Nothing of stupendous importance happened that evening except

that--after we had caught three dozen of good-sized lithe and returned

to the yacht with this welcome addition to our stores--there was a

general discussion of our plans for the next few days. And our gentle

hostess was obviously looking forward to Angus Sutherland's coming back

to us with great pleasure; and we were to make our return to suit his

convenience; and she would write to him whenever we got near a

post-office again.

Mary Avon had sate silent during all this. At last, she

said--apparently with some effort and yet very deliberately--

"I--I think you are a little cruel to Dr. Sutherland. You are forcing

him to come with you against his better judgment--for you know, with his

prospects, and the calls on his time, he cannot afford such long

idleness. Do you think it is quite fair?"

The woman stared at this girl, who spoke with some earnestness, though

her eyes were downcast.

"He would do anything to please you," Mary Avon continued, as if she

were determined to get through with some speech that she had prepared,

"and he is very fond of sailing: but do you think you should allow him

to injure his prospects in this way? Wouldn't it be a greater kindness

to write and say that, if he really feels he ought to return to London,

you would not hold him to his promise? I am sure he would not be

offended: he would understand you at once. And I am sure he would do

what is clearly right: he would go straight back to London, and resume

his work--for his own sake and for the sake of those who count on a

great future for him. I, for one, should be very sorry to see him come

back to idle away his time in sailing."

And still Queen Tita stared at the girl, though their eyes did not meet.

And she could scarcely believe that it was Mary Avon who had counselled

this cold dismissal.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*"UNCERTAIN, COY, AND HARD TO PLEASE."*

There are two people walking up and down the deck this beautiful

morning: the lazy ones are still below, dawdling over breakfast. And

now young Smith, though he is not much more than an acquaintance, talks

quite confidentially to his hostess. She has his secret; he looks to

her for aid. And when they do have a quiet moment like this together

there is usually but one person of whom they speak.

"I must say she has an extraordinary spirit," he observes, with some

decision. "Why, I believe she is rather pleased than otherwise to have

lost that money. She is not a bit afraid of going up to London to

support herself by her work. It seems to amuse her on the whole!"

"Mary has plenty of courage," says the other quietly.

"I don't wonder at my uncle being so fond of her: he likes her

independent ways and her good humour. I shouldn't be surprised if he

were to adopt her as his daughter, and cut me out. There would be some

sense in that."

"I am glad you take it so coolly," says our governor-general, in a

matter-of-fact way that rather startles him. "More unlikely things have

happened."

But he recovers himself directly.

"No, no," says he, laughing. "There is one objection. She could not

sit on any of the parochial Boards of Strathgovan. Now I know my uncle

looks forward to putting me on the Police Committee and the Lighting

Committee, and no end of other Committees. By the way, she might go on

the School Board. Do they have women on the School Boards in Scotland?"

On this point his hostess was no better informed than himself.

"Well," said he, after a bit, "I wouldn't call her pretty, you know; but

she has a singularly interesting face."

"Oh, do you think so?" says the other, quite innocently.

"I do, indeed," answers the ingenuous Youth. "And the more you see of

her the more interesting it becomes. You seem to get so well acquainted

with her somehow; and--and you have a sort of feeling that her presence

is sort of necessary."

This was somewhat vague; but he made another wild effort to express

himself.

"What I mean is--that--that suppose she were to leave the yacht,

wouldn't the saloon look quite different? And wouldn't the sailing be

quite different? You would know there was something wanting."

"I should, indeed," is the emphatic reply.

"I never knew any one," says the Youth, warming to his work of thorough

explanation, "about whose presence you seem so conscious--even when she

isn't here--I don't mean that exactly--I mean that at this moment now,

you know she is on board the yacht--and it would be quite different if

she were not. I suppose most people wouldn't call her pretty. There is

nothing of the Book of Beauty about her. But I call it a most

interesting face. And she has fine eyes. Anybody must admit that.

They have a beautiful, soft expression; and they can laugh even when she

is quite silent----"

"My dear Mr. Smith," says his hostess, suddenly stopping short, and with

a kind of serious smile on her face, "let me talk frankly to you. You

acted very sensibly, I think, in coming with us to humour your uncle.

He will come to see that this scheme of his is impracticable; and in the

meantime, if you don't mind the discomfort of it, you have a holiday.

That is all quite well. But pray don't think it necessary that you

should argue yourself into falling in love with Mary. I am not in her

confidence on such a delicate matter; but one has eyes; and I think I

might almost safely say to you that, even if you persuaded yourself that

Mary would make an excellent wife--and be presentable to your friends--I

say even if you succeeded in persuading yourself, I am afraid you would

only have thrown that labour away. Please don't try to convince

yourself that you ought to fall in love with her."

This was plain speaking. But then our admiral-in-chief was very quickly

sensitive where Mary Avon was concerned; and perhaps she did not quite

like her friend being spoken of as though she were a pill that had to be

swallowed. Of course the Youth instantly disclaimed any intention of

that kind. He had a very sincere regard for the girl, so far as he had

seen her; he was not persuading himself; he was only saying how much she

improved when you got better acquainted with her.

"And if," said he, with just a touch of dignity, "if Miss Avon

is--is--engaged----"

"Oh, I did not say that," his hostess quickly interposed. "Oh,

certainly not. It was only a guess on my part----"

"----or likely to be engaged," he continued, with something of the same

reserve, "I am sure I am very glad for her sake; and whoever marries her

ought to have a cheerful home and a pleasant companion."

This was a generous sentiment; but there was not much of a

"wish-you-may-be-happy" air about the young man. Moreover, where was

the relief he ought to have experienced on hearing that there was an

obstacle--or likelihood of an obstacle--to the execution of his uncle's

scheme which would absolve him from responsibility altogether?

However, the subject could not be continued just then; for at this

moment a tightly-brushed small head, and a narrow-brimmed felt hat, and

a shapely neck surrounded by an upstanding collar and bit of ribbon of

navy-blue, appeared at the top of the companion, and Mary Avon, looking

up with her black eyes full of a cheerful friendliness, said--

"Weil, John, are you ready to start yet?"

And the great, brown-bearded John of Skye, looking down at this small

Jack-in-the-box with a smile of welcome on his face, said--

"Oh, yes, mem, when the breakfast is over."

"Do you think it is blowing outside, then?"

"Oh, no, mem, but there is a good breeze; and maybe there will be a bit

of a rowl from the Atlantic. Will Mr. ---- himself be for going now?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," she says, with a fine assumption of authority.

"We are quite ready when you are ready, John; Fred will have the things

off the table in a couple of minutes."

"Very well, mem," says the obedient John of Skye, going forward to get

the men up to the windlass.

Our young Doctor should have been there to see us getting under way.

The Sound of Ulva is an excellent harbour and anchorage when you are

once in it; but getting out of it, unless with both wind and tide in

your favour, is very like trying to manoeuvre a man-of-war in a tea-cup.

But we had long ago come to the conclusion that John of Skye could sail

the _White Dove_ through a gas-pipe, with half a gale of wind dead in

his teeth; and the manner in which he got us out of this narrow and

tortuous channel fully justified our confidence.

"Very prettily done, Captain John!" said the Laird--who was beginning to

give himself airs on nautical matters--when we had got out into the

open.

And here, as we soon discovered, was the brisk fresh breeze that John of

Skye had predicted; and the running swell, too, that came sweeping in to

the mouth of Loch-na-Keal. Black indeed looked that far-reaching loch on

this breezy, changeful morning--as dark as it was when the chief of

Ulva's Isle came down to the shore with his runaway bride; and all along

Ben-More and over the Gribun cliffs hung heavy masses of cloud, dark and

threatening as if with thunder. But far away in the south there was a

more cheerful outlook; the windy sea shimmering in light; some gleams of

blue in the sky; we knew that the sunshine must be shining on the green

clover and the beautiful sands of Iona. The _White Dove_ seemed to

understand what was required of her. Her head was set for the gleaming

south; her white wings outspread; as she sprang to meet those rushing

seas we knew we were escaping from the thunder-darkness that lay over

Loch-na-Keal.

And Ulva: had we known that we were now leaving Ulva behind us for the

last time, should we not have taken another look back, even though it

now lay under a strange and mysterious gloom? Perhaps not. We had

grown to love the island in other days. And when one shuts one's eyes

in winter, it is not to see an Ulva of desolate rocks and leaden waves;

it is a fair and shining Ulva, with blue seas breaking whitely along its

shores; and magical still channels, with mermaid's halls of seaweed; and

an abundant, interesting life--all manner of sea-birds, black rabbits

running among the rocks, seals swimming in the silent bays. Then the

patch of civilisation under shelter of the hills; the yellow

corn-fields; the dots of human creatures and the red and tawny-grey

cattle visible afar in the meadow; the solitary house; the soft foliage

of trees and bushes; the wild-flowers along the cliffs. That is the

green-shored island: that is the _Ool-a-va_ of the sailors; we know it

only in sunlight and among blue summer seas: it shines for us for ever!

