"Is any one allowed to fish in that river who pleases?" she demanded.
"I was not aware of any one fishing, ma'am," said the keeper, very respectfully.
"But is there no one watching?" she demanded, again. "Can any poacher who chooses have the run of the stream? Does it belong to everybody? Is it common property? Because – because I merely wish to know."
She was somewhat perturbed and excited; she did not think she was being dealt with justly; and she saw in the grave and reticent manner of the head-keeper only an intention of screening the culprit whom she herself had by accident detected a little while before.
"The fishing in the Garra is not very good in the spring," said the weather-browned Hector, "and we were not thinking it was much use to have a water-bailiff whatever."
"But surely it is your business to see that no poaching goes on, either on the river or anywhere else? Surely that is your duty? And if there were no fishing, would anyone fish? – you may trust a poacher to know! I'm sure," she went on, with something of a hurt manner, "it is very little I ask. I only want to be treated fairly. I am trying to do my best for every one in the place – I wish to do what is right by every one. But then I want to be treated fairly in return. And poaching is not fair; nor do I think it fair that you, as a keeper, should make excuses for it, or try to screen anyone, whoever he may be."
The man's face became rather pale – even under the weather tan.
"If Miss Stanley would be wanting to get another gamekeeper," he said, slowly and respectfully, "I would not be asking to stay."
"Oh, you would rather leave than interfere with Mr. – " She did not complete the sentence. She turned away and walked to the window. The fact is, it had been a long and harassing day; her nerves had got unstrung; and all of a sudden a fit of helplessness and despair came over her; it seemed impossible. she could ever struggle against this misconstruction and opposition and dislike.
Kate Glendinning turned to the keeper.
"You need not wait, Hector," said she, in an undertone.
Then she went to her friend. Mary had broken down completely – and was sobbing bitterly.
"Mamie!"
"I – I am not used to it," she said, between her sobs. "All day long, it has been nothing but hatred – and – and I am not used to being hated. What have I done to deserve it? I wish to – to do what is right by every one – and – and I tried my – my very hardest to make friends with every one. It is not fair – "
"No, it is not," said Käthchen, and she took her companion by the hand and led her back into the room. "But you must not be disheartened all at once. Give them time. They don't understand you yet. And I will back you to win over people against any one I ever knew: the fact is, Mary, you have always found it so easy, that when you meet with a little trouble you are terribly disappointed. They don't hate you, those people; they don't know you – that is all."
And indeed the girl's naturally sunny temperament soon broke through these bitter mortifications.
"After all, Käthchen," she said, "I have not quite lost a day: I was forgetting that I made one friend." There was an odd smile shining from behind her tears. "It is true she is half-witted; but all the same I am glad that Anna Chlannach seemed to approve of me."
CHAPTER V.
THE MEALL-NA-FEARN BOG
And once again a wild, clear, breezy morning; the sea a more brilliant blue than ever; the heavy surge bursting like a bombshell on the rocks of Eilean Heimra, and springing some sixty or seventy feet in the air. Altogether a joyous and gladdening sight – from the several windows of this spacious room in the tower; but nevertheless Kate, who was far from being a foolish virgin, observed that the wind must have backed during the night to the south, and therefore she began to talk about waterproofs. For Mr. Purdie was leaving to-day; and the two girls, thrown upon their own resources, had planned an excursion to those portions of the estate they had not yet visited – the higher moorland districts; and of course that had to be accomplished on foot. They did not propose to take a guide with them; they would simply go along to the 'march' beyond the little hamlet of Cruagan, and follow the boundary line across the hills. Sooner or later they would strike either the Corrie Bhreag or Glen Orme, with the lower parts of which they were acquainted.
