Donald Ross of Heimra (Volume 2 of 3)

"That is more like you, Mamie," said Käthchen, coming forward with a proud and admiring scrutiny. "I want Mr. Ross to see you in something different from your ordinary workaday things. And you look taller, too, somehow. And fairer – or is that the light from the windows?"

At this very moment the door was opened, and Mr. Ross was announced. Mary turned – with some little self-conscious expectation. And here was Young Donald of Heimra, in faultless evening dress; and there was a quiet look of friendliness in his eyes as he came forward and took the hand that was offered him. Käthchen said to herself: "Why is it that the full shirt-front and white tie suit dark men so well? And why doesn't he dress like that every evening?" For Käthchen did not know that that was precisely what Donald Ross had been in the habit of doing all the years that his mother and he had lived out in that remote island; it was a little compliment he paid her; and she liked that bit of make-believe of ceremony in the monotony of their isolated life.

The new-comers who had arrived that afternoon were somewhat late; for they had gone down to the river to have a cast or two – a futile proceeding in the blazing sunlight; but presently they made their appearance, and were in due course introduced to Donald Ross. Käthchen, who was as usual a keen and interested observer, and who had heard of Fred Stanley's indignant protest, could not but admire the perfect good breeding he displayed on being thus brought face to face with his enemy. But indeed the ordinary every-day manner of a well-educated young Englishman – its curious impassivity, its lack of self-assertion – is a standing puzzle for foreigners and for Americans. What is the origin of it? Blank stupidity? Or a serene contempt for the opinion of others? Or a determination not to commit one's self? Or an affectation of having already seen and done everything worth seeing and doing? Anyhow, Fred Stanley's demeanour towards this stranger and intruder was perfect in its negative way; and so was that of his friend, though Frank Meredyth, by virtue of his superior years, allowed himself to be a little more careless and off-hand. However, there was not much time for forming surmises or jumping to conclusions; for presently dinner was announced.

"Mr. Meredyth, will you take in Miss Glendinning?" Mary said. "Fred, I'm sorry we've nobody for you." And therewithal she turned to Donald Ross, and took his arm, and these two followed the first couple into the dining-room. Young Ross sate at her right hand, of course; he was her chief guest; the others belonged to the house.

It was rather an animated little party; for if the Twelfth was as yet some way off, there were plenty of speculations as to what the Garra was likely to yield in the way of grilse and sea-trout. Käthchen noticed that Donald Ross spoke but little, and that they seldom appealed to him; indeed, Mr. Meredyth, professing to have met with unvarying ill-luck on every stream he had ever fished, was devising an ideal salmon-river on which the sportsman would not be continually exposed to the evil strokes of fate.

"What you want first of all," said he, "is to regulate the water-supply. At present when I go to a salmon-river, one of two things is certain to happen: either it's in roaring flood, and quite unfishable, or else – and this is the more common – it has dwindled away all to nothing, and you might as well begin and throw a fly over a pavement in Piccadilly. Very well; what you want is to turn the mountain-lochs into reservoirs; you bank up the surplus water in the hills; and then, in times of drought, when the river has got low, and would be otherwise unfishable, you send up the keepers to the sluices, turn on a supply, and freshen the pools, so that the fish wake up, and wonder what's going to happen. That is one thing. Then there's another. You know that even when the water is in capital order, you may go down day by day, and find it impossible to get a single cast because of the blazing sunlight. That is a terrible misfortune; for you are all the time aware, as you sit on the bank, and hopelessly watch for clouds, that the fine weather is drying up the hills, and that very soon the stream will have dwindled away again. Very well; what you want for that is en enormous awning, that can be moved from pool to pool, and high enough not to interfere with the casting. By that means, you see, you could transfer any portion of a Highland stream into the land where it is always afternoon; and the fish, thinking the cool of the evening had already come, would begin to disport themselves and play with the pretty little coloured things that the current brought down. Look at the saving of time! Generally, in the middle of the day, there is a horrible long interval when nothing will move in a river. Whether it is the heat, or the sunlight, or the general drowsiness of nature, there's hardly ever anything stirring between twelve o'clock and four; and you lie on the bank, and consume a frightful amount of tobacco; and you may even fall asleep, if you have been doing a good deal of night-work in London. But if you have this great canvas screen, that can be stretched from the trees on one side to the poles on the other – very gradually and slowly, like the coming over of the evening – then the little fishes will begin to say to themselves, 'Here, boys, it's time to go out and have some fun,' and you can have fine sport, in spite of all the sunlight that ever blazed. However, I'm afraid you'd want the revenue of some half-a-dozen dukes before you could secure the ideal salmon-river."