The people who go yachting are a fickle folk. The scene changes--and

their interests change--every few minutes. Now it is the swooping down

of a solan; again it is the appearance of another island far away;

presently it is a shout of laughter forward, as some unlucky wight gets

drowned in a shower of sea-spray: anything catches their attention for

the moment. And so the _White Dove_ swings along; and the sea gets

heavier and heavier; and we watch the breakers springing high over the

black rocks of Colonsay. It is the Laird who is now instructing our new

guest; pointing out to him, as they come in view, Staffa, the Dutchman,

Fladda, and Lunga, and Cairnaburg. Tiree is invisible at the horizon:

there is too wild a whirl of wind and water.

The gloom behind us increases; we know not what is about to happen to

our beloved but now distant Ulva--what sudden rumble of thunder is about

to startle the silence of the dark Loch-na-Keal. But ahead of us the

south is still shining clear: blow, winds, that we may gain the quiet

shelter of Polterriv before the evening falls! And is it not full moon

to-night?--to-night our new guest may see the yellow moon shining on the

still waters of Iona Sound.

But the humiliating truth must be told. The heavy sea has been trying

to one unaccustomed to life on board. Howard Smith, though answering

questions well enough, and even joining voluntarily in conversation

occasionally, wears a preoccupied air. He does not take much interest

in the caves of Bourg. The bright look has gone from his face.

His gentle hostess--who has herself had moments of gloom on the bosom of

the deep--recognises these signs instantly; and insists on immediate

luncheon. There is a double reason for this haste. We can now run

under the lee of the Erisgeir rocks, where there will be less danger to

Master Fred's plates and tumblers. So we are all bundled down into the

saloon; the swell sensibly subsides as we get to leeward of Erisgeir;

there is a scramble of helping and handing; and another explosion in the

galley tells us that Master Fred has not yet mastered the art of

releasing effervescing fluids. Half a tumblerful of that liquid puts

new life into our solemn friend. The colour returns to his face, and

brightness to his eyes. He admits that he was beginning to long for a

few minutes on firm land--but now--but now--he is even willing to join

us in an excursion that has been talked of to the far Dubhartach

lighthouse.

"But we must really wait for Angus," our hostess says, "before going out

there. He was always so anxious to go to Dubhartach."

"But surely you won't ask him to come away from his duties again?" Mary

Avon puts in hastily. "You know he ought to go back to London at once."

"I know I have written him a letter," says the other demurely. "You can

read it if you like, Mary. It is in pencil, for I was afraid of the

ink-bottle going waltzing over the table."

Miss Avon would not read the letter. She said we must be past Erisgeir

by this time; and proposed we should go on deck. This we did; and the

Youth was now so comfortable and assured in his mind that, by lying full

length on the deck, close to the weather bulwarks, he managed to light a

cigar. He smoked there in much content, almost safe from the spray.

Mary Avon was seated at the top of the companion, reading. Her hostess

came and squeezed herself in beside her, and put her arm round her.

"Mary," said she, "why don't you want Angus Sutherland to come back to

the yacht?"

"I!" said she, in great surprise--though she did not meet the look of

the elder woman--"I--I--don't you see yourself that he ought to go back

to London? How can he look after that magazine while he is away in the

Highlands? And--and--he has so much to look forward to--so much to

do--that you should not encourage him in making light of his work."

"Making light of his work!" said the other. "I am almost sure that you

yourself told him that he deserved and required a long--a very

long--holiday."

"You did, certainly."

"And didn't you?"

The young lady looked rather embarrassed.

"When you saw him," said she, with flushed cheeks, "so greatly enjoying

the sailing--absorbed in it--and--and gaining health and strength,

too--well, of course you naturally wished that he should come back and

go away with you again. But it is different on reflection. You should

not ask him."

"Why, what evil is likely to happen to him through taking another six

weeks' holiday? Is he likely to fall out of the race of life because of

a sail in the _White Dove_? And doesn't he know his own business? He is

not a child."

"He would do a great deal to please you."

"I want him to please himself," said the other; and she added, with a

deadly frown gathering on her forehead, "and I won't have you, Miss

Dignity, interfering with the pleasures of my guests. And there is to

be no snubbing, and no grim looks, and no hints about work, and London,

and other nonsense, when Angus Sutherland comes back to us. You shall

stand by the gangway--do you hear?--and receive him with a smiling face;

and if you are not particularly kind, and civil, and attentive to him,

I'll have you lashed to the yard-arm and painted blue--keel-haul me if I

don't."

Fairer and fairer grew the scene around us as the brave _White Dove_

went breasting the heavy Atlantic rollers. Blue and white overhead; the

hot sunlight doing its best to dry the dripping decks; Iona shining

there over the smoother waters of the Sound; the sea breaking white, and

spouting up in columns, as it dashed against the pale red promontories

of the Ross of Mull. But then this stiff breeze had backed to the west;

and there was many a long tack to be got over before we left behind the

Atlantic swell and ran clear into the Sound. The evening was drawing on

apace as we slowly and cautiously steered into the little creek of

Polterriv. No sooner had the anchor rattled out than we heard the clear

tinkling of Master Fred's bell; how on earth had he managed to cook

dinner amid all that diving and rolling and pitching?

And then, as we had hoped, it was a beautiful evening; and the long gig

was got out, and shawls for the women-folk flung into the stern. The

fishing did not claim our attention. Familiar as some of us were with

the wonderful twilights of the north, which of us had ever seen anything

more solemn, and still, and lovely than these colours of sea and shore?

Half-past nine at night on the 8th of August; and still the west and

north were flushed with a pale rose-red, behind the dark, rich,

olive-green of the shadowed Iona. But what was that to the magic world

that lay before us as we returned to the yacht? Now the moon had

arisen, and it seemed to be of a clear, lambent gold; and the cloudless

heavens and the still sea were of a violet hue--not imaginatively, or

relatively, but positively and literally violet. Then between the

violet-coloured sky and the violet-coloured sea, a long line of rock,

jet black as it appeared to us. That was all the picture: the yellow

moon, the violet sky, the violet sea, the line of black rock. No doubt

it was the intensity of the shadows along this line of rock that gave

that extraordinary luminousness to the still heavens and the still sea.

When we got back to the yacht a telegram awaited us. It had been sent

to Bunessan, the nearest telegraph-station; but some kind friends there,

recognising the _White Dove_ as she came along by Erisgeir, and shrewdly

concluding that we must pass the night at Polterriv, had been so kind as

to forward it on to Fion-phort by a messenger.

"I thought so!" says Queen T. with a fine delight in her face as she

reads the telegram. "It is from Angus. He is coming on Thursday. We

must go back to meet him at Ballahulish or Corpach."

Then the discourtesy of this remark struck her.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Smith," said she, instantly. "Of course, I mean

if it is quite agreeable to you. He does not expect us, you see; he

would come on here----"

"I assure you I would as soon go to Ballahulish as anywhere else," says

the Youth promptly. "It is quite the same to me--it is all new, you

see, and all equally charming."

Mary Avon alone expressed no delight at this prospect of our going to

Ballahulish to meet Angus Sutherland; she sate silent; her eyes were

thoughtful and distant; it was not of anything around her that she was

thinking.

The moon had got whiter now; the sea and the sky blue-black in place of

that soft warm violet colour. We sate on deck till a late hour; the

world was asleep around us; not a sound disturbed the absolute stillness

of land and sea.

And where was the voice of our singing bird? Had the loss of a mere sum

of money made her forget all about Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton, "and

Mary Carmichael and me?" Or was the midnight silence too much for her;

and the thought of the dusky cathedral over there; with the gravestones

pale in the moonlight; and all around a whispering of the lonely sea?

She had nothing to fear. She might have crossed over to Iona and might

have walked all by herself through the ruins, and in calmness regarded

the sculptured stones. The dead sleep sound.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*SECRET SCHEMES.*

The delight with which John of Skye heard that his friend Dr. Sutherland

was coming back to the yacht, and that we were now setting out for

Ballahulish or Corpach to meet him, found instant and practical

expression on this fine, breezy, sunlit morning.

"Hector," says he, "we will put the gaff topsail on her!"

What did he care though this squally breeze came blowing down the Sound

in awkward gusts?

"It is a fine wind, mem," says he to the Admiral, as we slowly leave the

green waters and the pink rocks of Polterriv, and get into the open and

breezy channel. "Oh, we will mek a good run the day. And I beg your

pardon, mem, but it is a great pleasure to me that Mr. Sutherland

himself is coming back to the yat."

"He understands your clever sailing, John: is that it?"

"He knows more about a yat as any chentleman I will ever see, mem. And

we will try to get a good breeze for him this time, mem--and not to have

the calm weather."

This is not likely to be a day of calm weather, at all events. Tide and

wind together take us away swiftly from the little harbour behind the

granite rocks. And is Iona over there all asleep; or are there some

friends in the small village watching the _White Dove_ bearing away to

the south? We wave our handkerchiefs on chance. We take a last look at

the gabled ruins over the sea; at the green corn-fields; and the

scattered houses; and the beaches of silver sand. Good-bye--good-bye!