And so, with some snack of luncheon in their pocket and a leather drinking-cup, and with their waterproofs over their arm, they set out – the sunlight pleasant around them, an odour of seaweed in the air. This was to be a little bit of a holiday: for this one day, at least, there were to be no persistent and patient questions met by sullen replies, no timid proffers of friendship answered by obdurate silence. And yet as they neared the village, Mary was reminded of her perplexities, and griefs, and disappointments; for here was the solitary policeman of the place, standing outside the small building that served him for both police-office and dwelling-house. John, as he was simply called – or more generally, Iain – was not at all a terrible-looking person; on the contrary he was quite a young man, very sleek and fat and roseate, with rather a merry blue eye, and a general appearance of good-nature: a stout, wholesome-complexioned, good-humoured young man, who was evidently largely acquainted with the virtues of porridge and fresh milk. When Mary saw him, she said, —
"Well, Käthchen, if they're all in league against me, even my own gamekeepers, to screen the poaching that is going on, I will appeal to the policeman. He is bound to put down thieving of every kind."
"You'd better not, Mamie," was the instant rejoinder. "It would be very awkward if a question were asked in the House of Commons – about a Highland proprietor who had the shameless audacity to ask Her Majesty's own representative to watch a salmon-river in place of the ordinary keepers."
However, this project came to nothing in the present case; for as they drew near they found that the belted guardian of the peace was himself in dire trouble. An elderly woman – no doubt his mother – had opened an upper window in the small two-storeyed building; and she was haranguing and scolding him with an unheard-of volubility. What it was all about, neither Käthchen nor Mary had the least idea, for the old woman was rating him in Gaelic; but John, seeing the young ladies approach, grew more and more roseate and embarrassed. Of course he pretended not to hear. He gazed out towards Heimra Island. Then with his stick he prodded at the mass of seaweed by the roadside that was waiting there to be carted away. And then he smiled in a tolerant manner, as if all this tempest were rather amusing; and finally, not being able, in such humiliating circumstances, to face the two ladies, the upholder of the majesty of the law turned and beat a speedy retreat, hiding himself in the lower floor of the house until they should pass. So that on this occasion Mary had no chance of asking Iain whether he would catch poachers for her.
"I am sure," said she, as they were passing through the town, and over the Garra bridge, and up into the country beyond, "I do not care to preserve the game, if it were for myself alone. If I thought it would be really for the good of the people here, I would have every head of game on the estate destroyed, and every salmon netted out of the river. But you hear what they say themselves – many of them would never see money at all if it weren't for the gillies' wages, and the hiring of the ponies, and so on, in the autumn. Then the few deer that stray on to the ground, from the Glen Orme forest, they don't come near the crofts – they do no harm whatever, except, perhaps, to Mr. Watson's pasture, and he can easily get rid of them, if he likes, by saying a word to his shepherds. So that the shooting and the fishing are nothing but an advantage, and a very great advantage, to the people; and I tell you this, Käthchen, that I mean to preserve them as well as ever I can. And really it seems shameful that a gentleman in Mr. Ross's position should have so little self-respect as to become a common poacher – "
"You forget how he has been brought up – according to Mr. Purdie's account," Käthchen put in.
But Mary did not heed the interruption. She was very indignant on this point.
"It is quite excusable," said she, "for the poor, ignorant people about here to believe that the Rosses of Heimra are still the rightful owners of the land. They know nothing about the law courts and agent's offices in London. They only know that as far back as they have heard of, and down to their own day, the land has belonged to the Rosses; and their Highland loyalty remains staunch and true; it is not to be bought over by the stranger; and perhaps it is not even to be acquired by kindness – but we'll see about that in time. However, what I say is this, that I don't complain of these poor people having such mistaken ideas; but Mr. Ross knows better; he knows well enough that he has not the least shadow of right to anything belonging to the Lochgarra estate; and that if he takes a grouse, or a hare, or a salmon, he is constituting himself a common thief."
But now, and for an instant, she was stricken dumb. They had come in sight of the dried-up loch and the waste heap of stones that once was Castle Heimra; and this sad spectacle seemed to put some strange fancies into her head.
"Käthchen," said she, "do you think he does it out of revenge?"