"They're doing so many things with electricity now: couldn't you bring that in?" said Käthchen. "Couldn't you have an electric shock running out from the butt of the rod the moment the salmon touched the fly?"

But this was sheer frivolity. Frank Meredyth suddenly turned to young Ross and said —

"Oh, you can tell me, Mr. Ross – is the Garra a difficult river to fish?"

Now this was a perfectly innocent question – not meant as a trap at all; but Fred Stanley, whose mind had been brooding over the fact that the poacher was actually sitting at table with them, looked startled, and even frightened. Young Ross, on the other hand, appeared in no wise disconcerted.

"Really, I can hardly tell you," he said, "I am not much of a fisherman myself – there is no fishing at all on Heimra Island. But I should say it was not a very difficult river. Perhaps some of the pools under the woods – just above the bridge, I mean, where the banks are steep – might be a little awkward; but further up it is much opener; and further up still you come to long stretches where there isn't a bush on either side."

"Then, perhaps, you can't tell me what are the best sea-trout flies for this water?" was the next question – with no evil intent in it.

"I'm afraid you would find me an untrustworthy guide," said Donald Ross. "If I were you I would take Hector's advice."

So there was an end of this matter – and Fred Stanley was much relieved. What he said to himself was this: "If that Spaniard-looking fellow is lying, he has a splendid nerve and can do it well. A magnificent piece of cheek – if it is so!"

On the whole, at this unpretentious little banquet, Frank Meredyth did most of the talking; and naturally it was addressed in the first place to Miss Stanley as being at the head of the table. He had had a considerable experience of country houses; he was gifted with a certain sense of humour; and he told his stories fairly well – Käthchen rewarding him now and again with a covert little giggle. As for Donald Ross, he sate silent, and reserved, and attentive. He was distinctly the stranger. Not that he betrayed any embarrassment, or was ill at ease; but he seemed to prefer to listen, especially when Mary Stanley happened to be speaking. For, indeed, more than once she let the others go their own way, and turned to him, and engaged him in conversation with herself alone. She found herself timid in doing so. If his manner was always most respectful – and even submissive – his eyes looked uncompromisingly straight at her, and they had a strange, subdued fire in them. When she happened to find his gaze thus fixed on her, she would suddenly grow nervous – stammer – perhaps even forget what she had been saying; while the joyous chatter of the other three at table went gaily on, fortunately for her. Sometimes she would think it was hardly fair of those others to leave her alone in this way: then again she would remind herself that it was she who was responsible for her guest.

It was not that he confused her by an awkward or obstinate silence; on the contrary, he answered her freely enough, in a gravely courteous way; but he seemed to attach too much importance to what she said – he seemed to be too grateful for this special attention she was bestowing upon him. And then again she dared hardly look up; for those black eyes burned so – in a timid, startled way – regarding her as if they would read something behind the mere prettiness of her face and complexion and hair, and apparently quite unconscious of their own power.

At last the ladies rose from the table; and Mary said —

"I suppose you gentlemen will be going out on the terrace to smoke? I wish you would let us come with you. I have not smelt a cigar for months – and it is so delicious in the evening air."

There was not very much objection. Chairs were brought out from the hall; Frank Meredyth perched himself on the stone parapet; the evening air became odorous, for there was hardly a breath of wind coming up from the bay. And as they sate and looked at the wide expanse of water – with only a chance remark breaking the silence from time to time – it may have occurred to one or other of them that the summer twilight that lay over land and sea was growing somewhat warmer in tone. It was Mary who discovered the cause: the golden moon was behind them – just over the low, birch-crowned hill; and the pale radiance lay on the still water in front of them, and on the long spur of land on the other side of the bay, where there were one or two crofters' cottages and fishermen's huts just above the shore. And while they were thus looking abroad over the mystic and sleeping world, a still stranger thing appeared – a more unusual thing for Loch-garra, that is to say – certain moving lights out beyond the point of the headland.

