LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE »waq V V w ▼ Ex Libris ISAAC FOOT # M.B., Ch. MACLEOD OF DAEE MACLEOD OF DAEB BY WILLIAM BLACK NEW AND REVISED EDITION LONDON lMPSON low, marston a company i mi : i n £t. Buiuttsti'4 feoudr [All rigid* i-ereri-- [, PR4I24 M33 LONDON : i.D BY WILLIAM 0LOWE3 AND SONS, LIMITED. BET VNU CHARING CROSS. CONTENTS. CHAP. I. — The Six Boys of Dabb II. — Mentor . III. — FlONAGHAL IV. — Wonuer-Lan.l> V. — In Park Lane VI. — A Summer-Day on the Thames Yir. — The Duchi.ss op Devonshire . VIII. — Laurel Cottage . IX. — The PBlNOESe KiGui.NN X. — Last Nights . XI. — A Flower XII. — White Heatui.r XIII.— At Home XIV.— A Vuu.su XV. — A Confession . XVI.— I.'i. 1. 1 1. 1. ion XVII.— "FlIIR A IJiiataI" I B . XIX. — A Hi. "i,\i. XX. — Oct \]. — Is LiOHDOE Alain II. — A Declaration HI— A Bed Rose . XXIV. — ENTHUSIASMS . XXV. — In Si B8EZ XXVI. — An [NTEBVTBW. XXVII. — At a Railway Station VIII. — A DlSOLOSUBB . X X I X .— FlB8T I .M PBJ ' SIGNS XXX. — A Gbavi . XXXI. — Ovss the Seas PACK 1 12 19 33 40 49 00 09 78 87 95 lo;; 112 119 129 135 144 151 159 17S 187 Hi.; 225 2:; I 2 1 2 2;. ] 2f.9 vi CONTENTS (HAP. PAGB . '280 XXXIII. — The Grave of Maoleod of Maoleod . 289 XXXIV. The "Umpibb" . 300 XXXV.— A Cavk in Mull . . 309 X X X V [I.— A \ Understanding . 329 XX Win.— Afraid . . 338 XXX IX.— A Climax . . 347 XL. — Dbeahs ...... . 355 XLI— A Last Hope. 3G4 XLII. -The White-winged Dotb . .".71 XLI1I.— Dove or Sea Eagle? . , 384 XLIV.— The Prisoner .... . 395 XLV.— The Voyage Over .... . 406 XLVL— The End . 42u MACLEOD OF DARE CHAPTER I. THE SIX BOYS OF DA UK. The sun had sunk behind the lonely western seas; Ulva, and Lunga, and the Dutchman's Cap had grown dark on the darkening waters ; and the smooth Atlantic swell was booming along the, sombre caves ; but up hero in Castle Dare — on the high and tocky coast of Mull — the great hall was lit with such a blaze of candles as Castle I >an> had but rarely seen. And yet there were no grand festivities going forward; for there were only three ile seated at one end of the long and narrow table; and the banquet that the faithful Eamish had provided for them was of the iip. t. frugal kind. At Hi'' head of the table sat an old lady, with silvery-white hair and proud and fine features. It would have been a keen and haughty face but for the unutterable Badnet i of tin- eyes blue-grey eyes under black eye lashes, that ton I been beautiful enough in her youth, hut were now dimmed and worn, as it the weight of the world's sorrow had been too much for the proud, lull pirit. On the rigid of Lady Mucleod al the la t "f her six son . Keith bj name, a. (all, sparely-built, sinewy young fellow, with a an tanned cheek and crisp and curling hair; and with a happy and carele look in :,d abort hi mouth tin' rather blinded one to n 2 MACLEOD OF DARE the firm lines of his face. ("Had youth shone there; and the health begotten of hard exposure to wind and weather. What was life to him but a laugh, so long as there waa a prow to cleave the plunging seas, and a glass to pick out the branching antlers far away amid the mists of the conic 1 ? To please his mother, on this the last night of his hcing at home, he wore the kilt; and he had hung his broad blue bonnet, with its sprig of juniper — the badge of the clan — on the top of one of the many pikes and halberds that stood by the great fireplace. Opposite him, on the old lady's left hand, sat his cousin, or rather half-cousin, the plain-featured but large-hearted Janet, whom the poor people about thai neighbourhood regarded as being something more than any mere mortal woman. If there had been any young artist among that Celtic peasantry fired by religious enthusiasm to paint the face of a Madonna, it would have been the plain features of Janet Maclcod lie would have dreamed about and striven to transfer to his canvas. Her eyes were fine, it is true : they were honest and tender ; they A\ r cre not unlike the eyes of the grand old lady who sat at the head of the table ; but, unlike hers, they were not weighted with the sorrow of years. " It is a dark hour you have chosen to go away from your home," said the mother; and the lean hand, resting on the table before her, trembled somewhat. "Why, mother," the young man said lightly, "you know I am to have Captain 's cabin as far as Greenock; and there will be plenty of time for me to put the kilt away, before I am seen by the people." " < >li, Keith ! " his cousin cried — for she was trying to be v«ry i heerful too. "Do you'say that you are ashamed of the tartan V[ "Ash uii', l of the tartan I " he said, with a laugh. "Is there any one who has been brought up at Dare who is likely to be ashamed of the tartan 1 When I am ashamed of the tartan T will put a pigeon 1 feather in my cap, as the new suaicheantas at in h of Clann Leoid. But then, my good Janet, I would oon think of taking my rifle ami the dogs through the streets of London as of wearing the kilt in the south." The old lady paid no heed. Her hands were now clasped before her. There was sad thinking in her eyes. THE SIX BOYS OF DARE 3 '• You are the last of my six ,boys," said she, " and you are going away from me too.'' " Now, now, mother," said he, " you must not make so much of a holiday. You would not have me always at Dare 1 You know that no good comes of a stay-at-home." She knew the proverb. Her other sons had not been stay-at- homes. What had come to them 1 ? Of Torquil, the eldest, the traveller, the dare-devil, the grave is unknown ; but the story of how he met his death, in far Arizona, came years after to England, and to Castle Dare. He sold his life dearly, as became one of his race and name. When his attendants found a hand of twenty Apaches riding down on them, tin-, cowards unhitched the mules and galloped off; leaving him to confront the savages by himself. One of these, more courageous than his fellows, advanced and drew his arrow te barb : the next second he uttered a yell, and rolled from lie to the ground, shot through the heart. Macleod seized this instant, when the savages were terror-stricken by the precision of the white man's weapons, to retreat a few yards and get behind a mesquit tree. Here he was pretty well sheltered from the arrows that they sent in clouds about him; while ho succeeded in killing other two of his enemies who had ventured pproach. Atlas! theyrodeoffj and it seemed as though he would be permitted to rejoin his dastardly comrades. Bu1 the Indians had on! to windward to Bet the tall grass on fire; and presently he had to scramble, burnt and blinded, up the . where lie wa an ea y mark for their arrows, Fortunately, when he fell, he wa dead: this was the tory told by some friendly Indians to a party of white men, and subsequently i jht home to < last Le Dare. Thenexl four of the ons of Dare were soldiers, as most of the 'I leod f that family had been. And if you ask about the graves of Roderick and Ronald, what i one to say? Thej vn, and yet unknown. The two lad were in one of the Highland regiments thai ed in the Crimea Thej both li'- burii 1 on the ble ik pi. on i oui i ebastopol. And if the mea I stone pui up to them and their brother officers am falling into ruin and decay- if the vrery have been rifled b 2 4 MACLEOD OF DARE — how is England to help fchatl England is the poorest country in the world. Thaw was a talk some two' or three years ago of patting up a monument on Cathcart Hill to the Englishmen who died in the Crimea; and that at least would have "been Bome token of remembrance, even if wo could not collect tho scattered remains of our slain sons, as the French have done. But then that monument would have cost 5000/. How could England afford 5000/. 1 When a "big American city takes lire, or when a district in France is inundated, she can put her hand into her pockel deeply enough; but how can we expect so proud a mother to think twice about her children who perished in lighting for her? Happily, the dead are independent of for- getfulness. Olaus the Fair-haired lies buried in a jungle on the African coast, lie was only twenty-three when he was killed ; but he knew he had got the Victoria Cross. As he lay dying, he asked whether the people in England woidd send it to his mother, showing that his last fancies were still about Castle I 'are. And Hector 1 ? As you cross the river at Sadowa, and pass through a bit of forest, some corn-fields begin to appear, and these Btretch away up to the heights of Chlum. Along tho ridge there, by the Bide of the wood, are many mounds of earth. < >ver the grave of Hector Macleod is no proud and pathetic inscription such as marks tho last resting-place of the young lieutenant who perished at Gravelotte — Er ruht sanft in wiedrrorb.ini) iftt r ] )<>ilsrl,rr Erde ; but the young Highland officer was well-beloved by his comrades, and when the dead ■ being pitched into the great holes dug for them, and when rude hands were preparing the simple record, painted on a wooden cross, "//;>,■ liegen — tap/ere Krieger" a separate memento was placed over the grave of Under-Lieutenant Hector Macleod of the — 1h [mperial and loyal Cavalry llegiment. He was one of the two sons who hail not inherited the title. Was it not a proud boast for this white-haired lady in Mull that she had been the mother of four baronets'? What other mother in all the land couM say as much'? And yet it was that that had dimmed and saddened the beautiful eyes. THE SIX BOYS OF DARE 5 And now her youngest — her Benjamin — her best-heloved — he was going away from' her too. It was not enough that the big deer-forest, the last of the possessions of the Macleods of Dare, had been kept intact for him, when the letting of it to a rich Englishman would greatly have helped the failing fortunes of the family ; it was not enough that the poor people about, knowing Lady Macleod's wishes, had no thought of keeping a salmon-spear hidden in the thatch of their cottages. Salmon and stag could no longer bind him to the place. The young blood stirred. And when he asked her what good thing came of being a stay-at-home, what could she say 1 Suddenly old Hamish threw wide the oaken doors at the end of the hall ; and there Avas a low roar like the roaring of lions. And then a young lad, with the pipes proudly perched on his shoulder, marched in with a stately step, and joyous and shrill arose the Salute. Three times he marched round the long and narrow hall, finishing behind Keith Macleod's chair. The young man turned to him. " It was well played, Donald," said he, in the Gaelic, " and I will tell you that the Skye College in the old times never turned out a better pupil. And will you take a glass of whisky now, ox a glass of claret] And it is a great pity your hair is red; or they would call you Donull Dubh, and people would say you were the born successor of the last of the MacCruiniins." At this praise — imagine telling a piper-lad that he was a lit Bucceesox of the MacCruimins, the hereditary pipers of the Mac- leods ! — the young stripling blushed hot ; but he did not forget his professional dignity for all that. And he was so proud of his good Knglish ili.it lie replied in that tongue. " I will take a gla of the clarel w ine, Sir Keith," said be. Young Macleod took up a horn tumbler, rimmed with silver, and having the triple-towered castle of the Macleods engraved on it, and filled it with wine. Ilf handed it- to the lad. "I drink your health, Lady Macleod," said he, when he had removed hi cap, "and I drink your health, Bliss Macleod; and 1 drink your health, Sir Keith ; and I would have a lighter heart this night if r was going with you away to England." It was a bold demand. 6 MACLEOD OF DARE "I cannot take you with me, Donald \ the Macleods have got i ■ .i of the way of taking their piper with thern, now. You must stay and look after the dogs." " Put you are taking Oscar with you, Sir Keith." "Yes, I am. I must make sure of having one friend with me in the south. " " And I think I would he better than a collie," muttered the lad to himself, as he moved off in a proud and hurt way towards the door, his cap still in his hand. And now a great silence fell over these three ; and Janet Mac- leod looked anxiously towards the old lady, who sat unmoved in the face of the ordeal through which she knew she must pass. It was an old custom that each night a pihroch should he played in Castle Dare in remembrance of her five slain sons ; and yet on this one night her niece would fain have seen that custom abandoned. For was not the pihroch the famous and pathetic Oumhadh na Cloinne, the Lament for the Children, that Patrick M6r, one of the pipers of Macleod of Skyc, had composed to the memory of his seven sons, who had all died within one year 1 And now the doors were opened, and the piper-hoy once more red. The wild, sad wad arose; and slow and solemn was the step with which he walked up the hall. Lady Macleod sat calm and erect, her lips proud and firm, hut her lean hands were working nervously together ; and at last, when the doors were d on the slow and stately and mournful " Lament for the Children," she bent down the silvery head on those wrinkled hands, and wept aloud. Patrick Mor's seven brave sons could have been no more to him than her six tall lads had been to her; and now the last of them was going away from her. "Do you know," said Janet quickly, to her cousin across the table, " that it is said no piper in the west Highlands can play ' Lord Lovat's Lament' like our Donald ? " " Ob, yes, he plays it very well ; and he has got a good step," Macleod said. " But you will tell him to play no more Laments t .-night. Let him take to strathspeys if any of the lads come up after bringing back the boat. It will be time enough for him to make a Lament forme when I am dead. Come, mother, have you no message for Norman Ogilvie 1 " THE SIX BOYS OF DARE 7 The old lady had nerved herself again, though her hands were still tremhling. " I hope he will come hack with yon, Keith," she said. " For the shooting % No, no, mother. He is not fit for the shooting ahout here : I have seen that long ago. Do you think ho could lie for an hour in a wet hog 1 It was up at Tort William T saw him last year ; and I said to him ' Do you wear gloves at Aldershot 1 ' His hands were as white as the hands of a woman." " It is no woman's hand you have, Keith," his cousin said ; " it is a soldier's hand." '•'Yes," said he, with his face Hushing, "and if I had had Norman Ogilvie's chance " But he paused. Could he reproach this old dame, on the very night of his departure, with having disappointed all those dreams of military service and glory that are almost the natural inherit- ance of a Macleod of the Western Highlands 1 If he was a stay- at-home at least his hands were not white. And yet, when young Ogilvie and he studied under the same tutor — the poor man had to travel eighteen miles between the two houses, many a time in hard weather — all the talk and aspirations of the boys were ahout a soldier's life ; and Macleod could show his friend the various trophies and curiosities sent home hy his elder brothers from all parts of the world. And now the lily-fingered and gentle-natured Ogilvie was at Aldershot ; while he — what was he than a mere deer-stalker and salmon-killer. "Ogilvie has been very kind to me, mother," he said, laughing. '• He has sent me a list of places in London where I am to get . and boots, and a hat j and by the time 1 have; done that he will be up from Aldershot, and will lead me about — with a string round my neck, I suppose, lest I should bite somebody." "You could not go better to London than in your own tartan," . theproud mother] "and it is not for an Ogilvie to say how a Macleod shall be dressed. Bui it is no matter, One after the other has gone j the house is left empty at laat. And they all went away like you, with a laugh on theii face. It. was but a trip, a holiday, they said: they would soon be back to Dare. And where are they this night 1" 3 MACLEOD OF DARE Old Hannah came in. " It will be lime for the boat now, Sir Keith, and the men aro down at the shore." lie rose, the handsome young fellow, and took his broad blue bonnet with the badge of juniper. "Good-bye, Cousin Janet," said he lightly. "Good-bye, mother — you are not going to send me away in this sad fashion? What am I to bring you back? A satin gown from Paris? or a young bride to cheer up the old house?" She took no heed of the passing jest. Ho kissed her, and bade her good-bye once more. The clear stars were shining over ( lastle Dare, and over the black .shadows of the mountains, and the smoothly swelling waters of the Atlantic. There was a dull booming of the waves along the rocks. lie had thrown his plaid around him, and he was wondering to himself as he descended the steep path to the shore. He could not believe that the two women were really saddened by his going to the south for a while ; he was not given to fore- bodings. And he had nearly reached the shore when he was overtaken by some one running with a light step behind him. He turned quickly, and found his cousin before him, a shawl thrown round her head and shoulders. " Oh, Keith ! " said she, in a bright and matter-of-fact way, " I have a message for you — from myself — and I did not want auntie to hear, for she is very proud, you know, and I hope you won't be. You know we are all very poor, Keith ; and yet you must not want money in London, if only for the sake of the family; and you know I have a little, Keith — and I want you to take it. You won't mind my being frank with you. I have written a letter." She had the envelope in her hand. "And if I would take money from any one it would be from you, Cousin Janet ; but I am not so selfish as that. What would all the poor people do if I were to take your money to London and spend it?" " I have kept a little," said she, " and it is not much that is needed. It is 2000/. I would like you to take from me, Keitb ; I have written a letter." THE SIX BOYS OF DARE g • "Why, bless me, Janet, that is nearly all the money you've got!" " I know it." ' Well, I may not be able to earn any money for myself, but at least I would not think of squandering your little fortune. No, no ; but I thank you all the same, Janet ; and I know that it is with a free heart that you offer it." " But this is a favour, Keith," said she. " I do not ask you to spend the money. But you might be in trouble ; and you would be too proud to ask any one — perhaps you would not even ask me j and here is a letter that you can keep till then, and if you should want the money you can open the letter, and it will tell you how to get it." "And it is a poor forecast you are making, Cousin Janet," said he cheerfully. " I am to play the prodigal son, then 1 But 1 will take the letter. And good-bye again, Janet ; and God bless you, fur you arc a kind-hearted woman." 8he went swiftly up to Castle Dare again, and he walked on towards the shore. By and by he readied a small stone pier that ran out among some rocks, and by the side of it lay a small □ I tunch, with four nun in her, and Donald the piper-boy perched up at the bow. There was a lamp swinging at her mast, but she had no sail up, for there was scarcely any wind. '•Is it time to go out now?" said Macleod to Hamish, who stood waiting on the pier, having carried down his master's tn. it will l>e time qow, even if you will wait a little," said Kami h ; and then the old man added, " It, is a dark night, Sir Keith, for dng away from Ca tie Dare." "And it will be the brighter morning when I come back," answered the young man, for he could no1 mistake the intention of the word ' V- , indeed, Sir Keith ; and now you will go into the boat, and you will tal of your footing, for the nighi il is ferry dark, and th they are always slippery whatever." Hut Keith Macleod'a I Eamiliarwith the soft seaweed of th- roi rith tie' hard ueatherof the lulls ; and be found no difficulty in getting into the broad-beamed boat. The io MACLEOD OF DARE men jmf out their oars, and pushed licr off. And now, in the dark night tlic skirl of the pipes arose again ; and it was no Btately and mournful lament that young Donald played up there at the bow, as the four oars struck the sea, and sent a flash of white tire down into the deeps. "Donald," Hamish had said to him, on the shore, "when you are going out to the steamer, it is the 70th's Farewell to Chubraltcr that you will play ; and you will play no other thing than that." And surely the 79th were not sorry to leave Gibraltar when their piper composed for them so glad a farewell, At the high windows of Castle Dare the mother stood, and her niece; and as they watched the yellow lamp move slowly out from the black shore they heard this proud and joyous march that Donald was playing to herald the approach of his master. They listened to it as it grew fainter and fainter, and as the small yellow star, trembling over the dark waters, became more and more remote. And then this other sound : this blowing of a steam-whistle, far away in the darkness 1 " He will be in good time, aunt ; she is a long way off yet," said Janet Macleod ; but the mother did not speak. Out there, on the dark and moving waters, the great steamer was slowing drawing near the open boat; and, as she came up, the vast hull of her, seen against the starlit sky, seemed a mountain. ".Now, Donald," Macleod called out, "you will take the dog; here is the string ; and you will sec he does not spring into the water." " Yes, I will take the dog," muttered the boy, half to himself. " < )h, yes, I will take the dog; but it was better if I was going with you, Sir Keith, than any dog." A rope was thrown out, the boat dragged up to the side of the steamer, the small gangway let down, and presently Macleod on the deck of the large vessel. Then Oscar was hauled up too, and the rope flung loose ; and the boat drifted away into the darkness. But the last good-bye had not been said, for over the black waters came the sound of the pipes once more, tho melancholy wad of the Mackintosh's Lament. THE SIX BOYS OF DARE n "Confound that obstinate brat!" Macleod said to himself. " Xow he will go back to Castle Dare, and make the women miserable." "The captain is below at his supper, Sir Keith," said the mate. " "Will you go down to him?" " Yes, I will go down to him," said he, and he made his way along the deck of the steamer. He was arrested by the sound of some one c^dng, and he looked down and found a woman crouched under the bulwarks, with two small children asleep on her knee. ' ; My good woman, what is the matter with you?" said he. " The night is cold," she said in the Gaelic, " and my children arc cold ; and it is a long way that we arc going." He answered her in her own tongue. " You will be warmer if you go below \ but here is a plaid for you anyway," and with that he took the plaid from round his shoulders and flung it across the children, and passed on. That was the way of the Macleods of Dare. They had a 1 manner with them. Perhaps that was t lie reason that their revenues were now far from royal. And meanwhile the red light still burned in the high windows f-f Castle Dare, and two women were there looking out on the pale stars and the dark sea beneath. They waited until they heard the plashing <>f oars in the small bay below, and the message was brought them that Sir Keith had got safely on i the great steamer. Then they turned away from the silent and empty ni ; lit, and one of them was weeping bitterly. "It is the la ! of my six sons thai has gone from me," she ; bark to the old refrain, and refusing to be com- forted "And I have lost my brother," said Janet Macleod, in her simple way. " But he will come back to us, auntie; and then hall have great doings at < 'a tie hare." 12 MACLEOD OF DARE CHAPTER IT. MENTOR. It was with a wholly indescribable surprise and delight that Macleod came upon the life and stir and gaiety of London in the sweet June time, Avhen the parks and gardens and squares would of themselves have been a sufficient wonder to him. The chango from the sombre shores of Lochs na Keal, and Tua, and Scridain to this world of sunlit foliage — the golden yellow of the laburnum, the cream-white of the chestnut, the rose-pink of the red hawthorn, and everywhere the keen translucent green of the young lime-trees — was enough to fill the heart with joy and gladness, though he had been no diligent student of landscape and colour. The few days he had to spend by himself — while getting properly dressed to satisfy the demands of his friend — passed quickly enough. He was not at all ashamed of his country-made clothes as \vt watched the whirl of carriages in Piccadilly, or lounged under the elms of Hyde Park, with his beautiful silver-white and lemon-coloured collie attracting the ad mi ration of every passer-by. Nor had he waited for the per- mission of Lieutenant Ogilvie to make his entrance into at least one little corner of society. He was recognised in St. James's Street one morning by a noble lady whom he had met once or twice at Inverness ; and she, having stopped her carriage, was pleased to ask him to lunch with herself and her husband next day. To the great grief of Oscar, who had to be shut up by himself, Macleod went up next day to Brook Street, and there met several people whose names he knew as representatives of old Highland families, but who were very English, as it seemed to him, in their speech and ways. He was rather petted, for he was a handsome lad ; and he had high spirits and a proud air. And his hostess was so kind as to mention that the Caledonian Hall was coming off on the 25th ; and of course he must come, in tli' Highland costume; and, as she was one of the patronesses, should she give him a voucher 1 ? Macleod answered laugh- MENTOR 13 ingly, that he would be glad to have it, though he did not know what it was ; whereupon she was pleased to say that no wonder he laughed at the notion of a voucher being wanted for any Macleod of Dare. One morning a good-looking and slim young man knocked at the door of a small house in Bury Street, St. James's, and asked if Sir Keith Macleod was at homo. The servant said ho was ; and the young gentleman entered. He was a most correctly- dressed person. . His hat, and gloves, and cane, and long-tailed frock-coat were all beautiful ; but it was perhaps the tightness of his nether garments, or perhaps the tightness of his brilliantly polished boots (which wore partially covered by white gaiters), that made him go up the narrow little stairs with some precision of caution. The door was opened and he was announced. " My dear old boy," said he, " how do you do 1 ? " — and Mac- leod gave him a grip of the hand that nearly burst one of his gloves. But at tin's moment an awful accident occurred. From behind (he door of the adjacent bedroom Oscar the collie sprang forward with an angry growl ; then he seemed to recognise the situation of affairs when he saw his master holding the stranger's hand ; then he began to wag his tail ; then he jumped up with his forepaws to give a kindly welcome. "Hang it all, Macleod ."' young Ogilvie cried, with all the precision gone out of his manner. " Your dog's all wet ! What's the use of keeping a brute like that about the place V Alas I the beautiful, brilliant boots wero all besmeared, and the wli;' I 10, and the horsy-looking aether garments. Moreover, the [Highland far from betraying compunc- tion, bur 1 into a roar of laughter. '• My dear fellow," be cried, " f pul him in my bedroom |.> dry: 1 couldn't do more could I I lie has just been in the 8ci pentine." •■ I wish he nras there now, witb ; , stone and a string round hi-; neck," observed Lieutenant Ogilvie, looking at his boots; but he repented him of this ra b Baying, for within a week he had offered Macleod twenty pounds for the dog. II" might have offered twenty dozen of twenty pounds, and thrown bis 14 MACLEOD OF DARE polished boots and his gaiters loo into the "bargain, and ho would have had the Bame answer. Oscar was onco more banished into the bedroom; and Mr. Ogilvie sat down, pretending to take no more notice of his boots. Macleod pnt some sherry on the table and a handful of cigars; his friend asked whether ho could not have a glass of seltzer- water and a cigarette. "And how do you like the rooms I got for you 1 ?" " There is not much fresh air about them, nor in this narrow street," Macleod said frankly, " but that is no matter, for I have been out all day — all over London." " I thought the price was as high as you would care to go," Ogilvie said, "but I forgot you had come fresh up, with your pockets full of money. If you would like something a triflo more princely, I'll put you up to it." " And where have I got the money 1 There aro no gold mines in the west of Mull. It is you who are Fortunatus." " Tty Jove, if you knew how hard a fellow is run at Aldcrshot ! " Mr. Ogilvie remarked confidentially. " You would scarcely believe it. Every new batch of fellows who come in have to be dined all round ; and the mess-bills are simply awful. It's getting worse and worse ; and then these big drinks put one off one's work so." "You are studying hard, I suppose?" Macleod said, quite gravely. "Pretty well," said he, stretching out his legs, and petting his pretty moustache with his beautiful white hand. Then he added suddenly, surveying the brown-faced and stalwart young fellow before him, "By Jove, Macleod ! I'm glad to see you in London. It's like a breath of mountain air. Don't I remember the awful mornings we've had together — the rain and the mist and the creeping through the bogs 1 I believe you did your best to kill me.- If I hadn't had the constitution of a horse 1 should have been killed." " I should say your big drinks at Aldershot were more likely to kill you than going after the deer," said Macleod. "And will you come up with me this autumn., Ogilvie? The mother will be glad to see you, and Janet too; though we haven't got MENTOR 15 any fine young ladies for you to make lore to, unless you go up to Fort William, or Fort George, or Inverness. And I -was all over the moors before I came away ; and if there is anything like good weather, we shall have plenty of birds this year, for I never saw before such a big average of eggs in the nests." " I wonder you don't let part of that shooting," said Ogilvie, who knew well of the straitened circumstances of the Macleods of Dare. "The mother wouldn't have it done," said Macleod, quite simply, " for she thinks it keeps me at home. But a young man cannot always stay at home. It is very good for you, Ogilvie, that you have brothers." "Yes, if I had been the eldest of them," said Mr. Ogilvie. "It is a capital thing to have younger brothers; it isn't half so pleasant when you arc the younger brother." " And will you come up, then, and bury yourself alive at V "It is awfully good of you to ask me, Macleod; and if I can manage it I will; but I am afraid there isn't much chance this year. In the mean time, let me give you a hint. In London, talk of going down to the Highlands." "Oh, do you? I did not think you were so stupid," Macleod remarked. " "Why, of course we '1". You speak of going up to the capital of a country, and of going down to the provinces." "Perhaps you are right — no doubt you aro right ; butit sounds stupid," the unconvinced Highlander observed again. "It sounds ing up to the south, and going down to the north. And how can yon go down to the Bighlands ' you mighl go down to the Lowlands. But no doubl you are right; and I will be particular. And will you have another cigarette 1 and then we will go <>ut for a walk and < (scar will get drier in the street than ilid s." "Don't imagini thai ['in out to have that dog plunging aboul among my feet," said Ogilvie. "Bui I bave something 1 to do. Eon know ' loloni I Ro of I tuntonne I " ■■ I La-. ■ li. ud of him." "His wife is an awfully nice woman, and would like to meet 16 MACLEOD OF DARE you. I fancy they think of buying some property — I am not sure it isn't an island — in your part of the country ; and she has never been to the Highlands at all. I was to take you down with mo to lunch with her at two, if you care to go. There is her card." Macleod looked at the card. " How far is Prince's Gate from here ? " ho asked. " A mile- and a half, I should say." " And it is now twenty minutes to two," said he, rising. " It will be a nice smart walk." "Thank you," said Mr. Ogdvie, "if it is all the same to you we will perform the journey in a hansom. I am not in training just at present for your tramps to Een-an-Sloich." " Ah ! your boots are rather tight," said Macleod, with grave sympathy. They got into a hansom, and went spinning along through the crowd of carriages on this brilliant morning. The busy streets, the handsome women, the fine buildings, the bright and beautiful foliage of the parks — all these were a perpetual wonder and delight to the new comer, who was as eager in the enjoyment of this gay world of pleasure and activity as any girl come up for her first season. Perhaps this notion occurred to the astute and experienced Lieutenant Ogilvie, who considered it his duty to wain his youthful and ingenuous friend. " Mrs. Eoss is a very handsome woman," he remarked. "Indeed." •■ And uncommonly fascinating too, when she likes." " Really 1 " " You had better look out if she tries to fascinate you." " She is a married woman," said Macleod. " They are always the worst," said this wise person ; " for they are jealous of the younger women " "Oh, that h all ik nis.-ns.'," sud Macleod, bluntly. "I am not such agreenhorji. I have read all that kind of talk in books and magazines — it i> iidi<-ulous. ])o you think I will believe that married women have so little self-respect as to make themselves the laughing-stock of men?" " }fy dear fellow, they have cart-load- of self-respect. What MENTOR i 7 I mean is, that Mrs. Ross is a bit of a lion-hunter ; and she may take a fancy to make a lion of you " " That is better than to make an ass of me, as you suggested." " And naturally she will try to attach you to her set. I don't think you are quite outre enough for her; perhaps I made a mistake in putting you into decent clothes. You wouldn't have time to get into your kilt now ? But you must be prepared to meet all sorts of queer folks at her house — especially if you stay on a bit and have some tea — mysterious poets that nobody ever heard of, and artists who won't exhibit, and awful swells from the German Universities, and I don't know what besides — everybody who isn't the least like anybody else." " And what is your claim, then, to go there 1 " Macleod asked. " Oh," said the young lieutenant, laughing at the home-thrust. " I am only admitted on sufferance, as a friend of Colonel Eoss. Bhe never asked me to put my name in her autograph book. Bat I have done a bit of the jackal for her once or twice, when I happened to be on leave ; and she has sent me with people to her box at Covent Garden when she couldn't go herself." "And how am I to propitiate her? What am I to do?" -he will soon let you know how you strike her. Either she will pet you, or she will .snuff you out like winking. I don't know a woman who lias a blanker Btare, when she likes." Tin idle conversation was suddenly interrupted. At the samo moment both young men experienced a sinking sensation, as if tin- earth had been cut away from beneath their feet; then there . and they were violently thrown against each other; then th")' vaguely knew that tip- cab, heeling over, was being ■ ' ] . b by a runaway hor e. Fori iinately the aid not run viy last; for the axle-tree, deprived of it ; wheel, v. [ng at the road ; but all the same the occupants of the cab thought they mighl a well get out, and so they trii '1 t i force open the two small panels <>f the door in front of them. But the concti ion had so jammed these together that, .