Loe raamatut: «Donald Ross of Heimra (Volume 1 of 3)», lehekülg 8

"I wanted to ask you, Mr. Watson," said she, with a certain timidity, "whether you would be disposed to give up the pasturage of Meall-na-Cruagan?"

In a second the shrewd and humorous blue eyes had become strictly observant and business-like.

"To give it up?" he said, slowly.

"I mean," she interposed, "at a valuation. I know it is yours under the lease; we cannot disturb you; nor should I wish to do so, except entirely with your own goodwill."

"Miss Stanley," said he, "I will ask ye a plain question: what for do ye want me to give up the Meall-na-Cruagan?"

"The crofters – "

"Ay, ay, just that," said he, without much ceremony. "They've been at ye, in the absence of Mr. Purdie. Well, let me tell ye this: I am willing on my part to give up the Meall-na-Cruagan, at a fair valuation; but I warn ye that if ye hand it over to the crofters, they'll be not one penny the better off, and you'll be just so much the worse. Where are they to get the stock to put on it? They've enough grazing for what stock they've got."

"Yes, but it is not wholly that," said Mary. "I want to have them satisfied."

"Ye'll never see them satisfied, though ye gave them the whole Lochgarra estate for nothing," said this very plain-spoken person. "Surely ye are aware that the agents of the Highland Land League have been here, as they have been in every hole and corner of the Highlands; and while some of them have been making reasonable enough demands, others of them have been showing themselves nothing but irresponsible mischief-makers, firing the brains of these poor creatures with revolutionary nonsense, and trying to turn the whole place into another Ireland. Well, well, it's not my business; it's not for me to speak; but I warn ye, Miss Stanley, that giving up Meall-na-Cruagan will not satisfy them. What many of them want – especially what the more ignorant among them want – is for the landlords to quit the country altogether, and leave them the entire stock, lock, and barrel of the estates – the land and all that belongs to it."

"I know," said Mary, quietly, "what the Land League have been doing; but if there had not been widespread discontent and distress they could not have done anything at all. And surely there was reason for the discontent; look at the reductions the Crofters' Commission have made – thirty and forty per cent. in some places. However, I am not concerned with the economic question of the Highlands generally; I am concerned merely with Lochgarra; and I want to do what is fair by the tenants; I want to see them satisfied, and as well-to-do and comfortable as the circumstances will allow. But what has been puzzling me since I came here," she continued – for this seemed a frank and well-wishing kind of man, and she was glad to have any sort of help or advice – "is that when I have spoken about lowering the rent, they have had nothing to say in reply. They seem rather to look to the Government for aid. Yet you would imagine that the lowering of the rent would be the first and all-important thing."

Mr. Watson smiled, in a condescending way.

"I think ye might understand why they would not complain to you about the rent."

"Why?" she demanded.

He hesitated – and there was an odd look on his face.

"I do not wish to say anything against friend Purdie," he observed.

"But I want to know the truth," she insisted. "How am I to do anything at all unless I know the exact and literal truth?"

"Well, well, let us put it this way," said Mr. Watson, good-naturedly. "There's some that would call Mr. Purdie a hard man; and there's some that would call him an excellent factor, business-like, thoroughgoing, and skilled in his work. It's not a nice position to be in at the best; it's not possible to please everybody. And there's different ways of dealing with people."

All this sounded very enigmatic. Mary could not in the least understand what he meant.

"I wish you to speak plainly, Mr. Watson," said she. "You may be sure it will be in absolute confidence."

He considered for a moment. Then he said:

"It's of little consequence to me. Friend Purdie and I get on very well, considering; and besides I have my lease. But I'll just give ye an instance of what has happened on this estate, and you'll judge for yourself whether it's likely the tenants would come to you for a reduction of rent, or ask ye to interfere in any way whatever. It was about four years ago that one of the crofts over at Cruagan fell vacant. Very well. Then Mr. Purdie would have it that the pasture of that croft should be taken by the other Cruagan crofters, each one paying his share of the rent; while the arable land of the croft should be added to the Glen Sanna farm, which was also vacant just then. The Cruagan crofters objected to that arrangement; Mr. Purdie insisted; and at last the crofters sent a petition to Mr. Stanley, asking to have the arable land of the croft as well, or else to be let alone. I am not saying anything against your uncle, Miss Stanley."

