White Heather: A Novel (Volume 1 of 3)

Well, the winter's day went by, and they had done good work on the hill. As the dusk of the afternoon began to creep over the heavens, they set out for the lower slopes on their way home; and very heavily weighted the lads were with the white creatures slung over their backs on sticks. But the dusk was not the worst part of this descent; the wind was now driving over heavy clouds from the north; and again and again they would be completely enveloped, and unable to see anywhere more than a yard from their feet. In these circumstances Ronald took the lead; the Doctor coming next, and following, indeed, more by sound than by sight; the lads bringing up in the wake in solitary file, with their heavy loads thumping on their backs. It was a ghostly kind of procession; though now and again the close veil around them would be rent in twain, and they would have a glimpse of something afar off – perhaps a spur of Ben Loyal, or the dark waters of Loch Meidie studded with its small islands. Long before they had reached Inver-Mudal black night had fallen; but now they were on easier ground; and at last the firm footing of the road echoed to their measured tramp, as the invisible company marched on and down to the warmth and welcome lights of the inn.

The Doctor, feeling himself something of a truant, went on direct to his cottage; but the others entered the inn; and as Ronald forthwith presented Mrs. Murray with half a dozen of the hares, the landlord was right willing to call for ale for the beaters, who had had a hard day's work. Nor was Ronald in a hurry to get home; for he heard that Maggie was awaiting him in the kitchen; and so he and Mr. Murray had a pipe and a chat together, as was their custom. Then he sent for his sister.

'Well, Maggie, lass,' said he, as they set out through the dark, 'did you see all the bairns safely off this morning?'

'No, Ronald,' she said, 'Meenie did not seem to want me; so I stayed at home.'

'And did you find Harry sufficient company for ye? But I suppose Miss Douglas came and stayed with ye for a while.'

'No, Ronald,' said the little girl, in a tone of some surprise; 'she has not been near the house the whole day, since the few minutes in the morning.'

'Oh,' said he, lightly, 'she may have been busy, now her father is come home. And ye maun try and get on wi' your lessons as well as ye can, lass, without bothering Miss Douglas too much; she canna always spend so much time with ye.'

The little girl was silent. She was thinking of that strange occurrence in the morning of which she was not to speak; and in a vague kind of way she could not but associate that with Meenie's absence all that day, and also with the unusual tone of her 'good-bye.' But yet, if there were any trouble, it would speedily pass away. Ronald would put everything right. Nobody could withstand him – that was the first and last article of her creed. And so, when they got home, she proceeded cheerfully enough to stir up the peats, and to cook their joint supper in a manner really skilful for one of her years; and she laid the cloth; and put the candles on the table; and had the tea and everything ready. Then they sate down; and Ronald was in very good spirits, and talked to her, and tried to amuse her. But the little Maggie rather wistfully looked back to the brilliant evening before, when Meenie was with them; and perhaps wondered whether there would ever again be a supper-party as joyful and friendly and happy as they three had been when they were all by themselves in the big gaily-lit barn.

CHAPTER XII

'WHEN SHADOWS FALL.'

The deershed adjoining the kennels was a gloomy place, with its bare walls, its lack of light, and its ominous-looking crossbeams, ropes, and pulley for hanging up the slain deer; and the morning was dark and lowering, with a bitter wind howling along the glen, and sometimes bringing with it a sharp smurr of sleet from the northern hills. But these things did not seem to affect Ronald's spirits much as he stood there, in his shirt-sleeves, and bare-headed, sorting out the hares that were lying on the floor, and determining to whom and to whom such and such a brace or couple of brace should be sent. Four of the plumpest he had already selected for Mrs. Douglas (in the vague hope that the useful present might make her a little more placable), and he was going on with his choosing and setting aside – sometimes lighting a pipe – sometimes singing carelessly —

'O we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie Peggie, O,On the banks o' Cart sae green, bonnie Peggie, O,Where the waters smoothly rin,Far aneath the roarin' linn,Far frae busy strife and din, bonnie Peggie, O' —

when the little Maggie came stealing in.

'Ronald,' she said, with an air of reproach, 'why are ye going about on such a morning without your jacket, and bare-headed, too?'

