most

eager of the seal-hunters. And Mr. Smith, not having his answer pat,

replies, "I hope so;" and then looks rather confused as he passes on,

carefully stooping his head though there is no occasion whatever.

Then, by following deep gullies and crawling over open ledges, we reach

points commanding the various bays; and with the utmost caution peer

over or round the rocks. And whereas yesterday, being Sunday, the bays

were alive with seals, disporting themselves freely in full view of a

large party of people who were staring at them, to-day, being Monday,

finds not a seal visible anywhere, though every one is in hiding, and

absolute silence must have reigned in the island, ever since the lobster

fishers left in the morning. No matter; the tide is still ebbing; the

true hunter must possess his soul.

And yet this lying prone for hours on a ledge of exceedingly rough rock

must have been monotonous work for our good friend the Laird. Under his

nose nothing to look at but scraps of orange lichen and the stray

feathers of sea birds; abroad nothing but the glassy blue sea, with the

pale mountains of Jura rising into the cloudless sky. At last it seemed

to become intolerable. We could see him undergoing all sorts of

contortions in the effort to wrest something out of his coat-pocket

without raising any portion of his body above the line of cover. He

himself was not unlike a grey seal in the shadow of the rock, especially

when he twisted and turned himself about without rising an inch from the

surface. And in time he succeeded. We could see him slowly and

carefully unfold that newspaper--probably not more than a week old--just

beneath his face. He had no need of spectacles: his eyes were almost

touching the page. And then we knew that he was at rest; and the hard

rock and the seals all forgotten. For we took it that this local paper

was one which had written a most important leading article about the

proposed public park for Strathgovan, calling upon the ratepayers to

arise and assert their rights and put a check on the reckless

extravagance of the Commissioners. The Laird himself was openly pointed

at as one who would introduce the luxury of the later Romans into a

sober Scotch community; and there were obscure references to those who

seemed to consider that a man's dwelling-house should become nothing

more nor less than a museum of pictures and statues, while they would

apply taxes raised from a hard-working population in the adornment of

places of recreation for the idle. But do you think that the Laird was

appalled by this fierce onslaught? Not a bit of it. He had read and

re-read it to us with delight. He had triumphantly refuted the writer's

sophistries; he had exposed his ignorance of the most elementary facts

in political economy; he was always rejoiced to appear before Tom

Galbraith and Mary Avon as one who was not afraid to suffer for his

championship of art. And then, when he had triumphed over his enemy, he

would fold the paper with a sort of contented sigh; and would say with a

compassionate air, "Poor crayture! poor crayture!" as if the poor

crayture could not be expected to know any better.

At last--at last! The Laird makes frantic gestures with his

newspaper--all the more frantic that they have to be strictly lateral,

and that he dare not raise his hand. And behold! far away out there on

the still, blue surface, a smooth round knob, shining and black.

Without a muscle moving, eager eyes follow that distant object. The

seal is not alarmed or suspicious; he sails evenly onward, seldom

looking to right or left. And when he disappears there is no splash; he

has had enough of breathing; he is off for his hunting in the deep seas.

What is more, he remains there. We catch no further trace of him, nor

of any other living thing around those deserted bays. Human nature

gives in. The Youth gets up, and boldly displays himself on a

promontory, his gun over his shoulder. Then the Laird, seeing that

everything is over, gets up too, yawning dreadfully, and folds his

newspaper, and puts it in his pocket.

"Come along!" he calls out. "It is no use. The saints have taught the

seals tricks. They know better than to come near on a working day."

And so presently the sombre party sets out again for the other side of

the island, where the gig awaits us. Not a word is said. Cartridges

are taken out; we pick our way through the long grass and the stones.

And when it is found that Miss Avon has roughed in all that she requires

of her present study, it is gloomily suggested that we might go back by

way of the other island, that so haply we might secure the materials for

a pigeon pie before returning to the yacht.

The evening sun was shining ruddily along the face of the cliffs as we

drew near the other island; and there was no sign of life at all about

the lonely shores and the tall caves. But there was another story to

tell when, the various guns having been posted, the Youth boldly walked

up to the mouth of the largest of the caves, and shouted. Presently

there were certain flashes of blue things in the mellow evening light;

and the sharp bang! bang! of the gun, that echoed into the great

hollows. Hurlingham? That did not seem much of a Hurlingham

performance. There were no birds standing bewildered on the fallen

trap, wondering whether to rise or not; but there were things coming

whizzing through the air that resembled nothing so much as rifle bullets

with blue wings. The Youth, it is true, got one or two easy shots at

the mouth of the cave; but when the pigeons got outside and came

flashing over the heads of the others, the shooting was, on the whole, a

haphazard business. Nevertheless, we got a fair number for Master

Fred's larder, after two of the men had acted as retrievers for

three-quarters of an hour among the rocks and bushes. Then away again

for the solitary vessel lying in the silent loch, with the pale mists

stealing over the land, and the red sun sinking behind the Jura hills.

Again, after dinner, amid the ghostly greys of the twilight, we went

forth on another commissariat excursion, to capture fish. Strange to

say, however, our Doctor, though he was learned on the subject of flies

and tackle, preferred to remain on board: he had some manuscript to send

off to London. And his hostess said she would remain too; she always has

plenty to do about the saloon. Then we left the _White Dove_ and rowed

away to the rocks.

But the following conversation, as we afterwards heard, took place in

our absence:--

"I wished very much to speak to you," said Angus Sutherland, to his

hostess, without making any movement to bring out his desk.

"I thought so," said she; not without a little nervous apprehension.

And then she said quickly, before he could begin--

"Let me tell you at once, Angus, that I have spoken to Mary. Of course,

I don't wish to interfere; I wouldn't interfere for the world; but--but

I only asked her, lest there should be any unpleasant misapprehension,

whether she had any reason to be offended with you. 'None in the

least,' she said. She was most positive. She even seemed to be deeply

pained by the misunderstanding; and--and wished me to let you know; so

you must dismiss that from your mind any way."

He listened thoughtfully, without saying anything. At last he said--

"I have determined to be quite frank with you. I am going to tell you a

secret--if it is a secret----"

"I have guessed it," she said, quickly, to spare him pain.

"I thought so," he said, quite quietly. "Well; I am not ashamed of it.

I have no reason to be ashamed of it. But, since you know, you will see

that it would be very embarrassing for me to remain longer on board the

yacht if--if there was no hope----"

He turned over the leaves of a guide-book rapidly, without looking at

them; the hard-headed Doctor had not much command over himself at this

moment.

"If you have guessed, why not she?" he said, in a somewhat hurried and

anxious manner. "And--and--if I am to go, better that I should know at

once. I--I have nothing to complain of--I mean I have nothing to

reproach her with--if it is a misfortune, it is a misfortune--but--but

she used to be more friendly towards me."

These two were silent. What was passing before their minds? The long

summer nights in the far northern seas, with the glory dying in the

west; or the moonlight walks on the white deck, with the red star of

Ushinish lighthouse burning in the south; or the snug saloon below, with

its cards, and candles, and laughter, and Mary Avon singing to herself

the song of Ulva? She sang no song of Ulva now.

"Mary and I are very intimate friends," says the other deliberately. "I

will say nothing against her. Girls have curious fancies about such

things sometimes. But I must admit--for you are my friend too--that I

am not surprised you should have been encouraged by her manner to you at

one time, or that you should wonder a little at the change."

But even this mild possibility of Mary Avon's being in the wrong she

feels to be incompatible with her customary championship of her friend;

and so she instantly says--

"Mind, I am certain of this--that whatever Mary does, she believes to be

right. Her notion of duty is extraordinarily sensitive and firm. Once

she has put anything before her as the proper thing to be done, she goes

straight at it; and nothing will turn her aside. And although there is

something about it I can't quite understand, how am I to interfere?

Interference never does any good. Why do not you ask her yourself?"

"I mean to do so, when I get the chance," said he, simply. "I merely

wished to tell you that, if her answer is 'No,' it will be better for me

to leave you. Already I fancy my being on board the yacht is a trouble

to her. I will not be a trouble to her. I can go. If it is a

misfortune, there is no one to blame."

"But if she says '_Yes!_'" cried his friend; and there was a wonderful

joy in her eyes, and in her excess of sympathy she caught his hand for a

moment. "Oh, Angus, if Mary were to promise to be your wife! What a

trip we should have then--we should take the _White Dove_ to Stornoway!"

That was her ultimate notion of human happiness--sailing the _White

Dove_ up to Stornoway!

"I don't think there is much hope," said he, rather absently, "from her

manner of late. But anything is better than suspense. If it is a

misfortune, as I say, there is no one to blame. I had not the least

notion that she knew Mr. Howard Smith in London."

"Nor did she."

He stared rather.

"They may have met at our house; but certainly not more than once. You

see, living in a country house, we have to have our friends down in a

_staccato_ fashion, and always by arrangement of a few at a time. There

is no general dropping in to afternoon tea."