"But I want to get at the truth of the story, Mr. Watson," said Mary, firmly. "That is the main point. What happened?"

"I may explain that your uncle never interfered with Mr. Purdie," the farmer continued, rather apologetically, "and that's no to be wondered at. Many landlords make it a rule not to interfere with their factor, for of course he's doing the best he can for the estate, and knows about it better than they can know themselves. Then what happened, do ye say? What happened was this – at the very next term every crofter that had signed the petition was served with a notice to quit; and that was only withdrawn when they undertook to pay, each man of them, £3 a year additional rent – that is 15s. for their share of the added pasture, and £2 5s. as a fine for having objected to Mr. Purdie's arrangements. That's just what happened, Miss Stanley."

Mary was silent for a second or so – looking towards Käthchen, her eyes full of indignation.

"Why, it is one of the most abominable pieces of tyranny I ever heard of!" she exclaimed. And then she turned to Mr. Watson. "If people are treated like that, can you wonder if the Land League should find it easy to put revolutionary ideas into their head?"

"At all events," said Mr. Watson, with a shrewd and cautious smile, "ye will understand that they are not likely to apply to you for any lowering of rent. They know the consequences."

"Ah, do they?" said she quickly. "Well, I must show them that they are mistaken. I must convince them they have nothing to fear. They must learn that they can come to me, without dread of Mr. Purdie or anyone else. But," she added, with a bit of a sigh, "I suppose it will take a long time."

Alter some little further conversation, of no great moment, but marked by much civility on both sides, the farmer rose.

"Any time ye're passing Craiglarig, Miss Stanley, I should be proud if ye'd look in."

"Indeed I will," said she, going with him to the door. "But I must tell you now how deeply I am indebted to you. And of course what you have said shall be kept in the strictest confidence."

"I have told ye the truth," said he, "since ye asked for it. But just mind this, Miss Stanley – good factors are no that common; and friend Purdie understands his business. He drives a hard bargain; but it's on your behalf."

"Yes," said she, "and now I am beginning to see why it is the people hate me."

That same evening the two girls, who had been out for a long walk, were coming down the Minard road towards Lochgarra. The twilight was deepening; the solemn inland hills were growing slowly and slowly darker, and losing their individual features; the softly lilac skies overhead were waiting for the coming night. Silence had fallen over the woods, where the birches showed their spectral arms in the dusk, and where the russet bracken and withered grey grass were now almost indistinguishable. It was a still and tranquil hour; sleep stealing upon the tired world; a little while, and the far, wide, mysteriously-moving sea would be alone with the stars.

But for Mary Stanley there was no sense of soothing quiet, even amidst this all-prevailing repose. On the contrary, her heart was full of turmoil and perplexity; insomuch that at times her courage was like to give way; and she was almost ready to abandon the task she had undertaken, as something beyond her strength. And then again a voice seemed to say to her "Patience – patience – hold on your way – dark as the present hour may be, the day will dawn at last." And in Käthchen she had an excellent counsellor; for Käthchen had an admirable habit of making light of troubles – especially those that did not concern herself; and she was practical, and matter-of-fact, neither over-sanguine nor liable to fits of black despondency. On the present occasion this was what she was saying, in her cool and self-possessed way:

"You see, Mamie, I understand the Highland character better than you do. All that sullenness and ill-will doesn't arise merely from high rent and Mr. Purdie's tyranny – though that no doubt has something to do with it. There are sentimental influences at work as well. There is the strong attachment towards the old family – very unreasoning, perhaps, but there it is; and there is resentment against those who have displaced them. Then there may be anger about your uncle having destroyed the ancient landmarks; and injuries of that kind are not easily forgotten or forgiven. But every hour that I am in this place," continued Käthchen, as they were making home through the strangely-silent dusk, "I am more and more convinced that what Mr. Purdie said was perfectly correct – that young Donald Ross of Heimra is just everybody and everything to those people. He is all-powerful with them. Very well. I cannot believe that he has stirred up ill-will against you, or even that he wishes it to continue. He may do everything he can to thwart and madden Mr. Purdie – why not? – I would do that myself, if I were in his place! – but how can he have any wish to injure you? Then what I say is this: if you really mean to go and see him, put entirely out of your mind what you may have heard about his private character, and his poaching and smuggling, and remember only that his influence over those people could make everything quite pleasant to you. Don't go to him as you did this morning, as an enemy to be challenged and reproached: no, what you have to do is just to lower your pride a little, and tell him that you have come to beg for a favour. In fact, I am convinced that a word from him would entirely change the situation. Mamie, are you going to ask for it?"

