A MISSION.
All that day the gale did not abate in fury; nor yet on the next; and
even on the third day Gilleasbuig Mor still hesitated about trying to
get back to Lochgarra, for the sea was running high, and the wind blew
in angry gusts and squalls. But on the morning of this third day
communication with the mainland was resumed; for shortly after eleven
o'clock a lug-sail boat made its appearance, coming round the point into
the little bay; and at a glance Archie knew who this must be--this could
be no other than that venturesome dare-devil the Gillie Ciotach, who had
doubtless been sent out by Miss Glendinning to gain tidings of her
friend. Big Archie went down to the slip, to await the boat's arrival.
And when the Gillie Ciotach, whose sole companion was a little, old,
white-headed man called Dugald MacIsaac, came ashore he was in a
triumphant mood over his exploit, and had nothing but taunts and jeers
for the storm-stayed Archie.
"Aw, God," said he (in Gaelic) as he fetched out the parcels that had
come by the mail for Martha, "there is nothing makes me laugh so much as
a Tarbert man when there is a little breeze of wind anywhere. A Tarbert
man will hide behind a barn-door; and if a rat squeaks, his heart is in
his mouth. For what is Loch Fyne? Loch Fyne is only a ditch. A
Tarbert man does not learn anything of the sea; he runs away behind a
door if there is a puff of wind blowing anywhere. And have you taken
possession of Heimra, Archie? Are you going to stay here for ever? Are
you never going back to Lochgarra?"
"Andrew," said Big Archie, quite good-naturedly, "you are a clever lad;
but maybe you do not know what the wise man of Mull said: he said, '_The
proper time is better than too soon_.'
"Too soon? And is it too soon, then, for me to come over?" said the
young man of the slashed forehead and the bold eye.
"You!" said Big Archie. "But who is mindful of you or what becomes of
you? When I go over to Lochgarra, it is a valuable cargo I will have
with me. That is what makes me mindful. You?--who cares whether you
and your packages of tea go to the bottom?"
But the Gillie Ciotach was so elate over this achievement of his that,
instead of bandying further words, he stood up to Big Archie, and began
to spar, dancing from side to side, and aiming cuffs at him with his
open hand. The huge, good-humoured giant bore this for a while, merely
trying to ward off these playful blows; but at last--the Gillie Ciotach
unwarily offering an opportunity--Archie suddenly seized him by the
breeches and the scruff of the neck, and by a tremendous effort of
strength heaved him off the slip altogether--heaved him. into a bed of
seaweed and sand.
The Gillie Ciotach picked himself up slowly, and slowly and deliberately
he took off his jacket. His brows were frowning.
"We will just settle this thing now, Archie," said he, stepping up on to
the slip again. "We will see who is the better man, you or I. You can
catch a quick grip--oh, yes, and you have strength in your arms; but
maybe in an honest fight you will not do so well----"
"Oh, be peaceable!--be peaceable!" said Big Archie. "If you want
fighting, go and seek out some of the Minard lads--though that would be
carrying timber to Lochaber, as the saying is."
"Andrew, my son," said the little old man in the boat, "there is the
Baintighearna come to the door."
The Gillie Ciotach glanced towards the porch of the cottage; and there,
sure enough, was Miss Stanley--and also Martha.
"It is the luck of Friday that is on me," he said, with a laugh; "for I
am the one that was to stop all the fighting! Well, come away up to the
house, Archie; you are a friendly man; and if she asks why I was taking
off my jacket, you will swear to her that I was only searching for my
pipe. For a lie is good enough for women at any time."
They got up to the house, and the Gillie Ciotach delivered his parcels,
and the newspapers, and one or two letters, and said that Miss
Glendinning had sent him over to take back assurances of their safety.
"But I was telling the lady there was no chance of harm," said he; "for
we saw Miss Stanley go on board, and we saw Archie's lugger standing in
for Heimra, and every one knew there would be good shelter from the
storm----"
"And the _Sirene_, Andrew--have you heard anything of the _Sirene_?"
Mary asked quickly--and her eyes were alert and anxious, if the rest of
her features looked tired and worn.