"He never met her in London?" he repeated.

"I should think not."

"His uncle, then: did she never see him before?"

"Certainly not."

"Then what does he mean by treating her as a sort of familiar friend who

was likely to turn up any time at Denny-mains?"

His companion coloured somewhat; for she had no right to betray

confidences.

"The Laird is very fond of Mary," she said, evasively. "It is quite

beautiful to see those two together."

He sate for a little time in silence; and then begged to be excused--he

would go on deck to smoke. But when, some little time thereafter, we

returned from our brief fishing, the dark figure walking up and down the

deck was not smoking at all. He paused as the gig was hauled fast to

the gangway.

"What luck?"

"About two dozen."

"All lithe?"

"About half-a-dozen mackerel."

And then he assisted Mary Avon to ascend the small wooden steps. She

said "Thank you!" as she withdrew her hand from his; but the words were

uttered in a low voice; and she instantly crossed to the companion and

went below. He stayed on deck, and helped to swing the gig up to the

davits.

Now something had got into the head of our Admiral-in-chief that night.

She was very merry; and very affectionate towards Mary. She made light

of her foolish wish to go away to the south. She pointed out that this

continuous fine weather was only hoarding up electricity for the

equinoctials; and then we should have a spin!

"We are not going to let you go, Mary; that is the long and the short of

it. And we are going to keep hold of Angus, too. He is not going away

yet--no, no. We have something for him to do. We shall not rest

satisfied until we see him sail the _White Dove_ into Stornoway

harbour!"

*CHAPTER II.*

*ONLY A HEADACHE.*

Stornoway harbour, indeed! The weather was laughing at us. The glass

had steadily fallen until it had got about as low as it could go with

decency; and yet this next morning was more beautiful, and bright, and

calm than ever! Were we to be for ever confined in this remote Loch of

the Burying Place?

"Angus! Angus! where are you?" the Admiral calls out, as she comes up

on deck.

"Here I am," calls out a voice in return, from the cross-trees.

She raises her head, and perceives the ruddy-faced Doctor hanging on by

the ratlines.

"Where is the fine sailing weather you were to bring us--eh?"

"I have been looking for it," he replies, as he comes down the rigging;

"and there is not a breath anywhere."

"Very well," she says, promptly; "I'll tell you what you must do. You

must get everybody who can handle a gun into the gig and go away up to

the head of the loch there, and shoot every living thing you can see.

Do you understand? We are on the brink of starvation! We are

perishing! Do you want us to boil tarred rope into soup?"

"No," he says, humbly.

"Very well. Away you go. If you can't bring us any wind to take us

into a civilised place, you must provide us with food; is that clear

enough?"

Here Captain John comes aft, touching his cap.

"Good morning mem! I was never seeing the like of this weather, mem."

"I don't want to see any more of it," she says, sharply. "Did you bring

us in here because there was a convenient place to bury us in? Do you

know that we are dying of starvation?"

"Oh, no, mem!" says Captain John, with a grin; but looking rather

concerned all the same.

However, her attention is quickly called away by the sound of oars. She

turns and regards this small boat approaching the yacht; and the more

she looks the more do her eyes fill with astonishment.

"Well, I declare!" she says, "this is about the coolest thing I have

seen for ages."

For it is Miss Mary Avon who is rowing the dingay back to the yacht; and

her only companion is the Youth, who is contentedly seated in the stern,

with his gun laid across his knees.

"Good morning, Mr. Smith!" she says, with the most gracious sarcasm.

"Pray don't exert yourself too much. Severe exercise before breakfast

is very dangerous."

The Youth lays hold of the rope; there is a fine blush on his handsome

face.

"It is Miss Avon's fault," he says; "she would not let me row."

"I suppose she expected you to shoot? Where are the duck, and the snipe,

and the golden plover? Hand them up!"

"If you want to see anything in the shape of game about this coast,

you'd better wait till next Sunday," says he, somewhat gloomily.

However, after breakfast, we set out for the shallow head of the loch;

and things do not turn out so badly after all. For we have only left

the yacht some few minutes when there is a sudden whirring of wings--a

call of "Duck! duck!"--and the Doctor, who is at the bow, and who is the

only one who is ready, fires a snap-shot at the birds. Much to

everybody's amazement, one drops, and instantly dives. Then begins an

exciting chase. The biorlinn is sent careering with a vengeance; the

men strain every muscle; and then another cry directs attention to the

point at which the duck has reappeared. It is but for a second. Though

he cannot fly, he can swim like a fish; and from time to time, as the

hard pulling enables us to overtake him, we can see him shooting this

way or that through the clear water. Then he bobs his head up, some

thirty or forty yards off; and there is another snap-shot--the charge

rattling on the water the fifth part of an instant _after_ he

disappears.

"Dear me!" says the Laird; "that bird will cost us ten shillings in

cartridges."

But at last he is bagged. A chance shot happens to catch him before he

dives; he is stretched on the water, with his black webbed feet in the

air; and a swoop of Captain John's arm brings him dripping into the gig.

And then our natural history is put to the test. This is no gay-plumaged

sheldrake, or blue-necked mallard, or saw-toothed merganser. It is a

broad-billed duck, of a sooty black and grey; we begin to regret our

expenditure of cartridges; experiments on the flavour of unknown sea

birds are rarely satisfactory. But Captain John's voice is

authoritative and definite. "It is a fine bird," he says. And Master

Fred has already marked him for his own.

Then among the shallows at the head of the loch there is many a wild

pull after broods of flappers, and random firing at the circling curlew.

The air is filled with the calling of the birds; and each successive

shot rattles away with its echo among the silent hills. What is the

result of all this noise and scramble? Not much, indeed; for right in

the middle of it we are attracted by a strange appearance in the south.

That dark line beyond the yacht: is it a breeze coming up the loch?

Instantly the chase after mergansers ceases; cartridges are taken out;

the two or three birds we have got are put out of the way; and the

Laird, taking the tiller ropes, sits proud and erect. Away go the four

oars with the precision of machinery; and the long sweep sends the gig

ahead at a swinging pace. Behold! behold! the dark blue on the water

widening! Is it a race between the wind and the gig as to which will

reach the _White Dove_ first? "Give me your oar, Fred!" says the Doctor,

who is at the bow.

There is but a momentary pause. Again the shapely boat swings along;

and with the measured beat of the oars comes the old familiar chorus--

_... Cheerily, and all together!_

_Ho, ro, clansmen!_

_A long, strong pull together!--_

_Ho, ro, clansmen!_

_Soon the flowing breeze will blow;_

_We'll show the snowy canvas on her--_

_Ho, ro, clansmen!_

_A long, strong pull together!--_

_Ho, ro, clansmen!_

_Wafted by the breeze of morn_

_We'll quaff the joyous horn together!--_

_Ho, ro, clansmen!_

_A long, strong pull together!--_

_Ho, ro, clansmen!_

"We'll beat! we'll beat!" cries the Laird, in great delight. "Give it

her, boys! Not one halfpennyworth o' that wind will we lose!"

The bow cleaves the blue water; the foam hisses away from her rudder.

It is a race of the North against the South. Then the chorus again--

_Ho, ro, clansmen!_

_A long, strong pull together!--_

_Ho, ro, clansmen!_

Hurrah! hurrah! As the gig is run alongside, and guns and birds handed

up, that spreading blue has not quite reached the yacht; there is no

appreciable stir of the lazy ensign. But there is little time to be

lost. The amateurs swing the gig to the davits, while the men are

getting in the slack of the anchor chain; the women are incontinently

bundled below, to be out of the way of flapping sheets. Then, all hands

at the halyards! And by the time the great White Wings are beginning to

spread, the breeze stirs the still air around us; and the peak sways

gently this way and that; and they who are hard at work at the windlass

are no doubt grateful for this cool blowing from the south. Then there

is a cessation of noise; we become vaguely aware that we are moving. At

last the _White Dove_ has spread her wings; her head is turned towards

the south. Good-bye! you lonely loch, with the silent shores and the

silent tombs--a hundred farewells to you, wherever we may be going!

And slowly we beat down the loch, against this light southerly breeze.

But as we get further and further into the open, surely there is

something in the air and in the appearance of the southern sky that

suggests that the glass has not been falling for nothing. The sea is

smooth; but there is a strange gloom ahead of us; and beyond the islands

that we visited yesterday nothing is visible but a wan and sultry glare.

Then, afar, we can hear a noise as of the approach of some storm; but

perhaps it is only the low sound of the swirling of the tides round the

shores. Presently another sound attracts attention--a murmured hissing,

and it comes nearer and nearer; dark spots, about the size of a

threepenny-piece, appear on the white decks. The women have scarcely

time to send below for their sunshades when the slight shower passes

by--the decks are not even left damp. Then further and further we creep

away towards the south; but where we expected to catch some far glimpse

of the Irish coast--the blue line of Rathlin or the Antrim cliffs--there

is only that dim, sultry haze.