-hove at, fiiem as they might, they would not yield. At this juncture, Riacleod, who was notaccu tomed to han om cabs, and did not ai ail iik'- this first experience of them, determined to get out 8om.;iiow; and bo he i ii ed him elf a bit, so as to get b 18 MACLEOD OF DARE firm against the back of the vehicle ; he pulled up his leg until his knee almost touched his mouth ; he got the heel of his boot firmly fixed on tho top edge of the door ; and then Avith one fi award drive he tore the panel right away from its hinges. The other -was, of course, flung open at once. Then he grasped the brass rail outside, steadied himself for a moment, and jumped clear from the cab, alighting on the pavement. Strange to say, Ogilvie did not follow ; though Macleod, as he rushed along to try to get hold of tho horse, momentarily expected to see him jump out. His anxiety was of short duration. The axle-tree caught on the curb ; there was a sudden lurch ; and then with a crash of glass, the cab went right over, throwing down the horse and pitching the driver into the street. It was all the work of a few seconds, and another second seemed to suffice to collect a crowd, sven in this quiet part of Kensington. But after all very little damage was done, except to the horse, which had cut one of its hocks. "When young Mr. Ogdvie scrambled out and got on to the pavement, instead of being grateful that his life had been spared, he was in a towering passion — with whom or what he knew not. "Why didn't you jump out[ "' said Macleod to him, after seeing that the cabman was all right. Ogilvie did not answer ; he was looking at his besmeared hands and dishevelled clothes. " Confound it," said he, " what's to be done now 1 The house is just round the corner." " Let us go in and they will lend you a clothes-brush." " As if I had been fighting a bargee 1 No, thank you. I will go along till I find some tavern, and get myself put to rights." And this he did, gloomily; Macleod accompanying him. It was about a quarter of an hour before he had completed his toilet; and then they set out to walk back to Prince's Gate. Mr. Ogilvie was in a better humour. "What a fellow you are to jump, Macleod!" said he. "If you had cannoned against that policeman, you would have killed him. And you never paid the cabman for destroying the lid of the door ; you prized the thing clean off its hinges. You must have the strength of a giant." FIONA GHAL 19 " But ■where the people came from, it was that surprised me," said Macleod, who seemed to have rather enjoyed the adventure, ' ■ it "was like one of our sea-lochs in the Highlands — you look all round and cannot find any gull anywhere — but throw a biscuit or two into the water, and you will find them appearing from all quarters at once. As for the door, I forgot that ; but I gave the man half-a-sovereign to console him for his shaking. Waa not that enough 1 " " "We shall be frightfully late for luncheon," said Mr. Ogilvie, "with some concern. CHAPTER III. 11"XAGHAI. And indeed when they entered the house — the balconies and windows were a blaze of flowers all shining in the sun — they found that their host and hostess had already come down-stairs and were seated at tabic with their small parly of guests. This circumstance did not lessen Sir Heith Macleod's trepidation ; for there is no denying the fact that the young man would rather have faced an angry hull on a Highland mid than this party of people in the hu bed and emi darkened and flower scented room. eemed to him that his appearance was the signal for a confti Ion thai was equivalenl to an earthquake. Two or three servants— all more solemn than any clergyman -began to make new arrangement ; a tall lady, beni n of aspect, roi e and moi fc Lowly i- aim ; a tall gentleman, with a grey moustache, shook hands with him; and thru, as he vaguely heard young vie, at, the other end of the room, relate the incident of the apsettin of the cab, he found himself sated next to this benign lady, and apparently in a bewilderin Paradise of beautiful lights and colours and delicious odours. Asparagus soup] Yes, he would take that; but for ml or two this spacious c 2 20 MACLEOD OF DARK darkened room, with its stained glass and its sombre walls, and the table before him, with its masses of roses and lilies of the valley, its silver, its crystal, its nectarines, and cherries, and pine- apples, seemed somo kind of enchanted place. And then tho people talked in a low and hushed fashion; and the servants moved silently and mysteriously ; and the air was languid with the scents of fruits and flowers. s-They gave him some wine in a tall green glass that had transparent lizards crawling up its stem ; he had never drunk out of a thing like that before. " It was very kind of Mr. Ogilvie to get you to come ; he is a very good boy ; he forgets nothing," said Mrs. Ross to him ; and as he became aware that she was a pleasant-looking lady of middle age, who regarded him with very friendly and truthful eyes, lie vowed to himself that he would bring Mr. Ogilvie to task for respresenting this decent and respectable woman as a graceless and dangerous coquette. No doubt she was the mother of children. At her time of life she was better employed in the nursery or in the kitchen than in flirting with young men ; and could lie doubt that she was a good house-mistress when he saw with his own eyes how spick and span everything was, and how accurately everything was served 1 Even if his cousin Janet lived in the south, with all these fine flowers and hot-house fruits to serve her purpose, she could not have done better, lie began to like this pleasant-eyed woman, though she seemed delicate and a trifle languid, and in consequence he sometimes could not quite make out what she said. But then he noticed that the other people talked iii this, limp fashion too : there was no precision a! ii nit their words ; frequently they seemed to leave you to guess the end of their sentences. As for the young lady next him, was she not very delicate also ? He had never seen such hands — so small, and tine, and white. And although she talked only to her neighbour on the other side of her, he could hear that her voice, low and musical as it was, was only a murmur. " Miss White and I," said Mrs. Ross to him — and at this moment the young lady turned to them — "were talking before you came in of the beautiful country you must know so well, and of its romantic stories and associations with Prince Charlie. Gertrude, let me introduce Sir Keith Macleod to you. I told FIONAGHAL 21 Miss White you might come to us to-day; and she was saying what a pity it was that Flora Macdonald was not a Macleod." " That was very kind," said he, frankly, turning to this tall, pale girl, with the rippling hair of golden-brown and the heavy- lidded and downcast eyes. And then he laughed. " We would not like to steal the honour from a woman, even though she was a Macdonald ; and you know the Macdonalds and the Macleods were not very friendly in the old time. Put we can claim something, too, about the escape of Prince Charlie, Mrs Eoss. After Flora Macdonald had got him safe from Harris to Skyc, she handed him over to the sons of Macleod of Eaasay, and it was owing to thorn that he got to the mainland. You will find many people up there to this day who believe that if Macleod of Macleod had gone out in '45 Prince Charlie would never have had to flee at all. Bat I think the Macleods had done enough for the Stuarts ; and it was but little thanks they ever got in return, so far as I could ever hear. Do you know, Mrs. Eoss, my mother wears mourning every :'>rd of September, and will eat no thin g from morning till night] It is the anniversary of the Battle of Worcester; and then the Macleods were so smashed up that for a long time the other clans relieved them from military service." "You are not much of a Jacobite, Sir Keith?" said Mrs. I: Hiding. "Only when I hear a Jacobite song sung," said he. "Then who can fail to be a Jacobite 1 " II- had become quite friendly with this amiable lady. If he had been afraid that bis voice, in the a delicate southern cars, : ' ound like the first guttural drone of Donald's pipes at 1 tie Dare, he had Bpeedily lost that fear, The manly, sun- browned face and clear-glancin were full of animation; he oppri "'1 no longer by the solemnity of the servants; so he talked to her he was quite confident j ho had made friends with this friendly woman. But he had not as yet dared to addrei the p it on hi 1 ri ;ht, and who seemed 1 ile, and beautiful, and di itant in manner. "After all," : aid he to Mrs. Ro , " there were no more Highlanders killed in the cause of the Stuarts than used to bo 22 MACLEOD OF DARE killed, every year or two merely out of the quarrels of the clans among themselves. All about where I live there is scarcely a rock or a loch or an island that has not its story. And I think," added he, with a becoming modesty, "that the Macloods were by far the most treacherous, and savage, and bloodthirsty of the whole lot of them." And now the fair stranger beside him addressed him for the first time; and as she did so she turned her eyes towards him — clear, large eyes that rather startled one when the heavy lids wcro lifted, so full of expression were they. " I suppose," said she, with a certain demure smile, " you have no wild deeds done there now 1 " " Oh, we have become quite peaceable folks now," said ho, laughing. " Our spirit is quite broken. The wild boars are all away from the islands now, even from Muick. AVe have only the sheep. And the Mackenzics, and the Macleans, and the Macleods — they are all sheep now." Was it not quite obvious % How could any one associate with this bright-faced young man the fierce traditions of hate, and malice, and revenge, that make the seas and islands of the north still more terrible in their loneliness 1 Those were the days of strong wills and strong passions, and of an easy disregard of in- dividual life when the gratification of some set desire was near. What had this Macleod to do with such scorching fires of liato and of love 1 He was playing with a silver fork and half-a-dozen strawberries : Miss White's surmise was perfectly natural and correct. The ladies went upstairs ; and the men, after the claret had gone round, followed them. And now it seemed to this rudo Highlander that he was only going from wonder to wonder. Half-way up the narrow staircase was a large recess, dimly lit by the sunlight falling through stained glass ; and there was a small fountain playing in the middle of this grotto ; and all around was a wilderness of ferns dripping with the spray, while at the entrance two stone figures held up magical globes, on which the springing and falling water was reflected. Then from this partial gloom he emerged into the drawing-room — a dream of rose-pink and gold; with the air sweetened around him by the masses of FIONA GHAL a3 roses and tall lilies about. His eyes were rather bewildered at first ; the figures of the women seemed dark against the white laco of the windows. But as he went forward to his hostess he could make out still further wonders of colour : for in the balconies outside, in the full glare of the sun, were geraniums and lobelias and golden calceolarias and red snap-dragon ; their bright hues faintly tempered by the thin curtains through which they were He could not help expressing his admiration of these tbinss that were so new to him ; for it seemed to him that he bad come into a land of perpetual summer and sunshine and glowing fli iwers. Then the luxuriant greenness of the foliage on the other Bide of Inhibition Eoad — for Mrs. Boss's house faced westward — was, as he said, singularly beautiful to one accustomed to the windy skies of the western isles. " But you have not seen our elm," said Mrs. Boss, who was arranging some azaleas that had just been sent her. "We are vi y proud of our elm. Gertrude, will you take Sir Keith to see our noble elm]" II- had almost forgotten who Gertrude was; but the next second he recognized the low and almost, timid voice that said — "Will you come this way, then, Sir Keith?" II e turned, and found that it was Miss White who spoke. Bow was it that this girl, who was only a girl, seemed to do thing ■ i isily, ami gently, and naturally — without any trace of emb 1 Ee followed her, and knew which to admire the more— the careless simplicity of her manner, or the c symmetry of her tall and slender figure. Il<- !, si '.I ui', or any picl lire in any hool< to 1"' compared with t hi i woman, who was so fine and rare and delicate that she seemed only a beautiful tall flower in this garden of flowers. There wa iplicity, too, about her dre a plain, ti.ht fitting, red dress of unrelieved Marl, ; her only adornment being some bands of big blue bead woj d loi ad the neck. The black figure, in this shimmer of rose-pinl< and gold anil : effective enough j hut, even the fin of pictures, or the fim ttui , has not the subtle attraction . graceful carriage. Macleod hail never leen any woman walk as this woman walked, in so stately ami yot so simple a way. 24 MACLEOD OF FAKE i'rom Mrs. Ross's chief drawing-room they passed into au ante-drawing-room, which was partly a passage and partly a conservatory. On the window-side wore some rows of Capo neaths ; on the wall-side somo rows of hluo and white plates ; and it was one of the latter that was engaging the attention of two persons in this ante-room — Colonel Ross himself, and a little old gentleman in gold-rimmed spectacles. "Shall I introduce you to my father?" said Miss White to her companion ; and, after a word or two, they passed on. a I think papa is invaluable to Colonel Ross," said she ; " he is as good as an auctioneer at telling the value of china. Look at this beautiful heath. Mrs. Ross is very proud of her heaths." The small white fingers scarcely touched the beautiful blossoms of the plant ; but which were the more palely roseate and waxen ? If one were to grasp that hand — in some sudden moment of entreaty — in the sharp joy of reconciliation — in the agony of farewell — would it not bo crushed like a frail flower? "There is our elm," said she, lightly. "Mrs. Ross and I regard it as our own ; we have sketched it so often." They had emerged from the conservatory into a small square room, which was practically a continuation of the drawing-room, but which was decorated in pale blue and silver, and filled with a lot of knick-knacks that showed it was doubtless Mrs. Ross's boudoir. And out there, in the clear June sunshine, lay the broad greensward behind Prince's Gate, with the one splendid elm spreading his broad branches into the blue sky, and throw- ing a soft shadow on the corner of the gardens next to the house. How sweet and still it was ! as still as the calm clear light in this girl's eyes. There was no passion there, and no trouble; only the light of a June day, and of blue skies, and a peaceful soul. She rested the tips of her fingers on a small rosewood table that stood by tin; window : surely, if a spirit ever lived in any table, the wood of this table must have thrilled to its core. And had he given all this trouble to this perfect creaturo merely that he should look at a tree? — and was he to say some ordinary tiling about an ordinary elm to tell her how grateful he was? •' It is like a dream to me," he said, honestly enough, " since FIOXAGIIAL 25 I came to London. You seem always to have sunlight and plenty of fine trees and hothouse flowers. But I suppose you have -winter, like the rest of us '] " " Or we should very soon tire of all this, "beautiful as it is," said she, and she looked rather wistfully out on the broad still gardens. " For my part, I should very soon tire of it. I should think there was more excitement in the wild storms and the dark nights of the north. There must be a strange fascination in the short winter days among the mountains, and the long winter nights by the side of the Atlantic." He looked at her. That fierce fascination he knew something of: how had she guessed at it? And as for her talking as if she herself would gladly brave these storms — was it for a foam-bell to brave a storm % was it for a rose-leaf to meet the driving rains of Ben-an-Sloich ? " Shall we go back, now 1 " said she ; and as she turned to lead the way he could not fail to remark how shapely her neck . for her rich golden-brown hair was loosely gathered up behind. But just at this moment Mrs. Eoss made her appearance. " Come," said she, " we shall have a chat all to ourselves ; and you will tell me, Sir Keith, what you have seen since you camo to London, and what has struck you most. And you must stay with us, Gertrude; perhaps Sir Keith will be so kind as to freeze your blood with another horrible story about the High- landers — I am only a poor southerner and have to get up my ads from books -but thiq wicked girl, Sir Keith, deli as much in ' i blood bed as a schoolboy 'lues." "You will not believe her," said Miss While, in that low- toned gravely 1 incere voice of hers, while a faint shell like, pink suffused her face. "It was only that we were talking of the Hi/hi. in u e we understood you were coming? and Mrs. was trying to make out" — and here a spice of proud mi - chief came into the ordinarily calm eyes -"she was trying to inak<- 1 h it that you must 1"' a very h rrible and dangerou 1 per on, who would probably murder us all if we were not civil to you." " Well, you know, Sir Keith," :ii capture the young heir of the house of Lochbuy, and how the boy was rescued and carried away by his nurse 1 ? And when, arrived at man's estate, he returned to revenge himself on those who had betrayed him, among them was the husband of the nurse. The young chief would have spared the life of this man, for the old woman's sake. " Let the tail go with the hide," said she, and he was slain with the rest. And then the narrator went on to the story of the flogging. He told them how Maclean of Lochbuy was out after the deer one day ; and his wife, with her child, had come out to see the shooting. They were driving the deer ; and at a particular pass a man was stationed so that, should the deer come that way, he should turn them back. The deer came to this pass ; the man failed to turn them ; the chief was mad with rage. He gave orders that the man's back should be bared, and that he should be flogged before all the people. " Very well," continued Macleod. " It was done. But it is not safe to do anything like that to a Highlander ; at least it was not safe to do anything like that to a Highlander in those days ; for, as I told you, Mrs. Boss, we are all like sheep now. Then they went after the deer again ; but at one moment the man that had been flogged seized Maclean's child from the nurse, and ran with it across the mountain-side, till he reached a place i hanging the sea. And he held out the child over the sea ; and it was of no use that Maclean begged on his knees for forgiveness. Even the passion of loj'alty was lost now in the fierceness of revenge. This was what the man said — that unless Maclean had his back bared there and then before all the people, and flogged as he had been flogged, then the child should be dashed into the sea below. There was nothing to be done but that — no prayers, no offers, no appeals from the mother Avere of any use. And so it was that Maclean of Lochbuy Avas flogged there, before his own people ; and his enemy above looking on. And then 1 ? When it was over, the man called out aloud, enged ! Bevenged !' and sprang into the air Avith the child FIONAGHAL 29 along with hint ; and neither of them was ever seen again aftei they had sunk into the sea. It is an old story." An old story, doubtless, and often told ; but its effect on this girl sitting beside him was strange. Her clasped hands trembled ; her eyes were glazed and fascinated as if by some spell. Mrs. -, noticing this extreme tension of feeling, and fearing it, hastily rose. " Come, Gertrude," she said, taking the girl by the hand, " we shall be frightened to death by these stories. Come and sing us a song — a French song, all about tears, and fountains, and bits of ribbon— or we shall be seeing the ghosts of murdered Highlanders coming in here in the daytime." Macleod, not knowing what he had done, but conscious that something had occurred, followed them into the drawing-room, and retired into a sofa while Miss White sat down to the open piano. He hoped he had not offended her. He would not 1 with any ghastly stories from the wild northern seas. And what was this French song that she was about to sing? The pule slender fingers were wandering over the keys; and there was a sound — faint and (dear and musical — as of the rippling of distant summer waves. And sometimes the sounds came nearer \ and now he fancied he recognised some old familiar strain j and he thought of his cousin Janet somehow; and >A' Bummer days down by the bine waters of the Atlantic. A French Bong I Surely if this air, that seemed to come nearer and blown from any earthly land, it had come from the valleys of Lochiel and Ardgoui and from the still shores of rig and Moidarl I Oh, yesj it was a very pretty French '; ■ had Ross with. " A wee bird ea m to owr hd door" — thi : and though, I" tell the I ruth, Bhe had Dot lunch of a voice, it v.. 1 squi Ltely trained, and she sang with a tenderni 1 and • ion such as he, at least, had novor 1 befon " 11, warbli vnd clearly; A,,' aye the <>'■ m,me <,' hie eang Ii'/ ■ Waie me for Prince Charlie I ' 3o MACLEOD OF DARE Oh! when I heard (he bonnie, bonnie bird, The tears cam' drappin' rarely ; I look my bonnet off my head, For icell I lo'ed Prince Charlie." It could not have entered into his imagination to believe that such pathos could exist apart from the actual sorrow of the world. The instrument before her seemed to speak ; and the low, joint cry was one of infinite grief and longing and love. ''''Quoth I, 'My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, Is that a sang ye borrow ? Are these some words ye- re learnt by heart, Or a lilt o' dool an' sorrow ? ' ' Oh, no, no, no ! ' the ivee bird sawj, 1 I've flown sin' mornia! early; But sic a day o' wind and rain — Oh, wads me for Prince Charlie J'" Mrs. Eoss glanced archly at him when she discovered what sort of French song it was that Miss White had chosen; but he paid no heed. His only thought was — "If only the mother and Janet could hear this strange singing ! " "When she had ended, Mrs. Ross came over to him and said — " That is a great compliment to you." And he answered, simply — " I have never heard any singing like that." Then young Mr. Ogilvie — whose existence, by the way, he had entirely and most ungratefully forgotten — came up to the piano; and began to talk in a very pleasant and amusing fashion to Miss White. She was turning over the leaves of the book before her ; and Macleod grew angry with this idle interference. Why should this lily-lingered jackanapes — whom a man could wind round a reel and throw out of window — disturb the rapt devotion of this beautiful Saint Cecilia'? She struck a firmer chord ; the bystanders withdrew a bit; and of a sudden it seemed to him that all the spirit of all the clans was ringing in the proud fervour of this fragile girl's voice. Whence had she got this fierce Jacobite passion that thrilled him to the very finger-tips ] FIONAGHAL 31 " Til to Lockiel, and Appin, and kneel to them, Dovm by Lord Murray and Hoy of Kildarlie : Brave Mackintosh, he shall fly to the field wV them ; These are the lads lean trust vrS my Charlie I " Could any man fail to answer ] Could any man die otherwise than gladly if he died with such an appeal ringing in his ears 1 Macleod did not know there was scarcely any more volume in this girl's voice now than when she was singing the plaintive wail that preceded it : it seemed to hi in that there was the strength of the tread of armies in it ; and a challenge that could rouse a nation.. "Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore I Loyal true Highlanders, down ici' them rarely ! lionald and Donald, drive on wi' the broad claymore Over the necks of the foes of Prince Charlie t Follow thee! Follow thee ! Whawadna follow thee, King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie /" She shut the hook, with a light laugh, and left the piano. She came over to where Macleod sat. When he saw that she meant to speak to him, he rose, and stood hefore her. " I must ask your pardon," said she, smiling, " for singing two Scotch songs ; for I know the pronunciation is very difficult." He answered with no idle compliment — "If Tearlach han og, as they used to call him, were alive now," said he — and indeed there was never any Stuart of them all, not even the Fair Young Charles himself, who looked more handsome than this same Macleod of Dare who now stood before her — "you would get him more men to follow him than any Bag or .standard he 6V< 1 1 ■; d." She cast her eye- down. Mr 1. Rc ' gui b ega 11 to leav 1 , " Gertrude," said she, "will you drive with me I'm' half an hour?- the carriage is at the door. And I know the gentlemen want to havi ir in the shade of Ken ington Gardens : they might come back and have a cup of tea with us." But Mi b White had some 1 mentj she and her father hit together \ and the young men followed Hem almost, direelly - Mi . i; tying that she would be most plea ed to Bee Sir b Macleod any Tie day OI Thursday afternoon he bappeni '1 to ho pa he was always at home on these days. 32 MACLEOD OF DARE "I don't think wo can do better than take her advice about the cigar," said young Ogilvie, as they crossed to Kensington ( lardens. " What do you think of her 1 " " Of Mrs. Loss 1 " "Yes." 11 Oh, I think she is a very pleasant woman." "Yes, but " said Mr. Ogirvie, "how did she strike you 1 ? Do you think she is as fascinating as some men think her 1 ?" "I don't know what men think about her," said Macleod. " It never occurred to me to ask whether a married woman was fascinating or not. I thought she was a friendly Avoman — talkative, amusing, clever enough." They lit their cigars in the cool shadow of the great elms ■ who docs not know how beautiful Kensington Gardens are in June? And yet Macleod did not seem disposed to be garrulous ahout these new experiences of his j he was absorbed, and mostly silent. " That is an extraordinary fancy she has taken for Gertrude White," Mr. Ogilvie remarked. " Why extraordinary 1 " the other asked, with sudden interest. " Oh, well, it is unusual, you know ; but she is a nice girl enough, and Mrs. Ross is fond of odd folks. You didn't speak to old White? — his head is a sort of British Museum of antiqui- ties ; but he is of some use to these people — he is such a swell about old armour, and china, and such things. They say he wants to be sent out to dig for Dido's funeral pyre at Carthage, and that he is only waiting to get the trinkets made at Birmingham." They walked on a bit in silence. " I think you made a good impression on Mrs. Loss," said Mr. Ogilvie, coolly. "You'll find her an uncommonly useful woman, if she takes a fancy to you; for she knows everybody and goes everywhere, though her own house is too small to let her entertain properly, Ly the way, Macleod, I don't think you could have hit on a worse fellow than I to take you about ; for I am so little in London that I have become a rank outsider. But I'll tell you what I'll do for you if you will go with me to- night to Lord Beauregard's who is an old friend of mine. I will WONDER-LAND 33 ask kirn to introduce you to some people — and his wife gives very good dances — and if any Koyal or Imperial swell comes to town you'll be sure to run against him there. I forget who it is they are receiving there to-night ; but anyhow you'll meet two or three of the fat duchesses whom Dizzy adores; and I shouldn't wonder if that Irish girl were there — the new beauty : Lady Beauregard is very clever in picking people up." "Will Miss White be there?" Macleod asked, apparently deeply engaged in probing the end of his cigar. His companion looked up in surprise : then a new fancy seemed to occur to him ; and he smiled very slightly. " "Well, no," said lie slowly, " I don't think she will. In fact, I am almost sure she will be at the Piccadilly Theatre. If you like, we will give up Lady Beauregard, and after dinner go to the Piccadilly Theatre instead. How will that do?" " I think that will do very well," said Macleod. nr.vpTEiirV. WONDER-LANDi A COOL evening in .June. — the club windows open — a clear twilight shining ovei Pall Mall — and a tete-d-tite dinner al a small clean, bright table: these are Dot the conditions in which mng man Bhould show impatience. And yet the cunning di lie- which Mr. Ogilvie, who had a certain pride in his club, though it was only one of the junior institutions, had placed before his friend, met with but scant curiosity : Macleod would rather have handed qui iy over to his cousin Janet. Nor did he pay much heed to his companion's sage advice to the sort of club he should have himself proposed .'it, with a view togettin I in a dozen Or fifteen years; a young man is apt to let his life at forty shift for itself. D 34 MACLEOD OF DARE " You seem very anxious to see Miss White again," said Mr. Ogilvie, with a slight smile. " I wish to make all the friends I can while I am in London," said Macleod. "What shall I do in this howling wilderness when you go back to Aldcrshot ? " " I don't think Miss Gertrude White will he of much use to you. Colonel Eoss may he. Or Lord Beauregard. But you cannot expect young ladies to take you about." "No?" said Macleod gravely, " that is a great pity." Mr. Ogilvie, who, with all his knowledge of the world, and of wines, and cookery, and women, and what not, had sometimes an uneasy consciousness that his companion was covertly laugh- ing at him, here proposed that they should have a cigar before walking up to the Piccadilly Theatre; but as it was now ten minutes to eight, Macleod resolutely refused. He begged to be considered a country person, anxious to see the piece from the beginning. And so they put on their light top-coats over their evening dress and walked up to the theatre. A distant sound of music ; an odour of escaped gas ; a perilous descent of a corkscrew staircase ; a drawing aside of heavy curtains; and then a blaze of yellow light shining within this circular building, on its red satin and gilt plaster, and on the spacious picture of a blue Italian lake, with peacocks on the wide stone terraces. The noise at first was bewildering. The leader of the orchestra was sawing away at his violin as savagely as if he were calling on his company to rush up and seize a battery of guns. What was the melody that was being banged about by the trombones, and blared aloud by the shrill cornets, and sawed across by the infuriated violins? " When the hear! of a man is oppressed with can:" I The cure was never insisted on with such an angry vehemence. Recovering from the first shock of the fierce noise, Macleod began to look around this strange place, with its magical colours and its profusion of gilding; but nowhere in the half-empty stalls or behind the lace curtains of the boxes, could he make out the visitor of whom he was in search. Perhaps she was not coming, then 1 ? Had he sacrificed the evening all for nothing? As regarded the theatre, or the piece to be played, he had not the WONDER-LAND 35 slightest interest in either. The building was very pretty, no doubt ; but it was only, in effect, a superior sort of booth ; and as for the trivial amusement of watching a number of people strut across a stage and declaim — or perhaps make fools of themselves to raise a laugh — that was not at all to his liking. It would have been different had he been able to talk to the girl who had shown such a strange interest in the gloomy stories of the northern seas • perhaps, though he would scarcely have admitted this to himself, it might have been different if only he had been allowed to see her at some distance. But her being absent altogether] The more the seats in the stalls were fdled — reducing the chances of her coming — the more empty the theatre seemed to become. "At least Ave can go along to that house you mentioned," said he to his companion. " Oh, don't be disappointed yet," said Ogilvie ; " I know she will be here." "With Mis. Ross?" " Mis. Ross comes very often to this theatre. It is the correct tiling to do. It is high art. All the people are raving about tli-' chief actress; artists painting her portrait; poets writing Bonnets about her different characters; no end of a fuss. And proud that so distinguished a person is her particular friend " — "Do you mean the actress ?" "Yes; — and makes her the big feature of her parties at nt : and society is rather inclined to make a pet of her too - patroni ing high art, don't you know? It's wonderful what you can do in that way. If a duke wants a clown to make fellows laugh alter a I ferby dinner, be gets him to his house, and tnaki - liim dance; and if the papers find it out it is only ing the moral status of the pantomime.' Of course it is different with Mi . Ro ' friend — she is all right socially." The garrulou i boy wa i topped by tin- : 1 1 < 1 « 1 < • 1 1 cessation of the music; and then the Etalian lake and the peacocks disappeared into unknown regions above; and behold I in their place a spacious hall was revealed — nol the bare and simple hall at le Dare with which Macleod waa familiar -but a grand apartment, filled with old armour, and pictures, and cabinets, l> 2 36 MACLEOD OF DARE and showing glimpses of a balcony and fair gardens beyond, There were two figures in this hall; and they spoke — in the high and curious falsetto of the stage. Macleod paid no more heed to them than if they had been marionettes. For one thing, he could not follow their speech very well ; hut in any case, what interest could ho have in listening to this old lawyer explaining to the stout lady that the family affairs were griev- ously involved 1 He was still intently watching the new comers who straggled in, singly or in pahs, to the stalls : when a slight motion of the white curtains showed that some one was entering one of the boxes, the corner of the box was regarded with as earnest a gaze as ever followed the movements of a herd of red- deer in the misty chasms of Ben-an-Sloich. What concern had he in the troubles of this overdressed and stout lady, who was bewailing her misfortunes and wringing her bejewelled hands? Suddenly his heart seemed to stand still altogether. It was a light, glad laugh — the sound of a voice he knew, — that seemed to have pierced him as with a rifle-ball ; and at the same moment, from the green shimmer of foliage in the balcony, there stepped into the glare of the hall a young girl with life and laughter aud a merry carelessness in her face and eyes. She threw her arm round her mother's neck and kissed her. She bowed to the legal person. She flung her garden-hat on to a couch ; and got up on a chair to get fresh seed put in for her canary. It was all done so simply, and naturally, and gracefully, that in an instant a fire of life and reality sprang into the Avhole of this sham thing. The older woman was no longer a marion- ette, but the anguish stricken mother of this gay and heedless girl. And when the daughter jumped down from the chair again — her canary on her finger — and when she came fonvard to pet and caress and remonstrate with her mother — and when the glare of the lights Hashed on the merry eyes, and on the whito teeth and laughing lips — there was no longer any doubt possible. Macleod's face was quite pale. He took the programme from Ogilvie's hand, and for a minute or two stared mechanically at the name of Miss Gertrude White printed on the pink tinted paper. He gave it kim back without a word. Ogilvie only smiled; he was proud of the surprise ho had planned. WONDER-LAND 37 And now the fancies and recollections that came rushing into Macleod's head were of a sufficiently chaotic and bewildering character. He tried to separate that grave and gentle and sensi- tive girl he had met at Prince's Gate from this gay madcap ; and he could not at all succeed. His heart laughed with the laughter of this wild creature ; he enjoyed the discomfiture and despair of the old lawyer, as she stood before him, twirling her garden-bat by a solitary ribbon ; and when the small white fingers raised the canary to be kissed by the pouting lips, the action was more graceful than anything he had ever seen in the world. But where was the silent and serious girl who had listened with such rapt attention to his tales of passion and revenge — who seemed to have some mysterious longing for those gloomy shores ho came from — who had sung with such exquisite pathos " A wee bird cam' to our ha' door'"? Her cheek had turned white when sin.- heard of the fate of the son of Maclean : surely that sensitive and vivid imagination could not belong to this audacious girl, with her laughing, and teasings, and demure coquetry? Society had not been talking about the art of Mrs. Ross's protegee for nothing ; and that art soon made short work of Keith Macleod's doubts. The fair stranger he had met at Prince's Gate vanished into mist. Eere was the real wonianj and all the trumpery business of the theatre, that he would otherwise have rded with indifference or contempt, became a real and living thing; insomuch that he followed the fortunes of this spoiled child with a breathless interest and a beating heart. The Bpell on him. < »h, why should she. be so proud to this poor lover, who stood bo meekly before her? "Coquette! coquette 1" i Macleod could b ive oried to her) '• the days are no! always full m bine; lit'- i nol all youth and beauty and high spirits; ime to repenl of your pride and your cruelty." Be had oo jealou j against the poor youth who took his leave; he pitied him— but it was for her sake; he seemed to know that evil 'lays were coming, when she would long for the Bolace of an honest man's love And when the trouble came as speedily it and when he stood bravely up at first to meet hei fate, and when she broke down fora time, and buried hex face in her hand , and cried with bitter sobs, the tears were running down his face. 33 MACLEOD OF DARE Could tlio merciful Heavens sec such grief, and let tlic -wicked triumph ! And why was there no man to succour her ? Surely some times arise in which the old law is the good law ; and a man will trust to his own right arm to put things straight in the world ? To look at her — could any man refuso 1 And now she rises and goes away ; and all the glad summer-time and the sun- shine have gone ; and the cold wind shivers through the trees, and it breathes only of farewell. Farewell, miserable one ! the way is dark hefore you; and you aro alone. Alone, and no man near to help. Macleod was awakened from his trance. The act-drop was let down ; there was a stir throughout the theatre ; young Ogilvie turned to him. " Don't you see who has come into that corner box up there 1 ? '' If he had been told that Miss White, come up from Prince's Gate, in her plain black dress and blue beads, had just arrived and was seated there, he would scarcely have been surprised. As it was, he looked up, and saw Colonel Ross taking his scat, while the figure of a lady was partially visible behind the lace curtain. " I wonder how often Mrs. Eoss has seen this piece ! " Ogilvie said. " And I think Colonel Ross is as profound a believer in Miss White as his wife is. Will you go up and see them now?" " JNTo," Macleod said absently. " I shall tell them," said the facetious boy, as he rose, and got hold of his crush-hat, " that you are meditating a leap on to tho stage, to rescue the distressed damsel." And then his conscience smote him. " Mind you," said he, " I think it is awfully good myself. I can't pump up any enthusiasm for most things that people rave about ; but I do think this girl is uncommonly clever. And then she always dresses like a lady." With this high commrndition Lieutenant Ogilvie left, and made his way up-stairs to Mrs. Ross's box. Apparently he was wdl received there; for he did not make his appearance again at the beginning of tho next act, nor, indeed, until it was nearly over. The dream-world opens again ; and now it is a beautiful garden, close by the ruins of an old abbey ; and fine ladies are walking WONDER-LAND 39 about there. But what does he care for these marionettes uttering meaningless phrases ? They have no more interest for him than the sham ivy on the sham ruins, so long as that one bright, speaking, pathetic face is absent ; and the story they are carrying forward is for him no story at all, for he takes no heed of its details in his anxious watching for her appearance. The sides of this garden are mysteriously divided : by which avenue will she approach ? Suddenly he hears the low voice — she comes nearer — now let the world laugh again ! But alas ! when sho does appear, it is in the company of her lover ; and it is only to bid him good-bye. Why does the coward hind take her at her word? A stick, a stone, a wave of the cold sea, would be more responsive to that deep and tremulous voice, which has now no longer any of the arts of a wilful coquetry about it, but is altogether as self- revealing as the generous abandonment of her eyes. The poor cipher ! — he is not the man to woo and win and carry off this noble woman, the unutterable soul-surrender of whose look has the courage of despair in it. He bids her farewell. The tailor's dummy retires. And she? — in her agony, is there no one to comfort her? The}' have demanded this sacrifice in the name of duty; and Bhe has consented : ought not that to be enough to 1 '.in Fort her? Then other people appear, from other parts of the garden ; and there is a Babel of tongues. He hears nothing; but he follows that sad face, until he could imagine, that he listens to the throbbing of her aching heai 1 . And then, as the phantasms of the 3tage come and go, and fortune plays many pranks with these puppets, the piece draws loan end. And now, as it appears, every thin j is reversed; and it is the poor lover who Is in trouble, while she is ■ ired to the proud position of her coquetries and wilful graces n, with all her friend miling around her, and life lying fair re her. She meet 1 him by accident. Buffering gives him a. certain sort of d : bul how is one to retain patience with the blindne 1 of this irtsulnrahlc a ' hon'tyou: ■<•, man, don't you Bee thai to i brow her lelf into your arms ? and 1 poor ninny, yroui elf airs, and assuming the grand heroic I And then the Bhy coquetry comes in again. The 40 MACLEOD OF DARE pathetic eyes are full of a grave compassion, if lie must really never see her more. The cat plays with the poor mouse, and pretends that really the tender thing is gone away at last. Ho ■will tako this half of a "broken sixpence back : it was given in happiei times. If ever ho should marry, he will know that ono far away prays for his happiness. And if — if these unwomanly tears . . . and suddenly the crass idiot discovers that she is laughing at him ; and that she has secured him and bound him as completely as a fly fifty times -wound round by a spider. The crash of applause that accompanied the lowering of the curtain stunned Macleod, who had not quite come back from dream-land. And then, amid a confused roar, the curtain was drawn a bit hack, and she was led — timidly smiling, so that her eyes seemed to take in all the theatre at once — across the stage by that samo poor fool of a lover ; and she had two or three bouquets thrown her, notably one from Mrs. Eoss's hox. Then she disappeared ; and the lights were lowered; and there was a dull shuffling of people getting their cloaks and hats and going away. " Mrs. Eoss wants to see you for a minute," Ogilvie said. " Yes," Macleod answered absently. "And we have time yet, if you like, to get into a hansom, and drive along to Lady Beauregard's." CHAPTEE V. IN PARK LANE. Tiip.y found Mrs. Eoss and her husband waiting in the corridoi above. "Well, how did you like it?" she said. He could not answer off-hand. He was afraid he might say too much. "It is like her singing," he stammered at length. " I am not IN PARK LANE 41 used to these tilings. I have never seen anything like that before." " "We shall soon have her in a better piece," Mrs. Eoss said. * It is being written for her. That is very pretty ; but slight. She is capable of greater things." " She is capable of anything," said Macleod simply, " if she can make yon believo that such nonsense is real. I looked at the others. "What did they say or do, better than mere pictures in a book] But she it is like magic." " And did Mr. Ogilvie give you my message 1 " said Mrs. Eoss. " My husband and I are going down to see a yacht race on tho Thames to-morrow — we did not think of it till this evening any more than we expected to find you hero. "We came along to try to get Miss White to go with us. Will you join our little party 1 " " Oh, yes, certainly — thank you very much," Macleod said eagerly. "Then you'd better meet us at Charing Cross, at ten sharp," Colonel Eoss said ; " so don't let Ogilvie keep you up too lato •with brandy and soda. A special will take us down." "Brandy and soda!" Mr. Ogilvie exclaimed. "I am going !:c him along for a few minutes to Lady Beauregard's — rarely that i ; proper enough j and I have to get down by tho 'cold-meat' train to Aldershot, so there won't bo much brandy and soda for me; Shall we go now, Mrs. Eoss 1 " "I am waiting for an answer," Mrs. Eoss said, looking along the corridor. Was it possible, then, that she herself should hring the answer to this message that had been sent her -stepping" out of tho m-world in which she had disappeared with her lover I And would Bhe look as she came along this narrow passage? Lib- the arch coquette of this land of gaslight and glowing ' or lik<; the pah-, limi', proud ^'irl who was fond of hing the 1 Im at Prince 1 Gatel A fcrange nervou ne 9 possessed him as he thought he might suddenly appear. I [e did not listen to the talk between Col I Bo 1 and Mr. Ogilvie. Be •lid not notice that this small party was obviously regard' 1 aa being in the way by the att< octants who were putting out tho 42 MACLEOD OF DARE light alonj light s and shutting t-lio doors of the boxes. Then a man came o « "Miss Wliite's compliments, ma'am ; and she will be very pleased to meet you at Charing Cross at ten to-morrow." "And Miss White is a very brave young lady to attempt any. thing of the kind," observed Mr. Ogilvie confidentially, as they all went down the stairs. "For if the yachts should get becalmed o II' the Nore, or off the Mouse, I wonder how Miss White will get back to London in time?" " Oh, we shall take care of that," said ColonelRoss. "Unless there is a good steady breeze we shan't go at all; we shall spend a happy day at Rosherville ; or have a look at the pictures at Greenwich. We shan't get Miss White into trouble. Good-bye, Ogilvie. Good-bye, Sir Keith. Remember — ten o'clock, ( Sharing Cross." They stepped into their carriage and drove off. " Now," said Macleod's companion, " are you tired 1 " "Tired ! I have done nothing all day." "Shall we get into a hansom, and drive along to Lady Beauregard's?" " Certainly, if you like I suppose they won't throw you over again?" " Oh, no," said Mr. Ogilvie, as he once more adventured bis person in a cab. " And I can tell you it is much better — if you look at the thing philosophically, as poor wretches like you and mo must — to drive to a crush in a hansom than in your own carriage. You don't worry about your horses being kept out in the rain ; you can come away at any moment ; there is no fussing with servants, and rows because your man has got out of the rank hold up !" Whether it was the yell or not, the horse recovered from the slight stumble ; and no harm befell the two daring travellers. " These vehicles give one some excitement," Macleod said — or rather roared, for Piccadilly was full of carriages. " A squall in Loch Scridain is nothing to them." " You'll get used to them in time," was the complacent answer. They dismissed the hansom at the corner of Piccadilly, and walked up Park Lane, so as to avoid waiting in the rank of IN PARK LANE 43 carriages. Macleod accompanied his companion meekly. All this scene around him — the flashing lights of the broughams — the brilliant windows — the stepping across the pavement of a strangely-dressed dignitary from some foreign land — seemed but some other part of that dream from which he had not quite shaken himself free. His head was still full of the sorrows and coquetries of that wild-spirited heroine. Whither had she gone by this time — away into some strange valley of that unknown world 1 He was better able than Mr. Ogilvie to push his way through the crowd of footmen who stood in two lines across the pavement in front of Beauregard House, watching for the first appearance of their master or mistress ; but he resignedly followed and found himself in the avenue leading clear up to the steps. They were not the only arrivals, late as the hour was. Two young girls, sisters, clad in cream-white silk with a gold fringe across their shoulders and sleeves, preceded them ; and he was greatly phased the manner in which these young ladies, on meeting in the great hall an elderly lady who was presumably a person of some distinction, dropped a pretty little old-fashioned curtsy as they shook hands with her. He admired much less the formal aneo which he noticed a second after. A Royal personage WES leaving; and as this lady, who was dressed in mourning, and was leaning on the ana of a gentleman whoso coat was blazing with diamond stars, and whose, breast was barred across with a broad bine ribbon, came along the spacious landing at tho of tic wide stairca is, mc graciously extended her hand and a few words to such of the ladies standing by as she knew. That deep bending of the knee he considered to be le ; pretty than the little curl y performed by the young ladies in cream- white silk. He intended to mention this matter to his con in Janet. Then, the Princi b id left, the lane through which she had pa ed clo ed up again, and the crowd became a confused 1 f murmuring groups. Still meekly following, Macleod plunged into this throng; and presently found bin bU being introduced to Lady Beaure ard, an amiable little woman who had ■ beauty in her time and wb pi 1 ant 1 nough to at now. II" p 1 ed on, 44 MACLEOD OP DARE "Who is tho man with tho bluo ribbon and the diamond Bfcars 1 " ho asked of ]\[r. Ogilvie. " That is Monsieur le Marquis himself — that is your host," tho young gentleman replied — only Macleod could not tell why ho was obviously trying to repress some covert merriment. " Didn't you hear 1 " Mr. Ogilvie said at length. " Don't you know what he called you 1 That man will bo tho death of mo — for he's always at it. He announced you as Sir Thief Macleod — I will swear ho did." "I should not have thought ho had so much historical knowledge," Macleod answered gravely. " He must have been reading up about the clans." At this moment, Lady Beauregard, who had been receiving some other late visitors, came up and said she wished to introduce him to he could not make out the name. lie followed her. He was introduced to a stout elderly lady, who still had beautifully fine features, and a simple and calm air which rather impressed him. It is true that at first a thrill of compassion went through him ; for he thought that some accident had befallen the poor lady's costume, and that it had fallen down a bit unknown to herself ; but ho soon perceived that most of the other women were dressed similarly, some of the younger ones, indeed, having the back of their dross open practically to the waist. Ho wondered what his mother and Janet would say to this style. " Don't you think the Princess is looking pale 1 " he was asked. " I thought she looked very pretty — I never saw her before," said he. "What next 1 ? That calm air was a trifle cold and distant. He did not know who the woman was ; or where she lived ; or whether her husband had any shooting, or a yacht, or a pack of hounds. "What was he to say 1 ? He returned to the Princess. " I only saw her as she was leaving," said he. ""We came late. "We were at the Piccadilly Theatre." "Oh, you saw Miss Gertrude White?" said this stout lady; and he was glad to see her eyes light up with some interest. " She is very clever, is she not?