"Aw, the _Sirene_, mem?" said the Gillie Ciotach, confidently. "I am
sure the _Sirene_ is just as safe as any of us. There's no harm coming
to the _Sirene_, mem, as long as Mr. Ross himself is on board. It's the
God's truth I'm telling ye, mem. Mr. Ross he would put in to Loch Broom
or Loch Ewe; and he knows every anchorage to half a fathom; and, with
plenty of chain out, and an anchor-watch, where would the harm be coming
to him?"
"You have no doubt of it, Andrew?"
"It's as sure as death, mem!" said the Gillie Ciotach, with an almost
angry vehemence.
She seemed a little relieved.
"And the sea outside, Andrew--is it very bad?"
"It's a bit wild," he admitted; and then he added, with a cool audacity:
"but mebbe Miss Stanley would be for going back with me now, if Archie
is too afraid to go out?"
"Oh, no, thank you," said she. "If Archie does not think it safe, I
should not think of venturing. I will wait for him--thank you all the
same."
Here there was an awkward pause. Mary left the little group, walking
over to the edge of the plateau, to get a better view of the distant and
troubled line of the sea. The Gillie Ciotach stood twirling his
Glengarry bonnet. Then he said timidly to Martha--
"Are there any empty casks going back?"
"None but yourself, Andrew, my lad," said Martha, with a dark smile in
her eyes.
At this he plucked up spirit.
"There's a way of curing that, as you know, Martha," said he. "And it's
many's the time I have come out to Heimra, and I never before had to
complain of going away like an empty cask."
"And you need not complain of it now, Andrew, my son," said Martha.
"Come away round to the kitchen, and I will get you something--ay, and
you will take something down to old Dugald, too. For although the
master of the house is not in his own home, I know his wish; and it is I
who would get the blame if any one went away hungry or cold from Eilean
Heimra."
But it was not until the afternoon that Big Archie considered it prudent
to cross to the mainland; and a rough passage they had of it. Mary,
however, was on this occasion provided with an abundance of wraps; and
was indifferent to wind, and spray, and rain. Possibly there may have
been other reasons for her apathy.
Kate Glendinning was down at the slip beside the quay.
"Mamie," she exclaimed, when her friend landed, "what took you out to
Heimra on that wild morning? I could not believe it when I was told.
And I sent over to know you were safe as soon as I could get any one to
go. What is the meaning of it all? If you had seen the people watching
the boat!--they did not know what might happen."
"I cannot explain; and you must not ask, Kaethchen, now or at any time,"
was her answer. "But tell me, has the gale done much damage? The harvest
was looking so well in those little patches----"
"Damage?" said Kaethchen. "It isn't damage, Mamie; it is
destruction--devastation--everywhere. Oh, it is pitiable. The corn
beaten down--the crofts flooded--well, well, the only thing to be said
is that the poor people are not so disheartened as you might expect.
Perhaps they are used to such bitter disappointments. I do believe this
place is fit only for sheep--and hardly fit for them."
"What can I do, Kaethchen," said Mary, with a curious listlessness,
"beyond lowering their rent again? I suppose that is all I can do. They
would not go to Manitoba with me: would they, Kaethchen? Do you think
they would? Would you, now?"
"Manitoba?" repeated Kaethchen, looking at her. "What has happened,
Mamie? I don't understand the way you speak. Why should you talk about
Manitoba, when you were so set against it?"
"The climate appears to be so uncertain here," she said, rather wearily,
as they were ascending the steps of Lochgarra House; "and--and the
people have of late been more friendly towards me; and I would like to
do what I could for them. There is nothing to keep me in this country.
I would go away willingly with them--to Canada, or anywhere. But
perhaps not you, Kaethchen. I could not expect you. All your interests
are in this country--or in England, at least. But if I were to sell
Lochgarra, I could get money to take them all away to Canada, and buy
good land for them, and see them comfortably established; and then I
should have done my duty by them, as I intended to do when I came here
at first. And--and I don't think I should care to come back."
She furtively wiped away the tears from her lashes: Kaethchen did not
notice. They were passing through the hall now.
"I cannot understand what you mean, Mamie. What is it? What has
happened? Did you see Mr. Ross when you were at Heimra? I heard that
the _Sirene_ had left the morning you went out--and I took it for
granted that Mr. Ross had gone with her----"
"Kaethchen, to please me," she said, beseechingly, "will you never
mention Heimra again? Mr. Ross is away--and--and I have been to the
island for the last time; that is all."