Then another sound--a dull _flop! flop!_--in the distance; and the

stragglers who have remained below after luncheon are hastily summoned

on deck. And there, far away in the haze, we can dimly descry the

successive curved forms of a school of dolphins, racing each other, and

springing twenty or thirty feet in the air before they come down with

that heavy thud on the water. Those of us who have watched the

beautiful lithe fish racing and chasing by the side of an Atlantic

vessel, would fain have been somewhat nearer; but we can only see the

dim forms springing into the haze. Then the dull pistol-shots in the

south slowly cease, and we are left alone on the low murmuring sea.

"But where is Miss Mary?" says the Laird, suddenly becoming aware of the

absence of his chief companion.

"Oh, she is in the saloon!" says his hostess, quickly and anxiously.

"She is doing something to one of her water-colours. I suppose we must

not disturb her."

"No, no; certainly not," returns the Laird, lightly; and then he adds,

with a smile which is meant to be very significant, "There is never any

harm in hard work. Let her go on; she will have a fine collection of

sketches before she leaves the _White Dove_."

But our Queen Tita does not respond to that careless joke. There is a

curious, constrained look on her face; and she quite peremptorily

negatives a suggestion of the Youth that he should go below for the

draught-board. Then one of us perceives that Angus Sutherland is not on

deck.

Has the opportunity come at last, then, for the clearing away of all

secret troubles? What end is there to be to this momentous interview?

Is it Stornoway harbour? Is our frank-eyed young Doctor to come up with

a silent wonder and joy on his face--a message that needs no speech--a

message that only says, "About with the yacht, and let us run away to

the northern seas and Stornoway?" The friend of these two young people

can hardly conceal her anxiety. She has got hold of the case of an

opera glass, and opens and shuts it quickly and aimlessly. Then there

is a step on the companion way; she does not look; she only knows that

Angus Sutherland comes on deck, and then goes forward to the bow of the

gig, and stands by himself, and looks out to sea.

There is silence on board; for a low rumble of thunder has been heard

once or twice, and we are listening. The mountains of Jura are dark

now, and the sultry mist in the south is deeper in its gloom. This

condition of the atmosphere produces a vague sense of something about to

happen, which is in itself uncomfortable; one would almost like to see a

flash of lightning, or hear the thunderous advance of a storm breaking

in upon the oppressive calm.

The Laird goes forward to Angus Sutherland.

"Well, Doctor, and what think ye of the weather now?"

The younger man starts and turns round, and for a second looks at the

Laird as if he had not quite comprehended the question.

"Oh, yes!" he says. "You are quite right. It does look as if we were

going to have a dirty night."

And with that he turns to the sea again.

"Aye," says the Laird, sententiously. "I am glad we are in a boat we

need have no fear of--none! Keep her away from the shore, and we are

all right. But--but I suppose we will get into some harbour to-night,

after all?"

"It does not matter," he says, absently; and then he goes away up to the

bow. He is alone there; for the men have gone below for dinner--with

the exception of John of Skye, who is at the helm.

Presently the special friend of the young man puts aside that

opera-glass case, and walks timidly forward to the bow of the yacht.

She regards him somewhat anxiously; but his face is turned away from

her--looking over to the gloomy Jura hills.

"Angus," she says, briskly, "are we not going very near Jura, if it is

West Loch Tarbert we are making for?"

He turned to her then, and she saw by his face that something had

happened.

"You have spoken to her, Angus?" she said, in a low voice; and her

earnest, kind eyes regarded the young man as if to anticipate his

answer.

"Yes."

For a second or so he seemed disinclined to say more; but presently he

added, scarcely looking at her--

"I am sorry that I must leave you the first time we get near land."

"Oh, Angus!"

It was almost a cry--uttered in that low, piteous voice. Then he looked

at her.

"You have been very kind to me," said he, so that no one should hear.

"It is only a misfortune. But I wish I had never seen the _White

Dove_."

"Oh, Angus; don't say that!"

"It is my own fault. I should never have come from Edinburgh. I knew

that. I knew I was hazarding everything. And she is not to blame----"

He could say no more, for one or two of the men now came up from the

forecastle. His hostess left him and went aft, with a hurt and

indignant look on her face. When the Laird asked why Miss Mary did not

come on deck, she said, "I don't know," with an air which said she had

ceased to take any further care in Mary Avon's actions. And at dinner,

what heed did she pay to the fact that Mary Avon was rather white, and

silent, and pained-looking? She had been disappointed. She had not

expected the friend of her bosom to act in this heartless manner. And

as for Howard Smith, she treated that young gentleman with a cold

courtesy which rather astonished him.

After dinner, when the men folk had gone on deck, and when she was

preparing to go too, a timid, appealing hand was laid on her arm.

"I would like to speak to you," said the low voice of Mary Avon.

Then she turned--only for a second.

"I think I know enough of what has happened, Mary," said she; "and it

would not be right for me to intermeddle. Young people are the best

judges of their own affairs."

The appealing hand was withdrawn; the girl retired to the saloon, and

sate down alone.

But here, on deck, an eager council of war was being held; and Angus

Sutherland was as busy as any one with the extended chart--the soundings

barely visible in the waning light--and proposals and counter proposals

were being freely bandied about. Night was coming on; dirty-looking

weather seemed to be coming up from the south; and the mouth of West

Loch Tarbert is narrow and shallow in parts, and studded with rocks--a

nasty place to enter in the dark. Moreover, when should we get there,

beating against this south-easterly wind? What if we were to put her

head round, and run for some improvised harbour among the small islands

under the shadow of the Jura hills, and wait there for daylight to show

us across the Sound?

There was but one dissentient. Angus Sutherland seemed oddly anxious to

get to West Loch Tarbert. He would himself take the helm all night; if

only the men would take their turn at the look-out, one at a time. He

was sure he could make the channel, if we reached the mouth of the loch

before daylight. What! with nothing shallower on the chart than four

fathoms! How could there be any danger?

But the more prudent counsels of John of Skye at length prevail, and

there is a call to the men forward to stand by. Then down goes the

helm; her head slews round with a rattling of blocks and cordage; the

sheets of the head-sails are belayed to leeward; and then, with the boom

away over the starboard davits, we are running free before this

freshening breeze.

But the night is dark as we cautiously creep in under the vast shadows

of the Jura hills. Fortunately in here the wind is light; the _White

Dove_ seems to feel her way through the gloom. All eyes are on the

look-out; and there is a general shout as we nearly run on a buoy set to

mark a sunken ship. But we glide by in safety; and in due course of

time the roar of the anchor chain tells us that we are snug for the

night.

"But where is Miss Mary?" says the Laird, in the cheerfully-lit saloon.

He looks around him in an uncomfortable and unsettled way. The saloon is

not the saloon when Mary Avon is out of it; here is her chair next to

his as usual, but it is vacant. How are we to spend the last happy hour

of chatting and joking without the pleased, bright face, and the timid,

gentle, shy, dark eyes?

"Mary has gone to her cabin," says her hostess. "I suppose she has a

headache."

She supposes the girl has a headache, and has not asked! And can it be

really Mary Avon that she is speaking of in that cold, hurt, offended

way?

*CHAPTER III.*

*IN THE DARK.*

And then the next morning the Laird is infinitely distressed.

"What! not better yet?" he says. "Dear me! I wish I could be a woman

for a while, to take some tea in to her, and read to her, and coax her

into better spirits. What a bad headache it must be!"

But this generous sympathy on the part of one who is little more than an

acquaintance touches the heart of Mary Avon's particular friend. She

reproaches herself for her cruelty. She not only gets the tea and takes

it into the cabin, but she adopts a domineering tone, and declares that

until the young lady begins her breakfast she will not leave the place.

And then she looks at the timid, worn face; and her hand is placed

gently on the hand of her friend, and she says in a lower voice--

"Mary, don't think I am angry. I am only a little bit disappointed.

But I don't blame you--you could not help it. It is a pity; that is

all."

The girl's face remains rather sad; but she is quite self-possessed.

"You will let me go away," she says, looking down, "when we get to some

harbour?"

"There is no need," says her friend, regarding her. "Angus will leave

us to-day, as soon as we get across to Cantyre."

"Oh!" she said, quickly, and looking tip with a brief appeal in her

eyes. "I hope not! Why should he go away? I must go; I would rather

go."

"Oh, no, Mary!" her friend said. "If there is any 'must' in the matter,

it is on his side; for you know his time is very valuable, and you must

have guessed why he has already far exceeded what he proposed to himself

as his holiday. No, no, Mary; let us forget what has happened as soon

as we can, and make the best of the rest of our sailing. The Laird

would have a fit if you seriously threatened to go. And I am sure you

are not to blame."

