Donald Ross of Heimra (Volume 3 of 3)

"Ay, ay, indeed," he explained, "bekass I was thinking of going round to Ru Gobhar, to hef a look at the lobster-traps. But when I was seeing the bad weather threatening, and the glass down, then I was just going out to the boat to get the sail lowered again and the young lad brought ashore. It is just anything I would do to please Miss Stanley; but it is looking very, very bad; and we could not catch up on the Sirène whatever – aw, no! – it is no use to think my boat could get near to the Sirène, and her a first-class yat and a fine sailer. And Miss Stanley getting very wet, too, for there's a heavy sea outside – "

"Archie," she said, in an imploring voice, "if you are a friend of mine, you will try! You will try to stop the Sirène– cannot we make some signal to her? And you said the young lad was in the boat? – and the sail is up – we could get away at once – "

"Oh, if you wish it, mem, that is enough for me," he said; and presently he had got her into the stern of the small boat, had shoved off, and was pulling out to the big, brown-sailed lugger.

Archie had moorings in the bay, so that they lost no time in setting forth. And at first everything went well enough; for they had merely to beat out against the swirls of wind that came into the sheltered harbour; and the water was comparatively smooth. But when they got into the open they found a heavy sea running; and the lugger began to dip her bows and fling flying showers of spray down to the stern; while the bank of black cloud in the west was slowly advancing, heralded by torn shreds of silver that chased each other across the menacing sky. Big Archie took off his jacket and offered it to Miss Stanley, to shield her from the wet; but she obstinately refused, and bade him put it on again: her sole and whole attention was fixed on the phantom-grey yacht down there in the south, that was every other moment hidden from view by the surging crests of the waves. She had to cling to the gunwale, to prevent her being hurled from her seat; for the lugger was labouring sorely, and staggering under these successive shocks; but all the same her eyes, though they smarted from the salt foam, were following the now distant Sirène with a kind of wild entreaty in them, as though she would fain have called across the waste of waters.

"Can they see us, Archie? – can they see us?" she cried. "Could not the boy climb up to the mast-head and wave something?"

"Aw, no, mem," said Archie, "they are too far aweh. They are far too far aweh. And they are not knowing we are looking towards them."

"But if we keep right on to Heimra?" said she, in her desperation. "Surely they will see we are making for the island – they will come back – "

"They would just think it was the Gillie Ciotach going out to look after the lobster-traps," said Archie.

"Not in this weather!" she urged. "Not in this weather! They must see it is something of importance. They will see the boat going out to Heimra – they are sure to come back, Archie – they are certain to come back!"

"We will hold on for Heimra if you wish it, mem – but there's a bad sea getting up," said Archie, with his eye on those tumultuous swift-running masses of water, the crashing into which caused even this heavy craft to quiver from stem to stern. By this time the heavens had still further darkened around them – a boding gloom, accompanied, as it was, by a fitful howling of wind; while rain was falling in torrents. Not that this latter mattered very much, for they were all of them drenched to the skin by the seas that were leaping high from the lugger's bows; only that the deluge thickened all the air, so that it became more and more difficult to catch a glimpse of the now fast-receding Sirène. Archie paid but little attention to the yacht; he seemed to have no hope of attracting her notice; but he was greatly distressed about the condition of the young mistress of Lochgarra.

"If I had known, mem – if I had known early in the moarning – I would hef brought something to cover you," said he, in accents of deep commiseration. "It is a great peety – "

"Never mind about that, Archie," said she. "Don't you think they must know now that we are making for Heimra?"

"They are a long weh aweh," said Big Archie, shaking the salt water from his eyebrows and beard. "And they will be looking after themselves now. It was a stranche thing for Mr. Ross to put out with a storm coming on."

"Is there any danger, Archie?" she said, quickly. "Are they going into any danger?"

Archie was silent for a second.

"I am not knowing what would mek Mr. Ross start out on a moarning like this," said he. "And where he is going I cannot seh. But he is one that knows the signs of the weather – aw, yes, mem! – and it is likely he will make in for Gairloch, or Loch Torridon, or mebbe he will get as far down as the back of Rona Island —

"No, no, Archie, he must see us – he cannot help seeing us!" she exclaimed. "When we are getting close to Heimra, then he cannot help seeing us – he will understand – and surely he will come back!"