Now Kate Glendinning herself was of Highland blood; and she made answer boldly —
"I have told you already, Mary, that if I were young Ross of Heimra, and such an injury had been done to me and mine – well, I should not like to say what I should be inclined to do in return. A sentimental grievance! – yes; but it is sentimental grievances that go deepest down into the Highland nature, and that are longest remembered. But then on the other hand it seems to me that shooting game or killing salmon is a very paltry form of revenge. That is not how I should try to have it out with Mr. Purdie – for who can doubt that it was Mr. Purdie destroyed the loch and the castle? – I saw his air of triumph when he told the story. No; poaching wouldn't be my revenge – "
"There is more than that, Käthchen," Mary said, absently. "It isn't merely defying the keepers, or being in league with them. There is more than that. I wonder, now, if it is he who has set those people against us, so that they will never regard us but as strangers and enemies? It is not natural, their sullen refusal of kindness. There is something hidden – something behind – that I don't understand." She was silent for a second or two: then she said – "I wonder if he thinks he can drive me out of the place by stirring up this bitter ill-will."
"There is one way to get over the difficulty," said Käthchen, lightly. "Ask him to Lochgarra House. He is a Highlander: if he has once sate down at your table, he cannot be your enemy afterwards."
A touch of colour rose to Mary's face.
"You forget the character he bears," she said, somewhat proudly.
And here they were at the Cruagan crofts; and the people were all busy in the wide stretch of land enclosed by a dilapidated fence of posts and wire. James Macdonald, the elderly crofter who had complained of the dyke-tax, was ploughing drills for potatoes; two or three women and girls were planting; and a white-haired old man was bringing out the seed-potatoes in a pail. The plough was being drawn by two horses wearing huge black collars – what these were for the two visitors could not imagine.
"Are you going to speak to him, Mary?" Kate asked in an undertone – as the plough was coming towards the end of the field.
"Yes, I am," said the young lady. "I want to see if the remission of the tax has had no effect on him. Perhaps he will have a little more English now."
There was no time to be lost – the horses were turning. She stepped across from the road.
"May I interrupt you for a moment? I want to ask you – "
Well, the grey-bearded man with the shaggy eyebrows did check the horses – perhaps he had meant to give them a rest at the end of the drill.
"Oh, thank you," said Mary, in her most gracious and friendly way. "I only wished to ask you whether Mr. Purdie had told you that there was to be no more tax for the dyke, and that there was to be fifteen years' of it given back."
The Russian-looking crofter regarded the shafts of the plough without removing his hands; and then he said —
"Yes – he was saying that."
Not a word of thanks; but perhaps – she generously thought – his English did not go so far.
"It is good dry weather for ploughing, is it not?" she remarked at a venture.
There was no reply.
"That very old man," she asked, "who is he – is he your father?"
"Yes."
"It seems a pity he should be working at his age," she went on, wishing to show sympathy. "He ought to be sitting at the cottage door, smoking his pipe."
"Every one will have to work," said the elderly crofter, in a morose sort of way; and then he looked at his horses.
"Oh well," said Mary, blithely, "I hope to be able to make it a little easier for you all. This land, now, how much do you pay for it? What is your rent?"
"It – thirty shillings an acre."
"Thirty shillings an acre? That is too much," said she, without a moment's hesitation. "Surely thirty shillings an acre is too much for indifferent land like that!"
The small, suspicious eyes glanced at her furtively.
"I not saying it too mich," he made answer, slowly.
"Oh, but I will consult Mr. Purdie about it," said she, in her pleasantest way. "My own impression is that thirty shillings an acre is only asked for good land. But I will inquire; and see what can be done. Well, good morning! – I mustn't take up your time."
She was coming away when he looked after her.
"I not saying – it – too mich rent," said he; and then he turned to his plough; and his laborious task was resumed.
"Isn't that odd?" said Mary, as they were going along the highway again. "None of them seem anxious to have their rents reduced. All day yesterday – not a single complaint!"
"Well, Mamie," said Käthchen, "I don't know; but I can guess at a reason – perhaps they are afraid to complain."
This set Mary thinking; and they went on in silence. She wished she knew Gaelic.