So she kissed her on the cheek, by way of reconciliation, and left. And

she told the Laird that Mary had been dutiful, and had taken some

breakfast, and would be up on deck in course of time.

Meanwhile, those who had gone on deck had found the _White Dove_ lying

in a dead calm, some three miles away from her anchorage of the previous

night; her sails hanging limp; a scorching sun on the white decks, and a

glare of light coming from the blue sky and the glassy blue sea.

"Well, Angus," says his hostess, very merrily--for she does not wish to

let the others guess the reason of his sudden departure; "you see the

weather does not approve of your leaving us. What has become of your

thunderstorm? Where is the gale from the south, John?"

"I was never seeing the like of this weather, mem," said the bearded

skipper. Then he added, anxiously, "And is Dr. Sutherland himself going

away from the yat?"

"He would like to," she says; "but how is he ever to see land again if

you banish the wind so?"

"But it will no be like this long!" says Captain John, eagerly--for he

appears to think that Dr. Sutherland has got tired of the fine weather.

"Oh, no, mem! I will answer for it. If Dr. Sutherland will wait

another day, or two days, I am sure there will be plenty of wind. And

we can lie in West Loch Tarbert for one day, or two days----"

"And starve?" she says, abruptly.

But now it appears that one or two of the men have heard of a mysterious

village lying somewhere inland from the mouth of the loch; and from a

comparison of these vague rumours we gather that we may not be so far

from

civilisation after all. Perhaps we may once again behold loaf-bread.

Visions of cutlets, fowls, grouse, and hares arise. We shall once more

hear some echo of the distant world if perchance there be in the place a

worn and ancient newspaper.

"Ay," said the Laird, hastily. "I would like to see a Glasgow

newspaper! I'm thinking they must have got the steam fire-engine by

now; and fine games the bairns will have when they begin to practise

with it, skelping about in the water. It would be a grand thing to try

it in the public garden when we get it; it would keep the shrubs and the

borders fine and wet--eh?"

"And it would be quite as interesting as any plaster fountain," says his

hostess, encouragingly.

"As handsome every bit," says the Laird, laughing heartily at his play

of imagination, "as any bit laddie done up in stucco, standing on one

leg, and holding up a pipe! It's a utilitarian age, ma'am--a

utilitarian age; we will have instead of a fountain a steam

fire-engine--very good! very good!--and they bodies who are always

crying out against expenditure on decoration will be disappointed for

once."

The Laird had at last discovered the whereabouts of the mysterious

village on the Admiralty chart.

"But what newspaper will we get in a place hidden away like that?--out

of the reach of all communication wi' the world. They'll be a century

behind, mark my words. It is when ye live within a reasonable distance

of a great centre of ceevilisation, like Glasgow, that ye feel the life

of it stirring your own place too; and ye must keep up with the times;

ye must be moving. Conservative as I am, there is no supersteetious

obstinacy about me; moving--moving--that's the word. The more important

the matter in the interest of the public, the more necessary is it that

we should have an impartial mind. If ye show me a new sort of asphalte,

do ye think I would not examine it, jist because I recommended Jamieson

and MacGregor's patent?"

He appealed boldly to his hostess.

"Oh, certainly; certainly you would!" she says, with an earnestness that

might have made Jamieson and MacGregor quail.

"For three weeks," says the Laird, solemnly, "I was on that committee,

until it seemed that my breakfast, and my dinner, and my supper every

day was nothing but tar-smoke. What wi' the experiments without and

within, I was just filled with tar-smoke. And would ye believe it,

ma'am, one o' they Radical newspapers went as far as to say there were

secret influences at work when Jamieson and MacGregor was decided on.

My friends said, 'Prosecute the man for libel;' but I said, 'No; let the

poor crayture alone; he has got to earn his living!'"

That was very wise of you, sir," says his hostess.

"Bless me! If a man in public life were to heed everything that's said

about him," observes the Laird, with a fine air of unconcern, "what

would become of his time? No, no; that is not the principle on which a

public man should found his life. Do your best for your

fellow-creatures, and let the squabblers say what they like. As ah say,

the poor wretches have to earn their living."

Here Mary Avon appeared, somewhat pale and tired-looking; and the Laird

instantly went to condole with her, and to get her a deck chair, and

what not. At the same moment, too, our young Doctor came along--perhaps

with a brave desire to put an end to her embarrassment at once--and

shook hands with her, and said "Good morning; I hope your headache is

better." Her hand was trembling as it fell away from his; and her "

Yes, thank you," was almost inaudible. Then she sate down, and the

Laird resumed his discourse.

"I was once taken," said he, "by a fellow commissioner of mine to a sort

of singing place, or music hall, in Glasgow."

"What?"

"They wanted to have some such place in Strathgovan," continued the

Laird, paying no heed; "and I was asked to go and see what sort of

entertainment was provided in such places. It was a sorrowful sight,

ma'am--a sorrowful sight; the wretched craytures on the stage laughing

at their own songs, and the people not laughing at all, but given over

to tobacco smoking, and whisky, and talking amongst themselves. No

glint of humour--stupid, senseless stuff. But there was one young man

sung a song that had a better sound in it--I cannot remember the

words--but I sometimes think there was common sense in them: it was

about minding your own business, and doing your own work, and letting

fools say or think of ye what they please. Aye, I think there was

something in that young man; though I doubt, by the look of his eyes,

but he was a drinker."

He turned to Mary Avon, who had been content to be a mute and unobserved

listener.

"Well, Miss Mary," said he, brightly, "and the headache is going? And

are ye looking forward to getting letters and newspapers when we get

back to the world? There is a post-office at that village of Clachan,

John?"

"Oh, aye, sir!" said John; "there will be a post-office."

The Laird looked up at him reproachfully.

"But why cannot ye learn the English pronunciation, man? What's the

necessity for ye to say _posht offus_? Cannot ye pronounce the plain

English--_post oafficc_?"

"I am not very good at the English, sir," said Captain John, with a

grin.

"Ye'll never learn younger."

Then he went to Mary Avon, and suggested that a walk up and down the

deck might do her headache good; and when she rose he put her hand on

his arm.

"Now," said he, as they started off, "I do not like headaches in young

people; they are not natural. And ye may think I am very inqueesitive;

but it is the privilege of old men to be talkative and inqueesitive--and

I am going to ask you a question."

There was certainly no effort at keeping a secret on the part of the

Laird; every one might have heard these two talking as they quietly

walked up and down.

"I am going to ask ye, plump and plain, if ye are not anxious about

going to London, and worrying yourself about the selling of your

pictures? There now; answer me that."

"Not very much, sir," she says, in a low voice.

"Listen to me," he said, speaking in a remarkably emphatic way. "If

that is on your mind, dismiss it. I tell you what: I will undertake, on

my own responsibeelity, that every painting in oil, and every sketch in

oil, and every water-colour drawing, and every sketch in water-colour

that ye have on board this yacht, will be sold within one fortnight of

your leaving the yacht. Do ye understand that?"

"You are very kind, sir."

"I am not bletherin'," said he; "no man ever knew me draw back from my

word. So put that anxiety away from your mind altogether, and let us

have no more troubles. I could sell--I could sell four times as many

for ye in a fortnight! Bless ye, lassie, ye do not know the people in

the West of Scotland yet--ye'll know them better by and by. If there's

one thino- thev understand better than another it is a good picture; and

they are ready to put their hand in their pocket. Oh! they Edinburgh

bodies are very fine creetics--they have what they believe to be an

elegant society in Edinburgh--and they talk a great deal about pictures;

but do they put their hand in their pocket? Ask Tom Galbraith. Ask him

where he sets three-fourths of his income. He lives in Edinburgh; but

he gets his income from the West of Scotland. Tom's a wise lad. He

knows how to feather his nest. And when he has become independent of

the picture-dealers, then he'll go to London, and fight the men there on

their own ground."

"I should like to see some of Mr. Galbraith s work," she said, "before I

return to England."

"You will have plenty of leisure to look at them by and by," replied the

Laird, quite simply. "I have some of Tom's very best things at

Denny-mains."

It was not until the cool of the afternoon that a light breeze sprung up

to fill the sails of the _White Dove_, and press her gently on towards

the coast of Cantyre. By this time every one on board knew that Angus

Sutherland was leaving, and leaving for good.

"I hope ye will come and see me at Denny-mains, Dr. Sutherland," said

the Laird, good-naturedly, "when ye happen to be in Scotland. I have a

neighbour there ye would be glad to meet--a man who could talk to ye on

your own subjects--Mr. Stoney."

Our Doctor paid but little heed. He was silent, and distraught. His

eyes had an absent and heavy look in them.

"A most distinguished man," the Laird continued. "I am told his

reputation in England is just as great as it is in this country. A very

distinguished man indeed. He read a paper before the British Association

not many years ago."

"About what, do you remember?" said the other, at last.

