CHAPTER XV.

HIDDEN SPRINGS

*WHITE WINGS:*

*A Yachting Romance.*

*CHAPTER I.*

*VILLANY ABROAD.*

It is near mid-day; two late people are sitting at breakfast; the

skylight overhead has been lifted, and the cool sea-air fills the

saloon.

"Dead calm again," says Angus Sutherland, for he can see the rose-red

ensign hanging limp from the mizen-mast, a blaze of colour against the

still blue.

There is no doubt that the _White Dove_ is quite motionless; and that a

perfect silence reigns around her. That is why we can hear so

distinctly--through the open skylight--the gentle footsteps of two

people who are pacing up and down the deck, and the soft voice of one of

them as she speaks to her friend. What is all this wild enthusiasm

about, then?

"It is the noblest profession in the world!" we can hear so much as she

passes the skylight. "One profession lives by fomenting quarrels; and

another studies the art of killing in every form; but this one lives

only to heal--only to relieve the suffering and help the miserable. That

is the profession I should belong to, if I were a man!"

Our young Doctor says nothing as the voice recedes; but he is obviously

listening for the return walk along the deck. And here she comes again.

"The patient drudgery of such a life is quite heroic--whether he is a

man of science, working day and night to find out things for the good of

the world, nobody thanking him or caring about him, or whether he is a

physician in practice with not a minute that can be called his

own--liable to be summoned at any hour----"

The voice again becomes inaudible. It is remarked to this young man

that Mary Avon seems to have a pretty high opinion of the medical

profession.

"She herself," he says hastily, with a touch of colour in his face, "has

the patience and fortitude of a dozen doctors."

Once more the light tread on deck comes near the skylight.

"If I were the Government," says Mary Avon, warmly, "I should be ashamed

to see so rich a country as England content to take her knowledge

second-hand from the German Universities; while such men as Dr.

Sutherland are harassed and hampered in their proper work by having to

write articles and do ordinary doctor's visiting. I should be ashamed.

If it is a want of money, why don't they pack off a dozen or two of the

young noodles who pass the day whittling quills in the Foreign

Office?----"

Even when modified by the distance, and by the soft lapping of the water

outside, this seems rather strong language for a young lady. Why should

Miss Avon again insist in such a warm fashion on the necessity of

endowing research?

But Angus Sutherland's face is burning red. Listeners are said to hear

ill of themselves.

"However, Dr. Sutherland is not likely to complain," she says, proudly,

as she comes by again. "No; he is too proud of his profession. He does

his work; and leaves the appreciation of it to others. And when

everybody knows that he will one day be among the most famous men in the

country, is it not monstrous that he should be harassed by drudgery in

the meantime? If I were the Government----"

But Angus Sutherland cannot suffer this to go on. He leaves his

breakfast unfinished, passes along the saloon, and ascends the

companion.

"Good morning!" he says.

"Why, are you up already?" his hostess says. "We have been walking as

lightly as we could, for we thought you were both asleep. And Mary has

been heaping maledictions on the head of the Government because it

doesn't subsidise all you microscope-men. The next thing she will want

is a licence for the whole of you to be allowed to vivisect criminals."

"I heard something of what Miss Avon said," he admitted.

The girl, looking rather aghast, glanced at the open skylight.

"We thought you were asleep," she stammered, and with her face somewhat

flushed.

"At least, I heard you say something about the Government," he said,

kindly. "Well, all I ask from the Government is to give me a trip like

this every summer."

"What," says his hostess, "with a barometer that won't fall?"

"I don't mind."

"And seas like glass?"

"I don't mind."

"And the impossibility of getting back to land?"

"So much the better," he says defiantly.

"Why," she reminds him, laughing, "you were very anxious about getting

back some days ago. What has made you change your wishes?"

He hesitates for a moment, and then he says--

"I believe a sort of madness of idleness has got possession of me. I

have dallied so long with that tempting invitation of yours to stay and

see the _White Dove_ through the equinoctials that--that I think I

really must give in----"

"You cannot help yourself," his hostess says, promptly. "You have

already promised. Mary is my witness."

The witness seems anxious to avoid being brought into this matter; she

turns to the Laird quickly, and asks him some question about Ru-na-Gaul

light over there.

Ru-na-Gaul light no doubt it is--shining white in the sun at the point

of the great cliffs; and there is the entrance to Tobbermorry; and here

is Mingary Castle--brown ruins amid the brilliant greens of those

sloping shores--and there are the misty hills over Loch Sunart. For the

rest, blue seas around us, glassy and still; and blue skies overhead,

cloudless and pale. The barometer refuses to budge.

But suddenly there is a brisk excitement. What though the breeze that is

darkening the water there is coming on right ahead?--we shall be moving

any way. And as the first puffs of it catch the sails, Angus Sutherland

places Mary Avon in command; and she is now--by the permission of her

travelling physician--allowed to stand as she guides the course of the

vessel. She has become an experienced pilot: the occasional glance at

the leach of the top-sail is all that is needed; she keeps as accurately

"full and by" as the master of one of the famous cuptakers.

"Now, Mary," says her hostess, "it all depends on you as to whether

Angus will catch the steamer this evening."

"Oh, does it?" she says, with apparent innocence.

"Yes; we shall want very good steering to get within sight of Castle

Osprey before the evening."

"Very well, then," says this audacious person.

At the same instant she deliberately puts the helm down. Of course the

yacht directly runs up to the wind, her sails flapping helplessly.

Everybody looks surprised; and John of Skye, thinking that the new

skipper has only been a bit careless, calls out--

"Keep her full, mem, if you please."

"What do you mean, Mary? What are you about?" cries Queen T.

"I am not going to be responsible for sending Dr. Sutherland away," she

says, in a matter-of-fact manner, "since he says he is in no hurry to

go. If you wish to drive your guest away, I won't be a party to it. I

mean to steer as badly as I can."

"Then I depose you," says Dr. Sutherland promptly. "I cannot have a

pilot who disobeys orders."

"Very well," she says, "you may take the tiller yourself"--and she goes

away, and sits down in high dudgeon, by the Laird.

So once more we get the vessel under way; and the breeze is beginning to

blow somewhat more briskly; and we notice with hopefulness that there is

rougher water further down the Sound. But with this slow process of

beating, how are we to get within sight of Castle Osprey before the

great steamer comes up from the South?

The Laird is puzzling over the Admiralty Sailing Directions. The young

lady, deeply offended, who sits beside him, pays him great attention,

and talks "at" the rest of the passengers with undisguised contempt.

"It is all haphazard, the sailing of a yacht," she says to him, though

we can all hear. "Anybody can do it. But they make a jargon about it to

puzzle other people, and pretend it is a science, and all that."

"Well," says the Laird, who is quite unaware of the fury that fills her

brain, "there are some of the phrases in this book that are verra

extraordinary. In navigating this same Sound of Mull, they say you are

to keep the 'weather shore aboard.' How can ye keep the weather shore

aboard?"

"Indeed, if we don't get into a port soon," remarks our hostess and

chief commissariat-officer, "it will be the only thing we shall have on

board. How would you like it cooked, Mary?"

"I won't speak to any of you," says the disgraced skipper, with much

composure.

"Will you sing to us, then?"

"Will you behave properly if you are reinstated in command?" asks Angus

Sutherland.

"Yes, I will," she says, quite humbly; and forthwith she is allowed to

have the tiller again.

Brisker and brisker grows the breeze; it is veering to the south, too;

the sea is rising, and with it the spirits of everybody on board. The

ordinarily sedate and respectable _White Dove_ is showing herself a

trifle frisky, moreover; an occasional clatter below of hairbrushes or

candlesticks tells us that people accustomed to calms fall into the

habit of leaving their cabins ill-arranged.

"There will be more wind, sir," says John of Skye, coming aft; and he is

looking at some long and streaky "mare's tails" in the south-western

sky. "And if there wass a gale o' wind, I would let her have it!"

Why that grim ferocity of look, Captain John? Is the poor old _White

Dove_ responsible for the too fine weather, that you would like to see

her driven, all wet and bedraggled, before a south-westerly gale? If

you must quarrel with something, quarrel with the barometer; you may

admonish it with a belaying-pin if you please.

Brisker and brisker grows the breeze. Now we hear the first

pistol-shots of the spray come rattling over the bows; and Hector of

Moidart has from time to time to duck his head, or shake the water from

his jersey. The _White Dove_ breasts these rushing waves and a foam of

white water goes hissing away from either side of her. Speine Mor and

Speine Beg we leave behind; in the distance we can descry the ruins of

Aros Castle and the deep indentation of Salen Bay; here we are passing

the thick woods of Funeray. "_Farewell, farewell, to Funeray!_" The

squally look in the south-west increases; the wind veers more and more.

Commander Mary Avon is glad to resign the helm, for it is not easy to

retain hold in these plunging seas.

"Why, you will catch the steamer after all, Angus!" says his hostess, as

we go tearing by the mouth of Loch Aline.

"This is a good one for the last!" he calls to her. "Give her some more

sheet, John; the wind is going round to the north!"

Whence comes the whirling storm in the midst of the calm summer weather?

