A PIOUS PILGRIMAGE.
All things appeared to be going well at Lochgarra: Mary was radiant and
jubilant, and would pay no heed to Kaethchen's underhand jibes and
warnings. Her numerous schemes were thriving all along the line; she
had orders for homespun webs and hand-knitted stockings far beyond what
she could execute in the coming winter; she had been guaranteed two
fishing-boats, with their furnishing of nets, for the next season; she
was in treaty for more looms, for which there would be abundant
employment; and to add to all this, the as yet ungarnered harvest--that
poor, scattered, patchwork harvest, among the sterile rocks--promised a
fair return if only the weather would leave it alone. But it was the
attitude of the people towards her that warmed her heart. Since her
open association with young Donald of Heimra, a miracle had been wrought
in this neighbourhood; the dumb could speak; men and women who had
sulkily turned away from the ban-sassunnach, shaking their heads, now
managed to find quite sufficient English to answer her, and would ask
her into their cottages, and offer her of their little store. Even the
sad-faced, silent, morose Peter Grant, of the inn, had been brought to
see that there might be something in Miss Stanley's proposals. If he
were to take the April fishing on the Garra at an annual rental of L15,
she providing a water-bailiff, and if, by advertising in the sporting
papers, he were to find two gentlemen who would pay him L25 for the
month's salmon-fishing, and use the inn at the same time, would not that
serve? Peter (committing one illegal act in order to prevent another)
could give an occasional glass of whiskey to the rosy-cheeked policeman:
the placid and easy-going Iain, having little else to do, could now and
again stroll down to the bridge of a morning or evening--there would be
no fear of poachers at that end of the water.
But it was over the terrible rascal and outlaw, Gillie Ciotach, that she
obtained (as she thought) her most signal triumph. She sent for that
notorious scamp to thank him for the couple of lythe he had presented to
her; and one evening the Gillie Ciotach sauntered along towards
Lochgarra House, his fisherman clothes as clean as might be, and a
brand-new Balmoral set jauntily on his short brown curls. When he
arrived at the house, he dismissed a quid of tobacco he had been
chewing, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and ascended the
steps. Barbara received him, and went and told her mistress, who
directed her to bring some whiskey into the hall. Then Mary came down.
"Good evening!" said she, rather nervously, to this young fellow with
the bold brown eyes and the heavy scar across his forehead, who stood
twirling his Balmoral in his fingers. "Won't you be seated? I hope I
have not put you to any inconvenience. The fact is, I wished to thank
you for your kindness in leaving the two stenlock for me--I am sorry I
was out--and--and perhaps you will take a glass of whiskey--will you
help yourself?"
For Barbara had brought in a little tray, and placed it on the
hall-table, and retired. Now, when the Gillie Ciotach received this
invitation, which he had no thought of refusing, he went to the table;
and finding there a tumbler, a wineglass, a decanter, and a carafe of
water, and being far too polite to think of drinking by himself, he
filled the wine-glass with whiskey, and half-filled the tumbler with the
same fluid, and brought the former, as being the more elegant of the
two, to Miss Stanley.
"Oh, no, thank you," said she, with an involuntary shudder.
"No, mem?" said he, in great surprise. "Well, well, now!" But not to
waste good liquor he poured the contents of the wine-glass into the
tumbler, and took that between his hands as he sate down, nursing it, as
it were, while he listened respectfully.
"But first of all," she said, with a fine effort at jollity and
good-comradeship, "I ought to know your real name, you know; I don't
consider nicknames fair--even although they may not be meant to be
nicknames. And I wish to be good friends with everybody in the
place--and to get to know all about them----"
"Aw, my own name?" said the Gillie Ciotach, after having, with careful
manners, sipped a little of the whiskey. "Aw, it's just Andrew Mac
Vean."