"Look, Mary!" Käthchen cried. "But that can't be the steamer – she is not due till next Thursday!"

Whatever the vessel was, she was obviously making in for the harbour; for presently they could see both port and starboard lights – a red star and a green star, coming slowly into the still, moonlit bay.

"It is the Consuelo," Donald Ross said to Mary. "It is Lord Mount-Grattan's yacht: she has come down from Loch Laxford."

They watched her slow progress – this big dark thing stealing almost noiselessly into the spectral grey world; they saw her gradually rounding; the green light disappeared; there was a sudden noise of the reversal of the screw; then a space of quiet again; and at last the roar of the anchor. The rare visitor had chosen her position for the night.

Almost directly thereafter young Ross of Heimra rose and took leave of his hostess – saying a few words of thanks for so pleasant an evening. The others did not go indoors, however; the still, balmy, moonlight night was too great a temptation. They remained on the terrace, looking at the big black steam-yacht that now lay motionless on the silver-grey water, and listening for the occasional distant sounds that came from it.

But presently they saw a small boat put off from the shore, rowed by two men, with a third figure in the stern.

"That is Mr. Ross!" Käthchen exclaimed. "I know it is – that is his light overcoat."

"Can he be going away in the yacht?" Mary said suddenly.

"Not likely!" her brother struck in. "When you start off on a yachting cruise you don't go on board in evening dress." And then the young man turned to his male companion. "I say, Frank, don't you think that fellow was lying when he pretended not to know anything about the fishing in the Garra?"

It was an idle and careless question – perhaps not even meant to be impertinent; but Mary Stanley flamed up instantly – into white heat.

"Mr. Ross is – is a gentleman," she said, quite breathlessly. "And – he was my guest this evening – though you – you did not seem to treat him as such!"

Käthchen put her hand gently on her friend's arm.

"Mamie!" she said.

And Frank Meredyth never answered the question: this little incident – and a swift and covert glance he had directed towards the young lady herself – had given him something to think about.

CHAPTER V

ON GARRA'S BANKS

It soon became sufficiently evident that it was not solely for fishing and shooting that Mr. Frank Meredyth had come to Loch-garra; keepers, gillies, dogs, guns, fly-books occupied but little of his attention, while Mary Stanley occupied much; moreover, the zeal with which he prosecuted his suit was favoured by an abundance of opportunities. Indeed it must often have occurred to our country cousins – to those of them, at least, who have ventured to speculate on such dark mysteries – that courtship in a big and busy town like London must be a very difficult thing, demanding all kinds of subterfuges, plans, and lyings-in-wait. Or is it possible at all? they may ask, looking around at their own happy chances. The after-service stroll home on a Sunday morning, along a honeysuckle lane – the little groups of twos and threes getting widely scattered – is a much more secret and subtle thing than the crowded church-parade of Hyde Park, where every young maiden's features are being watched by a thousand amateur detectives. To sit out a dance is all very well – to take up a position on the staircase and affect to ignore the never-ending procession of ascending and descending guests; but it is surely inferior to the idle exploration of an old-fashioned rustic garden, with its red-brick walls and courts, its unintentional mazes, its leafy screens – while the tennis-lawn and the shade of trees, and ices and strawberries, hold the dowagers remote. And if these be the opportunities of the country, look at those of a distant sea-side solitude – the lonely little bays, the intervening headlands, the moonlight wanderings along the magic shores. Even in the day-time, when all this small world of Loch-garra was busy, there were many chances of companionship, of which he was not slow to avail himself. The Twelfth was not yet; the water in the Garra was far too low for fishing; what better could this young man do than go about with Mary Stanley, admiring her bland, good-natured ways, sympathising in her beneficent labour, and participating in it by the only method known to him – that is to say, by the simple process of purchase? One consequence of all which was that he gradually became the owner of a vast and quite useless collection of home-shapen sticks, home-knitted stockings, homespun plaids, and what not; although, being only the younger son of a not very wealthy Welsh baronet, Frank Meredyth was not usually supposed to be overburdened with cash. But he said he would have a sale of these articles when he went south; and if there were any profit he would return it to Miss Stanley, to be expended as she might think fit.