The blue heavens are as blue as the petal of a crane'sbill: surely such

a sky has nothing to do with a hurricane. But wherever it comes from,

it is welcome enough; and the brave _White Dove_ goes driving through

those heavy seas, sometimes cresting them buoyantly, at other times

meeting them with a dull shock, followed by a swish of water that rushes

along the lee scuppers. And those two women-folk--without ulsters or

other covering: it is a merry game to play jack-in-the-box, and duck

their heads under the shelter of the gig when the spray springs into the

air. But somehow the sea gets the best of it. Laugh as they may, they

must be feeling rather damp about their hair; and as for Mary Avon's

face--that has got a bath of salt-water at least a dozen times. She

cares not. Sun, wind and sea she allows to do their worst with her

complexion. Soon we shall have to call her the Nut-brown Maid.

Brisker and brisker grows the breeze. Angus Sutherland, with a rope

round the tiller, has his teeth set hard: he is indeed letting the

_White Dove_ have it at last, for he absolutely refuses to have the

topsail down. The main tack, then: might not that be hauled up? No; he

will have none of John of Skye's counsels. The _White Dove_ tears her

way through the water--we raise a cloud of birds from the rocks opposite

Scallasdale--we see the white surf breaking in at Craignure--ahead of us

is Lismore Lighthouse, perched over the whirling and struggling tides,

shining white in the sunlight above the dark and driven sea.

_Ahead she goes; the land she knows!_

--past the shadowy ruins of Duart, and out and through the turbulent

tides off the lighthouse rocks. The golden afternoon is not yet far

advanced; let but this brave breeze continue, and soon they will descry

the _White Dove_ from the far heights of Castle Osprey!

But there was to be no Castle Osprey for Angus Sutherland that evening,

despite the splendid run the _White Dove_ had made. It was a race,

indeed, between the yacht and the steamer for the quay; and

notwithstanding that Mary Avon was counselling everybody to give it up

as impossible, John of Skye would hold to it in the hope of pleasing Dr.

Sutherland himself. And no sooner was the anchor let go in the bay,

than the gig was down from the davits; the men had jumped in; the

solitary portmanteau was tossed into the stern; and Angus Sutherland was

hurriedly bidding his adieux. The steamer was at this instant slowing

into the quay.

"I forbid any one to say good-bye to him," says our Admiral-in-chief,

sternly. "_Au revoir--auf Wiedersehen_--anything you like--no

good-bye."

Last of all he took Mary Avon's hand.

"You have promised, you know," she said, with her eyes cast down.

"Yes," said he, regarding her for an instant with a strange

look--earnest perhaps, and yet timid--as if it would ask a question, and

dared not--"I will keep my promise." Then he jumped into the boat.

That was a hard pull away to the quay; and even in the bay the water was

rough, so that the back-sweep of the oars sometimes caught the waves and

sent the spray flying in the wind. The _Chevalier_ had rung her bells.

We made sure he would be too late. What was the reason of this

good-natured indulgence? We lost sight of the gig in at the

landing-slip.

Then the great steamer slowly steamed away from the quay: who was that

on the paddle-box waving good-bye to us?

"Oh, yes, I can see him plainly," calls out Queen T., looking through a

glass; and there is a general waving of handkerchiefs in reply to the

still visible signal. Mary Avon waves her handkerchief, too--in a limp

fashion. We do not look at her eyes.

And when the gig came back, and we bade good-bye for the time to the

brave old _White Dove_, and set out for Castle Osprey, she was rather

silent. In vain did the Laird tell her some of the very best ones about

Homesh; she seemed anxious to get into the house and to reach the

solitude of her own room.

But in the meantime there was a notable bundle of letters, newspapers,

and what not, lying on the hall-table. This was the first welcome that

civilisation gave us. And although we defied these claims--and

determined that not an envelope should be opened till after dinner--Mary

Avon, having only one letter awaiting her, was allowed to read that. She

did it mechanically, listlessly--she was not in very good spirits. But

suddenly we heard her utter some slight exclamation; and then we turned

and saw that there was a strange look on her face--of dismay and dread.

She was pale, too, and bewildered--like one stunned. Then without a

word, she handed the letter to her friend.

"What is the matter, Mary?"

But she read the letter--and, in her amazement, she repeated the reading

of it, aloud. It was a brief, business-like, and yet friendly letter,

from the manager of a certain bank in London. He said he was sorry to

refer to painful matters; but no doubt Miss Avon had seen in the papers

some mention of the absconding of Mr. Frederick Smethurst, of ----. He

hoped there was nothing wrong; but he thought it right to inform Miss

Avon that, a day or two before this disappearance, Mr. Smethurst had

called at the bank and received, in obedience to her written

instructions, the securities--U.S. Funded Stock--which the bank held in

her name. Mr. Smethurst had explained that these bonds were deliverable

to a certain broker; and that securities of a like value would be

deposited with the bank in a day or two afterwards. Since then nothing

had been heard of him till the Hue and Cry appeared in the newspapers.

Such was the substance of the letter.

"But it isn't true!" said Mary Avon, almost wildly. "I cannot believe

it. I will not believe it. I saw no announcement in the papers. And I

did give him the letter--he was acting quite rightly. What do they want

me to believe?"

"Oh, Mary!" cries her friend, "why did you not tell us? Have you parted

with everything?"

"The money?" says the girl--with her white face, and frightened pathetic

eyes. "Oh, I do not care about the money! It has got nothing to do

with the money. But--but--he--was my mother's only brother."

The lips tremble for a moment; but she collects herself. Her courage

fights through the stun of this sudden blow.

"I will not believe it!" she says. "How dare they say such things of

him? How is it we have never seen anything of it in the papers?"

But the Laird leaves these and other wild questions to be answered at

leisure. In the meantime, his eyes are burning like coals of fire; and

he is twisting his hands together in a vain endeavour to repress his

anger and indignation.

"Tell them to put a horse to," he says in a voice the abruptness of

which startles every one. "I want to drive to the telegraph-office.

This is a thing for men to deal wi'--not weemen."

*CHAPTER II.*

*AN ULTIMATUM.*

When our good friend the Laird of Denny-mains came back from the

post-office, he seemed quite beside himself with wrath. And yet his

rage was not of the furious and loquacious sort; it was reticent, and

deep, and dangerous. He kept pacing up and down the gravel-path in

front of the house, while as yet dinner was not ready. Occasionally he

would rub his hands vehemently, as if to get rid of some sort of

electricity; and once or twice we heard him ejaculate to himself, "The

scoondrel! The scoondrel!" It was in vain that our gentle Queen

Titania, always anxious to think the best of everybody, broke in on

these fierce meditations, and asked the Laird to suspend his judgment.

How could he be sure, she asked, that Frederick Smethurst had really run

away with his niece's little property? He had come to her and

represented that he was in serious difficulties; that this temporary

loan of seven thousand pounds or so would save him; that he would repay

her directly certain remittances came to him from abroad. How could he,

the Laird, know that Frederick Smethurst did not mean to keep his

promise?

But Denny-mains would have none of these possibilities. He saw the

whole story clearly. He had telegraphed for confirmation; but already

he was convinced. As for Frederick Smethurst being a swindler--that did

not concern him, he said. As for the creditors, that was their own

look-out: men in business had to take their chance. But that this

miscreant, this ruffian, this mean hound should have robbed his own

niece of her last farthing--and left her absolutely without resources or

protection of any kind in the world--this it was that made the Laird's

eyes burn with a dark fire. "The scoondrel!--the scoondrel!" he said;

and he rubbed his hands as though he would wrench the fingers off.

We should have been more surprised at this exhibition of rage on the

part of a person so ordinarily placid as Denny-mains, but that every one

had observed how strong had become his affection for Mary Avon during

our long days on the Atlantic. If she had been twenty times his own

daughter he could not have regarded her with a greater tenderness. He

had become at once her champion and her slave. When there was any

playful quarrel between the young lady and her hostess, he took the side

of Mary Avon with a seriousness that soon disposed of the contest. He

studied her convenience to the smallest particular when she wished to

paint on deck; and so far from hinting that he would like to have Tom

Galbraith revise and improve her work, he now said that he would have

pride in showing her productions to that famous artist. And perhaps it

was not quite so much the actual fact of the stealing of the money as

the manner and circumstance of it that now wholly upset his equilibrium,

and drove him into this passion of rage. "The scoondrel!--the

scoondrel!" he muttered to himself, in these angry pacings to and fro.

Then he surprised his hostess by suddenly stopping short, and uttering

some brief chuckle of laughter.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," said he, "for the leeberty I have taken; but

I was at the telegraph-office in any case; and I thought ye would not

mind my sending for my nephew Howard. Ye were so good as to say----"

"Oh, we shall be most pleased to see him," said she promptly. "I am

sure he must have heard us talking about the yacht; he will not mind a

little discomfort----"

"He will have to take what is given him, and be thankful," said the

Laird, sharply. "In my opeenion the young people of the present day are

too much given to picking and choosing. They will not begin as their

parents began. Only the best of everything is good enough for them."

But here the Laird checked himself.