— and so pretty and engaging. I wish I knew some one who knew her." IN PARK LANE 45 " I know some friends of hers," Macleod said, rather timidly. " Oh, do you, really 1 Do you think she would give me a morning performance for my Fund 1 " This lady seemed to take it so much for granted that every one must have heard of her Fund that he dared not confess his ignorance. Lut it was surely some charitable thing ; and how could he doubt that Miss White would immediately respond to such an appeal '] "I should think that she would," said he, with a little hesitation — but at this moment some other claimant came forward, and he turned away to seek young Ogilvie once more. " Ogilvie," said he, " who is that lady in the green satin 1 " " The Duchess of Wexford." " Has she a Fund 1 " " A what ] " " A Fund — a charitable Fund of some sort." " Oh, let me see. I think she is getting up money for a new training-ship — turning the young ragamuffins about the streets into sailors, don't you know]" "Do you think Miss White would give a morning perform- ance for that Fund 1 " "Miss White I Miss White I Miss White!" said Lieutenant Ogilvie. " I think Miss White has got into your head." "But that Lady asked me." "Well, I .should say it was exactly the thing that Miss White would like to do — get mixed up with a whole string of h chesses and Marchionesses — a capital advertisement — and it would be all the more distinguished if it was an amateur perform , and Mi Gerta ide White the only prol'< imial admitted into the charmed circle." "You are a very shrewd bo , ilvie," Macleod observed. " 1 don't know how you ever got so much wisdom into so small a bead." And indeed, a Lieutenant Ogilvie wa returning to Aldn\sh< it by what he wa i pleased to call the cold meat train, he continued to play the pari of Mentor for a time with great assiduity, until Macleod wus fairly confused with the number of persons to whom be was introduced and the remarks hie friend made about 46 MACLEOD OF DARE them. What struck hiia most, perhaps, was the recurrence of old Highland or Scotch family names, borno by persons who were thoroughly English in their speech and ways. Fancy a Gordon whi i said " lock " for " loch " ; a Mackenzie who had never seen the Lewis ; a Mac Alpine who had never heard the proverb, " The hills, the Mac Alpines, and the devil came into the world at the same time." It was a pretty scene; and he was young, and eager, and curious; and he enjoyed it. After standing about for half-an- liour or so, he got into a corner from which, in quiet, he could better see the brilliant picture as a whole — the bright, har- monious dresses, the glimpses of beautiful eyes and blooming complexions, the masses of foxgloves which Lady Beauregard had as the only floral decoration of the evening, the pale canary- coloured panels and silver fluted columns of the walls, and over all the various candelabra, each bearing a cluster of sparkling and golden stars. But there was somctliing wanting. "Was it the noble and silver-haired lady of Castle Dare whom he looked for in vain in that brilliant crowd that moved and murmured before him ] Or was it the friendly and familiar face of his cousin Janet, whose eyes, he knew, would be filled with a constant wonder if she saw such diamonds and silks and satins 1 Or was it that ignis fatuus — that treacherous and mocking fire — that might at any time glimmer in some suddenly presented face with a new surprise] Had she deceived him altogether down at Prince's Gate 1 Was her real nature that of the wayward, bright, mischievous, spoiled child whose very tenderness only prepared her unsuspecting victim for a merciless thrust 1 ? And yet the sound of her sobbing was still in his ears. A true woman's heart beat beneath that idle raillery : challenged boldly, would it not answer loyally and without fear 1 ? 1 'sychological puzzles were new to this son of the mountains ; and it is no wonder that long after he had bidden good-bye to his friend Ogilvie, and as he sate thinking alone in his own room, with Oscar lying across the rug at his feet, his mind refused to be quieted. One picture after another presented itself to his imagination — the proud-souled enthusiast, longing for the wild winter nights and the dark Atlantic seas — the pensive maiden, IN PARK LANE 47 shuddering to hear the fierce story of Maclean of Loclibuy — the spoiled child, teasing her mamma, and petting her canary — the wronged and weeping woman, her frame shaken with sobs, her hands clasped in despair — the artful and demure coquette, mock- ing her lover with her sentimental farewells. AVhich of them all was she \ "Which should he see in the morning? Or would she appear as some still more elusive vision, retreating before him as he advanced 1 ? Had he asked himself, he would have said that these specula- tions were but the fruit of a natural curiosity. Why should he not be interested in finding out the real nature of this girl, whose acquaintance he had just made 1 It has been observed, however, that young gentlemen do not always betray this frantic devotion biological inquiry when the subject of it, instead of being B fascinating maiden of twenty, is a homely-featured lady of fifty. Time passed ; another cigar was lit ; the blue light outside was ming silvery \ and yet the problem remained unsolved. A lire of impatience and restlessness was burning in his heart; a din as of brazen instruments — what was the air the furious orchestra played? — was in his ears ; sleep or rest was out of the question, " « >scar I " he called. " Oscar, my lad, let us go out." When he stealthily went down-stairs, and opened the door, and passed into the street, beholdl the new day was shining abroad -and how cold, and still, and Bilent it was after the hoi glare and the whirl of that bewildering night! No living thing was visible. A fresh, Bweet air stirred the Leaves of the and hii hes In St. James's Square. There was a pale ellow glow in tl . and the long emptj thoroughfare of Pall Mall seemed coldly white. Was this a somnambulist, then, who wandered idly along through the silent i tpparently seeing nothing <•( the cl dooi and the buttered windows on either hand 1 A policeman, ling at the corner of Waterloo Place, stared at theapparitio at the twin apparition j for tin' tall you] tleman with the light top-coat thrown over his evening dn accompanied by a beautiful collie that kept close to his heels. There was ft 43 MACLEOD OF DARE solitary four-wheeled cab at the foot of the Ilaymarket ; but tho man had got inside and was doubtless asleep. Tho Embank- ment) — with tho young trees stirring in the still morning air; and the broad bosom of tho river catching tho gathering glow of the skies. He leaned on tho grey stone parapet, and looked out on the placid waters of the stream. Placid indeed they were as they went flowing cmietly by ; and the young day promised to bo bright enough ; and why should there be aught but peace and goodwill upon earth towards all men and women 1 Surely there was no call for any unrest, or fear, or foreboding 1 ? The still and shining morning was but emblematic of his life — if only he knew, and were content. And indeed he looked contented enough, as he wandered on, breathing the cool freshness of the air, and with a warmer light from the east now touching from time to time his sun-tanned face. He went up to Covcnt Garden — for mere curiosity's sake. He walked along Piccadilly, and thought the elms in the Green Park looked more beautiful than ever. When he returned to his rooms, he was of opinion that it was scarcely worth while to go to bed ; and so he changed his clothes, and called for breakfast as soon a» some one was up. In a short time — after his newspaper had been read — he would have to go down to Charing Cross. "What of this morning walk? Perhaps it was unimportant enough. Only, in after times, he once or twice thought of it ; and very clearly, indeed, he could see himself standing there in the early light, looking out on the shining waters of the river. They say that when you see yourself too vividly — when you imagine that you yourself are standing before yourself — that is one of tho signs of madness. A SUMMER-DAY ON THE THAMES 49 CHAPTER VI. A SUMMER-DAY ON THE THAMES. It occurred to him as he walked down to the station — perhaps he went early on the chance of finding her there alone — that he ought seriously to study the features of this girl's face ; for was there not a great deal of character to be learned, or guessed at, that way ? He had but the vaguest notion of what she was really like. He knew that her teeth were pearly white when she smiled, and that the rippling golden-brown hair lay rather low on a calm and thoughtful forehead ; but he had a less distinct impression that her nose was perhaps the least thing retroussce ; and as to her eyes? They might be blue, grey, or green : but one thing he was sun; of was that they could speak more than Avas ever ottered by any speech. He knew besides that she had an exquisite figure: perhaps it was the fact that her shoulders wen: a trifle squarer than is common with womon that mado her look somewhat taller than she really was. He would confirm or correel these v igue impressions. And as tin: chances were that they would spend a whole long day • her, he would have abundant opportunity of getting to know something about the character and disposition of this new lintance, .-■> that she should no longer !"■• t" him a puzzliu ; and distracting will-o'-the-wisp. What had he come to London for bul to improve hi knowledge of men and of women, and to Bee what was going on in the larger world 1 And so this earn 1 lent walked down t<> the 1 tat ion. There were a g I many people about, him fcly in groups 'hat- ting with each other; hut he recogui ed no one. Perhaps be was ing oul for Colonel and Mi . Ro ; perhaps for a slender figure in black, with blue bead ; al all events he was gazing somewhat eacantlj around, when Borne one turned olo e by him. Then hi- heart 1 i till for a second. The sudden light that sprang to her face when he ■ •' ogni ed him blinded him. W 1 ■ be always so] Wa ';•■ always to come upon him in a So •D OF D ABE flash, as it v. W'h.ii chance bad the poor student of fulfilling hia patient task when, on hia approach, he was bum to be mot by this surprise of 1 1 1 • ■ parted lips, and ndden smile, and bright He was far too bewildered to examine tho out line of her the curve of the exquisitely short upper lip. B il ill" pi iin truth was that there was no extravagant joy at all in Miss White's face; but a very slight and perhaps pleased surprise ; ai was not in the least embarrassed. "Ar yon linking for Mrs. Ross," said she, "like myselfl" '• \ . aid he; and then he found himself exceedingly anxious t<> say a greal deal to her, without knowing where to begin. She had surprised him too much — as usual. She was lifferent from what he had been dreaming about. Here was no one of the imaginary creatures that had risen before his mind during the of the night. Even the palo dreamer in black and blue beads was gone. He found before him (as far as he could make out) a epiiet, bright-faced, self-possessed girl, clad in a light and cool costume of white — with bits of black velvet about it — and hex white gloves and sunshade, and the white Bilver chain round her slender waist, were important features in the picture Bhe presented. How could this eager student of character gel rid of the e distressing trivialities] All night long he had been dreaming of beautiful sentiments and conflicting emotion* : now his first thought was that be had never seen any klightfully eonl and clear and suinmcr-like. To look at berwas to think of a mountain-spring, icy-cold even in the sunshine. •• I al >me early," lid Bhe, in the most matter-, if fact ■ I i innot bear hurry in catchin j a train." Bow could an-. date rattling cabs, and 1 frantic mobs, with this serene creature, ined i" have been wafted to I on a cloud ? And if he li "I liad bis will, there would have been no special turb h- 1 rej Shi would have embarked in a I lain upon i ouchi down, and ample awni old have sheltered her from the sun, while the • [own the river, il crimson ban md there jus! touching the rippling waters. "Ought we to take' ticket A SUMMER-DAY ON THE THAMES 51 That was what she actually said ; but what those eloquent, innocent eyes seemed to say was, " Can you read what we have to tell you ? Don't you know what a simple and confiding soul app ah to you ? — clear as the daylight in its truth. Cannot you through us and see the trusting, tender soul within?" " Perhaps we had better wait for Colonel Ross," said he ; and there was a little pronoun in this sentence that he would like to have repeated. It was a friendly word. It established a sort of secret companionship. It is the proud privilege of a man to know all about railway-tickets ; but he rather preferred this association with her helpless innocence and ignorance. " I had no idea you were coming to-day. I rather like those surprise parties. Mrs. Ross never thought of going till last evening, she says. Oh! by the way, I saw you in the theatre last evening." Ee almost started. He had quite forgotten that this self- possessed, clear-eyed, pale girl was the madcap coquette whose caprices and griefs had alternately fascinated and moved him on the previous evening. "Oh, indeed," he stammered. " it was a great pleasure to me — and a surprise. Lieutenant Ogilvie played a trick on me. |[. did no! tdl in" before we went that — that you were to appear" She Looked amu »ed. "You did not know, then, when we met at Mrs. Ross's, that I w.i- engaged at the Piccadilly Theatre?" Nbl in the ' hi lid, earnestly ; a if he wished her distinctly to tin »uld nol have imagined such a thin/ t" be i' tssible. •• \'.. 1 should have let mo send you a box. We h ive another ■ in rehe 11 al. Perhap yoa w ill come to see that ' " Now if these few enti 1 , utt< n I by tho e two 5 1 pie in the noisy rail ition,bi taken by themselvei and regarded, will I"- found to con i I of the dullest commonplai 0. No two in ill thai cro rd could have addn ed 1 ach other in a more indifferent fashion. Bui the trivial nothing which tho mouth utter in . . i" • ime po e "I ol awful import when mpanied by the Ian of the eyes j and the poor Common- ly 5 a D OF DARE i up and 1 1 ■ that they shall stand written the memory, in letters of flashing sunlight and the - olours of June. " Ought toe to take tickets ?" I oot much poetry in the phrase j but she liftod lior i then. And now Colonel B and hiswife appeared, accompanied by the only other friend they could gel al Buch short notice to join thia h] a demure little old lady who had a very lai house on Campden Hill which everybody coveted. They were jusl in time to get comfortably seated in the Bpaoious saloon- tint had been reserved for them. The train slowly glided out of the station; and then began to rattle away from the mist <>f London. < rlimpses of a keener blue began to appear. The garden in with the foliage of the early summer ; martens swepl across the -till ] Is, a spot of white when they into the shadow. And Mias White would have as many windows open .. le, so that the sweet June air swept right through the long oarria And was she not a very child in her enjoyment of this sudden ;"■ into the country! The rapid motion — the silvery light — th • air — the glimpses of orchards, and farm-houses, and mill —all were a delight to her; and although she. talked in a deli, ito, half-re erved, shy way with that low voice of her:, still th- i vivacity and gladness in her eyes. They bion to the river Bide. They passed through the crowd waiting to ei the yachts start. They got on ; and -it thi vi ry Lnstanl that ftlacleod stepped ray on to the deck the military ha ml on hoard — by incidence — struck up " A Highland lad my love I mi." Mj laughed; and wondered whether the had )■ ■ i her husband. And now they turned to the river; and there were the narrow ■•ith their tall pai . and thi ir ensigns flnti nnlight. Tiny lay in two tiers across tho ir in each tier, tho first row consisting of small forty- • crafl behind. A brisk north easterly wind was blowing, causing the bosom of the river to Hash in >t light, l; i' .; of every size and shape moved up and A SUMMER-DA V ON THE THAMES 53 down and across the stream. The sudden firing of a gun caused some movement among the red-capped mariners of the four yachts in front. " They arc standing by the halyards," said Colonel Ross, to his women-folk. " Xow watch for the next signal." Another gun was fired ; and all of- a sudden there was a rattling of blocks and chains; and the four mainsails slowly rose; and the flapping jib3 were run up. The bows drifted round : which would get way on her first 1 But now there was a wild uproar of voices. The boom-end of one of the yachts had caught one of the stays of her companion ; and both were brought up head to wind. Cutter ]S r o. III. took advantage of this mishap to sail through the lee of both her enemies, and got clear away, with the sunlight playing full on her bellying canvas. But there was no time to watch the further adventures of the forty-tonners. Here and closer at hand were the larger craft ; and high up in the rigging were the mites of men, ready to drop into the air, clinging on to the halyards. The gun is fired; down they come, swinging in the air; and the moment they have reached the deck they are off and up the ratlines again, again to drop into the air until the throat is high hoisted, tho peak Bwinging this way and that, and the gray folds of tho mainsail lazily flapping in the wind. The steamer begins to roar. The yachts fall away from their moorings ; and one by one the Bails fill out to the fresh breeze. And now all is silence and an easy gliding motion ; for the eight competitors have all ted away, and the steamer is smoothly following them. "How beautiful they are— like splendid swims!" .Miss White said : she had a glae in her hand, but did not use it, for as yet the stately fleet was near enough. "A swan !ia j a body," said Blacleod. "Those things Beem to me l" be nothing Imt wings. It is all canvas, and no hull." And indeed when the large I »p "I and big jibs came to bo 1 et, it, certainly appi aTed a it' there was nothing below to steady this tent of can . " If they were up in out part of the world," aaid he, " I am afraid a puff of wind from the Gribun cliffs might send tho whole fleel to 1 !i" bottom." D OF DAKE •• lip y l.i. m bettet than to try, at Least with their present 1 donel Ross said. "Those yachts are admirably suited for the Thames j and Thames yachting is a very nice thing. It. I mdon. Vou can take a day's fresh air when yon like, without going all the waj to Cowes. STou can get back I" t'pwn in time to dine." " I h i] iid Miss White, with emphasis. "dli, you need not 1"' afraid," her host said, laughing. " Wc only go round the Nbre to-day, and with this steady breeze we at to be back early in the afternoon. My dear Miss White, wo shan't allowyou to disappoint the British public." I may abandon myself to complete idleness without Bra I" •• Most certainly." And it was an enjoyable sort of idleness. The river was full of life and animation as they glided along; fitful shadows and bursts of sunshine crossed I lie foliage and pasture lands of the Hat shores; the yellow surface of thestream was broken with gleams liver; and always, when this somewhat tame and peaceful and pretty landscape tended to become monotonous, they had on tlii that the spectacle of one of those tall and beautiful its rounding on a new tack or creeping steadily up on one of her op] They had a sweepstakes, (if course; and Maclcod rourite. Hut then he proceeded to explain to Miss White that the handicapping by means "f time-allowances made the choice <>t' a fa-. i mere matter of guesswork; that the foaling at the start was of but little moment ; and that on the wh< -.vitli him. "lint if the • are ill equal, why should your yacht bo r than mi: id she. Tl, . unanswerable; but .die took the favourite 11 that, because he wished her to do so; and she tendered him in return the I ; ilded paper with the name of a rival t it. It h el been in her pin -■■ for a minute or two. It -.vie n ahe handed it to him. " I mould In. • the Mediterranean in one of those tifttl yachl ', looking away across the troubled " and lie and dream under the, blue skies. I should want A SUMMER-DAY ON THE THAMES $$ no other occupation : that would be real idleness. With a breath of wind now and then to temper the heat ; and an awning over the deck ; and a lot of books. Life would go by like a dream." Her eyes were distant and pensive. To fold the bits of paper, she bad taken off her gloves : he regarded the small white hands, with the blue veins, and the pink almond-shaped nails. She was right. That was the sort of existence for one so fine, and pale, and perfect even to the finger-tips. Rose-leaf— Rose-leaf— what faint wind will carry you away to the south ? At this moment the band struck up a lively air. What was it] " this is ■)w my ain lassie, Fair though the lassie be ! " " You are in great favour to-day, Hugh," Mrs. Eoss said to her husband. " You will have to ask the bandmaster to lunch with us." But this sharp alterative of a well-known air had sent Macleod's thoughts flying away northward, to scenes far different from e flat shores, and to a sort of boating very different from this summer sailing. Janet, too : what was she thinking of — far away in Castle Dare] Of the wild morning on which she insisted on crossing to one of the Treshnish islands, because of Hi.- irk child of the shepherd there; and of the open herring- smack, and she sitting on the ballast-stones ; and of the fierce gale of wind and rain that hid the island from their sight; and of hei landing, drenched to the .skin, and with tho salt water running from her hair and down her face 1 ? " Now for lunch," said I iolonel Roes ; and they went below. The bright little .-a] v,m decorated with flowers; tho coloured glass on the table looked pretty enough ; here was a plea mi break in (lie, monotony of the day. It was an occasion, too, for ai riduou i helpfulne b, and gentle inquiries, and patient attention. They forgot about the. various chances of the yacht . They could uot at once have remembered the name of tl"' favourite. And there wasa good deal of laughter and plea ant. chatting, while the band overhead —heard through the open .sky- light — si ill pi iyi d — 56 \CLEOD OF DARE " thit it no my am lassie, Kind though the lassie be ! " And behold ! when they went up on deck again, they had got ahead of all the yachts, and were past the forts at the mouth of the Midway, and were out on an open space of yellowish-green water that Bhowed where the tide of the sea met the current of the river. And away down there in the south a long spur of land ran oui at the horizon ; and the sea immediately under was Mill and glassy, bo that the neck of land seemed projected into the sky — a sort of gigantic razor-fish suspended in the silvery fluids. Thm, tn give the yachts time to overtake them, they med over to a mighty ironclad that lay at anchor there; and :■!• near her vast black hulk they lowered their flag, and the band played "Eule Britannia !" The salute, was re- turned ; the officer on the high quarter-deck raised his cap ; they I on. In due course of time they reached the Nore light-ship; and there they lav and drifted about until the yachts should come up. Long distances now separated that summer fleet; but as they came along, lying well over before the brisk breeze, it was obvious that the spaces of time between the combatants would t, And is not this Miss White's vessel, the favourite in the betting, that coi I ering through the water with white foam at her how.- 1 Surely Bhe is more than her time-allowance ahead! And on this tack will Bhe get clear round the squat little light-flhipj oris there not a danger of her carrying off a jpritl With what an ease and majesty she comes along ! :.■• dipping to the Blight summer waves; while they on thai tie ha put out her long spinnaker boom, ready ballooner as soon at Bhe is round the light-ship and running home b fore the wind. The Bpeed at which she cuts now visible enough a Bhe ol for a second or 11 -f th- lighl hip. In another si cond he, red and then tb nnakerl out with the breeze; al1,1 ;iV ' up the ri in. Chronomi fcei are in re- econds that her nearest rival, nov< . Jong, has torn Hut what is this A SUMMER-DAY ON THE THAMES 57 that happens just as the enemy has got round the !N~ore % There is a cry of " Man overboard ! " The spinnaker boom has caught the careless skipper and pitched him clean into the plashing waters, where he floats about, not as yet certain, probably, what course his vessel will take. She at once brings her head up to wind, and puts about ; but meanwhile a small boat from the light- ship has picked up the unhappy skipper, and is now pulling hard to strike the course of the yacht on her new tack. In another minute or two he is on board again ; and away she goes for home. " I think you have won the sweepstakes, Miss "White," Macleod Bald. " Your enemy has lost eight minutes." She was not thinking of sweepstakes. She seemed to have been greatly frightened by the accident. " It would have been so dreadful to see a man drowned before your eyes — in the midst of a mere holiday excursion." " Drowned ?" he cried. "There 1 ? If a sailor lets himself browned in this water with all these boats about he deserves it." " But there are many sailors who cannot swim at all." " More shame for them," said he. "Why, Sir Keith," said Mrs. Ross, laughing, " do you think that all people have been brought up to an amphibious life like yourself? I suppose in your country, what with the rain and the mist, you seldom know whether you are on sea or shore 1 " • " That is quite true," said he gravely. " And the children an; all horn will) fin.-'. And we can hear the mermaids singing all daylong. And when we want to go anywhere we get on the . of ,-t dolphin." But he looked at I ri rtrude White. What would she say about that far land thai she had shown such a deep interest in1 There no raillery at, ;ill in her low voire as . I poke. "I can very well understand," she said, " how the people there fancied they heard tip- mermaids Binging — amidst so much myi tery— and with the awfulness of the sea around them." "Butwe have had living singei aid Macleod, "and that the Macleod i too. The him i, famous of all tin' song- writers of the Western Highlands was Mary Macleod thai, was born in Harris -Main aighean Ale -lor Ruaidh, they called her s8 MACLEOD OF DARE —thai is, Mary the daughter of Red Alister. Macleod of Dunvegan wished her not to make anymore songs: but she could uol cease the making of songs. And there was another Fionaghal they called her- that is, the Fair Stranger. 1 do not know why they called her the Fair Stranger— perhaps -,],,. came to the Highlands from some distant place. And 1. think if you were going amongst the people there at this very day, thi y would call you the Fair Stranger." He Bpoke quite naturally and thoughtlessly \ hisoyesmet hers ■ aily for a second ; he did not notice the soft touch of pink that suffused the deli.- ;t tely-tinted cheek. The booming of a gun told them that the last yacht had rounded the lighl ship; the hand struck up a lively air; and ntly the steamer was steaming off in the wake of the procession of yachts. There was now no more fear that Miss White Bhould be late. The breeze had kept up well, and had . shifted a point or two to the east; so that the yachts, with their .meat ballooners, were running pretty well before the wind. I i, lazy abandonment of the day became more complete than Less talk and laughter; an easy curiosity about the fortunes of the racej tea in the saloon, with the making up of two bouquets of white roses, sweet-peas, fuchsias, and ferns ; the ,l;n I lightly and swiftly enough. It was a summer day ; full of pn-tty trifles. Macleod, surrendering to the fascination, in to wonder what life would be if it were all a show of June urs and a Bound of dreamy music: for one thing he could ive, beautiful, pale, fine creature otherwise than as aded by an atmosphere of delicate attentions and pretty speeches, and sweet low laughter. They got into their special train again at Gravesend, and were whirled up to London. At Charing Cross he bade good-bye to M; White, who was driven off by Mr. and Mrs. Ross, along with their other guest. In the light of the clear June evening hi walk I rather absently up to his rooms. lettei Lying on the table. He seized it and it with gladness It was from his cousin Janet— and the i rive him like a gust of keen wind from the sea. What had she to say] About the grumblings of A SUMMER-DA Y ON THE THAMES 59 Donald, who seemed to have no more pride in his pipes now the master was gone 1 About the anxiety of his mothef over the reports of the keepers'? About the upsetting of a dog-cart on the road to Locli Bay] He had half resolved to go to the theatre again that evening — getting, if possible, into some corner where he might pursue his profound psychological investigations unseen — but now he thought he would not go. He would spend the evening in writing a long letter to his cousin, telling her and the mother about all the beautiful, line, gay, summer life he had seen in London — so different from anything he had seen in Fort William, or Inverness, or even in Edinburgh. After dinner he sate down to this agreeable task. What had he to write about except brilliant rooms, and beautiful flowers, and costumes such as would have made Janet's eyes wide : of all the delicate- luxuries of life, and hippy idleness, and the careless enjoyment of people whose only thought was about a new pleasure 1 He gave a minute description of all the places he had been to see — except the theatre. He mentioned the names of the people who had been kind to him; but he said nothing about Gertrude "White. Not that Bhe was altogether absent from his thoughts. Some- times his fancy fled away from the sheet of paper before him, and saw strange things. Was this Fionaghal, the Fair Stranger, — this maiden who had come over the seas to the dark shores of the isles — this king's daughter clad in white, with her yellow liaii down to het waist, and bands of gold on her wrists'? And what doe) be sing to the lashing waves but songs of high courage, and triumph, and welcome to her brave lover coming home with plunder through the battling seas'? Her lips are parted with her inging ; but her glance is bold and keen : she bas bhe spirit of a king's daughter, lei hercomefrom whence she may. Or is Fionaghal, the Fair Stranger, this poorly-dre 1 lass, who boils the p itatoes over the rude peat-fire — and croons her songs of Buffering and of the cru< 1 drowning in the seas — bo that from hut to hut they carry her songs, and the old wives' tears start afn h to think of their bravo sons lost years and yeai a Neither Fionaghal is she -this beautiful, pale woman, with her weet, modern Engli b Bpeech, and ber delicate, sensitive 1, and her hand that might bo crushed like a rose-leaft 60 MACLEOD OF DARE Tha trimmer of summer around her; flowers lie in her lap; tender observances encompass and shelter her. Not for her the biting winds of the northern seas j hut rather the soft luxurious idleness of placid waters, and blue skies, and .shadowy .... Rose-leaf— Rose-leaf— what faint wind will carry yuu away to the south I CHAPTER VII. THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE. Latb one night a carefully-dressed elderly gentleman applied his latch-key to the door of a house in Bury-street, St. James's, and was ahout to enter without any great circumspection, when ho suddenly met by a white phantom, which threw him off his . and dashed outwards into the street. The language that Ltleman used, as he picked himself up, need not ited here. Suffice it to say that the white phantom was the dog Oscar, who had been shut in a minute hefore hy his ter, and who now, after one or two preliminary dashes up and down the street, very soon perceived the tall figure of Macleod, and made joyfully after him. But Oscar knew that he had acted wrongly j and was ashamed to show himself; so [uietly dunk along at his master's heels. The consequence of this was that the few loiterers ahout beheld the very unusual : a tall young gentleman walking down Bury-street and int" I. ' dressed in full Highland costume and 1 by a white and lemon collie. No other person going to t I Ionian fancy-dress ball was so attended. bis way through the carriages, crossed the at and entered the passage. Then he heard some scuffling 1" hind; and he turned. "Let alone my dog, you fellow!" said he, making a step THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE 6 1 forward for the man had got hold of Oscar by the head, and was hauling him out. "Is he your dog, sir 1 ?" said he. Oscar himself answered by wrestling himself free, and taking refuge by his master's legs, though he still looked guilty. " Yes, he is my dog ; and a nice fix he has got me into," said Macleod, standing aside to let the Empress Maria Theresa pass by in her resplendent costume. " I suppose I must Avalk homo with him again. Oscar, Oscar ! how dare you 1 " " If you please, sir," said a juvenile voice behind him, "If Mr. will let me, I will take the dog. I know where to tio him up." .Macleod turned. " Cb an so ? " said he, looking down at the chubby-faced boy in the kilt, who had his pipes under his arm. " Don't you know the Gaelic V "I am only learning/' said the young musician. "Will I take the dug, .sir 1 ?" "March along, then, phiobai re bJrig/" Maclcod said. "Ho will follow me, if he will not follow you." Little riper turned aside into a large hall which had been transformed into a sort of waiting-room; and here Macleod found himself in the presence of a considerable number of children, half of them girls, half of them boys, all dressed in in, and seated on the forms along the walls. The children, who were half asleep >' this time of the eight, woke up with sudden interest at sight of the beautiful collie; and at the same moment Little Piper explained to I itleman who was in charge of • young ones thai the .dog had to be tied up somewhere, and that a small adjoining room would answer that purpose. The propo al v.,-. mo * courteously entertained. Macleod, Mr. , and Little Piper walked along to this side room, and there properlj ecured. " And 1 will get liim some water, ir, if he want it," i bid the boy in the kilt. "Very well," Macl I said. ''And 1 will give you mj thanks for it; for that is all that a Eighlandcr, ami especially a piper, for a kindie' i, And I hope you will [ears the Gaelic 02 MACLEOD OF DARE Boon, my boy\ And do you know Oumhadh na Cloinnei No, it is too difficult for you ; but I think if I had the chanter between my fingers myself, I could let you hear Oumhadh na Oloinne." '■ 1 am Bure John Maclean can play it," said the small piper. ••Who is he1" The gentleman in charge of the youngsters explained that John M lean was the eldest of the juvenile pipers, five others of whom were in attendance. "I think," said Macleod, "that I am coming down in a little time to make the acquaintance of your young pipers, if you will lei me." Be passed up the broad staircase, and into the empty supper- room, from which a number of entrances showed him tho strange scene being enacted in the larger hall. Who were these people who were moving to the sound of rapid music 1 ? A clown in a n dress of many colours, with bells to his cap and wrists, 1 a! one of the doors; Macleod became his fellow-spectator of what was going forward. A beautiful Tyrolienne, in a dress of black velvet and silver, with her yellow hair hanging in two plaits down her hack, passed into the room accompanied by Charles the First in a large wig and cloak ; and the next moment 1hey were whirling along in the wall/, coming into innumerable collisions with all the celebrated folk who ever lived in history. And who were those gentlemen in 1 he scarlet collars and cuii's, who but for these adornments would have been in ordinary in_' dress 1 He made bold to ask the friendly clown, who wae in a pensive manm i at the rushing couples. "They call it the Windsor uniform," said the clown. '■ I mink it mean. I sha'n'l come in a fancy dress again, if stitching . ii a red collar will do." it the waltz came to an end ; and the people ilk up and down the spacious apartment. Macleod I'd the throng, to look about him. And soon he perceived, "••"' ,l "- lil ide of the hall, the noble lady who had b ki 'I him to go to this assembly, and forthwith he made way through the crowd to her. He was most graciously ived. THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE 63 " Shall I tell you a secret, Lady 1 " oaid he. " You know the children belonging to the charity — they are all below — and they are sitting doing nothing, and they are all very tired and half-asleep. It is a shame to keep them there" " But the Prince hasn't come yet ; and they must be marched round : they show that we are not making fools of ourselves for nothing." A sharper person than Macleod might have got in a pretty compliment here ; for this lady was charmingly dressed as Flora Macdonald; but he merely said — ■ ' Very well ; perhaps it is necessary. But I think I can get them some amusement, if you will only keep the director of them, that is Mr. , out of tho way. Now shall I send him to you? Will you talk to him]" " "What do you mean to do 1 " " I want to give them a dance. Why should you have all the dancing up here?" ' : Mind, I am not responsible. What shall I talk to him about?" Macleod considered for a moment. " Tell him that I will take the whole of the girls and boys to the Crystal Palace for a day, if it is permissible; and ask him what it will cost, and all about the arrangements." " Seriously V "Yes. Why uot 1 They can have a. fine run in the grounds; and six pipers to play for them. I will ask them now whether they will go." He tefl and went down-stairs. He had seen but few people In the hall above whom he knew. He wo aol fond of dancing, thouch he knew the elaborate variations of the reel. And here 1. bil oi pracl ical amu sement. ••ol,. Mr.