And meanwhile the gale had been increasing in fury: the wind moaning low and whistling shrill alternately, the high-springing spray rattling down on the boat with a noise as of gravel. The old lugger groaned and strained and creaked – burying herself – shaking herself – reeling before the ponderous blows of the surge; but Archie gave it her well; there was no timorous shivering up into the wind. His two hands gripped the sheet – the tiller under his arm; his feet were wedged firm against the stone ballast; his mouth set hard; his eyes clear enough in spite of the driving rain and whirling foam. And now this island of Heimra was drawing nearer – if the Sirène far away in the south had almost vanished.

"Look now, Archie! – look now, for I can see nothing," she said, piteously.

He raised himself somewhat; and scanned the southern horizon, as well as the heaving and breaking billows would allow.

"Aw, no, mem, the Sirène is not in sight at ahl – not in sight at ahl now," he said.

She uttered a stifled little cry, as of despair.

"Archie," she said, "could you not follow down to Loch Torridon?"

"Aw, God bless us, mem, the boat would not live long in a sea like this – it is getting worse and worse every meenit – "

"Very well," said she, wearily, "very well. You have done what you could, Archie: now there is nothing but to get away back home again."

But that was not at all Big Archie's intention.

"Indeed no, mem," said he, with decision, "I am not going aweh back to Lochgarra, and you in such a state, mem, when there is a good shelter close by, ay, and a house. It is into Heimra Bay that I am going; and there is the house; and Martha will hef your clothes dried for you, mem, and give you warm food and such things. And mebbe the gale will quiet down a little in the afternoon, or mebbe to-morrow it will quiet down, and we will get back to Lochgarra; but it is not weather for an open boat at ahl."

She made no answer. She did not seem to care. She sate there with eyes fixed and haggard: perhaps it was not the cliffs of Heimra she saw before her, but the wild headlands of Wester Ross, and a lurid and thundering sea, and a small phantom-grey yacht flying for shelter. She appeared to take no notice as they rounded the stormy point with its furious, boiling surge, and as they gradually left behind them that roaring waste of waves, escaping into the friendly quietude of the land-locked little bay. She was quite passive in Archie's hands – getting into the small boat listlessly when the lugger had been brought to anchor; and when she stepped ashore she set out to walk up to the house, he respectfully following. But she had miscalculated her strength. For one thing, she had not tasted food since the middle of the previous day; nor had she once closed her eyes during the night. Then she was dazed with the wind and the rain; her clothes clung to her and chilled her to the bone; the feverish anxiety of the morning had left her nerves all unstrung. Indeed, she could not drag herself up the beach. She went a few steps – hesitated – turned round as if seeking for help in a piteous sort of way – then she sank on to the rocks, and abandoned herself to a passion of grief and despair, from sheer weakness.

"I cannot go up to the house, Archie," she said, in a half-hysterical fashion, amid her choking sobs, "and – and why should I go – to an empty house? It – it is empty – you – you let the Sirène sail away – but – but never mind that – it is all my fault – more than you know. And I want you to leave me here, Archie – go away back to Lochgarra – there is no one cares what becomes of me – what does it matter to anyone? I do nothing but harm – nothing but harm – there is no need to care what becomes of me – "

The huge, lumbering, good-hearted fisherman was in a sad plight: he knew not in the least what to do; he stood there irresolute, the deepest concern and sympathy in his eyes, himself unable or not daring to utter a word. But help was at hand. For here was Martha, hurrying along as fast as her aged limbs would allow, and bringing with her a great fur rug.

"Dear, dear me!" she exclaimed, as she came up. "What could mek Miss Stanley venture out o' the house on a day like this?"

And therewith she put the rug round the girl's shoulders, and got her to her feet, and, with many encouragements and consolatory phrases, assisted her on her way up from the shore.

"I will get a nice warm bed ready for you at once, mem," said the old dame, "with plenty of blankets; and I will bring you something hot and comfortable for you, for you hef got ferry, ferry wet. Dear, dear me! – but we'll soon hef you made all right; for Mr. Ross would be an angry man, ay, indeed, if he was hearing that Miss Stanley had come to Heimra, and not everything done for her that could be done."

But when, after struggling through the blinding rain, they reached the porch, and when Martha had opened the front-door, Miss Stanley did not go further than the hall: she sank exhausted into the solitary chair there.