"No, no, ma'am," said he. "My nephew Howard is not like that. He is a

good lad--a sensible lad. And as for his comfort on board that yacht,

I'm thinking it's not that, but the opposite, he has to fear most. Ye

are spoiling us all--the crew included."

"Now we must go in to dinner," is the practical answer.

"Has she come down?" asks the Laird, in a whisper.

"I suppose so."

In the drawing-room we found Mary Avon. She was rather pale, and

silent--that was all; and she seemed to wish to avoid observation. But

when dinner was announced the Laird went over to her, and took her hand,

and led her into the dining-room, just as he might have led a child.

And he arranged her chair for her; and patted her on the back as he

passed on, and said cheerfully--

"Quite right--quite right--don't believe all the stories ye hear. _Nil

desperandum_--we're not beaten down yet!"

She sate cold and white, with her eyes cast down. He did not know that

in the interval her hostess had been forced to show the girl that

paragraph of the Hue and Cry.

"_Nil desperandum_--that's it," continued the good-hearted Laird, in his

blithest manner. "Keep your own conscience clear, and let other people

do as they please--that is the philosophy of life. That is what Dr.

Sutherland would say to ye, if he was here."

This chance reference to Angus Sutherland was surely made with the best

intentions; but it produced a strange effect on the girl. For an instant

or two she tried to maintain her composure--though her lips trembled;

then she gave way, and bent her head, and burst out crying, and covered

her face with her hands. Of course her kind friend and hostess was with

her in a moment, and soothed her, and caressed her, and got her to dry

her eyes. Then the Laird said, after a second or two of inward

struggle--

"Oh, do you know that there is a steamer run on the rocks at the mouth

of Loch Etive?"

"Oh, yes," his hostess--who had resumed her seat--said cheerfully.

"That is a good joke. They say the captain wanted to be very clever;

and would not have a pilot, though he knows nothing about the coast. So

he thought he would keep mid-channel in going into the Loch!".

The Laird looked puzzled: where was the joke?

"Oh," said she, noticing his bewilderment, "don't you know that at the

mouth of Loch Etive the rocks are right in the middle, and the channel

on each side? He chose precisely the straight line for bringing his

vessel full tilt on the rocks!"

So this was the joke, then: that a valuable ship should be sunk? But it

soon became apparent that any topic was of profound interest--was

exceedingly facetious even--that could distract Mary Avon's attention.

They would not let her brood over this thing. They would have found a

joke in a coffin. And indeed amidst all this talking and laughing Mary

Avon brightened up considerably; and took her part bravely; and seemed

to have forgotten all about her uncle and his evil deeds. You could only

have guessed from a certain preoccupation that, from time to time, these

words must have been appearing before her mind, their commonplace and

matter-of-fact phraseology in no way detracting from their horrible

import: "_Police-officers and others are requested to make immediate

search and inquiry for the above named; and those stationed at seaport

towns are particularly requested to search outward-bound vessels._" The

description of Mr. Frederick Smethurst that preceded this injunction was

not very flattering.

But among all the subjects, grave and gay, on which the Laird touched

during this repast, there was none he was so serious and pertinacious

about as the duty owed by young people to their parents and guardians.

It did not seem an opportune topic. He might, for example, have

enlarged upon the duties of guardians towards their helpless and

unprotected wards. However, on this matter he was most decided. He

even cross-examined his hostess, with an unusual sternness, on the

point. What was the limit--was there any limit--she would impose on the

duty which young folks owed to those who were their parents or who stood

to them in the relation of parents? Our sovereign mistress, a little

bit frightened, said she had always found her boys obedient enough. But

this would not do. Considering the care and affection bestowed on

them--considering the hardly-earned wealth spent on them--considering

the easy fortune offered to them--was it not bounden on young people to

consult and obey the wishes of those who had done so much for them? She

admitted that such was the case. Pressed to say where the limit of such

duty should lie, she said there was hardly any. So far good; and the

Laird was satisfied.

It was not until two days afterwards that we obtained full information

by letter of what was known regarding the proceedings of Frederick

Smethurst, who, it appears, before he bolted, had laid hands on every

farthing of money he could touch, and borrowed from the credulous among

his friends; so that there remained no reasonable doubt that the story

he had told his niece was among his other deceptions, and that she was

left penniless. No one was surprised. It had been almost a foregone

conclusion. Mary Avon seemed to care little about it; the loss of her

fortune was less to her than the shame and dishonour that this scoundrel

had brought on her mother's name.

But this further news only served to stir up once more the Laird's

slumbering wrath. He kept looking at his watch.

"She'll be off Easdale now," said he to himself; and we knew he was

speaking of the steamer that was bringing his nephew from the south.

By and by--"She'll be near Kerrara, now," he said, aloud. "Is it not

time to drive to the quay?"

It was not time, but we set out. There was the usual crowd on the quay

when we got there; and far off we could descry the red funnels and the

smoke of the steamer. Mary Avon had not come with us.

"What a beautiful day your nephew must have had for his sail from the

Crinan," said the Laird's gentle hostess to him.

Did he not hear her? Or was he absorbed in his own thoughts? His

answer, at all events, was a strange one.

"It is the first time I have asked anything of him," he said almost

gloomily. "I have a right to expect him to do something for me now."

The steamer slows in; the ropes are thrown across; the gangways run up;

and the crowd begins to pour out. And here is a tall and handsome young

fellow who comes along with a pleasant smile of greeting on his face.

"How do you do, Mr. Smith?" says Queen T., very graciously--but she does

not call him "Howard" as she calls Dr. Sutherland "Angus."

"Well, uncle," says he, brightly, when he has shaken hands all round,

"what is the meaning of it all? Are you starting for Iceland in a

hurry? I have brought a rifle as well as my breechloader. But perhaps

I had better wait to be invited?"

This young man with the clear, pale complexion, and the dark hair, and

dark grey eyes, had good looks and a pleasant smile in his favour; he

was accustomed to be made welcome; he was at ease with himself. He was

not embarrassed that his uncle did not immediately answer; he merely

turned and called out to the man who had got his luggage. And when we

had got him into the waggonette, and were driving off, what must he

needs talk about but the absconding of Mr. Frederick Smethurst, whom he

knew to be the uncle of a young lady he had once met at our house.

"Catch him?" said he with a laugh. "They'll never catch him."

His uncle said nothing at all.

When we reached Castle Osprey, the Laird said in the hall, when he had

satisfied himself that there was no one within hearing--

"Howard, I wish to have a few meenutes' talk with ye; and perhaps our

good friends here will come into the room too----"

We followed him into the dining-room; and shut the door.

"--just to see whether there is anything unreasonable in what I have got

to say to ye."

The young man looked rather alarmed; there was an unusual coldness and

austerity in the elder man's voice.

"We may as well sit down," he said; "it wants a little explanation."

We sate down in silence, Howard Smith looking more concerned than ever.

He had a real affection, as we knew, for this pseudo-uncle of his, and

was astounded that he should be spoken to in this formal and cold

manner.

The Laird put one or two letters on the table before him.

"I have asked our friends here," said he, in a calm and measured voice,

"to listen to what I have to say, and they will judge whether it is

unreasonable. I have a service to ask of ye. I will say nothing of the

relations between you and me before this time--but I may tell ye

frankly--what doubtless ye have understood--that I had intended to leave

ye Denny-mains at my death. I have neither kith nor kin of my own

blood; and it was my intention that ye should have Denny-mains--perhaps

even before I was called away."

The young man said nothing; but the manner in which the Laird spoke of

his intentions in the past sense might have made the most disinterested

of heirs look frightened. After ali, he had certainly been brought up

on the understanding that he was to succeed to the property.

"Now," said he, slowly, "I may say I have shown ye some kindness----"

"Indeed you have, sir!" said the other warmly.

"--and I have asked nothing from ye in return. I would ask nothing now,

if I was your age. If I was twenty years younger, I would not have

telegraphed for ye--indeed no, I would have taken the matter into my own

hands----"

Here the Laird paused for a second or so to regain that coldness of

demeanour with which he had started.

"Ay, just so. Well, ye were talking about the man Smethurst as we were

coming along. His niece, as ye may be aware, is in this house--a better

lass was never seen within any house."

The Laird hesitated more and more as he came to the climax of his

discourse: it was obviously difficult for him to put this restraint on

himself.

"Yes," said he, speaking a little more hurriedly, "and that

scoondrel--that scoondrel--has made off with every penny that the poor

lass had--every penny of it--and she is left an orphan--without a

farthing to maintain herself wi'--and that infernal scoondrel----"

The Laird jumped from his seat; his anger was too much for him.

"I mean to stand by her," said he, pacing up and down the room, and

speaking in short ejaculations. "She will not be left without a

farthing. I will reach him too, if I can. Ay, ay, if I was but twenty

years younger, and had that man before me!"

He stopped short opposite his nephew, and controlled himself so as to

speak quite calmly.

"I would like to see ye settled at Denny-mains, Howard," said he. "And

ye would want a wife. Now if ye were to marry this young leddy, it

would be the delight of my old age to see ye both comfortable and well

provided for. And a better wife ye would not get within this country.

Not a better!"

Howard Smith stared.