- — ," said he, with eriou ness, "1 am di ired by Lady to 1 ay that she would like to see you for a lent oi two. Shi wishes to ask you ome questions aboul you] j oun 1 peopl< ." •• The Prince m >•■ come il iny moment," said Mi . -, . Li fully. " He won'1 be in such a hurry as all that, surely 1 » 6 4 MACLEOD OF DARE So the worthy man went up-staira; and the moment ho was gone Maeleod -hut the door. , yon pipet boys!" he called aloud, "get up, and play : : We are going to havo a dance. You are all asleep, [belies uid up— you that know the reel, you will keep to this end. Boys, come out ! You that can dance a come to this end; the others will soon pick it up. Now, :■ boys, h ive you got the steam up J What can you give us nowl Many musk 1 or the Marquis of Huntley's Fling? or Mi i Johnston? Nay, stay a bit — don't you know Mrs. Maeleod ■ >>j ?" • • Yea — yea yes — yes — yes — yes !" came from the six. pipers all standing in a row, with the drones over their shoulders and the chanters in their fingers. •• Very well, then —off you go ! Now, hoys and girls, are you all ready ? Pipers, Mrs. Maeleod of Ttaasayl" For a second there was a confused roaring on the long drones; then the shrill pipes broke clear away into the wild reel; and presently the "hoys and girls, who wen; at first laughingly shy and embarrassed, began to make such imitations of the reel-figure, which they had seen often enough, as led to a amount of scrambling and jollity, if it was not particularly accurate. The most timid of the young ones soon picked up courage. Here and there one of the older hoys gave a whoop that w^uld have done justice to a wedding-dance in a Highland barn. "]'u! your lungs into it, pipers!" Maeleod cried. "Well playi Sou are lit to play before a prince !" The round cheeks of the boys were red with theic blowing; tapped their toes on the ground as proudly as if every one of them I ' ruimin; the wild noise in this big empty hill grew more furious than ever — when suddenly there was an awful silence. The pipers dropped their pipes; the children, '.••nly stopping in their merriment, cast one awe itruck glance the door; and then slunk back to theii They had 1 nol only Mr. , hut also the Prince him- • ••1 was lei ling alone in the middle of the it. THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE 65 "Sir Keith Macleod?" said His Eoyal Highness, with a smile. Macleod bowed low. " Lady told me what you were about. I thought we could have had a peep unobserved ; or we should not have broken in on the romp of the children." " I think your Eoyal Highness could make amends for that," said Macleod. There was an inquiring glance. "If your Eoyal Highness would ask some one to see that each of the children has an orange, and a tart, and a shilling, it would be some compensation to them for being kept up so late." " I think that might be done," said the Prince, as he turned to leave. " And I am glad to have made your acquaintance, although in " " In the character of a dancing-master," said Macleod gravely. After having once more visited Oscar, in the company of Piobaire Beag, Macleod went up again to the brilliantly-lit hall ; and here he found that a further number of his friends had arrived. Among them was young Ogilvie, in the tartan of tho 93rd Highlanders ; and very smart indeed the boy-oflicer looked in his uniform. Mrs. Eoss was here too; and she was busy in assisting to get up the Highland quadrille. "When she asked Macleod if he would join in it, he answered by asking her to bo his partner, as he would be ashamed to display his ignoranco before an absolute stranger. Mrs. Eoss most kindly undertook to pilot him through the not elaborate intricacies of the dance; rind they were fortunate in having the sot made up entirely of their own friends. Then the procession of the children took place; and tho fantastically dressed crowd formed a lane to let tho homely-clad lads and lasses pass along, with the six small pipers proudly playing a march at their head. He stopped the last of the children, for a second. " Have you got a tart, and an orange, and a shilling 1 ? " "No, sir." " I have got the word of a prince for it," he said to himself, 1 66 MACLEOD OF DARE went out of the room. "And they shall not go homo with empty pocket A^ he was c iming up the staircase again to the hall-room, ho was preceded by two figures that were calculated to attract any one' bj the picturesqueness of their costume. The one stranger was apparently an old man, who was dressed in a Florentine costume of the fourteenth century — a cloak of sombre red, with a flat cap of black velvet, one long tail of which was thrown over the left shoulder and hung down hehind. A silver collar hung from his neck across his hreast : other ornament there was none. His companion, however, drew all eyes toward; her as the two passed into the hall-room. She was dressed in imitation of Gainsborough's portrait of the Duchess of Devon- shire ; and her symmetrical figure and well-poised head admirably suited the long-trained costume of blue satin, with its ficlm of white muslin, the bold, coquettish hat and feathers, and the powdered puffs and curls that descended to her shoulders. Sho had a gay air with her too. She bore her head proudly. Tho patches on her cheek seemed not half so black as the blackness of her eyes, so fidl of a dark mischievous light were they; and the redness of the lips — a trifle artificial, no doubt — a3 sho smiled, seemed to add to the glittering whiteness of her teeth. The proud, laughing, gay coquette : no wonder all eyes were for a moment turned to her, in envy or in admiration. Macleod, following these two, and finding that his old com- panion, the pensive clown in cap and bells, was still at his post of rvation at the door, remained there also for a minute or two ; and noticed that among the first to recognise the two strangers young Ogilvie, who, with laughing surprise in his face, came forward to shake hands with them. Then there was some farther speech ; tho band began to play a gentle and melodious waltz ; tli" middle of the room cleared somewhat ; and presently her Qraoe of Devonshire was whirled away by the young High- laad c broad-brimmed hat rather overshadowing him, the pronounced colours of his plaid. Macleod could not help following this couple with his eyes, whithersoever tie y went. Jn any part of the rapidly moving crowd he could alw.: [ that one figure ; and once or twice as they passed THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE 67 him it seemed to liim that the brilliant beauty, with her powdered hair, and her flashing bright eyes, and her merry lips, regarded him for an instant ; and then he could have imagined that in a bygone century — 11 Sir Keith Macleod, I think 1 " The old gentleman with the grave and scholarly cap of black velvet and the long cloak of sober red, held out his hand. The folds of the velvet hanging down from the cap rather shadowed his face ; but all the same Macleod instantly recognised him — fixing the recognition by means of the gold spectacles. " Mr. White 1 " said he. " I am more disguised than you are," the old gentleman said, with a smile. " It is a foolish notion of my daughter's, but she would have me come." His daughter ! Macleod turned in a bewildered way to that gay crowd under the brilliant lights. " Was that Miss White 1 " said he. " The Duchess of Devonshire. Didn't you recognise her 1 I am afruid she will bo very tired to-morrow ; but she would come." lie caught sight of her again. That woman — with the dark eyea full of fire — and the dashing air — and the audacious smile 1 lie could have believed this old man to be mad. Or was he only the father of a witch — of an illusive ignis fatuus — of some mocking Ariel darting into a dozen shapes to make took of the poor simple souls of earth 1 " No," he stammered, " I — I did not recognise her. I thought the lady who came with you had intensely dark eyes." " She is said to be very clever in making up," her father said, coolly and Bententiously. " It is a part of her art that is not to be* despi ed. Ii i ; quite as important as a gesture or a tone of voice in creating the illusion at which she aims. I do not know whether actresses, as a rule, are careless about it, or only clumsy ; bu1 they rarely succeed in making their appearance homogeneou i. A trifle too much ben:; a trifle too little there; and the illusion is spoiled. Then you see a painted woman j not the character she i pre 'iit in/. Did you observe my daughter's eyebrows?" " No, sir, I did not," said Macleod, humbly. V 2 63 MACLEOD OF DARE " Here sin 1 comes. Look at them." Bat l»'\v could he look at her eyebrows, or at any trick of making up, when the -whole face with its new excitement of colour, its parted lips and lambent eyes, was throwing its fascina- tion upon himl She came forward laughing, and yet with a certain Bhyneas. He would fain have turned away. The Highlanders are superstitious. Did he fear being be- witched 1 Or what was it that threw a certain coldness over his manner 1 The fact of her having danced with young Ogilvie ? < »r the ugly reference made by her father to her eyebrows 1 Ho had greatly admired this painted stranger, when he thought she was a stranger ; he seemed less to admire the artistic make-up of Miss Gertrude "White. The merry Duchess, playing her part admirably, charmed all eyes but his ; and yet she was so kind as to devote herself to her father and him, refusing invitations to dance, and chatting to them — with those brilliant lips smiling — about the various features of the gay scene before them. Macleod avoided looking at her face. " What a bonny boy your friend Mr. Ogilvie is," said she, glancing across the room. lie did not answer. " But he docs not look much of a soldier," she continued. " I don't think I should be afraid of him, if I AVere a man." 1 le answered, somewhat distantly, " It is not safe to judge that way — especially of any one of Highland blood. If there is fighting in his blood, he will fight v. Inn the proper time comes. And we have a good Gaelic saying —it has a great deal of meaning in it ; it says — You do not know what BUford is in the scabbard until it is drawn." " What did you say was the proverb t " she asked ; and for a second her eyes met his — but she immediately withdrew them I'd by the cold austerity of his look. " Y<>a do not know what sivord is in the scabbard until it is drawn," said he, carelessly. " There is a good deal of meaning in that Baying." jjf LAUREL COTTAGE 69 CHAPTER VIIL LAUREL COTTAGE. A small, quaint, old-fashioned house in South Bank, Regent's Park ; two maidens in white in the open verandah ; around them the abundant foliage of June, unruffled by any breeze ; and down at the foot of the steep garden the still canal, its surface mirror- ing the soft translucent greens of the trees and bushes above, and the gaudier colours of a barge lying moored on the northern side. The elder of the two girls is seated in a rocking-chair ; she appears to have been reading, for her right hand, hanging down, still holds a thin MS. book covered with coarse brown paper. The younger is lying at her feet, with her head thrown back in her sister's lap, and her face turned up to the clear June skies. There are some roses about this verandah ; and the still air is sweet with them. " And of all the parts you ever played in," sho says, " which one did you like the best, Gerty 1 " " This one," is the gentle answer. "What oner' " Being at home with you and papa, and having no bother at all, and nothing to think of." " I don't hdieve it," says the other, with the brutal frankness of thirteen. " You couldn't live without the theatre, Gerty — and the newspapers talking about you — and people praising you— and bouquets " "Couldn't II" says Miss White, with a smile, as she gently lays her hand "ii Iht sister's curls. "No," continues the wise, young lady. "And besides, this pretty, quiet life would not last. You would have to givo up playing that part. 1'apa is getting very old now ; and he often talks about what may happen to 08. And you know, Gerty, that though it is very nice foi Bisters to say they will never and never leave each other, it doesn't come off, does it 1 ? There is only one thing I sec for yon and that i to Ret married." To M. 1 CLEOD OF DARE •• Indeed." It is easy to fence with a child's prattle. Sho might have amused herself hy encouraging this chatterhox to go through tho list of their acquaintances, ami pick out a goodly choice of suitors. She might have encouragod her to give expression to her profound views (if the chances and troubles of life, and the safeguards that timid maidens may seek. But she suddenly said, in a highly matter-of-fact manner — •• What you say is quite true, Carry, and I've thought of it several times. It is a very bad thing for an actress to be left without a father, or husband, or brother as her ostensible guardian. People are always glad to hear stories — and to make them — about es. You would be no good "at all, Carry" " Very well, then," tho younger sister said promptly, " you've got to get married. And to a rich man, too ; who will buy you a theatre, and let you do what you like in it." Miss Gertrude "White — whatever she may have thought of this speech — was bound to rebuke tho shockingly mercenary riDg of it. ' For shame, Carry ! Do you think people marry from such motives as that 1 ?" " I don't know," said Carry ; but she had, at least, guessed. " I should like my husband to have money, certainly,'' Miss White said, frankly ; and here she flung the MS. book from her, mi to a neighbouring chair. "I should like to be able to refuse parts that did not suit me. I should like to be able to take just such engagements as I chose. I should like to go to Paris for a whole year — and study hard" ' Your husband might not wish you to remain an actress/'' 1 Miss ( 'airy. •Then he would never be my husband," the elder sister said, with precision. "I have not worked hard for nothing. Just when I begin to flunk I can do something— when I think I can ; eyond those coquettish, drawing-room, simpering parts that le run after now— just when the very name of Mrs. Siddons or Rachel, or any of tlie great actresses makes my heart jump — when 1 have ambition, and a fair chance, and all that— do you think I am tu give the whole thing up, and sink quietly into tho LAUREL COTTAGE 71 position of Mrs. Brown or Mrs. Smith, who is a very nice lady, no doubt, and very respectable, and lives a quiet and orderly life, with no greater excitement than scheming to get big people to go to her garden-parties % " She certainly seemed very clear on that point. " I don't see that men are so ready to give up their profession, when they marry, in order to devote themselves to domestic life, even when they have plenty of money. Why should all the sacrifice be on the side of the woman ? But I know if I have to choose between my art and a husband, I shall continue to do without a husband." Miss Carry had risen, and put one arm round her sister's neck, while with the other she stroked the soft brown hair over the smooth forehead. " And it shall not be taken away from its pretty theatre, it sha'n't " said she, pettingly ; " and it shall not be asked to go away with any ugly Bluebeard, and be shut up in a lonely house " " Go away, Carry," said she, releasing herself. " I wonder why you began talking such nonsense. What do you know about all those things ] " "Oh ! very well," said the child, turning away with a pout; and she pulled a rose, and began to take its petals off, one by one, with her lips. " Perhaps I don't know. Perhaps I haven't studied your manoeuvres on the .stag'', Miss CJertrulr White I never saw the newspapers declaring that it was all so very natural and life-like" She flung two or three rose- Is at her sister. "I believe you're tin; biggest flirt that ty. You could make any man you liked marry you in ten minutes.' 1 "I wish I could manage to have certain school-girls whipped and sent to bed." At this moment there appeared at tin' open French window an elderly woman <»f Flemish featuri 1 and extraordinary breadth oi l "Shall I put dre ing in the salad, Mi ;]" bIio said, with scarcely any trace of foreign accent. "Not yet, Mario," aid Miss White. "I will make the Y2 MACLEOD OF DARE dressing first Bring mo a largo plate, and the cruet-stand, and a spoon and fork, and some salt." Nov when these things had been brought, and when Miss White had set about preparing this salad-dressing in a highly- Bcientinc manner, a strange thing occurred. Her sister seemed to have been attacked by a sudden fit of madness. Sho had caught up a light shawl, which she extended from hand to hand, as if she were dancing with some one, and then she proceeded to execute a slow waltz in this circumscribed space, humming the improvised music in a mystical and rhythmical manner. And what wi re these dark utterances that the inspired one gave forth, as sho glanced from time to time at her sister and tho plate 1 " ' 0, a Highland lad my love was born, And the Lowland laws he held in scorn.' " " Carry, don't make a fool of yourself! " said the other, Hushing angrily. Carry flung her imaginary partner aside. " There is no use making any pretence," said she, sharply. " You know quite well why you are making that salad-dressing." " Did you never see me make salad-dressing before?" said the other, quite as sharply. " You know it is simply because Sir Keith Macleod is coming to lunch. I forgot all about it. Oh, and that's why you had the clean curtains put up yesterday !" What else had this precocious brain ferreted out? "Yes, and that's why you bought papa a new neck-tie," continued the tormentor; and then she added, triumphantly " B U hi ha n't put it on this morning — ha, Gerty ?" A calm and dignified silence is the best answer to the fiend- ishness of thirteen. Miss White went on with tho making of tie- Balad-dreesing. She was considered very clever at it. Her father had taught her ; but he never had the patience to carry out his own precepts, besides, brute i'<>rce is not wanted for tho work; what you want is tin; self denying assiduity and tho us light-hand* dness of a woman. A mart young maidservant, very trimly dressed, made her appeara: LAUREL COTTAGE 73 " Sir Keith Macleod, miss," said she. "Oh, Gerty, you're caught ! " muttered the fiend. But Miss White was equal to the occasion. The small white fingers plied the fork without a tremor. " Ask him to step this way, please," she said. And then the subtle imagination of this demon of thirteen jumped to another conclusion. " Oh, Gerty, you want to show him that you are a good house- keeper — that you can make salad " But the imp was silenced by the appearance of Macleod himself. He looked tall as he came through the small drawing- room. "When he came out on to the balcony, the languid air of the place seemed to acquire a fresh and brisk vitality : he had a bright smile and a resonant voice. " I have taken the liberty of bringing you a little present, Miss "White — no, it is a large present — that reached mo this morning," said he. " I want you to see one of our Highland salmon. He is a splendid fellow — twenty-six pounds, four ounces, my landlady says. My cousin Janet sent him to me." " Oh, but, Sir Keith, wo cannot rob you," Miss "White said, as she still demurely plied her fork. " If there is any special virtue in a Highland salmon, it will bo better appreciated by yourself than by those who don't know." "The fact is," said, he, "people are so kind to mo that I scarcely ever am allowed to dine at my lodgings j and you know tin' salmon should bo cooked at onco." Mies Carry had been making a face behind his back, to annoy her sister. She now came forward and said, with a charming innocence in her eyes — " I don't think you can have it cooked for luncheon, Gerty ; for that would look too like bringing your tea in your pocket, and getting hot water for twopence. "Wouldn't it 1 " Mfteod turned and regarded this new comer with an unmis- takable " Who is this {"— " Co an so?"— in his air "Oh, that is my sister Carry, Sir Keith," said Miss White. " I forgot you had not seen her." "How Jo you d<->?" said he, in a kindly way; and for a 74 MACLEOD OF DARE ad he put his hand on the light curls as her father might have done, "I suppose you like having holidays 1" From that moment she became- his on't you bother." " No, no, no, child," said lie, with somewhat of a pompous air. • Y u have this now character to study. You must not allow any trouble to disturb tho serenity of your mind while you aro Dgaged. You must givo your heart and soul to it, Gerty ; you must forget yourself ; you must abandon yourself to it — and let il grow up in your mind until the conception is so perfect that there an' no traces of tho manner of its production left." Hi' certainly was addressing his daughter ; but somehow the formal phrases suggested that ho was speaking for the benefit of tin' stranger. The prim old gentleman continued : " That is tho only way. Art demands absolute sclf-forget- fulness. You must givo yourself to it in complete surrender. People may not know the difference ; but tho true artist seeks only to be truo to himself. You produce tho perfect flower; tiny are not to know of tho anxious care — of the agony of tears, perhaps — you have spent on it. But then your whole mind must be given to it ; there must be no distracting cares : I will look for the missing line myself." "1 am quite sure, papa," said Miss Carry, spitefully, " that sho was far more anxious about these cutlets than about her new part this morning. She was half-a-dozen times down to tho kitchen, I didn't see her reading the book much." " The res angmtoc Jomi," said the father sententiously, "some- times interfere, where people aro not too well off. But that is ^sary. AVhat is not necessary is that Gerty should take my ibles over to herself, and disturb her formation of this new character, which ought to be growing up in her mind almost il»ly, until she herself will scarcely be aware how real it is. Whi tops on to th^ stage, .she ought to be no more Gertrude White than you or I. The artist loses himself. Ho transfers oul to his creation. Ills heart beats in another breast; he sees with other eyes. You will excuse me, Sir Keith; but I p insis t in g on this point to my daughter. If she ever becomes a great artist, that will be tho secret of her success. And she ill nevei to cease from cultivating the habit. She ought to be :y at any moment to project herself, as it were, into any LAUREL COTTAGE 77 character. She ought to practise so as to make of her own emotions an instrument that she can use at will. It is a great demand that art makes on the life of an artist. In fact, ho ceases to live for himself. He becomes merely a medium. His most secret experiences are the property of the world at large, once they have been transfused and moulded by his personal skill.' And so he continued talking, apparently for the instruction of his daughter, but also giving his guest clearly to understand that Miss Gertrude White was not as other women, but rather as one set apart for the high and inexorable sacrifice demanded by art. At the end of his lecture, he abruptly asked Macleod if he had followed him. Yes, he had followed him ; but in rather a bewildered way. Or had he some confused sense of self-reproach, in that he had distracted the contemplation of this pale and beautiful artist, and sent her down-stairs to look after cutlets 1 " It seems a little hard, sir," said Macleod to the old man, " that an artist is not to have any life of his or her own at all — that he or she should become merely a — a — a sort of Ten-minutes emotionalist." It was not a bad phrase for a rude Highlander to have in- vented on the spur of the moment. But the fact was that some little personal feeling stung him into the spcoch. He was prepared to resent this tyranny of art. And if he, now, were to see some beautiful, pale slave bound in these iron chains — and being exhibited for the amusement of an idle world — what WOUld the fierce blood of the Maclruds say to that debasement 1 Be began to dislike this old man, with his cruel theories, and hi oracular speech. Hut ho forbore to havo further, or any, argument with him ; for he remembered what the Highlanders fall "the advice of the bell of Scoon — the (liiiij Urn! concerns you not, meddle not with." 78 MACLEOD OF DARE CHAPTER IX. Tin: HUN-cESS RianiNN. I'm: people who lived in this land of summer and sunshine and flowers — had they no cares at all 1 ? He went out into the garden with Huso two girls j and they were like two young fawns in their careless play. .Mi is I any, indeed, seemed bent on tan- talising him by the manner in which she petted, and teased, and' caressed her sister — scolding her, quarrelling with her, and kiss- ing her all at once. The grave, gentle, forbearing manner in which the elder sister bore all this was beautiful to see. And then her sudden concern and pity when the wild Miss Carry had succeeded in scratching her linger with the thorn of a rose-bush ! It was the tiniest of scratches; and all the blood that appeared was about the size of a pin-head. But Miss White must needs tear up her dainty little pocket-handkerchief, and bind that grievous wound, and condole with the poor victim as though she were suffering untold agonies. It was a pretty sort of idleness. It seemed to harmonise with this still beautiful summer day, and the soft green foliage around, and the quiet air that was sweet with the scent of the flowers of the lime-trees. They say that the ( raelic word for the lower regions, ifrin, is derived from irbhuirn, the island of incessant rain. To a Highlander, there- fore, must not this land of perpetual summer and sunshine have seemed to be heaven itself 1 ? And even the malicious Carry relented for a moment. " You said you were going to the Zoological Gardens," she said. " Ye-," he answered, "I am. I have seen everything I want to see in- London, but that." "B I :• rty and I might walk across the Park with you and show you the way." •1 very much wish you would," said he, "if you have nothing better to do." " I will Bee if papa does not want me," said Miss "White THE PRINCESS RIGHINN 79 calmly. She might just as well be walking in Regent's Park as in this small garden. Presently the three of them set out. " I am glad of any excuse," she said, with a smile, " for throwing aside that new part. It seems to me insufferably stupid. It is very hard that you should be expected to make a character look natural when the words you have to speak are such as no human being would use in any circumstances whatever." Oddly enough, he never heard her make even the slightest reference to her profession without experiencing a sharp twinge of annoyance. He did not stay to ask himself why this should be so. Ordinarily, he simply made haste to change the subject. " Then why should you take the part at all?" said he bluntly. " Once you have given yourself up to a particular calling, you must accept its little annoyances," she said frankly. " I cannot have everything my own way. I have been very fortunate in other respects. I have had very, little of the drudgery of the provinces, though you know that is the best school possible for an actress. And I am sure the money and the care papa has spent on my training — you see, he has no son to send to college. I think he is far more anxious about my succeeding than I am myself." " But you have succeeded," said Macleod. It was, indeed, the least ho coidd say ; with all his dislike of the subject. " Oh, I do nol 1 all that success," said she simply. "That is merely pleasing people by showing them littlo scones from their own drawing-rooms transferred to the stage. They like it be- ■ it is ] ad familiar. And people pretend to be very cynical at present— they like things with 'no nonsense about them.' Still, if yon happen to bo ambitions — or perhaps it is mere vanity] — if you would like to try what is in you" "Ocrty wants to be a Mrs. Siddons \ that's it," said Mi ; fury, promptly. Talking to an actress about hex profession ; and not having a wc.id of compliment to say ! In itead, he praised Hie noble elms and chestnuts "f the park — tlio broad, white lake, the Bowers, tli'' arenm . II'' waa greatly interested by the whizzing by ; head of a '• ( duck. 80 MACLEOD OF DARE " I suppose you are very fond of animals V Miss White said. " I am indeed," said lie, suddenly brightening up. "And up at our place I give them nil a chance. I don't allow a single weasel Oi hawk or osprey to be killed — though I have a great deal of trouble abont it. But what is the rcsidt 1 I don't know whether there is Buch a thing as the balance of nature; or whether it is merely that the hawks and weasels and other vermin kill off the sickly birds; but I know that we do have less disease among our birds than I hear of anywhere else. I have sometimes shot a weasel, it is true, when I have run across him as he was hunting a rabbit — you cannot help doing that if you hear the rabbit squealing with fright long before the weasel is at him — but it is against my rule. I give them all a fair field and no favour. 1 even let the hoodie crow alone, and he is a desperate villain. But there are two animals I put out of the list — I thought there was only one till this week, now there are two ; and one of them 1 hate, the other I fear." " Fear 1 " she said : the slight flash of surprise in her eyes was eloquent enough. But he did not notice it. " Yes," said he, rather gloomily. " I suppose it is superstition — or you may have it in your blood — but the horror I have of the eyes of a snake — I cannot tell you of it. Perhaps I was frightened when I was a child — I cannot remember; or perhaps it was the stories of the old women. The serpent is very mys- terious to the people in the Highlands — they have stories of water-snakes in the lochs — and if you get a nest of seven adders with one white one you boil the white one, and the man who drinks the broth knows all things in heaven and earth. In the Lewis they call the serpent righirm, that is ' a jwincess' ; and they say that the serpent is a princess bewitched. But that is from fear — it is a compliment" " But surely there are no serpents to be afraid of in the High- land 1 Miss White. She was looking rather curiously at him. " X<»," said he, in the same gloomy way. " The adders run . from you, if you are walking through the heather. If you bead "ii one, and he bites your boot, what then 1 ? He cannot hurt you. But suppose you are out after the deer, and you are THE PRINCESS RIGHINN 8 1 crawling along the heather with your face to the ground, and all at once you see the two small eyes of an adder looking at you and close to you " He shuddered slightly — perhaps it was only an expression of disgust. " 1 have heard," ho continued, " that in parts of Islay they used to be so bad that the farmers would set lire to the heather in a circle, and as the heather burned in and in you could sec the snakes and adders twisting and curling in a great ball. We have not many with us. But one day John Begg, that is the school- master, went behind a rock to get a light for his pipe ; and ho put his head close to the rock to be out of the wind ; and then he thought ho stirred something with his cap ; and the next moment the adder fell on to his shoulder, and bit him in the neck. He was half mad with the fright ; but I think the adder must have bitten the cap first and expended its poison ; for the schoolmaster was only ill for about two days, and then there was no more of it. But just think of it — an adder getting to your neck " " I would rather not think of it," she said, quickly. " What i.s the other animal — that you hate 1 " " Oh ! " ho said, lightly, " that is a very different affair — that is a parrot that speaks. I was never shut up in a house with one till this week. My landlady's son brought her home one from the West Indies, and she put the cage in a window recess on my landing. At first it was a little amusing ; but the constant yelp — it was too much for me. ' Pritty pool! pritty pool!' I did not mind so much; but when tin' u^ly brute, with its beady eyes and its black snout used to yelp ' Come and hiz ma/ conic i n something like a feast for you." '•Why," baid he, to his human companion, "if I had only THE PRINCESS RIGHINN 85 known before ! Whenever there was an hour or two with nothing to do, here was plenty of occupation. But I must not keep you too long, Miss "White — I could remain here days and weeks." '•'You will not go without looking in at the serpents?" said she, with a slight smile. He hesitated for a second. " No," said he, " I think I will not go in to see them." "But you must," said she, cruelly. "You will see they are not such terrible creatures when they are shut up in glass boxes." He suffered himself to be led along to the reptile house ; but lie was silent. He entered the last of the three. He stood in the middle of the room, and looked around him in rather a strange way. "Now come and look at this splendid fellow," said Miss White, who, with her sister, was leaning over the rail. "Look at his splendid bars of colour — do you see the beautiful blue sheen on its scales 1 " It was a huge anaconda, its body, as thick as a man's leg, lying coiled up in a circle, its flat ugly head reposing in tho middle. He came a bit nearer. "Hideous!" was all he said. And then his eyes were fixed on the eyes of the animal — the lidless eyes, with their perpetual, glassy stare. He had thought at first they were closed; but now he saw that that opaque yellow substance was covered by a glassy coating, while in the centre there was a small slit as if cut by a penknife. The great slowly expanded and Cell again, as the animal breathed ; otherwise the fixed stare of those yellow eyes might have been taken for the sta/e of death. "I don't think the anaconda is poisonous at all," said she, lightly. "But if yon were to meet that beast in a jungle," said he, "what difference would that make]" II- spoke reproachfully, as if she. were luring him into some I place, to have him slain with poisonous fangs. He passed on from that ease to the others, unwillingly. Tlie room was still. Most of the snakes would have seemed dead, but for the 86 MACLEOD OF DARK malign stare of the beaded eyes. Ho seemed anxious to get out ; the atmot phere of the place was hot and oppressive. But just at the door there was a rase, some quick motion in which caught his eye ; and despite himself lie stopped to look. The inside of this glass box was alivo Avith snakes — raising their heads in the air— slimily crawling over each other — the small, black-forked tongues shooting in and out, the black points cf eyesglassily Btaring. And the object that had moved quickly was a wretched little yellow frog, that was now motionless m a dish of water — its eyes apparently starting out of its head with horror. A snake made its appearance over the edge of the dish. Th<' ahooting Mack tonguo approached the head of the frog; and then the long, sinuous body glided along the edge of the dish again — the frog meanwhile being too paralysed with fear to move. A second afterwards the frog, apparently recovering, sprang clean out of the basin; but it was only to alight on the barks of two or three of the reptiles lying coiled up together. It made another spring, and got into a corner, among some grass. But along that side of the case another of those small, flat, yellow-marked heads was slowly creeping along, propelled by the squirming body ; and again the frog made a sudden spring, this time leaping "nee more into the shallow water, where it stood and panted, with its eyes dilated. And now a snake that had crawled up the side of the case put out its long neck as if to sec whither it should proceed. There was nothing to lay hold of. The head Bwayed and twisted — the forked tongue shooting out — and at last the snake fell away from its hold, and splashed into the basin of water, on the top of the frog. There was a wild shooting this way and that — but Macleod did not see the end of it. He had uttered some slight exclamation — and got into the open air, as one being suffocated — and there were drops of perspiration on his forehead, and a trembling of horror and disgust h 1 eized him. His two companions followed him out. " I f<- 1 rather faint," said he, in a low voice — and ho did not turn to look at them as he spoke — "the air is close in that u." They i away. He looked around — atthe beautiful green of the trees, and the blue sky, and the sunlight on the path — LAST NIGHTS 87 God's world was getting to be more wholesome again, and the choking sensation of disgust was going from his throat. He seemed, however, rather anxious to get away from this place. There was a gate close by ; he proposed they should go out by that. As he walked back with them to South Bank, they chatted about many of the animals — the two girls in especial being much interested in certain pheasants, whose colours of plumage, they thought, would look very pretty in a dress — but he never re- ferred, either then or at any future time, to his visit to the reptile house. Nor did it occur to Miss White, in this idle conversation, to ask him whether his Highland blood had in- herited any other qualities besides that instinctive and deadly horror of serpents. CHAPTER X. LAST NIGHTS. " Good night, Maclcod ! — good night ! — good night ! " The various voices came from the top of a drag. They were addressed to one of two young nun who stood on the steps of the Star ami Gartr so about the 20th." "The20th1 So be if. Then you will haw. the black-cock added in." "When do you leave?" "On tho l.-t "I' August — the morning after my garden-party, You must c"iii'- l" it, Ogilvie. Lady Beauregard has pei uaded her Li 1 band to put off their going to Ireland for three days in order to come. And I have gol old Admiral Maitland coming — with hi., stories of the 1 ag, and of Nelson, and of the 9 2 MACLEOD OF DARE raids on the merchant-snips for officers for the navy. Did you know that Miss Rawlineon was an old. sweetheart of his? He knew her when she lived in Jamaica with her father — several & nt in iesago, you would think, judging by their stories. Her father got £28,000 from the Government when his slaves were eman- cipated. I wish I could get the old Admiral up to Dare — he and the mother would have some stories to tell, I think. But you don't like long journeys at ninety-two." He was in a pleasant and talkative humour, this bright-faced and stalwart young fellow, with his proud, fine features and his careless air. One could easily see how these old folks had made a sort of pet of him. But while he went on with his desultory chatting about the various people whom he had met, and the friendly invitations he had received, and the hopes he had formed of renewing his acquaintanceship with this person and the next person, should chance bring him again to London soon, he never once mentioned the name of Miss Gertrude White, or referred to her family, or even to her public appearances, about which there was plenty of talk at this time. Yet Lieutenant Ogilvie, on his rare visits to London, had more than once heard Sir Keith Macleod's name mentioned in conjunction with that of the young actress whom society was pleased to regard with a special and unusual favour just then ; and once or twice he, as Macleod'sfriend, had been archly questioned on the subject by some inquisitive lady, whose eyes asked more than her words. But Lieutenant Ogilvie was gravely discreet. Ho neither treated the matter with ridicule nor, on the other hand, did he pretend to know more than he actually knew — which was literally nothing at all. For Macleod, who was, in ordinary circumstances, any- thing hut a reserved or austere person, was on this subject strictly silent — evading questions with a proud and simple dignity that forbade the repetition of them. " That which concerns you not, meddle not with " : he observed the maxim himself, and expected others to do the like. It was an early dinner they had had, after their stroll in Richmond Park; and it was a comparatively early train that Macleod and his friend now drove down to catch, after he had paid his bill. When they reached Waterloo Station it was not LAST NIGHTS 93 yet eleven o'clock ; when he, having bade good-bye to Ogilvie, got to his rooms in Bury Street, it was but a few minutes after. lie was joyfully welcomed by his faithful friend, Oscar. "You poor dog," said he, "here have we been enjoying our- selves all the day, and you have been in prison. Come, shall we go for a run 1 " Oscar jumped up on him with a whine of delight ; he knew what that taking up of the hat again meant. And then there was a silent stealing down-stairs ; and a slight, pardonable bark of joy in the hall ; and a wild dash into the freedom of the narrow street when the door was opened. Then Oscar moder- ated his transports, and kept pretty close to his master as together they began to wander through the desert wilds of Loudon. Piccadilly 1 — Oscar had grown as expert in avoiding the rattling broughams and hansoms as the veriest mongrel that ever led a vagrant life in London streets. Berkeley Square 1 — hero there was comparative quiet, with the gas-lamps shining up on the thick foliage of the maples. In Grosvenor Square ho had a bit of a scamper ; but there was no rabbit to hunt. In Oxford Street his master took him into a public house and gave him a ■nit and a think of water; after that his spirits rose a bit, and he began to range ahead in Baker Street. But did Oscar know any more than hie master why they had taken this direction? StiU farther north; and now there were a good many trees about ; and the moon, high in the heavens, touched the trembling foliage, and shone white on the fronts of the houses. Oscar was a friendly companion ; but he could not be expected to notice that his master glanced somewhal nervously along South Bank when he had reached the entrance to that thoroughfare. Apparently the plan' was quite deserted ; there was nothing visible but the walls, trees, and houses, one side in black shadow, the other shining cold and pale in the moonlight. After a moment's hesitation Macleod resumed his walk — though he seemed to tread more softly. And now, in the perfect silence, he neared a certain hou e, though but little of it wa vi ible over the wall and through the trees. 