"O TERQUE QUATERQUE BEATE!"
Consider what a task this unhappy man Ingram had voluntarily
undertaken! Here were two young people presumably in love. One of them
was laid under suspicion by several previous love-affairs, though none
of these, doubtless, had been so serious as the present. The other
scarcely knew her own mind, or perhaps was afraid to question herself
too closely, lest all the conflict between duty and inclination, with
its fears and anxieties and troubles, should be too suddenly revealed.
Moreover, this girl was the only daughter of a solitary and irascible
old gentleman living in a remote island; and Ingram had not only
undertaken that the love-affairs of the young folks should come all
right--thus assuming a responsibility which might have appalled the
bravest--but was also expected to inform the King of Borva that his
daughter was about to be taken away from him.
Of course, if Sheila had been a properly brought-up young lady,
nothing of this sort would have been necessary. We all know what the
properly brought-up young lady does under such circumstances. She goes
straight to her papa and mamma and says, "My dear papa and mamma, I
have been taught by my various instructors that I ought to have no
secrets from my dear parents; and I therefore hasten to lay aside any
little shyness or modesty or doubt of my own wishes I might feel, for
the purpose of explaining to you the extent to which I have become a
victim to the tender passion, and of soliciting your advice. I also
place before you these letters I have received from the gentleman
in question: probably they were sent in confidence to me, but I must
banish any scruples that do not coincide with my duty to you. I may
say that I respect, and even admire, Mr. So-and-So; and I should be
unworthy of the care bestowed upon my education by my dear parents
if I were altogether insensible to the advantages of his worldly
position. But beyond this point I am at a loss to define my
sentiments; and so I ask you, my dear papa and mamma, for permission
to study the question for some little time longer, when I may be able
to furnish you with a more accurate report of my feelings. At the same
time, if the interest I have in this young man is likely to conflict
with the duty I owe to my dear parents, I ask to be informed of the
fact; and I shall then teach myself to guard against the approach of
that insidious passion which might make me indifferent to the higher
calls and interests of life." Happy the man who marries such a woman!
No agonizing quarrels and delirious reconciliations, no piteous
entreaties and fits of remorse and impetuous self-sacrifices await
him, but a beautiful, methodical, placid life, as calm and accurate
and steadily progressive as the multiplication table. His household
will be a miracle of perfect arrangement. The relations between the
members of it will be as strictly defined as the pattern of the paper
on the walls. And how can a quarrel arise when a dissecter of the
emotions is close at hand to say where the divergence of opinion or
interest began? and how can a fit of jealousy be provoked in the case
of a person who will split up her affections into fifteen parts, give
ten-fifteenths to her children, three-fifteenths to her parents, and
the remainder to her husband? Should there be any dismal fractions
going about, friends and acquaintances may come in for them.
But how was Sheila to go to her father and explain to him what she
could not explain to herself? She had never dreamed of marriage. She
had never thought of having to leave Borva and her father's house.
But she had some vague feeling that in the future lay many terrible
possibilities that she did not as yet dare to look at--until, at
least, she was more satisfied as to the present. And how could she go
to her father with such a chaos of unformed wishes and fears to place
before him? That such a duty should have devolved upon Ingram was
certainly odd enough, but it was not her doing. His knowledge of the
position of these young people was not derived from her. But, having
got it, he had himself asked her to leave the whole affair in his
hands, with that kindness and generosity which had more than once
filled her heart with an unspeakable gratitude toward him.
"Well, you _are_ a good fellow!" said Lavender to him when he heard of
this decision.
"Bah!" said the other with a shrug of his shoulders. "I mean to amuse
myself. I shall move you about like pieces on a chess-board, and have
a pretty game with you. How to checkmate the king with a knight and a
princess, in any number of moves you like--that is the problem; and my
princess has a strong power over the king where she is just now."
"It's an uncommonly awkward business, you know, Ingram," said Lavender
ruefully.
"Well, it is. Old Mackenzie is a tough old fellow to deal with, and
you'll do no good by making a fight of it. Wait! Difficulties don't
look so formidable when you take them one by one as they turn up. If
you really love the girl, and mean to take your chance of getting
her, and if she cares enough for you to sacrifice a good deal for your
sake, there is nothing to fear."