"Why, uncle!" said he, as if he thought some joke was going forward.

We, who had been aware of certain profound plans on the part of

Denny-mains, were less startled by this abrupt disclosure of them.

"That is one of two things," said the Laird, with forced composure,

"that I wished to put before ye. If it is impossible, I am sorely

vexed. But there is another; and one or the other, as I have been

thinking, I am fairly entitled to ask of ye. So far I have not thought

of any return for what I have done; it has been a pleasure to me to look

after your up-bringing."

"Well, uncle," said the young man, beginning to look a little less

frightened. "I would rather hear of the other thing. You

know--eh--that is--a girl does not take anybody who is flung at her, as

it were--it would be an insult--and--and people's inclinations and

affections----"

"I know--I know--I know," said the Laird, impatiently. "I have gone

over all that. Do ye think I am a fool? If the lass will not have ye,

there is an end to it: do your best to get her, and that is enough for

me."

"There was another thing--" the young man suggested timidly.

"Yes, there is," said the Laird, with a sudden change in his manner.

"It is a duty, sir, ye owe not to me, but to humanity. Ye are young,

strong, have plenty of time, and I will give ye the money. Find out

that man Smethurst; get him face to face; and fell him! Fell him!"--the

Laird brought his fist down on the table with a bang that made

everything jump, and his eyes were like coals of fire. "None o' your

pistols or rapiers or trash like that!--no, no!--a mark on his face for

the rest of his life--the brand of a scoondrel between his eyes--there!

will ye do that for me?"

"But, uncle," cried the young man, finding this alternative about as

startling as the other, "how on earth can I find him? He is off to

Brazil, or Mexico, or California, long ere now, you may depend on it."

The Laird had pulled himself together again.

"I have put two things before ye," said he, calmly. "It is the first

time I have asked ye for a service, after having brought ye up as few

lads have been brought up. If you think it is unfair of me to make a

bargain about such things, I will tell ye frankly that I have more

concern in that young thing left to herself than in any creature now

living on earth; and I will be a friend to her as well as an old man

can. I have asked our friends here to listen to what I had to say; they

will tell ye whether I am unreasonable. I will leave ye to talk it

over."

He went to the door. Then he turned for a moment to his hostess.

"I am going to see, ma'am, if Mary will go for a bit walk wi' me--down

to the shore, or the like; but we will be back before the hour for

denner."

*CHAPTER III.*

*THE NEW SUITOR.*

It is only those who have lived with her for a number of years who can

tell when a certain person becomes possessed with the demon of mischief,

and allows sarcasm and malignant laughter and other unholy delights to

run riot in her brain. The chief symptom is the assumption of an

abnormal gravity, and a look of simple and confiding innocence that

appears in the eyes. The eyes tell most of all. The dark pupils seem

even clearer than is their wont, as if they would let you read them

through and through; and there is a sympathetic appeal in them; the

woman seems so anxious to be kind, and friendly, and considerate. And

all the time--especially if it be a man who is hopelessly

dumfoundered--she is revenging the many wrongs of her sex by covertly

laughing at him and enjoying his discomfiture.

And no doubt the expression on Howard Smith's face, as he sat there in a

bewildered silence, was ludicrous enough. He was inclined to laugh the

thing away as a joke, but he knew that the Laird was not given to

practical jokes. And yet--and yet--

"Do you really think he is serious?" he blurted out at length, and he

spoke to this lady with the gentle innocent eyes.

"Oh, undoubtedly," she answered, with perfect gravity.

"Oh, no; it is impossible!" he said, as if arguing with himself. "Why,

my uncle, of all men in the world,--and pretending it was serious--of

course people often do wish their sons or daughters to marry a

particular person--for a sensible reason, to keep estates together, or

to join the fortunes of a family--but this--no, no; this is a joke, or

else he wants to drive me into giving that fellow a licking. And that,

you know, is quite absurd; you might as well drag the Atlantic for a

penknife."

"I am afraid your uncle is quite serious," said she, demurely.

"But it was to be left to you," he answered quickly. "You were to say

whether it was unreasonable. Surely you must see it is not reasonable.

Neither the one thing nor the other is possible--"

Here the young man paused for a moment.

"Surely," he said, "my uncle can't mean, by putting these impossible

things before me, to justify his leaving his property to somebody else?

There was no need for any such excuse; I have no claim on him; he has a

right to do what he pleases."

"That has nothing to do with it," said Queen T. promptly. "Your uncle

is quite resolved, I know, that you should have Denny-mains."

"Yes--and a wife," responded the young man, with a somewhat wry smile.

"Oh, but you know, it is quite absurd; you will reason him out of it,

won't you? He has such a high opinion of your judgment, I know."

The ingenious youth!

"Besides," said he warmly, "do you think it very complimentary to your

friend Miss Avon that any one should be asked to come and marry her?"

This was better; it was an artful thrust. But the bland sympathetic eyes

only paid him a respectful attention.

"I know my uncle is pretty firm when he has got a notion into his head,"

said he, "and--and--no doubt he is quite right in thinking that the

young lady has been badly treated, and that somebody should give the

absconder a thrashing. All that is quite right; but why should I be

made responsible for it? I can't do impossible things."

"Well, you see," said his sage adviser, with a highly matter-of-fact

air, "your uncle may not regard either the one thing or the other as

impossible."

"But they are impossible," said he.

"Then I am very sorry," said she, with great sweetness. "Because

Denny-mains is really a beautiful place. And the house would lend

itself splendidly to a thorough scheme of redecoration; the hall could

be made perfectly lovely. I would have the wooden dado painted a dark

bottle-green, and the wall over it a rich Pompeian red--I don't believe

the colours of a hall can be too bold if the tones are good in

themselves. Pompeian red is a capital background for pictures, too; and

I like to see pictures in the hall; the gentlemen can look at them while

they are waiting for their wives. Don't you think Indian matting makes a

very nice, serviceable, sober-coloured dado for a dining-room--so long

as it does not drive your pictures too high on the wall?"

The fiendishness of this woman! Denny-mains was being withdrawn from

him at this very moment; and she was bothering him with questions about

its decoration. What did he think of Indian matting?

"Well," said he, "if I am to lose my chance of Denny-mains through this

piece of absurdity, I can't help it."

"I beg your pardon," said she most amiably; "but I don't think your

uncle's proposal so very absurd. It is the commonest thing in the world

for people to wish persons in whom they are interested to marry each

other; and very often they succeed by merely getting the young people to

meet, and so forth. You say yourself that it is reasonable in certain

cases. Well, in this case, you probably don't know how great an

interest your uncle takes in Miss Avon, and the affection that he has

for her. It is quite remarkable. And he has been dwelling on this

possibility of a match between you--of seeing you both settled at

Denny-mains--until he almost regards it as already arranged. 'Put

yourself in his place,' as Mr. Reade says. It seems to him the most

natural thing in the world, and I am afraid he will consider you very

ungrateful if you don't fall in with his plan."

Deeper and deeper grew the shadow of perplexity on the young man's brow.

At first he had seemed inclined to laugh the whole matter aside, but the

gentle reasoning of this small person had a ghastly aspect of

seriousness about it.

"Then his notion of my seeking out the man Smethurst and giving him a

thrashing: you would justify that, too?" he cried.

"No, not quite," she answered, with a bit of a smile. "That is a little

absurd, I admit--it is merely an ebullition of anger. He won't think

any more of that in a day or two I am certain. But the other--the

other, I fear, is a fixed idea."

At this point we heard some one calling outside:

"Miss Mary! I have been searching for ye everywhere; are ye coming for

a walk down to the shore?"

Then a voice, apparently overhead at an open window--

"All right, sir; I will be down in a moment."

Another second or two, and we hear some one singing on the stair, with a

fine air of bravado--

_A strong sou-wester's blowing, Billy; can't you hear it roar,

now?_

--the gay voice passes through the hall--

_Lord help 'em, how I pities all un--_

--then the last phrase is heard outside--

_--folks on shore now--_

Queen Titania darts to the open window of the dining-room.

"Mary! Mary!" she calls. "Come here."

The next instant a pretty enough picture is framed by the lower half of

the window, which is open. The background is a blaze of scarlet and

yellow and green--a mixture of sunlight and red poppies and nasturtiums

and glancing fuchsia leaves. Then this slight figure that has appeared

is dark in shadow; but there is a soft reflected light from the front of

the house, and that just shows you the smile on Mary Avon's face and the

friendliness of her dark soft eyes.

"Oh, how do you do?" she says, reaching in her hand and shaking hands

with him. There is not any timidity in her manner. No one has been

whispering to her of the dark plots surrounding her.

Nor was Mr. Smith much embarrassed, though he did not show himself as

grateful as a young man might have done for so frank and friendly a

welcome.

"I scarcely thought you would have remembered me," said he modestly.

But at this moment Denny-mains interfered, and took the young lady by

the arm, and dragged her away. We heard their retreating footsteps on

the gravel walk.

"So you remember her?" says our hostess, to break the awkward silence.

"Oh, yes, well enough," said he; and then he goes on to say

stammeringly--"Of course, I--I have nothing to say against her----"

"If you have," it is here interposed, as a wholesome warning, "you had

better not mention it here. Ten thousand hornets' nests would be a fool

compared to this house if you said anything in it against Mary Avon."