"H'm!" said the Laird, apparently puzzling his memory. "Ye see, a man

in my poseetion has so much to do with the practical business of life,

that perhaps he does not pay just attention to the speculations of

others. But Mr. Stoney is a remarkable man; I am astonished ye should

have forgotten what the paper was about. A most able man, and a fine,

logical mind; it is just beautiful to hear him point out the close

fitness between the charges in the major proposeetion in the Semple

case, and the averments and extracts in the minor. Ye would be greatly

delighted and instructed by him, Doctor. And there's another thing."

Here the Laird looked slyly at Mary Avon.

"There's a young leddy here who has a secret of mine; and I'm thinking

she has not said much about it. But I will make a public confession

now: it has been on my mind for some time back that I might buy a screw

yacht."

The Laird looked triumphantly around; he had forgotten that it was a

very open secret.

"And wouldn't it be a strange thing if this very party, just as we are

sitting now, were to be up at this very spot next year, on board that

yacht?--wouldn't that be a strange thing?"

"It would be a jolly pleasant thing," said the Youth.

"You are very kind to include me in the invitation," said Angus

Sutherland; "but I doubt whether I shall ever be in Scotland again. My

father is a very old man now; that is the only thing that would call me

north. But I think I could q-et on better with my own work by going

abroad for some years to Naples, probably. I have to go to Italy before

long, any way."

He spoke in a matter-of-fact way; we did not doubt that he might pursue

his researches better in Naples.

It was in the dusk of the evening that we slowly sailed into West Loch

Tarbert--past a series of rocks and islands on which, as we were given

to understand, seals were more abundant than limpets. But whereas the

last haunt of the seals we had visited had introduced us to a solitary

and desolate loch, with sterile shores and lonely ruins, this loch, so

far as we could see, was a cheerful and in- habited place, with one or

two houses shining palely white amid the dark woods. And when v/e had

come to anchor, and sent ashore, although there were no provisions to be

got, the men returned with all the necessary information for Angus

Sutherland. By getting up very early next morning, and walking a

certain distance, he would catch a certain coach, which would take him

on to Tarbert on Loch Fyne in time to catch the steamer. And so that

nicrht, before we turned in to our respective cabins, the Doctor bade us

all formally good-bye; and Mary Avon among the rest. No one could have

noticed the least difference in his manner.

But in the middle of the night, in the ladies' cabin, a sound of stifled

sobbing. And the other woman goes over to the berth of her companion,

and bends her head down, and whispers--

"Mary, why are you crying? Tell me!"

She cannot speak for a time; her whole frame is shaken with the

bitter-sobs. And then she says, in a low, trembling, broken voice--

"He has not forgiven me. I saw it in his face."

*CHAPTER IV.*

*TO ABSENT FRIENDS!*

Next morning, however, every one perceived an extraordinary change in

the appearance and manner of the girl. Mary Avon had come back to us

again, with all the light and life of her face, and the contented

gentleness of the soft black eyes. What had wrought the transformation?

Certain confidential assurances in the silence of the night that Angus

Sutherland, so far from not forgiving her, had insisted that she was not

to blame at all. Or the natural reaction after a long strain of

anxiety? Or merely the welcome fresh breeze of the morning, with the

cheerful, wooded shores, and the white houses shining in the sunlight?

Any how there was quite a new expression in her face; and we heard the

low, sweet laugh again. It is true that, once or twice, as she walked

up and down the deck with the Laird, her eyes grew pensive as she looked

away along the hills on the southern shores of the loch. That was the

direction in which Angus had left in the morning. And these hills were

somewhat overcast; it seemed to be raining inland.

Moreover, there was something else to make our breakfast party a glad

one. The two men who had rowed our young Doctor across the loch at

break of day had had the curiosity to pierce inland as far as the

village of Clachan; and the scouts had brought back the most glowing

accounts of the Promised Land which they had discovered. They had

penetrated a fertile and deeply-wooded valley; and they had at length

come upon a centre of the highest civilisation. There was a

post-office. There was a telegraph-office. There was a church, the

clock of which struck the hours.

"Just fancy that!" exclaimed our hostess. "A clock that strikes the

hours!--and a telegraph-office! We might send a telegram to ask whether

the country has been invaded anywhere, or whether the Prime Minister has

committed suicide."

"I would like to hear about the steam fire-engine," said the Laird

almost to himself.

"However, breeze or no breeze, seals or no seals," she says, with

decision, "we must stay over a day here, to have the yacht thoroughly

provisioned. We cannot go on skating on the edge of tinned meats. We

must have a plentiful supply of fresh vegetables, and fresh milk, and

eggs and butter; and then two or three joints are always so

serviceable--cold, I mean, for luncheon; and if Fred cannot get any

game, at least he must get us some fowls. What do you say, Mary? Shall

we walk over to this place, and clear the way for Fred?"

"Oh, no!" says the other, lightly; "you and I are going with the seal

shooters. They never get near anything; so we cannot be in the way. I

assure you, sir, we shall be as quiet as mice," she adds, addressing the

Laird.

"Ye will come with us, and ye will speak just as much as ye please,"

said the Laird, dogmatically. "What signifies a seal? The crayture is

good for nothing! And the idea of you two going away by yourselves into

the country! No--no; come away and get ready, Howard. If ye cannot

shoot a seal with the two leddies in the boat, ye will never do it

without. And the sea breezes, Miss Mary," he added, with an approving

air, "are better for ye than the land breezes. Oh, aye; ye are looking

just fine this morning."

A short time thereafter he was on deck, looking around him at the

pleasant trees and the blue waters, when Miss Avon joined him, fully

equipped for the expedition; and just at this moment they began to hear

a sound of music in the stillness of the morning air. And then they

perceived a rude old rowing-boat, pulled by a small boy of twelve or so,

coming nearer and nearer; while another small boy of about the same age

was peacefully reclining in the stern, his head thrown back so that it

met the full glare of the morning sun, while he played vigorously but

rather inaccurately "The Campbells are coming" on a tin whistle.

"Look at that!" said the Laird with delight; "is not that perfect

happiness? Look at his pride and laziness--having another boy to pull

him about, while he shows off on the penny whistle. Dear me, I wish I

was that young rascal!"

"He seems happy enough," she said, with a sigh.

"That is because he does not know it," remarked the Laird, profoundly.

"If you proved to him that he was happy, it would immediately vanish."

"You cannot be consciously happy; but you may be consciously

unhappy--that is rather hard," said she, absently.

However, these two philosophers were withdrawn from this occult point by

a summons from the Youth, who had already got the rifles and cartridges

into the bow of the gig. And, indeed, as we rowed away from the yacht,

in the direction of the rocks at the mouth of the loch, Miss Avon seemed

determined to prove that, consciously or unconsciously, she was happy

enough. She would not even allow that Angus Sutherland could have felt

any pang of regret at leaving the _White Dove_ and his friends.

"Poor chap!" said the Laird, with some compassion, as he turned his head

and looked away towards those gloomy hills; "it must have been a

lonesome journey for him this morning. And he so fond of sailing too;

I'm thinking when he saw what a nice breeze there was, he was rather

sorry to go away. I should not wonder if it was wi' a heavy heart that

he went on board the steamer."

"Oh, no, sir! why should you think that?" said Mary Avon, quickly and

anxiously. "If Dr. Sutherland had nothing to consider but yachting, he

might have been sorry to go away. But think what lies before him; think

what calls him! Look at the position he has won for himself already,

and what is expected of him! and you would have him throw away his

splendid opportunities in yachting? There is not a University in Europe

where he is not known; there is not a man of science in Europe who does

not expect great things of him; and--and--how proud his father must be

of him!"

She spoke eagerly and almost breathlessly; there was a pink flush in her

cheek, but it was not from shamefacedness. She seemed desperately

anxious to convince the Laird that our Doctor ought to have left the

yacht, and must have left the yacht, and could not do anything else but

leave the yacht. Meanwhile, her friend and hostess regarded her

curiously.

"A man with such capacities as he has," continued the girl, warmly,

"with such a great future before him, owes it to himself that he should

not give way to mere sentiment. The world could not get on at all if

people--I mean if the great people, from whom we expect much--were

always to be consulting their feelings. Perhaps he was sorry to leave

the yacht. He does like sailing; and--and I think he liked to be among

friends. But what is that when he knows there is work in the world for

him to do? If he was sorry at leaving the yacht, you may depend on it

that that had passed away before he stepped on board the steamer. For

what was that trifling sentiment compared with the consciousness that he

had acted rightly?"

Something about the precision of these phrases--for the girl but rarely

gave way to such a fit of earnest talking--seemed to suggest to the

silent person who was watching her, that this was not the first time the

girl had thought of these things.

"Idle people," said this youthful controversialist, "can afford to

indulge in sentiment; but not those who have to do great things in the

world. And it is not as if--Dr. Sutherland"--she always faltered the

least bit just before pronouncing the name--"were only working for his

own fame or his own wealth. It is for the good of mankind that he is

working; and if he has to make this or that sacrifice, he knows that he

is doing right. What other reward does a man need to have?"