"Very well, then, Andrew, I am very pleased to see you; and I am sure we
shall be friends; and I wished to say, besides, that I hope everything
will go peaceably here, and that there will be no more riotous
proceedings, like the assault on the lobster-fishermen at Ru Minard----"
"Aw, God, that was a fine thing!" cried the Gillie Ciotach, with a loud
laugh that led Mary to suspect he must have had a glass, or even two,
before coming along. "Aw, it was a fine thing, that! And Miss Stanley
has only to send us word, as she did before, and we'll drive the
squatters into the sea--them and their traps, and their huts,
ahltogether into the sea! Never mind where they settle!--you send to
me, mem, and we will drive the duvvles into the sea, and let them tek
their chance of swimming the Minch!----"
"But what do you mean?" she said, angrily. "What word did I send you?
Do you imagine I authorized those mad and cruel proceedings? I bade Big
Archie tell those men what the Fishery Board had said--that they had no
right there; I did not ask you to drive the poor men out with sticks and
stones, and set fire to their huts with petroleum. I don't want any
such on-goings: why, it is monstrous that the people should take the law
into their own hands, and get the neighbourhood a bad name for rioting."
"It's the God's truth, mem, and many's the time I was telling them
that," said the Gillie Ciotach, solemnly. "But ye see, mem, there's
some wild duvvles about here; and they're neither to hold nor to bind;
but I'll tell them what Miss Stanley says, that there's to be no more
fighting; and if a man is determined to fight, then we'll chist fell him
with a chair, and fling him below the table until he gets sober. It's a
peaceable neighbourhood: why should there be any fighting in it?--but
for these duvvles!----"
"I am glad you think so," said Mary, very gratefully. "And then there's
another thing--the poaching. Now, is it fair? I ask you if it is
fair----"
"It's a b----y shame!" said the Gillie Ciotach to himself, as he bent
his head to sip a little more whiskey.
"Because look what I am doing, Andrew," she went on, probably not having
heard the penitent exclamation. "I want you to understand. I am having
the ground shot over, moderately, by the keepers, and the game sent to
Inverness and sold there to pay wages, and the cost of the kennels, and
so on; and in that way I can afford to keep the gillies in employment.
And I do think it is hardly fair that there should be poaching. _I_ get
no good out of the game--except a bird or two now and again for the
house, or a brace or two to send away. Of course, I don't believe that
there is very much poaching--for the keepers know their business too
well; but it is disgraceful there should be any----"
"I declare to ye, mem," said the Gillie Ciotach, in tones of the most
earnest conviction, "that if I was to come across one of them d----d
scoundrels--I beg your pardon, mem--I meant to say there was one or two
bad men about here, that mebbe would tek a hare if they found her
sitting in her form--or--or a salmon; and as sure's death, mem, if I was
to catch one of them scoundrels, I would bind him hand and foot with a
heather rope, and I would fling him down in front of Hector's cottage,
and I would say 'Hector, off with him to Dingwall!'"
This was almost too much of zeal.
"Andrew," said she, slowly, and she looked at him, "I have heard it said
that even you yourself----"
"Me, mem?" he exclaimed, quick to repel this unspoken accusation. "Me,
mem? Miss Stanley is not going to believe that! There's a great many
liars about here, mem, and there's not one of them I would believe
myself; and tekking away any one's character like that! I would just
like to brek the bones of any one that I heard talking like that about
me--begooh, I would shove his teeth down his throat!"
"Well, I won't detain you any longer, Andrew," said she--and he drained
off the whiskey, and smoothed out the ribbons of his Balmoral. "I am
glad to hear that there is to be no more fighting or poaching; for I
want the neighbourhood to have a good name; and there are plenty of
other and better occupations for the young men."
She went with him to the door. Suddenly something seemed to occur to
the Gillie Ciotach.
"Would Miss Stanley be caring for two or three sea-trout now and again?"
said he, in a casual kind of way.
Instantly she fixed her eyes on him.
"Sea-trout?--where are you getting sea-trout, Andrew?" she demanded.
"Do you mean to say you have a scringe-net?"