"On the contrary," says he, "I suppose she is a very nice girl

indeed--very--I suppose there's no doubt of it. And if she has been

robbed like that, I am very sorry for her; and I don't wonder my uncle

should be interested in her, and concerned about her, and--and all

that's quite right. But it is too bad--it is too bad--that one should

be expected to--to ask her to be one's wife, and a sort of penalty

hanging over one's head, too. Why, it is enough to set anybody against

the whole thing; I thought everybody knew that you can't get people to

marry if you drive them to it--except in France, I suppose, where the

whole business is arranged for you by your relatives. This isn't

France; and I am quite sure Miss Avon would consider herself very

unfairly treated if she thought she was being made part and parcel of

any such arrangement. As for me--well, I am very grateful to my uncle

for his long kindness to me; he has been kindness itself to me; and it

is quite true, as he says, that he has asked for nothing in return.

Well, what he asks now is just a trifle too much. I won't sell myself

for any property. If he is really serious--if it is to be a compulsory

marriage like that--Denny-mains can go. I shall be able to earn my own

living somehow."

There was a chord struck in this brief, hesitating, but emphatic speech

that went straight to his torturer's heart. A look of liking and

approval sprang to her eyes. She would no longer worry him.

"Don't you think," said she gently, "that you are taking the matter too

seriously? Your uncle does not wish to force you into a marriage

against your will; he knows nothing about Adelphi melodramas. What he

asks is simple and natural enough. He is, as you see, very fond of Mary

Avon; he would like to see her well provided for; he would like to see

you settled and established at Denny-mains. But he does not ask the

impossible. If she does not agree, neither he nor you can help it.

Don't you think it would be a very simple matter for you to remain with

us for a time, pay her some ordinary friendly attention, and then show

your uncle that the arrangement he would like does not recommend itself

to either you or her? He asks no more than that; it is not much of a

sacrifice."

There was no stammering about this lady's exposition of the case. Her

head is not very big, but its perceptive powers are remarkable.

Then the young man's face brightened considerably.

"Well," said he, "that would be more sensible, surely. If you take away

the threat, and the compulsion, and all that, there can be no harm in my

being civil to a girl, especially when she is, I am sure, just the sort

of girl one ought to be civil to. I am sure she has plenty of common

sense---"

It is here suggested once more that, in this house, negative praise of

Mary Avon is likely to awake slumbering lions.

"Oh, I have no doubt," says he readily, "that she is a very nice girl

indeed. One would not have to pretend to be civil to some creature

stuffed with affectation, or a ghoul. I don't object to this at all.

If my uncle thinks it enough, very well. And I am quite sure that a

girl you think so much of would have more self-respect than to expect

anybody to go and make love to her in the country-bumpkin style."

Artful again; but it was a bad shot. There was just a little asperity

in Madame's manner when she said--

"I beg you not to forget that Mary does not wish to be made love to by

anybody. She is quite content as she is. Perhaps she has quite other

views, which you would not regret, I am sure. But don't imagine that she

is looking for a husband; or that a husband is necessary for her; or

that she won't find friends to look after her. It is your interests we

are considering, not hers."

Was the snubbing sufficient?

"Oh, of course, of course," said he, quite humbly. "But then, you know,

I was only thinking that--that--if I am to go in and make believe about

being civil to your young lady-friend, in order to please my uncle, too

much should not be expected. It isn't a very nice thing--at least, for

you it may be very nice--to look on at a comedy----"

"And is it so very hard to be civil to a girl?" says his monitress

sharply. "Mary will not shock you with the surprise of her gratitude.

She might have been married ere now if she had chosen."

"She--isn't--quite a school-girl, you know," he says timidly.

"I was not aware that men preferred to marry school-girls," says the

other, with a gathering majesty of demeanour.

Here a humble witness of this interview has once more to interpose to

save this daring young man from a thunderbolt. Will he not understand

that the remotest and most round-about reflection on Mary Avon is in

this house the unpardonable sin?

"Well," said he frankly, "it is exceedingly kind of you to show me how I

am to get out of this troublesome affair; and I am afraid I must leave

it to you to convince my uncle that I have done sufficient. And it is

very kind of you to ask me to go yachting with you; I hope I shall not

be in the way. And--and--there is no reason at all why Miss Avon and I

should not become very good friends--in fact, I hope we shall become

such good friends that my uncle will see we could not be anything else."

Could anything be fairer than this? His submission quite conquered his

hostess. She said she would show him some of Mary Avon's sketches in

oil, and led him away for that purpose. His warm admiration confirmed

her good opinion of him; henceforth he had nothing to fear.

At dinner that evening he was at first a little shy; perhaps he had a

suspicion that there were present one or two spectators of a certain

comedy which he had to play all by himself. But, indeed, our eyes and

ears were not for him alone. Miss Avon was delighting the Laird with

stories of the suggestions she had got about her pictures from the

people who had seen them--even from the people who had bought them--in

London.

"And you know," said she quite frankly, "I must study popular taste as

much as I fairly can now, for I have to live by it. If people will have

sea-pieces spoiled by having figures put in, I must put in figures. By

and by I may be in a position to do my own work in my own way."

The Laird glanced at his nephew: was it not for him to emancipate this

great and original artist from the fear of critics, and dealers, and

purchasers? There was no response.

"I mean to be in London soon myself," the Laird said abruptly; "ye must

tell me where I can see some of your pictures."

"Oh, no," she said, laughing, "I shall not victimise my friends. I mean

to prey on the public--if possible. It is Mr. White, in King Street,

St. James's, however, who has taken most of my pictures hitherto; and so

if you know of anybody who would like to acquire immortal works for a

few guineas apiece, that is the address."

"I am going to London myself soon," said he, with a serious air, as if

he had suddenly determined on buying the National Gallery.

Then Howard Smith, perceiving that no one was watching him, or expecting

impossibilities of him, became quite cheerful and talkative; and told

some excellent stories of his experiences at various shooting quarters

the previous winter. Light-hearted, good-natured, fairly humorous, he

talked very well indeed. We gathered that during the last months of the

year the shooting of pheasants occupied a good deal more of his time and

attention than the study of law. And how could one wonder that so

pleasant-mannered a young man was a welcome guest at those various

country-houses in the south?

But it appeared that, despite all this careless talk, he had been

keeping an eye on Mary Avon during dinner. Walking down to the yacht

afterwards--the blood-red not quite gone from the western skies, a cool

wind coming up from the sea--he said casually to his uncle--

"Well, sir, whatever trouble that young lady may have gone through has

not crushed her spirits yet. She is as merry as a lark."

"She has more than cheerfulness--she has courage," said the Laird,

almost severely. "Oh, ay, plenty of courage. And I have no doubt she

could fight the world for herself just as well as any man I know. But I

mean to make it my business that she shall not have to fight the world

for herself--not as long as there is a stick standing on Denny-mains!"

*CHAPTER IV.*

*CHASING A THUNDERSTORM.*

"_All on board then--all on board!_" the summons comes ringing through

the wonderland of dreams. And then, amid the general hurry and scurry

throughout the house, certain half-bewildered people turn first of all

to the windows of their rooms: a welcome sight! The glory of the summer

dawn is shining over the mountains; the _White Dove_, with nearly all

her sail set, is swinging there at her moorings; best of all, a strong

breeze--apparently from the north-east--is ruffling the dark blue seas

and driving a line of white surf on the further shores. The news comes

that Master Fred, by darting about in the dingay since ever daylight

began, has got the very last basket on board; the red caps are even now

bringing the gig in to the landing slip; John of Skye is all impatience

to take advantage of the favourable wind. There is but little time

lost; the happy-go-lucky procession--_dona ferentes_--set out for the

beach. And if the Laird is pleased to find his nephew apparently

falling into his scheme with a good grace; and if the nephew thinks he

is very lucky to get so easily out of an awkward predicament; and if

Mary Avon--unconscious of these secret designs--is full of an eager

delight at the prospect of being allowed to set to work again--may not

all this account for a certain indecorous gaiety that startles the

silence of the summer morning? Or is it that mythical hero Homesh who is

responsible for this laughter? We hear the Laird chuckling; we notice

the facetious wrinkles about his eyes; we make sure it must be Homesh.

Then the final consignment of books, shawls, gun-cases, and what not is

tossed into the gig; and away we go, with the measured dash of the oars.

And what does the bearded John of Skye think of the new hand we have

brought him? Has he his own suspicions? Is his friend and sworn ally,

Dr. Sutherland, to be betrayed and supplanted in his absence?

"Good morning, sir," he says obediently, at the gangway; and the quick

Celtic eyes glance at Howard Smith from top to toe.

"Good morning, captain," the young man says lightly; and he springs too

quickly up the steps, making a little bit of a stumble. This is not an

auspicious omen.

Then on deck: the handsome figure and pleasant manner of this young man

ought surely to prepossess people in his favour. What if his

tightly-fitting garments and his patent-leather boots and white gaiters

are not an orthodox yachting rig? John of Skye would not judge of a man

by his costume. And if he does not seem quite at home--in this first

look round--every one is not so familiar with boating life as Dr.