When they went into the room, she threw herself down on a couch, and put
her clasped hands on the arm of it, and hid her face. She was not
crying; she merely seemed overcome with fatigue and lassitude. Kate
Glendinning knelt down beside her, and with gentle fingers caressingly
stroked and smoothed the beautiful golden-brown hair that had been all
dishevelled by the wind.
"What is it, Mamie?"
"Tell me about the farms, Kaethchen," was the answer, uttered in a
hopeless kind of way. "I don't know anything about farm work, except
what I have been told since I came here. Are the crops so completely
destroyed? Would not fine weather give them another chance? Surely
entire ruin cannot have been caused by one gale--gales are frequent on
this coast----"
"This one came at a bad time, Mamie," said her companion; "and a great
part of the corn will have to be cut and given to the cows. But why
should you distress yourself unnecessarily? It was none of your fault.
You have done everything for these poor people that could be devised.
And, as I tell you, they seem used to misfortunes of this kind; there is
no bewailing; their despondency has become a sort of habit with
them----"
"Send for Mr. Purdie: I wish to see him"--this was what came from those
closed hands. But the next moment she had thrown herself upright. "No!"
she said, fiercely. "No, I will not see Mr. Purdie. With my consent,
Mr. Purdie shall never enter this house again."
"Mr. Purdie left on the very day you went out to Heimra," said
Kaethchen, gently; and then she went on: "You are hiding something from
me, Mamie. Well, I will not ask any further. I will wait. But I am
afraid you are very much fatigued, and upset, and I can see you are not
well. Now will you be persuaded, Mamie! If you will only go to bed you
will have a far more thorough rest; and I will bring you something that
will make you sleep. Why, your forehead is burning hot, and your hands
quite cold!--and if you were to get seriously ill, that would be a good
deal worse for the crofters than the flattening down of their corn!"
She was amenable enough; she consented to be led away; she was ready to
do anything asked of her--except to touch food or drink.
And yet the next morning she was up and out of the house before anyone
was awake, and she was making away for the solitude of the hills. She
wished to be alone--and to look at the wide sea. She walked slowly, but
yet her sick heart was resolute; the arduous toil of getting up the
lower slopes and corries, filled with bracken, and rocks, and heather,
did not hinder her; she turned from time to time to look, absently
enough, at the ever-broadening plain of the Atlantic, rising up to the
pale greenish-turquoise of the sky. And in time she had got over this
rough ground, and had reached the lofty and sterile plateaus of peat-bog
and grass, where, if it was loneliness she sought, she found it. No
sign of life: no sound, except the plaintive call of a greenshank from a
melancholy tarn: no movement, save that of the silver-grey masses of
cloud that came over from the west. But away out yonder was the
deserted island of Heimra; and far in the south were the long black
promontories--Ru-Minard, Ru-Gobhar, and the rest--behind which a boat
would disappear when it left for other lands. And had she heard of the
Fhir-a-Bhata? Did Kate Glendinning know of the song that is the most
familiar, the greatest favourite of all the West Highland songs; and had
she told her friend of the maiden who used to go up the cliffs, day by
day, to watch for the coming of her lover?--
'I climb the mountain and scan the ocean,
For thee, my boatman, with fond devotion:
When shall I see thee?--to-day?--to-morrow?
Oh, do not leave me in lonely sorrow!
Broken-hearted I droop and languish,
And frequent tears show my bosom's anguish:
Shall I expect thee to-night to cheer me?
Or close the door, sighing and weary.'
This, at least, Kate Glendinning soon began to learn--that nearly every
morning now Mary left the house, entirely by herself, and was away by
herself, in these desolate altitudes. It was clear she wished for no
companionship; and Kaethchen did not offer her services. Nor was any
reference made to these solitary expeditions. The rest of the day Mary
devoted herself to her usual work--increased, at this time, by her
investigations into the extent of the injury done by the gale: as to the
rest there was silence.
And thus it was that Kaethchen remained ignorant of this curious
fact--that day by day these excursions were gradually being shortened.