"Martha," she said, "do not trouble about me. I want to ask you a question. Did Mr. Ross say where he was going when he left in the Sirène this morning?"

"No, mem – not a word," Martha answered her, "about where he was going, or when he was coming back. It was a strange way of leaving – and in the face of such weather; but young people they hef odd fancies come in their head. Think of this, mem, that he never was near the house last night; he was aweh up the hill; and I'm feared that he was saying good-bye to his mother's grave, and that it will be long ere we see him back in Heimra again. For he is a strange young man – and not like others. But you'll come aweh now, mem, and get off your wet things: it is Mr. Ross himself would be terrible angry if you were not well cared for in this house."

The day without was sombre and dark; and the light entering here was wan: perhaps that was the cause of the singular alteration in Mary Stanley's appearance. She – who had hitherto been always and ever the very embodiment of buoyant youth, and health, and high spirits – now looked old. And her eyes were as if night had fallen upon them.

CHAPTER VIII

A MISSION

All that day the gale did not abate in fury; nor yet on the next; and even on the third day Gilleasbuig Mor still hesitated about trying to get back to Lochgarra, for the sea was running high, and the wind blew in angry gusts and squalls. But on the morning of this third day communication with the mainland was resumed; for shortly after eleven o'clock a lug-sail boat made its appearance, coming round the point into the little bay; and at a glance Archie knew who this must be – this could be no other than that venturesome dare-devil the Gillie Ciotach, who had doubtless been sent out by Miss Glendinning to gain tidings of her friend. Big Archie went down to the slip, to await the boat's arrival.

And when the Gillie Ciotach, whose sole companion was a little, old, white-headed man called Dugald MacIsaac, came ashore he was in a triumphant mood over his exploit, and had nothing but taunts and jeers for the storm-stayed Archie.

"Aw, God," said he (in Gaelic) as he fetched out the parcels that had come by the mail for Martha, "there is nothing makes me laugh so much as a Tarbert man when there is a little breeze of wind anywhere. A Tarbert man will hide behind a barn-door; and if a rat squeaks, his heart is in his mouth. For what is Loch Fyne? Loch Fyne is only a ditch. A Tarbert man does not learn anything of the sea; he runs away behind a door if there is a puff of wind blowing anywhere. And have you taken possession of Heimra, Archie? Are you going to stay here for ever? Are you never going back to Lochgarra?"

"Andrew," said Big Archie, quite good-naturedly, "you are a clever lad; but maybe you do not know what the wise man of Mull said: he said, 'The proper time is better than too soon.'

"Too soon? And is it too soon, then, for me to come over?" said the young man of the slashed forehead and the bold eye.

"You!" said Big Archie. "But who is mindful of you or what becomes of you? When I go over to Lochgarra, it is a valuable cargo I will have with me. That is what makes me mindful. You? – who cares whether you and your packages of tea go to the bottom?"

But the Gillie Ciotach was so elate over this achievement of his that, instead of bandying further words, he stood up to Big Archie, and began to spar, dancing from side to side, and aiming cuffs at him with his open hand. The huge, good-humoured giant bore this for a while, merely trying to ward off these playful blows; but at last – the Gillie Ciotach unwarily offering an opportunity – Archie suddenly seized him by the breeches and the scruff of the neck, and by a tremendous effort of strength heaved him off the slip altogether – heaved him. into a bed of seaweed and sand.

The Gillie Ciotach picked himself up slowly, and slowly and deliberately he took off his jacket. His brows were frowning.

"We will just settle this thing now, Archie," said he, stepping up on to the slip again. "We will see who is the better man, you or I. You can catch a quick grip – oh, yes, and you have strength in your arms; but maybe in an honest fight you will not do so well – "

"Oh, be peaceable! – be peaceable!" said Big Archie. "If you want fighting, go and seek out some of the Minard lads – though that would be carrying timber to Lochaber, as the saying is."

"Andrew, my son," said the little old man in the boat, "there is the Baintighearna come to the door."

The Gillie Ciotach glanced towards the porch of the cottage; and there, sure enough, was Miss Stanley – and also Martha.

"It is the luck of Friday that is on me," he said, with a laugh; "for I am the one that was to stop all the fighting! Well, come away up to the house, Archie; you are a friendly man; and if she asks why I was taking off my jacket, you will swear to her that I was only searching for my pipe. For a lie is good enough for women at any time."

