Yes, outwardly she was quite calm; but dismay had possession of her too. For the whole world underneath felt so strangely unstable; it shivered even as she stood; and as for going back the way they came – why, it seemed to her that the smallest movement in any one direction must necessarily cause this quaking morass to open like the sea and engulf them for ever. She had undertaken to go first; but whither was she to go? When she put out a foot tentatively, the solid earth seemed to slide away from her in billows. Again and again she tried; and again and again she instinctively drew back – her whole frame trembling like the trembling soil beneath her; until at last she stood speechless and motionless, turning strange eyes towards Käthchen – eyes that asked a question her white lips could not utter. And the dusk was now coming over the world.
But help was near. They were suddenly startled by a sound – a distant cry – and at the same moment they caught sight of a man who had come running from the direction of the cottage. As soon as he perceived he was seen, he held up both arms: it was a signal to them not to move – as if movement were possible to them in this prostration of fear! He came along with an incredible rapidity, by the outskirts of the morass, until he was opposite them, and then he ventured in a little distance. But he did not attempt to approach them; with his hand he directed them which way to go; and they – their heart in their mouth the while – obeyed him as well as they could. By the time they got near to where he was waiting, they found themselves with some firmer consistency under their feet; and then, without a word, he turned and led the way off the morass, they following. There he paused for a second, to give them a brief direction.
"You must keep along the side; it is very dangerous," he said, in a somewhat cold manner.
But in an instant Mary had divined who this was. The young man with the pale, clear-cut features and coal-black eyes belonged to no shepherd's hut.
"I – I want to thank you, sir," she said, breathlessly (he had raised his cap to them slightly, and was going away). "If it had not been for you, what should we have done? It is a dreadful place – we were afraid to move – "
He glanced at her and her companion with some swift scrutiny.
"You are wet," said he, in the same distant and reserved fashion. "You will find a fire in the widow's cottage."
"You might show us the way," said Käthchen, half-piteously. "We are frightened."
After that he could not well leave them; though, to be sure, the way to the cottage was plain and easy enough, so long as they kept back from the dangerous Meall-na-Fearn bog. He walked ahead of them, slowly; he did not attempt to speak to them. His demeanour had not been unfriendly; on the contrary, it had been courteous; but it was courtesy of a curiously formal and reticent kind. Perhaps he had not known who these strangers were when he came so quickly to their help.
And in truth the two girls could hardly follow him; for now all the enfeeblement of the terror they had suffered had come upon them; they were no longer strung up by a shuddering apprehension of being entombed in that hideous morass; and the previous fatigue, physical and nervous, that they had fought against so heroically, was beginning to tell now, especially upon Mary. At length she did stop; she said "Käthchen! Käthchen!" in a low voice; her figure swayed, as if she would fall to the earth; and then she sank to her knees, and burst into a wild fit of hysterical weeping, covering her face with her hands. Their guide did not happen to notice: he was going on: and it was becoming dark.
"Stay a moment, sir!" said Käthchen, in tones of indignant remonstrance. "My friend is tired out."
He came back at once.
"I beg your pardon," said he, gravely. "Tell her it is only a little way further. I am going on to get something ready for you."
And he did go on; so that it was left for Käthchen to encourage her companion, and subdue this nervous agitation.
"It is only the cold, Käthchen," said Mary, who was trembling from head to foot. "I suppose you are wet through, too."
But indeed the cottage was quite close by now; they made their way slowly; when they reached it, the door was open; and here was the young man, with his sailor's cap in his hand, giving a few further directions, in Gaelic, to an old woman and a young girl of thirteen or fourteen who appeared to be the sole occupants of the earthen-floored hut. There was a peat-fire burning, and a pannikin slung over it. The old woman went into the other apartment – the "ben" of the cottage – and returned with a black bottle, and some sugar; and presently she had brewed a most potent liquor which, in two tea-cups, she presented to the young ladies, and insisted on their swallowing. They were seated on a rude bench by the grateful warmth of the peat; they were made to finish this fiery draught; and here were oat-cakes and milk besides. Life seemed slowly to come back to them – to stir in their veins. But the young man who had guided them hither? Well, he had disappeared.
After some little time Käthchen happened to turn and look round.