Day by day Mary Stanley found that her strength would not carry her
quite so far: she had to be content with a lesser height. And at last
she had altogether to abandon that laborious task of breasting the hill;
she merely, and wearily enough, walked away up the Minard road--whence
you can see a portion of the southern and western horizon; and there she
would sit down on the heather or a boulder of rock--with a strange look
in her eyes.
"Mamie!" said Kaethchen, one evening--and there was grief in her voice.
"Won't you tell me what has happened! I cannot bear to see you like
that! You are ill. I tell you, you are seriously ill; and yet you will
not say a word. And there is no one here but myself; I am in charge of
you; I am responsible for you; and how can I bear to see you killing
yourself before my eyes?"
Mary was lying on the couch, her face averted from the light.
"You are right in one way, Kaethchen," she said, rather sadly.
"Something has happened. But no good would come of speaking about it;
because it cannot be undone now. And as for being ill, I know what will
make me well. It is only sleep I want. It is the sleep that knows no
waking that I wish for."
Kaethchen burst out crying, and flung herself down on her knees, and put
her arms round her friend.
"Mamie, I declare to you I will not rest until you tell me what this
is!" she exclaimed passionately.
Nor did she. And that very evening, after an unheard-of pleading and
coaxing on the one side and despairing protest on the other, all those
recent occurrences were confided to the faithful Kaethchen. She was a
little bewildered at first; but she had a nimble brain.
"Mamie," she said, with a firm air, "I don't know what doubts, or if
any, may still be lingering in your mind; but I am absolutely convinced
that that story of Purdie's is a lie--a wicked and abominable lie. And
I can guess what drove him to it: it was a bold stroke, and it was
nearly proving successful; but it shall not prove successful. I will
make it my business to get Donald Ross back to Lochgarra--and then we
shall have an explanation."
"Do you think he will come back to Lochgarra? Then you do not know
him," Mary made answer, and almost listlessly. "Do you imagine I have
not considered everything, night after night, ay, and every hour of the
night all the way through? He will never come back to Lochgarra--if it
is to speak to me that you mean. I have told you before: it seems a
fatality that he and his should receive nothing but injury and insult at
our hands, from one member of our family after another; and never has
there been a word in reply--never a single syllable of reproach--but
only kindnesses innumerable, and thoughtfulness, and respect. Well,
there is an end of respect now. How can he have anything but scorn of
me? If I were to confess to him that I had believed that story--even
for one frightened moment--what could he think of me? Why, what he
thinks of me now--as a base creature, ignoble, ungrateful, unworthy--oh!
do you imagine I cannot read what is in that man's heart at this
moment?"
"Do you imagine I cannot?" said Kaethchen, boldly. "I have not been
blind all these months. What is in that man's heart, Mamie, is a
passionate love and devotion towards you; and there is no injury, and no
insult, he would not forgive you if he thought that you--that you--well,
that you cared for him a little. Oh, I know both you and him. I know
that you are wilful and impulsive; and I know that he is proud, and
sensitive, and reserved; but I think--I think--well, Mamie, no more
words; but I am going to have my own way in this matter, and you must
let me do precisely what I please."
And that was all she would say meanwhile. But next day was a busy day
for Kate Glendinning. First of all she went straight to the Minister and
demanded point-blank whether there were, or could be, any foundation for
that story about Anna Chlannach; and the Minister--not directly, of
course, but with many lamentations, in his high falsetto, over the
wickedness of the human mind in harbouring and uttering slanders and
calumnies--answered that he had known Anna Chlannach all her life, and
that she had been half-witted from her infancy, and that the tale now
told him was an entire and deplorable fabrication. Indeed, he would
have liked to enlarge on the theme, but Kate was in a hurry. For she
had heard in passing through the village that the Gillie Ciotach was
about to go over to Heimra, with the parcels and letters that had come
by the previous day's mail; and it occurred to her that here was a happy
chance for herself.
"Now, Andrew," she said, when she was seated comfortably in the stern of
the lugger, "keep everything smooth for me. I haven't once been
sea-sick since I came to Lochgarra, and I don't want to begin now."
"Aw, is it the sea-seeckness?" said the Gillie Ciotach. "Well, mem,
when you feel the seeckness coming on, just you tell me, and I will give
you something to mek you all right. Ay, I will give you a good strong
glass of whiskey; and in a moment it will make the seeckness jump out of
your body."