"I can answer for myself, any way," said Lavender in a tone of voice
that Ingram rather liked: the young man did not always speak with the
same quietness, thoughtfulness and modesty.
And how naturally and easily it came about, after all! They were
back again at Borva. They had driven round and about Lewis, and had
finished up with Stornoway; and, now that they had got back to the
island in Loch Roag, the quaint little drawing-room had even to
Lavender a homely and friendly look. The big stuffed fishes and the
sponge shells were old acquaintances; and he went to hunt up Sheila's
music just as if he had known that dusky corner for years.
"Yes, yes," called Mackenzie, "it iss the English songs we will try
now."
He had a notion that he was himself rather a good hand at a part
song--just as Sheila had innocently taught him to believe that he was
a brilliant whist-player when he had mastered the art of returning his
partner's lead--but fortunately at this moment he was engaged with
a long pipe and a big tumbler of hot whisky and water. Ingram was
similarly employed, lying back in a cane-bottomed easy-chair, and
placidly watching the smoke ascending to the roof. Sometimes he cast
an eye to the young folks at the other end of the room. They formed a
pretty sight, he thought. Lavender was a good-looking fellow enough,
and there was something pleasing in the quiet and assiduous fashion in
which he waited upon Sheila, and in the almost timid way in which he
spoke to her. Sheila herself sat at the piano, clad all in slate-gray
silk, with a narrow band of scarlet velvet round her neck; and it was
only by a chance turning of the head that Ingram caught the tender
and handsome profile, broken only by the outward sweep of the long
eyelashes.
Love in thine eyes for ever plays,
Sheila sang, with her father keeping time by patting his forefinger on
the table.
He in thy snowy bosom strays,
sang Lavender; and then the two voices joined together:
He makes thy rosy lips his care,
And walks the mazes of thy hair.
Or were there not three voices? Surely, from the back part of the
room, the musicians could hear a wandering bass come in from time
to time, especially at such portions as "Ah, he never--ah, he never
touched thy heart!" which old Mackenzie considered very touching. But
there was something quaint and friendly and pleasant in the pathos of
those English songs, which made them far more acceptable to him than
Sheila's wild and melancholy legends of the sea. He sang "Ah, he
never, never touched thy heart!" with an outward expression of grief,
but with much inward satisfaction. Was it the quaint phraseology of
the old duets that awoke in him some faint ambition after histrionic
effect? At all events, Sheila proceeded to another of his favorites,
"All's Well," and here, amid the brisk music, the old man had an
excellent opportunity of striking in at random--
The careful watch patrols the deck
To guard the ship from foes or wreck.
These two lines he had absolutely mastered, and always sang them,
whatever might be the key he happened to light on, with great vigor.
He soon went the length of improvising a part for himself in the
closing passages, and laid down his pipe altogether as he sang--
What cheer? Brother, quickly tell!
Above! Below! Good-night! All, all's well!
From that point, however, Sheila and her companion wandered away into
fields of melody whither the King of Borva could not follow them; so
he was content to resume his pipe and listen placidly to the pretty
airs. He caught but bits and fragments of phrases and sentiments, but
they evidently were comfortable, merry, good-natured songs for young
folks to sing. There was a good deal of love-making, and rosy morns
appearing, and merry zephyrs, and such odd things, which, sung briskly
and gladly by two young and fresh voices, rather drew the hearts of
contemplative listeners to the musicians.
"They sing very well whatever," said Mackenzie with a critical air
to Ingram when the young people were so busily engaged with their own
affairs as apparently to forget the presence of the others. "Oh yes,
they sing very well whatever; and what should the young folks sing
about but making love and courting, and all that?"
"Natural enough," said Ingram, looking rather wistfully at the two at
the other end of the room. "I suppose Sheila will have a sweetheart
some day?"
"Oh yes, Sheila will hef a sweetheart some day," said her father
good-humoredly. "Sheila is a good-looking girl: she will hef a
sweetheart some day."
"She will be marrying too, I suppose," said Ingram cautiously.
"Oh yes, she will marry--Sheila will marry: what will be the life of a
young girl if she does not marry?"
At this moment, as Ingram afterward described it, a sort of "flash
of inspiration" darted in upon him, and he resolved there and then to
brave the wrath of the old king, and place all the conspiracy
before him, if only the music kept loud enough to prevent his being
overheard.