Sutherland. It is true, an umbrella used as a walking-stick looks

strange on board a yacht; and he need not have put it on the curved top

of the companion, for it immediately rolls over into the scuppers. Nor

does he seem to see the wickedness of placing a heavy bundle of canvases

on the raised skylight of the ladies' cabin; does he want to start the

glass? Dr. Sutherland, now, would have given the men a hand in hauling

up the gig. Dr. Sutherland would not have been in the way of the

tiller, as the yacht is released from her moorings.

Unaware of this rapid criticism, and unconcerned by all the bustle going

on around, our new friend is carelessly and cheerfully chatting with his

hostess; admiring the yacht; praising the beauty of the summer morning;

delighted with the prospect of sailing in such weather. He does not

share in the profound curiosity of his uncle about the various duties of

the men. When John of Skye, wishing to leave the tiller for a minute to

overhaul the lee tackle, turns quite naturally to Mary Avon, who is

standing by him, and says with a grin of apology, "If ye please, mem,"

the young man betrays but little surprise that this young lady should be

entrusted with the command of the vessel.

"What!" he says, with a pleasant smile--they seem on very friendly terms

already--"can you steer, Miss Avon? Mind you don't run us against any

rocks."

Miss Avon has her eye on the mainsail. She answers, with a

business-like air--

"Oh, there is no fear of that. What I have to mind, with this wind, is

not to let her gybe, or I should get into disgrace."

"Then I hope you won't let her gybe, whatever that is," said he, with a

laugh.

Never was any setting-out more auspicious. We seemed to have bade

farewell to those perpetual calms. Early as it was in the morning,

there was no still, dream-like haze about the mountains; there was a

clear greenish-yellow where the sunlight struck them; the great slopes

were dappled with the shadows of purple-brown; further away the tall

peaks were of a decided blue. And then the windy, fresh, brisk morning;

the _White Dove_ running races with the driven seas; the white foam

flying away from her sides. John of Skye seemed to have no fear of this

gentle skipper. He remained forward, superintending the setting of the

topsail; the _White Dove_ was to "have it" while the fresh breeze

continued to blow.

And still the squally easterly wind bears her bravely onward, the puffs

darkening the water as they pass us and strike the rushing seas. Is that

a shadow of Colonsay on the far southern horizon? The lighthouse people

here have gone to bed; there is not a single figure along the

yellow-white walls. Look at the clouds of gulls on the rocks, resting

after their morning meal. By this time the deer have retreated into the

high slopes above Craignure; there is a white foam breaking along the

bay of Innismore. And still the _White Dove_ spins along, with

foam-diamonds glittering in the sunlight at her bows; and we hear the

calling of the sea-swallows, and the throbbing of a steamer somewhere in

among the shadows of Loch Aline. Surely now we are out of the reign of

calms; the great boom strains at the sheets; there is a whirl of blue

waters; the _White Dove_ has spread her wings at last.

"Ay, ay," says John of Skye, who has relieved Miss Avon at the helm; "it

is a great peety."

"Why, John?" says she, with some surprise; is he vexed that we should be

sailing well on this fine sailing day?

"It iss a great peety that Mr. Sutherland not here," said John, "and he

wass know so much about a yacht, and day after day not a breeze at ahl.

There iss not many chentlemen will know so much about a yacht as Mr.

Sutherland."

Miss Avon did not answer, though her face seemed conscious in its

colour. She was deeply engaged in a novel.

"Oh, that is the Mr. Sutherland who has been with you," said Howard

Smith to his hostess, in a cheerful way. "A doctor, I think you said?"

At this Miss Avon looked up quickly from her book.

"I should have thought," said she with a certain dignity of manner,

"that most people had heard of Dr. Angus Sutherland."

"Oh, yes, no doubt," said he, in the most good-natured fashion. "I know

about him myself--it must be the same man. A nephew of Lord Foyers,

isn't he? I met some friends of his at a house last winter; they had

his book with them--the book about tiger-hunting in Nepaul, don't you

know?--very interesting indeed it was, uncommonly interesting. I read

it right through one night when everybody else was in bed----"

"Why, that is Captain Sutherland's book," said his hostess, with just a

trace of annoyance. "They are not even related. How can you imagine

that Angus Sutherland would write a book about tiger-hunting?--he is one

of the most distinguished men of science in England."

"Oh, indeed," says the young man, with the most imperturbable good

humour. "Oh, yes, I am sure I have heard of him--the Geographical

Society, or something like that; really those evenings are most amusing.

The women are awfully bored, and yet they do keep their eyes open

somehow. But about those Indian fellows; it was only last winter that I

heard how the ---- ---- manages to make those enormous bags, all to his

own gun, that you see in the papers. Haven't you noticed them?"

Well, some of us had been struck with amazement by the reports of the

enormous slaughter committed by a certain Indian prince; and had

wondered at one of the gentle natives of the East taking so thoroughly

and successfully to our robust English sports.

"Why," said this young man, "he has every covert laid out with netting,

in small squares like a dice-board; and when he has done blazing away in

the air, the under-keepers come up and catch every pheasant, hare, and

rabbit that has run into the netting, and kill them, and put them down

to his bag. Ingenious, isn't it? But I'll tell you what I have seen

myself. I have seen Lord Justice ---- deliberately walk down a line of

netting and shoot every pheasant and rabbit that had got entangled.

'Safer not to let them get away,' says he. And when his host came up he

said, 'Very good shooting; capital. I have got four pheasants and seven

rabbits there; I suppose the beaters will pick them up.'"

And so the Youth, as we had got to call him, rattled on, relating his

personal experiences, and telling such stories as occurred to him.

There was a good sprinkling of well-known names in this desultory talk;

how could Miss Avon fail to be interested, even if the subject-matter

was chiefly composed of pheasant-shooting, private theatricals, billiard

matches on wet days, and the other amusements of country life?

The Laird, when he did turn aside from that huge volume of _Municipal

London_--which he had brought with him for purposes of edification--must

have seen and approved. If the young man's attentions to Mary Avon were

of a distinctly friendly sort, if they were characterised by an obvious

frankness, if they were quite as much at the disposal of Mr. Smith's

hostess, what more could be expected? Rome was not built in a day.

Meanwhile Miss Avon seemed very well pleased with her new companion.

And if it may have occurred to one or other of us that Howard Smith's

talking, however pleasant and good-natured and bright, was on a somewhat

lower level than that of another of our friends, what then? Was it not

better fitted for idle sailing among summer seas? Now, indeed, our good

friend the Laird had no need to fear being startled by the sudden

propounding of conundrums.

He was startled by something else. Coming up from luncheon, we found

that an extraordinary darkness prevailed in the western heavens--a

strange bronze-purple gloom that seemed to contain within it the promise

of a hundred thunderstorms. And as this fair wind had now brought us

within sight of the open Atlantic, the question was whether we should

make for Skye or run right under this lurid mass of cloud that appeared

to lie all along the western shores of Mull. Unanimously the vote was

for the latter course. Had not Angus Sutherland been anxious all along

to witness a thunderstorm at sea? Might it not be of inestimable value

to Miss Avon? John of Skye, not understanding these reasons, pointed

out that the wind had backed somewhat to the north, and that Mull would

give us surer shelter than Skye for the night. And so we bore away past

Quinish, the brisk breeze sending the _White Dove_ along in capital

style; past the mouth of Loch Cuan; past the wild Cailleach Point; past

the broad Calgary Bay; and past the long headland of Ru-Treshanish. It

was a strange afternoon. The sun was hidden; but in the south and west

there was a wan, clear, silver glow on the sea; and in this white light

the islands of Lunga, and Fladda, and Staffa, and the Dutchman were of

sombre purple. Darker still were the islands lying towards the

land--Gometra, and Ulva, and Inch Kenneth; while the great rampart of

cliff from Loch-na-Keal to Loch Scridain was so wrapped in gloom that

momentarily we watched for the first quivering flash of the lightning.

Then the wind died away. The sea grew calm. On the glassy grey surface

the first drops of the rain fell--striking black, and then widening out

in small circles. We were glad of the cool rain, but the whispering of

it sounded strangely in the silence.

Then, as we are still watching for the first silver-blue flash of the

lightning, behold! the mighty black wall of the Bourg and Gribun cliffs

slowly, mysteriously disappears; and there is only before us a vague

mist of grey. Colonsay is gone; Inch Kenneth is gone; no longer can we

make out the dark rocks of Erisgeir. And then the whispering of the sea

increases; there is a deeper gloom over head; the rain-king is upon us!

There is a hasty retreat down stairs; the hatches are shoved over; after

dinner we shall see what this strange evening portends.

"I hope we shall get into the Sound of Ulva before dark," says Miss

Avon.

"I wish Angus was on board. It is a shame he should be cheated out of

his thunderstorm. But we shall have the equinoctials for him, at all

events," says Queen Titania--just as if she had a series of squalls and

tempests bottled, labelled, and put on a shelf.