It is a last look for this summer at least; perhaps it is a last look

for ever. But Iona too--as well as Ulva--remains in the memory a vision

of sunlight, and smooth seas, and summer days.

Harder and harder blows this fresh breeze from the north; and we are

racing down the Sound with the driven waves. But for the rope round the

tiller, Miss Avon, who is steering, would find it difficult to keep her

feet; and her hair is blown all about her face. The salt water comes

swishing down the scuppers; the churned foam goes hissing and boiling

away from the sides of the vessel; the broad Atlantic widens out. And

that small grey thing at the horizon? Can that speck be a mass of

masonry a hundred and fifty feet in height, wedged into the lonely rock?

"No, no," says our gentle Queen Titania with an involuntary shudder,

"not for worlds would I climb up that iron ladder, with the sea and the

rocks right below me. I should never get half-way up."

"They will put a rope round your waist, if you like," it is pointed out

to her.

"When we go out, then," says this coward. "I will see how Mary gets on.

If she does not die of fright, I may venture."

"Oh, but I don't think I shall be with you," remarks the young lady

quite simply.

At this there is a general stare.

"I don't know what you mean," says her hostess, with an ominous

curtness.

"Why, you know," says the girl, cheerfully--and disengaging one hand to

get her hair out of her eyes--"I can't afford to go idling much longer.

I must get back to London."

"Don't talk nonsense," says the other woman, angrily. "You may try to

stop other people's holidays, if you like; but I am going to look after

yours. Holidays! How are you to work, if you don't work now? Will you

find many landscapes in Regent Street?"

"I have a great many sketches," says Mary Avon, "and I must try to make

something out of them, where there is less distraction of amusement.

And really, you know, you have so many friends--would you like me to

become a fixture--like the mainmast--"

"I would like you to talk a little common sense," is the sharp reply.

"You are not going back to London till the _White Dove_ is laid up for

the winter--that is what I know."

"I am afraid I must ask you to let me off," she says, quite simply and

seriously. "Suppose I go up to London next week? Then, if I get on

pretty well, I may come back----"

"You may come back!" says the other with a fine contempt. "Don't try to

impose on me. I am an older woman than you. And I have enough

provocations and worries from other quarters: I don't want you to begin

and bother."

"Is your life so full of trouble?" says the girl, innocently. "What are

these fearful provocations?"

"Never mind. You will find out in time. But when you get married, Mary,

don't forget to buy a copy of Doddridge on Patience. That should be

included in every bridal trousseau."

"Poor thing--is it so awfully ill-used?" replies the steersman, with

much compassion.

Here John of Skye comes forward.

"If ye please, mem, I will tek the tiller until we get round the Ross.

The rocks are very bad here."

"All right, John," says the young lady; and then, with much cautious

clinging to various objects, she goes below, saying that she means to do

a little more to a certain slight water-colour sketch of Polterriv. We

know why she wants to put some further work on that hasty production.

Yesterday the Laird expressed high approval of the sketch. She means

him to take it with him to Denny-mains, when she leaves for London.

But this heavy sea: how is the artist getting on with her work amid such

pitching and diving? Now that we are round the Ross, the _White Dove_

has shifted her course; the wind is more on her beam; the mainsheet has

been hauled in; and the noble ship goes ploughing along in splendid

style; but how about water-colour drawing?

Suddenly, as the yacht gives a heavy lurch to leeward, an awful sound is

heard below. Queen T. clambers down the companion, and holds on by the

door of the saloon; the others following and looking over her shoulders.

There a fearful scene appears. At the head of the table, in the regal

recess usually occupied by the carver and chief president of our

banquets, sits Mary Avon, in mute and blank despair. Everything has

disappeared from before her. A tumbler rolls backwards and forwards on

the floor, empty. A dishevelled bundle of paper, hanging on to the edge

of a carpet-stool, represents what was once an orderly sketch-book.

Tubes, pencils, saucers, sponges--all have gone with the table-cloth.

And the artist sits quite hopeless and silent, staring before her like a

maniac in a cell.

"Whatever have you been and done?" calls her hostess.

There is no answer: only that tragic despair.

"It was all bad steering," remarks the Youth. "I knew it would happen

as soon as Miss Avon left the helm."

But the Laird, not confining his sympathy to words, presses by his

hostess; and, holding hard by the bare table, staggers along to the

scene of the wreck. The others timidly follow. One by one the various

objects are rescued, and placed for safety on the couch on the leeward

side of the saloon. Then the automaton in the presidential chair begins

to move. She recovers her powers of speech. She says--awaking from her

dream--

"Is my head on?"

"And if it is, it is not of much use to you," says her hostess, angrily.

"Whatever made you have those things out in a sea like this? Come up on

deck at once; and let Fred get luncheon ready."

The maniac only laughs.

"Luncheon!" she says. "Luncheon in the middle of earthquakes!"

But this sneer at the _White Dove_, because she has no swinging table,

is ungenerous. Besides, is not our Friedrich d'or able to battle any

pitching with his ingeniously bolstered couch--so that bottles, glasses,

plates, and what not, are as safe as they would be in a case in the

British Museum? A luncheon party on board the _White Dove_, when there

is a heavy Atlantic swell running, is not an imposing ceremony. It

would not look well as a coloured lithograph in the illustrated papers.

The figures crouching on the low stools to leeward; the narrow cushion

bolstered up so that the most enterprising of dishes cannot slide; the

table-cover plaited so as to afford receptacles for knives and spoons;

bottles and tumblers plunged into hollows and propped; Master Fred,

balancing himself behind these stooping figures, bottle in hand, and

ready to replenish any cautiously proffered wine-glass. But it serves.

And Dr. Sutherland has assured us that, the heavier the sea, the more

necessary is luncheon for the weaker vessels, who may be timid about the

effect of so much rolling and pitching. When we get on deck again, who

is afraid? It is all a question as to what signal may be visible to the

white house of Carsaig--shining afar there in the sunlight, among the

hanging woods, and under the soft purple of the hills.

Behold!--behold!--the red flag run up to the top of the white pole! Is

it a message to us, or only a summons to the _Pioneer_? For now,

through the whirl of wind and spray, we can make out the steamer that

daily encircles Mull, bringing with it white loaves, and newspapers, and

other luxuries of the mainland.

She comes nearer and nearer; the throbbing of the paddles is heard among

the rush of the waves; the people crowd to the side of the boat to have

a look at the passing yacht; and one well-known figure, standing on the

hurricane deck, raises his gilt-braided cap,--for we happen to have on

board a gentle small creature who is a great friend of his. And she

waves her white handkerchief, of course; and you should see what a

fluttering of similar tokens there is all along the steamer's decks, and

on the paddle boxes. Farewell!--farewell!--may you have a smooth

landing at Staffa, and a pleasant sail down the Sound, in the quiet of

the afternoon! The day wears on, with puffs and squalls coming tearing

over from the high cliffs of southern Mull; and still the gallant _White

Dove_ meets and breasts those rolling waves, and sends the spray flying

from her bows. We have passed Loch Buy; Garveloch and the Island of

Saints are drawing nearer; soon we shall have to bend our course

northward, when we have got by Eilean-straid-ean. And whether it is

that Mary Avon is secretly comforting herself with the notion that she

will soon see her friends in London again, or whether it is that she is

proud of being again promoted to the tiller, she has quite recovered her

spirits. We hear our singing-bird once more--though it is difficult,

amid the rush and swirl of the waters, to do more than catch chance

phrases and refrains. And then she is being very merry with the Laird,

who is humorously decrying England and the English, and proving to her

that it is the Scotch migration to the south that is the very saving of

her native country.

"The Lord Chief Justice of England, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the

President of the Royal Academy--the heads and leading men

everywhere--all Scotch--all Scotch," says he.

"But the weak point about the Scotch, sir," says this philosopher in the

ulster, who is clinging on to the tiller rope, "is their modesty. They

are so distrustful of their own merits. And they are always running down

their own country."

"Ha, ha!--ho! ho! ho!" roars the Laird. "Verra good! verra good! I owe

ye one for that. I owe ye one. Howard, have ye nothing to say in

defence of your native country?"

"You are speaking of Scotland, sir?"

"Ay."

"That is not my native country, you know."

"It was your mother's, then."

Somehow, when by some accident--and it but rarely happened--the Laird

mentioned Howard Smith's mother, a brief silence fell on him. It lasted

but a second or two. Presently he was saying, with much cheerfulness--

"No, no, I am not one of those that would promote any rivalry between

Scotland and England. We are one country now. If the Scotch preserve

the best leeterary English--the most pithy and characteristic forms of

the language--the English that is talked in the south is the most

generally received throughout the world. I have even gone the

length--I'm no ashamed to admit it--of hinting to Tom Galbraith that he

should exheebit more in London: the influence of such work as his should

not be confined to Edinburgh. And jealous as they may be in the south

of the Scotch school, they could not refuse to recognise its

excellence--eh? No, no; when Galbraith likes to exheebit in London,

ye'll hear a stir, I'm thinking. The jealousy of English artists will

have no effect on public opeenion. They may keep him out o' the

Academy--there's many a good artist has never been within the walls--but

the public is the judge. I am told that when his picture of _Stonebyres

Falls_ was exheebited in Edinburgh, a dealer came all the way from

London to look at it."