Mary Stanley did not answer: she walked on in silence.

CHAPTER VIII.
FACE TO FACE

She was out in the solitude of the woods, and she was alone. It was early morning, clear, and calm, and still; the sun lay warm on the silver-lichened boulders that were dappled with velvet-green moss; the wandering air that stirred the pendulous branches of the birches brought with it a resinous odour, from the innumerable millions of opening buds. A profound silence prevailed, save for the hushed continuous murmur of an unseen rivulet, and the occasional distant call of a curlew.

A vague restlessness, and something even akin to despair, had brought her hither. For of course like other young people of the day she had coquetted with the modern doctrine that in times of trouble our great and gentle Mother Nature is the true consoler and comforter; she had read Wordsworth; and she had read Matthew Arnold upon Wordsworth:

 
"He too upon a wintry clime
Had fallen – on this iron time
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
He found us when the age had bound
Our souls in its benumbing round —
He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.
He laid us as we lay at birth
On the cool flowery lap of earth;
Smiles broke from us and we had ease.
The hills were round us, and the breeze
Went o'er the sun-lit fields again;
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth return'd; for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead,
Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,
The freshness of the early world."
 

And now if she wished to forget the untowardness of human nature – if she wished to escape from her bitter disappointment on beholding her large and generous schemes met and checked on every hand by a sullen ingratitude – surely here was a seclusion that should have brought balm to her wounded heart. Moreover the morning light was cheerful; April as it was, a quiet warmth prevailed; she tried to please herself by recollecting that this fairy paradise actually belonged to her. And if human beings were so hard and unapproachable, why, then, she could interest herself in these harmless living creatures that were all so busy around her, under the quickening influences of the spring. From the dusty pathway in the opener glades the yellow-hammers were picking up bits of withered grass for their nest-building; black-caps swung back-downward from the sprays, to wrench the buds off with their bills; she stopped here and there to watch a beautiful beetle – shining bronze, or opaque green with a touch of scarlet on its legs; a tiny grey lizard, with its small eye bright as a diamond, lay basking on a shelf of rock, and remained absolutely motionless, hoping to be passed unnoticed. Then she came upon a little tuft of primroses – so shining pale – so full of dim suggestions – and of associations with the poets. Well, she looked at the primroses. They were very pretty. But somehow she could not keep thinking of them, nor of the fine things the poets had said of them. The fact was, in her present straits her heart was craving for human sympathy; she wanted to be of some use in the world; she wished to see eyes brighten when she appeared at the door, however poor the cottage might be. Primroses were pretty, no doubt – the firstlings of the year awoke pleasant and tender memories – but – but why were those people so obdurate? No, there was no solace for her; the sweet and soothing influences of nature were intruded upon, were obliterated, by the harsh facts and problems of human life. With those men and women almost openly declared her enemies, and with all her grand schemes gone away, what good could she get from primroses? And so, humiliating herself with the conviction that she was nothing but another Peter Bell, she passed on through the woods, and eventually got down to the sheltered little bay where she had first met Anna Chlannach.

And on this occasion also she was destined to make a new acquaintance. She was idly walking up and down the lilac and cream-hued beach – and trying to persuade herself that she had found a refuge from the perplexities and mortifications that seemed to surround her in the busier world she had left – when a sound she had distantly heard from time to time now rose in tone until there could be no doubt about its nature: it was a human voice, proceeding from the neighbouring bay. She went as close as she could to the intervening promontory; then curiosity led her stealthily to climb the heathery slope; she made her way between rocks and under birches; and at last she paused and listened. It was a man's voice, of an unnaturally high pitch, and curiously plaintive in its monotonous sing-song. In the perfect silence she distinctly heard these words —

"Oh, my brethren, I charge you – I charge you by all that you hold dearest – that you keep the little children from the ruby wine!"