"It will be hard on you to part with Sheila when she marries," said
Ingram, scarcely daring to look up.
"Oh, ay, it will be that," said Mackenzie cheerfully enough. "But it
iss every one will hef to do that, and no great harm comes of it. Oh
no, it will not be much whatever; and Sheila, she will be very glad in
a little while after, and it will be enough for me to see that she is
ferry contented and happy. The young folk must marry, you will see;
and what is the use of marrying if it is not when they are young?
But Sheila, she will think of none of these things. It was young Mr.
MacIntyre of Sutherland--you hef seen him last year in Stornoway: he
hass three thousand acres of a deer forest in Sutherland--and he will
be ferry glad to marry my Sheila. But I will say to him, 'It is not
for me to say yes or no to you, Mr. MacIntyre: it is Sheila herself
will tell you that.' But he wass afraid to speak to her; and Sheila
herself will know nothing of why he came twice to Borva the last
year."
"It is very good of you to leave Sheila quite unbiased in her choice,"
said Ingram: "many fathers would have been sorely tempted by that deer
forest."
Old Mackenzie laughed a loud laugh of derision, that fortunately
did not stop Lavender's execution of "I would that my love would
silently."
"What the teffle," said Mackenzie, "hef I to want a deer forest for my
Sheila? Sheila is no fisherman's lass. She has plenty for herself,
and she will marry just the young man she wants to marry, and no other
one: that is what she will do, by Kott!"
All this was most hopeful. If Mackenzie had himself been advocating
Lavender's suit, could he have said more? But notwithstanding all
these frank and generous promises, dealing with a future which the old
man considered as indefinitely remote, Ingram was still afraid of the
announcement he was about to make.
"Sheila is fortunately situated," he said, "in having a father who
thinks only of her happiness. But I suppose she has never yet shown a
preference for any one?"
"Not for any one but yourself," said her father with a laugh.
And Ingram laughed too, but in an embarrassed way, and his sallow
face grew darker with a blush. Was there not something painful in
the unintentional implication that of course Ingram could not be
considered a possible lover of Sheila's, and that the girl herself was
so well aware of it that she could openly testify to her regard for
him?
"And it would be a good thing for Sheila," continued her father, more
gravely, "if there wass any young man about the Lewis that she would
tek a liking to; for it will be some day I can no more look after her,
and it would be bad for her to be left alone all by herself in the
island."
"And you don't think you see before you now some one who might take
on him the charge of Sheila's future?" said Ingram, looking toward
Lavender.
"The English gentleman?" said Mackenzie with a smile. "No, that any
way is not possible."
"I fancy it is more than possible," said Ingram, resolved to go
straight at it. "I know for a fact that he would like to marry your
daughter, and I think that Sheila, without knowing it herself almost,
is well inclined toward him."
The old man started up from his chair: "Eh? what! my Sheila?"
"Yes, papa," said the girl, turning round at once.
She caught sight of a strange look on his face, and in an instant was
by his side: "Papa, what is the matter with you?"
"Nothing, Sheila, nothing," he said impatiently. "I am a little tired
of the music, that is all. But go on with the music. Go back to the
piano, Sheila, and go on with the music, and Mr. Ingram and me, we
will go outside for a little while."
Mackenzie walked out of the room, and said aloud in the hall, "Ay, are
you coming, Mr. Ingram? It iss a fine night this night, and the wind
is in a very good way for the weather."
And then, as he went out to the front, he hummed aloud, so that Sheila
should hear,
Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tell!
A friend! The word! Good-night! All's well!
All's well! Good-night! All's well!
Ingram followed the old man outside, with a somewhat guilty conscience
suggesting odd things to him. Would it not be possible now to shut
one's ears for the next half hour? Angry words were only little
perturbations in the air. If you shut your ears till they were all
over, what harm could be done? All the big facts of life would remain
the same. The sea, the sky, the hills, the human beings around you,
even your desire of sleep for the night and your wholesome longing for
breakfast in the morning, would all remain, and the angry words would
have passed away. But perhaps it was a proper punishment that he
should now go out and bear all the wrath of this fierce old gentleman,
whose daughter he had conspired to carry off. Mackenzie was walking up
and down the path outside in the cool and silent night. There was
not much moon now, but a clear and lambent twilight showed all the
familiar features of Loch Roag and the southern hills, and down there
in the bay you could vaguely make out the Maighdean-mhara rocking in
the tiny waves that washed in on the white shore. Ingram had never
looked on this pretty picture with a less feeling of delight.