1'rl heexpeel to see a light in one of those upper windows, 94 MACLEOD OF DARE ■which the drooping acacias did not altogether conceal? Ho walked quickly by, with his head averted. Oscar had got a good way in front, not doubting that his master was following him. But Macleod, perhaps having mustered up further courage, stopped in his walk, and returned. This time he passed more slowly, and turned his head to the house, as if listening. There was no light in the windows ; there was no sound at all ; there was no motion but that of the trembling acaciadeaves as the cdld wind of tho night stirred them. And then he passed over to the south sido of tho thoroughfare ; and stood in the black shadow of a high wall ; and Oscar came, and looked up into his face. A hansom rattled by; then there was utter stillness again; and the moonlight shone on the front of the small house, which was to all appearance as lifeless as the grave. Then, far away, twelve o'clock struck, and the sound in this intense quiet seemed distant as the sound of a bell at sea. lie was alone with the night, and with the dreams and fancies of the night. Would he, then, confess to himself that which he would confess to no other ] Or was it merely some passing whim — some slight underchord of sentiment struck amid the care- joy of a young man's holiday — that had led him up into this silent region of trees and moonlight ] The scene around him was romantic enough; but he certainly had not the features of an anguish-stricken lover. Again the silence of the night was broken by the rumbling of -u heels that came along the road ; and now— whatever may have been the fancy that brought him hither— he turned to leave, and ■r joyfully bounded out into the road. But this plain little igham, instead of continuing its route, stopped at the gate of h iB e he had been watching, and two young ladies stepped out. Fionaghal, the Fair Stranger, had not, then, been wander- in- in th- enchanted land of dreams, but toiling home from the I i ' riou labours? lie would have slunk away rapidly but for an untoward accident. Oscar, ranging up and down, came upon an old friend, and instantly made acquaintance with her, ing which Ma Leod, with deep vexation at his heart, but with a pleasant and carelc fa e, had to walk along also. A FLOWER 95 " What an odd meeting ! " said lie. " I have been giving Oscar a run. I am glad to have a chance of bidding you good night. You are not very tired, I hope 1 " <■' I am rather tired," said she, "but I have only two more nights, and then my holiday begins." He shook hands with both sisters, and wished them good night and departed. As Miss Gertrude White went into her father's house, she seemed rather grave. " Gerty," said the younger sister, as she screwed up the gas, " wouldn't the name of Lady Macleod look well in a play-bill 1 " The elder sister would not answer ; but as she turned away there was a quick flush of colour in her face — whether caused by anger or by a sudden revelation of her own thought it was im- possible to say. CHAPTER XI. A FLOWER. THE many friends Macleod had made in the south — or rather those of them who had remained in town till the end of the ii - showed an unwonted interest in this nondescript party of his ; and it was at a comparatively early hour in the evening that the various groups of people began to show themselves in Miss Rawlinson'a garden. That prim old lady — with her q.uick, ;ht ways and her humorous little speeches Btudiously kept ■ If in the background. It was Sir Keith Macleod who was the host. And when he remarked to hex that he thought the t beautiful night of all the beautiful time he had spent in the Boutli bad been re i rved for thi i eery \ he replied looking round the garden j I he b id been one of his gue I that it w., a pn And it was a pretty icene. The lai I tire of the -'in tet v.- 1 touching the topmosl branches of the I In tho colder shad" below, the hank, and bed of ftowei , and 96 MACLEOD OF DARE tho costumes of the ladies, acquired a strange intensity of colour. Then thero was a band playing ; and a good deal of chatting going on ; and ono old gentleman with a grizzled moustache humbly receiving lessons in lawn-tennis from an imperious small maiden of ten. Maclcod was here, there, and everywhere. Tho Chinese lanterns outside were to bo lit whilo tho people were in at supper. Lieutenant Ogilvie was directed to take in Lady Beauregard when the timo arrived. " You must take her in yourself, Macleod," said that properly- constituted youth. " If you outrage the sacred laws of pre- cedence " " I mean to take Miss Eawlinson in to supper," said Macleod ; "she is the oldest woman here, and I think my best friend." " I thought you might wish to give Miss White tho place of honour," said Ogilvie out of sheer impertinence ; but Macleod went off to order tho candles to be lit in tho marquee, where supper was laid. liy and by he came out again ; and now the twilight had drawn on apace ; thero was a cold clear light in the skies, whilo at the same moment a red glow began to shine through the canvas of the long tent. He walked over to one little group who were seated on a garden-chair. " Well," said he, " I have got pretty nearly all my peoplo together now, Mrs. Ross." " lint where is Gertrude White ] " said Mrs. Eoss, " surely she is to be here 1 " " Oh, yes, I think so," said he. " Her father and herself both promised to come. You know her holidays have begun now." " It is a good tiling for that girl," said Miss Eawlinson, in her quick, staccato fashion, "that she has few holidays. Very good thing that she has her work to mind. The way peoplo run after her would turn any woman's head. The Grand Duke is said to have declared that she was one of the three prettiest women that he saw in England : what can you expect if things like that gel to a girl's ear?" " But you know Gerty is quite unspoiled," said Mrs. Eoss, warmly. A FLOWER 97 " Yes ; so far," said the old lady, " so far, she retains the courtesy of being hypocritical " " Oh, Miss Eawlinson ! I won't have you say such things of Gerty "White !" Mrs. Eoss protested. "You are a wicked old woman — isn't she, Hugh 1 " "I am saying it to her credit," continued the old lady, with much composure. " What I say is, that most pretty women who are much run after are flattered into frankness. "When they are introduced to you, they don't take the trouble to conceal that they are quite indifferent to you. A plain woman will bo decently civil, and will smile, and pretend she is pleased, and talk. A beauty — a recognised beauty — doesn't take the trouble to be hypocritical. .Now Miss "White does." " It is an odd sort of compliment," said Colonel Eoss, laughing. "What do you think of it, Macleod V " These are too great refinements for my comprehension," said he, modestly. " I think if a pretty woman is uncivil to you, it is easy for you to turn on your heel and go away." " I do not say uncivil. Don't you go misrepresenting a poor old woman, Sir Keith. I said she is most likely to be flattered into being honest — into showing a stranger that she is quite indifferent, whereas a plain woman will try to make herself a little agreeable. Now a poor lone creature like myself likes to y that people are glad to see her; and Miss White pretends 'i'h. It is very kind. By and by she will get spoiled like the restj and then she will become honest. She will Bhake hands with me, and then turn off, as much as to say, ' Go away, ugly her his meaning —though he had thought over the subject long enough and often enough to get his own impre ions of it el. ar. A' another time, and in a more critical mood, Bhe mighl have io2 MACLEOD OF DARE Baid to herself ; u ThU man hates the. stage because he is jealous of its hold on my life" and might have rejoiced over the inad- vertent confession. IJut just at this moment these hesitating words of his seemed to have awakened some quick responsive thrill in her nature, for she suddenly said, with an earnestness that was not at all assumed — " Sometimes I have thought of that — it is so strange to hear my own doubts repeated. If I could choose my own life — yes, I would rather live that out than merely imagining the experi- ences of others. But what is one to do 1 You look around, and take the world as it is. Can anything be more trivial and disap- pointing! "Winn you arc Juliet in the balcony, or Rosalind in the forest, then you have some better feeling within you, if it is only for an hour or so." "Yes," said he, "and you go on indulging in those doses of fictitious sentiment until But I am afraid the night air is too cold for you. Shall we go back 1 " She could not fail to notice the trace of bitterness, and subsequent coldness, with which he spoke. She knew that he must have been thinking deeply over this matter; and that it was no ordinary thing that caused him to speak with so much feeling. But of course, when he proposed that they should return to the marquee, she consented. He could not expect her to stand there and defend her whole manner of life. Much less could he expect her to give up her profession merely because he had sd his wita in getting up some fantastic theory about it. And Bhe began to think that he had no right to talk to her in this hitter fashion. When they had got half way back to the tent, he paused for a moment. " I am going to ask a favour of you," he said in a low voice. " I hav<. spent a pleasant time in England, and I cannot tell you grateful I am to you for letting me become one of your friends. To-morrow morning I am going back home. I should like you to give mo that flower — as some little token of rc- mbrance." The small fingers did not tremble at all as she took the flower from her dress. She presented it to him with a charming smile, WHITE HEATHER 103 and without a word. What was the giving of a flower? There was a cart-load of roses in the tent. But this flower she had worn next her heart. CHAPTER XII. WHITE HEATHER. And now, behold ! the red flag flying from the summit of Castle I hire — a spot of brilliant colour in this world of whirling mist and Hashing sunlight. For there is half a gale blowing in from the Atlantic ; and gusty clouds come sweeping over the islands, 80 that now the Dutchman, and now Lunga, and now Colonsay disappears from Bight, and then emerges into the sunlight again, dripping and shining after the bath; while ever and anon the promontory of Ru-Treshanish shows a gloomy purple far in the north. But the wind and the weather may do what they like to-day : for has not the word just come down from the hill that the smoke of the steamer has been made out in the smith? and old Hannah is Hying this way and that, fairly at his wits' end with excitement \ and Janet Macleod has cast a last look at the decorations of heather and juniper in the great hall; while. Lady Macleod, dressed in the most Btately fashion, has declared that she i b able a the youngest of them to walk down to the point to welcome home her Bon. "Ay, your leddyship, il is very bad," complain the di tractod llami-h, " that it will be I rough a day thi I day, and Sir K< ill, not to come ai hore in his own gig, bul in a Ashing boat, and 1 1 hore :ii the fi hing-ouay, too ! but it i 1 hi 1 own men will at for him, and nol the fishermen at all, though 1 am sure they will hef a dram whatever, when Sir Keith comi n bore. And will yon not tek the p my, your leddyship ? for \\ i a Ion I to the qn ■ 1 1 14 MA CLEOD OF DARK "No, I will not take the pony, Haniish," said the tall white- haired dame ; " and it is not of much consequence what boat Sir Keith has, bo long as he comes hack to us. And now I think yon had bettor go down to the (may yourself, and see that the cart is waiting and the hoat ready." But how could old 1 famish go down to the quay 1 ? He was in his own person skipper, head-keeper, steward, butler, and general major-domo, and ought on such a day to he in half-a-dozen places at once. From the earliest morning he had been hurrying hither and thither, in his impatience making use of much voluble ( In lie He had seen the yacht's crew in their new jerseys. He had been round the kennels. He had got out a couple of hottles of the best claret that Castle Dare could afford. He had his master's letters arranged on the library-table ; and had given a final rub to the guns and rifles on the rack. He had even been down to the quay, swearing at the salmon-fishers for having so much lumber lying about the place where Sir Keith Macleod to land. And if he was to go down to the quay now, how could he be sure that the ancient Christina, who was mistress of the kitchen as far as her husband Hamish would allow her to be, would remember all his instructions'? And then the little grand-daughter, Christina — would she remember her part in the ceremony ? However, as Hamish could not be in six places at once, he at th decided to obey his mistress's directions, and went hurriedly off to the quay, overtaking on his way Donald the piper-lad, who was apparelled in all his professional finery. "And if ever you put wind in your pipes, you will put wind in your pipes this day, Donald," said he to the red-haired lad. " And I wid tell you now what you will play when you come ore from the steamer — it is the Fareioell to Chubralter you will play." "The Farewell to Glbralter/" said Donald peevishly, for he was bound in honour to let no man interfere with his proper business. " It is a better march than that I will play, Hamish. It is the Heights of Alum, that was made by Mr. Itoss, the own piper; and will you tell me that the Heights oj Alma IB not a better march than the. Farewell to Glbralter ?" WHITE HE A THER 105 Hamisli pretended to pay no heed to this impertinent boy. His eye was fixed on a distant black speck that was becoming more and more pronounced out there amid the greys and greens of the windy and sunlit sea. Occasionally it disappeared altogether, as a cloud of rain swept across towards the giant cliffs of Mull; and then again it would appear, sharper and blacker than ever, while the masts and funnel were now visible as well as the hull. "When Donald and his companion got down to the quay, they found the men already in the big boat, getting ready t<> hoist the huge brown lug-sail; and there was a good deal of laughing and talking going on, perhaps in anticipation of the dram they were sure to get when their master returned to Castle Dare. Donald jumped down on the rude stone ballast, and made his way up to the bow ; Hamish, who remained on shore, helped to shove her off; then the heavy lug-sail was quickly hoisted, the sheet hauled tight, and presently the broad-beamed boat was ploughing its way through the rushing sea, with an occasional cloud of spray coming right over her from Btem to stern. "Fhir a bhata," the men sung; until Donald struck in with his pipes, and the wild skirl of The Barren Rocks of Ad a fitter sort of music to go with these sweeping winds and plunging seas. And now we will board the steamer, where Keith Macleod is up on the bridge, occasionally using a glass, and again talking to the captain, who is beside him. First of all on hoard he had canghl Bight of the red Hag floating over Castle Dare; and his heart had leaped up at that sign of welcome. Then he could make out the dark figures on the quay ; and the hoisting of the iil ; and the putting off of the boat, [twa not a good day for observing things) for heavy clouds were quickly passing . followed by bewildering gleams of a sort of watery Bunlighl ; but, as it happened, one of these sudden flashes chanced tc light up a small plateau on the 1 ide of the bill above the quay, ju t. wa.s directed on thai point. Surely Burely tho two figiu " Why, it. is the mother* and Janet!" he cried. He ha tily gave the gla to his companion. " Look 1" said he. "Don'1 yon think that is Lady Macleod 106 MACLEOD OF DARE and in)' cousin? What could have tempted the old lady to come away down there on such a squally day 'J" " Oh yes, I think it is the ladies," said the captain j and then he added, with a friendly smile, "and I think it is to sec you all the sooner, Sir Keith, that they have come down to the shore." " Then," said he, " I must go down and get my gillie, and show him his future home." Ho went below the hurricane-deck to a corner in which Oscar was chained up. Leside the dog, sitting on a camp-stool and wrapped round with a tartan plaid, was the person whom Macleod had doubtless referred to as his gillie. He was not a distinguished-looking attendant to be travelling with a Highland chieftain. "Johnny, my man, come on deck now, and I will show you where you are going to live. You're all right, now, aren't you? And you will be on the solid land again in about ten minutes." Macleod's gillie rose — or rather, got down — from the camp- stool, and showed himself to be a miserable, emaciated child of ten or eleven, with a perfectly colourless face, frightened grey eyes, and starved white hands. The contrast between the bronzed and bearded sailors — who were now hurrying about to receive tlir boat from Hare — and this pallid and shrunken scrap of humanity was striking; and when Macleod took his hand, and half led and half carried him up on deck, the look of terror that he directed on the plunging waters all around showed that he hail not had much experience of the sea. Involuntarily he had i ped hold of Macleod's coat as if for protection. "Now, Johnny, look right ahead. Do you see the big house on the cliffs over yonder 1 " The child, still clinging on to his protector, looked all round with the dull, pale eyes, and at length said — "No." 1 .'I you see that house, poor chap ? "Well, do you see that 1 You must be able to see that," •• Y. . sir." 'That boat is h> take you ashore. You needn't be afraid. If you don't like to look at the sea get down into the bottom of WHITE HEATHER 107 the boat, and take Oscar with you ; and you'll see nothing until you are ashore. Do you understand 1 " " Yes, sir." " Come along, then." For now the wild skirl of Donald's pipes was plainly audible; and the various packages — the new rifle, the wooden case con- taining the wonderful dresses for Lady Macleod and her niece, and what not — were all arranged ready ; to say nothing of some loaves of white bread that the steward was sending ashore at Hannah's request. And then the heaving boat came closer to, her sail Avas hauled down, and a rope thrown and 'caught ; and then there was a hazardous scrambling down the dripping iron steps, and a notable spring on the part of Oscar, who had escaped from the hands of the sailors. As for the new gdlie, he resembled nothing so much as a limp bunch of clothes as Macleod's men, wondering not a little, caught him up and passed him. astern. Then the rope was thrown off, the steamer steamed slowly ahead, the lug-sail was run up again, and away the boat plunged, with Donald playing the Heights of Alma as though he would rend the skies. "Hold y >ur noise, Donald ! " his master called to him, laughing. "You Avill have plenty of time to play the pipes in the evening." 1 he was greatly delighted to be among his own people again ; and he •■ er in his questions of the men as to all that had happened in his absence; and it was no small thing to them Sir Keith Macleod should remember their affairs too, and a-k after their families and friends. Donald's loyalty was sir..: than his professional pride. He was not offended that he had silenced; he only bottled up his musical fervour all the more ; and at length, as he neared the land, and knew that Lady ! and Mi Macleod were within hearing, he took it that fcter than any 1 whai was proper to the occa- , and oi roud and stirring march strove with ad of the hurrying wavi . Nor was that all. The piper lad wa 1 doing hi 1 best. Never before had he put Buch fire in).. hi work ; but as thi y got close La . bore the joy in his bearl altogether the n I him, and away he broke into the mad delight of Lady Mary Ramsay's Heel. Hami b on the quay 10S MACLEOD OF DARE heard, and lie strutted about as if lie were himself playing, and thai before the Queen. And then he heard another sound — that of Macleod'a voice. " Stand by, lads / . . . Down with her /" — and the flapping Bail, with its swinging yard, rattled down into the hoat. At the same moment Oscar made a clean spring into the water, gained the landing-steps, and dashed upwards — dripping as he was — to two ladies who were standing on the quay above. And Janet Maclepd so far forgot what was due to her best gown that she caught his head in her arms, as he pawed and whined with delight. That was a glad enough party that started off and up the hill- side for Castle Dare. Janet Macleod did not care to conceal that she had been crying a little bit ; and there were proud tears in the eyes of the stately old dame who walked with her; but the most excited of all was llamish, who could by no means be got to understand that his master did notall at once want to hear about the trial of the young setters, and the price of the sheep sold the week before at Tobermory, and the stag that was chased by the Carsaig men on Tuesday. " Confound it ! llamish," Macleod said, laughing, " leave all those things till after dinner." " Oh ay, oh ay, Sir Keith, we will lief plenty of time after dinner," said 1 famish, just as if he were one of the party, but very nervously working with the ends of his thumbs all the time; " and I will tell you of the fine big stag that has been coming down every night — every night, as I am a living man — to Mrs. Murdoch's corn; and I wass saying to her, 'Just hold your tongue, Mrs Murdoch,' that wass what I will say to her, 'just hold your tongue, Mrs. Murdoch, and be a civil woman, for a day or two days, and when Sir Keith comes home, it iss no more at aid the stag will trouble you — oh no, no more at ahl — there will be no more trouble about the stag when Sir Keith comeshome.' " And old llamish laughed at his own wit — but it was in a sort of excited way. "Look here, llamish — I want you to do this for me," Macleod said ; and instantly the face of the old man — it was a fine face, too, with its aquiline nose, and grizzled hair, and keen hawk-like WHITE HE A THER 109 eyes — was full of an eager attention. " Go back and fetch that little boy I left with Donald. You had better look after him yourself. I don't think any water came over him; but give him dry clothes if he is wet at all. And feed him up ; the little beggar will take a lot of fattening without any harm." " Where is he to go ? " said Ilamish, doubtfully. " You are to make a keeper of him. When you have fattened him up a bit, teach him to feed the dogs. When he gets bigger, he can clean the guns." " I will let no man or boy clean the guns for you but myself, Sir Keith," the old man said, quite simply, and without a shadow of disrespect. " I will hef no risk of the kind." " Very well, then ; but go and get the boy, and make him at home as much as you can. Feed him up." " Who is it, Keith," his cousin said, " that you are speaking of as if he was a sheep or a calf 1 " "Faith," said he, laughing, "if the philanthropists heard of it, they would prosecute me for slave-stealing. I bought the boy — for a sovereign." " I think you have made a bad bargain, Keith," his mother said ; but sin; was quite prepared to hear of some absurd whim of In'-. "Well," said he, " I was going into Trafalgar Square, where (1m- National Gallery of pictures is, mother, and there i- a cab- stand in the street, and there was a cabman standing there, munching at a lump of dry bread, that he cul with a jack knife. I never ibman do that before; I should have been Less surprised if he. hail been having a chicken and a. bottle of port. However, in front of (lie big cabman, this little chap I ba brought with me w Lingj quite, in rags; no Bhoes on bis feel ; no cap on his wild hair; ami be was looking fixedly at the hi < Lamp of bread. I never saw any animal look il irved and so hungry; hi eyes were quite glazed with the fa eination of seeing the man plou ;hing away ai 1 lii Lump of loaf. And I never saw any child so thin. Sis hands were like the claws of a bird; and his trousers were borl and torn, so that you could see his were Like two pip . At La t the cabman saw him. out o' the way,' says he. The Little chap slunk oil', frightened, no MA CLEOD OF DA RE I mppo . Then the man changed hie mind. 'Come hero,' he. Bui the Little chap was frightened, and wouldn't como back went after him, and thrust tho loaf into his hand, and bade him be off. I can toll you tho way he went into that loaf was very lino to see. It was like a weasel at tho neck of a rabbit ; it was like an otter at the back of a salmon. And that was how I mad.' his acquaintance," Macleod added carelessly. "But you have not told us why you brought him up here," his mother said. " Oh," said he, with a sort of laugh, " I was looking at him, and I wondered whether Highland mutton and Highland air would make any difference in the wretched little skeleton; and o I made hi acquaintance. I went home with him to a fearful ■ — I have got the address, but I did not know there were such quarters in London — and I saw his mother. The poor woman was very ill \ and she had a lot of children; and she aed quite glad when I offered to take this one and make a herd or a gamekeeper of him. I promised he should go to visit her once a year, that she might see whether there was any difference. And I gave her a sovereign." " You were quite right, Keith," his cousin said gravely ; " you run a great risk. Do they hang slavers 1 " "Mother," -tid he, for by this time the ladies were standing still, so that Hamish and tie' new gillie should overtake them," you mustn't laugh at the little chap when you see him with tho plaid taken off. The fact is, I took him to a shop in the hhourhood to get some clothes for him, but I couldn't get anything small enough. He docs look ridiculous; but you mustn't laugh at him, for lie is like a girl for sensitiveness. But when li Q I'd up a bit, and got some Highland air into lungs, his >n ?" " 2S'f con olation in Castle Dare. Hamish went straight to Janet Macleod; and Bhe was a tonished to seo the emotion of which the keen, hard, handsome face of the old man was capable. Who before had ever seen tears in the eyea pf ! famish Maclnl j i' I ".\nl perhaps it is so," said Hamish, with bis head hanging 1 1 3 AL 1 CLEOD OF DA RE down, '''and perhaps it is that I am an old man now, and not able any moro to go up to tho hills ; hut if I am not ablo for that, 1 am not able for anything; and I will not ask Sir Keith to keep me about the houso or about the yacht. It is younger nun will do better as mo; and I can go away to Greenock ; and if it is an old man I am, maybe I Avill find a place in a smack, for all that " " Oh nonsenso, Hamish," Janet Macleod said, with her kindly eyes bent on him. "You may be sure Sir Keith did not mean anything like that " "Ay, mem," said the old man proudly, "and who wass it that first put a gun into his hand ; and who wass it skinned the ferry first seal that he shot in Loch Scridain ; and who wass it told him the name of every spar and sheet of tho Umpire, and showed him how to hold a tiller'? And if there is any man knows more as me about the birds, and the deer, that is right — let him go out ; but it is the first day I hef not been out with Sir Keith since ever I wass at Castle Dare ; and now it iss time that I am going away ; for I am an old man, and the younger men they will be better on the hills and in the yacht too. But I can make my living whatever." " Hamish, you arc speaking like a foolish man," said Janet Macleod to him. " You will wait here now till I go to Sir Keith." She went to him. " Keith," said she, " do you know that you have nearly broken old Hamish's heart?" "What is the matter?" said he, looking up in wonder. "He says you have told him he is not to go out to the shooting with you to-morrow j and that is the first time he has been superseded ; and he takes it that you think he is an old man ; and he talks of going away to Greenock to join a smack." "Oh, nonsense," Macleod said. "I was not thinking when I told him. H'' may come with us if he likes. At the same. time, Janet, I should think Norman Ogilvie will laugh at seeing the butler come out as a keeper." " You know quite well, Keith," said his cousin, " that Hamish is no more a butler than he is captain of the Umpire or clerk of A FRIEND 119 the accounts. Hamish is simply everybody and everything at Castle Dare. And if you speak of Norman Ogilvie — well, I think it would ho more like yourself, Keith, to consult the feelings of an old man rather than the opinions of a young one." " You are always on the right side, Janet. Tell Ilamish I am very sorry. I meant him no disrespect. And he may call mo at one in the morning if he likes. He never looked on me hut as a hit of his various machinery for killing things." " That is not fair of you, Keith. Old Ilamish would give his right hand to save you the scratch of a thorn." She went off to cheer the old man ; and he turned to his hook. But it was not to read it ; it was only to stare at the outside of it, in an absent sort of way. The fact is ho had found in it the story of a young aide-de-camp who was entrusted with a message to a distant part of the field while a battle was going forward, and who in mere bravado rode across a part of tho ground open to the enemy's fire. lie came back laughing. Ho had been hit, he confessed ; but he had escaped; and he carelessly shook a drop or two of blood from a flesh-wound on his hand. Suddenly, however, he turned pale, wavered a little, and then fell forward on his horse's neck, a corpse. Macleod was thinking about this story rather gloomily. But at last he got up with a more cheerful nir, and seized his cap. "And if it is my death wound I have got," he was thinking (" him elf, a he el out for the boat that was waiting for him he shore, " I will not cry out too soon." CHAPTEE XIV. A FRIEND. Hi death-wound ! There wa 1 but little 1 nggostion ofanydeath- wound about the manner or Bpeech of this light-hearted and (rank-spoken fellow who now welcomed his old friend Ogilvie , 20 MA CLEOD OF DA RE ashore, He Bwung the gun-case into the cart as if it had been a bit of thread. He himself would carry Ogilvie's top-coat over his arm. " And why have you not como in your hunting tartan ?" said he, observing the very precise and correct shooting costume of the young man. "Not likely," said Mr. Ogilvic, laughing. "I don't like walking through clouds with hare knees, with a chance of sitting down on an adder or two. And I'll tell you what it is, Macleod : if tho morning is wet I will not go out stalking, if all the stags in Christendom were there. I know what it is, I have had enough of it in my younger days '" " My dear fellow," Macleod said seriously, " you must not talk hero as if you could do what you liked. It is not what you wish to do, or what you don't wish to do; it is what Hamish orders to have done. Do you think I would dare to tell Hamish what wo must do to-morrow 1 ? And do you think in any case Hamish would allow a kilt to ho worn when wo go off stalking % " " Very well, then, I will see Hamish myself ; I dare say ho remembers me." And ho did sco Hamish that evening, and it was arranged between them that if the morning looked threatening they would 1 ive the deer alone, and woidd merely take the lower lying moors in the immediate neighbourhood of Castle Dare. And Hamish took great care to impress on the young man that Macleod had not yel taken a gun in his hand, merely that there should be a decent bit of shooting when his guest arrived. "And ho will say to me, only yesterday," observed Hamish confidentially, "it was yesterday itself he wass saying to me, ' II imish, when Mr. Ogilvie comes here, it will only be six days q days he will bo able to stop, and you will try to get him two or three stags. And Hamish,' this iss what ho will say t-> me, 'you will pay no heed to mo, for I hef plenty of tho shooting whatever, from the one year's end to the other year's end, and it is Mr. Ogilvie you will look after.' And you do not mind the rain, sir? It iss fine warm clothes you have got on — fine woollen clothes you have, and what harm will a shower do? ; ' A FRIEND 121 " Oh, I don't mind the rain, so long as I can keep moving — that's the fact, Hamish," replied Mr. Ogilvie ; " hut I don't like lying in wet heather for an hour at a stretch. And I don't caro how few birds there are ; there will he plenty to keep us walking. So you rememher me after all, Hamish ] " " Oh ay, sir," said Hamish, with a demure twinkle in his eye. " I mind line the time you will fahl into the water off the rock in Loch na KeaL" " Yes, indeed," remarked Mr. Ogilvie, " that is precisely what I don't see the fun of doing, now that I have got to man's estate, and have a wholesome fear of killing myself. Do you think I would lie down now on wet seaweed, and get slowly soaked through witli the rain for a whole hour, on the chance of a seal coming on the other side of the rock 1 When I tried to get up I was as stiff as a stone. I could not have lifted the rifle if a hundred seals had heen there. And it was no wonder at all I slipped down into the water." "But the Bear-water," said Hamish, gravely, "there will he no harm come to you of the sea-water." " I want to have as little as possible of either sea-water or rain- water," said Mr. Ogilvie, with decision. "I believe Maclcod is half an otter himself." ETamish did not like this, but he only said respectfully — ■ " I do not think Sir Keith is afraid of a shower of rain what- r." These gloomy anticipations were surely uncalled for; for during tin' whole of ii,!. pa | week tin- We tern hies hail basked in uninterrupted sunlight, with blip- skies over the fair blue and a n warmth exhaling from the lonely moors. But all .one, next morning broke as it' Mr. Forebodings wen: only too likely to be realised. The sea was leaden-hued, and apparently still, though the booming of the Atlantic swell into tie could 1" heard; Staffa, and Lunga, and the Dutchman were .,f ; , ,n , n;i i black ; (he brighter colours of Ulva anil Colon iv eemed coldly grey and green, and heavy banks of cloud lay along the land, running out to Ru-Treshanii h. 'I he noi '• of the ,tn .nil ru hing down through tin- fir wood clo e to the castle seemed louder than u ual, as if rain had fallen i2z MACLEOD OF DARE during the night. It was rather cold, too j all that Lady Maclcod and Janet could say failed to raise the spirits of their guest. But when Macleod — dressed in his home-spun tartan — came round from the kennels with the dogs, and Hamish, and the tall rod-headed lad, Sandy, it appeared that they considered this to l)e rather a fine day than otherwise, and were eager to bo off. " Como along, Ogilvie," Macleod cried, as ho gave his friend's gun to Sandy, but shouldered his own. " Sorry we haven't a cart to drive you to the moor, but it is not far off." " I think a cigar in the library would bo the best thing for a morning like this," said Ogilvie, rather gloomily, as ho put up the collar of his shooting-jacket, for a drop or two of rain had fallen. " Nonsense, man ; the first bird you kill will cheer you up." Maclcod was right ; they had just passed through the wood of young larches close to Castlo Dare, and were ascending a rough stone road that led by the side of a deep glen, when a sudden whirr, close by them, startled the silence of this gloomy morning. In an instant Macleod had whipped his gun from his alder and thrust it into Ogilvie's hands. By the time tho young man had full cocked the right barrel and taken a epiick aim, the bird was half-way across the valley; but all the samo he fired. For another second the bird continued its flight, but in a slightly irregular fashion ; then down it went like a stono into the heather, on the opposite side of the chasm. " Well done, sir ! " cried old Hamish. "Bravo ! " called out Macleod. " It was a grand long shot ! " said Sandy, as he unslipped tho Bagacioufl old retriever, and sent her down into the glen. They had scarcely spoken when another dark object, looking to tho startled eye as if it were the size of a house, sprang from the heather close by and went off like an arrow, uttering a succession of sharp crowings. Why did not he fire? Then they .