What could this mean? She pushed her way a little further through the thick underwood, and peered over. There was a small boat drawn up on the shore. Pacing slowly backwards and forwards on the shingle was a man of about twenty-eight or thirty, with a long and lugubrious face, a shaggy brown beard, and deep set eyes. Sometimes his head was bent down, as if in deep thought; and then again he would raise it, and extend his arm, as if addressing the opposite side of the bay, or perhaps Eilean Heimra out at sea; while ever and anon the curious feminine falsetto came back to the admonition – "Oh, my brethren, keep the little children from the ruby wine!"

Mary began to guess. Was this the Minister? Had he returned home; and had he seized the first opportunity to come away over to this solitary place, to rehearse his sermon for the following Sabbath, with appropriate intonation and gesture? She listened again:

"'Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause? who hath redness of eyes?' Ah, my friends, now that I have addressed each section of the community, each member of the family circle, now we come to the little babes – those tender flowers – those blossoms along the rough roadway of life – smiling upon us like the rainbows of the morning – and bedewing the earth with their consecrated tears. When I behold those gems of purest ray serene," continued the Minister, in his elevated chant, "my soul is filled with misgivings and sad prognostications. I observe in my daily walk the example that is set before them; the fathers in Israel are a stumbling-block to their own children; nay, even of the wisest it has been said, 'The priest and the prophet have erred through strong drink, they are swallowed up of wine, they are out of the way through strong drink; they err in vision, they stumble in judgment.' My friends, is it not a terrible thing to think of these blessed babes – these innocent tendrils sprouting up into glorious flowers, even as the Rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley – to think of them babbling with red mouths curses they cannot comprehend? Hold them back, I say! Snatch the fatal goblet from them! Let pleasure wave her ambrosial locks when and where she pleases – let mirth and joy prevail – but when the timbrel sounds and the cymbal is heard in the hall – then, at all events let those innocent ones be restrained from the deadly snare – keep, oh, keep the little children from the ruby wine!"

Unluckily this last appeal was addressed to Mary herself, or at least she thought so in her fright when she found the Minister's eyes turned towards her: instantly she bobbed her head down in the heather, and remained hidden there until the sermon – or perhaps it was a temperance lecture? – was ended. It did not last much longer. After the sonorous sentences had ceased, there was a moment's silence; then a grating on the beach; then a measured sound of oars: she concluded that the Minister, his flowery harangue rehearsed, was now making for home again; and she was free to get up from her concealment and return to Lochgarra House.

"Käthchen," she said, "the Minister has come back. I have seen him – though I – I, didn't speak to him. Now don't you think we ought to go along and make his acquaintance at once? He might help us: you say yourself the Free Church Ministers have an enormous influence in the Highlands."

Kate Glendinning did not receive this proposal with any great enthusiasm.

"There is one thing he might do," said she, "as I told you before, Mamie. It would be much easier for us to go and see Mr. Ross, if the Minister would take us under his escort."

"Mr. Ross!" said Mary, impatiently. "It is Mr. Ross, and Mr. Ross, with you from morning till night, Käthchen! You would think he owned the whole place!"

"Yes," said Käthchen, demurely, "that is just what he seems to do."

However, the interview to which both the young ladies had looked forward with so much anxiety came about in the most natural way in the world; and that without any intervention whatever. Mary and Käthchen, being down in the village, had gone into the post-office to buy some packets of sweets – bribes for the children, no doubt; and they were coming out again from the little general store when, in broad and full daylight, they met young Ross of Heimra face to face. There was no escape possible on either side; he was going into the post-office; they were coming out; and here they were, confronted. Well, it must be admitted that at this crisis Mary Stanley's presence of mind entirely forsook her. Ten hundred thousand things seemed to go through her brain at once; she could not speak; confusion burned red in her cheeks and on her forehead. And then he was so pale and calm and collected; for a second he regarded them both – and with no furtive glance; he slightly raised his peaked cap, and would have passed them without more ado. It was Käthchen who made bold to detain him.