"Did he buy it?" asked Miss Avon, gently.

"Buy it!" the Laird said, with a contemptuous laugh. "There are some of

us about Glasgow who know better than to let a picture like that get to

London. I bought it myself. Ye'll see it when ye come to Denny-mains.

Ye have heard of it, no doubt?"

"N--no, I think not," she timidly answers.

"No matter--no matter. Ye'll see it when ye come to Denny-mains."

He seemed to take it for granted that she was going to pay a visit to

Denny-mains: had he not heard, then, of her intention of at once

returning to London?

Once well round into the Frith of Lorn, the wind that had borne us down

the Sound of Iona was now right ahead; and our progress was but slow.

As the evening wore on, it was proposed that we should run into Loch

Speliv for the night. There was no dissentient voice.

The sudden change from the plunging seas without to the quiet waters of

the solitary little loch was strange enough. And then, as we slowly

beat up against the northerly wind to the head of the loch--a beautiful,

quiet, sheltered little cup of a harbour among the hills--we found

before us, or rather over us, the splendours of a stormy sunset among

the mountains above Glen More. It was a striking spectacle--the vast

and silent gloom of the valleys below, which were of a cold and intense

green in the shadow; then above, among the great shoulders and peaks of

the hills, flashing gleams of golden light, and long swathes of purple

cloud touched with scarlet along their edges, and mists of rain that

came along with the wind, blotting out here and there those splendid

colours. There was an absolute silence in this overshadowed bay--but

for the cry of the startled wild-fowl. There was no sign of any

habitation, except perhaps a trace of pale blue smoke rising from behind

a mass of trees. Away went the anchor with a short, sharp rattle; we

were safe for the night.

We knew, however, what that trace of smoke indicated behind the dark

trees. By and by, as soon as the gig had got to the land, there was a

procession along the solitary shore--in the wan twilight--and up the

rough path--and through the scattered patches of birch and fir. And were

you startled, Madam, by the apparition of people who were so

inconsiderate as to knock at your door in the middle of dinner, and

whose eyes, grown accustomed to the shadows of the valleys of Mull, must

have looked bewildered enough on meeting the glare of the lamps? And

what did you think of a particular pair of eyes--very soft and gentle in

their dark lustre--appealing, timid, friendly eyes, that had

nevertheless a quiet happiness and humour in them? It was at all events

most kind of you to tell the young lady that her notion of throwing up

her holiday and setting out for London was mere midsummer madness. How

could you--or any one else--guess at the origin of so strange a wish?

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*BEFORE BREAKFAST.*

Who is this who slips through the saloon, while as yet all on board are

asleep--who noiselessly ascends the companion-way, and then finds

herself alone on deck? And all the world around her is asleep too,

though the gold and rose of the new day is shining along the eastern

heavens. There is not a sound in this silent little loch: the shores

and the woods are as still as the far peaks of the mountains, where the

mists are touched here and there with a dusky fire.

She is not afraid to be alone in this silent world. There is a bright

and contented look on her face. Carefully and quietly, so as not to

disturb the people below, she gets a couple of deck stools, and puts

down the large sketch-book from under her arm, and opens out a certain

leather case. But do not think she is going to attack that blaze of

colour in the east, with the reflected glare on the water, and the bar

of dark land between. She knows better. She has a wholesome fear of

chromo-lithographs. She turns rather to those great mountain masses,

with their mysteriously moving clouds, and their shoulders touched here

and there with a sombre red, and their deep and silent glens a cold,

intense green in shadow. There is more workable material.

And after all there is no ambitious effort to trouble her. It is only a

rough jotting of form and colour, for future use. It is a pleasant

occupation for this still, cool, beautiful morning; and perhaps she is

fairly well satisfied with it, for one listening intently might catch

snatches of songs and airs--of a somewhat incoherent and inappropriate

character. For what have the praises of Bonny Black Bess to do with

sunrise in Loch Speliv? Or the saucy Arethusa either? But all the same

the work goes quietly and dexterously on--no wild dashes and searchings

for theatrical effect, but a patient mosaic of touches precisely

reaching their end. She does not want to bewilder the world. She wants

to have trustworthy records for her own use. And she seems content with

the progress she is making.

_Here's a health to the girls that we loved long ago,_

this is the last air into which she has wandered--half humming and half

whistling--

_Where the Shannon, and Liffey, and Blackwater flow._

--when she suddenly stops her work to listen. Can any one be up already?

The noise is not repeated; and she proceeds with her work.

_Here's a health to old Ireland: may she ne'er be dismayed;_

_Then pale grew the cheeks of the Irish Brigade!_

The clouds are assuming substance now: they are no mere flat washes but

accurately drawn objects that have their fore-shortening like anything

else. And if Miss Avon may be vaguely conscious that had our young

Doctor been on board she would not have been left so long alone, that

had nothing to with her work. The mornings on which he used to join her

on deck, and chat to her while she painted, seem far away now. He and

she together would see Dunvegan no more.

But who is this who most cautiously comes up the companion, bearing in

his hand a cup and saucer?

"Miss Avon," says he, with a bright laugh, "here is the first cup of tea

I ever made; are you afraid to try it?"

"Oh, dear me," said she, penitently, "did I make any noise in getting my

things below?"

"Well," he says, "I thought I heard you; and I knew what you would be

after; and I got up and lit the spirit-lamp."

"Oh, it is so very kind of you," she says--for it is really a pretty

little attention on the part of one who is not much given to shifting

for himself on board.

Then he dives below again and fetches her up some biscuits.

"By Jove," he says, coming closer to the sketch, "that is very good.

That is awfully good. Do you mean to say you have done all that this

morning?"

"Oh, yes," she says, modestly. "It is only a sketch."

"I think it uncommonly good," he says, staring at it as if he would

pierce the paper.

Then there is a brief silence, during which Miss Avon boldly adventures

upon this amateur's tea.

"I beg your pardon," he says, after a bit, "it is none of my business,

you know--but you don't really mean that you are going back to London?"

"If I am allowed," she answers with a smile.

"I am sure you will disappoint your friends most awfully," says he, in

quite an earnest manner. "I know they had quite made up their minds you

were to stay the whole time. It would be very unfair of you. And my

uncle: he would break his heart if you were to go."

"They are all very kind to me," was her only answer.

"Look here," he says, with a most friendly anxiety. "If--if--it is only

about business--about pictures I mean--I really beg your pardon for

intermeddling----"

"Oh," said she, frankly, "there is no secret about it. In fact, I want

everybody to know that I am anxious to sell my pictures. You see, as I

have got to earn my own living, shouldn't I begin at once and find out

what it is like?"

"But look here," he said eagerly, "if it is a question of selling

pictures, you should trust to my uncle. He is among a lot of men in the

West of Scotland, rich merchants and people of that sort, who haven't

inherited collections of pictures, and whose hobby is to make a

collection for themselves. And they have much too good sense to buy

spurious old masters, or bad examples for the sake of the name: they

prefer good modern art, and I can tell you they are prepared to pay for

it too. And they are not fools, mind you; they know good pictures. You

may think my uncle is very prejudiced--he has his favourite

artists--and--and believes in Tom Galbraith, don't you know--but I can

assure you, you won't find many men who know more about a good landscape

than he does; and you would say so if you saw his dining room at

Denny-mains."

"I quite believe that," said she, beginning to put up her materials: she

had done her morning's work.

"Well," he says, "you trust to him; there are lots of those Glasgow men

who would only be too glad to have the chance----"

"Oh, no, no," she cried, laughing. "I am not going to coerce people

into buying my pictures for the sake of friendship. I think your uncle

would buy every sketch I have on board the yacht; but I cannot allow my

friends to be victimised."

"Oh, victimised!" said he, scornfully. "They ought to be glad to have

the chance. And do you mean to go on giving away your work for nothing?

That sketch of the little creek we were in--opposite Iona, don't you

know--that you gave my uncle, is charming. And they tell me you have

given that picture of the rocks and sea-birds--where is the place?----"

"Oh, do you mean the sketch in the saloon--of Canna?"

"Yes; why it is one of the finest landscapes I ever saw. And they tell

me you gave it to that doctor who was on board!"

"Dr. Sutherland," says she, hastily--and there is a quick colour in her

face--"seemed to like it as--as a sort of reminiscence, you know----"

"But he should not have accepted a valuable picture," said the Youth,

with decision. "No doubt you offered it to him when you saw he admired

it. But now--when he must understand that--well, in fact, that

circumstances are altered--he will have the good sense to give it you

back again."