'Toots, toots, lassie, it's a fine morning,' said he indifferently.

'It was Meenie said I was not to let you do such foolish things,' the little lass ventured to say diffidently.

Of course this put a new aspect on the case, but he would not admit as much directly.

'Oh, well,' said he, 'if you bring me out my coat and bonnet I will put them on, for I'm going down to the Doctor's with two or three of the hares.'

And then she hesitated.

'Ronald,' said she, 'I will take them to Mrs. Douglas, if you like.'

'You?' said he.

'For I would give them to her with a nice message from you; and – and – if you take them, you will say nothing at all; and where is the compliment?'

He laughed.

'Ye're a wise little lass; but four big hares are heavy to carry – with the wind against ye; so run away and get me my coat and my Glengarry; and I will take them along myself, compliment or no compliment.'

However, as it turned out, Mrs. Douglas was not the first of the family he was fated to meet that morning. He had scarcely left the deershed when he perceived Meenie coming along the road; and this was an auspicious and kindly event; for somehow the day seemed to go by more smoothly and evenly and contentedly when he had chanced to meet Meenie in the morning, and have a few minutes' chat with her about affairs in general, and an assurance that all was going well with her. So he went forward to meet her with a light heart; and he thought she would be pleased that he was taking the hares to her mother; and perhaps, too, he considered that they might be a little more frank in their friendship after the exceeding good fellowship of the night of the children's party.

He went forward unsuspectingly.

'Good morning, Miss Douglas!' said he, slackening in his pace, for naturally they always stopped for a few seconds or minutes when they met thus.

But to his astonishment Miss Douglas did not seem inclined to stay. Her eyes were bent on the ground as she came along; she but timidly half lifted them as she reached him; and 'Good morning, Ronald!' she said, and would have passed on. And then it seemed as if, in her great embarrassment, she did not know what to do. She stopped; her face was suffused with red; and she said hurriedly – and yet with an effort to appear unconcerned —

'I suppose Maggie is at home?'

'Oh yes,' said he, and her manner was so changed that he also scarce knew what to say or to think.

And again she was going on, and again she lingered – with a sudden fear that she might be thought ungracious or unkind.

'The children all got away safely yesterday morning,' said she – but her eyes never met his; and there was still tell-tale colour in her cheeks.

'So I heard,' he answered.

'I am sure they must have enjoyed the evening,' she said, as if forcing herself to speak.

And then it suddenly occurred to him – for this encounter had been all too brief and bewildering for any proper understanding of it – that perhaps her mother had been reproving her for being too friendly with the people about the inn and with himself, and that he was only causing her embarrassment by detaining her, and so he said —

'Oh yes, I'm sure o' that. Well, good morning, Miss Douglas; I'm going along to give your mother these two or three hares.'

'Good morning,' said she – still without looking at him – and then she went.

And he, too, went on his way; but only for a brief space; presently he sate down on the low stone dyke by the roadside, and dropped the hares on the ground at his feet. What could it all mean? She seemed anxious to limit their acquaintanceship to the merest formalities; and yet to be in a manner sorry for having to do so. Had he unwittingly given her some cause of offence? He began to recall the minutest occurrences of the night of the children's party – wondering if something had then happened to account for so marked a change? But he could think of nothing. The supper-party of three was of her own suggestion; she could not be angry on that account. Perhaps he ought to have asked this person or that person over from the inn to join them, for the sake of propriety? Well, he did not know much about such matters; it seemed to him that they were very happy as they were; and that it was nobody else's business. But would she quarrel with him on that account? Or on account of his smoking in her presence? Again and again he wished that his pipe had been buried at the bottom of the loch; and indeed his smoking of it that evening had given him no enjoyment whatever, except in so far as it seemed to please her; but surely, in any case, that was a trifle? Meenie would not suddenly become cold and distant (in however reluctant a way) for a small matter like that? Nor could she be angry with him for taking her father away for a day on the hill; she was always glad when the Doctor got a day's shooting from anybody. No; the only possible conclusion he could come to was that Mrs. Douglas had more strongly than ever disapproved of Meenie's forming friendships among people not of her own station in life; and that some definite instructions had been given, which the girl was anxious to obey. And if that were so, ought he to make it any the more difficult for her? He would be as reserved and distant as she pleased. He knew that she was a very kindly and sensitive creature; and might dread giving pain; and herself suffer a good deal more than those from whom she was in a measure called upon to separate herself. That was a reason why it should be made easy for her; and he would ask Maggie to get on with her lessons by herself, as much as she could; and when he met Miss Douglas on the road, his greeting of her would be of the briefest – and yet with as much kindness as she chose to accept in a word or a look. And if he might not present her with the polecat's skin that was now just about dressed? – well, perhaps the American gentleman's daughter would take it, and have it made into something, when she came up in March.