"Where has the gentleman gone?" she asked.
It was the young girl with the jet-black hair and the wild, timid eyes who made answer.
"I was told to take the ladies to Lochgarra House," said she, in excellent English, and with a very pretty pronunciation.
"You? It is nearly dark!" Käthchen exclaimed. "Why did he leave us?"
But here Mary interposed in her mild, suave fashion; and she regarded the girl with kindly eyes.
"Yes, I am sure you will be able to show us the way very well," said she. "Only you must tell your mother – is she your mother?"
"My grandmother, lady," was the answer.
"Well, tell your grandmother that you must stay the night at Lochgarra House; you cannot come back here so late. We will send you along in the morning; or I will come with you myself."
But the old grandmother knew a little English too.
"Yes, yes, indeed, indeed," said she. "Whatever the ladies will be pleased."
And by and by they set out; the sure-footed young mountaineer acting as their guide. Night had fallen now, and there were no stars; but after they had gone on some time they could make out the sound of the sea – and it was a welcome sound, for it told them they were nearing the road that here runs all along the coast. And indeed it was not until they were actually in the highway that it occurred to Kate Glendinning to ask how far they had still to go before they got to Lochgarra.
"It will be about seex miles, or more than five miles whatever," was the answer.
"Six miles!" said Käthchen, faintly. "I wish we had stayed at your grandmother's cottage. Mamie, shall you ever be able to manage it?"
"I hope so, Käthchen," Mary said, though not very joyfully. "I am a little warmer now; and there is less wind blowing."
And so they went on – the unseen sea thundering beneath them in the dark, along the iron-bound coast – the wind sometimes rising into a mournful moan, but bringing no rain with it now. It was a long and weary tramp; but they were on a good road; and their brave little guide, whatever she may have thought of the darkness, went forward unhesitatingly.
Then of a sudden they beheld two points of fire away ahead of them; and presently there was a sound of wheels.
"I will give £20 for the loan of that carriage," said Mary, "whosesoever it is!"
"Why," said Käthchen joyfully, "in this neighbourhood, whose can it be but your own?"
And indeed it was. And not only that, but here was the gentle-spoken Barbara, profuse of compassion and pretty speeches; and she had brought with her an abundance of blankets – not shawls and wraps, or any feminine knickknackery – but substantial and capacious blankets, along with many smaller comforts and cordials. And when they had all four got into the shut landau (for the girls would not allow their young guide to go on the box) Mary said, —
"But who took the news to Lochgarra House, Barbara? Who told you to bring the carriage?"
"Oh, just the young master himself," said Barbara, with smiling eyes, as she was busy with her ministrations. And then she corrected herself. "It was just young Mr. Ross of Heimra. And did Miss Stanley not know who he was?"
But Miss Stanley had known very well. And Käthchen had guessed.
CHAPTER VI.
GILLEASBUIG MÒR
Käthchen was standing at the window, looking out upon the wild and wayward sea, that was all brilliantly dappled with sun and cloud, while Mary was at her dressing-table, preparing to go down to breakfast. It was a blowy and blusterous morning, after the storm; but the welcome sunlight was abroad again; and the heavens shone serene and fair.
"Never no more," Käthchen was solemnly remarking, as she regarded the wide plain of hurrying waves and the white sea-birds that dipped and sailed and circled in the light, "never no more shall I have a word to say against smuggled brandy. By rights, Mary, you and I ought both to be in a raging fever this morning; and you look as well as ever you did in your life, and I have only a little bit of a headache. Nor against poaching: I have nothing to say against poaching – when it suddenly produces somebody to get you out of a hideous and horrible morass, worse than any quicksand that ever I heard of. Do you know, I hardly dared put my foot to the floor this morning: I was afraid that frightful sensation would come back, as if I were standing on nothing, and just about to sink. Wasn't it terrible? I know I shall dream about it to my dying day." And then she said: "I wonder what took young Ross of Heimra up to that out-of-the-way place? Not poaching; for he had neither rod nor gun."
"More likely selling brandy to that old woman," said Mary; and then she added, with a touch of scorn: "A pretty occupation for a Highland gentleman!"
