Kitobni o'qish: «Donald Ross of Heimra (Volume 2 of 3)»

CHAPTER I
A VISITOR

Black night lay over sea and land; there was a low continuous murmur round the rocks and shores; and out here, at the end of the little wooden quay, two men were slowly pacing up and down in the dark. They were the serious-visaged Coinneach Breac and his taller and younger companion Calum-a-Bhata. The whereabouts of the village, across the bay, was revealed by a solitary light in one of the windows: no doubt the man who looked after the pier was enjoying the comfort of his own home as long as was possible, before coming down to make ready for the expected steamer.

The influence of the hour was upon Coinneach.

"I will tell you this, Calum," he was saying, in his native tongue – and speaking in rather a low tone, as if he did not wish to be overheard – "that there are many strange things happen to them that have to watch through the night; and they are never mentioned; for it is not safe to mention them. You do not know who may hear – perhaps some one at the back of your shoulder. And the speaking of such things is harmful. When I was telling you, Calum, about the Woman and her overtaking me as I was on the way home from Ru Gobhar, well, it all came over me again, and it was as if someone had me by the throat again, and I could not move, no, nor say some good words to get free from her and escape. But I will tell you of another strange thing now, that did not happen to me, so that I can talk of it, and without danger to anyone. It happened to my uncle, Angus Roy, that used to be out at Ardavore Lighthouse. Ah, well, now, if they would only speak, it is the lighthouse-men that could be telling you of strange things – ay, like the ringing of the fog-bell on clear nights, and the men looking at each other. Well, now, about my uncle, Calum; you know the men at the lighthouse have little occupation or amusement when they are not attending to the lamps; and sometimes, when it was getting dark, my uncle would go away down the iron ladder on to the rocks, and he would have a rod and a stout line and a big white fly, and he would go to where the water was deep, and maybe he would get a lythe or two for his supper. Well, one night, he came up the ladder, and when he came in he was nearly falling down on the floor, and he was all trembling, and his face was white. 'Duncan,' says he, 'I have been bitten by a dog.' 'You are dreaming, Angus,' said the other, 'for how could there be a dog on the Ardavore rocks?' 'See that,' says my uncle, and he was holding out his hand. And there, sure enough, was the mark of the dog's teeth. 'It was trying to pull me into the water,' says he, 'and when I escaped from it, it followed me, and when I got up the ladder, I looked down, and there it was, with its fore-paws on the first rung, and its eyes glaring on me. God help us all this night, Duncan,' – that is what my uncle was saying, 'if there is a dog on the island.' Now you know, Calum, there is no whisky or brandy allowed in the lighthouses, except for medicine; and Duncan MacEachran, he was the captain of the lighthouse, and he went to the chest and got a glass of brandy for my uncle, and says he, 'Drink that, Angus, and do not think any more of the dog, and in the morning we will search for the dog' – and so that was all for that night. Then the next day they searched and searched, and there was not any sign of a dog; for how could a dog get out to Ardavore, that is fourteen miles from the mainland? And another thing I must tell you, Calum, is that the marks of the dog's teeth on my uncle's hand they were almost away the next morning, and white. Very well. Duncan would think no more of it; and my uncle would think no more of it; and the marks would go away altogether. But now I will tell you what happened, and you will see whether it would not make a strong man afraid. As the evening came on, my uncle he was getting more and more uneasy; and he was looking at his hand; and the marks were becoming red now, instead of white. My uncle he could not sit still; and he could not do his work; what he said was, 'Duncan, it is the dog coming for me, to drag me into the water.' Then says Duncan, 'How can he come for you? How can he climb up the ladder? But when it is the same hour that you were down on the rocks last night, then I will look out and see what I can see.' And he did that. He opened the door, and looked down; and there was the dog, with its fore-paws on the first rung of the ladder, and its eyes glaring up. I can tell you, Calum, he did not wait long; he was himself like to fall down with fright; and when he got the door closed again, he put in all the iron stanchions as quickly as he could. And then he went and sate down. My uncle he was a little better by this time. 