The pretty, little, doll-like woman, with the cold eyes and the haughty stare, was at the front-door of the cottage, scattering food to the fowls.

'I have brought ye two or three hares, Mrs. Douglas, if they're of any use to ye,' Ronald said modestly.

'Thank you,' said she, with lofty courtesy, 'thank you; I am much obliged. Will you step in and sit down for a few minutes? – I am sure a little spirits will do you no harm on such a cold morning.'

In ordinary circumstances he would have declined that invitation; for he had no great love of this domineering little woman, and much preferred the society of her big, good-natured husband; but he was curious about Meenie, and even inclined to be resentful, if it appeared that she had been dealt with too harshly. So he followed Mrs. Douglas into the dignified little parlour – which was more like a museum of cheap curiosities than a room meant for actual human use; and forthwith she set on the crimson-dyed table-cover a glass, a tumbler, a jug of water, and a violet-coloured bulbous glass bottle with an electro-plated stopper. Ronald was bidden to help himself; and also, out of her munificence, she put before him a little basket of sweet biscuits.

'I hear the Doctor is away again,' Ronald said – and a hundred times would he rather not have touched the violet bottle at all, knowing that her clear, cold, blue eyes were calmly regarding his every movement.

'Yes,' she said, 'to Tongue. There is a consultation there. I am sure he has had very little peace and quiet lately.'

'I am glad he had a holiday yesterday,' Ronald said, with an endeavour to be agreeable.

But she answered severely —

'It might have been better if he had spent the first day of his getting back with his own family. But that has always been his way; everything sacrificed to the whim of the moment – to his own likings and dislikings.'

'He enjoys a day's sport as much as any man I ever saw,' said he – not knowing very well what to talk about.

'Yes, I daresay,' she answered shortly.

Then she pushed the biscuits nearer him; and returned to her attitude of observation, with her small, neat, white hands crossed on her lap, the rings on the fingers being perhaps just a little displayed.

'Miss Douglas is looking very well at present.' he said, at a venture.

'Williamina is well enough – she generally is,' she said coldly. 'There is never much the matter with her health. She might attend to her studies a little more and do herself no harm. But she takes after her father.'

There was a little sigh of resignation.

'Some of us,' said he good-naturedly, 'were expecting her to come over on Monday night to see the dancing.'

But here he had struck solid rock. In a second – from her attitude and demeanour – he had guessed why it was that Meenie had not come over to the landlord's party: a matter about which he had not found courage to question Meenie herself.

'Williamina,' observed the little dame, with a magnificent dignity, 'has other things to think of – or ought to have, at her time of life, and in her position. I have had occasion frequently of late to remind her of what is demanded of her; she must conduct herself not as if she were for ever to be hidden away in a Highland village. It will be necessary for her to take her proper place in society, that she is entitled to from her birth and her relatives; and of course she must be prepared – of course she must be prepared. There are plenty who will be willing to receive her; it will be her own fault if she disappoints them – and us, too, her own parents. Williamina will never have to lead the life that I have had to lead, I hope; she belongs by birth to another sphere; and I hope she will make the most of her chances.'

'Miss Douglas would be made welcome anywhere, I am sure,' he ventured to say; but she regarded him with a superior look – as if it were not for him to pronounce an opinion on such a point.