"Well, Mary," said Käthchen, reflectively. "I confess that story does not sound to me true. I should like to have some proof before believing it. No doubt it is just possible he may have wanted to make up to these poor people for Mr. Purdie having banished the illicit stills; and perhaps he could not afford to get them spirits for nothing; and so he may charge them what he himself has paid. But it is not like what a Highland laird would do, however poor he might be – and in a kind of way he still stands in the position of laird towards these people. No, it does not sound probable; but anyhow I mean to find out – if we are going along to-day to thank the old woman for her kindness of last night. And whether it was poaching, or smuggling, or whatever it was, that took young Mr. Ross up to that hut, it was a very lucky thing for us: we should never have seen the morning if we had been left there."
"That is true enough," Mary admitted; but then she went on to say, with some asperity: "At the same time, a favour is twice a favour when it is graciously conferred. He seemed to me a most ill-mannered young man. I doubt whether he would have come near us at all if he had known who we were."
"Oh, I don't agree with you – not in the least!" said Käthchen, warmly. "I thought he was most courteous, and – and respectful. Remember, we were entirely strangers to him. And just think of his going all the way to Lochgarra to get the carriage sent for us – and very quickly he must have done it, too."
But Mary had not a word in favour of this young man whom she suspected of far worse offences (in her eyes) than killing salmon or bringing smuggled brandy into the district: she suspected him, in truth, of stirring up wrath and ill-will, and setting these people against her.
"I suppose," she said, rather coldly, "we must thank him, if we should see him."
"I, for one, mean to do so, and very heartily," Käthchen said at once. "I think he was most kind and considerate – if – if a little – a little reserved. And not at all the wild savage I had expected – most distinguished-looking, I should call him – "
"Come away down to breakfast, Käthchen," said Mary, taking her friend by the arm: she would hear no more on that subject.
In the hall they encountered the little Highland lass who had been their guide on the previous night; and she, looking up with timid eyes towards this tall and beautiful lady whose smile was so gracious and winning, said —
"Am I to be going home now?"
"Home?" said Mary. "Have you had your breakfast?"
"Oh, yes, indeed."
"Very well, you need not go yet; you may as well wait and come with us in the carriage – for we want to thank your grandmother for her kindness to us. You can amuse yourself in the garden, if you like, until we are ready."
She was obediently going away, but Käthchen stopped her.
"I don't think you ever told us your name."
"Just Isabel," said the little maid, in her pretty fashion.
"Of course you know Mr. Ross?" was the next question.
"Oh, yes."
"What was he doing up at your cottage last night?"
"Käthchen!" said Mary; but the little girl did not notice the interruption: she answered quite simply, —
"He came up to ask about the cow."
"What cow?"
But here Isabel did begin to look a little frightened; and she glanced anxiously at Miss Stanley.
"Perhaps the lady will be angry – " she said, with shrinking eyes.
"Oh, no, she won't be angry," Käthchen interposed at once. "What about the cow? Tell me about the cow."
"It was my mother's cow that got into the bog and was drowned – '
"The bog we strayed into?" Käthchen exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that cattle have been swallowed up in that place?"
"Ay, many and many a one," said the little girl.
"I'll have it fenced round at once," said Mary, in her usual prompt and emphatic way, "no matter what it costs!"
"And the cow?" said Käthchen, encouragingly, to the little Highland lass. "What did Mr. Ross want to know about the cow?"
"Mr. Ross," continued Isabel, "he was sending a message that my mother would ask Mr. Purdie and the lady for a cow in place of that one, and the money to be paid back bit by bit as we could do it; yes, and Mr. Purdie was to be asked for the cow; and Mr. Ross he came up last night to see if we were to get the cow. But we were not hearing about it from any one."
Mary's face flushed with vexation.
"Why was I not told about this?" she said, turning indignantly to Käthchen. "What right had Mr. Purdie to decide – and go away without saying a word? I suppose he refused? – and that was to be all of it!"
But the little girl, hearing the lady talk in these altered tones, grew frightened; and tears started to her eyes.
"Please, I was not asking for the cow," she said, piteously; for she knew not what terrible mischief she had done. "I was not intending to make the lady angry – "
Mary turned to the girl, and put her hand in a kindly way on the raven-black hair.