"Oh, I hope not," she says, with her embarrassment not diminishing.

"I--I should not like that! I--I should be vexed."

"A person of good tact and good taste," says this venturesome young man,

"would make a joke of it--would insist that you never meant it--and

would prefer to buy the picture."

She answers, somewhat shortly--

"I think not. I think Dr. Sutherland has as good taste as any one. He

would know that that would vex me very much."

"Oh, well," says he, with a sort of carelessness, "every one to his

liking. If he cares to accept so valuable a present, good and well."

"You don't suppose he asked me for it?" she says, rather warmly. "I

gave it him. He would have been rude to have refused it. I was very

much pleased that he cared for the picture."

"Oh, he is a judge of art, also? I am told he knows everything."

"He was kind enough to say he liked the sketch; that was enough for me."

"He is very lucky; that is all I have to say."

"I dare say he has forgotten all about such a trifle. He has more

important things to think about."

"Well," said he, with a good-natured laugh, "I should not consider such

a picture a trifle if any one presented it to me. But it is always the

people who get everything they want who value things least."

"Do you think Dr. Sutherland such a fortunate person?" says she. "Well,

he is fortunate in having great abilities; and he is fortunate in having

chosen a profession that has already secured him great honour, and that

promises a splendid future to him. But that is the result of hard work;

and he has to work hard now. I don't think most men would like to

change places with him just at present."

"He has one good friend and champion, at all events," he says, with a

pleasant smile.

"Oh," says she, hastily and anxiously, "I am saying what I hear. My

acquaintance with Dr. Sutherland is--is quite recent, I may say; though

I have met him in London. I only got to know something about him when

he was in Edinburgh, and I happened to be there too."

"He is coming back to the yacht," observes Mr. Smith.

"He will be foolish to think of it," she answers, simply.

At this stage the yacht begins to wake up. The head of Hector of

Moidart, much dishevelled, appears at the forecastle, and that wiry

mariner is rubbing his eyes; but no sooner does he perceive that one of

the ladies is on deck than he suddenly ducks down again--to get his face

washed, and his paper collar. Then there is a voice heard in the saloon

calling:--

"Who has left my spirit-lamp burning?"

"Oh, good gracious!" says the Youth, and tumbles down the companion

incontinently.

Then the Laird appears, bringing up with him a huge red volume entitled

_Municipal London_; but no sooner does he find that Miss Avon is on deck

than he puts aside that mighty compendium, and will have her walk up and

down with him before breakfast.

"What?" he says, eyeing the cup and saucer, "have ye had your breakfast

already?"

"Mr. Smith was so kind as to bring me a cup of tea."

"What," he says again--and he is obviously greatly delighted. "Of his

own making? I did not think he had as much gumption."

"I beg your pardon, sir?" said she. She had been startled by the

whistling of a curlew close by, and had not heard him distinctly.

"I said he was a smart lad," said the Laird, unblushingly. "Oh, ay, a

good lad; ye will not find many better lads than Howard. Will I tell ye

a secret?"

"Well, sir--if you like," said she.

There was a mysterious, but humorous look about the Laird; and he spoke

in a whisper.

"It is not good sometimes for young folk to know what is in store for

them. But I mean to give him Denny-mains. Whish! Not a word. I'll

surprise him some day."

"He ought to be very grateful to you, sir," was her answer.

"That he is--that he is," said the Laird; "he's an obedient lad. And I

should not wonder if he had Denny-mains long before he expects it;

though I must have my crust of bread, ye know. It would be a fine

occupation for him, looking after the estate; and what is the use of his

living in London, and swallowing smoke and fog? I can assure ye that

the air at Denny-mains, though it's no far from Glasgow, is as pure as

it is in this very Loch Speliv."

"Oh, indeed, sir."

They had another couple of turns in silence.

"Ye're verra fond of sailing," says the Laird.

"I am now," she says. "But I was very much afraid before I came; I have

suffered so terribly in crossing the Channel. Somehow one never thinks

of being ill here--with nice clean cabins--and no engines throbbing----"

"I meant that ye like well enough to go sailing about these places?"

"Oh yes," says she. "When shall I ever have such a beautiful holiday,

again?"

The Laird laughed a little to himself. Then he said with a

business-like air:

"I have been thinking that, when my nephew came to Denny-mains, I would

buy a yacht for him, that he could keep down the Clyde somewhere--at

Gourock, or Kilmun, or Dunoon, maybe. It is a splendid ground for

yachting--a splendid! Ye have never been through the Kyles of Bute?"

"Oh, yes, sir; I have been through them in the steamer."

"Ay, but a yacht; wouldn't that be better? And I am no sure I would not

advise him to have a steam-yacht--ye are so much more independent of

wind and tide; and I'm thinking ye could get a verra good little

steam-yacht for 3,000*l*."

"Oh, indeed."

"A great deal depends on the steward," he continues, seriously. "A good

steward that does not touch drink, is jist worth anything. If I could

get a first-class man, I would not mind giving him two pounds a week,

with his clothes and his keep, while the yacht was being used; and I

would not let him away in the winter--no, no. Ye could employ him at

Denny-mains, as a butler-creature, or something like that."

She did not notice the peculiarity of the little pronoun: if she had,

how could she have imagined that the Laird was really addressing himself

to her?

"I have none but weeman-servants indoors at Denny-mains," he continued,

"but when Howard comes, I would prefer him to keep the house like other

people, and I will not stint him as to means. Have I told ye what

Welliam Dunbaur says--

_Be merry, man, and tak not sair in mind--_"

"Oh, yes, I remember."

"There's fine common sense in that. And do not you believe the people

who tell ye that the Scotch are a dour people, steeped in Calvinism, and

niggardly and grasping at the last farthing----"

"I have found them exceedingly kind to me, and warm-hearted and

generous--" says she; but he interrupted her suddenly.

"I'll tell ye what I'll do," said he, with decision. "When I buy that

yacht, I'll get Tom Galbraith to paint every panel in the saloon--no

matter what it costs!"

"Your nephew will be very proud of it," she said.

"And I would expect to take a trip in her myself, occasionally," he

added, in a facetious manner. "I would expect to be invited----"

"Surely, sir, you cannot expect your nephew to be so ungrateful----"

"Oh," he said, "I only expect reasonable things. Young people are young

people; they cannot like to be always hampered by grumbling old fogeys.

No, no; if I present any one wi' a yacht, I do not look on myself as a

piece of its furniture."

The Laird seemed greatly delighted. His step on the deck was firmer.

In the pauses of the conversation she heard something about--

_tantara! Sing tantara!_

"Will ye take your maid with ye?" he asked of her, abruptly.

The girl looked up with a bewildered air--perhaps with a trifle of alarm

in her eyes.

"I, sir?"

"Ha, ha!" said he, laughing, "I forgot. Ye have not been invited yet.

No more have I. But--if the yacht were ready--and--and if ye were

going--ye would take your maid, no doubt, for comfort's sake?"

The girl looked reassured. She said, cheerfully:

"Well, sir, I don't suppose I shall ever go yachting again, after I

leave the _White Dove_. And if I were, I don't suppose I should be able

to afford to have a maid with me, unless the dealers in London should

suddenly begin to pay me a good deal more than they have done hitherto."

At this point she was summoned below by her hostess calling. The Laird

was left alone on deck. He continued to pace up and down, muttering to

himself, with a proud look on his face.

"A landscape in every panel, as I'm a living man! ... Tom 'll do it

well, when I tell him who it's for.... The leddies' cabin blue and

silver--cool in the summer--the skylight pented--she'll no be saying

that the Scotch are wanting in taste when she sees that cabin!

Sing tantara! Sing tantara!

* * * The Highland army rues

That ere they came to Cromdale!

And her maid--if she will not be able to afford a maid, who

will?--French, if she likes! Blue and silver--blue and silver--that's

it!"

And then the Laird, still humming his lugubrious battle-song, comes down

into the saloon.

"Good morning, ma'am; good morning! Breakfast ready? I'm just ravenous.

That wild lassie has walked me up and down until I am like to faint. A

beautiful morning again--splendid!--splendid! And do ye know where ye

will be this day next year?"

"I am sure I don't," says his hostess, busy with the breakfast-things.

"I will tell ye. Anchored in the Holy Loch, off Kilmun, in a

screw-yacht. Mark my words now: _this very day next year!_"

*CHAPTER IX.*

*A PROTECTOR.*

"Oh, ay," says John of Skye, quite proudly, as we go on deck after

breakfast, "there will be no more o' the dead calms. We will give Mr.

Sutherland a good breeze or two when he comes back to the yat."

It is all Mr. Sutherland and Mr. Sutherland now!--everything is to be

done because Mr. Sutherland is coming. Each belaying pin is polished so

that one might see to shave in it; Hector of Moidart has spent about two

hours in scraping and rubbing the brass and copper of the galley

stove-pipe; and Captain John, with many grins and apologies, has got

Miss Avon to sew up a rent that has begun to appear in the red ensign.