'Soon,' she continued – and she was evidently bent on impressing him, 'she will be going to Glasgow to finish in music and German, and to get on with her Italian: you will see she has no time to lose in idle amusement. We would send her to Edinburgh or to London, but her sister being in Glasgow is a great inducement; and she will be well looked after. But, indeed, Williamina is not the kind of girl to go and marry a penniless student; she has too much common sense; and, besides, she has seen how it turns out. Once in a family is enough. No; we count on her making a good marriage, as the first step towards her taking the position to which she is entitled; and I am sure that Lady Stuart will take her in hand, and give her every chance. As for their taking her abroad with them – and Sir Alexander almost promised as much – what better could there be than that? – she would be able to show off her acquirements and accomplishments; she would be introduced to the distinguished people at the ministerial receptions and balls; she would have her chance, as I say. And with such a chance before her, surely it would be nothing less than wicked of her to fling away her time in idle follies. I want her to remember what lies before her; a cottage like this is all very well for-me – I have made my bed and must lie on it; but for her – who may even be adopted by Lady Stuart – who knows? for stranger things have happened – it would be downright madness to sink into content with her present way of life.'

'And when do you think that M – that Miss Douglas will be going away to Glasgow?' he asked – but absently, as it were, for he was thinking of Inver-Mudal, and Clebrig, and Loch Loyal, and Strath-Terry, and of Meenie being away from them all.

'That depends entirely on herself,' was the reply. 'As soon as she is sufficiently forward all round for the finishing lessons, her sister is ready to receive her.'

'It will be lonely for you with your daughter away,' said he.

'Parents have to make sacrifices,' she said. 'Yes, and children too. And better they should make them while they are young than all through the years after. I hope Williamina's will be no wasted life.'

He did not know what further to say; he was dismayed, perplexed, downhearted, or something: if this was a lesson she had meant to read him, it had struck home. So he rose and took his leave; and she thanked him again for the hares; and he went out, and found Harry awaiting him on the doorstep. Moreover, as he went down to the little gate, he perceived that Meenie was coming back – she had been but to the inn with a message; and, obeying some curious kind of instinct, he turned to the left – pretending not to have seen her coming; and soon he was over the bridge, and wandering away up the lonely glen whose silence is broken only by the whispering rush of Mudal Water.

He wandered on and on through the desolate moorland, on this wild and blustering day, paying but little heed to the piercing wind or the driven sleet that smote his eyelids. And he was not so very sorrowful; his common sense had told him all this before; Rose Meenie, Love Meenie, was very well in secret fancies and rhymes and verses; but beyond that she was nothing to him. And what would Clebrig do, and Mudal Water, and all the wide, bleak country that had been brought up in the love of her, and was saturated with the charm of her presence, and seemed for ever listening in deathlike silence for the light music of her voice? There were plenty of verses running through his head on this wild day too; the hills and the clouds and the January sky were full of speech; and they were all of them to be bereft of her as well as he: —

Mudal, that comes from the lonely loch,Down through the moorland russet and brown,Know you the news that we have for you? —Meenie's away to Glasgow town.See Ben Clebrig, his giant frontHidden and dark with a sudden frown;What is the light of the valley to him,Since Meenie's away to Glasgow town?Empty the valley, empty the world,The sun may arise and the sun go down;But what to do with the lonely hours,Since Meenie's away to Glasgow town?Call her back, Clebrig! Mudal, call.Ere all of the young spring time be flown;Birds, trees, and blossoms – you that she loved —O summon her back from Glasgow town!

'Call her back, Clebrig! Mudal, call!' he repeated to himself as he marched along the moorland road; for what would they do without some one to guard, and some one to watch for, and some one to listen for, in the first awakening of the dawn? Glasgow – the great and grimy city – that would be a strange sort of guardian, in the young Spring days that were coming, for this fair Sutherland flower. And yet might not some appeal be made even there – some summons of attention, as it were?

O Glasgow town, how little you knowThat Meenie has wandered inTo the very heart of your darkened streets,Through all the bustle and din.A Sutherland blossom shining fairAmid all your dismal haze,Forfeiting the breath of the summer hills,And the blue of the northern days.From Dixon's fire-wreaths to Rollox stalk,Blow, south wind, and clear the sky,Till she think of Ben Clebrig's sunny slopes,Where the basking red-deer lie.Blow, south wind, and show her a glimpse of blueThrough the pall of dusky brown;And see that you guard her and tend her well,You, fortunate Glasgow town!