• him in wild despair whip down the gun, full-cock tho left bari'l, and put it up again. The bird was just disappearing, over a crest of rising ground, and as Ogilvie fired ho disappeared altogetl "He's down, sir!" cried Hamish, in groat excitement. A FRIEND 123 '•' I don't think so," Ogilvie answered, with a doubtful air on his face, but with a bright gladness in his eyes all the same. " He's down, sir ! " Ilamish re-asserted. " Come away, Sandy, with the dog ! " he shouted to the red-headed lad, who had gone down into the glen to help ISTell in her researches. By this time they saw that Sandy was re-crossing the burn with the grouse in liis hand, Xell following him eagerly. The tall lad sprang up the side of the glen in a miraculous fashion, catching here and there by a bunch of heather or the stump of a young larch, and presently he had rejoined the party. " Tek timo, sir," said ho ; " tek time. Maybe thero is more of them about hire. And the other one I marked him down from the other side. We will get him ferry well." They found nothing, however, until they had got to the other side of the hill, where Nell speedily mado herself mistress of the other bird — a fine young cock grouse, plump, and in splendid plumage. "And what do you think of the morning now, Ogilvie?" Macleod asked. "Oli, I dare say it will clear," said he, shyly; and ho en- deavoured to make light of Hamish's assertions that they were " ferry pretty shuts — ferry good shots; and it was always a right thing to put cartridges in the barrels at the door of a house, for no one could I'll whal might be close to the house ; and he was thai Mi. I Igilvie had not forgotten tho uso of a gun since ho ,vcnt away from the hills to live in England." "But Look here, Macleod," Mr. Ogilvie said: "why did not you fire yourself ]" and h rery properly surprised j for tho * generous and elf-denying of men are apl to claim their rights when a grou up to their side. "Oh," iid Macleod 1 imply, " 1 wanted you f<> have a shot." And indeed all through the day he was obviou ly far more com 'i nod ib »ut Ogilvie' ho iing than hi 1 own. 1 [0 tool all the hardi t work on himself -taking the oul ido b at, for example, if the] 1 bit of unpro ground to be got over. When one or other of the doj addenly showed by il 1 uplifted fore-paw, il 1 rigid tail, and its slow, cautious, timid look round for help and encouro ut, that there was something ahead of 124 MACLEOD OF DARE inure, importance than a lark, Macleod would run all the risks of waiting to give Ogilvie time to come up. If a liaro ran across with any chance of coming within shot of Ogilvie, Macleod let her go by unscathed. And the young gentleman from the south knew enough about shooting to understand how ho was being favoured both by his host and — what was a more unlikely thing — by I Tarnish. Ho was shooting very well, too ; and his spirits rose and roso until the lowering day was forgotten altogether. ''Wo are in for a soaker this time," he cried quite cheerfully, looking around at ono moment. All this lonely world of olive greens and browns had grown strangely dark. Even the hum of the flies — the only sound audible in these high solitudes away from tho sea — seemed stilled ; and a cold wind began to blow over from Ben-an-Sloich. Tho plain of the valley in front of them began to fade from view; then they found themselves enveloped in a clammy fog that settled on their clothes and hung about their eyelids and beard ; while water began to run down the barrels of their guns. The wind blew harder and harder ; presently they seemed to spring out of the darkness; and, turning, they found that the cloud had swept onward towards the sea, leaving tho rocks on tho nearest hill-side all glittering wet in the brief burst of sunlight. It was but a glimmer. Heavier clouds came sweeping over ; downright rain began to pour. I)ut Ogilvie kept manfully to his work. 11'' climbed over the stono walls, gripping on with his wet hands. He splashed through tho boggy land, paying no attention to his footsteps. And at last he got to following Maclend's plan of crossing a burn, which was merely to Avade through the foaming brown water instead of looking out for big By this time the letters in his breast-pocket were a 3 of pulp. "Look here, Macleod/' said he, with the rain running down his face," I can't tell the difference between one bird and another. If I .shoot a partridge it isn't my fault." " All right," said Macleod. " If a partridge is fool enough to be up here, it deserves it." Just at this moment Mr, Ogilvie suddenly threw up his A FRIEND 125 hands and his gun, as if to protect his face. An extraordinary object, — a winged object, apparently without a tail — a whirring bunch of loose grey feathers — a creature resembling no known fowl — had been put up by one of the dogs, and it had flown direct at Ogilvie's head. It passed him at about half-a-yard's nee. " What in all the world is that 1" he cried, jumping round to have a look at it. " Why," said Macleod, who was roaring with laughter, " it is a baby black-cock, just out of the shell, I should think !" A sudden noise behind him caused him to wheel round, and instinctively he put up his gun. lie took it down again. " That is the old hen," said he ; " we'll leave her to look after het chicks. Hamish, get in the dogs, or they'll be for eating e of those young ones. And you, Sandy, where was it you left the basket] We will go for our splendid banquet now, ( ) r 'ilvie." That was an odd-looking party that by and by might have been seen crouching under the lee of a stone wall, with a small brook running by their feet. They had taken down wet stones '■ats ; and these were somewhat insecurely fixed on the steep bank. Hut neither the rain, nor the gloom, nor the loneliness of the silent moors, seemed to have damped their spirits much. "It really is awfully kind of you, < >gilvie," Macleod said, as he threw hill' a sandwich t 1 the old black retriever, " to take pity on ,-i solitary fellow like myself. Sou can't tel] how glad I was ■u on the bi 1 tli'- steamer. And now that you have n all tie', trouble to come f<> tin'; place— and have taken c chance of our i"><.r ■ -h toting --this is the Borl of day you I" "Mv dear fellow," said Mr, Ogilvie, who did not refuse to have his tumbler replenished by the attentive Eamish, " it is quite the other way. I consider myself precious lucky. I con- ; the shooting first-rate; and it isn't every ('•How would deli! hand the whole thing over to bis friend — as yoil d doing all day. And I suppose bad weather is a bad elsewhere as it is here!" 126 MACLEOD OF DARE Maeleod was carelessly filling his pipe— ami obviously thinking of something very different. "Man, Ogilvie," he paid, in a burst of confidence, "I never knew before how fearfully lonely a lifo we lead here. If we were out on one of the Treshnish Islands, with nothing round us but Bkarta and gulls, -we could scarcely ho lonelier. And I have been thinking all the morning what this must look like to you." ]!<■ glanced round — at the sombre browns and greens of the solitary moorland — at the black rocks jutting out hero and there from the scant grass — at the silent and gloomy hills, and the overhanging clouds. " I have been thinking of the beautiful places we saw in London — and the crowds of people — the constant change, and amusement, and life. And I shouldn't wonder if you packed up your traps to-morrow morning, and lied." " My dear boy," observed Mr. Ogilvie, confidentially, " you are giving me credit for a vast amount of sentiment. I haven't got it. I don't know what it is. But I _know when I'm jolly well off. I know when I am in good quarters, with good shoot- ing, and with a good sort of chap to go about with. As for London — bah ! I rather think you got your eyes dazzled for a minute, Maeleod. You weren't long enough there to find it out. And wouldn't you get precious tired of big dinners, and garden parties, and all that stuff, after a time 1 ? Maeleod, do you mean to tell me you ever saw anything at Lady Beauregard's as fine as that ? " And he pointed to a goodly show of birds, with a hare or two, that Sandy had taken out of the bag, so as to count them. " Of course," said this wise young man, " there is one case in which that London life is all very well. If a man is awfid spoons on a girl, then of course he can trot after her from house to house, and walk his feet off in the Park. I remember a fellow saying a very clever thing about the reasons that took a man into society. "What was it now 1 Let me see — it was either to look out for a wife — or — or " Mr. Ogilvie was trying to recollect the epigram and to light a wax match at the same time ; and he failed in both. " Well," said he, "I won't spoil it ; but don't you believe that A FRIEND 127 any one yon met in London wouldn't be precious glad to change places with us at this moment ? " Any one] "What was the situation? Pouring rain, leaden skies, the gloomy solitude of the high moors, the sound of roar- ing waters. And here they wore crouching under a stone Avail, with their dripping fingers lighting match after match for their damp pipes, with not a few midges in the moist and clammy air, and with a faint halo of steam plainly arising from the leather of their hoots. When Fionaghal the Fair Stranger came from over the blue seas to her new home, was this the picture of Highland life that was presented to her] " Lady Beauregard for example ? " said Macleod. " Oli, I am not talking about women," observed the sagacious boy ; " I never could make out a woman's notions about anything. I dare say they like London life well enough ; for there they can Bhow off their shoulders and their diamonds." " Ogilvie," Macleod said, with a sudden earnestness, " I am fretting my heart out here — that is the fact. If it were not for Hi- poor old mother, — and Janet — but I will tell you another time." He got up on his feet, and took his gun from Sandy. His companion — wondering not a little, but saying nothing — did likewise. Was this the man who had always seemed rather proud of his hard life on the hills 1 who had regarded the idleness and effeminacy of town-life with something of an unexpressed scorn? A young fellow in robust health and splendid 1 pirn 1 1 — an eager sportsman and an accurate shot — out for his fir 1 shooting-day of il intelligible that he should be visited by Benti mental 1 I »r London drawing-rooms and vapid talk? The getting up of a snipe interrupted these speculations \ Ogilvio blazed away, missing with both barrels; Macleod, who had heen waiti e the effect of th . then put up his gun, and ently the bird tumble 1 dov, d ome fifty yards off "YOU haven't warned to it. yet," .Maelmd said, ehai ilahly. "The fin t half hour afb 1 Luncheon a man alwayi 1 tool badly." " Especially when his clothe.; are glued to bis shin from head to foot," I lid ( >/il "You will. 1 walk h al into yourself ." i i 8 MA CLEOD OF DA RE And again they wenl on, Macleod pursuing the same lactic..-, bo that his companion had the cream of the shooting. Despite the continual snaking rain, Ogilvie's spirits seemed to become more and more buoyant. He was shooting capitally ; one very long shot lie made, bringing down an old black-cock with a thump on the heather, causing Ilamish to exclaim — " Well done, sir ! It is a glass of whisky you will deserve for that shot." Whereupon Mr. Ogilvie stopped and modestly hinted that he would accept of at least a moiety of the proffered reward. "Do you know, Ilamish," said he, "that it is the greatest comfort in the world to get wet right through, for you know you can't be worse, and it gives you no trouble % " "And a whole glass will do you no havm, sir," shrewdly observed Ilamish. " Not in the clouds." " The what, sir 1 " "The clouds. Don't you consider we are going shooting through clouds *? " " There will be a snipe or two down here, sir," said Ilamish, moving on ; for he could not understand conundrums — especially conundrums in English. The day remained of this moist character to the end ; but thi y had plenty of sport; and they had a heavy bag on their return to Castle Dare. Macleod was rather silent on the way home. Ogilvie was .still at a loss to know why his friend .should taken this sudden dislike to living in a place he had lived in all his life. Nor could he understand why Macleod should have deliherately surrendered to him the chance of bagging the brace of grouse that got up by the side of the road. It Avas cely, he considered, within the possibilities of human nature. 4 CONFESSION 129 CHAPTER XV. A CONFESSION. And onco again the big dining-hall of Castle Dare was ablaze with candles ; and Janet was there, gravely listening to the garrulous talk of the boy-officer; and Keith MacLeod, in his dress tartan ; and the noble-looking old lady at the head of the table, who more than once expressed to her guest, in that sweetly- modulated and gracious voice of hers, how sorry she was he had bad BO bad a day for the first day of his visit. "It is different with Keith," said she, " for he is used to bo out in all weathers. Ho has boen brought up to live out of doors." "Bat you know, auntie," said Janet Macleod, "a soldier i? much "f the same thing. Did you ever hear of a soldier with an umbrella?" "All I know is," remarked Mr. Ogilvie — who, in his smart evening dress, and with his face flushed into a rosy warmth after the cold and wet, did not look particularly miserable — M that I don't remember ever enjoying myself so much in ono Bat the fact is, Lady Macleod, your son gave mo all the shooting; and ELamish was sounding my praises all day long, so that I almost got to think I could shoot the birds without put- ting up the gun at all; and when I made a frightful had d !y declared the bird fi 1 round the other oido of thehilL" \nd indeed you were not making many misses," Mac! i •■ B il we will try your nerve, ( Igilvie, with a stag 01 two, I hope." " I am "ii for an;, thing. What with I [ami ih's Hatto ry and the luck 1 had to-day, 1 begin to believe I could bag a brace of tigers if they were coming at me fiftj miles an hour." Dinner over, and Donald having played his be 1 (no doubi he had learned that the stranger wa an officer in the 93rd), the ladies left the dining-hall, and pre ently Macleod propo ed to bis 130 MACLEOD OF DARE friend that they should go into the library and have a smoke. ( Igilvie was nothing loth. They went into the odd little room, with its guns and rods, and Btuffed birds, and, lying prominently on the writing-table, a valuable little heap of dressed olter-skins. Although the night was scarcely cold enough to demand it, there was a log of wood burning in the fireplace ; there were two easy-chairs, low and roomy; and on the mantelpiece were some s and a big, black, broad-bottomed bottle, such as used to carry the still vintages of Champagne even into the remote wilds of the Highlands, before the art of making sparkling wines had i discovered. Mr. Ogilvie lit a cigar; stretched out his feet towards the blazing log; and rubbed his hands — which were not as white as Usual. " You are a lucky fellow, Macleod," said he, " and you don't know it. You have everything about you here to make life enjoyable." " And I feel like a slave tied to a galley-oar," said he quickly. " I try to hide it from the mother— for it would break her heart — and from Janet too; but every morning I rise, the dismalness of being alone here — of being caged up alone — eats more and more into my heart. When I look at you, Ogilvie — to-morrow morning you could go spinning off to any quarter you liked — to see any one you wanted to see " " Macleod," said his companion, looking up, and yet speaking rather slowly and timidly, " if I were to say what would naturally occur to any one — you won't be olf ended? What you have been telling me is absurd, unnatural, impossible, unless there ia a woman in the case." • And what then?" Macleod said quickly, as he regarded liia friend with a watchful look. " You have guessed?" " Yes," said the other—'- Gertrude White." Macleod was silent for a second or two. Then he sate down. " I scarcely care who knows it now," said he absently, "so as I can't.fight it out of my own mind. I tried not to know it. J tried not to believe it. I argued with myself — ;hed at myself— invented a hundred explanations of this cruel thing that was gnawing away at my heart and giving me no peao" eight or day. Why, man, Ogilvie, I have read 'Penden- A CONFESSION 131 nis ' ! Would you think it possible that any one who has read ' Pendennis ' could ever fall in love with an actress 1 " lie jumped to his feet again — walked up and down a second or two — twisting the while a bit of a castingdine round his finger so that it threatened to cut into the flesh. " But I will tell you now, Ogilvie — now that I am speaking to any one about it," said he — and he spoke in a rapid, deep, earnest voice, obviously not caring much what his companion might think, so that he could relieve his overburdened mind — " that it was not any actress I fell in love with. I never saw her in a theatre but that once. I hated the theatre whenever I thought of her in it. I dared scarcely open a newspaper, lest I should see her name. I turned away from the posters in the streets : when I happened by some accident to see her pub- licly paraded that way, I shuddered all through — with shame, I think j and I got to look on her father as a sort of devil, that had been allowed to drive about that beautiful creature in vile chains. Oh! I cannot tell you. When I have heard him talking away in that infernal, cold, precise way, about her duties to her art — and insisting that she should have no sentiments or feelings of her own, and that she should simply use every emotion as a bit of something to impose on the public — a bit of her trade -an exposure of her own feelings to make people clap their hands — I have sat still and wondered at myself that I did not jump up and catch him by the throat and shake the life out of hi . ible body." •• Y'.u have cut your hand. M • !■ d." II '. 10k a drop or I wo of blood oh'. " Why, ( >gilvie, when I . aw you on \ he bridge of 1 he h amer, I nearly went mad with delight. 1 raid to myself, 'Here i; some one who has seen her, and spoken to her ; who will know when I tell him.' And now thai I on telling you of it, Ogilvie, you will sec — you will understand that il is not any actre 1 fallen in love with - it. wa 1 nol the fascination of an acl .it all — but tin' ta cination of the woman herself \ the fascination of hex voir,., md hei sweet ways, and the very v walked ind the tenderne of her heart. There wo a ort of wonder it her j whatever she did "i said, was so bi lutiful, and K 2 133 MA CLEOD OF DA RE Bimple, and swcot ! And day after day I said to myself that my interest in this beautiful woman was nothing. Some one told mo there had been rumours : I laughed. Could any one suppose I was going to play Tendennis' over again 1 ? And then as the time came for mo to leave, I was glad and I was miserable at the same time. I despised myself for being miserable. And then I said to myself, ' This stupid misery is only the fancy of a boy. Wait till you get back to Castle Dare, and the rough seas, and tho hard work of tho stalking. There is no sickness and senti- ment on the side of Ben-an-Sloich.' And so I was glad to come to Castle Dare ; and to see the old mother, and Janet, and Ilamish ; and the sound of the pipes, Ogilvie, when I heard them away in the steamer, that brought tears to my eyes ; and I said to myself, ' Now you are at home again, and there will be no more nonsense of idle thinking.' And what has it come to 1 I Avould give everything I possess in the world to see her face once more — ay, to be in the same town where she is. I read the papers, trying to find out where she is. Morning and night it is the same — a fire, burning and burning — of impatience, and misery, and a craving just to see her face and hear her speak." Ogilvie did not know what to say. There was something in this passionate confession — in the cry wrung from a strong man — and in the rude eloquence that here and there burst from him — that altogether drove ordinary words of counsel or consolation out of the young man's mind. "You have been hard hit, Macleod," he said, with some earnestness. "That is just it," Macleod said almost bitterly. " You fire at a bird. You think you have missed him. He sails away as if there was nothing the matter, and the rest of tho covey no donbt think he is as well as any of them. But suddenly you see there is something wrong. He gets apart from the others ; he towers ; then down he comes, as dead as a stone. You did not guess anything of this in London 1 ?" " WeU," said < >gilvie, rather inclined to beat about the bush, "I thought you were paying her a good deal of attention. But then — she is very popular, you know — and receives a good deal of attention — and, and, the fact is, she is an uncommonly pretty A CONFESSION 133 girl, and I thought you were flirting a bit with her, but nothing more than that. I had no idea it was something more serious than that." " Ay," Macleod said, " if I myself had only known ! If it was a plunge — as people talk about falling in love with a woman — why the next morning I would have shaken myself free of it, as a Newfoundland dog shakes himself free of the water. But a fever — a madness — that slowly gains on you — and you look around and say it is nothing — but day after day it burns more and more. And it is no longer something that you can look at apart from youiself — it is your very self; and sometimes, Ogilvie, I Avonder whether it is all true, or whether it is mad I am altogether. Newcastle — do you know Newcastle 1 ?" " I have passed through it, of course," his companion said, more and more amazed at the vehemence of his speech. " It is there she is now — I have seen it in the papers ; and it i- Newcastle — Newcastle — Newcastle — I am thinking of from morning till night ; and if I could only see one of the streets of it I should be glad. They say it is smoky and grimy ; I should be breathing sunlight if I lived in the most squalid of all its houses! And liny say she is going t'o Liverpool, and to Manchester, and to Leeds; and it is as if my very life wen: being drawn away from me. I try to think what people may he. around herj I try to imagine what she is doing at a particular hour of tie' day ; and I feel as if I were shut away in an island in the middle of tie' Atlantic, with nothing but the sound of the waves around my ears. Ogilvie, if is enough to drive a man out Of hi "Hut lool; here, Macleod," said Ogilvie, pulling himself ther; for it was hard to r< i t the iniluenee (1 f this vehement and uncontrollable pa ion "look here, man: why don't you think of it in cold hlood] Do you ex perl me to sympathise, with you, as a friend ? Ot would you [ike to know what any ordinary man of the world would think of the whofc V "I>on't give me your advice, Ogilvie," said he, untwining and throwing away the bit of casting-line that had cut into bis linger. "It is far beyond that, Let me talk to you— that in 1 34 MA CLEOD OF DA RE all. I should have gone mad in another week, if I had had no one 1" speak to ; and as it is, what better am I than mad? It is not anything to he analysed and cured : it is my very self; and what have I become 1 }" "But look here, Macleod — I want to ask you a question: would you many her 1 " The common-sense of the younger man was re-asserting itself. This was what any one — looking at the whole situation from the Aldershot point of view — would at the outset demand 1 ? But if Macleod had known all that was implied in the question, it is prohahle that a friendship that had existed from boyhood Avould then and there have been severed. He took it that Ogilvie was merely Preferring to the thousand and one obstacles that lay between him and that obvious and natural goal. "Marry her!" he exclaimed. "Yes — you are right to look at it in that way — to think of what it will all lead to. "When I look forward, I see nothing but a maze of impossibilities and trouble. . One might as well have fallen in love with one of the Roman maidens in the temple of Vesta. She is a white slave. She is a sacrifice to the monstrous theories of that bloodless old Pagan, her father. And then she is courted and flattered on all sides ; she lives in a smoke of incense : do you think, even supposing that all other difficulties were removed — that she cared for no one else, that she were to care for me, that the inlhience of her father was gone — do you think she would surrender all the admiration she provokes and the excitement of the life she leads, to come and live in a dungeon in the Highlands? A single day like to-day would kill her — she is so fine, and delicate — like a rose-leaf, I have often thought. No, no, Ogilvie, I have thought of it every way. It is like a riddlo that you twist and twist about, to try and get the answer; and I i i get no answer at all, unless wishing that I had never been And, perhaps that would have been better." " You take too gloomy a view of it, Macleod," said Ogilvie. '■ For one thing, "look at the common-sense of the matter. Suppose that she is very ambitious to succeed in her profession, that is all very well ; but mind you, it is a very hard life. And if you put before her the chance of being styled Lady Macleod REBELLION \\t J>3 — well, I may be wrong, but I should say that would count for something. I haven't known many actresses myself " " That is idle talk," ]\Iacleod said ; and then he added proudly, " You do not know this woman as I know her." He put aside his pipe ; but in truth he had never lit it. " Come," said he, with a tired look, " I have bored you enough. You won't mind, Ogilvie 1 The whole of the day I was saying to mj'self that I would keep all this thing to myself, if my heart burst over it ; but you see I could not do it ; and I have made you the victim after all. And we will go into the drawing-room now; and we will have a song. And that was a very good song you sang one night in London, Ogdvie — it was about ' Death's black wine ' — and do you think you could sing us that song to- night?" Ogilvie looked at him. " I don't know what you mean by the way you are talking, Mac! dd be. " Oh," .said he, with a laugh that did not .sound quite natural, '• have you forgotten it 1 "Well, then, Janet will sing us another • — that is, ' Farewell, Manchester.' And we will go to bed l to-night; for I have not been having much sleep lately. Bat it i.s ;i good song — it is a song you do not easily forget — that about 'Death's black wine.'" CHAPTER XVI. REBEl I i enow — that strange creature who had bewil- 1 and blinded hi i rely stricken his bear! '( It perhaps not the lea t part of his trouble that all bis pa ion- b< i, and .'ill bis thinking about her, and the scenes in which he had met her, scom^l un.-il »1<-. i'> >. injure up any satisfactory vision of her. The longing "f his heart went 136 MACLEOD OF DARE out from him to meet — a phantom. She appeared before him in a handled shapes, now one, now the other; hut all possessed with a terrible fascination from which it was in vain for him to try to flee. Which was she, then — the pale and sensitive and thoughtful- eyed girl who listened with such intense interest to the gloomy tales of the northern seas ; who was so fine, and perfect, and delicate ; who walked so gracefully and smiled so sweetly ; the timid and gentle comjianion and friend? Or the wild coquette, with her arch, shy ways, and her serious laughing, and her befooling of the poor stupid lover ? He coidd hear her laugh now; he could see her feed her canary from her own lips ; where was the old mother whom that madcap girl teased, and petted, and delighted? Or was not tliis she — this calm and gracious woman who received as of right the multitude of attentions that all men — and women, too — were glad to pay her? The air fine about her; the south winds fanning her cheek ; the day long, and balmy, and clear. The white-sailed boats glide slowly through the ft-ater ; there is a sound of music, and of gentle talk ; a butterfly comes fluttering over the blue summer seas. And then there is a murmuring refrain in the lapping of the waves — Rose-leaf, Rose-leaf, what faint wind will carry you away to the south ? Or this audacious Duchess of Devonshire, with the flashing black eyes, and a saucy smile on her lips? She knows that every one regards her ; but what of that ? Away she goes through the brilliant throng with the young Highland officer, with glowing light and gay costumes and joyous music all around her. "What do you think of her, you poor clown, standing there all alone and melancholy, with your cap and bells ? Has she pierced your heart, too, with a flash of the saucy black eyes ? But there is still another vision ; and perhaps this solitary dreamer, who has no eyes for the great slopes of 3:>en-an-Sloich that stretch into the clouds, and no ears for the soft calling of they wheel over his head, tries hardest to fix this one in his memory. Here she is the neat and watchful house- mistress, with all things bright and shining around her ; and she a I -pears, too, as the meek daughter and the kind and caressing REBELLION 137 sister. Is it not hard that she should be torn from this quiet little haven of domestic duties and family affection, to be bound hand and foot in the chains of art and flung into the arena to amuse that great ghoul-faced thing, the public ? The white slave does not complain. While as yet she may, she presides over the cheerful table ; and the beautiful small hands are helpful ; ami that light morning costume is a wonder of simplicity and grace. And then the garden — and the soft summer air, and the pretty ways of the two sisters : why should not this simple, homely, beautiful life last for ever, if only the summer and the roses would last for ever 1 But suppose now that we turn aside from" these fanciful pictures of Macleod's, and take a more commonplace one of .which he could have no notion whatever 1 ? It is night — a wet and dismal night— and a four-wheeled cab is jolted along through the daik and almost deserted thoroughfares of Manchester. Miss Gertrude White is in the cab, and the truth is that she is in a thorough bad temper. Whether it was the unseemly scuflle that took place in the gallery during the performance ; or whether it is that the streets of Manchester in the midst of rain, and after midnight, are not inspiriting ; or whether it is merely that she got a headache, it is certain that Miss White is in an ill humour, and that she has not spoken a word to her maid, her only companion, since together they left the theatre. At length the cab stops opposite an hotel, which is apparently closed for night. They get out; cross the muddy pavements under the glare of a gas-lamp j after some delay get into the hotel ; pass through a dimly-lit and empty corridor j and then Miss While her maid 1 night and opens the door of a small parlour. Sere there is a m< erful scene. There is a lire in the room; and there is rapper laid on the table; while Mr. White, with hi feet on the fender and his back turned \<> the lamp, is • ■I in an ea y-chair and holding up a book to the light so 1 the pages almost touch his gold-rimmed spectacles. Mi-; Whil down on the sofa on the dark side of the room, She ha 'Use to b i of " Well, < forty i" At length Mi-. White becomes aware that his daughtei 138 MACLEOD OF DARE sitting there with her things on, and lie turns from his book to her. " Well, Gerty," he repeats, " aren't you going to have some supper 1 " " No, thank you," she says. " Come, come," he remonstrates, " that wont do. You must have some supper. Shall Jane get you a cup of tea?" " I don't suppose there is any one up below; besides, I don't want it ," says Miss White, rather wearily. " What is the matter ? " " Nothing," she answers, and then she looks at tho mantel- piece. " 2STo letter from Carry 1 " "No." " Well, I hope you won't make her an actress, papa," observes Miss White, with no relevance, but with considerable sharpness in her tone. In fact this remark was so unexpected and uncalled-for that Mr. White suddenly put his book down on his knee, and turned his gold spectacles fall on his daughter's face. " I will beg you to remember, Gerty," he remarked, with some dignity, " that I did not make you an actress, if that is what you imply. If it had not been entirely your wish, I should never have encouraged you ; and I think it shows great in- gratitude, not only to me but to the public also, that when you have succeeded in obtaining a position such as any woman in the country might envy, you treat your good fortune with indifference and show nothing but discontent. I cannot tell what has come over you of late. You ought certainly to be the last to say any- thing against a profession that has gained for you such a large share of public favour " " Public favour ! " she said, with a bitter laugh. " Who is the favourite of the public in this very town? Why, the girl who plays in that farce — who smokes a cigarette, and walks round the stage like a man, and dances a breakdown. Why tt'1 I taught to dance breakdowns'?" Ber father was vexed ; for this was not the first time she had dropped .mail rebellious hints. And if this feeling grew, she might come to question his most cherished theories ! REBELLION 139 " I should think you were jealous of that girl," said he petulantly, "if it -were not too ridiculous. You ought to rememher that she is an established favourite here. She has amused these people year after year ; they look on her as an old friend ; they are grateful to her. The means she uses to make people laugh may not meet with your approval ; but she knows her own business, doubtless ; and she succeeds in her own way." " Ah well," said Miss White, as she put aside her bonnet, " I hope you won't bring up Carry to this sort of life." " To what sort of life ] " her father exclaimed angrily. •• Haven't you everything that can make life pleasant. I don't know what more you want. You have not a single care. You are petted and caressed wherever you go. And you ought to have the delight of knowing that the further you advance in your art the further rewards are in store for you. The way is clear before you. You have youth and strength ; and the public is only too anxious to applaud whatever you undertake. And yet you complain of your manner of life ! " "It isn't the life of a human being at all !" she said, boldly — but perhaps it was only her headache, or her weariness, or her ill humour that drove her to this rebellion — "it is the cutting one's self off from everything that makes life worth having. It continual degradation — the exhibition of feelings that ought a woman's most sacred and secret possession. And what will the end of it bo? Already I begin to think I don't know what I am. I have to sympathise with so many characters — I ■ t'> be so many different people— that I don't quite know what my own character is, or if I have any a) all " Bex father was staring at her in amazement. What had led her into these fantastic notions 1 While ing that hex ambition to become a great and famous actress was the one ruling thought and object of hex life, wa he really envying the- tic drudge whom she saw coming to the theatre to enjoy herself with hex fool of a hn band, having withdrawn for an hour or two from hex housekeeping-book and her squalling children 1 At all events, Mi White left him in no doubt a* to hex sentiments at thai precise moment. She talked rapidly, and with a good deal of hitler feeling; but it was quite obvi 140 MACLEOD OF DARE from the clearness of her line of contention, that she had been thinking over tho matter. And while it was all a prayer that her sister Carry might he left to live a natural life, and that she should not he compelled to exhibit, for gain or applause, emotions which a woman would naturally lock up in her own heart, it was also a bitter protest against her own lot. What was she to become, she asked? A dram-drinker of fictitious sentiment? A Ten-Minutes' Emotionalist ? It was this last phrase that flashed in a new light on her father's bewildered mind. lie remembered it instantly. So that was the source of inspiration ? "Oh, I see now," he said with angry scorn. "You have learned your lesson well. A ' Ten-Minutes' Emotionalist : ' I remember. I was wondering who had put such stuff into your head." She coloured deeply, but said nothing. "And so you are taking your notion as to what sort of life you would lead, from a Highland savage — a boor, whose only occupations are eating and drinking and killing wild animals. A fine guide, truly ! He has had so much experience of a3sthctic matters ! Or is it metapheesics is his hobby? And what, pray, is his notion as to what life should be? That the noblest object of man's ambition should be to kill a stag ? It was a mistake for Dante to let his work eat into his heart ; he should have devoted himself to shooting rabbits. And Raphael — don't you think he would have improved his digestion by giving up pandering to the public taste for pretty things, and taking to hunting wild boars ? That is the theory, isn't it ? Is that the 'uuiapliecsics you have learned ? " " You may talk about it," she said rather humbly — for she knew very well she could not stand against her father in argu- ment, especially on a subject that he rather prided himself on having mastered, " but you are not a woman, and you don't know what a woman feels about such things." " And since when have you made the discovery ? What has happened t.> convince you so suddenly that your professional life i a u gradation?" " Oh," she said carelessly, " I Avas scarcely thinking of myself REBELLION l 4l Of course I know what lies before me. It was about Carry I spoke to you. gih Le could not It ave about < Ihri tma , that he mighl come up and try the winter booting, ll- wo 1 giving minute particulars about the use of arsenic-paste when the box of skins to be iSo MACLEOD OF DARE despatched by Hamish reached London. And lie was discussing what sort of mounting should bo put on a strange old bottle that Janet Macleod had presented to tho departing guest. There was no word of that "which lay nearest his heart. And so tho black waves rolled by them j and the light at tho horizon began to fade; and the stars wero coming out one by one ; while tho two sailors forward (for Macleod was steoring) were singing to themselves — ' Fhir a bhata (na horo eile), Fhir a bhata {nahoro eile), Fhir a bhata (na Iwro eile), Chead soire slann leid ge thobh a theid u ! " that is to say — " Boatman, A nd Boatman, And Boatman, A hundred farewells to you wherever you may go !" And then the lug-sail was hauled down, and they lay on tho lapping water; and they could hear all around them the soft callings of the guillemots, and razor-bills, and other divers whose home is the heaving wave. And then the great steamer camo up, and slowed ; and the boat was hauled alongside, and young Ogilvie sprang up the slippery steps. " Good-bye, Macleod ! " " Goodd)ye, Ogilvie ! Come up at Christmas ! " The groat bulk of the steamer soon floated away ; and tho lug-sail was run up again, and the boat made slowly back for Castle Dare. "Fhir a bhata!" the men sung; but Macleod ely heard them. His last tie with the south had been broken. But not quite. It was about ten o'clock that night that word came to Castle Dare that John the Post had met with an acci- dent while starting from Kinloch-Scridain; and that his place had ken by a young lad who had but now arrived with tho Macleod hastily looked over the bundle of newspapers, &c, . brought him ; and his eager eye fell on an envelope the "ii which made his heart jump. CONFIDENCES 1 5 1 ,: Give the lad a half-crown," said lie. And then he went to his own room. He had the letter in Ins hand ■ and he knew the hand-writing ; hut there was no wind of the night that could bring him the mystic message she had sent with it — " here is, Glenogie, a letter for tliee I ". CHAPTEE XVIII. CONFIDENCES. Fob a second or two he held the letter in his hand, regarding the outside of it ; and it was with more deliberation than haste that he opened it. Perhaps it was with some little tremor of bhe first words that should meet his eye might be cruelly cold and distant. What right had he to expect anything I Many a time in thinking carefully over the past, he had recalled the words — the very tone — in which he had addressed her, and hud been dismayed to think of their reserve, which had "ii one or two occasions almost amounted to austerity. Ho could expect little beyond ;t formal acknowledgment of tho receiving of hi- letter and the present that had accompanied it. [magine, then, his surpri e when he took out from the enve- lope, a number of closely written over in her beautiful, small, neat hand. Ha fcily his eye ran over the fix 1 Pew lines; and then Burpri e gave way to a singular feeling of gratitude ftn d joy. Waa it indeed Bhe who was writing to him thu I When he had been thinking of her as some one far away and unappn -who could have no thought of him or of the brief time in which he had been near to her had she indeed been treasuring up Borne recollection that she now scent' f the shyness of a girl writing to one who might be her lover. She might have written thus to impanions. He eagerly searched it Eor some phrase <>f tenderer meaning ; but no there was a car< Less aban- donment about it, as if be had been talking without thinking ofth 1 u she addrei ed. She had even joked about a young man falling in love with her. It was a matter of perfect in- difference to her. Et was ludicn the hapo of the lad's collar ludicrous but of no more importance. And thus she receded from his imagination again; audi' t thing apart thewhite bound in tli- i chains that seemed to all but hi and him tie- 1 1' triumph. Herself and him the conjunction set his heart throbbing quickly. lie. ight himself how this secrel under- standing could be strengthened it only he might see her and 1 60 MA CLEOD OF DA RE. speak to her. lie could tell by lier eyes what she meant, what* ever her words might he. Jf only he could see her again : — all his wild hopes, and fears, and doubts — all his vague fancies and imaginings — began to narrow themselves down to this one point; and this immediate desire became all-consuming. He grew sick at heart when he looked round and considered how vain was the wish. The gladness had gone from the face of Keith Macleod. Not many months before any one would have imagined that the life of this handsome young fellow, whose strength and courage and high spirits seemed to render him insensible to any obstacle, had everything in it that the mind of man could desire. He had a hundred interests and activities ; he had youth, and health, and a comely presence ; he was on good terms with everybody around him — for he had a smile and a cheerful word for each one he met, gentle or simple. All this gay, glad l^fe seemed to have lied. The watchful Hamish was the first to notice that his master began to take less and less interest in the shooting and boating and fishing ; and at times the old man was surprised and dis- turbed by an exhibition of querulous impatience that had cer- tainly never before been one of Macleod's failings. Then his cousin Janet saw that he was silent and absorbed ; and his mother inrpiired once or twice why he did not ask one or othei of his neighbours to come over to Dare to have a day's shooting with him. " I think you are finding the place lonely, Keith, now that Norman Ogilvie is gone," said she. " Ah, mother," he said with a laugh, " it is not Norman Ogilvie, it is London, that has poisoned my mind. I should never have gone to the south. I am hungering for the flesh-pots of Egypt already ; and I am afraid some day I will have to come and ask you to let me go away again." He spoke jestingly, and yet he was regarding his mother. " I know it is not pleasant for a young man to be kept fretting at home," said she. " But it is not long now I will ask you to do that, Keith." Of course this brief speech only drove him into more vigorous demonstration that he was not fretting at all ; and for a time ho A RESOLVE i6l seemed more engrossed than ever in all the occupations he had but recently abandoned. But whether he was on the hill-side, or down in the glen, or out among the islands — or whether he waa trying to satisfy the hunger of his heart with books, long after every one in Castle Dare had gone to bed — he could not escape from this gnawing and torturing anxiety. It was no beautiful and gentle sentiment that possessed him — a pretty tiling to dream about during a summer's morning — but on the contrary a burning fever of unrest that left him peace nor day nor night. " Sudden love is followed by sudden hate," says the Gaelic proverb ; but there had been no suddenness at all about this passion that had stealthily got hold of him; and he had ceased even to hope that it might abate or depart altogether, lie had to "dree his "weird." And when he real in hooks about the joy and delight that accompany the awakening of love — how the world suddenly becomes fair, and the very skies are bluer than their wont — he