"Well, you see, Mr. Mackenzie," he was beginning, "you must make this
excuse for him--"
But Mackenzie put aside Lavender at once. It was all about Sheila
that he wanted to know. There was no anger in his words; only a great
anxiety, and sometimes an extraordinary and pathetic effort to take a
philosophical view of the situation. What had Sheila said? Was Sheila
deeply interested in the young man? Would it please Sheila if he was
to go in-doors and give at once his free consent to her marrying this
Mr. Lavender?
"Oh, you must not think," said Mackenzie, with a certain loftiness
of air even amidst his great perturbation and anxiety--"you must not
think I hef not foreseen all this. It wass some day or other Sheila
will be sure to marry; and although I did not expect--no, I did not
expect _that_--that she would marry a stranger and an Englishman, if
it will please her that is enough. You cannot tell a young lass the
one she should marry: it iss all a chance the one she likes, and if
she does not marry him it is better she will not marry at all. Oh yes,
I know that ferry well. And I hef known there wass a time coming when
I would give away my Sheila to some young man; and there iss no use
complaining of it. But you hef not told me much about this young man,
or I hef forgotten: it is the same thing whatever. He has not much
money, you said--he is waiting for some money. Well, this is what I
will do: I will give him all my money if he will come and live in the
Lewis."
All the philosophy he had been mustering up fell away from that last
sentence. It was like the cry of a drowning man who sees the last
life-boat set out for shore, leaving him to his fate. And Ingram had
not a word to say in reply to that piteous entreaty.
"I do not ask him to stop in Borva: no, it iss a small place for one
that hass lived in a town. But the Lewis, that is quite different; and
there iss ferry good houses in Stornoway."
"But surely, sir," said Ingram, "you need not consider all this just
yet. I am sure neither of them has thought of any such thing."
"No," said Mackenzie, recovering himself, "perhaps not. But we hef our
duties to look at the future of young folks. And you will say that Mr.
Lavender hass only expectations of money?"
"Well, the expectation is almost a certainty. His aunt, I have told
you, is a very rich old lady, who has no other near relations, and she
is exceedingly fond of him, and would do anything for him. I am sure
the allowance he has now is greatly in excess of what she spends on
herself."
"But they might quarrel, you know--they might quarrel. You hef always
to look to the future: they might quarrel, and what will he do then?"
"Why, you don't suppose he couldn't support himself if the worst were
to come to the worst? He is an amazingly clever fellow--"
"Ay, that is very good," said Mackenzie in a cautious sort of way,
"but has he ever made any money?"
"Oh, I fancy not--nothing to speak of. He has sold some pictures, but
I think he has given more away."
"Then it iss not easy, tek my word for it, Mr. Ingram, to begin a new
trade if you are twenty-five years of age; and the people who will tek
your pictures for nothing, will they pay for them if you wanted the
money?"
It was obviously the old man's eager wish to prove to himself that,
somehow or other, Lavender might come to have no money, and be made
dependent on his father-in-law. So far, indeed, from sharing the
sentiments ordinarily attributed to that important relative, he would
have welcomed with a heartfelt joy the information that the man
who, as he expected, was about to marry his daughter was absolutely
penniless. Not even all the attractions of that deer forest in
Sutherlandshire--particularly fascinating as they must have been to a
man of his education and surroundings--had been able to lead the old
King of Borva even into hinting to his daughter that the owner of that
property would like to marry her. Sheila was to choose for herself.
She was not like a fisherman's lass, bound to consider ways and means.
And now that she had chosen, or at least indicated the possibility of
her doing so, her father's chief desire was that his future son-in-law
should come and take and enjoy his money, so only that Sheila might
not be carried away from him for ever.
"Well, I will see about it," said Mackenzie with an affectation of
cheerful and practical shrewdness. "Oh yes, I will see about it when
Sheila has made up her mind. He is a very good young man, whatever--"
"He is the best-hearted fellow I know," said Ingram warmly. "I don't
think Sheila has much to fear if she marries him. If you had known him
as long as I have, you would know how considerate he is to everybody
about him, how generous he is, how good-natured and cheerful, and so
forth: in short, he is a thorough good fellow, that's what I have to
say about him."