For one brief moment the Gillie Ciotach looked disconcerted and guilty;
but only for a moment.
"Aw, no, mem. A scringe-net? Is it a scringe-net? Aw, I'm sure
there's no one would use a scringe-net about here!" he declared,
assuming further and further an air of innocence as he went on. "The
sea-trout?--well, mebbe they would be in the herring-nets--and mebbe a
happening one would come on to the bait-lines--and--and mebbe the one
way or the other; but if Miss Stanley not wishing to have them----"
"Why, isn't this the very time they go up the rivers to spawn!" she
exclaimed. "And what a shame it would be to take them now!"
"Indeed, indeed, and that's the God's truth, mem," said the Gillie
Ciotach, with a serious air. "It's at this very moment. And who would
tek them? Who would put a scringe-net round the mouth of the ruvvers at
a time of the year like this? Not a man about here, anyway. Aw,
sea-trout?--who would think of tekkin sea-trout now? Well, good
evening, mem; and I am thanking Miss Stanley for her kindness--yes, yes,
indeed."
And therewith the Gillie Ciotach went down the steps, fumbling in his
pocket for his pipe; while Mary returned to relate the story of this
momentous interview to Kaethchen--perhaps with some few judicious
reservations. For if all that the Gillie Ciotach professed was not
quite to be believed, at least it was something that so desperate a
dare-devil had the grace to affect being on the side of virtue; and Mary
chose to flatter herself that, now he had shown himself in a measure
amenable, she would sooner or later complete his conversion--to the
general quieting of the country-side.
And of course an account of this, her latest conquest, had to be written
out forthwith and despatched to Heimra. Indeed, it was remarkable how
constant had become the communication between the island and the shore,
now that Donald Ross had returned for a few days to his own home. Big
Archie's lugger was continually being requisitioned, to take out a note
and wait for an answer; while Coinneach and Calum, when they came to
meet the mail, would be intercepted by the swift-footed Barbara, and
entrusted with a message. Kaethchen was convinced that the replies that
came back from Eilean Heimra were kept and secretly pondered over: more
than once she had seen Mary thrust a paper into her pocket when someone
had suddenly come upon her. And she noticed that when they two were
walking along the shore, her companion's attention would sometimes be so
steadily and wistfully fixed on the distant island--which sometimes was
dark and misty under trailing clouds of rain, and sometimes shining fair
amid a wonder of blue seas and sunlight--that when she was spoken to she
would look startled, as if summoned out of a dream.
One day there arrived, addressed to Miss Stanley, a wooden box that had
the name of a well-known London florist printed on the label. The
contents were a mass of flowers, all of them white; and Mary herself saw
them taken out and carefully placed in water--for the pale wax-like buds
of the tuberoses were hardly yet opened. Then she went to Kate
Glendinning.
"Kaethchen," she said, rather diffidently, "don't you think it is rather
a sad thing, the lonely grave out there?"
"Do you mean at Heimra, Mamie?"
"Yes. It seems so hard that no one has ever a chance of showing
sympathy--either with the dead or living. I have sent for some flowers;
do you think we could go out and place them on the grave--without being
seen?"
Kaethchen was silent: it did not appear a very feasible project.
"I have been thinking it over," Mary continued, in the same humbly
apologetic, almost shamefaced way--though what there was to be ashamed
of Kaethchen could not make out. "And, you see, if we landed at the
little bay, he would be sure to come down to meet us, and--and we should
have to tell him--and--and there are things you can't speak of. I would
rather have this done quite unknown--as if it were by the hand of a
stranger: perhaps I should like it better if Mr. Ross himself never
knew. However, I was wondering if we could not get out to the west coast
of the island without being seen, and then if there was a chance of our
being able to get up to the top of the cliff that way. What do you
think, Kaethchen?"
"Let us go along and ask Big Archie," said Kaethchen, with promptitude:
and that suggestion commending itself to her friend, both of them at
once went off and got ready, and proceeded to walk down through the
village.