All that he wants now is to have the yacht beached for a couple of days,

to have the long slender sea-grass scraped from her hull: then Mr.

Sutherland will see how the _White Dove_ will sail!

"I should imagine," says the Youth, in an undertone, to his hostess, as

we are working out the narrow entrance to Loch Speliv, "that your

doctor-friend must have given those men a liberal _pour-boire_ when he

left."

"Oh, I am sure not," said she, quickly, as if that was a serious

imputation. "That is very unlikely."

"They seem very anxious to have everything put right against his

coming," he says; "at all events, your captain seems to think that every

good breeze he gets is merely thrown away on us."

"Dr. Sutherland and he," she says, laughing, "were very good friends.

And then Angus had very bad luck when he was on board: the glass

wouldn't fall. But I have promised to bottle up the equinoctials for

him--he will have plenty of winds before we have done with him. You must

stay too, you know, Mr. Smith, and see how the _White Dove_ rides out a

gale."

He regarded her--with some suspicion. He was beginning to know that

this lady's speech--despite the great gentleness and innocence of her

eyes--sometimes concealed curious meanings. And was she now merely

giving him a kind and generous invitation to go yachting with us for

another month; or was she, with a cruel sarcasm, referring to the

probability of his having to remain a prisoner for that time, in order

to please his uncle?

However, the conversation had to be dropped, for at this moment the

Laird and his _protegee_ made their appearance; and, of course, a

deck-chair had to be brought for her, and a foot-stool, and a sunshade,

and a book. But what were these attentions, on the part of her elderly

slave, compared with the fact that a young man, presumably enjoying a

sound and healthy sleep, should have unselfishly got up at an unholy

hour of the morning, and should have risked blowing up the yacht with

spirits of wine in order to get her a cup of tea?

It was a fine sailing day. Running before a light topsail breeze from

the south-east, the _White Dove_ was making for the Lynn of Morven, and

bringing us more and more within view of the splendid circle of

mountains, from Ben Cruachan in the east to Ben Nevis in the north; from

Ben Nevis down to the successive waves of the Morven hills. And we knew

why, among all the sunlit yellows and greens--faint as they were in the

distance--there were here and there on slope and shoulder stains of a

beautiful rose-purple that were a new feature in the landscape. The

heather was coming into bloom--the knee-deep, honey-scented heather, the

haunt of the snipe, and the muircock, and the mountain hare. And if

there was to be for us this year no toiling over the high slopes and

crags--looking down from time to time on a spacious world of sunlit sea

and island--we were not averse from receiving friendly and substantial

messages from those altitudes. In a day or two now the first crack of

the breechloader would startle the silence of the morning air. And

Master Fred's larder was sorely in want of variety.

Northward, and still northward, the light breeze tempering the scorching

sunlight that glares on the sails and the deck. Each long ripple of the

running blue sea flashes in diamonds; and when we look to the south,

those silver lines converge and converge, until at the horizon they

become a solid blaze of light unendurable to the eye. But it is to the

north we turn--to the land of Appin, and Kingairloch, and Lochaber:

blow, light wind; and carry us onward, gentle tide; we have an

appointment to keep within shadow of the mountains that guard Glencoe.

The Laird has discovered that these two were up early this morning: he

becomes facetious.

"Not sleepy yet, Miss Mary?" he says.

"Oh, no--not at all," she says, looking up from her book.

"It's the early bird that catches the first sketch. Fine and healthy is

that early rising, Howard. I'm thinking ye did not sleep sound last

night: what for were ye up before anybody was stirring?"

But the Laird does not give him time to answer. Something has tickled

the fancy of this profound humourist.

"_Kee! kee!_" he laughs; and he rubs his hands. "I mind a good one I

heard from Tom Galbraith, when he and I were at the Bridge of Allan;

room to room, ye know; and Tom did snore that night. 'What,' said I to

him in the morning, 'had ye nightmare, or _delirium tremens_, that ye

made such a noise in the night?' 'Did I snore?' said he--I'm thinking

somebody else must have complained before. 'Snore?' said I, 'twenty

grampuses was nothing to it.' And Tom--he burst out a-laughing. 'I'm

very glad,' says he. 'If I snored, I must have had a sound sleep!' A

_sound_ sleep--d'ye see? Very sharp--very smart--eh?"--and the Laird

laughed and chuckled over that portentous joke.

"Oh, uncle, uncle, uncle!" his nephew cried. "You used never to do such

things. You must quit the society of those artists, if they have such a

corrupting influence on you."

"I tell ye," he says, with a sudden seriousness, "I would just like to

show Tom Galbraith that picture o' Canna that's below. No; I would not

ask him to alter a thing. Very good--very good it is. And--and--I

think--I will admit it--for a plain man likes the truth to be

told--there is just a bit jealousy among them against any English person

that tries to paint Scotch scenery. No, no, Miss Mary--don't you be

afraid. Ye can hold your own. If I had that picture, now--if it

belonged to me--and if Tom was stopping wi' me at Denny-mains, I would

not allow him to alter it, not if he offered to spend a week's work on

it."

After that--what? The Laird could say no more.

Alas! alas! our wish to take a new route northward was all very well;

but we had got under the lee of Lismore, and slowly and slowly the wind

died away, until even the sea was as smooth as the surface of a mirror.

It was but little compensation that we could lean over the side of the

yacht, and watch the thousands of "sea-blubbers" far down in the water,

in all their hues of blue, and purple, and pale pink. The heat of the

sun was blistering; scorching with a sharp pain any nose or cheek that

was inadvertently turned towards it. As for the Laird, he could not

stand this oven-like business any longer; he declared the saloon was

ever so much cooler than the deck; and went down below, and lay at

length on one of the long blue cushions.

"Why, John," says Queen T., "you are bringing on those dead calms again.

What will Dr. Sutherland say to you?"

But John of Skye has his eye on the distant shore.

"Oh, no, mem," he says, with a crafty smile, "there will not be a dead

calm very long."

And there, in at the shore, we see a dark line on the water; and it

spreads and spreads; the air becomes gratefully cool to the face before

the breeze perceptibly fills the sails; then there is a cheerful swing

over of the boom and a fluttering of the as yet unreleased head-sails.

A welcome breeze, surely, from the far hills of Kingairloch. We thank

you, you beautiful Kingairloch, with your deep glens and your

rose-purple shoulders of hills: long may you continue to send fresh

westerly winds to the parched and passing voyager!

We catch a distant glimpse of the white houses of Port Appin; we bid

adieu to the musically-named Eilean-na-Shuna; far ahead of us is the

small white lighthouse at the mouth of the narrows of Corran. But there

is to be no run up to Fort William for us to-night; the tide will turn

soon; we cannot get through the Corran narrows. And so there is a talk

of Ballahulish; and Captain John is trying hard to get Miss Avon to

pronounce this Bal-a-chaolish. It is not fair of Sandy from Islay--who

thinks he is hidden by the foresail--to grin to himself at these

innocent efforts.

Grander and grander grow those ramparts of mountains ahead of us--with

their wine-coloured stains of heather on the soft and velvety

yellow-green. The wind from the Kingairloch shores still carries us on;

and Inversanda swells the breeze; soon we shall be running into that

wide channel that leads up to the beautiful Loch Leven. The Laird

reappears on deck. He is quite enchanted with the scene around him. He

says if an artist had placed that black cloud behind the great bulk of

Ben Nevis, it could not have been more artistically arranged. He

declares that this entrance to Loch Leven is one of the most beautiful

places he has ever seen. He calls attention to the soft green foliage

of the steep hills; and to that mighty peak of granite, right in the

middle of the landscape, that we discover to be called the Pap of

Glencoe. And here, in the mellow light of the afternoon, is the steamer

coming down from the north: is it to be a race between us for the

Bal-a-chaolish quay?

It is an unfair race. We have to yield to brute strength and steam

kettles.

_Four to one Argyle came on,_

as the dirge of Eric says. But we bear no malice. We salute our enemy

as he goes roaring and throbbing by; and there is many a return signal

waved to us from the paddle-boxes.

"Mr. Sutherland is no there, mem, I think," says Captain John, who has

been scanning those groups of people with his keen eyes.

"I should think not; he said he was coming to-morrow," is the answer.

"Will he be coming down by the _Chevalier_ in the morning, or by the

_Mountaineer_ at night?" is the further question.

"I don't know."

"We will be ashore for him in the morning, whatever," says John of Skye

cheerfully; and you would have thought it was his guest, and not ours,

who was coming on board.

The roaring out of the anchor chain was almost immediately followed by

Master Fred's bell. Mary Avon was silent and _distraite_ at dinner; but

nothing more was said of her return to London. It was understood that,

when Angus Sutherland came on board, we should go back to Castle Osprey,

and have a couple of days on shore, to let the _White Dove_ get rid of

her parasitic seaweed.

Then, after dinner, a fishing excursion; but this was in a new loch, and

we were not very successful. Or was it that most of us were watching,

from this cup of water surrounded by the circle of great mountains, the

strange movings of the clouds in the gloomy and stormy twilight, long

after the sun had sunk?