"I am thinking of the poor old man in Banffshire," said her friend to

her, thoughtfully. "If Angus goes away to Italy for some years, they may

not see each other again."

At this the girl turned strangely pale, and remained silent; but she was

unnoticed, for at this moment all attention was attracted towards the

seals.

There they were, no doubt, and in large numbers. We could see the

occasionally moving forms, scarcely distinguishable from the brown

sea-weed, on the long projecting points of the low rocks; while here and

there one of the animals could be made out, poising himself in a

semi-circle--head and tail in the air--like a letter O with the upper

four-fifths cut off. But the problem was, how to get anywhere within

shot. The rocks, or small islands, had no doubt certain eminences in

the middle; but they were low and shallow all round. Obviously it was

no use bearing straight down on them from our present position; so it

was resolved to give them a wide berth, to pull away from the islands

altogether, and then approach them from the south, if haply there might

in this wise be some possibility of shelter. It was observed that Queen

Titania, during these whispered and eager consultations, smiled gravely

and was silent. She had been in the Highlands before.

Seals are foolish animals. We were half a mile away from them; and we

were going still farther away. The rocking of the water made it

impossible for us to try a haphazard shot even if we had had a rifle

that would have carried anything like 800 yards with precision. There

was not the least reason for their being alarmed. But all the same, as

we silently and slowly paddled away from them--actually away from

them--the huge bodies one by one flopped and waddled and dropped into

the water with a splash. In about a minute or so there was not a seal

visible through our best binoculars. And Queen Titania calmly smiled.

But, as everybody knows, there are two sides to an island, as to

everything else. So we boldly bore down on the shores nearest us, and

resolved, on getting close, on a cautious and silent landing. After

many a trial we found a creek where the stern of the gig could be backed

into fairly deep water, along a ledge of rock, and then two of us got

out. The ladies produced their knitting materials.

With much painful stooping and crawling, we at length reached the middle

ridge, and there laid down our rifles to have a preliminary peep round.

That stealthy glance revealed the fact that, on the other side also, the

seals had been alarmed and had left the rocks; but still they were not

far away. We could see here and there a black and glistening head

moving among the lapping waters. Of course it would have been madness

to have risked our all on a random shot at sea. Hit or miss, the

chances were about equal we should not get the seal; so we quietly

retired again behind the ridge, and sate down. We could see the gig and

its occupants. It seemed to one of us at least that Queen Titania was

still amused.

A dead silence: while we idly regard the washed-up stores of sea-shells

around us, and patiently await the return of the seals to the rocks.

Then a sudden noise that makes one's heart jump: a couple of terns have

discovered us, and the irate birds go wheeling and shrieking overhead

with screams that would have aroused the Sleeping Beauty and all her

household. In their fright and wrath they come nearer and nearer; at

times they remain motionless overhead; but ever continues the shrill and

piercing shriek. The face of the Youth is awful to see. Again and

again he puts up his rifle; and there is no doubt that, if he were to

fire, he might accomplish that feat which is more frequently heard of in

novels than elsewhere--shooting a bird on the wing with a rifle. But

then he is loth to throw away his last chance. With a gesture of

despair, he lowers his weapon, and glances towards the gig. Queen

Titania has caught his eye, and he hers. She is laughing.

At length we venture to hazard everything. Furtively each rifle is

protruded over the ledge of rock; and furtively each head creeps up by

the stock, the hand on the trigger-guard. The caution is unnecessary.

There is not a sign of any living thing all around the shores. Even the

two sea-swallows, alarmed by our moving, have wheeled away into the

distance; we are left in undisturbed possession of the island. Then the

Youth clambers up to the top of the rocks and looks around. A skart,

perched on a far ledge, immediately takes flight--striking the water

with his heavy wings before he can get well on his way: thereafter a

dead silence.

"It was the tern that did that," says the Youth, moodily, as we return

to the gig. "The seals must have known well enough."

"They generally do contrive to know somehow," is the answer of one who

is not much disappointed, and who is still less surprised.

But this wicked woman all a-laughing, when we return to the gig!

"Come, children," says she, "we shall barely be back in time for lunch;

and we shall be all the longer that Angus is not here to sing his '_Ho,

ro, clansmen!_' But the quicker the sooner, as the Highlandman said.

Jump in!"

"It was all owing to those sea-swallows," remarks the Youth, gloomily.

"Never mind," says she, with great equanimity. "Mary and I knew you

would not shoot anything, or we should not have come. Let us hasten back

to see what Fred has shot for us, with his silver sixpences."

And so we tumble into the gig; and push away, and have a long swinging

pull back to the _White Dove_.

There is still some measure of justice meted out upon the earth. The

face of this fiend who has been laughing at us all the morning becomes a

trifle more anxious when she draws near the yacht. For there is Master

Fred idling up at the bow, instead of being below looking after the vast

stores he has got on board; and moreover as we draw near, and as he

comes along to the gangway, any one can perceive that our good Frederick

d'or is not in a facetious frame of mind.

"Well, Fred, have you got a good supply at last?" she cries, taking hold

of the rope, and putting her foot on the step.

Fred mumbles something in reply.

"What have you got?" she says, when she is on deck. "Any game?"

"No, mem."

"Oh, never mind; the fowls will do very well."

Fred is rather silent, until he explains that he could not get any

fowls.

"No fowls? What butcher's meat, then?" says she, somewhat indignantly.

"None? Nothing?" says she; and a low titter begins to prevail among the

assembled crowd. "Have you not got a joint of any sort?"

Fred is almost unwilling to confess--he is ashamed, angry, disconcerted.

At last he blurts out--

"I could get nothing at all, mem, but fower loaves."

At this there was a roar of laughter. What had become of all her fresh

milk, and butter, and eggs; her mutton, and fowls, and cutlets; her

grouse, and snipe, and hares? We did not care for our privation; we

only rejoiced in her discomfiture.

"That is just like a Scotch village," says she, savagely; "spending all

its money on a church bell, and not able to keep a decent shop open! Do

you mean to say you could not get a carrot, or a cabbage, or a

pennyworth of milk?"

"No, mem."

"John," she says, in a domineering way, "why _don't_ you get the sails

up? What is the use of staying in a place like this?"

John comes forward timidly, and stroking his great beard: he half

believes in these furious rages of hers.

"Oh, yes, mem, if ye please, mem, I will get the sail set--but--but the

tide will be turning soon, mem, and the wind, she will be against us as

soon as we get out of the loch; and it will be a long, long time before

we get to Crinan. I not well aquent with this place, mem: if we were up

in our own part of the Highlands, do you think the people would let the

_White Dove_ be so long without the fresh cabbage and the milk? No; I

not think that, mem."

"But we are not in our own part of the Highlands," says she,

querulously; "and do you think we are going to starve? However, I

suppose Fred can give us a biscuit. Let us go below."

Our lunch was, in truth, simple enough; but perhaps it was this indirect

appeal to Fred that determined that worthy to surprise us at dinner that

evening. First of all, after we had returned from another ineffectual

seal-hunt, we found he had decorated the dinner-table in an elaborate

manner. There was a clean cloth, shining with the starch in it. There

was a great dish of scarlet rowans in the middle of the table; and the

rowans had a border of white heather--fathered at Loch-na-Chill: the

rowans were for lovely colour, the heather was for luck. Then, not

content with that, he had put all our available silver on the table,

including the candlesticks and the snuffer-tray, though the sun had not

yet sunk behind the Jura hills. But the banquet defies description. The

vast basin of steaming kidney soup, the boiled lithe, the fried

mackerel, the round of tongue, the corned beef, the tomatoes, the

pickles, the sardines, the convolutions of pudding and apricot jam: what

Fishmonger or Drysalter or Gunmaker could have wanted more? Nor was

there any Apemantus at the feast; there was the smiling and benign

countenance of the Laird, who again and again made facetious remarks

about the kirk bell of Clachan. Then he said more formally--

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to ask ye to drink a toast."

"Oh, uncle!" said the Youth deprecatingly; "we are not at a

commissioners' meeting at Strathgovan."

"And I will thank ye to fill your glasses," said the Laird, taking no

heed of Young England and his modern want of manners. "I have to ask

ye, ladies and gentlemen, to drink the health of one who is an old and

valued friend of some of us, who is admired and respected by us all. It

would ill become us, now that he has been separated from us but by a

day, that we should forget him in his absence. We have come in close

contact with him; we have seen his fine qualities of temper and

character; and I am sure no one present will contradict me when I say

that, great as are his abeelities, they are not more remarkable than his

modesty, and his good humour, and his simple, plain, frank ways. With a

man of less solid judgment, I might be afraid of certain dangerous

tendencies of these times; but our friend has a Scotch head on his

shoulders; he may be dazzled by their newfangled speculations, but not

convinced--not convinced. It is a rare thing--I will say it, though I

am but a recent acquaintance, and do not know him as well as some now at

this hospitable board--to find such powers of intellect united with such

a quiet and unassuming manliness. Ladies and gentlemen, I give ye the

health of Dr. Angus Sutherland. We regret that he has gone from us; but

we know that duty calls, and we honour the man who stands to his guns.