wondered whether he was different from other human beings. The joy and the delights of love? Ho knew only a sick hunger of the heart and a continual and brooding r h place, to explore one of tl on ti while, this lady had wandered away from them in search of wild flowi i i. By and by he saw tie' -mall boat, with ii> Bprit- sail white in tie rards the south, and tin- Loi ! V,a : lefl a- I- le i ', a I. [qTQ, But ' i that he grew in wondi c whit Gertrude White, i 1 1- hi co il be pi i laded i" \ i [| hi . home, would think of tin thin and 'd that tiling —what flowers she would gather — M 162 MACLEOD OF DARE whether Bhe would listen to Hamish's stories of tho fairies — whether she would bo interested in her small countryman, Johnny Wickes, who now wore the kilt, with his face and legs as brown as a berry — whether the favourable heavens would send her sunlight and blue skies, and the moonlight nights reveal to her the solemn glory of the sea and the lonely islands. Would she take his hand to steady herself in passing over the slippery rocks 1 What would she say if suddenly she saAV above her — by the opening of a cloud — a stag standing high on a crag near the summit of Ben-an-Sloich 1 ? And what woidd the mother and Janet say to that singing of hers, if they were to hear her put all the tenderness of the low, sweet voice into " Wae's me for Prince Charlie " ? There was one secret nook that more than any other he associated with her presence ; and thither he would go when his heart-sickness seemed too grievous to be borne. It was down in a glen beyond the fir-wood ; and here the ordinary desolation of this bleak coast ceased, for there were plenty of young larches on the sides of the glen, with a tall silver birch or two ; while clown in the hollow there were clumps of alders by the side of Hi'' brawling stream. And this dell that he sought was hidden away from sight, with the sun but partially breaking through the alders and rowans, and bespeckling the great grey boulders by the side of the burn, many of which were covered by tho softest of the olive-green moss. Here, too, the brook that had been broken just above by intercepting stones, swept clearly and limpidly over a bed of smooth rock; and in the golden-brown water the trout lay, and scarcely moved until some motion of his hand made them shoot up stream with a lightning speed. And then the wild flowers around — the purple ling and red bell- heather growing on the silver-grey rocks; a foxglove or two towering high above the golden-green breckans ; the red star of a crane's-bill among the velvet moss. Even if she were over- awed by the solitariness of the Atlantic and the gloom of the tall cliffs ami their yawning caves, surely here would be a haven of peace and rest, with sunshine, and flowers,, and the pleasant murmur of the stream. "What did it say, then, as one sat and listened in the silence ? When the fair poetess from strange A RESOLVE 163 lands came among the Macleods, did she seek out this still retreat, and listen, and listen, and listen until she caught the music of this monotonous murmur, and sang it to her harp 1 And was it not all a song ahout the passing away of life, and how that summer days were for the young, and how the world was beautiful for lovers 1 " children ! ; ' it seemed to say, " why should you waste your lives in vain endeavour, while the winter is coming quick, and the black snow-storms, and a roaring of wind from the sea ? Here I have flowers for you, and beautiful sunlight, and the peace of summer days. Time passes — time passes — time passes — and you are growing old. While as yet the heart is warm and the eye is bright, here are summer flowers for you, and a sdence fit for the mingling of lovers' speech. If you listen not, I laugh at you and go my way. But the winter is coming fast." Far away in these grimy towns, fighting with mean cares and petty jealousies, dissatisfied, despondent, careless as to the future, how could this message reach her to fill her heart with the sing- ing of a bird ? lie dared not send it, at all events. But ho wroto to her. And the bitter travail of the writing of that letter ho remembered. lie was bound U> ,edve her his sympathy, and to make light as well as he could of those very evds which ho had been the first to reveal to her. He tried to write in as frank and friendly a spirit as she had done; the letter was quite cheerful. "Did you know,'' said he, " that once upon a time the Chief of the Macleods married a fairy 1 And whether Macleod did not treat her well; or whether the fairy-folk reclaimed herj or whethei w tired of the place; I do oot know quite ; but ill all events lie irat< ', :i "'l he went away to her own people. And before she went awa to Macleod a fairy banner- the Bratach sith it is known a^ — and she told him that if ever he wa in great peril, or had any great desire, he to wave that flag, and what* ■■• 1 he di [red would come to pass; but the virtue of the Bratach nth would depart after it had been waved three times. Now the Binall green banner has been waved only twice; and each time it has Bayed the clan from a great danger; and it is still 1 l in the 1 M 2 MACLEOD OF DARE of DunVegan, with power to work one more miracle on behalf of tin Macleods. And if I liad the fairy flag, do you know what I would do with it 1 ! I Avould take it in my hand, and say, ' i" desire the fairy people to remove my friend Gertrude White from all tit* 1 evil influences that disturb and distress her. I desire them to heal her wounded spirit, and secure for her everything that may l> nd to lier life-long happiness. And I desire that all the theatres in the kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland — with all their musical instruments, lime-light, and painted scenes—may be taken and dropped into the ocean, midway between the islands of Ulva and Coll, so that the fairy-folk may amuse themselves in them if they loill so please.' Would not that be a very nice form of incantation 1 ? We are very strong believers here in the power of one person to damage another in absence ; and when you can kill a man by sticking pins into a waxen image of him — which everybody knows to be true — surely you ought to be able to help a friend, especially with the aid of the Bratach sith. Imagine Co vent Garden Theatre a hundred fathoms down in the deep sea, with mermaidens playing the brass instruments in the orchestra, and the fairy-folk on the stage, and seals disporting themselves in the stalls, and guillemots shooting about the upper galleries in pursuit of fish. But we should get no peace from Iona. The fairies there are very pious people. They used to carry St. Columba about when he got tired. They would bo sure to demand the shutting up of all the theatres, and the destruction of the brass instruments. And I don't see how wo could reasonably object." It was a cruel sort of jesting ; but how otherwise than as a jest could he convey to her, an actress, his wish that all theatres were at the bottom of the sea ? For a brief time that letter seemed to establish some link of communication between him and her. He followed it on its travels by sea and land. He thought of its reaching the house in which she dwelt — perhaps some plain and grimy building in a great manufacturing city, or perhaps a small quiet cottage up by Regent's Park half hidden by the golden leaves of October. Might she not, moreover, after she had opened it and read it, be moved by some passing whim to answer it, though it demanded no answer 1 He waited for a week, and A RESOLVE 165 there was no word or message from the south. She was far away, and silent. And the hills grew lonelier than before ; and the sickness of his heart increased. This state of his mind could not last. His longing and impatience and unrest became more than he could bear. It was in vain that he tried to satisfy his imaginative craving with these idle visions of her : it was she herself he must see ; and he set about devising all manner of wild excuses for one last visit to the south. But the more he considered these various projects, the more ashamed he grew in thinking of his taking any one of them and placing it before the beautiful old dame who reigned in Castle Dare. lie had barely been three months at home : how could he explain to her this sudden desire to go away again 1 One morning his cousin Janet came to him. "0 Keith!" said she, "the whole house is in commotion; and Hamish is for murdering some of the lads j and there is no one would dare to bring the news to you. The two young buzzards have escaped." " I know it," he said. " I let them out myself." "You!" she exclaimed in surprise j for she knew the groat interi I he had shown in watching the hahits of the young hawks that li'id been captured by a shepherd lad. " Yes. I let them out last night. It was a pity to have them 1 Up." •• 6 Long as it was yourself, it is all right," she said ; and then she '•' Qg away. But she pan ed, and turned, and said to him, with a smile, "And I think you should lei yourself escape, too, Keith j for it i-; you, too, that are caged opj and perhaps you feel it now more since you li ; n to London. .And if you are. thinking of your friends in London, why should you not go i'->r another visit to the south, bi fore yi Q Bettle down to tho j winter?" For an instant he regarded her with some fear. Had she ed hi. secret ( Bad she been watching the outward signs of this eon taut torture he had been ll 1 be rarmi ed that, the otto about which he had a ked her advice were not con igned to any one of the married ladies whose acquaintance he 1' Le in tli" oath and of whom he had chatted freely 1 66 MACLEOD OF DARE enough in Castlo Dare? Or was this merely a passing suggestion thrown out by one who was always on the look-out to do a kindness 1 " Well, I would like to go, Janet," ho said, but with no gladness in his voice, "and it is not more than a week or two I should like to be away ; but I do not think the mother would like it ; and it is enough money I have spent this year already " " There is no concern about the money, Keith," said she simply, " since you have not touched what I gave you. And if you are set upon it, you know auntie will agree to whatever you wish." "But how can I explain to her 1 ? It is unreasonable to bo going away." How, indeed, could he explain 1 He was almost assuming that those gentle eyes now fixed on him could read his heart ; and that she would come to aid him in his suffering without any further speech from him. And that was precisely what Janet Macleod did — whether or not she had guessed the cause of his desire to get away. " If you were a schoolboy, Keith, you would bo cleverer at making an excuse for playing truant," she said laughing. " And I could make one for you now." "You?" "I will not call it an excuse, Keith," she said, "because I think you would be doing a good work ; and I will bear the rxpense of it, if you please." He looked more puzzled than ever. " When we were at Salen yesterday I saw Major Stuart, and he has just come back from Dunrobin. And he was saying very great things about the machine for the drying of crops in wet weather, and he said he would like to go to England to see the and all the later improvements, if there was a chance of any one about here going shares with him. Now it would not be very much, Keith, if you were to share with him; and the machine can be moved about very well ; and in the bad weather you could give the crofters some help, to say nothing about our own hay and corn. And that is what Major Stuart A RESOLVE 167 was saying yesterday, that if there was any place that you wanted a drying machine for the crops, it was in Mull." " I have been thinking of it myself," he said, absently, " but our farm is too small to make it pay " " But if Major Stuart will take half the expense 1 And even if you lost a little, Keith, you would save a great deal to the poorer people, who are continually losing their little patches 01 . Now will you be my agent, Keith, to go and see whether it is practicable 1 " " They will not thank you, Janet, for letting them have this help for nothing." "They shall not have it for nothing," said she — for she had plenty of experience in dealing with the poorer folk around — " they must pay for the fuel that is used. And now, Keith, if it is a holiday you want, will not that be a very good holiday — and one to be used for a good purpose too 1 " She left him. Where was the eager joy with which he ought to have accepted this offer? Here was the very means placed within hi* reach of satisfying the craving desire of his heart : and yet, all the same, he seemed to shrink back with a vague and undefined dread. A thousand impalpable fears and doubts ttind. lie had grown timid as a woman. The old happy audacity had been destroyed by sleepless nights and a It was a new thing for Keith Macleod to I ' . t r 1 < ■ a prey to unintelligible forebodings. I nd saw Major Stuarl -a round, rod, jolly litil»> man, with white hair, and a cheerful smile, who had a Bombre melancholy wife. Major Stuart received Macleod's offer with great gravity. I' matter of business thai demanded [deration. He had worked out the who] m <>f drying crops with hot air as it wan shown him in pamphlets, I journal ; and he bad come to the con- on paper at leasl it could be made to pay. What wanted wa the thing a practical trial, [f the system mi" who helped to introduce it into the kern Highlands was doing a very j- r ""ut." "Will you look at theml " the sister said kindly. "They an •.• iv pretty. If they were aot a present, I would give them to you, to of them." / wear them V said she, " Nol likely!" she had sufficient womanly curiosity to let hex 174 MACLEOD OF DARE elder sister open the parcel ; and then she took up the otter-skins one by one, and looked at them. " I don't think much of them," she said. The other bore this taunt patiently. " They are only big moles, aren't they? And I thought mole- skin waa only worn by working people." "I am a working person too," Miss Gertrude White said, "but in any case I think a jacket of these skins will look lovely." ."Oh, do you think so 1 ? Well, you can't say much for the smell of them." "It is no more disagreeable than the smell of a seal-skin jacket." She laid down the last of the skins with some air of disdain. " It will be a nice series of trophies, any way — showing you know some one who goes about spending his life in killing inoifensive animals." " Poor Sir Keith Macleod ! What has he done to offend you, Carry?" Miss Carry turned her head away for a minute ; but presently she boldly faced her sister. " Gerty, you don't mean to marry a beauty man ? " Gerty looked considerably puzzled; but her companion con- tinued vehemently — " How often have I heard you say you would never marry a beauty man — a man who has been brought up in front of the looking-glass — who is far too well satisfied with his own good looks to think of anything or anybody else ! Again and again you have said that, Gertrude White. You told me, rather than marry a self-satisfied coxcomb, you would marry a misshapen, ugly little man, so that he would worship you all the days of your life for your condescension and kindness." "Very well, then !" " And what is Sir Keith Macleod but a beauty man 1 " "lie is not!" and for once the elder sister betrayed some feeling in the proud tone of her voice. " He is the manliest- looking man that I have ever seen; and I have seen a good many more men than you. There is not a man you know whom OTTER-SKINS 175 he could not throw across the canal down there. Sir Keith Mac- leod a beauty man ! — I think he could take on a good deal more polishing, and curling, and smoothing without any great harm. If I was in any danger, I know which of all the men I havo seen I would rather have in front of me — with his arms free ; and I don't suppose he would be thinking of any looking-glass ! If you want to know about the race he represents, read English history, and the story of England's wars. If you go to India, or China, or Africa, or the Crimea, you will hear something about the Macleods, I think ! " Carry began to cry. "You silly thing, what is the matter with you?" Gertrude White exclaimed; but of course her arm was round her sister's neck. " It is true, then." •'What is true?" " What people say." '• What do people say ?" u That you Avill marry Sir Keith Macleod." "Cany!" she said angrily, "I can't imagine who has been ating sucli idiotic stories to you. I wish people would mind 1 1 1 » ■ i r own business. Sir Keith Macleod many me! — " " Do you mean to say he has never asked you ] " Cany said, disengaging herself, and fixing her eyes on her sister's face. "Certainly not I" was the decided answer; but all the same rtrude Wh < bead and cheeks lushed Blightly. "Then you know that he means to— and that La why you have been writing to me, day aitex day, about the romance of the Highland , and fairy Btories, and the pleasure of people who could live without caring for tit*- public. Oh, Gerty, why won't hank with me and lei me know the worst at onco?" "If I gave you a box on the ears," she aid, laughing, "that would be the woi t at once; and I think it would serve you right for Li tening to such tittle tattle and Letting your head be filled with Qon en e, Haven't you sufEcienl sense to know that you ought not to compel me to Bpeak of achathing — absurd na it is ] I cannot go on denying that I am about to become the wit> ; I 'in, Dick, or Harry; and you know the storii 1 i 7 6 MACLEOD OF DARE that have been going about foi years past. Who was I last ) The wife of a [Russian nobleman who gambled away all my earnings at llomhurg. You arc fourteen now, Carry; you should have more sense." Miss Carry dried her eyes ; but she mournfully shook her head. There were the otter skins lying on the table. She had seen plenty of the absurd paragraphs about her sister which good-natured friends had cut out of provincial and foreign papers and forwarded to the small family at South Dank. But the mythical Russian nobleman had never sent a parcel of otter- skins. These were palpable and not to be explained away. She sorrowfully left the room, unconvinced. And now Miss Gertrude White set to work with a will; and no one who was only familiar with her outside her own house would have recognised in this shifty, practical, industrious person, who went so thoroughly into all the details of the small establish- ment, the lady who, when she went abroad among the gaieties of the London season, was so eagerly sought after, and flattered, and petted, and made the object of all manner of delicato attentions. Her father, who suspected that her increased devo- tion to these domestic duties was but part of that rebellious spirit she had recently betrayed, had nevertheless to confess that there was no one but herself whom he could trust to arrange his china and dust his curiosities. And how could he resent her giving instructions to the cook, when it was his own dinner that profited thereby 1 " Well, Gerty," he said that evening after dinner, " what do you think about Mr. 's offer? It is very good-natured of him to let you have the ordering of the drawing-room scene ; for you can have the furniture and the colour to suit your own 1 ume." "Indeed I shall have nothing whatever to do with it," said she promptly. " The furniture at home is enough for me. I don't wish to become the upholsterer of a theatre." " You are very ungrateful then. Half the effect of a modem comedy is lost because the people appear in rooms which resemble nothing at all that people ever lived in. Here is a man who you carte blanche to put a modern drawing-room on the OTTER-SKINS 177 stage ; and your part would gain infinitely from having real surroundings. I consider it a very nattering offer." " And perhaps it is, papa," said she, " but I think I do enough if I get through my own share of the work. And it is very silly of him to want me to introduce a song into this part too. He knows I can't sing " " Gerty ! " her sister said. " Oh, you know as well as I. I can get through a song well enough in a room ; hut I have not enough voice for a theatre ; and although he says it is only to make the drawing-room scene more realistic — and that I need not sing to the front — that is all nonsense. I know what it is meant for — to catch the gallery. Now I refuse to sing for the gallery." This was decided enough. " "What was the song you put into your last part, Gerty 1 " her . asked. " I saw something in the papers about it." " It was a Scotch one, Carry; I don't think you know it." "1 wonder it was nut a Highland one," her sister said rather spitefully. "Oli, I have a whole collection of Highland ones now — would you like to hear one? "Would you, papa]" She went and fetched the book, and opened the piano. " It is an old air that belonged to Scarba," she said, and then Bhe sang, .-imply and pathetically enough, the somewhat stiff and cumbrous English translation of the Gaelic words. It was the the exiled Mary Macleod, who, sitting on the shores of" a Mull,' id on the lonely islands of Scarba, and I 1, and laments that 3he is far away from her own h". 'i like it, papa?" said, when Bhe had bed. '• [I ; a pil . 1 do not know < laelio. They say thai when the chief beard thi evei ss repeated, be Let the old woman go In' I. to her own home." of the two li toners, at all even! -, did no m to be particularly struck by the pathos of Mary Macleod's lament. She walked up to the | "Where did 3 I that book, Gerty ?" she aid in a liim vol 1 173 MACLEOD OF DARE " Where ? " said the other, innocently. " In Manchester, I think it waa I bought it." But before she had made the explanation, Miss Carry, convinced that this, too, had come from her enemy, had seized tho book and turned to the title-page. Neither on title-page nor on fly-leaf, however, was there any inscription. "Did you think it had come with the otter-skins, Carry?" the elder sister said, laughing; and tho younger one retired, lii Hied and chagrined, but none tho less resolved that beforo Gertrude White completely gave herself up to this blind infatuation for a savage, country and for one of its worthless inhabitants, she would have to run the gauntlet of many a sharp word of warning and reproach. CHAPTER XXI. IN LONDON AGAIN. Ox through the sleeping counties rushed the train — passing woods, streams, fertile valleys, and clustering villages all palely shrouded in the faint morning mist that had a sort of suffused and hidden sunlight in it : the world had not yet awoke. But Macleod knew that, ere he reached London, people would be abroad ; and he almost shrank from meeting the look of thoso thousands of eager faces. Would not some of them guess his errand i Would he not be sure to run against a friend of hers — an acquaintance of his own] It was with a strange sense of that he stepped out and on to the platform at Euston ion; he glanced up and down: if she were suddenly to confront his eyes ! A day or two ago it seemed as if innumerable leagues of ocean lay between him and her, so that the heart grew si<:k with thinking of the distance ; now that he was in the same town with her he felt so close to her that he could almost hear her breathe. IN LONDON A GAIN 179 Major Stewart had enjoyed a sound night's rest, and was now '•ssed of quite enough good spirits and loquacity for two. J [e scarcely observed the silence of his companion. Together they rattled away through this busy, eager, immense throng, until they got down to the comparative quiet of Bury Street; and here they were fortunate enough to find not only that Macleod'a old rooms were unoccupied, but that his companion could have the corresponding chambers on the floor above. They changed their attire ; had breakfast ; and then proceeded to discuss their plans for the day. Major Stewart observed that he was in no hurry to investigate the last modifications of tho drying machines. It would be necessary to write and appoint an interview before going down into Essex. He had several calls to make in London ; if Macleod did not see him before, they should meet at seven for dinner. Macleod saw him depart without any great regret. When ho himself went outside it was already noon, but tho sun had not yet broken through the mist, and London cold, and lifele . an I deserted. He did not know of any one of his former friends being left in the great and lonely city. He walked along Piccadilly, and saw how many of the tut up. The "beautiful foliage of Green Park had vanished ; lure and there a red leaf hung on a withered branch. fc f Lonely as he felt in walking through this crowd of ., he was aeverthele p I with a nervous and fear thai al any moment be might have to quail before the inquiring glance of a certain pair <>f calm, large eyes. Was this, tl Uy Keith Macleod who was haunted by the e f an < ■ Had he little courage thai he dared not go boldly up to her hoc e, and bold oul lii 1 hand to herl, \ 1 ),,.-.. this thoroughfare, he waa looking far ahead; iny till and 1 Lender figure appean d thai might by lity be taken for hei , he watched it with a nervous th ,♦ l: I [ dr< ad in it. Bo much for the high [1 v. of relief thai b I I Eyde Park, for here 1 tower people. And as be walked on, the A warmi r Lij hi tx an to suffuse the pale mi t 1S0 MACLEOD OF DARE lyiiiLC over the black-green masses of rhododendrons, the leafless trees, the damp grass plots, the empty chairs ; and as ho was regarding a group of peoplo on horseback avIio, almost at tho summit of the red hill, seemed about to disappear into tho mist, behold ! a sudden break in tho sky ; a silvery gleam shot athwart from tho south, so that these distant figures grew almost black ; and presently the frail sunshine of November was streaming all over the red ride and the raw green of the grass. His spirits rose somewhat. When ho reached the Serpentine, tho sunlight was shining on the rippling blue water; and there were pert young ladies of ten or twelve feeding the ducks ; and away on the other side there was actually an island amid tho blue ripples ; and the island, if it was not as grand as Staffa nor as green as Ulva, was nevertheless an island, and it was pleasant enough to look at, with its bushes, and boats, and white swans. And then he bethought him of his first walks by tho side of this little lake — when Oscar was the only creature in London he had to concern himself with — when each new day was only a brighter holiday than its predecessor — when he was of opinion that London was the happiest and most beautiful place in the world. And of that bright morning, too, when he walked through the empty streets at dawn, and came to the peacefully flowing river. These idle meditations were suddenly interrupted. Away along the bank of the lake his keen eye could make out a figure, which, even at that distance, seemed so much to resemble one he knew, that his heart began to beat quick. Then the dress — all of black ^\-I tli a white hat and white gloves ; was not that of the simplicity that had always so great an attraction for her? And ho knew that she was singularly fond of Kensington Gardens ; and might she not be going thither for a stroll before going back to tho Piccadilly Theatre 1 He hastened his steps. He soon began to k r ain on the stranger; and the nearer he got the more it seemed t'> him that he recognised the graceful walk and carriage of this slender woman. She passed under the archway of the bridge. When she had emerged from the shadow, she paused for a ■nt or two lo Link at the ducks on the lake; and this arch of shadow seemed to frame a beautiful sunlit picture — the single iigurc against a back ground of green bushes. And if this were In l ond on again t8i indeed she, how splendid the world would all become In a moment ! In his eagerness of anticipation, he forgot his fear. What would she say 1 ' Was he to hear her laugh once more ? And take her hand ] Alas ! when he got close enough to make sure, he found that this beautiful figure belonged to a somewhat pretty middle-aged lady, who bad brought a bag of scraps with her to feed the ducks. The world grew empty again. He passed on, in a sort of dream. He only knew he was in Kensington Gardens ; and that once or twice he had walked with her down those broad alleys in the happy summer-time of flowers and sunshine and the scent of limes. Now there was a pale blue mist in the open glades, and a gloomy purple instead of the brilliant green of the trees ; and the cold wind that came across rustled the masses of brown and orange leaves that were lying scattered on the ground. He got a little more interested when he neared I md Pond; for the wind had freshened, and there were nil handsome craft out there on the raging deep, braving well :, . ilia that laid tl. ht on their beam-ends, and then let them come and dripping up to the wind. But 11 boys there who had brought with them a of home-made build, with a couple of lug-sails, a jib, andno rudder; aud itwasagreat disappointment to them that script craft would move, if it moved at all, in an in circle. Mac! 1 came to their assistance — got a bit of out of it a rude rudder, altered the , and altogether pul the ship into sue oing trim that, ] rand kepi a pretty ,r " to any f" His own hand was trembling with lit. J rness of delight with which he listened f<> : by the low-toned and gentle voice was almost painful; and 3 I n<-w it not. He was as one demented. <.:.;■ Win:" ; peaking, walking, smiling, a fire of ity in her clear ey< , her parted Lips when she laughed letting the brillianl Lighi just touch for an instant the, milk-white teeth. Roseleaf al all no dream or vision — but tin' d laughing, talking, beautiful woman, who had more than • and witchery aboul her thai had : ■ 1 him when !.: I iw her. She w bo near that he could have thro to her a red rose lull blown and full- ted. lh P be ih' atre 01 rather he forgot it in tin' unimaginable delight of I near t" bar. And when ;it, he left the stage, hi bad no jealousy at all of the poor I who remained there !■» go through theii marionette II" hoped ih' y might ;ill 1 in acto] and Ih- evei ould try I" get to understand ould In- ' Lung el e to do until : ude White came b tin. Keith Macleod was no more ignorant <>r innocont t) 1 84 MACLEOD OF DARE anybody else; but there was one social misdemeanour — a mere peccadillo, let us say — that was quite unintelligible to liiui. Ho could not understand how a man, a grown man, supposed to bavo some self-respect, could go philandering after a married woman ; and still less could he understand bow a married woman should, instead of attending to her children and her house and such matters, make herself ridiculous by aping girlhood and pretending to have a lover. He had read a great deal about this ; and ho was told it was common ; but he did not believe it. The same authorities assured him that the women of England were drunk- ards in secret; he did not believe it. The same authorities insisted that the sole notion of marriage that occupied the head of an English girl of our own day was as to how she should sell her charms to the highest bidder ; he did not believe that either. And indeed he argued with himself, in considering to what extent books and plays could be trusted in such matters, that in one obvious case the absurdity of these allegations was proved. If Franco were the Erance of French playwrights and novelists, the whole business of the country would come to a standstill. If it was the sole and constant occupation of every adult French- man to run after his neighbour's wife, how could bridges be built, taxes collected, fortifications planned ] Surely a Frenchman must .sometimes think — if only by accident — of something other than his neighbour's wife ? Macleod laughed to himself in the solitude of Castle Dare, and contemptuously flung the unfinished paper-covered novel aside. But what waa his surprise and indignation — his shame, even — on finding that this very piece in which Gertrude White was acting, was all about a jealous husband, and a gay and thought- less wife, and a villain, who did not at all silently plot her ruin, but frankly confided his aspirations to a mutual friend, and rather sought for sympathy ; while she, Gertrude White herself, had, before all these people, to listen to advances which, in her innocence, she was not supposed to understand ! As the play proceeded, his brows grew darker and darker. And the husband, who ought to have been the guardian of his wife's honour 1 Well, the husband in this rather poor play was a creation that is common in modern English drama. He represented one idea, IN LONDON A GA IN 185 at least, that the English playwright has certainly not borrowed from the French stage. Moral worth is hest indicated hy a sullen demeanour. The man who has a pleasant manner is dangerous and a profligate : the virtuous man — the true-hearted Englishman — conducts himself as a hoor, and proves the good- ness of his nature hy his silence and his sulks. The hero of this trumpery piece was of this familiar type. He saw the gay fascinator coming ahout his house ; hut he was too proud and dignified to interfere. He knew of his young wife hecoming the hy-word of his friends ; hut he only clasped his hands on his fore-head — and sought solitude — and scowled as a man of virtue should. Macleod had paid hut little attention to stones of this kind when he had merely read them; hut when the situation was visible — when actual people were before him — the whole thing looked more real, and his sympathies became active enough. How was it possible, he thought, for this poor dolt to fume and mutter, and let his innocent wife go her own way alone and unprotected, when there was a door in the room, and a window by way of alternative! There was one scene in which faithless friend and the young wife were together in her drawing-room. He drew nearer to her; he spoke softly to her; \\>: ventured to take her hand. And while he was looking up appealingly \<> her, Macleod was regarding his face. He was olating t" himself t Ik: precise spot between the eyes where a man's knucklee would most effectually tell ; and his hand was clenched; and his teeth et hard. There was a look on his fain which would have warned any gay young man thai, when iuld marry his wife would Deed uo second champion. But ■•'■ this the atmosphere hy which she was surrounded 1 \' i ]■■■■■ y that the piece was proper enough. Virtue was triumphant ; vice compelled i" sneak off discomfited. The indignant outburst of shame and horror and contempt on the pari "f the young wife when she came i" know what tin-. villain's suave intentions really meant, Mi i White an silent opportunity of displaying her histrionic ifl : and the public appl ehementlyj but Macleod had uo pride in her triumph. II' [lad when the piece ended -when the honest hearted En ;li hmau so far rei b to declare that 1 86 MA CL E OD OF DA RE hia confidence in his wife was restored, and so far forgot hi.i stolidity of face and demeanour as to point out to the villain the way to the door instead of kicking him thither. Macleod breathed more freely when he knew that Gertrude White was now about to go away to the shelter and quiet of her own home. He went back to his rooms and tried to forget the precise circumstances in which he had just seen her. But not to forget herself. A new gladness filled his heart when he thought of her — thought of her not now as a dream or a vision, but as the living and breathing woman whose musical laugh seemed still to be ringing in his ears. He could see her plainly — the face all charged with life and loveliness ; the clear bright eyes that he had no longer any fear of meeting; the sweet mouth with its changing smiles. When Major Stewart came home that night, he noticed a most marked change in the manner of his companion. Macleod was excited, eager, talk- ative ; full of high-spirits and friendliness ; he joked his friend about his playing truant from his wife. He was anxious to know all about the Major's adventures ; and pressed him to have but one other cigar ; and vowed that he would take him on the following evening to the old place in London where a good dinner could be had. There was gladness in his eyes ; a careless satisfaction in his manner; he was ready to do any- thing, go anywhere. This was more like the Macleod of old. Major Stewart came to the conclusion that the atmosphere of London had had a very good effect on his friend's spirits. When Macleod went to bed that night there were wild and glad desires and resolves in his brain that might otherwise have kept him awake but for the fatigue he had lately endured. He slept, and he dreamed; and the figure that he saw in his dreams — though she was distant somehow — had a look of tenderness in her eyes, and she held a red rose in her hand. A DECLARATION 187 CHAPTEE XXII. A DECLARATION. November though it was, next morning broke brilliantly over London. There was a fresh west wind blowing ; there was a clear sunshine filling the thoroughfares; if one were on the look- out for picturesqueness even in Bury Street, was there not a fine h of colour where the softly red chimney-pots rose far away into the blue 1 It was not possible to have always around one the splendour of the northern seas. And Macleod would not listen to a word his friend had to say concerning the important business that had brought them both to London. "To-night, man — to-night — we will arrange it all to-night," he would say, and there was a nervous excitement about his manner fur which the Major could not at all account. " Sha'n't I see you till the evening then ] " he asked. " Xo," Macleod said, looking anxiously oat of the window, as if he feared some thunder-storm would suddeidy shut out the light of this beautiful morning. " I don't know — perhaps 1 may be back before — but at any rate we meet at seven. You will rememb a?" " fnde 1 I am not likely i<> forget it," his companion said, for he had been til about live ami-thirty times. !• n is cl l eleven o'clock when Mac) 1 Left the hon le. 