But then – but then – that strange, impossible time – during which there would be no Meenie visible anywhere along the mountain roads; and Mudal Water would go by unheeded; and there would be no careless, clear-singing girl's voice along Loch Naver's shores – that strange time would surely come to an end, and he could look forward and see how the ending of it would be:

The clouds lay heavy on Clebrig's crest,For days and weeks together;The shepherds along Strath-Terry's sideCursed at the rainy weather;They scarce could get a favouring dayFor the burning of the heather.When sudden the clouds were rent in twainAnd the hill laughed out to the sun;And the hinds stole up, with wondering eyes,To the far slopes yellow and dun;And the birds were singing in every bushAs at spring anew begun,O Clebrig, what is it that makes you glad,And whither is gone your frown?Are you looking afar into the south,The long, wide strath adown?And see you that Meenie is coming back —Love Meenie, from Glasgow town!

He laughed. Not yet was Love Meenie taken away from them all. And if in the unknown future the Stuarts of Glengask and Orosay were to carry her off and make a great lady of her, and take her to see strange places, and perhaps marry her to some noble person, at least in the meantime Ben Clebrig and Ben Loyal and the wide straths between knew that they still held in the mighty hollow of their hand this sweet flower of Sutherlandshire, and that the world and the skies and the woods and lakes seemed fairer because of her presence. And as regarded himself, and his relations with her? Well, what must be must. Only he hoped – and there was surely no great vanity nor self-love nor jealousy in so modest a hope – that the change of her manner towards him was due to the counsels of her mother rather than to anything he had unwittingly said or done. Rose Meenie – Love Meenie – he had called her in verses; but always he had been most respectful to herself; and he could not believe that she thought him capable of doing anything to offend her.

CHAPTER XIII

A NEW ARRIVAL

Very early one Sunday morning, while as yet all the world seemed asleep, a young lady stole out from the little hotel at Lairg, and wandered down by herself to the silent and beautiful shores of Loch Shin. The middle of March it was now, and yet the scene around her was quite summer-like; and she was a stranger from very far climes indeed, who had ventured into the Highlands at this ordinarily untoward time of the year; so that there was wonder as well as joy in her heart as she regarded the fairyland before her, for it was certainly not what she had been taught to expect. There was not a ripple on the glassy surface of the lake; every feature of the sleeping and faintly sunlit world was reflected accurately on the perfect mirror: the browns and yellows of the lower moorland; the faint purple of the birch-woods; the aerial blues of the distant hills, with here and there a patch of snow; and the fleecy white masses of the motionless clouds. It was a kind of dream-world – soft-toned and placid and still, the only sharp bit of colour being the scarlet-painted lines of a boat that floated double on that sea of glass. There was not a sound anywhere but the twittering of small birds; nor any movement but the slow rising into the air of a tiny column of blue smoke from a distant cottage; summer seemed to be here already, as the first light airs of the morning – fresh and clear and sweet – came stealing along the silver surface of the water, and only troubling the magic picture here and there in long trembling swathes.

The young lady was of middle height, but looked taller than that by reason of her slight and graceful form; she was pale, almost sallow, of face, with fine features and a pretty smile; her hair was of a lustrous black; and so, too, were her eyes – which were large and soft and attractive. Very foreign she looked as she stood by the shores of this Highland loch; her figure and complexion and beautiful opaque soft dark eyes perhaps suggesting more than anything else the Spanish type of the Southern American woman; but there was nothing foreign about her attire; she had taken care about that; and if her jet-black hair and pale cheek had prompted her to choose unusual tones of colour, at all events the articles of her costume were all correct – the warm and serviceable ulster of some roughish yellow and gray material, the buff-coloured, gauntleted gloves, and the orange-hued Tam o' Shanter which she wore quite as one to the manner born. For the rest, one could easily see that she was of a cheerful temperament; pleased with herself; not over shy, perhaps; and very straightforward in her look.