'The dog has gone away now,' says he. 'I know it. But to-morrow night it will be back – and the next night – and the next night – until it drags me into the water. What is the use of fighting against it, Duncan? I might as well go down, and be drowned now; for the dog is coming back for me.' But Duncan would not say that. He said 'I will contrive something. Perhaps it is not only drowning that is meant. And a man must not give up his life.' And Duncan MacEachran was right there, Calum," continued Coinneach, in an absent kind of way, "for you know what the proverb says – 'There may be hopes of a person at sea, but none of one in the grave.' Very well, then, the next day he went into the store-room and he searched about till he found a trap they had brought out to see if they could get an otter; and during the afternoon he took down the trap to the rocks, and he was placing it at the foot of the ladder, and concealing the most of it with seaweed. But do you know what he put into the trap, Calum? No, you do not know; and if you were guessing for a hundred years, you would not guess. He put a New Testament – ay, that is what he was putting into the trap – a New Testament with a dark cover, in among the seaweed. 'Because,' says he, 'if he sets his foot in the trap, then he will be caught, and we will see what kind of a dog he is; but if he is a kind of dog that cannot be caught in a trap, then the New Testament will burn his foot for him, and we will hear of him no more.' That is what he was saying to my uncle. Then the evening came, and my uncle he got worse. He could not sit still; and he could not do his work. The marks on his hand were red again; and he knew that the dog was coming. Duncan MacEachran, perhaps he was frightened; but he would not say he was frightened; all that day, my uncle was telling me, Duncan was hardly speaking a word. My uncle he was sitting in the chair, and looking at his hand, and moaning; and the redder and redder grew the marks; and at last he got up, and says he, 'Duncan,' says he, 'something has come over me; something is drawing me; will you open the door, for I have no strength to open the door?' His teeth were chattering, as he was telling me long after, and himself shaking, and sweat on his forehead. 'No, by God, Angus,' says Duncan, 'I will not open the door this night – nor you either – and if you come near the door, it will be a fight between you and me.' 'I am not wishing for any fight,' says my uncle, 'but there is something in my head – and I would like to look down the ladder – to see what is at the foot of the ladder.' 'Be still, for a foolish man!' says Duncan. 'Would you fall and smash yourself on the rocks?' Well, the time was come. My uncle's teeth were chattering; but he did not speak now; he was sitting and moaning, for he knew the beast had put something over him, and was coming now to claim him. And then they were listening; and as they were listening there was a terrible clap of thunder, and another, and another – three there were – and then silence. My uncle was telling me he did not speak; and Duncan looked at him. They waited a while. And then my uncle rose, and says he, 'Duncan, the beast has gone away. Do you see the marks? – they are white now.' And perhaps, Calum, you would have opened the door and gone down the iron ladder to see what had happened at the foot of the ladder – although it was dark – and the dog might still be there; but let me tell you this, that if you had been living in a lighthouse, you would not have gone down; for the men who live in the lighthouses they think of many things. It was not till the next morning that they went down the ladder; and do you know what was there? – the otter-trap was closed together, and yet there was nothing in it. Do you see that, now – that the trap had closed together and caught nothing; but I am thinking that the beast, whatever kind of beast it was, had got a fine burn on his foot when he touched the New Testament. I am thinking that. And the marks on my uncle's hand, they went away almost directly; and the dog was never heard of again: I tell you, Calum, I tell you it was a clever thing of Duncan MacEachran to put the otter-trap and the New Testament at the foot of the ladder. But those men at the lighthouses, they come upon strange things, and they will not always speak of them, because it is safer not to speak of them."