"Don't you be alarmed, Isabel," she said, with a reassuring smile. "You have done no harm; you were quite right to tell me the story. And you need not be afraid; your mother shall have the cow; perhaps even two of them, if the byre is big enough. Now go into the garden and amuse yourself, until you hear the carriage come round."
However, it may here be said that in this instance Mr. Purdie was in no wise culpable. It appeared that the widow MacVean had two days before gone over to Cruagan, where she had a married daughter, in order to help in the fields; and her only chance of presenting the petition was by intercepting the factor on his way homeward. Whether she did or did not present the petition was of no immediate consequence: Mary had resolved upon offering up this cow, or perhaps even two cows, as a sort of sacrificial thanksgiving for her deliverance from the Meall-na-Fearn bog.
After breakfast they set out, Isabel seated beside the driver. And once again they came in sight of the Minard township, with its poor little crofts on the rocky soil, and the long sweep of white sand where, the tide being out, the people were busy with their sickles cutting the seaweed from the rocks.
"I wonder," said Mary, meditatively, "if I couldn't revive the kelp-burning?"
"Oh, no," said Käthchen (who did not quite understand how indefatigable the young proprietress had been in qualifying herself for her new position). "That is all over now. Those were the grand days for the Highlands – for both the landlords and the people; but modern chemistry has spoiled all that."
"You don't know, then," said Mary, quietly, "that kelp-burning is carried on in some places at this moment? It is, though. Over in South Uist the crofters get from £2 10s. to £3 a ton for kelp. But perhaps they need all the seaweed they can get here for their crofts, or perhaps it isn't the right kind of tangle: I must find out about that."
They drove as far as they could along the road; and they had to descend from the carriage, to make the rest of their way on foot. And strange it was that the moment the two girls left the highway, and found themselves upon the yielding heather, they betrayed an unmistakeable alarm – looking all around them as if they feared to be betrayed into some hidden quagmire. But indeed at this point the land consisted chiefly of rocks and peat and stones; and gradually they got accustomed to following their sure-footed young guide who was going up the hill-side with the lightest of steps. Long before they had climbed to the cottage, they saw the old woman come out to scatter some remains of porridge to the hens: a pleasant-looking old dame she was, with silvery-grey hair and a rennet complexion; moreover (whether she had expected them or not) she was very tidily dressed – a clean white "mutch," a short-skirted blue gown, a white apron, and red stockings. When she saw the strangers, she remained outside; and when they came toiling up she saluted them with a grave and gentle "good moarning!" But beyond returning that salutation, Mary did not enter into further talk just then. Her eyes were drawn with a morbid fascination to the black morass that had so nearly proved fatal to her and her companion. She seemed to feel herself once more standing on that trembling soil, unable to move in any one direction, the darkness coming down. And had the darkness fallen, what would the morning have seen? The morning would have dawned upon that level waste just as it was now – silent, empty, all its secrets sucked down and buried for ever and ever. A hideous and lingering death: the slow torture of the long and sombre hours, before utter exhaustion came, and despair, and a swooning into the unknown. She shivered a little: then she turned to the old grandmother, who was talking to Käthchen with such English as she could muster.
"Yes," she was saying, "my daughter, she over at Cruagan – "
"And so perhaps she did not speak to Mr. Purdie about the cow?" Mary interposed. "Very well. That's all right. Little Isabel was telling me about the cow that was lost. Well, I will see that you have one in its place."
The old woman could not speak; the withered, weather-wrinkled face wore a pained look, as if she were trying not to cry; and she furtively wiped her hand on her apron and timidly held it out – it was by shaking hands that she could best express her thanks. And here was an extraordinary thing! – here was actual gratitude, the very first symptom of it that Mary Stanley had encountered since she came to the place. But the next moment she was saying to herself bitterly:
"Why? Why is this old woman friendly? Because she saw that Mr. Ross of Heimra condescended to be civil to me yesterday evening. If he throws a word to me, then I am to be tolerated! But if I had come here by myself, I might have offered to double the size of her byre, and give her two cows instead of one, and there would have been nothing but sullen looks and silence. Was I not warned the moment I set foot in the place? It's Donald Ross of Heimra who is their laird. I am a stranger, and an enemy."