When they came within sight of the ancient boundary line, they left the road, struck across a swampy piece of land where there were a few straggling sheep, and then set to work to climb the bare and rocky hill-side. It was an arduous climb; but both the young women were active and lithe and agile; and they made very fair progress – stopping now and again to recover their breath. Indeed, it was not the difficulty of the ascent that was present to their mind; it was the terribly bleak and lonely character of this domain they were entering. Higher and higher as they got, they seemed to be leaving the living world behind them; and then, when they reached a level plateau, and could look away across this new world, there was nothing but an endless monotony of brown and purple knolls and slopes, covered with heather and withered grass, and then a series of hills along the horizon, with one or two lofty mountain-peaks, dark and precipitous, and streaked here and there with snow. There was no sign of life; nor any sound. As they advanced further and further into this wilderness, a strange sense of intrusion came over them; it was as if they had come into a land peopled by the dead – who yet might be regarding them; they looked and listened, as if expecting something, they knew not what. They did not speak the one to the other; indeed, they were some little way apart – those two small figures in this vast moorland solitude. Then they came to a tarn – the water black as night – not a bush nor the stump of a tree along its melancholy shores. Nor even here was there the call of a curlew, or the sudden whirr of a wild-duck's wings. At this point the girls had come together again.
"Who can wonder at the superstitions of the Highlanders?" said Käthchen, half absently.
Mary's answer was a curious one. She was looking at the black and oozy soil around her, with its scattered knobs of yellow grass.
"I suppose," she said, meditatively, "they send the sheep up here later on? But it must be wretched pasture even at its best."
All this time they had been shut out of sight of the sea by the higher ranges on their right; but by and by, when they had surmounted the ridge in front of them, they came in view of at least one new feature in the landscape – the river Garra, lying far below them, in a wide and empty valley. No hanging birch woods here, or deep pools sheltered by lofty banks, as in the neighbourhood where they had surprised the ghostly fisherman; but a treeless expanse of rather swampy-looking ground, with the river for the most part rushing over stony shallows.
"Did it occur to you, Käthchen, that we should have to cross that stream?" Mary asked, as they were descending the hill.
"Where is the difficulty?" said Käthchen, coolly. "We shall simply have to do as the country girls do, take off our shoes and stockings, wade over, and put them on again on the other side."
However, this undertaking they postponed for the present; for it was now mid-day; and they thought they might as well have luncheon when they got down to the side of the Garra. They chose out a rock wide enough to afford them seats; opened their small packages, and filled the leather drinking-cups at the stream. Up in these altitudes the water was not at all of a peaty-brown; it was quite clear, with something of a pale greenish hue; it had come from rocky regions, and from melting snow.
"It seems very odd to me," said Mary, as they contentedly munched their biscuits and sliced hard-boiled eggs, "that I should find myself in a place like this – a place that looks as if no human being had ever been here before – and yet be the actual owner of it. I suppose there never were any people living here?"
"They must have been clever if they did," said Käthchen. "To tell you the truth, Mary, the most part of the Lochgarra estate that I have seen is only fit for one thing, and that is to make heather brooms for sweeping kitchens."
"Ah, but wait," said the young proprietress, confidently. "Wait a little while, and you will see. Wait till you hear of all the improvements – "
"A railway to Bonar Bridge?" said Kate Glendinning, carefully lifting the leather cup.
"Now look here, Mephistopheles," said Mary, seriously. "I could murder you, without the least trouble. I am stronger than you; I could kill you, and hide you in a hole in the rocks, and you'd never be heard of again. So you'd better have a little discretion in flouting at my schemes. Ah, if you only knew! Why, listen to this, now: are you aware that there is a far greater demand for the Harris homespun cloth than the people can supply? I discovered that at Inverness. I was told that half the home-spun sold in London is imitation, made in Manchester. Well, I propose to let them have the real homespun – yes, and plenty of it! And more than that; I'm going to have homespun druggets, and homespun plaids; and blankets, and shawls, and patch-work quilts; and all the carding and spinning and weaving, and all the knitting of the stockings, to be done by my own people. And I'll have a sale-room in London; and advertise in the papers – that they're the real things, and not sham at all; and if I have any friends in the South, well, let them show themselves my friends by coming forward and helping us! No charity – far from it; they get value, and more than value, for their money; why, where is there any such stuff as homespun for gentlemen's shooting costumes, or for ladies ulsters; and where can you get such warmth in winter from any other kind of stockings? I don't like to see so many women working in the fields – especially the old women – and carrying those heavy creels of seaweed; I'm going to get them lighter work – that will pay them better; and when their sons or husbands are away at the East Coast fishing, they will be earning almost as much at home. What do you think of this now? For a good web of homespun I can get 5*s.* a yard from the clothiers themselves; and they will do very well when they get 1*s.* or 1*s.* 6*d.* a yard profit; but when I sell in my own store at 6*s.* 6*d.* a yard, then that is all the more coming back to us here at home. Oh, I tell you, you will soon hear plenty of spinning-wheels going, and shuttles clacking, at Lochgarra!"