Big Archie they found on the beach, screwing the nails into a
lobster-box. Kaethchen put the matter briefly before him--telling him
frankly the object of the expedition, and explaining their reasons for
secrecy. The huge, heavy-shouldered fisherman listened attentively,
stroking his voluminous beard the while.
"Well, mem," said he, in his plaintive Argyllshire intonation, "I am
thinking it would be easy enough to get out to the island, for we could
go round by the norse side. If the wind wass holding as it is now, we
would lie aweh up the coast there, and if anyone on Heimra wass seeing
the lugger, they would think I wass mekkin for the Eddrachilles
fishing-banks; and then, when we were far enough we would put about and
run down to the back of the island, and mek in for the shore. I am
thinking there would be no diffeekwulty about that--aw, no, mem; we
could get round to the back of the island ferry well; but it is the next
thing that would be the sore thing for leddies to try----"
"You mean climbing up to the top of the cliff?" said Kaethchen.
"Chist that! It's a terrible rough place the west side of Heimra," said
Gilleasbuig Mor. "And where the big white stone is, it is fearful high."
"Mamie," said Kaethchen, turning to her friend, "wouldn't it be better
for you to send Archie out with some young lad who is used to the coast,
and they could put the flowers on the grave for you?"
"I wish to place them there with my own hand," said Mary, simply. "But
you needn't come, Kaethchen."
"Of course I will, though!"
"Well, mem," said Big Archie, "I am not sure whether you will be able to
get to the top that way, but we can go out and see whatever. And if the
wind would hold till to-morrow morning, it would be a very good wind,
both for going and coming."
"Very well, then, Archie," said Mary; "to-morrow morning we shall be
ready to start between nine and ten."
The wind did hold, as it proved; and long before the young ladies made
their appearance Big Archie and his assistant had the lugsail hoisted
and the cumbrous craft smartened up as much as might be. Then he sent
the lad along to Lochgarra House to see if there was anything to be
fetched; but there was only a couple of waterproofs; when Mary and her
friend came out, the former was herself carrying a small basket,
containing the freshly-sprinkled flowers.
And so they set forth--making away in a north-westerly direction, which
would have led anyone to imagine they were either going to certain
well-known fishing-banks or that they intended to pay some visit not at
all in the Heimra direction. But when at length they had got well out
beyond the most northerly spur of the island, Big Archie altered his
course, and bore down south, until they were quite near to these giant
ramparts facing the Atlantic main. And already it appeared to the two
girls that this expedition of theirs was a quite hopeless one. They
were, it is true, under the lee of the island, and the water was smooth,
so that they could get ashore wherever they wished; but who could scale
those sterile and sombre precipices that, further to the south, rose
sheer from the water, and seemed to afford not even foothold for a goat?
Even Big Archie was discouraged.
"No, mem," he said to Miss Stanley, "it is no use going aweh down there
to where the big white stone is. There's no luvvin crayture could get
up--it's far worse than I wass remembering it. But if we went ashore
here where we are, and tried to get up one of them corries, then mebbe
we could get along the top. Will ye try that, mem?"
"Whatever you like, Archie," said she--the aspect of that frowning,
lonely, precipitous coast seemed to have overawed her.
And indeed when they did eventually choose a landing-place, and when
they began to look around them, the arduous nature of their task became
abundantly apparent. First of all there were the tumbled rocks on the
shore to be got over or avoided; then they proceeded up a narrow
watercourse that here cleaved the land into a deep ravine; and this they
ascended for some distance, scrambling up the loose wet shingle and
stones. Big Archie led the way, and also he carried the little basket,
for the two girls had frequently need of both hands to help them along,
especially when they left the water-course, and began to force a path
through the stunted birches that lined the sides of the chasm. It was a
thicket of short trees, with intertwisted branches; while underfoot the
long heather and bracken concealed loose, angular stones perilous to the
ankle. Sometimes they had to pause, from absolute want of breath; and
Big Archie, looking back, would also stop. But no one made any
suggestion of giving up: there must be light and open space somewhere,
if only one could win to the summit.