And now it was Kate Glendinning's turn to make a few discreet inquiries: for the allegation that a Highland gentleman would condescend to sale and barter was still rankling in her soul.
"Well, Mrs. MacVean," said she pleasantly, "that was very excellent brandy you gave us last night, and very welcome, too: I suppose we should have died of the cold and wet if you had not given us the hot drink. But where did you get brandy in an out-of-the-world place like this?"
An alarmed expression came into the old woman's face, though she endeavoured to conceal it. She looked away down the hill-side, and said vaguely:
"It was – in the house. Oh, ay – in the house."
"Yes; but where did you get it?" Kate asked.
There was a moment of silence – and distress.
"The brandy? – Mr. Ross – he ordering me to give it to you."
"Oh, yes," said the young lady, in the same off-hand sort of way, "and it was very thoughtful of him – and very kind of you. It seemed to bring us back to life again. I don't know what we should have done without it. I was only wondering where you got such good brandy in this part of the Highlands."
The old woman looked anxiously from the one to the other: were they trying to entrap her? – even after their generous promise that she should have the cow.
"Oh, ay," she said, still clinging desperately to those evasive phrases, "the brandy – it in the house – and – and Mr. Ross, he ordering me to give it – and any one very pleased, whatever he wishes. And the ladies – very, very wet and cold – and a long weh home to Lochgarra – "
"Come, come, Mrs. MacVean," Käthchen said, "you ought to know that we don't want to make any trouble – is it likely, just after Miss Stanley has promised to give you the cow? I am asking only out of curiosity; and I can keep a secret as well as any one. And of course we are quite aware that it is Mr. Ross who brings the brandy into the neighbourhood – and very properly, too, for good brandy is better than bad whisky, and you must have something in the house in case of sickness. Very well: tell me what he charges you for it."
"Charges?" the old woman repeated, with a puzzled air.
"Yes," said Käthchen, encouragingly. "I only want to know for – for information; and I am not likely to tell any one. What do you pay him for it?"
Then the old grandmother understood; and though she did not say much, there was something in her tone that showed how keenly she resented this imputation.
"Pay – Mr. Ross of Heimra – for the brandy?" said she, as if it was herself who had been insulted; and she was turning angrily away. "You think – the young master – tekkin money from the like of me?"
"Then he gives you the brandy for nothing?" said Kate, – and this question at once arrested the old dame, who made answer somewhat sulkily —
"I not saying that – I not saying that at ahl."
"Of course not," said Käthchen, with cheerful good humour. "It is not necessary for you to say anything. But now I understand; and I am glad of it; for I have Highland blood in my veins myself, and I did not like to think of a Highland gentleman taking money for little kindnesses of that sort. And indeed I did not believe it; and I am very pleased indeed that you have made it possible for me to contradict such a ridiculous story."
Shortly thereafter – the old grandmother having been won into something of a more conciliatory mood by reiterated expressions of thanks and a circumstantial promise with regard to the cow – the two young women left; and as they descended the hill, Kate Glendinning was most triumphant about this refutation of what she considered a malignant slander. Mary, on the other hand, was inclined to be coldly severe in her judgment wherever young Ross of Heimra was concerned – though neither coldness nor severity formed part of her ordinary temperament.
"I don't see anything to be proud of, Käthchen," said she. "He is cheating the revenue, for one thing."
"Cheating the revenue," said Käthchen, in her matter-of-fact way, "is not likely to trouble a Highlander's conscience much. But I dare say he thinks the Government can get along well enough without taking any more taxation from these poor people; and I have no doubt he says to himself that if he pays for a bottle of good brandy for some poor woman with ague or rheumatism in her old joints, the Government can afford to let her have it without the duty. In a climate like this you must have spirits of some kind; and as I was saying to Mrs. MacVean, good brandy is better than bad whisky filled with fusel oil."
"I know perfectly well what his object is," Mary said, proudly and indignantly. "His object is simply to steal away the hearts of the people – and to stir up ill-will between them and whoever happens to be at Lochgarra House. They are all his friends – and my enemies. He can shoot and fish wherever he pleases; he has the run of the whole estate; he is welcome at every fireside; whilst I, when I want to lower the rents, and better the condition of the people in every way, and be their friend – well, I am kept outside at the door, and if I say 'Am I welcome?' there is no answer. For him – everything: for me – nothing. And I think it is hardly fair."