"I am glad I am not at a lighthouse," said Calum, slowly; and thereafter for some little time the two men walked up and down in silence.

The dim red light in the distant cottage went out; and presently another and stronger appeared – moving along by the side of the shore. They watched its course as it drew nearer and nearer; then in the silence of the night they could make out footsteps; finally, with a slow tramp along the wooden structure, the pier-keeper came up – and greatly surprised was he to find the two men there.

"Well, it was this weh, Thomas," said Coinneach, in English, "Calum and me we were thinking it was as easy waiting here for the steamer as on board the yat, and less trouble in pulling ashore in a hurry. And the steamer, will she be late now, do you think?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," said the pier-keeper, as he proceeded to sling up the big lantern he carried, "for there has been heavy weather in the south. And you might have been sleeping in your beds for some while to come."

Coinneach did not like this reproach.

"Then perhaps you are not knowing what it is to have a good master," said he, "or perhaps you are your own master, which is better. But listen to what I am telling you now: if my master wishes to have things put on board, or brought ashore from the steamer, then it's me that is willing to wait up half the night, or ahl the night, to be sure to catch the steamer; for I know he will seh when I go out to the yat again, 'Coinneach, go below now, and have a sleep.' That is when you have a good master; but if you had a bad master, would you be for walking up and down a dark pier through the night? It's me that would see him going to the tuffle first!"

"Can you give me a fill of a pipe, Coinneach?" asked the pier-keeper; and then he added, facetiously: "for they say there's always plenty of tobacco at Eilean Heimra."

"Ay, are they sehing that?" answered Coinneach, as he drew out a piece of tobacco from his waistcoat pocket. "And mebbe they'd better not be sehing that to me, or they'll have to swallow their words —and the bulk of my fist as well!"

The three men sate and talked together, and smoked; and as the time went by, a faint, half-bluish light began to appear over the low-lying hills in the east; the cottages across the water became visible; there were gulls flying about. The dawn broadened up and declared itself; something of a warmer hue prevailed; a solitary thin thread of smoke began to ascend from one of the chimneys. The pier-master lowered his lantern and extinguished it. And yet there was no sign of the coming steamer – no far-off hoarse signal startling the silence of the new-born day.

Then, as the morning wore on, and the sleeping village awoke to life, Coinneach said: —

"I think we will pull out to the yat, Calum, to see if the master will be for coming ashore; and if we should hear the steamer we can turn back."

"Very well, then, Coinneach," said the younger man, "for sure I am the master will be wanting to come ashore to meet the steamer."

And away they went to the boat. But indeed all Lochgarra was astir this morning; for it was not often the villagers had a chance of seeing the steamer come in by daylight; and in any case it was a rare visitor – once in three weeks at this time of the year. So that the long-protracted booming of the steam-pipe brought even the old women out to the doors; and by the time the two red funnels were sighted coming round the distant headland, quite a small crowd of people had come down to the quay.

And here were the two ladies from Lochgarra House, hastening along to be in time: why should they not also join in the general excitement? But just as they arrived at the pier Mary Stanley suddenly stopped short: the very first person she had caught sight of – among that straggling assemblage – was the young laird of Heimra Island.

"Mary, you are not afraid of him!" said Käthchen.

It was but a momentary irresolution, of which she was instantly ashamed; she continued on her way; nay, she went boldly up to him, and past him, and said "Good morning!" as she went by.

"Good morning!" said he – and he raised his cap: that was all.

Then, after a second of vacillation and embarrassment, Mary turned – he was barely a couple of yards distant.

"Mr. Ross," said she, "I suppose you – you heard of what happened at Ru-Minard."

"Yes, I am sorry you should have been troubled," he said, in a formal kind of way.

"But they have built up the huts again!" she exclaimed. "And I suppose the people here will go back and burn them down, and there will be riot after riot – never ending!"

He did not answer her: indeed, there was no question to answer. And Käthchen, standing a little bit apart, was watching these two with the keenest interest; and she was saying to herself – "Well, she has met her match at last. She has been all-conquering hitherto; every man who has come near her has been all complaisance and humility and gratitude for a smile or a friendly look; but this one – this one is as proud as herself! And what will she do? – become angry and indignant, and astonish my young Lord Arrogance? Or become humbly submissive, and beg for a little favour and consideration? – and Mary Stanley, of all people!"

Mary regarded the young man, and seeing that he did not speak, she said —

"A never-ending series of riots, is that what it is coming to? And if not, what is to be done? What am I to do?"

He answered her very respectfully – and very coldly:

"I think you should hardly ask me, Miss Stanley. If you consider, you will see that I could not well interfere – even so far as to offer advice. You will find Mr. Purdie will know how to deal with such a case."

"Mr. Purdie!" she said. "I cannot have Mr. Purdie here the whole year round. Surely I can do something myself? Cannot you tell me what to do?"