So they toiled and toiled on, in silence, startling now a fox and now a
rabbit, until, at length, the stunted trees gave way to bushes, and
these in turn gave way to knee-deep heather. It was still difficult to
get along; but at least they had reached the open, and were presumably
approaching the high plateaus: turning, they could look abroad over the
wide Atlantic, the vast plain not showing one single ship. Their own
boat, far below, was out of sight, so steep was this ascent they had
made.
Here they rested for a minute or two, after their long and breathless
struggle.
"One thing is quite certain, Mamie," said Kaethchen, in rather a low
voice, so that the big fisherman should not overhear, "When Mr. Ross
finds these flowers on the grave, he will know very well who put them
there."
"I am not sure that I want him to know," Mary answered, in an absent
way. "I think I almost wish he were not to know. If he were to
consider it merely a little kindness from some stranger--that would be
better, it seems to me--it would be quite disinterested----"
"Why, what stranger could have managed to land on Heimra without being
seen?" Kaethchen asked; and as there was no answer to the question, they
resumed their difficult progress, getting momentarily higher as they
went along the summit of the cliffs.
But all at once Big Archie, who was some distance in front, halted,
ducked his head, and immediately turned and came back.
"Miss Stanley, mem, Mr. Ross himself is there," said he.
"Mr. Ross!" said she, with frightened eyes.
"Ay. He is sitting on the heather, not far from the big white stone,
and he is reading a book," said Big Archie. "He is often up there, mem.
I am seeing him often and often when I am going by in the boat."
Mary turned to her companion, with her face aghast.
"We must go away back, Kaethchen, and at once," she said, in a hurried
undertone. "The embarrassment would be too dreadful. If he could
imagine it was some stranger brought the flowers, that would be all
right; but to go up to him--before his face--to make a parade--he would
wonder what kind of creatures we were."
Kaethchen hardly knew what to say. She had no more mind to go forward
than her friend had; and yet she guessed with what a heavy heart, with
what regretful lookings-back, Mary would set out on her voyage home
again.
"Let us sit down and rest awhile," she said, at a venture.
But at this very instant Big Archie returned.
"Mr. Ross, mem, he has got up, and he is going aweh down the hill," he
said, in an eager whisper.
"You are sure he is not coming this way?" she said, quickly.
"No, no, mem--come a bit forrit, and you will see."
So they followed, with rather timorous steps and anxious glances, the
big fisherman; and at last they just caught a glimpse of Donald Ross
making his way down the hill by the winding pathway leading up to this
little plateau. And here was the large white block of marble, with its
deep-graven letters of gold shining in the sunlight. Mary regarded this
inscription with some curious fancies in her mind.
"I wish I had known her," she murmured, apparently to herself, as she
took the white flowers out of the basket and reverently placed them on
the stone. It was a simple ceremony--up here on the lofty crest of this
solitary island, between the wide, over-arching sky and the
far-extending plain of the sea.
Then they went back along these silent and lonely cliffs, and got down
to the boat in safety; returning to the mainland, as they hoped,
unobserved. Mary Stanley was unusually absorbed and thoughtful during
the rest of that day; and only once did she refer to their visit to
Heimra.
"It seems strange, Kaethchen, does it not," she said, musingly, "that he
should go away up there to read? ... Do you think it is perhaps for some
sense of companionship? ... That would be strange, wouldn't it, in a
young man?..." And Kaethchen did not venture to reply: she could not
even conjecture what secret influences, what mysterious cogitations,
might not have prompted such a question.
But Kate herself grew to wonder whether Donald Ross had become aware of
that thoughtful little act of kindness and sympathy; and whether, and in
what way, he would make recognition of it. This was what happened. Some
two days after their visit to the island Mary chanced to be standing at
one of the windows, when she suddenly called to her companion--
"Kaethchen, there's a boat coming out from Heimra."