"It iss well for him he will hef such a champion," said Mackenzie with
a smile: "there is not many Sheila will pay attention to as she does
to you."
They went in-doors again, Ingram scarcely knowing how he had got so
easily through the ordeal, but very glad it was over.
Sheila was still at the piano, and on their entering she said, "Papa,
here is a song you must learn to sing with me."
"And what iss it, Sheila?" he said, going over to her.
"'Time has not thinned my flowing hair.'"
He put his hand on her head and said, "I hope it will be a long time
before he will thin your hair, Sheila."
The girl looked up surprised. Scotch folks are, as a rule, somewhat
reticent in their display of affection, and it was not often that her
father talked to her in that way. What was there in his face that
made her glance instinctively toward Ingram. Somehow or other her hand
sought her father's hand, and she rose and went away from the piano,
with her head bent down and tears beginning to tell in her eyes.
"Yes, that is a capital song," said Ingram loudly. Sing 'The
Arethusa,' Lavender--'Said the saucy Arethusa.'"
Lavender, knowing what had taken place, and not daring to follow with
his eyes Sheila and her father, who had gone to the other end of the
room, sang the song. Never was a gallant and devil-may-care sea-song
sung so hopelessly without spirit. But the piano made a noise and the
verses took up time. When he had finished he almost feared to
turn round, and yet there was nothing dreadful in the picture that
presented itself. Sheila was sitting on her father's knee, with her
head buried in his bosom, while he was patting her head and talking
in a low voice to her. The King of Borva did not look particularly
fierce.
"Yes, it iss a teffle of a good song," he said suddenly. "Now get up,
Sheila, and go and tell Mairi we will have a bit of bread and cheese
before going to bed. And there will be a little hot water wanted in
the other room, for this room it iss too full of the smoke."
Sheila, as she went out of the room, had her head cast down and
perhaps an extra tinge of color in her young and pretty face. But
surely, Lavender thought to himself as he watched her anxiously, she
did not look grieved. As for her father, what should he do now? Turn
suddenly round and beg Mackenzie's pardon, and throw himself on
his generosity? When he did, with much inward trembling, venture to
approach the old man, he found no such explanation possible. The
King of Borva was in one of his grandest moods--dignified, courteous,
cautious, and yet inclined to treat everybody and everything with a
sort of lofty good-humor. He spoke to Lavender in the most friendly
way, but it was about the singular and startling fact that modern
research had proved many of the Roman legends to be utterly
untrustworthy. Mr. Mackenzie observed that the man was wanting in
proper courage who feared to accept the results of such inquiries. It
was better that we should know the truth, and then the kings who had
really made Rome great might emerge from the fog of tradition in their
proper shape. There was something quite sympathetic in the way he
talked of those ill-treated sovereigns, whom the vulgar mind had
clothed in mist.
Lavender was sorely beset by the rival claims of Rome and Borva upon
his attention. He was inwardly inclined to curse Numa Pompilius--which
would have been ineffectual--when he found that personage interfering
with a wild effort to discover why Mackenzie should treat him in this
way. And then it occurred to him that, as he had never said a word to
Mackenzie about this affair, it was too much to expect that Sheila's
father should himself open the subject. On the contrary, Mackenzie was
bent on extending a grave courtesy to his guest, so that the latter
should not feel ill at ease until it suited himself to make any
explanations he might choose. It was not Mackenzie's business to ask
this young man if he wanted to marry Sheila. No. The king's daughter,
if she were to be won at all, was to be won by a suitor, and it was
not for her father to be in a hurry about it. So Lavender got back
into the region of early Roman history, and tried to recall what he
had learned in Livy, and quite coincided with everything that Niebuhr
had said or proved, and with everything that Mackenzie thought Niebuhr
had said or proved. He was only too glad, indeed, to find himself
talking to Sheila's father in this friendly fashion.
Then Sheila came in and told them that supper was laid in the
adjoining room. At that modest meal a great good-humor prevailed.