When we get on deck again we find that the evening, but not the _White

Dove_, has advanced. There is no wind; there is no rain; around us

there is the silent, glassy, lilac-grey sea, which, far away in the

west, has one or two gleams of a dull bronze on it, as if some afterglow

were struggling through the clouds at the horizon. Along the Gribun

cliffs, and over the islands, the gloom has surely increased; it were

better if we were in some shelter for this night.

Then a noise is heard that seems to impose a sudden silence--thunder,

low, distant, and rumbling. But there is no splendid gleam through the

gathering gloom of the night: the Gribun cliffs have not spoken yet.

John of Skye has carelessly seated himself on one of the deck-stools;

his arm hangs idly on the tiller; we guess, rather than hear, that he is

regaling himself with the sad, monotonous _Farewell to Fuineray_. He

has got on his black oilskins, though there is not a drop of rain.

By and by, however, it being now quite dark, he jumps to his feet, and

appears to listen intently.

"Ay, do ye hear it?" he says, with a short laugh. "And it iss off the

land it iss coming!"

He calls aloud--"Look out boys! it is a squahl coming over, and we'll

hev the topsail down whatever!"

Then we hear a distant roaring; and presently the headsails are

violently shaken, and the great boom swings over as John puts the helm

up to get way on her. The next instant we are racing in for the land,

as if we mean to challenge the heavy squall that is tearing across from

the unseen Gribun cliffs. And now the rain-clouds break in deluges; the

men in their black oilskins go staggering this way and that along the

slippery decks; the _White Dove_ is wrestling with the sudden storm;

another low murmur of thunder comes booming through the darkness. What

is that solitary light far in there towards the land?--dare any steamer

venture so near the shore on such a night? And we, too; would it not be

safer for us to turn and run out to sea rather than beat against a

squall into the narrow and shallow channels of Ulva's Sound? But John of

Skye is not afraid. The wind and sea cannot drown his strident voice;

the rain deluge cannot blind the trained eyes; the men on the

look-out--when the bow of the boat springs high on a wave, we can see

the black figures against the sombre sky--know the channels too; we are

not afraid to make for Ulva's Sound.

There is a wild cry from one of the women; she has caught sight, through

the gloom, of white foam dashing on the rocks.

"It is all right, mem!" John calls aloud, with a laugh; but all the same

the order is shouted, "_Ready about!_"--"_Ready about!_" is the call

coming back to us from the darkness. "_'Bout ship!_" and then away she

sheers from that ugly coast.

We were after all cheated of our thunderstorm, but it was a wild and a

wet night nevertheless. Taking in the mizen was no joke amid this fury

of wind and rain, but that and the hauling up of the main-tack lessened

the pressure on her. John of Skye was in high spirits. He was proud of

his knowledge of the dangerous coast; where less familiar eyes saw only

vague black masses looming out of the darkness he recognised every rock

and headland.

"No, no, mem," he was calling out in friendly tones; "we not hef to run

out to sea at ahl. We will get into the Sound of Ulva ferry well; and

there will not be any better anchorage as the Sound of Ulva, when you

are acquaint. But a stranger--I not ask a stranger to go into the Sound

of Ulva on so dark a night."

What is this we hear?--"_Down foresail, boys!_" and there is a rattle on

to the decks. The head of the yacht seems to sway round; there is a loud

flapping of sails. "_Down chub!_"--and there are black figures

struggling up there at the bowsprit; but vaguely seen against the

blackness of the sky and the sea. Then, in a second or two, there is a

fiercer rattle than ever; the anchor is away with a roar. Some further

chain is paid out; then a strange silence ensues; we are anchored in

Ulva's Sound.

Come down into the cabin, then, you women-folk, and dry your streaming

faces, and arrange your dishevelled hair. Is not this a wonderful

stillness and silence after the whirl and roar of the storm outside?

But then you must know that the waters are smooth in here; and the winds

become gentle--as gentle as the name of the island that is close to us

now in the dark. It is a green-shored island. The sailors call it

_Ool-a-va_.

*CHAPTER V.*

*CHASING SEALS.*

Next morning found the Laird in a most excellent humour. All was going

well. Though nothing had been said or promised by the Youth, was not his

coming away with us into these remote solitudes--to say nothing of the

very pleasant manner in which he sought to entertain Miss Mary

Avon--sufficient evidence that he had at least no great repugnance to

his uncle's scheme? The Laird was disposed to chuckle privately over

the anxiety that Mary displayed about her work. The poor young thing:

she did not understand what higher powers were ordering her future for

her.

"Let her work on," the Laird said, in great confidence, to his hostess,

and there was a fine secret humour in his eyes. "Ay, ay, let her work

on: hard work never harmed anybody. And if she brings her bit mailin to

the marriage--ye would call it her dowry in the south--in the shape of a

bundle of pictures--just as a young Scotch lass brings a chest of

drawers or a set of napery--she will not be empty-handed. She can hang

them up herself at Denny-mains."

"You are looking too far ahead, sir," says Queen T., with a quiet smile.

"Maybe--maybe," says the Laird, rubbing his hands with a certain proud

satisfaction. "We'll see who's right--we will see who is right, ma'am."

Then, at breakfast, he was merry, complaisant, philosophical in turns.

He told us that the last vidimus of the affairs of the Burgh of

Strathgovan was most satisfactory: assets about 35,000*l.*; liabilities

not over 20,000*l.*; there was thus an estimated surplus of no less than

15,000*l*. Why, then, he asked, should certain poor creatures on the

Finance Committee make such a work about the merest trifles? Life was

not given to man that he should worry himself into a rage about a penny

farthing.

"There is a great dale of right down common sense, ma'am," said he, "in

that verse that was written by my countryman, Welliam Dunbaur--

Be merry man, and tak not sair in mind

The wavering of this wretched world of sorrow;

To God be humble, to thy friend be kind,

And with thy neighbours gladly lend and borrow;

His chance to-night, it may be thine to-morrow;

Be blythe in heart for any aventure,

For oft with wise men it has been said aforow,

Without Gladnesse availeth no Treasure."

But we, who were in the secret, knew that this quotation had nothing in

the world to do with the Finance Committee of Strathgovan. The Laird had

been comforting himself with these lines. They were a sort of

philosophico-poetical justification of himself to himself for his

readiness to make these two young people happy by giving up to them

Denny-mains.

And no doubt he was still chuckling over the simplicity of this poor

girl, when, after breakfast, he found her busily engaged in getting her

painting materials on deck.

"Beautiful--beautiful," said he, glancing around. "Ye will make a fine

picture out of those mountains, and the mist, and the still sea. What

an extraordinary quiet after last night's rain!"

And perhaps he was thinking how well this picture would look in the

dining-room at Denny-mains; and how a certain young hostess--no longer

pale and fragile, but robust and sun-browned with much driving in a

pony-carriage--would take her friends to the picture, and show them

Ulva, and Loch-na-Keal, and Ben-More; and tell them how this strange

quiet and beauty had followed on a wild night of storm and rain. The

world around us was at this moment so quiet that we could hear the

twittering of some small bird among the rocks in there at the shore.

And the pale, wan, dream-like sea was so perfect a mirror that an

absolutely double picture was produced--of the gloomy mountain-masses of

Ben-More, amid silver gleams of cloud and motionless wreaths of mist; of

the basaltic pillars of the coast nearer at hand--a pale reddish-brown,

with here and there a scant sprinkling of grass; of that broad belt of

rich orange-yellow seaweed that ran all along the rocks, marking the

junction of the world of the land with the water-world below. An

absolutely perfect mirror; except when some fish splashed; then the

small circles widened out and gradually disappeared; and the surface was

as glassy as before.

The Laird was generous. He would leave the artist undisturbed at her

work. Would not his nephew be better amused if a bachelor expedition

were fitted out to go in search of the seals that abound in the channels

around Inch Kenneth? Our hostess declined to go; but provided us with

an ample lunch. The gig was lowered; and everything ready for the

start.

"Bring your shot-gun, too, Howard," said the Laird. "I want ye to shoot

some skarts. I am told that the breasts of them are very close and fine

in the feathers; and I would like a muff or a bag made of them for a

leddy--for a young leddy."

Mary Avon was busy with her work: how could she hear?

"And if the skin of the seals about here is not very fine, we will make

something of it. Oh, ay, we will make something of it in the way of a

present. I know a man in Glasgow who is extraordinary clever at such

things."

"We have first to get the seal, uncle," said his nephew, laughing. "I

know any number of men who assure you they have shot seals; but not

quite so many who have got the seals that were shot."

"Oh, but we'll get the seal, and the skarts, too," said the Laird; and

then he added, grimly, "Man, if ye cannot do that, what can ye do? If

ye cannot shoot well, what else are ye fit for?"

"I really don't know, uncle," the Youth confessed modestly, as he handed

down his rifle into the gig. "The London solicitors are a blind race.

If they only knew what a treasure of learning and sound judgment they

might have for the asking: but they don't. And I can't get any of the

Scotch business you were talking about; because my name doesn't begin

with Mac."