The truth is, however, that Mary was far from encouraging him to accompany her on her expeditions; and would rather have had him go and talk to the keepers about the dogs. For one thing, she did not wish him to know how remote this little community still was from the Golden Age which she hoped in time to establish. For another, she was half afraid that those people whose obduracy she was patiently trying to overcome might suddenly say among themselves, "Oh, here are more strangers come to spy and inquire. And these are the fine gentlemen who have taken away the shooting and the fishing that by rights should belong to Young Donald. We do not want them here; no, nor the Baintighearnaeither; let her keep to her own friends. We do not wish to be interfered with; we are not slaves; when her uncle bought Lochgarra, he did not buy us." And thus it was that she did not at all approve of those two young men coming with her to the door of this or that cottage, standing about smoking cigarettes, and scanning everything with a cold and critical Saxon eye: she wished that the Twelfth were here, and that she could have them packed off up the hill out of everybody's way.

Meanwhile, what had become of Donald Ross of Heimra? Nothing had been heard or seen of him since the moonlight night on which they had watched him go out to the Consuelo; and next day the big steam-yacht left the harbour. Mary, though not saying much, became more and more concerned; his silence and absence made her think over things; sometimes Käthchen caught her friend looking out towards Heimra Island, in a curiously wistful way. And at last there came confession – one evening that Fred Stanley and Frank Meredyth had gone off on a stenlock-fishing expedition.

"I hope I am not distressing myself about nothing, Käthchen," Mary said, "but the more I think of it the more I fear – "

"What?"

"That something happened to offend Mr. Ross the evening he dined here. Oh, I don't mean anything very serious – any actual insult – "

"I should think not!" said Käthchen. "I thought he was treated with the greatest consideration. He took you in to dinner, to begin with. Then you simply devoted yourself to him all the evening – "

"But don't you think, Käthchen," Mary said – and she rose and went to the window, evidently in considerable trouble – "don't you think that Fred and Mr. Meredyth – yes, and you, too – that you kept yourselves just a little too openly to yourselves – it was hardly fair, was it?"

"Hardly fair!" Käthchen exclaimed. "To leave you entirely to him? I wonder what young man would complain of that! I think he ought to be very grateful to us. If he had wished, he could have listened to Mr. Meredyth – who was most amusing, really; but as you two seemed to have plenty to say to each other – we could not dream of interfering – "

"But you never know how any little arrangement of that kind may be taken," Mary said, absently. "The intention may entirely be misunderstood. And then, brooding over some such thing in that lonely island may make it serious. I would not for worlds have him imagine that – that – he had not been well-treated. If you consider the peculiar circumstances – asked to a house that used to be his own – knowing he was to meet a nephew of my uncle – indeed I was not at all sure that he would come."

"Neither was I!" said Käthchen, with a bit of a laugh. "It was very generous of him, in my opinion: he must have had to make up his mind."

"Well, I will admit this," said Mary, with some colour mounting to her face, "that I put the invitation so that it would have been rather difficult for him to refuse – I – I asked him to come as a favour to myself. But that makes it all the worse if he has gone away with any consciousness of affront – and – and, as I say, brooding over it in that island would only deepen his sense of injury." She hesitated for a second or two, and then went on again, in a desperate kind of a way: "Why, for myself, the thinking over the mere possibility of such a thing has made me perfectly miserable. I don't know what to do, Käthchen, and that is the truth. If Fred and his friend weren't here I would go away out to Heimra – I mean you and I could go – so that I might see for myself why he has never sent me a line, or called. There must be something the matter. And as you say, it was a great concession to me – his coming to the house; and I can't bear the idea of anything having happened to give him offence."

"If you want to know," said the practical Käthchen, "why don't you get Fred to write and ask him over for a day's shooting?"

Mary was walking up and down: she stopped.