It may be that we may see him in these waters once more; it may be that

we may not; but whatever may be in store for him or for us, we know he

will be worthy of the hopes we build on him, and we drink his health now

in his absence, and wish him God-speed!"

"Hear! hear!" cried the Youth, who was greatly amused by this burst of

old-fashioned eloquence. But Mary Avon sate white and trembling, and

quite forgot to put the glass to her lips. It was her hostess who spoke

next, with a laugh.

"I think, sir," said she, "I might give you a hint. If you were to go

up on deck and ask the men whether they would like to drink Angus's

health, I don't think they would refuse."

"It is a most capital suggestion," said the Laird, rising to take down

his wideawake.

*CHAPTER V.*

*SUSPICIONS.*

It was handsomely done on the part of the Laird to pay that tribute to

his vanquished and departed enemy. But next morning, as we were getting

under weigh, he got a chance of speaking to his hostess alone; and he

could not quite forego a little bit of boasting over his superior

astuteness and prescience.

"What did I say, ma'am," he asked, with a confident chuckle, "when ye

made a communication to me on the subject of our friend who has just

left us? Did I not offer to make ye a wager, though I am but little of

a gambler? A gold ring, a sixpence, and a silver thimble: did I not

offer to wager ye these three articles that your guesses were not quite

correct? And what has become of Dr. Sutherland now?"

His hostess is not in this gay humour. She answers with a touch of

reserve--

"If I made any mistake, it was about Mary. And I had no right to suspect

anything, for she never took me into her confidence; and I do not

approve of elderly people prying into the affairs of young people."

"Pry?" says the Laird, loftily and graciously. "No, no; no prying. But

judgment?--is there any harm in one keeping one's eyes open? And did

not I tell ye, ma'am, to be of good heart--that everything would go

properly and smoothly?"

"And has it?" she says, sharply, and looking up with a glance of

indignation.

The Laird, however, is so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he does

not notice this protest.

"She is a fine lass, that," he says, with decision. "Did ye ever hear a

young girl speak such clear common sense as she spoke yesterday, about

that very Doctor? There is no affected sentiment--there is nothing of

your Clarinda and Philander noavel-writing--about that lass: did ye ever

hear such good, sound, clear common sense?"

"I heard her," says his hostess, shortly.

By this time we had weighed anchor, and the _White Dove_ was slowly

sailing down the loch, before a light northerly breeze. Then Mary Avon

came on deck, followed by the attentive Youth. And while everybody on

board was eagerly noticing things ahead--the seals on the rocks at the

mouth of the loch, the windy grey sea beyond, and the blue mountains of

Jura--Mary Avon alone looked backward, to the low lines of hills we were

leaving. She sate silent and apart.

The Laird stepped over to her.

"We have just been talking about the Doctor," says he, cheerfully. "And

we were saying there was plenty of good common sense in what ye said

yesterday about his duties and his prospects. Oh, ay! But then ye ken,

Miss Mary, even the busiest and the wisest of men must have their

holiday at times; and I have just been thinking that, if we can get Dr.

Sutherland to come with us next year, we will, maybe, surprise him by

what ye can do wi' a steam yacht. Why, during the time we have been

lying here, we might have run across to Ireland and back in a steam

yacht! It is true there would be less enjoyment for him in the sailing;

but still there are compensations."

His hostess has overheard all this. She says, in her gentle way, but

with a cold and cruel clearness--

"You know, sir, that is quite impossible. Angus will not be in Scotland

for many a day to come."

The girl's face is hidden; apparently she is still gazing back on those

slowly receding hills.

"Toots! toots!" says the Laird, briskly. "The lad is not a fool. He

will make an occasion if he considers it desirable: there is no

compulsion that he must remain in Eetaly. I think I would even lay a

wager that we will have just the same party, and the Doctor included, on

that steam yacht next year, and in this very place: is it a wager,

ma'am?"

"I am afraid you must leave us out," she remarks, "at all events. And

as for Angus Sutherland, I shall be surprised if ever he sees West Loch

Tarbert again."

Why had not Mary Avon spoken? The Laird went a step nearer her, and put

his hand gently on her shoulder.

"Well, Miss Mary," said he; "what are we to do to show these people

their lolly and wickedness--eh? I think I will leave it to you."

"Oh, no, sir!" This, or something like this, she was understood to say,

in a low voice; but at the same moment she rose quickly, crossed the

deck, put a trembling hand on the companion way, and went below. Just as

she disappeared, she could not quite conceal her face; and there was a

look on it that startled the Laird. Had the girl been stealthily crying

all the time she had been looking back at those distant hills?

The Laird was greatly disturbed. He said nothing, for he would not have

it understood that anything had happened; but any one could see by his

preoccupied manner that he was seriously troubled. He had directed a

quick, sharp glance of surprise and inquiry at his hostess; but just

then she was stepping aside to get out of the way of Captain John. The

Laird sate down by himself, and remained in a profound silence. He

seemed to pay no attention to what was going on.

But there was brisk work enough all over the yacht. For now we had got

clear of the long promontory and its islands; and out here in the open

there was a pretty heavy sea running, while the wind began to freshen up

a bit. There was a squally look about the sea and sky; it was

considered prudent to lower the topsail. Now and again there was a

heavy shock at the bows, and then a dipping of heads to dodge the flying

shreds of spray. In the midst of all this Miss Avon appeared again.

"I thought we should catch it," said she, in the blithest of tones; and

she addressed herself particularly to the Laird. "And it is better to

be prepared. But, oh dear me! what a nuisance a waterproof is!"

And indeed the wind was blowing that hooded and caped garment all about

her head, so that her dark hair was becoming considerably dishevelled.

The Youth came to her assistance; put a cushion and a shawl for her just

beside her hostess, under the lee of the weather bulwarks; then she

snugly ensconced herself there, and seemed to be very merry and happy

indeed.

"Don't you often wish you were a fish, when the weather is wet?" she

says, gaily, to her friend; "so that you might be perfectly

indifferent?" And here she cries "Oh!" again, because a drop or two of

spray has come flying past the keel of the gig and just caught her on

the crown of her waterproof.

Nothing can exceed her talk, her laughter, her cheerfulness. She

nestles close to her friend; she is like a spoiled child; she makes fun

of the Youth's attempts to steer. And the Laird is regarding her with a

grave wonder--perhaps with some dark suspicion--when she lightly

addresses herself to him again:

"But what about that strong man, sir? You were going to tell us the

story yesterday, when you were interrupted."

It was a cunning device. How could a professed story-teller refuse to

rise to the bait? The watchfulness disappeared from the face of the

Laird: in its place a sort of anticipatory laughter began to shine.

"But it was Tom Galbraith heard of that man," said he, in a deprecating

way. "Did I not tell ye? Oh, ay! it was Tom Galbraith heard of him

when he was in Rossshire; and it was he told me of the wonderful things

that man could do, according to the natives. Did not I tell ye of his

rolling an enormous stone up a hill, and of the stone being split into

nine pieces; yet not any one man could roll up one of the nine pieces?

But I was going to tell ye of his being in Prince's Street, Edinburgh;

and a coach and four was coming whirling along; the horses had run away,

and no one could stop them. M'Kinlay was walking along the street, when

the people called to him to look out, for the four horses were running

mad; but the Rossshire Samson was not afraid. No, no----"

Here a wisp of spray somewhat disconcerted the Laird; but only for a

moment. He wiped the salt water from the side of his neck, and

continued, with suppressed laughter bubbling up in his eyes.

"The man that told Tom Galbraith," said he, "was a solemn believer, and

spoke with reverence. 'M'Kinlay,' says he, 'he will turn to the street,

and he will grab at the four horses and the coach, and he will took them

up in his two hands--_shist like a mice_.'"

"_Shist like a mice._" The Laird preserved a stern silence. The humour

of this story was so desperately occult that he would leave the coarse

applause to us. Only there was an odd light in his eyes; and we knew

that it was all he could do to prevent his bursting out into a roar of

laughter. But Mary Avon laughed--until John of Skye, who had not heard

a word, grinned out of pure sympathy.

"He must have been the man," said Miss Avon, diffidently--for she did

not like to encroach on the Laird's province--"whom Captain John told me

about, who could drink whisky so strong that a drop of it would burn a

white mark on a tarred rope."

But the Laird was not jealous.

"Very good--very good!" he cried, with extreme delight. "Excellent--a

real good one! 'Deed I'll tell that to Tom Galbraith!"