"Oh, Mr. Ross," said she, breathlessly, "we have never had an opportunity of thanking you – you left the cottage before we knew – and – and it was so kind of you to send the carriage – "

And here for a moment Käthchen also lost her head, for she had a horrible consciousness that when a man has saved your life it is ridiculous to thank him for sending a carriage. And then those coal-black eyes were so calmly observant; they were not generously sympathetic; they seemed merely to await what she had to say with a respectful attention. But Käthchen bravely began again: "You – you must not think us ungrateful – you see, you had left the cottage before we knew – and when we went out to Heimra, we did not find you at home – "

"I am sorry I was not there," he said.

"And – and of course we knew quite well what a dreadful position we were in – I mean that night when we wandered into the morass," continued Käthchen. "But for you we never should have got out again – we dared not move – and in the darkness what could we have done?"

"It is a dangerous place," he said.

"I – I am going to give Mrs. MacVean a cow in place of the one that was lost," Mary now ventured to put in; and here was she – the bold, the dauntless, the proud-spirited one! – here was she standing timidly there, her face still suffused, her eyes downcast. And this little speech of hers was like a plea for merciful consideration! He turned to her.

"The MacVeans have had a bad time of it since the shepherd died," the young man said, in a distant sort of way – but he was regarding her curiously.

Then all of a sudden it occurred to Mary that she ought not to stand there as a suppliant. Some sense of her wrongs and her recent trials came back to her; and here was the one whom she suspected of being responsible – here was her secret enemy – the antagonist who had hitherto concealed himself in the dark.

"I hope the widow will condescend to accept it, but who can tell?" said she, with greater spirit. "Really, they are the most extraordinary people! They seem to resent your trying to do them a kindness. I have been offering them all sorts of things they stand in need of; I am willing to lower their rents; I am going to arrange for more pasture; I propose to give prizes for the best homespun materials; and I would pay for getting over some of the Harris people, if instruction were wanted in dyeing or weaving – but they seem to suspect it is all for my own interest. I make them these offers – they will hardly look at them!"

"You may teach a dog to love you by feeding it," said young Donald Ross, coldly; "but the Highlanders are not dogs."

At this she fired up – and there was no more shamefaced girlish blushing in her cheeks. Her eyes were as proud as his own.

"They are human beings, I suppose," said she, "and a human being might at least say 'Thank you.' But I do not know that I blame them," she continued – to Käthchen's great anxiety. "It seems to me there must be secret influences at work about here. It is not natural for people to be so ungrateful. Self-interest would make them a little more – a little more – amenable – if it were not for some evil instigation at work among them. And what can any one gain by stirring up ill-will? What can be the motive? At any rate, whatever the motive, and whoever he is, he might consider this – he might consider the mischief he is doing these poor people in making them blind to their own welfare. It seems a strange thing that in order to gratify envy, or hatred, or revenge, he should sacrifice the interests of a number of poor people who don't know any better."

Käthchen glanced apprehensively from the one to the other; but there was no flash of anger in those dark eyes, nor any tinge of resentment in the pale, olive-tinted face. The young man maintained a perfectly impassive demeanour – respectful enough, but reserved and distant.

"I wish them nothing but good," Mary went on, in the same indignant way, "but how can I do anything if they turn away from me? Why do they not come and tell me what they want?"

"Come and tell you what they want? – when they daren't call their souls their own!" he said.

"Of whom are they afraid, then?" she demanded.

"Of your agent, Miss Stanley," said he (and here indeed Käthchen did notice something strange in his eyes – a gleam of dark fire in spite of all his studied restraint). "What do they care about philanthropic schemes, or how can you expect them to talk about their wants and wishes, when what they actually know is that Purdie has the face of every one of them at the grindstone?" He altered his tone. "I beg your pardon. I have no right to interfere – and no wish to interfere. If you should think of coming out again to Heimra, Miss Stanley, to have a look over the island, I hope I may be at home. Good-morning!"