Sometimes, it is true, it occurred to Ingram that Sheila occasionally
cast an anxious glance to her father, as if she were trying to
discover whether he was really satisfied, or whether he were not
merely pretending satisfaction to please her; but for the rest the
party was a most friendly and merry one. Lavender, naturally
enough, was in the highest of spirits, and nothing could exceed the
lighthearted endeavors he made to amuse and interest and cheer his
companions. Sheila, indeed, sat up later than usual, even although
pipes were lit again, and the slate-gray silk likely to bear witness
to the fact in the morning. How comfortable and homely was this sort
of life in the remote stone building overlooking the sea! He began to
think that he could live always in Borva if only Sheila were with him
as his companion.
Was it an actual fact, then, he asked himself next morning, that
he stood confessed to the small world of Borva as Sheila's accepted
lover? Not a word on the subject had passed between Mackenzie and
himself, and yet he found himself assuming the position of a younger
relative, and rather expecting advice from the old man. He began to
take a great interest, too, in the local administration of the island:
he examined the window-fastenings of Mackenzie's house and saw that
they would be useful in the winter, and expressed to Sheila's father
his confidential opinion that the girl should not be allowed to go out
in the Maighdean-mhara without Duncan.
"She will know as much about boats as Duncan himself," said her father
with a smile. "But Sheila will not go out when the rough weather
begins."
"Of course you keep her in-doors then," said the younger man, already
assuming some little charge over Sheila's comfort.
The father laughed aloud at this simplicity on the part of the
Englishman: "If we wass to keep in-doors in the bad weather, it would
be all the winter we would be in-doors! There iss no day at all Sheila
will not be out some time or other; and she is never so well as in the
hard weather, when she will be out always in the snow and the frost,
and hef plenty of exercise and amusement."
"She is not often ailing, I suppose?" said Lavender.
"She is as strong as a young pony, that is what Sheila is," said her
father proudly. "And there is no one in the island will run so fast,
or walk so long without tiring, or carry things from the shore as she
will--not one."
But here he suddenly checked himself. "That is," he said with some
little expression of annoyance, "I wass saying Sheila could do that if
it wass any use; but she will not do such things, like a fisherman's
lass that hass to keep in the work."
"Oh, of course not," said Lavender hastily. "But still, you know, it
is pleasant to know she is so strong and well."
And at this moment Sheila herself appeared, accompanied by her great
deerhound, and testifying by the bright color in her face to the
assurances of her health her father had been giving. She had just come
up and over the hill from Borvabost, while as yet breakfast had not
been served. Somehow or other, Lavender fancied she never looked so
bright and bold and handsome as in the early morning, with the fresh
sea-air tingling the color in her cheeks, and the sunlight shining in
the clear eyes or giving from time to time a glimpse of her perfect
teeth. But this morning she did not seem quite so frankly merry as
usual. She patted the deerhound's head, and rather kept her eyes away
from her father and his companion. And then she took Bras away to give
him his breakfast, just as Ingram appeared to bid her good-morning and
ask her what she meant by being about so early.
How anxiously Lavender now began to calculate on the remaining days of
their stay in Borva! They seemed so few. He got up at preposterously
early hours to make each day as long as possible, but it slipped away
with a fatal speed; and already he began to think of Stornoway and the
Clansman and his bidding good-bye to Sheila. He had said no more to
her of any pledge as regarded the future. He was content to see that
she was pleased to be with him; and happy indeed were their rambles
about the island, their excursions in Sheila's boat, their visits to
the White Water in search of salmon. Nor had he yet spoken to Sheila's
father. He knew that Mackenzie knew, and both seemed to take it for
granted that no good could come of a formal explanation until Sheila
herself should make her wishes known. That, indeed, was the only
aspect of the case that apparently presented itself to the old King of
Borva. He forgot altogether those precautions and investigations which
are supposed to occupy the mind of a future father-in-law, and only
sought to see how Sheila was affected toward the young man who was
soon about to leave the island. When he saw her pleased to be walking
with Lavender and talking with him of an evening, he was pleased, and
would rather have a cold dinner than break in upon them to hurry
them home. When he saw her disappointed because Lavender had been
unfortunate in his salmon-fishing, he was ready to swear at Duncan
for not having had the fish in a better temper. And the most of his
conversation with Ingram consisted of an endeavor to convince himself
that, after all, what had happened was for the best, and that Sheila
seemed to be happy.
But somehow or other, when the time for their departure was drawing
near, Mackenzie showed a strange desire that his guests should
spend the last two days in Stornoway. When Lavender first heard this
proposal he glanced toward Sheila, and his face showed clearly his
disappointment.