"It is not a very sheltered place," remarked the Laird, "if a squall

were to come down from the hills."

But by and by something appeared that lent an air of stillness and peace

to this sombre scene around us. Over one of those eastern mountains a

faint, smoky, suffused yellow light began to show; then the outline of

the mountain--serrated with trees--grew dark; then the edge of the moon

appeared over the black line of trees; and by and by the world was

filled with this new, pale light, though the shadows on the hills were

deeper than ever. We did not hurry on our way back to the yacht. It was

a magical night--the black, overhanging hills, the white clouds crossing

the blue vaults of the heavens, the wan light on the sea. What need for

John of Skye to put up that golden lamp at the bow? But it guided us on

our way back--under the dusky shadows of the hills.

Then below, in the orange-lit cabin, with cards and dominoes and chess

about, a curious thing overhead happens to catch the eye of one of the

gamblers. Through the skylight, with this yellow glare, we ought not to

see anything; but there, shining in the night, is a long bar of pale

phosphorescent green light. What can this be? Why green? And it is

Mary Avon who first suggests what this strangely luminous thing must

be--the boom, wet with the dew, shining in the moonlight.

"Come," says the Laird to her, "put a shawl round ye, and we will go up

for another look round."

And so, after a bit, they went on deck, these two, leaving the others to

their bezique. And the Laird was as careful about the wrapping up of

this girl as if she had been a child of five years of age; and when they

went out on to the white deck, he would give her his arm that she should

not trip over any stray rope; and they were such intimate friends now

that he did not feel called upon to talk to her.

But by and by the heart of the Laird was lifted up within him because of

the wonderful beauty and silence of this moonlight night.

"It is a great peety," said he, "that you in the south are not brought

up as children to be familiar with the Scotch version of the Psalms of

David. It is a fountain-head of poetry that ye can draw from all your

life long; and is there any poetry in the world can beat it? And many a

time I think that David had a great love for mountains--and that he must

have looked at the hills around Jerusalem--and seen them on many a night

like this. Ye cannot tell, lassie, what stirs in the heart of a

Scotchman or Scotchwoman when they repeat the 121st Psalm:--

I to the hills will lift mine eyes,

From whence doth come mine aid;

My safety cometh from the Lord

Who heaven and earth hath made.

Thy foot He'll not let slide, nor will

He slumber that thee keeps:

Behold, He that keeps Israel

He slumbers not nor sleeps.

Ask your friend Dr. Sutherland--ask him whether he has found anything

among his philosophy, and science, and the new-fangled leeterature of

the day that comes so near to his heart as a verse of the old Psalms

that he learnt as a boy. I have heard of Scotch soldiers in distant

countries just bursting out crying, when they heard by chance a bit

repeated o' the Psalms of David. And the strength and reliance of them:

what grander source of consolation can ye have? 'As the mountains are

round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about His people from

henceforth, even for ever.' What are the trials of the hour to them

that believe and know and hope? They have a sure faith; the captivity

is not for ever. Do ye remember the beginning of the 126th Psalm--it

reminds me most of all of the Scotch phrase

'laughin' maist like to greet'

--'When the Lord turned again the captivity of Zion, we were like them

that dream. Then was our mouth filled with laughter, and our tongue

with singing; then said they among the heathen, The Lord hath done great

things for them. The Lord hath done great things for us, whereof we are

glad. Turn again our captivity, O Lord, as the streams in the south!'"

The Laird was silent for a minute or two; there was nothing but the

pacing up and down the moonlit deck.

"And you have your troubles too, my lass," said he, at length. "Oh, I

know--though ye put so brave a face on it. But you need not be afraid;

you need not be afraid. Keep up your heart. I am an old man now; I may

have but few years to reckon on; but while I live ye will not want a

friend.... Ye will not want a friend.... If I forget, or refuse what I

promise ye this night, may God do so and more unto me!"

But the good-hearted Laird will not have her go to sleep with this

solemnity weighing on her mind.

"Come, come," he says cheerfully, "we will go below now; and you will

sing me a song--the Queen's Maries, if ye like--though I doubt but that

they were a lot o' wild hizzies."

*CHAPTER X.*

*"MARY, MARY!"*

Is there any one awake and listening--perhaps with a tremor of the

heart--for the calling out of "_White Dove_, ahoy!" from the shore? Once

the ordinary loud noises of the morning are over--the brief working of

the pump, the washing down of the decks--silence reigns once more

throughout the yacht. One can only hear a whispering of the rain above.

Then, in the distance, there is a muffled sound of the paddles of a

steamer; and that becomes fainter and fainter, while the _White Dove_

gradually loses the motion caused by the passing waves. Again there is

an absolute stillness; with only that whispering of the rain.

But this sudden sound of oars? and the slight shock against the side of

the vessel? The only person on board the yacht who is presentable whips

a shawl over her head, darts up the companion way, and boldly emerges

into the moist and dismal morning.

"Oh, Angus!" she cries, to this streaming black figure that has just

stepped on deck, "what a day you have brought with you!"

"Oh, it is nothing!" says a cheerful voice from out of the dripping

macintosh--perhaps it is this shining black garment that makes the wet

face and whiskers and hair glow redder than ever, and makes the blue

eyes look even bluer. "Nothing at all! John and I have agreed it is

going to clear. But this is a fine place to be in, with a falling

glass! If you get a squall down from Glencoe, you won't forget it."

"A squall!" she says, looking round, in amazement. Well might she

exclaim; for the day is still, and grey, and sombre; the mountains are

swathed in mist; the smooth sea troubled only by the constant rain.

However, the ruddy-faced Doctor, having divested himself of his dripping

garment, follows his hostess down the companion, and into the saloon,

and sits down on one of the couches. There is an odd, half pathetic

expression on his face, as he looks around.

"It seems a long time ago," he says, apparently to himself.

"What does?" asks his hostess, removing her head-gear.

"The evenings we used to spend in this very saloon," says he--looking

with a strange interest on those commonplace objects, the draughts and

dominoes, the candlesticks and cigar-boxes, the cards and books--"away

up there in the north. It seems years since we were at Dunvegan,

doesn't it, and lying off Vaternish Point? There never was as snug a

cabin as this in any yacht. It is like returning to an old home to get

into it."

"I am very glad to hear you say so," says his hostess, regarding him

with a great kindliness. "We will try to make you forget that you have

ever been away. Although," she added frankly, "I must tell you you have

been turned out of your state-room--for a time. I know you won't mind

having a berth made up for you on one of those couches."

"Of course not," he said; "if I am not in your way at all. But----"

And his face asked the question.

"Oh! it is a nephew of Denny-mains who has come on board--a Mr. Smith, a

very nice young fellow; I am sure you will like him."

There was nothing said in reply to this.

Then the new-comer inquired, rather timidly, "You are all well, I hope?"

"Oh, yes!"

"And--and Miss Avon, too?" said he.

"Oh, yes! But Mary has suffered a great misfortune since you left."

She looked up quickly. Then she told him the story; and in telling him

her indignation awoke afresh. She spoke rapidly. The old injury had

touched her anew.

But, strangely enough, although Angus Sutherland displayed a keen

interest in the matter, he was not at all moved to that passion of anger

and desire for vengeance that had shaken the Laird. Not at all. He was

very thoughtful for a time; but he only said, "You mean she has to

support herself now?"

"Absolutely."

"She will naturally prefer that to being dependent on her friends?"

"She will not be dependent on her friends, I know," is the answer;

"though the Laird has taken such a great liking for her that I believe

he would give her half Denny-mains."

He started a little bit at this; but immediately said--

"Of course she will prefer independence. And, as you say, she is quite

capable of earning her own living. Well, she does not worry about it?

It does not trouble her mind?"

"That affair of her uncle wounded her very keenly, I imagine, though she

said little; but as for the loss of her little fortune, not at all! She

is as light-hearted as ever. The only thing is that she is possessed by

a mad notion that she should start away at once for London."

"Why?"

"To begin work; I tell her she must work here."

"But she is not anxious? She is not troubled?"

"Not a bit! The Laird says she has the courage of ten men; and I

believe him."

"That is all right. I was going to prescribe a course of Marcus

Aurelius; but if you have got philosophy in your blood, it is better

than getting it through the brain."

And so this talk ended; leaving on the mind of one of those two friends

a distinct sense of disappointment. She had been under the impression

that Angus Sutherland had a very warm regard for Mary Avon; and she had

formed certain other suspicions. She had made sure that he, more

quickly than any one else, would resent the injury done to this helpless

girl. And now he seemed to treat it as of no account. If she was not

troubling herself; if she was not giving herself headaches about it:

then, no matter! It was a professional view of the case. A dose of

Marcus Aurelius? It was not thus that the warm-hearted Laird had

espoused Mary Avon's cause.

Then the people came one by one in to breakfast; and our young Doctor

was introduced to the stranger who had ousted him from his state-room.

Last of all came Mary Avon.