"Whiskey?" said Kaethchen. "Do you mean to say you take a bottle of
whiskey with you every time you put out in a boat?"
"Aw, as for that," said the Gillie Ciotach--and he was clearly casting
about for some portentous lie or another--"I was saying to Peter Grant
that mebbe the young leddy might have the sea-seeckness; and Peter he
was saying to me, 'Tek a smahl bottle of whiskey with you, Andrew, and
then she will hef no fear of the sea-seeckness.' And it was just for
yourself, mem, I was bringing the whiskey."
"And a pretty character you seem to have given me at the inn!" said
Kaethchen, as she contentedly wrapped herself up in her rugs.
Martha had seen the boat on its way into the harbour; she had come out
to the door of the cottage; a visitor was welcome in this solitary
island.
"Martha," she said, as soon as she had got within, "have you heard any
news of late?--can you tell me where the _Sirene_ is now?"
"Yes, indeed, mem," said the old Highland dame, with wondering eyes.
"But do you not know that the _Sirene_ is at the bottom of the sea? Was
the master not writing to Miss Stanley about it?"
"We have not heard a word," Kaethchen exclaimed.
"Dear, dear me now!" said Martha. "That is a stranche thing."
"But tell me--tell me about it," said Kaethchen anxiously. "There was
no one drowned?"
"No, no," said Martha, with much complacency. "There was plenty of time
for them to get into the boat. And the master not writing to Miss
Stanley at the same time he was writing to me--that is a stranche thing.
But this was the weh of it, as he says; that it was an ahfu' dark night,
the night of the first day of the gale; and they were mekkin for shelter
between Scalpa and Skye, and they had got through the Caol-Mor, and were
coming near to an anchorage, when they ran into a trading schooner that
was lying there without a single light up. Without a single light, and
the night fearful dark: I'm sure the men should be hanged that would do
such a thing, to save a little oil."
"And where is Mr. Ross now?" asked Kaethchen.
"Just in Greenock. He says he will try to get a place for Coinneach and
for Calum, and will not trouble with a yat any more for the present.
Ay, indeed," Martha went on, with a bit of a sigh, "and I'm thinking he
will not be coming back soon to Heimra, when he says he will not trouble
with a yat, and when he could have a yat easy enough with the insurance
money----"
"Is he at a hotel in Greenock?"
"Ay, the Tontine Hotel," the old woman said. "And I am not liking what
he says--that he is waiting for a friend, and they are going away from
Greenock together. I am not liking that at ahl. There's many a one
sailed away from the Tail of the Bank that never came back again. And
he says, if it is too lonely here for me and the young lass Maggie, we
are to go over to Lochgarra and get lodgings; but how could I be leaving
the house to the rain and the damp? Ay, lonely it is, except when
Gillie Ciotach comes out to look after the lobster traps--
"Well, Martha," said her visitor, "this time the Gillie Ciotach is going
straight back again; for I'm rather in a hurry. And don't you move over
to the mainland until you hear further. I will come and see you
sometimes if you are so lonely." And therewithal the industrious Kate
hied her back to the lobster boat, and set out for Lochgarra again.
Mary was lying on a sofa, her head half hidden by the cushion. She had
been attempting to read; but her arm had fallen supinely by her side,
and the book was half closed.
"Mamie," said Kate Glendinning, entering the room noiselessly, and
approaching the sofa, "I have a favour to beg of you; but please to
remember this: that I have waited on you--and worried you--all this long
time; and I have never asked you for an hour's holiday. Now I am going
to ask you for two or three days; and if you give me permission I mean
to be off by the mail car to-morrow morning. May I go?"
The pale cheek flushed--and the fingers that held the book trembled a
little. But she affected not to understand.
"Do as you wish, Kaethchen," said she, in a low voice.