They got up to the house, and the Gillie Ciotach delivered his parcels, and the newspapers, and one or two letters, and said that Miss Glendinning had sent him over to take back assurances of their safety.

"But I was telling the lady there was no chance of harm," said he; "for we saw Miss Stanley go on board, and we saw Archie's lugger standing in for Heimra, and every one knew there would be good shelter from the storm – "

"And the Sirène, Andrew – have you heard anything of the Sirène?" Mary asked quickly – and her eyes were alert and anxious, if the rest of her features looked tired and worn.

"Aw, the Sirène, mem?" said the Gillie Ciotach, confidently. "I am sure the Sirèneis just as safe as any of us. There's no harm coming to the Sirène, mem, as long as Mr. Ross himself is on board. It's the God's truth I'm telling ye, mem. Mr. Ross he would put in to Loch Broom or Loch Ewe; and he knows every anchorage to half a fathom; and, with plenty of chain out, and an anchor-watch, where would the harm be coming to him?"

"You have no doubt of it, Andrew?"

"It's as sure as death, mem!" said the Gillie Ciotach, with an almost angry vehemence.

She seemed a little relieved.

"And the sea outside, Andrew – is it very bad?"

"It's a bit wild," he admitted; and then he added, with a cool audacity: "but mebbe Miss Stanley would be for going back with me now, if Archie is too afraid to go out?"

"Oh, no, thank you," said she. "If Archie does not think it safe, I should not think of venturing. I will wait for him – thank you all the same."

Here there was an awkward pause. Mary left the little group, walking over to the edge of the plateau, to get a better view of the distant and troubled line of the sea. The Gillie Ciotach stood twirling his Glengarry bonnet. Then he said timidly to Martha —

"Are there any empty casks going back?"

"None but yourself, Andrew, my lad," said Martha, with a dark smile in her eyes.

At this he plucked up spirit.

"There's a way of curing that, as you know, Martha," said he. "And it's many's the time I have come out to Heimra, and I never before had to complain of going away like an empty cask."

"And you need not complain of it now, Andrew, my son," said Martha. "Come away round to the kitchen, and I will get you something – ay, and you will take something down to old Dugald, too. For although the master of the house is not in his own home, I know his wish; and it is I who would get the blame if any one went away hungry or cold from Eilean Heimra."

But it was not until the afternoon that Big Archie considered it prudent to cross to the mainland; and a rough passage they had of it. Mary, however, was on this occasion provided with an abundance of wraps; and was indifferent to wind, and spray, and rain. Possibly there may have been other reasons for her apathy.

Kate Glendinning was down at the slip beside the quay.

"Mamie," she exclaimed, when her friend landed, "what took you out to Heimra on that wild morning? I could not believe it when I was told. And I sent over to know you were safe as soon as I could get any one to go. What is the meaning of it all? If you had seen the people watching the boat! – they did not know what might happen."

"I cannot explain; and you must not ask, Käthchen, now or at any time," was her answer. "But tell me, has the gale done much damage? The harvest was looking so well in those little patches – "

"Damage?" said Käthchen. "It isn't damage, Mamie; it is destruction – devastation – everywhere. Oh, it is pitiable. The corn beaten down – the crofts flooded – well, well, the only thing to be said is that the poor people are not so disheartened as you might expect. Perhaps they are used to such bitter disappointments. I do believe this place is fit only for sheep – and hardly fit for them."

"What can I do, Käthchen," said Mary, with a curious listlessness, "beyond lowering their rent again? I suppose that is all I can do. They would not go to Manitoba with me: would they, Käthchen? Do you think they would? Would you, now?"

"Manitoba?" repeated Käthchen, looking at her. "What has happened, Mamie? I don't understand the way you speak. Why should you talk about Manitoba, when you were so set against it?"

"The climate appears to be so uncertain here," she said, rather wearily, as they were ascending the steps of Lochgarra House; "and – and the people have of late been more friendly towards me; and I would like to do what I could for them. There is nothing to keep me in this country. I would go away willingly with them – to Canada, or anywhere. But perhaps not you, Käthchen. I could not expect you. All your interests are in this country – or in England, at least. But if I were to sell Lochgarra, I could get money to take them all away to Canada, and buy good land for them, and see them comfortably established; and then I should have done my duty by them, as I intended to do when I came here at first. And – and I don't think I should care to come back."