And the high spirits and the facetiousness of these two children

continued through lunch. That was rather a wild meal, considering that

we were still sawing across the boisterous Sound of Jura, in the teeth

of a fresh northerly breeze. However, nothing could exceed the devotion

of the Youth, who got scarcely any luncheon at all in his efforts to

control the antics of pickle jars and to bolster up bottles. Then when

everything was secure, there would be an ominous call overhead, "_Stand

by forrard, boys!_" followed by a period of frantic revolution and

panic.

"Yes," continued the Laird, when we got on deck again; "a sense of

humour is a great power in human affairs. A man in public life without

it is like a ship without a helm: he is sure to go and do something

redeeclous that a smaller man would have avoided altogether. Ay, my

father's sense of humour was often said by people to be quite

extraordinar'--quite extraordinar'. I make no pretensions that way

myself."

Here the Laird waved his hand, as if to deprecate any courteous protest.

"No, no; I have no pretensions that way; but sometimes a bit joke comes

in verra well when ye are dealing with solemn and pretentious asses.

There is one man in Strathgovan----"

But here the Laird's contempt of this dull person could not find vent in

words. He put up both hands, palm outwards, and shook them, and

shrugged his shoulders.

"A most desperately stupid ass, and as loquacious as a parrot. I mind

fine when I was giving my earnest attention to the subject of our police

system. I may tell ye, ma'am, that our burgh stretches over about a

mile each way, and that it has a population of over 8,000 souls, with a

vast quantity of valuable property. And up till that time we had but

two policemen on duty at the same time during the night. It was my

opeenion that that number was quite inahdequate; and I stated my

opeenion at a meeting of the commissioners convened for that purpose.

Well, would ye believe it, this meddlesome body, Johnny Guthrie, got up

on his legs and preached and preached away; and all that he had to tell

us was that we could not add to the number of police without the consent

of the Commissioners of Supply and the Home Secretary. Bless me! what

bairn is there but knows that? I'll be bound Miss Mary there, though

she comes from England, would know as much about public affairs as

that?"

"I--I am afraid not, sir," said she.

"No matter--no matter. Live and learn. When ye come to Strathgovan,

we'll begin and teach ye. However, as I was saying, this bletherin'

poor crayture went on and on, and it was all about the one point, until

I got up and, 'Mr. Provost,' says I, 'there are some human beings it

would be idle to answer. Their loquacity is a sort of function; they

perspire through their tongue--like a doag.' Ye should have seen Johnny

Guthrie's face after that!"

And here the Laird laughed and laughed again at Johnny Guthrie's

discomfiture.

"But he is a poor bletherin' crayture," he continued, with a kind of

compassion. "Providence made him what he is: but sometimes I think

Johnny tries to make himself even more rideeklous than Providence could

fairly and honestly have intended. He attacked me most bitterly because

I got a committee appointed to represent to the Postmaster that we

should have a later delivery at night. He attacked me most bitterly;

and yet I think it was one of the greatest reforms ever introduced into

our Burgh."

"Oh, indeed, sir?" says his hostess, with earnest attention.

"Yes, indeed. The Postmaster is a most civil, worthy, and respectable

man, though it was a sore blow to him when his daughter took to going to

the Episcopal Church in Glasgow. However, with his assistance we now get

the letters that used to be delivered in the forenoon delivered late the

night before; and we have a mail made up at 10 P.M., which is a great

convenience. And that man Johnny Guthrie gabbling away as if the French

Revolution were coming back on us! I am a Conservative myself, as ye

know, ma'am; but I say that we must march with the times. No standing

still in these days. However, ye will get Johnny Guthries everywhere;

poor bletherin' craytures who have no capacity for taking a large view

of public affairs--bats and blindworms as it were: I suppose there is a

use for them, as it has pleased Providence to create them; but it would

puzzle an ordinary person to find it out."

With much of the like wise discourse did the Laird beguile our northward

voyage; and apparently he had forgotten that little incident about Mary

Avon in the morning. The girl was as much interested as any one;

laughed at the "good ones;" was ready to pour her contempt on the Johnny

Guthries who opposed the projects of the Laird's statesmanship. And in

this manner we fought our way against the stiff northerly breeze, until

evening found us off the mouth of Loch Crinan. Here we proposed to run

in for the night, so that we should have daylight and a favourable tide

to enable us to pass through the Dorus Mor.

It was a beautiful, quiet evening in this sheltered bay; and after

dinner we were all on deck, reading, smoking, and what not. The Laird

and Mary Avon were playing chess together. The glow of the sunset was

still in the western sky, and reflected on the smooth water around us;

though Jura and Scarba were of a dark, soft, luminous rose-purple.

Chess is a silent game; the Laird was not surprised that his companion

did not speak to him. And so absorbed was he with his knights and

bishops that he did not notice that, in the absolute silence of this

still evening, one of the men forward was idly whistling to himself the

sad air of Lochaber.

_Lochaber no more! And Lochaber no more!_

_We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more!_

It was the old and familiar refrain: Hector of Moidart was probably not

thinking of Lochaber at all.

But suddenly the Laird, staring down at the board, perceived some little

tiny thing drop on the farther edge from him; and he quickly looked up.

The girl was crying. Instantly he put out his great hand and took hers,

and said, in a low voice, full of gentleness and a tender sympathy--

"Dear me, lassie, what is the matter?"

But Mary Avon hastily pulled out her handkerchief, and passed it across

her eyes, and said hurriedly--

"Oh, I beg your pardon! it is nothing: I--I was thinking of something

else. And is it your move or mine, sir?----"

The Laird looked at her; but her eyes were cast down. He did not pay so

much attention to the game after that.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*CERTAINTY.*

Next morning there is a lively commotion on board. The squally,

blustering-looking skies, the glimpses of the white horses out there on

the driven green sea, and the fresh northerly breeze that comes in gusts

and swirls about the rigging--all tell us that we shall have some hard

work before we pierce the Dorus Mor.

"You won't want for wind to-day, Captain John," says the Youth, who is

waiting to give the men a hand at the windlass.

"'Deed, no," says John of Skye, with a grim smile. "This is the kind of

day that Dr. Sutherland would like, and the _White Dove_ through the

Dorus Mor too!"

However, the Laird seems to take no interest in what is going forward.

All the morning he has been silent and preoccupied; occasionally

approaching his hostess, but never getting an opportunity of speaking

with her alone. At last, when he observes that every one is on deck,

and eagerly watching the _White Dove_ getting under weigh, he covertly

and quietly touches our Admiral on the arm.

"I would speak to ye below for a moment, ma'am," he says, in a whisper.

And so, unnoticed amid all this bustle, she follows him down into the

saloon, wondering not a little. And as soon as he has shut the door, he

plunges _in medias res_.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am; but I must speak to ye. It is about your

friend, Miss Mary: have ye not observed that she is sorely troubled

about something--though she puts a brave face on it and will not

acknowledge it? Have ye not seen it--have ye not guessed that she is

grievously troubled about some matter or other?"

"I have guessed it," said the other.

"Poor lass! poor lass!" said the Laird; and then he added, thoughtfully,

"It is no small matter that can affect so light-hearted a creature: that

is what I want to ask ye. Do ye know? Have ye guessed? Surely it is

something that some of us can help her wi'. Indeed, it just distresses

me beyond measure to see that trouble in her face; and when I see her

try to conceal it--and to make believe that everything is well with

her--I feel as if there was nothing I would not do for the poor lass."

"But I don't think either you or I can help. Young people must manage

their affairs for themselves," says his hostess, somewhat coldly.

"But what is it?--what is it? What is troubling her?"

Queen Titania regards him for a moment, apparently uncertain as to how

far she should go. At last she says--

"Well; I am not revealing any confidence of Mary's; for she has told me

nothing about it. But I may as well say at once that when we were in

West Loch Tarbert, Dr. Sutherland asked her to be his wife; and she

refused him. And now I suppose she is breaking her heart about it."

"Dear me! dear me!" says the Laird, with eyes opened wide.

"It is always the way with girls," says the other, with a cruel

cynicism. "Whether they say 'Yes' or 'No' they are sure to cry over it.

And naturally; for whether they say 'Yes' or 'No,' they are sure to have

made an irretrievable blunder."

The Laird is slowly recovering from his first shock of surprise.

"But if she did refuse him, surely that is what any one would have

expected? There is nothing singular in that."

"Pardon me; I think there is something very singular," she says, warmly.

"I don't see how any one could have been with these two up in the north,

and not perceived that there was an understanding between them. If any

girl ever encouraged a man, she did. Why, sir, when you proposed that

your nephew should come with us, and make love to Mary, I said 'Yes'

because I thought it would be merely a joke! I thought he would please

you by consenting, and not harm anybody else. But now it has turned out

quite different; and Angus Sutherland has gone away."

And at this there was a return of the proud and hurt look into her eyes:

Angus was her friend; she had not expected this idle boy would have

supplanted him.