Well, this was an onerous, and difficult, and delicate task that Kate
had undertaken; but she had plenty of courage. And her setting-forth
was auspicious: when the mail-car started away from Lochgarra the dawn
was giving every promise of a pleasant and cheerful day for the long
drive. It is true that as they passed the Cruagan crofts her face fell
a little on noticing here and there traces of the devastation that had
been wrought by the gale; but she had heard that things were mending a
little in consequence of the continued fine weather; and she was greatly
cheered to hear the driver maintain that the people about this
neighbourhood had little cause to grumble; matters had been made very
easy for them, he declared, since Miss Stanley came to Lochgarra. And
so on they drove, hour after hour, by Ledmore, and Oykel Bridge, and
Invercassley, and Rosehall, until the afternoon saw her safely arrived
at Lairg. Then the more tedious railway journey--away down to
Inverness; on through the night to Perth; breakfast there, and on again
to Glasgow; from Glasgow down to Greenock. It was about noon, or
something thereafter, that she entered the dismal and rainy town.
Fortune favoured her. The Tontine Hotel is almost opposite the railway
station, so that she had no difficulty in finding it; and hardly had she
got within the doorway when she met Donald Ross himself crossing the
hall, and apparently on his way into the street. When he made out who
this was (her face was in shadow, and he did not at first recognise her)
his eyes looked startled, and he threw an involuntary glance towards the
door to see if there was any one accompanying her. But the girl was
alone.
"Mr. Ross," said Kaethchen, rather nervously--for she had not expected
to encounter him just at once--"I wish to speak with you----"
"Oh, come in here, then," said he, with a certain coldness of manner, as
if he were about to face an unpleasant ordeal that was also useless; and
he led the way into the coffee-room, where, at this time of the day,
there was no one, not even a waiter.
Nervous Kaethchen distinctly was; for she knew the terrible
responsibility that lay on her; and all the fine calmness she had been
calculating on in her communings with herself in lonely
railway-carriages seemed now to have fled. But perhaps it was just as
well; for in a somewhat incoherent, but earnest, fashion, she plunged
right into the middle of things, and told him the whole story--told him
of the factor's circumstantial and malignant slander, of Mary's
momentary bewilderment, of the luckless meeting, and of her subsequent
bitter remorse and despair. At one portion of this narrative his face
grew dark, and the black eyes burned with a sullen fire.
"I have a long account to settle with Purdie," said he, as if to
himself, "and it is about time the reckoning was come."
But when she had quite finished with her eager explanations, and
excuses, and indirect appeals, what was his reply? Why, not one word.
She looked at him--in blank dismay.
"But, Mr. Ross!--Mr. Ross!----" she said, piteously.
There was no response: he had received her communication--that was all.
"I have told you everything: surely you understand: what--what message
am I to take?" Kaethchen exclaimed, in trembling appeal.
"I have heard what you had to say," he answered her, with a studied
reserve that seemed to Kaethchen's anxious soul nothing less than
brutal, "and of course I am sorry if there has been any
misunderstanding, or any suffering, anywhere. But these things are
past. And as for the present, I do not gather that you have been
commissioned by Miss Stanley to bring one solitary word to me--one
expression of any kind whatsoever. Why should I return any reply?--she
has not spoken one word."
"Oh, you ask too much!" Kaethchen exclaimed, in hot indignation. "You
ask too much! Do you think Mary Stanley would send for you? She is as
proud as yourself--every bit as proud! And she is a woman. You are a
man: it is your place to have the courage of yielding--to have the
courage of offering forgiveness, even before it is asked. If I were a
man, and if I loved a woman that I thought loved me, I would not stand
too much on my dignity, even if she did not speak. And what do you
want--that she should say she is sorry? Mr. Ross, she is ill! I tell
you, she is ill. Come and judge for yourself what all this has done to
her!--you will see only too clearly whether she has been sorry or not.
And that superstition of hers, about there being a fatality attending
her family--that they cannot help inflicting injury and insult on you
and yours--who can remove that but yourself? No," she said, a little
stiffly, "I have no message from Mary Stanley to you; and if I had, I
would not deliver it. And now it is for you to say or do what you think
best."
"Yes, yes; yes, yes," he said, after a moment's deliberation. "I was
thinking too much of the Little Red Dwarf; I was thinking too much of
that side of it. I will go back to Lochgarra, and at once. And this is
Thursday; the steamer will be coming down from Glasgow to-day; that will
be the easiest way for us to go back."
There was a flash of joy and triumph--and of gratitude--in Kaethchen's
sufficiently pretty eyes.