She furtively wiped away the tears from her lashes: Käthchen did not notice. They were passing through the hall now.

"I cannot understand what you mean, Mamie. What is it? What has happened? Did you see Mr. Ross when you were at Heimra? I heard that the Sirène had left the morning you went out – and I took it for granted that Mr. Ross had gone with her – "

"Käthchen, to please me," she said, beseechingly, "will you never mention Heimra again? Mr. Ross is away – and – and I have been to the island for the last time; that is all."

When they went into the room, she threw herself down on a couch, and put her clasped hands on the arm of it, and hid her face. She was not crying; she merely seemed overcome with fatigue and lassitude. Kate Glendinning knelt down beside her, and with gentle fingers caressingly stroked and smoothed the beautiful golden-brown hair that had been all dishevelled by the wind.

"What is it, Mamie?"

"Tell me about the farms, Käthchen," was the answer, uttered in a hopeless kind of way. "I don't know anything about farm work, except what I have been told since I came here. Are the crops so completely destroyed? Would not fine weather give them another chance? Surely entire ruin cannot have been caused by one gale – gales are frequent on this coast – "

"This one came at a bad time, Mamie," said her companion; "and a great part of the corn will have to be cut and given to the cows. But why should you distress yourself unnecessarily? It was none of your fault. You have done everything for these poor people that could be devised. And, as I tell you, they seem used to misfortunes of this kind; there is no bewailing; their despondency has become a sort of habit with them – "

"Send for Mr. Purdie: I wish to see him" – this was what came from those closed hands. But the next moment she had thrown herself upright. "No!" she said, fiercely. "No, I will not see Mr. Purdie. With my consent, Mr. Purdie shall never enter this house again."

"Mr. Purdie left on the very day you went out to Heimra," said Käthchen, gently; and then she went on: "You are hiding something from me, Mamie. Well, I will not ask any further. I will wait. But I am afraid you are very much fatigued, and upset, and I can see you are not well. Now will you be persuaded, Mamie! If you will only go to bed you will have a far more thorough rest; and I will bring you something that will make you sleep. Why, your forehead is burning hot, and your hands quite cold! – and if you were to get seriously ill, that would be a good deal worse for the crofters than the flattening down of their corn!"

She was amenable enough; she consented to be led away; she was ready to do anything asked of her – except to touch food or drink.

And yet the next morning she was up and out of the house before anyone was awake, and she was making away for the solitude of the hills. She wished to be alone – and to look at the wide sea. She walked slowly, but yet her sick heart was resolute; the arduous toil of getting up the lower slopes and corries, filled with bracken, and rocks, and heather, did not hinder her; she turned from time to time to look, absently enough, at the ever-broadening plain of the Atlantic, rising up to the pale greenish-turquoise of the sky. And in time she had got over this rough ground, and had reached the lofty and sterile plateaus of peat-bog and grass, where, if it was loneliness she sought, she found it. No sign of life: no sound, except the plaintive call of a greenshank from a melancholy tarn: no movement, save that of the silver-grey masses of cloud that came over from the west. But away out yonder was the deserted island of Heimra; and far in the south were the long black promontories – Ru-Minard, Ru-Gobhar, and the rest – behind which a boat would disappear when it left for other lands. And had she heard of the Fhir-a-Bhata? Did Kate Glendinning know of the song that is the most familiar, the greatest favourite of all the West Highland songs; and had she told her friend of the maiden who used to go up the cliffs, day by day, to watch for the coming of her lover? —

'I climb the mountain and scan the ocean,For thee, my boatman, with fond devotion:When shall I see thee? – to-day? – to-morrow?Oh, do not leave me in lonely sorrow!Broken-hearted I droop and languish,And frequent tears show my bosom's anguish:Shall I expect thee to-night to cheer me?Or close the door, sighing and weary.'

This, at least, Kate Glendinning soon began to learn – that nearly every morning now Mary left the house, entirely by herself, and was away by herself, in these desolate altitudes. It was clear she wished for no companionship; and Käthchen did not offer her services. Nor was any reference made to these solitary expeditions. The rest of the day Mary devoted herself to her usual work – increased, at this time, by her investigations into the extent of the injury done by the gale: as to the rest there was silence.