She spoke in a proud and hurt way, and her lips trembled for an instant: it was clear that she considered she had not deserved this ill-usage.
"No, no, no, Mary," her friend protested. "You are unjust, as far as Mr. Ross is concerned anyway. For one thing it is very likely that the poor people about here were accustomed to look to his mother for little comforts when they fell ill; and he may be trying to carry out the same kind of thing, in the only way that would occur to a man." Then a demure smile came into Käthchen's eyes. "But I will be honest with you, Mary. I don't think it is done to spite you at all: although your family have wrought him and his sufficient wrong. But if you were to ask me if it wasn't done with a determination to spite Mr. Purdie – in return for the destruction of the illicit stills – well, you see, people may act from various motives, and I shouldn't be surprised if that had something to do with it. As for stealing the hearts of the people – if you knew the curious loyalty and devotion of the Highlanders towards the old families, you would hardly think it necessary that Mr. Ross should have to make use of any bribe – "
"But why should they hate me?" Mary exclaimed – and Käthchen had no answer.
However, if Miss Stanley had on one or two occasions suspected that the presence of the detested factor might have something to do with the failure of her efforts to cultivate amicable relations with her tenants, here was an opportunity of seeing what she could do by herself; for on their way back they again came to the small township of Minard, where the amphibious population were busy in the crofts and along the shore. She dismissed the carriage; and proceeded to make a few friendly little calls – guarding carefully against any appearance of intrusion, and, indeed, almost humbly begging for something of consideration and good-will. And she was resolved to take no heed of any surly manners or uncivil speech; for she was of a large, bland, magnanimous nature; and she had a considerable fund of patience, and gentleness, and sweetness, to draw upon. Then she had to remember that her uncle had been unpopular, and had no doubt amply earned his unpopularity. Moreover, a factor who stands between a wilful and domineering landlord and a tenantry not in the happiest condition, is most invidiously situated: he is the universal scapegoat, and is bound to be hated as well as feared. But here was she willing to make what atonement was possible; ready to sacrifice her own interests for the general good; and above all things anxious to make friends. With gifts in both hands, ought she not to have been welcome at every door? Then she was pleasant to look upon; her manner was gracious and winning; her eyes were kind. With the small children she could get on well enough: they knew nothing of any deep-slumbering feud.
But her charm of manner, her wonder-working smile, her unfailing good-humour, that had made life easy for her elsewhere, seemed to be of no avail here – with the grown-up folk, at all events. Not that they were rude: they were merely obdurate and silent. Of course, when she got this one or that pinned by a direct question, he did not absolutely refuse to reply; but their answers were so contradictory, and their demands in most cases so impossible, that no practical enlightenment was possible. One man wanted more boats from the Government; another said that more boats were of no use unless the Government supplied nets as well; a third said boats and nets were valueless unless they had a steamer calling daily. There was also a demand that the Government should build more harbours; and when Mary said, in reply to this, that she understood the harbours they had got – Lochgarra, that is to say, and Camus Bheag – to be about as excellent as any in the West Highlands, she was answered that the harbours were perhaps good enough – if there was a railway. Then there were some who did not seem to have any occupation at all.
"Don't you have anything to work at?" she said, to one tall and rather good-looking young fellow, who was standing looking on at the women and girls gathering the sea-tangle.
"My father has a croft," he made answer, in a listless way.
"But wouldn't you," she said, in a very gentle and hesitating manner, so as not to seem impertinent, "wouldn't you rather go away and find some work for yourself?"
"Aw, well, I was at Glasgow, and I was getting twenty shillings a week there."
"And you did not stay?"
"Well, I could not live there," he said, simply enough. "It is no use getting twenty shillings a week if you cannot live in a place; and in a few years I would be dead, if I was living in Glasgow. I am better to be alive here than dead in Glasgow."
"Then perhaps you go to the East Coast fishing?" she suggested.
"No, I am not going there now. I was there one or two years, but it did not pay me."
"And don't you do anything?" she asked again.