"But Sheila will go with us too," said her father, replying to that
unuttered protest in the most innocent fashion; and then Lavender's
face brightened again, and he said that nothing would give him greater
pleasure than to spend two days in Stornoway.
"And you must not think," said Mackenzie anxiously, "that it is one
day or two days or a great many days will show you all the fine things
about Stornoway. And if you were to live in Stornoway you would find
very good acquaintances and friends there; and in the autumn, when the
shooting begins, there are many English who will come up, and there
will be ferry great doings at the castle. And there is some gentlemen
now at Grimersta whom you hef not seen, and they are ferry fine
gentlemen; and at Garra-na-hina there iss two more gentlemen for the
salmon-fishing. Oh, there iss a great many fine people in the Lewis,
and it iss not all as lonely as Borva."
"If it is half as pleasant a place to live in as Borva, it will do,"
said Lavender, with a flush of enthusiasm in his face as he looked
toward Sheila and saw her pleased and downcast eyes.
"But it iss not to be compared," said Mackenzie eagerly. "Borva, that
is nothing at all; but the Lewis, it is a ferry different thing to
live in the Lewis; and many English gentlemen hef told me they would
like to live always in the Lewis."
"I think I should too," said Lavender lightly and carelessly, little
thinking what importance the old man immediately and gladly put upon
the admission.
From that moment, Lavender, although unconscious of what had happened,
had nothing to fear in the way of opposition from Sheila's father. If
he had there and then boldly asked Mackenzie for his daughter, the
old man would have given his consent freely, and bade Lavender go to
Sheila herself.
And so they set sail, one pleasant forenoon, from Borvabost, and
the light wind that ruffled the blue of Loch Roag gently filled the
mainsail of the Maigh-dean-mhara as she lightly ran down the tortuous
channel.
"I don't like to go away from Borva," said Lavender in a low voice to
Sheila, "but I might have been leaving the island with greater regret,
for, you know, I expect to be back soon."
"We shall always be glad to see you," said the girl; and although he
would rather have had her say "I" than "we," there was something in
the tone of her voice that contented him.
At Garra-na-hina Mackenzie pointed out with a great interest to
Lavender a tall man who was going down through some meadows to the
Amhuinn Dhubh, "the Black River." He had a long rod over his shoulder,
and behind him, at some distance, followed a shorter man, who carried
a gaff and landing-net. Mackenzie anxiously explained to Lavender
that the tall figure was that of an Englishman. Lavender accepted
the statement. But would he not go down to the river and make his
acquaintance? Lavender could not understand why he should be expected
to take so great an interest in an ordinary English sportsman.
"Ferry well," said Mackenzie, a trifle disappointed, "but you would
find several of the English in the Lewis if you wass living here."
These last two days in Stornoway were very pleasant. On their previous
visit to the town Mackenzie had given up much of his time to business
affairs, and was a good deal away from his guests, but now he devoted
himself to making them particularly comfortable in the place and
amusing them in every possible way. He introduced Lavender, in
especial, to all his friends there, and was most anxious to impress
on the young man that life in Stornoway was, on the whole, rather a
brilliant affair. Then was there a finer point from which you
could start at will for Inverness, Oban and such great centres of
civilization? Very soon there would even be a telegraphic cable laid
to the mainland. Was Mr. Lavender aware that frequently you could see
the Sutherlandshire hills from this very town of Stornoway?
There Sheila laughed, and Lavender, who kept watching her face always
to read all her fancies and sentiments and wishes in the shifting
lights of it, immediately demanded an explanation.
"It is no good thing," said Sheila, "to see the Sutherland hills
often, for when you see them it means to rain."
But Lavender had not been taught to fear the rain of the Western
Isles. The very weather seemed to have conspired with Mackenzie to
charm the young man with the island. At this moment, for example, they
were driving away from Stornoway along the side of the great bay that
stretches northward until it finds its furthest promontory in Tiumpan
Head. What magnificence of color shone all around them in the hot
sunlight! Where the ruffled blue sea came near the long sweep of
yellow sand it grew to be a bright, transparent green. The splendid
curve of the bay showed a gleaming line of white where the waves
broke in masses of hissing foam; and beyond that curve again long
promontories of dark red conglomerate ran out into the darker waters
of the sea, with their summits shining with the bright sea-grass.