It was a pretty enthusiasm; and Käthchen did not like to say anything. Indeed it was Mary herself who paused in this dithyrambic forecast. She had chanced to look at the gathering skies overhead.
"Käthchen," said she, "it was a good thing we brought our waterproofs."
Kate Glendinning followed the direction of her glance.
"Yes," she answered, "and I think we'd better be getting on."
Then here was the business of getting over the stream. Mary went down to the edge of the river; pulled off her shoes and stockings covertly (covertly, in this solitude, where there was not even a hawk poised on wing!) and then put one foot cautiously into the swift-running water. The consequence was a shrill shriek.
"No," she said, "I can't do it. It's like ice, Käthchen! I'm going to put my shoes and stockings on again; and find some stones or rocks somewhere that I can get across."
"You'll fall in, then," said the matter-of-fact Käthchen, who was by this time over the ankles, and making good progress – with her teeth clenched.
But Mary did not fall in. She sought out shallows; and made zig-zag experiments with the shingle and with bigger stones; and if she did get her feet wet before reaching the other side, it was gradually. Very soon it was not of wet feet they were thinking.
For when they ascended the opposite hill – entering upon a still wilder region than any they had as yet traversed – they became aware that all the world had grown much darker; and when at length they beheld the far line of the sea, it was of a curiously livid, or leaden, hue. The wind was blowing hard up on these heights; now and again there was a sting of moisture in it – the flying precursor of the rain. But the most ominous thing that met their gaze was a series of sickly-looking, formless clouds that seemed rising all along the western horizon; while the sea underneath was growing unnaturally black. Rising and spreading those clouds were, and swiftly; with a strange and alarming appearance – as if the earth were about to be overwhelmed: they looked close and near, moreover, though necessarily they must have been miles away. At first the two girls did not mind very much; all their strength was needed to withstand the buffetings of the wind; indeed, there was a kind of joyance in driving forward against the ever-increasing gale, though it told on their panting chests. They had to shout to each other, if they wished to be heard.
"Where is the 'march,' Mary?"
"I haven't seen any trace of it … this side of the Garra … But of course we're in the right direction … We must get into the Corrie Bhreag sooner or later."
Then came the rain – at first in flying showers, but very soon in thin gauze veils that swept along between them and the distant hills. Waterproofs were donned now; but they proved to be of little use – they were blown every kind of way, with an immensity of ballooning and flapping and clapping; while they materially impeded progress. But nevertheless the two wanderers struggled on bravely, hurling themselves, as it were, against these rude shocks and gusts, until their wet hair was flying all about their faces, and their eyes were smarting with the rain. Sometimes they paused to take breath – and to laugh, in a rueful way.
"There's nothing so horrid as wet wrists!" Mary called to her companion, on one of these occasions, as she shook her arms and hands.
"It won't be wrists only, very soon," said Käthchen, in reply, as they started on again.
The gale increased in violence, so that on the higher slopes ahead of them the heather was beaten and driven into long waves of motion; while even through those whirling veils of rain they could see the torn shreds and tatters of lurid cloud that crossed the greyer sky. The moaning of the wind rose and fell in remote and plaintive cadence; and then again it would mount up into a shrill and long-continued scream, that struck terror to the heart. For there was no more laughter now. All their dogged, half-blind struggle against the storm did not seem to lead them any nearer to any practicable way of getting down to the coast; and they were afraid to leave the line they had conceived to be the march – the imaginary line which they had hoped would bring them to the Corrie Bhreag, or, at furthest and worst, to some portion of Glen Orme. And if the dusk were to come down and find them in these trackless solitudes? During one of their pauses to recover breath, and to get their wet hair out of their eyes and lips, Mary took off her waterproof, and her companion followed her example; the worse than useless garments were secured by a lump of rock, and left to be searched for by a shepherd on the following day. Then forward again – with the wind moaning and howling across these desert wastes – with the driving rain at once blinding and stifling them – and a dim unspoken fear of the coming darkness gradually taking possession of their mind.