She went quickly and got her binocular telescope, and returned to the
window.
"It's the _Sirene_!" she exclaimed.
"He has seen those flowers," Kate Glendinning said quietly.
Mary turned to her friend, with something of concern in her look.
"And if he has, Kaethchen, I hope he won't speak of them. Don't you
think it would be better--if nothing were said? Besides, you don't know
that he is coming here at all."
But there was little doubt; and, in fact, on getting ashore, young Ross
made straight for the house. When he was announced in the drawing-room,
Mary happened to be standing near the door--perhaps with the least touch
of conscious colour in the beautiful face. He, on the contrary, was
pale, and calm, and self-possessed as usual; only, when he took her hand
in his, he held it for a second.
"I thank you," he said, in rather a low voice: that was all--and it was
enough.
But presently it appeared that his visit had some other aim; for when he
sate down they saw that he had brought a small parcel with him; and
presently he said--
"I am going to ask a favour of you, Miss Stanley; and I hope you won't
refuse. I have brought a little present, if you will be so kind as to
accept it: you may look on it as a souvenir of your visit to Heimra--for
perhaps you remember the piece of lace you looked at----"
She remembered very well; it was the exquisite Spanish mantilla to which
Kaethchen had drawn her attention. And it was not because this
sumptuous piece of work was of great value that she hesitated about
accepting it: would it not look like despoiling the dead woman?
Instantly he appeared to divine her thought.
"If my mother were alive," he said, simply, "she would ask you to take
it--and from her, not from me."
So there was no alternative: Mary silently accepted the gift. Nor was
there any further word or hint on either side about that pious and
secret pilgrimage to Heimra Island; but Donald Ross knew whose hand it
was that had placed those flowers on the white grave.
One evening, about this time, two men were dining together in the
Station Hotel, Inverness, in a corner of the long coffee-room; and these
two were Mr. David Purdie, solicitor and agent, and Mr. James Watson,
who was on his way through to his sheep-farm of Craiglarig. But if they
were dining together, their fare was very different; for while the
fresh-complexioned, twinkling-eyed farmer was content with such simple
vegetarian dishes as an ordinary hotel could devise at short notice, the
Troich Bheag Dhearg was attacking an ample plateful of boiled beef and
carrots, while a decanter of port stood near to his elbow.
"Man, Watson," said the factor, with an expression of impatient disgust
on his harsh, ill-tempered features, "I wonder to see ye swallowing that
trash! It's not food for human beings. Have ye been so long among
sheep that ye must imitate their very eating?"
"It's live and let live, each in his own way," said the well-contented
sheep-farmer; and then he added: "But tell me this, friend Purdie: if ye
object to my eemitating a sheep, what kind o' animal is't you eemitate?
For there's only one kind o' crayture I've heard o' that would eat a
dead cow--and that's a hoodie crow."
But this was an incidental remark: presently they returned to their main
object, which was the condition of Lochgarra.
"It's just terrible to think of," said the Little Red Dwarf, with his
mouth as vindictive as the process of eating would allow; "it's just
terrible to think of, the waste and extravagance going forward, on what
used to be a carefully-ordered, carefully-kept estate. And the
pampering o' they idle, whining, deceitful, ill-thrawn wretches, that
would be the better of a cat-o'-nine tails to make them work! Work?
Not them!--if they can get money out o' the proprietors or out o' the
Government, or out o' the rates. And what could ye expect to happen wi'
a silly, ignorant woman coming into such a nest of liars, and believing
everything she hears? What could ye expect? Born liars every one o'
them--ay, from end to end of the West Highlands: there's not a man o'
them that would not lie the very soul out o' his body for a dram of
whisky!"
"That's an old contention o' yours, friend Purdie," said the farmer; and
then he proceeded, with a twinkle of humour in his eyes: "But I'll just
tell ye this, man, that it's a mercy there's one thing in the West
Highlands that will not lie. One thing at least, I tell ye. Among the
universal lying, isn't it a mercy there's one thing will _not_ lie--and
that's the snow. It's a blessing for the sheep--and for the
sheep-farmers."