"Yes," she said, thoughtfully. "That might do – if Fred were a little reasonable. It would show Mr. Ross, at all events, that there was no wish to make a stranger of him."

Her two guests came home late; they had got into a good shoal of stenlock, and had been loth to give up. When they made their appearance they found supper awaiting them; and not only that, but the young ladies had let their dinner go by, in order to give them of their company; so they ought to have been in an amiable mood.

"Where did you go, Fred?" Mary asked, as they took their places at table.

"Oh, a long way," said he. "We got Big Archie's boat, and then we had her towed by the steam-launch: we made first of all for the headlands south of Minard Bay."

"Then you would be in sight of Eilean Heimra most of the time?" she said, timidly.

"Oh, yes."

"You did not see any one coming or going from the island?" she continued, with eyes cast down.

"No; but we were not paying much heed. I can tell you, those big stenlock gave us plenty of occupation."

"It is rather odd we should have heard nothing of Mr. Ross," she ventured to say.

"He may have gone up to London," Mr. Meredyth put in, in a casual kind of fashion. "Didn't you say he is studying for the Bar? Then he must go up from time to time to keep his terms and eat his dinners."

"No, no – not just now," Fred Stanley interposed, and he spoke as one having authority, for he was himself looking forward to being called. "There's nothing of that sort going on at this time of year: the next term is Michaelmas – in November. My dear Frank, do you imagine that that fellow Ross would go away from Lochgarra at the beginning of August? – why, it's the very cream of the shooting! – a few days in advance of the legal time – the very pick of the year! – especially if you have a convenient little arrangement with a game-dealer in Inverness." Then he corrected himself. "No, I don't suppose he carries on this kind of thing for money; I will do him that justice; he doesn't look that kind of a chap. More likely malice: revenge for my uncle having come in and robbed him of what he had been brought up to consider his own: perhaps, too, the natural instinct of the chase, which is strong in some people, even when the law frowns on them."

"I will confess this," Frank Meredyth struck in (for he noticed that Mary was looking deeply vexed, and yet was too proud to speak), "that if I had been born the son of a horny-handed peasant – or more particularly still, the son of the village publican – I should have been an inveterate poacher. I can't imagine anything more exciting and interesting; the skill and cunning you have to exercise; the spice of danger that comes in; the local fame you acquire, when late hours and deep draughts lead to a little bragging. A poacher? – of course I should have been a poacher! – it is the only thing for one who has the instincts of a gentleman, and no money. And in the case of that young Ross, what could be more natural, with all the people round about recognising that that is the inalienable part of your inheritance? The land may have gone, and crops, and sheep, and what not: but the wild animals – the game – the birds of the air – the salmon in the stream – they still belong to the old family – they were never sold."

"I beg your pardon – they were sold," said Fred Stanley, bluntly, "and whoever takes them in defiance of the law, steals: that's all about it."

"I dare say the lawyers could say something on behalf of that form of stealing," Frank Meredyth answered, good-naturedly, "only that they're all busy justifying the big stealings – the stealings of emperors, and statesmen, and financial magnates. However, I will admit this also: it is uncommonly awkward when you have poaching going on. It is an annoyance that worries. And you suspect everybody; and go on suspecting, until you can trust nobody; and you get disgusted with the whole place. Your abstract sympathy with the life of a poacher won't comfort you when you imagine that the moor has been shot over before you are out in the morning, and when you suspect the keepers of connivance. It isn't pleasant, I must say; indeed, it is a condition of affairs that can but rarely exist anywhere, for naturally the keepers are risking a good deal – risking their place, in fact – "

"I quite agree with you, Mr. Meredyth," Mary said at this point, with some emphasis. "Indeed, it is a condition of affairs that looks to me absurdly improbable. I should like to have some sort of definite proof of it before believing it. No doubt, there may be some such feeling as you suggest among the people – that Mr. Ross should still have the fishing and shooting: it is easy enough to believe that, when you find you cannot convince them that the land does not belong to him too; but it is quite another thing to assume that he takes advantage of this prevailing sentiment. However, in any case, isn't the remedy quite simple? Why shouldn't Fred ask him to go shooting with you? Surely there is room for three guns?"