He hesitated. But here was a very beautiful young woman, appealing to him, and apparently in distress.

"Well," said he, at length, "I am not quite sure, but I fancy if you wish to have those men removed, you would have to take proceedings under the Vagrant Act. I am not quite sure; I fancy that is so. But then, if you do that, you will be denounced by the Highland Land League, and by plenty of the newspapers – natural enough on the part of the newspapers, for they would know nothing of the circumstances."

Käthchen thought that the outlaw and savage (as he had been described to her) talked very reasonably and intelligently; but Mary Stanley was quite as much perplexed as before.

"I don't want to bring the law to bear on anybody," she said. "I don't want to injure anybody. Surely there are other ways. If I go to those men, and show them they have no right to be there, and pay them for the lobster-traps that were burned, and give them each a sum of money, surely they would go away home to their own island?" And then she added (for she wasn't a fool), "Or might not that merely induce a lot more to come in their place?"

"I am afraid it would," said he.

But by this time the big steamer was slowing in to the pier.

"Miss Stanley," said young Ross, "would you mind coming this way a little – to be out of the reach of the rope?"

She politely thanked him, and moved her position; then he left her, making his way through the people; and the next she saw of him was that he was on the bridge, talking to the captain.

There was a good deal of cargo – barrels, bales, and what not – to be landed; but only one passenger came ashore, a white-haired little woman, whose luggage consisted of an American-looking trunk and also the head and enormous horns of a Wapiti deer, the head swathed in canvas. The little dame was of a most pleasant appearance, with her silvery hair, her bright eyes, and a complexion unusually fresh and clear for one of her age; and she was smartly and neatly dressed, too; but when once she had come along the gangway, and passed through the crowd, hardly any further notice was taken of her, all attention being concentrated on what was going forward on board the steamer. The poor old woman seemed bewildered – and agitated; her hands were trembling; she was staring back in a curious way at the vessel she had just left. Mary (of course) went up to her.

"Can I be of any assistance to you?" she said, in her gentle way.

And then perhaps she would rather have drawn back; for she found that the old dame's eyes were overflowing with tears.

"That – is the young master?" the old woman asked, in tones of eager and yet subdued excitement – and she was still staring at the two figures on the bridge.

"That is Mr. Ross of Heimra," Mary said, "who is talking to the captain."

The silver-haired old dame clasped her trembling hands together.

"Dear, dear me!" she said – and there were tears trickling down her face – "the fine gentleman he has grown! And we were all saying that long ago – we were all saying that – but who could have told? – so fine and handsome he has grown up as a man! – Ay, ay, I made sure it was young Donald himself, when he came on board, but he was not looking my way – "

"Would you like to speak to Mr. Ross?" said Mary, in the same gentle fashion.

Then the little white-haired old woman turned to this tall and beautiful young creature who was addressing her; and a curious, wondering, and glad light shone through her tears.

"You, mem," said she, timidly – "perhaps you are his good lady, mem?"

Mary's face flushed.

"I hardly know Mr. Ross," said she coldly. "But if you wish to see him, I will fetch him – or send for him – "

"Mem," said the old dame, piteously, and the tears were now running freely down her face, "I have come all the way from Canada, just – just to have one look at young Donald – that – that was the lamb of my heart! My two boys, mem, they were thinking I should go and pay a visit to their uncle, who is in Sacramento; and they are very good boys: one of them – one of them would have gone as far with me as Detroit, and put me safe there on the line; but – but I said to them, if there is so much money to be spent, and if your old mother can go travelling anywhere, well, then, it is just away back to Lochgarra I am going, to see the young master once again before I die. But no, mem," she said, somewhat anxiously, "I do not wish to speak to him, in case he is not remembering me. I will wait a little. Maybe he will be remembering me, and maybe not – it is sixteen years since I left this place – and he was just ten, then – but such a young gentleman as you never saw, mem! – and the love of every one! And I will just wait and see, mem – perhaps he is not remembering me at all – but that is no matter – I will go back to my boys and tell them I saw the young master, and him grown to be such a fine gentleman – it is all I was coming here for – ay, and I knew it was young Donald the moment I saw him – but – but maybe he is not remembering me – "

"Oh, but indeed you must speak to him!" said Mary. "I will go and fetch him myself."