How she managed to go along to him, and to shake hands with him, seeing

that her eyes were bent on the floor all the time, was a mystery. But

she did shake hands with him; and said, "How do you do?" in a somewhat

formal manner; and she seemed a little paler than usual.

"I don't think you are looking quite as well as when I left," said he,

with a great interest and kindness in his look.

"Thank you, I am very well," she said; and then she instantly turned to

the Laird and began chatting to him. Angus Sutherland's face burned

red; it was not thus she had been used to greet him in the morning, when

we were far away beyond the shores of Canna.

And then, when we found that the rain was over, and that there was not a

breath of wind in this silent, grey, sombre world of mountain and mist,

and when we went ashore for a walk along the still lake, what must she

needs do but attach herself to the Laird, and take no notice of her

friend of former days? Angus walked behind with his hostess, but he

rarely took his eyes off the people in front. And when Miss Avon,

picking up a wild flower now and again, was puzzling over its name, he

did not, as once he would have done, come to her help with his

student-days' knowledge of botany. Howard Smith brought her a bit of

wall rue, and said he thought they called it _Asplenium marinum_: there

was no interference. The preoccupied Doctor behind only asked how far

Miss Avon was going to walk with her lame foot.

The Laird of Denny-mains knew nothing of all this occult business. He

was rejoicing in his occupation of philosopher and guide. He was

assuring us all that this looked like a real Highland day--far more so

than the Algerian blue sky that had haunted us for so long. He pointed

out, as we walked along the winding shores of Loch Leven, by the path

that rose, and fell, and skirted small precipices all hanging in

foliage, how beautiful was that calm, slate-blue mirror beneath, showing

every outline of the sombre mountains, with their masses of Landseer

mist. He stopped his companion to ask her if she had ever seen anything

finer in colour than the big clusters of scarlet rowans among the

yellow-green leaves? Did she notice the scent of the meadow-sweet, in

the moist air of this patch of wood? He liked to see those white stars

of the grass-of-Parnassus; they reminded him of many a stroll among the

hills about Loch Katrine.

"And this still Loch Leven," he said at length, and without the least

blush on his face, "with the Glencoe mountains at the end of it. I have

often heard say was as picturesque a loch as any in Scotland, on a

gloomy day like this. Gloomy I call it, but ye see there are fine

silver glints among the mist; and--and, in fact, there's a friend of

mine has often been wishing to have a water-colour sketch of it. If ye

had time, Miss Mary, to make a bit drawing from the deck of the yacht,

ye might name your own price--just name your own price. I will buy it

for him."

A friend! Mary Avon knew very well who the friend was.

"I should be afraid, sir," said she, laughing, "to meddle with anything

about Glencoe."

"Toots! toots!" said he; "ye have not enough confidence. I know twenty

young men in Edinburgh and Glasgow who have painted every bit of

Glencoe, from the bridge to the King's House inn, and not one of them

able to come near ye. Mind, I'm looking forward to showing your

pictures to Tom Galbraith; I'm thinking he'll stare!"

The Laird chuckled again.

"Oh, ay! he does not know what a formidable rival has come from the

south; I'm thinking he'll stare when he comes to Denny-mains to meet ye.

Howard, what's that down there?"

The Laird had caught sight of a pink flower on the side of a steep

little ravine, leading down to the shore.

"Oh, I don't want it; I don't want it!" Mary Avon cried.

But the Laird was obdurate. His nephew had to go scrambling down

through the alders and rowan-trees and wet bracken to get this bit of

pink crane's-bill for Miss Avon's bouquet. And of course she was much

pleased; and thanked him very prettily; and was it catch-fly, or herb

robert, or what was it?

Then out of sheer common courtesy she had to turn to Angus Sutherland.

"I am sure Dr. Sutherland can tell us." she says, timidly; and she does

not meet his eyes.

"It is one of the crane's-bills, any way," he says, indifferently.

"Don't you think you had better return now, Miss Avon, or you will hurt

your foot?"

"Oh, my foot is quite well now, thank you!" she says; and on she goes

again.

We pass by the first cuttings of the slate-quarries; the men suspended

by ropes round their waists and hewing away at the face of the cliff.

We go through the long straggling village; and the Laird remarks that it

is not usual for a Celtic race to have such clean cottages, with pots of

flowers in the window. We saunter idly onwards, towards those great

mountain-masses, and there is apparently no thought of returning.

"When we've gone so far, might we not go on to the mouth of the pass?"

she asks. "I should like to have a look even at the beginning of

Glencoe."

"I thought so," said the Laird, with a shrewd smile. "Oh, ay! we may as

well go on."

Past those straggling cottages, with the elder-bush at their doors to

frighten away witches; over the bridge that spans the brawling Cona;

along the valley down which the stream rushes; and this gloom overhead

deepens and deepens. The first of the great mountains appears on our

right, green to the summit, and yet so sheer from top to bottom that it

is difficult to understand how those dots of sheep maintain their

footing. Then the marks on him; he seems to be a huge Behemoth, with

great eyes, grand, complacent, even sardonic in his look. But the

further and further mountains have nothing of this mild, grand humour

about them; they are sullen and awful; they grasp the earth with their

mighty bulk below, but far away they lift their lurid peaks to the

threatening skies, up there where the thunder threatens to shake the

silence of the world.

"Miss Avon," Dr. Sutherland again remonstrates, "you have come five or

six miles now. Suppose you have to walk back in the rain?"

"I don't mind about that," she says, cheerfully. "But I am dreadfully,

dreadfully hungry."

"Then we must push on to Clachaig," says the Laird; "there is no help

for it."

"But wait a moment," she says.

She goes to the side of the road, where the great grey boulders, and

ferns, and moist marsh-grass are, and begins to gather handfuls of

"sourocks;" that is to say, of the smaller sheep's sorrel. "Who will

partake of this feast to allay the pangs of hunger?"

"Is thy servant a baa-lamb that she should do this thing?" her hostess

says, and drives the girl forward.

The inn is reached but in time; for behold there is a grey "smurr" of

mist coming down the glen; and the rain is beginning to darken the grey

boulders. And very welcome are those chairs, and the bread and cheese

and beer, and the humble efforts in art around the walls. If the feast

is not as the feasting of the Fishmongers--if we have no pretty boxes to

carry home to the children--if we have no glimpses of the pale blue

river and shipping through the orange light of the room, at least we are

not amazed by the appearance of the Duke of Sussex in the garb of a

Highlander. And the frugal meal is substantial enough. Then the

question about getting back arises.

"Now, Mary," says her hostess, "you have got to pay for your amusement.

How will you like walking seven or eight miles in a thunderstorm?"

But here the Laird laughs.

"No, no," he says, going to the window. "That waggonette that has just

come up I ordered at the inn on passing. Ye will not have to walk a

step, my lass; but I think we had better be going, as it looks black

overhead."

Black enough, indeed, was it as we drove back in this silent afternoon,

with a thunderstorm apparently about to break over our heads. And it

was close and sultry when we got on board again, though there was as yet

no wind. Captain John did not like the look of the sky.

"I said you were going to bring a gale with you, Angus," his hostess

remarked to him, cheerfully, at dinner.

"It begins to look like it," he answered, gravely; "and it is getting

too late to run away from here if the wind rises. As soon as it begins

to blow, if I were John, I would put out the starboard anchor."

"I know he will take your advice," she answers, promptly.

We saw little of Angus Sutherland that evening; for it was raining hard

and blowing hard; and the cabin below, with its lit candles, and books

and cards, and what not, was cheerful enough; while he seemed very much

to prefer being on deck. We could hear the howling of the wind through

the rigging, and the gurgling of the water along the sides of the yacht;

and we knew by the way she was swaying that she was pulling hard at her

anchor chain. There was to be no beautiful moonlight for us that night,

with the black shadows on the hills, and the lane of silver on the

water.

A dripping and glistening figure comes down the companion; a gleaming

red face appears at the door. Mary Avon looks up from her draughts, but

for an instant.

"Well, Angus, what is the report?" says Queen Titania, brightly. "And

what is all the noise on deck? And why don't you come below?"

"They have been paying out more anchor chain," says the rough voice from

out of the macintosh; "it is likely to be a nasty night, and we are

going to lower the topmast now. I want you to be so kind as to tell Fred

to leave out some whisky and some bread and cheese; for John thinks of

having an anchor watch."

"The bread and cheese and whisky Fred can get at any time," says she;

and she adds with some warmth, "But you are not going to stay on deck on

such a night? Come in here at once. Leave your macintosh on the

steps."

Is it that he looks at that draught-board? It is Mr. Howard Smith who is

playing with Mary Avon. The faithless Miranda has got another Ferdinand

now.

"I think I would rather take my turn like the rest," he says, absently.

"There may be some amusement before the morning."

And so the black figure turned away and disappeared; and a strange thing

was that the girl playing draughts seemed to have been so bewildered by

the apparition that she stared at the board, and could not be got to

understand how she had made a gross and gigantic blunder.