He again raised his cap – and passed on into the office. Mary stood undecided for a moment; then moved slowly away, accompanied by Käthchen. Before them was the wide sweep of the bay, with Lochgarra House at the point, and its background of larches. The sea was calm; the skies clear; it was a peaceful-looking morning.

Of a sudden Mary Stanley stopped – her eyes full of disappointment and vexation.

"Everything is at sixes and sevens – and worse than before!" she exclaimed to her companion. "What did I say, Käthchen? What did he say? Wasn't he very insolent? – well, not that, exactly – not exactly insolent – but – well, I am not used to being treated with disdain. Why did he break off like that – with everything unsettled? Wasn't he very insolent? – or, at least, disdainful? – what did I say that he should treat me like that?"

"I know this," said the frivolous Käthchen, "that he has the most splendid eyes I ever saw in a human creature. I call him just distressingly handsome!"

"There is nothing so contemptible as a beauty man," said Mary, impatiently. "What has that got to do with it? I want to know why he treated me like that!"

"I thought he behaved with very great courtesy and self-respect," Käthchen made answer, "considering that you plainly intimated to him that it was he who stirred up all that ill-feeling against you."

"Very well: he had nothing to say for himself!" Mary exclaimed. "He made no defence. And then, you see, I – I wasn't quite prepared – I did not expect to see him – and I forgot about the fishing and shooting, or that might have made him a little ashamed of himself, and a little less arrogant." She turned and looked towards the post-office. "I wonder whether that was a map that he had rolled up in his hand or a chart? If he is going on board his yacht again, he must pass this way. I cannot have things left as they are – worse than ever!"

"I don't see how you are to mend them at present," said Käthchen. "If you had kept on as you began, in that friendly way, it might have been all very well; but then you grew indignant, and almost charged him with being the mischief-maker. And I must say I think he behaved with very great consideration and courtesy."

"Do you really think so?" said Mary, quickly – with her eyes still fixed on the post-office. And then she hesitated. And then she said: "Come, Käthchen, let us go back. I wish to make an apology to him – "

"Mary!" her friend protested. "How can you think of such a thing!"

"Oh, but you do not know. It is not about anything that has just happened. It is about the lake and the old castle. I quite forgot. And perhaps it is that that makes him so unforgiving. I must tell him that I am sorry."

But Käthchen shrank back.

"Make an apology for that?" said she. "You don't seem to understand, Mary. It is too serious for an apology. If you murder a man's father or mother, you can't go to him and say 'I am very sorry.'

"Will you go on to the house, then, Käthchen?" said Mary, simply. "I must put myself right with him – and after that he can be as disdainful as he chooses."

Of course Käthchen refused to be released; she went back with her; and just as they reached the little building, young Ross of Heimra came out. He had neither chart nor map in his hand now; whichever it had been, he had no doubt sent it away by post.

He seemed a little surprised; but was just as attentive and respectful as before.

"There was something I forgot to say," she began, with obvious embarrassment, "and – and it is difficult to say it. It was not till I came here that I knew what my uncle had done – about – about Loch Heimra – and Castle Heimra. Well, there are some injuries, my friend here says, that can never be repaired. I suppose that is so. But at least you will allow me to say that I am sorry – more deeply sorry than you can imagine perhaps – "

"And there are some things that are best not spoken of," he said, calmly.

"Yes, I daresay that is so," she made answer, with a hopeless feeling at her heart that his tone and manner were alike implacable. "No doubt that is so. And yet – yet some little consideration might be shown towards any one who wishes to express regret. It was none of my doing; it never would have been of my doing. And though you, of course, would rather hear no apology – would rather not have the subject mentioned – still, there is another thing. The people about here – if they have any resentment against me because of the pulling down of Castle Heimra – then that is not fair. And any one having influence with them – well, it would be ill done of him to stir up anger against me on that account. I had nothing to do with it – I am very sorry it ever happened."

"Miss Stanley," said he – for he plainly did not wish to speak of this thing – "I think you are mistaken in supposing that any one is stirring up ill-will against you; and even the most ignorant of the people must know that you are not responsible for what happened before you came here. As regards myself, I do not wish for any apology or expression of regret; I wish for only one thing – forgetfulness. I think in such a case silence is the only amends."