For at this moment the steamer was making preparations to be off again – there being little traffic at Lochgarra. The bell was rung, but merely as a matter of form; there was no passenger going on board. Donald Ross bade good-bye to the captain, and stepped ashore. The gangway was withdrawn. Then the captain signalled down to the engine-room; the blades of the screw began to churn up the clear green water into seething foam; and the great steamer was slowly moving out to sea again.

"Mr. Ross," said Mary (and he turned round in quick surprise) "there is some one here who wishes to speak to you."

He looked towards the old dame who was standing there in piteous expectancy – went up to her – and, after a moment of scrutiny and hesitation, said —

"Why, surely you are Ann!"

The sudden shock of joy was almost too much for her; she could not speak; she clung to the hand he had frankly offered her, and held it between her trembling palms; she was laughing and crying at the same time – great tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Well, well," said he, with a very friendly and pleasant smile lighting up his face, "you have come a long way. And are you going to live in the old place now – and leave the farm to your sons? They must be great big fellows by this time, I suppose. And that – what is that you have brought with you? You don't have beasts like that coming about the house at night, do you?"

She tried to speak; but it was only in detached and incoherent sentences – and there was a bewilderment of gladness in the shining eyes with which she gazed on him.

"I was feared, sir, you might not be remembering me – and – and you have not forgotten Ann, after all these years – oh, yes, yes, a long way – and every night I was saying 'Will the young master be remembering Ann?' And the deer's head, sir? – oh, no, there are no deer at all in our part of the country – but – but it was my boy Andrew, he had to go down to Toronto, and he saw the head, and he brought it back, and says he, 'Mother, if you are going away back to Lochgarra, take this head with you, and tell the young master it is a present from the whole of us, and maybe he will hang it up in the hall.'"

"We have no hall to hang it up in now," said he, but quite good-naturedly – for Mary Stanley was standing by, not unnaturally interested. "However, you must come out and see where I am living now – at Heimra Island. You remember Martha?"

"Oh, yes, yes," said the old dame, who had dried her tears now, and was looking most delighted and proud and happy.

"But you have not told me yet what has brought you all the way back to Lochgarra," said he.

She seemed astonished – and even disappointed.

"You cannot tell that, sir? Well, it was just to see yourself – nothing else but that – it was just to see young Donald, that I used to call the lamb of my heart. But that was when you were very young, sir."

Donald Ross laughed.

"Come away, Ann," said he, and he put his hand affectionately on the old dame's shoulder. "You must come out to Heimra Island, and Martha will look after you, after all your travelling. Now let me see; we shan't be getting up anchor for an hour or an hour and a half; but I shall have your things put on board, and in the meanwhile you can go round to the inn and wait for me there. Tell them to give you a room with a good fire in it. And, by the way, you don't want me to call you by your married name, do you? – for to tell you the truth, I don't remember it!"

"Oh, no, no, no, sir!" said the trim little old lady, who could not take her glad, and wondering, and admiring eyes off 'the young master.' "I'm just Ann, if you please, sir – just Ann, as I used to be."

Young Ross turned to call up Coinneach and Calum, who were waiting at the end of the quay, in order to give them instructions about the luggage; and it was at this moment that Mary stepped up to the stranger.

"Instead of going to wait at the inn," said she, "wouldn't you rather come with me? Lochgarra House is quite as near – and you would not be sitting alone."

It was a gentle face that was regarding her, and a gentle voice that spoke.

"Oh, yes, mem, if you will be so kind," was the answer.

"Then tell Mr. Ross you have gone on with me; and he can send one of the men for you when he is ready," Mary said; and by this little arrangement she was saved the necessity of having any further conversation with young Ross of Heimra, if such was her intention.

They moved away.

"Do you think you will know many of the people about here, after so long a time?" asked Mary of her new acquaintance, as they left the quay – the silent, but not unobservant, nor yet unamused, Käthchen accompanying.