One odd thing was that though Mary Stanley was the taller and much the more strongly built of the two, she could not hold on as well as her smaller companion, who was in a measure familiar with the work of getting over heather-tufts and across peat-hags. Mary complained that the wind and the rain choked her – she could not breathe. And at last she stopped, panting, breathless, entirely exhausted with the terrible strain.
"Käthchen," she said, in a despairing sort of way, "I'm done. But don't mind me. I will stay here, until the storm goes over. If you think you can push on until you find some valley to take you down to the coast, then you will be able to get home – "
"Mamie, what are you talking about!" said Käthchen, indignantly. "I am going to keep by you, if both of us stay here all night. But we mustn't do that. Come, have courage!!
"Oh, I've a fearful amount of courage, but no strength," said Mary, with a very dolorous sort of smile. "Whenever I begin, I get caught by the throat. Well, here goes once more!"
And again they set forth with a desperate resolution, forcing themselves against the gale, though their own saturated clothes were dragging heavily upon them. But they had not gone on thus for many minutes when it somehow seemed as though this laborious stepping from one heather-tuft to another was becoming easier. Surely the land was trending down?
"Käthchen," Mary called out, brushing away the rain from her eyelashes, "here is a valley, and surely it must lead down to the sea. I don't know which it is – "
"Oh, never mind; we must take our chance," said Kate; "if we can get down to the coast-line anywhere, we shall be all right."
And so, notwithstanding their dire fatigue, they kept on now with lighter hearts; their progress becoming more and more easy, being all down hill. Not that this valley was anything in the nature of a chasm, but rather a hollow plain gradually sloping down to the west. And then again, the further they got away from the wild heights they had left behind them, the violence of the storm seemed to diminish; they were better able to breathe; and if the rain did continue to fall, they were about as wet as they well could be, so that did not matter.
Suddenly Kate Glendinning uttered a joyful cry.
"Look! Look!"
Far away down the wide valley, and through the mists of the rain, they could make out a small cottage or hut; and there were signs of life, too – wavering smoke that the wind blew level as it left the chimney. This welcome sight put new animation into their exhausted frames; and they pushed forward right cheerfully now, little thinking that they were walking into a far more deadly peril than any they had encountered among the hills.
For when they got further down the valley, they found that there intervened between them and the cottage a circular plain; and although it certainly looked marshy, it never occurred to them that they ought to go round by the side of it. How could their feet be wetter? So they made straight across, Käthchen leading the way, and jumping from clump to clump of heather, so as to avoid the little channels where the black ooze and water might be deep.
But by and by she was forced to go more cautiously; and had to hesitate before choosing her course. For those oozy channels had grown broader; and not only that, but the land she had reached was very far from being solid – it trembled in a mysterious way. She still held on, nevertheless, hoping to reach securer foundation; and now she was not following any straight line whatever, but seeking anywhere and everywhere for a safe resting-place for her foot. Matters speedily grew worse and worse. She could not make the slightest movement without seeing the earth vibrate for twenty yards around her – an appalling phenomenon; and at last she dared hardly stir, for a sickening feeling had come over her that a single step might plunge her into an unfathomable abyss.
"Käthchen," said Mary, in a low voice (she was close behind), "don't you think we should try to go back?"
But the girl seemed absolutely paralyzed with terror. She turned an inch or two, and looked helplessly around.
"I – I don't know the way we came," she said – and her eyeballs were contracted as if with pain. "Will you try, Mary?"
And then she made a strenuous effort to pull herself together.
"No, no! – let me go first!" she said in a kind of desperation, "I am lighter than you."
"No," Mary made answer, quite calmly, "I will go first."