"And what am I? Where am I?" resumed Mr. Purdie, paying no heed to this
little jocosity, for his small, piggish eyes had grown heated with anger
and indignation. "What is my poseetion? I ask ye that. What have I to
do wi' the estate except to collect what rent there is left? It's this
fashionable young dame that must come in to manage the place, snipping
off here and snipping off there, ordering this and ordering that,
building byres and sheds for nothing, and putting advertisements in the
papers about druggets and blankets to sell, as if Lochgarra House was a
warehousemen's shop. I tell ye, it's enough to make her uncle turn in
his grave. _He_ knew better how to dale wi' they ill-thrawn paupers!
And what will she not give them, after giving them
Meall-na-Cruagan?--and that without consulting any one--no 'by your
leave' or 'with your leave,' but 'this is what I have decided, and you
can carry it out like a clerk.' Man, Watson, ye were a silly creature
to consent to that Meall-na-Cruagan business! That was but a
beginning--where is to be the end? Well, I'll tell ye the end! She'll
snip here, and snip there, until she has divided every acre of ground
among the crofters; and then, when they've resolved among themselves to
pay no more rent, I suppose they'll be happy. No, d----n them if they
will!--they'll want her to sell Lochgarra House, and give them the money
to buy more stock." And here Mr. Purdie poured himself out a glass of
port, and gulped it as a dog grabs at a rat.
"Ye've never forgiven the folk out there," said Mr. Watson, with an
amused and demure air, "since the procession and the burning in effigy.
Dod, that was a queer business!--I heard of it away up in Caithness.
But I'm thinking ye might let bygones be bygones; ye've had them under
your thumb a good while now--and--and--well, ye might consider that
ye've paid off that score. But as for the young leddy--well, I tell ye,
friend Purdie, it's just wonderful what she has done since she cam' to
the place. A busy, industrious creature; ay, and she has a way of
talking folk over to her way of thinking; she seems to get on famously
wi' them, though they cannot have too friendly recollections of her
uncle. Yes, I will say that for her: an active, well-meaning creature;
and light-hearted as a lintie; dod, she takes her own way, and gets it
too! But I'm thinking there's a great deal owing to young Mr. Ross--he
goes about wi' her just conteenually."
"Ay," said the factor, with a malignant scowl, "I'm told my young
gentleman doesna shut himself up as much wi' his brandy-drinking as he
used to do. So he comes over to the mainland sometimes, and goes about
wi' her, does he?"
"Faith, ye may say that," Mr. Watson made answer, with a laugh.
"They're just insayperable, as ye might say, any time that he comes over
from Heimra, and that's often enough." He regarded the factor
curiously. "Purdie, my man, that's going to be a match."
For a second Purdie looked startled and incredulous, but instantly he
lowered his eyes again.
"It's a match, Purdie, depend on't," Mr. Watson proceeded, still looking
at his companion with an odd sort of scrutiny. "And I have been
thinking, if such a thing were to come about, it might be a wee bit
difficult for you--with young Ross the master at Lochgarra, eh? What
d'ye think? Dod, ye'd have to make friends with him and keep a civil
tongue besides, or he might be for bringing up old scores."
Mr. Purdie's dinner did not seem to interest him much after that. He
remained plunged in a profound reverie, with his truculent mouth drawn
down, the shaggy red eyebrows shading the small irascible eyes that were
now grown intent and thoughtful. And when at length Mr. Watson haled
him off to the smoking-room he did not speak for some considerable time.
But by and by he said--
"Are ye off by the early train to-morrow, Watson?"
"Yes, indeed.'
"And you go right through?"
"Just that."
"Well, I think I'll bear ye company," said the Troich Bheag Dhearg, with
the heavily down-drawn mouth expressing something more than mere
decision. "There's a few things I want to see to. And I havena been
out to Lochgarra for some time."