"Oh, no, mem," was the answer (but, as she talked, the old woman turned from time to time to see if she could not get some brief further glimpse of her heart's idol) "my people they were all about Dingwall; and it was from Dingwall I came over here to serve with Mrs. Ross. Ah, she was the noble lady, that!" continued the faithful Ann, looking back over many years. "When we heard of her death, it was then, more than ever, that I thought I must go away to Lochgarra, to see the young master. For she was so careful of his upbringing; and they were just constant companions; and he was always the little gentleman, and polite to everyone – except when Mrs. Ross had a headache – and then he would come down stairs, ay, into the servants' hall, or even to the door of the kitchen – and proud and fierce, as if he would kill some one, and he would say 'What is this noise? I order you to be quiet, when my mamma is asleep!' And you would have heard a pin drop after that, mem. Rather too fond of books he was," continued the silver-haired old dame, whose newly-found happiness had made her excitedly talkative, "and rather delicate in health; and then Mrs. Ross would be talking to him in different languages, neither the Gaelic nor the English, and he would be answering her as well as he could – the little gentleman! – when they were sitting at the table. Indeed, now, that was making the old Admiral – that was Mrs. Ross's uncle – very angry; and he was swearing, and saying there was no use for any language but the English language; and many's and many's the time he was taking young Donald away with him in his yacht, and saying he would make a sailor and a man of him. Well, well, now, who would think the young master had ever been delicate like that, and fond of books – so fine and handsome he has grown – and the laugh he has – ay, a laugh that carries a good story of health and happiness with it!"

"No, he does not look as if he had ever been very delicate," said Mary, absently. "Perhaps the rough life out there on that island was the very best thing for him."

When they got to the house, Mary escorted her guest up to the drawing-room in the tower, and was most assiduous in her pretty little attentions, and had wine and biscuits brought in, for Mrs. Armour (as the old woman's name turned out to be) had breakfasted early on board the steamer. And Mrs. Armour repaid these kindnesses by eagerly talking about young Donald and nothing else; she seemed to think that the two young ladies were as interested as herself in that wonderful subject; and here was the very house in which she had lived to suggest innumerable reminiscences. She did not say anything about Miss Stanley's occupation of the house; nor did she ask how it came about that Donald Ross was now living on the island they could see from this room: no doubt she had heard something, in her remote Canadian home, of the misfortunes that had befallen the old family. But even while she talked her eyes would go wandering to the window that commanded a view of the village; it was like a girl of eighteen watching for her first sweetheart: she was talking to these very kind ladies – but it was young Donald of Heimra that her heart was thinking of all the time.

Then the welcome summons came, and away she went with Coinneach Breac. The two girls watched them go along to the boat in which 'the young master' was waiting; then the men took to the oars, and made for the yacht. The mainsail and jib of the Sirène had already been hoisted; very soon the anchor was got up; and with a light southerly breeze favouring them they had set out for the solitary island that was now Donald Ross's home.

"Well, Mamie," said Käthchen, who was still standing at the window and looking at the gradually receding yacht, "that is a very strange young man. I have been a spectator this morning; and I have been interested. I have seen a young man approached by a beautiful young woman – a damsel in distress, you might almost say – who condescends to appeal to him; and in return he is barely civil – oh, yes, let us say civil – and even polite, but in a curiously stand-off manner. And then an old Highland servant appears; and behold! his face lights up with pleasure; and he is as kind as kind can be, and affectionate; he puts his hand on her shoulder as if she were some old school-mate, and nothing will do but that she must go away out to see his home. To tell you the truth, I did not think he had so much human nature in him. I thought living in that lonely island would have made him a misanthrope. But I shall never forget the expression of his face when he recognised the old woman that had been his mother's servant."

Mary Stanley was silent for a little while; then she said —

"It is a wonderful thing, the affection and devotion that could bring an old woman like that all the way across the Atlantic for a glimpse of one she had known only as a child. And it seems to be a thing you cannot purchase with money, nor yet with good intentions, nor by anything you can do, however hard you may try." She turned away from the window. "But – but I haven't given up yet, Käthchen."

"You never will give up, Mamie," said her friend; and then she added complacently: "For you don't know how."