Here, close at hand, were warm meadows, with calves and lambs cropping
the sweet-scented Dutch clover. A few huts, shaped like beehives,
stood by the roadside, close by some deep peat cuttings. There was a
cutting in the yellow sand of the bay for the pulling up of captured
whales. Now and again you could see a solan dart down from the blue
heavens into the blue of the sea, sending up a spurt of water twenty
feet high as he disappeared; and far out there, between the red
precipices and the ruffled waters beneath, white sea-fowl flew from
crag to crag or dropped down upon the sea to rise and fall with the
waves.
At the small hamlet of Gress they got a large rowing-boat manned by
sturdy fishermen, and set out to explore the great caves formed in the
mighty wall of conglomerate that here fronts the sea. The wild-fowl
flew about them, screaming and yelling at being disturbed. The long
swell of the sea lifted the boat, passed from under it, and went on
with majestic force to crash on the glowing red crags and send jets of
foam flying up the face of them. They captured one of the sea-birds--a
young thing about as big as a hen, with staring eyes, scant feathers,
and a long beak with which it instinctively tried to bite its
enemies--and the parents of it kept swooping down over the boat,
uttering shrill cries, until their offspring was restored to the
surface of the water. They went into the great loud-sounding caverns,
getting a new impression of the extraordinary clearness of the
sea-water by the depth at which the bottom was visible; and here their
shouts occasionally called up from some dim twilight recess, far
in among the perilous rocks, the head of a young seal, which would
instantly dive again and be seen no more. They watched the salmon
splash in the shallower creeks where the sea had scooped out a tiny
bay of ruddy sand, and then a slowly rolling porpoise would show his
black back above the water and silently disappear again. All this was
pleasant enough on a pleasant morning, in fresh sea-air and sunlight,
in holiday-time; and was there any reason, Mackenzie may fairly have
thought, why this young man, if he did marry Sheila, should not come
and live in a place where so much healthy amusement was to be found?
And in the evening, too, when they had climbed to the top of the
hills on the south of Stornoway harbor, did not the little town look
sufficiently picturesque, with its white houses, its shipping, its
great castle and plantations lying in shadow under the green of the
eastern sky? Then away to the west what a strange picture presented
itself! Thick bands of gray cloud lay across the sky, and the sunlight
from behind them sent down great rays of misty yellow on the endless
miles of moor. But how was it that, as these shafts of sunlight struck
on the far and successive ridges of the moorland, each long undulation
seemed to become transparent, and all the island appeared to consist
of great golden-brown shells heaped up behind each other, with the
sunlight shining through?
"I have tried a good many new effects since coming up here," said
Lavender, "but I shall not try _that_."
"Oh, it iss nothing--it is nothing at all," said Mackenzie with a
studied air of unconcern. "There iss much more beautiful things than
that in the island, but you will hef need of a ferry long time before
you will find it all out. That--that iss nothing at all."
"You will perhaps make a picture of it some other time," said Sheila
with her eyes cast down, and as he was standing by her at the time, he
took her hand and pressed it, and said, "I hope so."
Then, that night! Did not every hour produce some new and wonderful
scene, or was it only that each minute grew to be so precious, and
that the enchantment of Sheila's presence filled the air around him?
There was no moon, but the stars shone over the bay and the harbor and
the dusky hills beyond the castle. Every few seconds the lighthouse at
Arnish Point sent out its wild glare of orange fire into the heart, of
the clear darkness, and then as suddenly faded out and left the eyes
too bewildered to make out the configuration of the rocks. All over
the north-west there still remained the pale glow of the twilight, and
somehow Lavender seemed to think that that strange glow belonged
to Sheila's home in the west, and that the people in Stornoway knew
nothing of the wonders of Loch Roag and of the strange nights there.
Was he likely ever to forget?
"Good-bye, Sheila," he said next morning, when the last signal had
been given and the Clansman was about to move from her moorings.
She had bidden good-bye to Ingram already, but somehow she could not
speak to his companion just at this last moment. She pressed his hand
and turned away, and went ashore with her father. Then the big steamer
throbbed its way out of the harbor, and by and by the island of Lewis
lay but as a thin blue cloud along the horizon; and who could tell
that human beings, with strange hopes and fancies and griefs, were
hidden away in that pale line of vapor?