"Well, well, we must wait, and hope for the best," said the Laird,

cheerfully, as he took his seat in the stern of the gig. "We are not

likely to run against a solicitor in the Sound of Ulva. Sufficient for

the day. As I was saying, there's great common sense in what Welliam

Dunbaur wrote--

Be blythe in heart for any aventure,

For oft with wise men it has been said aforow,

Without Gladnesse availeth no Treasure.

--Bless me, look at that!"

This sudden exclamation sent all eyes to the shore. A large heron,

startled by the rattling of the oars, had risen, with a sharp and loud

croak of alarm, from among the sea-weed, his legs hanging down, his long

neck, and wings, and body apparently a grey-white against the shadow of

the basaltic rocks. Then, lazily flapping, he rose higher and higher; he

tucked up his legs; the great wings went somewhat more swiftly; and

then, getting above the low cliffs, and appearing quite black against

the silver-clear sky, he slowly sailed away.

The silence of this dream-like picture around us was soon broken. As

the men pulled away from the yacht, the lonely shores seemed to waken up

into life; and there were whistlings, and callings, and warnings all

along the cliffs; while the startled sea-birds whirred by in flashes of

colour, or slowly and heavily betook themselves to some further

promontory. And now, as we passed along the narrow Sound, and saw

through the translucent water the wonder-land of seaweed below--with the

patches of clear yellow sand intervening--we appreciated more and more

highly the skill of John of Skye in getting us into such a harbour on

the previous night. It is not every one who, in pitch darkness and in

the midst of squalls, can run a yacht into the neck of a bottle.

We emerged from the narrow channel, and got out into the open; but even

the broad waters of Loch-na-Keal were pale and still: the reflection of

Eorsa was scarcely marred by a ripple. The long, measured throb of the

rowing was the only sound of life in this world of still water and

overhanging cloud. There was no stroke-oar now to give the chorus

_A long strong pull together,_

_Ho, ro, clansman._

But still we made good way. As we got further out, we came in sight of

Little Colonsay; and further off still, Staffa, lying like a dark cloud

on the grey sea. Inch Kenneth, for which we were making, seemed almost

black; although, among the mists that lay along the Gribun and Bourg

cliffs, there was a dull silver-yellow light, as though some sunlight

had got mixed up with the clouds.

"No, no," the Laird was saying, as he studied a scrap of paper, "it is

not a great property to admeenister; but I am strong in favour of local

management. After reading that book on London, and its catalogue of the

enormous properties there, our little bit Burgh appears to be only a

toy; but the principle of sound and energetic self-government is the

same. And yet it is no so small, mind ye. The Burgh buildings are

estimated at nineteen thousand pounds odd; the furniture at twelve

hunderd pounds; lamps near on two thousand five hunderd; sewers nine

thousand pounds odd; and then debts not far from three thousand

pounds--that makes our assets just about thirty-five thousand. And if

the water-pipes in some places are rather too small for the steam

fire-engine, we maun have them bigger. It was quite rideeculous that a

thriving place like Strathgovan, when there was a big fire, should have

to run to Glesca for help. No, no; I believe in independence; and if ye

should ever live in our neighbourhood, Howard, I hope ye will stand out

against the policy of annexation. It is only a lot o' Radical bodies

that are for upsetting institutions that have been tried by time and not

found wanting."

"Oh, certainly, sir," Howard Smith said blithely. "When you educate

people to take an interest in small parochial matters, they are better

fitted to give an opinion about the general affairs of the country."

"Small?" said the Laird, eyeing him severely. "They are of as much

importance as human life; is there anything of greater importance in the

world? By abolishin' the Coulterburn nuisance, and insisting on greater

cleanliness and ventilation, we have reduced the number of deaths from

infectious diseases in a most extraordinar' manner; and there will be no

more fear of accidents in the Mitherdrum Road, for we are going to have

a conteenuous line of lamps that'll go right in to the Glesca lamps. I

do not call these small matters. As for the asphalting of the pavement

in front of John Anderson's line of houses," continued the Laird, as he

consulted the memorandum in his hand, "that is a small matter, if ye

like. I am not disposed to pronounce an opinion on that matter: they

can settle it without my voice. But it will make a great difference to

John Anderson; and I would like to see him come forward with a bigger

subscription for the new Park. Well, well; we must fight through as

best we can."

It was here suggested to the Laird that he should not let these weighty

matters trouble him while he is away on a holiday.

"Trouble me?" said he, lightly. "Not a bit, man! People who have to

meddle in public affairs must learn how to throw off their cares. I am

not troubled. I am going to give the men a dram; for better pulling I

never saw in a boat!"

He was as good as his word, too. He had the luncheon-basket handed down

from the bow; he got out the whisky bottle; there was a glass filled out

for each of the men, which was drunk in solemn silence.

"Now, boys," said he, as they took to their oars again, "haven't ye got

a song or a chorus to make the rowing easy?"

But they were too shy for a bit. Presently, however, we heard at the

bow a low, plaintive, querulous voice; and the very oars seemed to

recognise the air as they gripped the water. Then there was a hum of a

chorus--not very musical--and it was in the Gaelic--but we knew what the

refrain meant.

_O boatman, a farewell to you,_

_O boatman, a farewell to you,_

_Wherever you may be going._

That is something like the English of it: we had heard the _Fhir a

Bhata_ in other days.

The long, heavy pull is nearly over. Here are the low-lying reefs of

rock outside Inch Kenneth; not a whisper is permissible as we creep into

the nearest bay. And then the men and the boat are left there; and the

Youth--perhaps dimly conscious that his uncle means the seal-skin for

Mary Avon--grasps his rifle and steals away over the undulating shelves

of rock; while his two companions, with more leisure but with not less

circumspection, follow to observe his operations. Fortunately there is

no screaming sea-pyot or whistling curlew to give warning; stealthily,

almost bent in two, occasionally crawling on all fours, he makes his way

along the crannies in the reef, until, as we see, he must be nearly

approaching the channel on his left. There he pauses to take breath.

He creeps behind a rock; and cautiously looks over. He continues his

progress.

"This is terrible woark," says the Laird, in a stage-whisper, as he,

too--with a much heavier bulk to carry--worms along. From time to time

he has to stay to apply his handkerchief to his forehead; it is hot work

on this still, breathless day.

And at last we, too, get down to the edge of a channel--some hundred

yards lower than Howard Smith's post--and from behind a rock we have a

pretty clear view of the scene of operations. Apparently there is no

sign of any living thing--except that a big fish leaps into the air,

some dozen yards off. Thereafter a dead silence.

After waiting about a quarter of an hour or so, the Laird seemed to

become violently excited, though he would neither budge nor speak. And

there, between two islands right opposite young Smith, appeared two

shining black heads on the still water; and they were evidently coming

down this very channel. On they came--turning about one way and

another, as if to look that the coast was clear. Every moment we

expected to hear the crack of the rifle. Then the heads silently

disappeared.

The Laird was beside himself with disappointment.

"Why did he no shoot? Why did he no shoot?" he said, in an excited

whisper.

He had scarcely spoken when he was startled by an apparition. Right

opposite to him--not more than twenty yards off--a black thing appeared

on the water--with a glistening smooth head, and large, soft eyes. Then

another. We dared not move. We waited for the whistle of the

rifle-bullet. The next instant the first seal caught sight of the

Laird; raised its head for an instant at least six inches higher; then

silently plunged along with its companion. They were gone, at all

events.

The Youth came marching along the rocks, his rifle over his shoulder.

"Why didn't you fire?" his uncle said, almost angrily.

"I thought they were coming nearer," said he. "I was just about to fire

when they dived. Mind, it isn't very easy to get on to a thing that is

bobbing about like that, with a rifle. I propose we have luncheon, now,

until the tide ebbs a bit; then there may be a chance of catching one

lying on the rocks. That is the proper time for getting a shot at a

seal."

We had luncheon: there was no difficulty about securing that. But as

for getting at the seals--whether we crawled over the rocks, or lay in

hiding, or allowed the boat to drift towards some island, on the chance

of one of them rising in our neighbourhood--it was no use at all. There

were plenty of seals about: a snap shot now and again served to break

the monotony of the day; but that present tor Mary Avon seemed as remote

as ever. And when one is determined on shooting a seal, one is not

likely to waste one's attention, and cartridges, on such inferior

animals as skarts.

The silver-grey day became more golden; there was a touch of warm purple

about the shadows of Staffa.

"Come," said the Laird at last. "We must go back. It is no use. I

have often heard people say that if you miss the first chance at a seal

it never gives ye another."

"Better luck next time, uncle," said the Youth; but his uncle refused to

be comforted. And the first thing he said to Mary Avon when he got back

to the yacht was--

"We have not got it."

"Got what?" said she.

"The seal-skin I wanted to have dressed for ye. No, nor the skarts I

wanted to have made into a muff or a bag for ye."

"Oh," said she, promptly, "I am very glad. I hope you won't shoot any of

those poor things on my account; I should be very sorry indeed."

The Laird took this as one of the familiar protestations on the part of

women, who wouldn't for the world have poor things shot, but who don't

object to wearing any amount of furs and feathers, to say nothing of

having innocent sheep sheared and harmless silkworms robbed in order to

deck themselves out. She should have that dressed seal-skin, and that

muff of skarts' breasts, all the same.