'Hi'-: I grateful fi iut the morning even here in ■• ■ : i. Ion. People looked cheerful j Piccadilly was thronged with idlers come out to enjoy the 1 an bine ; there was i- two fluttering on the trees in the squares. Why bIiohM this man erly tearing away northward in a hansom — with an anxious and abi irbed loos on hi I nrhenevi 1 inclined 1 1 lunter l< i urely alon r , breathing the ■ t wind, and feeling the sunlight on his cheek I It was scarcely half j a I eleven when Macleod got out of the >m, and opened a small ; i walked up to the door of i S8 MA CLEOD OF DA RE a certain house. He was afraid she had already gone. lie was afraid she might resent his calling at so unusual an hour. He was afraid — of a thousand things. And when, at last, the trim maid-servant told him that Miss White was within and asked him to step into the drawing-room, it was almost as one in a dream that he followed her. As one in a dream, truly; hut nevertheless he saw every ohject around him with a marvellous vividness. Next day he could recollect every feature of the room — the empty fireplace, the black-framed mirror, the Chinese fans, the small cahinets with their shelves of blue and white, and the large open hook on the table, with a bit of tartan lying on it. These things seemed to impress themselves on his eyesight in- voluntarily ; for he was in reality intently listening for a soft footfall outside the door. He went forward to this open book. It was a volume of a work on the Highland clans — a large and expensive work that was not likely to belong to Mr. White. And this coloured figure 1 It was the representative of the Clan Macleod ; and this bit of cloth that lay on the open book was of the Macleod tartan. He withdrew quickly, as though he had stumbled on some dire secret. He went to the window. He saw only leafless trees now, and withered flowers ; with the clear sunshine touching the sides of houses and walls that had in the summer months been quite invisible. There was a slight noise behind him ; he turned, and all the room seemed filled with a splendour of light and of life as she advanced to him — the clear, beautiful eyes full of gladness, the lips smiling, the hand frankly extended. And of a sudden his heart sank. Was it indeed of her, " The glory of life, the beauty of the world," that ho had dared to dream wild and impossible' dreams? He had set out that morning with a certain masterful sense that he would face his fate. He had " taken the world for his pillow," as the Gaelic stories say. But at this sudden revelation of the incomparable grace and self-possession and high loveliness of this beautiful creature, all his courage and hopes fled instantly, and mid only stammer out excuses for his calling so early. He was eagerly trying to make himself out an ordinary visitor. He explained that he did not know but that she might be going to A DECLARATION 1S9 the theatre during the dixy. He was in London for a short time, on business . It was an unconscionable hour. " But I am so glad to see you," she said, with a perfect sweet- ness, and her eyes said more than her words. " I should havo been really vexed if I had heard you had passed through London without calling on us. Won't you sit down 1 " As he sat down, she turned for a second, and without any embarrassment shut the big book that had been lying open on this table. "It is very beautiful weather," she remarked — thero was no tremor about her fingers, at all events, as she made secure the brooch that fastened the simple morning dress at the neck ; " only it seems a pity to throw away such beautiful sunshine on witherei I gardens and bare trees. Wo havo some fine chrysanthemums, though ; but I confess I don't like chrysanthemums myself. They come at the wrong time. They look unnatural. They only remind one of what is gone. If we are to havo winter, we ought to have it out-and-out : the chrysanthemums always seem me as if they were making a pretence — trying to mako you believe that there was still some life in the dead garden." It was very pretty talk all this about chrysanthemums, uttered in the low-toned, and gentle, and musical voice; but somehow there was a burning impatience in his heart — and a hitter senso of hope! -and he felt as though he would cry out in his dr. II ild he sit there and listen to talk about chrysanthemum I Bis hands were tightly clasped together ; his • was throbbing quickly j there was a humming in his ears, thing there refu led toheaxaboul chrysanthemums. " I— 1 1 at the theatre 1 1 1 night," said he. Perhaps it was theabruptni of the remark that caused the quick blush. E 1 red hi 1 But all the same he with pei ion, i 1 : like the piece?" And he, t ii"i determined l" play the part of an r? " I am not much of a jud id he lightly. " The drawing- ; It is vi ry liki a drawing room. I suppose th< id real ] 1" i 9 o MACLEOD OF DARE ■■ Oh, y> 9, it is all real furniture," said she. Thereafter, for a second, blank silence. Neither dared to touch that deeper stage question that lay next their hearts. But when Keith Macleod, in many a "word of timid suggestion, and in the jesting letter he sent her from Castle Dare, had ventured upon that dangerous ground, it was not to talk about the real furniture of a stage drawing-room. However, was not this an ordinary morning call? His manner— his speech — everything said so but the tightly clasped hands, and perhaps too a certain intensity of look in the eyes, which seemed anxious and constrained. " Papa, at least, is proud of our chrysanthemums," said Miss White, quickly getting away from the stage question. " He is in the garden now. Will you go out and see him ? I am sorry Carry has gone to school." She rose. He rose also, and he was about to lift his hat from the table, when he suddenly turned to her. "A drowning man will cry out — how can you prevent his crying out ? " She was startled by the change in the sound of his. voice, and Bfcill more by the almost haggard look of pain and entreaty in his eyes. He seized her hand ; she would have withdrawn it, but she could not. " You will listen. It is no harm to you. I must speak now, or I will die," said he quite wildly, " and if you think I am mad, perhaps you are right, but people have pity for a madman. Do yon know why I have come to London? It is, to see you. I could bear it no longer — the fire that was burning and killing me. Oh, it is no use my saying it is love for you — I do not know what it is — but only that I must tell you, and you cannot be angry with me — you can only pity me and go away. That is it — it is nothing to you — you can go away." She burst into tears, and snatched her hand from him, and with both her hands covered her face. •■ Ah : " said ho, "is it pain to you that I should tell you of this madness? But you will forgive me — and you will forget it — and it will not pain you to-morrow or any other day. Surely are not to blame ! Do you remember the days when Ave became friends ? — it seems a long time ago, but they were A DECLARATION 191 beautiful days, and you were very kind to me, and I was glad I had come to London to make so kind a friend. And it was no fault of yours that I went away with that sickness of the heart ; and how could you know about the burning fire, and the feeling that if I did not see you I might as well be dead? And I am come — and I see you — and now I know no more what is to happen when I go away. And I will call you Gertrude for once only. Gertrude, sit down now — for a moment or two — and do not grieve any more over what is only a misfortune. I want to tell you. After I have spoken, I will go away, and there will be an end of the trouble." She did sit down ; her hands were clasped in piteous despair; he saw the tear-drops on the long beautiful lashes. "And if the drowning man cries]" said he. " It is only a breath. The waves go over him, and the world is at peace. And oh ! do you know., that I have taken a strange fancy of late But I will not trouble you with that ; you may hear of it after- wards ; you will understand, and know you have no blame, and there ia an end of trouble. It is quite strange what fancies into one's head when one is sick — heart-sick. Do you know • [thought this morning? Will you believe it ? Will you the drowning man cry out in his madness? Why, I said to • If, ' Up now, anl have courage! Up now, and be brave, and win a bride as they asi d to do in the old stories.' And it 1 —it wus you— my madness thought of. 'You will tell her,' I said to my -If. 'of all the Love and the worship you have for her, and your thinking of her by day and by night; and she woman, and he will have pity. And then in her surprise — why ' But then yon came into the room — it is only a little. while ago — but it seem r and ever away now and I have only pained yon " She Bprang to her feel : her face whit'', her lip- proud ami determined. And for a sec 1 she put, her hand on In shouldei : and the wet, full, piteous eyes mel his. Hut a: rapidly lie withdrew them — all: and turned md le-r hands were apart, each clasped, anil .-he ho wad her head. Gertrude White had never acted like that on any mz MACLEOD OF DARE And as for him, ho stood absolutely dazed for a moment, not daring to think what that involuntary action might mean. lie stepped forward — with a pale face and a bewildcrod air — and caught her hand. Her face she sheltered with the other, and she was sobbing bitterly. " Gertrudo," he said, " what is it? What do you mean'? " The broken voice answered, though her face was turned asido — " It is I who am miserable." " You who are miserable ? " She turned and looked fair into his face— with her eyes all wet, and beautiful, and piteous. " Can't you see ? Don't you understand ? " she said. " Oh, my good friend ! of all the men in the world you are the very last I would bring trouble to. And I cannot be a hypocrite with you. I feared something of this ; and now the misery is that I cannot say to you, ' Here, take my hand. It is yours. You have Avon your bride.' I cannot do it. If we were both differently situated — it might be otherwise " " It might be otherwise ! " he exclaimed, with a sudden wonder. " Gertrude, what do you mean 1 ? Situated? Is it only that ? Look me in the face, now, and as you arc a true woman tell me — if we Avere both free from all situation — if there wero no difficulties — nothing to be thought of— could you give your- self to me? Would you really become my wife — you who have all tin; world flattering you?" She dared not look him in the face. There was something about the vehemence of his manner that almost terrified her. But she answered bravely, in the sweet, low, trembling voice, and with downcast eyes — " If I were to become the wife of any one, it is your wife I would like to be ; and I have thought of it. Oh, I cannot be a hyp icrite with you when I see the misery I have brought you ! .\iiil I have thought of giving up all my present life, and all the wishes and dreams I have cherished, and going away and living thi; simple life of ;t woman. And under whose guidance would I try that rather than yours? You made me think. But it is all a dream — a fancy. It is impossible. It would only bring misery to you and to me " A DECLARATION 193 " But why — but why ] " lie eagerly exclaimed ; and there was a proud light in his face. " Gertrude, if you can say so much, why not say all 1 What are obstacles ] There can be none if you have the fiftieth part of the love for me that I have for you ! Obstacles ! " — and he laughed with a strange laugh. She looked up in his face. " And would it be so great a happiness for you ] that would make up for all the trouble I have brought you ? " she said, wistfully ; and his answer was to take both her hands in his, and there was such joy in his heart that he could not speak at all. But she only shook her head, somewhat sadly, and withdrew her hands, and sat down again by the table. " It is wrong of me even to think of it," she said. " To-day I might say ' yes ; ' and to-morrow 1 You might inspire me with courage now ; and afterwards — I should only bring you further pain. I do not know myself. I could not bo sure of myself. How could I dare drag you into such a terrible risk? It is better as it is. The pain you are suffering will go. You will come to call mo your friend ; and you will thank me that I refused. Perhaps I shall suifer a little too," she added, and once more she rather timidly looked up into his face. " You do not know tho [nation of seeing your scheme of life, that you have been ming about, just suddenly put before you for acceptance; and yon want all your common sense to hold back. But I know it will be better -better for both of us. You must bclievo me." " I do not believe you, and 1 will not believe you," said he, proudly, " and now yon have said bo much I am not going to take any refusal at all. Not now. < lertrude, I have courage for both of u i ; when you are timid, you will take my hand. Say it, then ' I only ! STou have ah u 1 all bul that !" He eemed scarcely the Banii man who had appealed to hei with the wild -eyes and the haggard face. Hi 1 radian! and proud. II w Ltb a firm voice ; and yet there wi il tenderness in hi tone. ■■ I am ire you love me," she said in a low voi . •■ Yon will see," he rejoined, with a firm 1 onfid< a . . F am aoi goin . our love ill. Von are too vehement. You think of nothing b 1 ad to it all. But o 1 94 MA CL A' OD OF DA RE 1 am a woman, and women are taught i<> lie patient. Now you must let mo think about all you have said." " And yon do not quite refuse 1" said lie. Sho hesitated for a moment or two. " I must think for you as well as for myself," she said, in a scarcely audible voice. " Give me time. Give me till the end of the week." "At this hour I will come." " And you will helieve I have decided for the hest — that I have tried hard to be fair to you as well as myself 1 ?" <: I know you are too true a woman for anything else," lie said ; and then he added, " Ah, well, now, you have had enough misery for one morning — you must dry your eyes now, and we will go out into the garden — and if I am not to say anything of all my gratitude to you — why ? Because I hope there will he many a year to do that in ! " She went to fetch a light shawl and a hat; he kept turning over the things on the table, bis fingers trembling, his eyes seeing nothing. If they did see anything it was a vision of the brown moors near Castle Dare, and a beautiful creature, clad all in cream-colour and scarlet, drawing near the great grey stone house. She came into the room again ; joy leapt to his eyes. "Will you follow me?" There was a strangely subdued air about her manner as she led him to where her father was ; perhaps she was rather tired after tin- varied emotions she had experienced; perhaps sho was still anxious. He Avas not anxious. It was in a glad way that ho addressed the old gentleman who stood therewith a spade in his hand. " It i.i indeed a beautiful garden," Macleodsaid — looking round on the withered leaves and damp soil — " no wunder you look after it yourself." "I am nol gardening," the old man said peevishly. "I have putting a knife in the gi burying the hatchet, you i i ill it. Fancy! A man sees an old hunting-knife in a h j) iii Gloucesh v ; a hunting-knife of the time of Charles L, a beautifully carved ivory handle ; and he thinks he will make a present of it i> me. What d )es lie do but go and have A DECLARATION 195 it ground and sharpened and polished until it looks like some* thing sent from Sheffield the day before yesterday ! " " You ought to be very pleased, papa, you got it at all," said Gertrude "White; but she was looking elsewhere — and rather absently too. " And so you have buried it to restore the tone 1 " " I have," said the old gentleman, marching off with the shovel to a sort of outhouse. Macleod speedily took his leave. " Saturday next at noon," said he to her, with no timidity in his voice. " Yes," said she, more gently, and with downcast eyes. He walked away from the house — he knew not whither. Ho saw nothing around him. He walked hard, sometimes talking to himself. In the afternoon he found himself in a village in Berkshire, close by which, fortunately, there was a railway .station ; and he had just time to get back to keep his appoint- ment with Major Stewart. They sat down to dinner. '■'Coin now, Macleod, tell me where you have been all day," said the rosy-faced Boldier, carefully tucking his napkin under his chin. Macleod burst out laughin . " Another day —another day, Stewart, I Avill tell you all about it. It is the most ridiculous storj you ever heard in your life!" It ■ trange sort of laughing, for there were tears in the youngei man's eyes. Bui Major Stewart wag too busy to notice j and presently they bej an to talk about the real and Berious object of their expedition to London. ig6 MACLEOD QF DARE CHAPTER XXIII. A RED ROSE. From nervous and unreasoning dread to overweening and extravagrant confidence there was but a single bound. After the timid confession she had made, how could he have any further fear 1 ? Ho knew now the answer she must certainly give him. What but the one word "yes" — musical as the sound of summer seas — could fitly close and atone for all that long period of doubt and despair 1 And would she murmur it with the low, sweet voice, or only look it with the clear and lambent eyes? Onco uttered, anyhow, surely the glad message would instantly wing its flight away to the far north ; and Colonsay would hear ; and the green shores of Ulva would laugh ; and through all the wild dashing and roaring of the seas there would be a soft ringing as of wedding-bells. The Gometra men will have a good glass that night ; and who will take the news to distant Flaclda and rouso the lonely Dutchman from his winter sleep 1 There is a bride coming to Castle Dare ! When Norman Ogilvie had even mentioned marriage, Macleod had merely shaken his head and turned away. There was no issue that way from the wilderness of pain and trouble into which he had strayed. She was already wedded — to that cruel art that was crushing the woman within her. Her ways of life and his were separated as though by unknown oceans. And how was it possible that so beautiful a woman — surrounded by pie who petted and flattered her — should nut already have her heart engaged] Even if she were free, how could .she have bestowed a thought on him — a passing stranger — a summer visitor — the acquaintance of an hour 1 But no sooner had Gertrude White, to his sudden wonder, and joy, and gratitude, made that stammering confession, than the impetuosity of his passion leapt at once to the goal. He would not hear of any obstacles. He would not look at them. If she would but take his hand, he would lead her and guard A RED ROSE 197 her, and all would go well. And it was to this effect that ho wrote to her day after day, pouring out all the confidences of his heart to her, appealing to her, striving to convey to her some- thing of his own high courage and hope. Strictly speaking, perhaps, it was not quite fair that he should thus have disturhed the calm of her deliberation. Had he not given her till the end of the week to come to a decision 1 But when in his eagerness he thought of some further reason, some further appeal, how could he remain silent 1 With the prize so near, he could not lei it slip from his grasp through the consideration of nicotics of conduct. By rights he ought to have gone up to Mr. "White and begged for permission to pay his addresses to the old gentleman's daughter. He forgot all about that. He forgot that Mr. White was in existence. All his thinking from morning till night — and through much of the night too — was directed on her answer — the one small word filled with a whole world ful of light and joy. "Say but this one word," he wrote to her, "then everything else becomes a mere trifle. If there are obstacles and troubles and what not, we will meet them one by one, and dispose of them. There can be no obstacles, if Ave are of one mind ; and we shall be of one mind sure enough, if you will say you will become my wife ; for there is nothing I will not consent to ; and ] ball only be too glad to have opportunities of showing my great gratitude to yon for the icrifice you must make. I speak ofil icrifice j but I do not believe it is one whatever you may think now — and whatever Datura] regret you may Eeel — you will grow to feel there was no evil done you when you were drawn away from the life that now surrounds you, And if you ay, 'I will become your wife only on one condition — that 1 am not asked to abandon my career bje an actress/ still 1 would say, ' Become my wife.' Surely matters of arrangement are mei after you bav a me your promise. .And when you nave placed your hand in nun'' (and the motto of the tfacleod i Hold Fast) we can studj conditions, and obstacles, and the other nonsen e that our friends are sure to suggest, a! our Leisure. I think I already hear you say ' Y< ; ' I li ten and n until I i hear your voice. And il'ii is to he 'Yes,' i 9 8 MACLEOD OF DARE will you \\ ear a red rose in your dress on Saturday 1 1 shall seo that before you speak I will know what your message is, even if there are people about. One red rose only." "Macleod," said Major Stewart to him, "did you come to London to write lovedetters ? " " Lovedetters ! " he said, angrily ; but then he laughed. "And what did you come to Loudon for 1 ?" " On a highly philanthropic errand," said the other, gravely, " which I hope to see fulfilled to-morrow. And if we have a day or two to spare, that is well enough, for one cannot be always at work ; but I did not expect to take a holiday in the company of a man who spends three-fourths of the day at a writing-desk." " Nonsense," said Macleod, though there was some tell-tale colour in his face. "All the writing I have done to-day would not fill up twenty minutes. And if I am a dull companion, is not Norman Ogilvie coming to dinner to-night to amuse you 1 ?" While they were speaking a servant brought in a card. " Ask the gentleman to come up," Macleod said, and then he turned to his companion. " What an odd thing ! I was speak- ing to you a minute ago about that drag accident. And here is Beaureguard himself." The tall, rough-visaged man — stooping slightly as though he thought the doorway was a trifle low— came forward and shook hands with Macleod, and was understood to inquire about hid health, though what he literally said was, " Hawya, Macleod, hawya ? " " I heard you were in town from Paulton — you remember Paulton who dined with you at Richmond. He saw you in a hansom yesterday ; and I took my chance of finding you in your old quarters. What are you doing in London ?" Macleod briefly explained. " And you 1 " he asked, " what has brought you to London 1 I thought you and Lady Beauregard were in Ireland." "We have just come over, and go down to Weatherill to- morrow. Won't you come downand shoot a pheasant or two before you return to the Highlands ] " " Well, the fact is," Macleod said, hesitatingly, " my friend and I — by the way, let me introduce you— Lord Beauregard, A RED ROSE 199 Major Stewart — the fact is, we ought to go back directly after we have settled this business." " But a day or two won't matter. Now, let me see. The Suffields come to us on Monday next, I think. We could get up a party for you on the Tuesday ; and if your friend will come with you, we shall be six guns, which I always think the best number." The gallant Major showed no hesitation whatever. The chance at blazing away at a whole atmosphereful of pheasants — for he so construed the invitation — did not often come in his way. " I am quite sure a day or two won't make any difference,'' said ho, quickly. "In any case we are not thinking of going till Monday, and that would only mean an extra day." " Very well," Macleod said. '• Then you will come down to dinner on the Monday evening. I will see if there is any alteration in the trains, and drop you a note with full instructions. Is it a bargain 1 " "It is." "All right. I must be off now. Good bye." Major Stewart jumped to his feet with great alacrity, and warmly shook hands with the departing stranger. Then, when door was shut, he went through a pantomimic expression of bringing down innumerable phea mi's from 1 very corner of the ceiling —with an oc< I aim at the floor, where an imaginary hi;, ing by. :, Macleod," said be, "you are a trump. You may go "u wiii in/ love Letters from now till next, Monday afternoon I ropp ' i dinner too 1 " " I. iid to have the be 1 chef in London ; and I don't Buppose he would leave bo Important a per on in Ireland.'' "You have m) gratitude, Macleod eternal, sincere, un- bounded," the M ijor aid 'v. •• Bui it i I who am asking you to go and ma lacre a lol of phea 1 .' . ' tid Macleod j and he poke rather absently . I thinking of the probable mood in which be woul I down t . Weatherill One of gladness and joy, the outv. Lsecrei bappim 1 to b 2C0 MA CLEOD OF DA RE by none 1 Or what if there were no red rose at all on her bosom when she advanced to meet him with sad eyes'? They went down into Essex next day. Major Stewart was surprised to find that his companion talked not so much about tho price of machines for drying saturated crops, as about the conjectural cost of living in the various houses they saw from afar, set amid the leafless trees of November. " You don't think of coming to live in England, do you 1 " said he. " No — at least, not at present," Macleod said. " Of course, one never knows what may turn up. I don't propose to live at Dare all my life." " Your wife might want to live in England," the Major said coolly. Macleod started and stared. " You have been writing a good many letters of late," said his companion. " And is that all 1 " said Macleod, answering him in the Gaelic. "You know the proverb — Tossing the head will not make the hoat row. I am not married yet." The result of this journey was, that they agreed to purchase one of the machines for transference to the rainy regions of Mull ; and then they returned to London. This was on a Wednesday. Major Stewart considered they had a few days to idle by before the battue; Macleod was only excitedly aware that Thursday and Friday — two short November days — came between him and that decision which he regarded with an anxious joy. The two days went by in a sort of dream. A pale fog hung over London ; and as he wandered about he saw the tall houses rise faintly blue into the grey mist ; and the great coffee-coloured river, flushed with recent rains, rolled down between tho pale embankments ; and the golden-red globe of the sun, occasionally becoming visihle through the mottled clouds, sent a ray of fire here and there on some street-lamp or window-pane. In the course of hi devious wanderings — for he mostly went about alone — he made his way, with great trouble and perplexity, to the court in which the mother of Johnny "Wickcs lived; and lie betrayed no shame at all in confronting the poor woman — A RED ROSE 2oi half starved, and pale, and emaciated as she was — whose child lie had stolen. It was in a tone of quite gratuitous pleasantry that he described to her how the small lad was growing brown and fat ; and he had the audacity to declare to her that as he proposed to pay the boy the sum of one shilling per week at present, he might as well hand over to her the three months' pay which he had already earned. And the woman was so amused at the notion of little Johnny Wickes being able to earn anything at all, that, when she received the money, and looked at it, she burst out crying ; and she had so little of the spirit of the British matron, and so little regard for the laws of her country, that she invoked Heaven knows what — Heaven does know what — blessings on the head of the very man who had carried her child into slavery. "And the first time I am going over to Oban," said he, "I will take him with me, and I will get a photograph of him made, and I will send it you. And did you get the rabbits 1 " said he. " Yes, indeed, sir, I got the rabbits." And it is a very fine poacher your son promises to be, for he got every one of the rabbits with his own snare, though 1 think it was old Hamish who showed him how to use it. I will good-bye to you now." The poor woman seemed to hesitate for a second. " It' there was any sewing," said Bhe, wiping her eyes with ipron, "that I could do for your good lady, air "Hut I am not married," Baid he < p ii«d< ly. "Ah, well, indeed, sir," Bhe said with a sigh. " But if tli' i- i any la< e, or bm ing, oi anything like thai you cm send t<> my mother, I have no doubi Bhe will pay you for it. as well as any one I I e " •• I was not thinking of payu ; hut to show you I am ungrateful," was the an wer and it she said hungrateful, what matter) She was a woman without spirit; Bhe had sold away her son. From this dingy court he mil'' hi. way round to Covent b, and he went into a florist's Bhop there. 202 MACLEOD OF DARE " I want a bouquet," said lie to the neat-handed maiden who looked up at him. " Yes, sir," said she ; " will you look at those in the window 1 " "But I want one," said he, " with a single rose — a red rose — in the centre." This propositi) hi did not find favour in the eyes of the mild- mannered artist, who explained to him that something more important and ornate was necessary in the middle of a bouquet. He could have a circle of rosebuds, if he liked, outside ; and a great white lily or camellia in the centre. He could have — this thing and the other ; she showed him how she could combine the features of one bouquet with those of the next. But the tall Highlander remained obdurate. " Yes," said he, " I think you are quite right. You are quite right, I am sure. But it is this I would rather have — only one red rose in the centre, and you can make the rest what you like, only I think if they were smaller flowers, and all white, that would be better." " Very well," said the young lady with a pleasing smile (she was rather good-looking herself), " I will try what I can do for you if you don't mind waiting. Will you take a chair V He was quite amazed by the dexterity with which those nimble fingers took from one cluster and another cluster the very flowers he would himself have chosen ; and by the rapid fashion in which they were dressed, fitted, and arranged. The work of art grew apace. "But you must have something to break the white," said she, smiling, " or it will look too like a bride's bouquet," and with that — almost in the twinkling of an eye — she had put a circular line of dark purple-blue through the cream-white blossoms. It was a splendid rose that lay in the midst of all that beauty. "What price would you like to give, sir?" the gentle Phyllis had Baid at the very outset. " Half a guinea — fifteen shillings ? " "Give me a beautiful rose," said he, "and I do not mind what the price is." And at last the lace-paper was put round ; and a little further trimming and setting took place ; and finally the bouquet was swathed in soft white wool and put into a basket. A RED ROSE 203 " Shall I take the address 1 ? " said the young lady, no doubt py.pecting that he would write it on the back of one of his cards. But no. He dictated the address; and then laid down the money. The astute young person was puzzled — perhaps disap- pointed. " Is there no message, sir ? " said she : — " no card 1 " "No; but you must be sure to have it delivered to-night." " It shall be sent off at once," said she, probably thinking that tins was a very foolish young man who did not know the ways cf the world. The only persons of whom she had any experience who sent bouquets without a note or a letter were husbands, who were either making up a quarrel with their wives or going to the opera, and she had observed on such occasions that the difference between twelve-and-sixpence and fifteen shillings was regarded and consider 1. He slept but little that night; and next morning he got up nervous and trembling — like a drunken man — with half the courage and confidence, thai had so long sustained him, gone. Major Stewart went out early. He kept pacing about the room until the frightfully slow half-hours went by; In; hated the clock on the mantelpiece. And then, by a strong effort of will, he del... rting until he should barely have time to reach her . twelve o'clock, so that he should have the mail delight of eagerly wishing the hansom hod a still more furious speed. He. had cho en hie horse well. It wanted five minutes to the appointed hour when he arrived at the ho Did this trim maid servant know] Was there anything of welcome in the demure .-mile ( He followed her; his face was pale, though he knew it not ; in the dusk "I" the room he was loft alone. But what was this— on the, table 1 He almost uttered aery as his bewildered 63 I in it. The very bouquet he fa the previous evening; and behold — behold ! the red ! wanting ! And thi n, al the ame moment, he turned : and then -. i ion of something all in white— that came to him timidly — all in white but for the red tar of love Bhinini th And she r-by. Bui this picture of Carry's :a hou efulof wrangling women I li' she hud had I wo ild in itantly hav< died M i. ! 1, and | and 1 tireless confid a her ami tin 1 ruel critici im. S in truth, binj .Hi I nol allow hi r. J! ■ had L pi ing that the onlypoini for hi c t 1 consider was 2oS MACLEOD OF DARE whether she had sufficient love for him to enable her to answer his great love for her with the one Avord "Yes." Thereafter, according to his showing, everything else was a mere trifle. Obstacles, troubles, delays'? — he would hear of nothing of the sort. And although, while he was present, she had been inspired by something of this confident feeling, now when she was attacked in his absence she felt herself defenceless. "You maybe as disagreeable as you like, Carry," said she, almost wearily. " I cannot help it. I never could understand your dislike to Sir Keith Macleod " " Cannot you understand," said the younger sister with some show of indignation, " that if you are to marry at all I should like to see you marry an Englishman, instead of a great Highland savage, who thinks about nothing but beasts' skins ] And why 6hould you marry at all, Gertrude "White? I suppose he will make you leave the theatre; and instead of being a famous woman, whom everybody admires and talks about, you will be plain Mrs. Nobody, hidden away in some place, and no one will ever hear of you again! Do you know what you are doing] Did you ever hear of any woman making such a fool of herself before]" So far from being annoyed by this strong language the elder sister seemed quite pleased. "Do you know, Carry, I like to hear you talk like that," she said with a smile. "You almost persuade me that I am not asking him for too great a sacrifice, after all " " A sacrifice ! On his part ! " exclaimed the younger sister, and then she added with decision, " But it sha'n't be, Gertrude White! I will go to papa!" " Pardon me," said the older sister, who was nearer the door, " you need not trouble yourself; I am going now." She went into the small room which was called her father's study, but which was in reality a sort of museum. She closed the door behind her. "I have just had the pleasure of an interview with Carry, papa," she said, with a certain bitterness of tone, "and she ha3 tried hard to make me as miserable as I can be. If I am to have another dose of it from you, papa, I may as ENTHUSIASMS 209 Well have it at once. I have promised to marry Sir Keith Macleod." She sank down in an easy-chair. There was a look on her face which plainly said, " Now do your worst ; I cannot be more wretched than I am." "You have promised to marry Sir Keith Macleod 1 " he repeated slowly, and fixing his eyes on her face. He did not break into any rage, and accuse Macleod of treachery or her of filial disobedience. He knew that she was familiar with that kind of thing on the stage. What he had to deal witli was the immediate future, not the past. " Yes," she answered. " "Well," he said, with the same deliberation of tone, " I suppose you have not come to me for advice, since you have acted so far for yourself. If I were to give you advice, however, it would be to break your promise as soon as you decently can, both f>r his sake and for your own." " I thought you would say so," she said with a sort of des- p rate mirth. " I came to have all my wretchedness heaped on me at once. It is a very pleasing sensation. I wonder if I could express it on the stage — that would be making use of my new experiences — as you have taught me " But here Bhe burst into tears; and then got up and walked impatiently about the room ; and finally dried her eyes, with shame and mortification visible on her lace. "Wha1 have you to say to me, papal I am a fool to mind what a Bchool-girl >: J." " I don't know that 1 have anything to Bay," he observed calmly. " You know your own feelin 1 t." And then he regarded her attentively. •• I when you marry you will give up the stage 1" " I ,'' she said in a low voice. "I should doubt," lie said with quite a dispassionate air, ir being able to play one part for a lifetime. You might get tired- and that VfOUld be awkward for your husband and your- self. I don'l say anything about, your giving up all your pects, although I hail great pride in you and a still greater That is for your own consideration, If you think you p 210 MACLEOD OF DARE will be happier — if you are sure you will have no regret — if, as I say, you think you can play the one part for lifetime — well and good." " And you arc right," she said bitterly, " to speak of me as an actress, and not as a human being. I must be playing a part to the end, I suppose ] Perhaps so. Well, I hope I shall please my smaller audience as well as I seem to have pleased the bigger one." Then she altered her tone. " I told you, papa, the other day of my having seen that child run over and brought back to the woman who was standing on the pavement." " Yes," said he ; but wondering why this incident should be referred to at such a moment. " I did not tell you the truth — at least, the whole truth. "When I walked away, what was I thinking of 1 I caught my- self trying to recall the way in which the woman threw her arms up when she saw the dead body of her child, and I was wonder- ing whether I could repeat it. And then I began to ask myself whether I was a devil — or a woman." " Bah ! " said he. " That is a craze you have at present. You have had fifty others before. What I am afraid of is that, at the instigation of some such temporary fad, you will take a step that you will find irrevocable. The weak point about you is that you can make yourself believe anything. Just think over it, (lerty. If you leave the stage, you will destroy many a hope I had formed ; but that doesn't matter. Whatever is most for your happiness — that is the only point." "And so you have given me your congratulations, papa," she said, rising. " I have been so thoroughly trained to be an actress that, when I marry, I shall only go from one stage to another." " That was only a figure of speech," said he. '■' At all events," she said, " I shall not be vexed by petty jealousies of other actresses, and I shall cease to be worried and humiliated. by what they say about me in the provincial news- papers." " As for the newspapers," he retorted, " you have little to ENTHUSIASMS 211 complain of. They have treated yon, very well. And even if they annoyed you by a phrase here or there, surely the remedy is simple. You need not read them. You don't require any recommendation to the public now. As for your jealousy of other actresses — that was always an unreasonable vexation on your part. " "Yes, and that only made it the more humiliating to myself,'' said she quickly. "But think of this," said he. " You are married. You have been long away from the scene of your former triumphs. Some day you go to the theatre ; and you find as the favourite of the public a woman who, you can see, cannot come near to what you 1 to do. And I suppose you won't be jealous of her, and anxious to defeat her on the old ground 1" She winced a little ; but she said — • I can do with thai as you suggested about the newspapers.: UOt gO to til" tl •• Very well, Gerty. I hope all will be for the best. But do he in a hurry ; take time and consider." She saw clearly enough that this calm acquiescence was all the 1 dation or advice she was likely to get; and she went to the door. ■• Papa," said ahe, with a little hesitation, "Sir Keith Maclood iming up to-morrow morning to go to church with us." "Y( 1 he indifferently. " He 1 ' i 1" fore we go." "Very welL Of com e, 1 have nothing to say in the matter. our own actions." She w.iit to her own ad locked herself in, feeling very ind disheartened, and miserable. There was 1 e to alum her in her father's faintly expressed doubts than in oil rehemenl opposition and taunl 1. Why had Macleod her alone 1 If only she could ee him laugh, her cour would 1 'I h> n he bethought her that thi 1 was no! a til mood for 1 who had promised to be the I a Macleod. She wenl to tie- mirror and I ; If j and almost uncon emu ly an expression of pi re olveapp I about the lines of ber 2 1 1 MA CLEOD OF DA RE mouth. And she would show to herself that .still she had a woman's feeling by going out and doing some actual work of charity ; she would prove to herself that the constant simulation of noble emotions had not deadened them in her own nature. She put on her hat and shawl, and went down-stairs, and went out into the free air and the sunlight — without a word to Carry or her father. She was trying to imagine herself as having already left the stage and all its fictitious allurements. She was now Lady Bountiful : having looked after the simple cares of her household she was now ready to cast her eyes abroad and relieve in so far as she might the distress around her. The first object of charity she encountered was an old crossing-sweeper. She addressed him in a matter-of-fact way which was intended to conceal her fluttering self-consciousness. She inquired whether he had a wife ; whether he had any children ; whether they were not rather poor. And having been answered in the affirma- tive on all these points, she surprised the old man by giving him live shillings and telling him to go home and get a good warm dinner for his family. She passed on and did not observe that, as soon as her back was turned, the old wretch made straight for the nearest public-house. But her heart was happy and her courage rose. It was not for nothing, then, that she had entertained the bold resolve of casting aside for ever the one great ambition of her life— with all its intoxicating successes, and hopes, and struggles — for the homely and simple duties of an ordinary woman's existence. It was not in vain that she had read and dreamed of the far romantic land, and had ventured to think of herself as tli£ proud wife of Macleod of Dare. Those fierce deeds of valour and vengeance that had terrified and thrilled her would now become part of her own inheritance ; why, she could tell her friends, when they came to see her, of all the old legends and fairy .stories that belonged to her own home. And the part of Lady Bountiful — surely, if she must play some part, that was the one Bhe would most dearly like to play. And the years would go by ; and she would glow silver-haired too ; and when she lay on her deathbed she would take her husband's hand and say, " Have I lived the life you wished me to live 1 " tier cheerfulness grew IN SUSSEX 213 apace ; and the -walking, and the sunsliine, and the fresh air brought a fine light and colour to her eyes and cheeks. There was a song singing through her head : and it was all about the brave Glenogie who rode up the king's ha'. But as she turned the corner of a street her eye rested on a huge coloured placard — rested but for a moment, for she would not look on the gaudy thing. Just at this time a noble lord had shown his interest in the British drama by spending an enormous amount of money in producing, at a theatre of his own building, a spectacular burlesque, the gorgeousness of which surpassed anything that had ever been done in that way. And the lady who appeared to be playing (in silence, mostly) the chief part in this hash of glaring colour and roaring music and clashing armour had gained a great celebrity by reason of her handsome figure, and the splendour of her costume, and the magnificence of the real diamonds that she wore. All London was talking of her ; and tin: vast theatre — even in November — was nightly crammed to overflowing. As Gertrude White walked back to her home her heart was filled with bitterness. She had caught sight of the ostentatious placard j and she knew that the photograph of the actress who was figuring there was in every stationer's shop in the Strand. And that which galled her was not that the the ' o taken and so used, but that the stage heroine of the hour Bhould be a woman who could act no more than any in the Zoolo i' il l rarden i. CHAPTEE XXV. [» i si;. v. him, thi no moderation atall in the vehemence of hie joy. In the surprise and bewilderment of it, tie' world ind liim underwent tran figuration: London in November .: earthly paradise. The very people in the 214 MACLEOD OF DARE itreets seemed to have kindly faces; Bury Street, St. James's — which is usually a somewhat misty thoroughfare — was more beautiful than the rose-garden of an eastern king. And on this Saturday afternoon the blue skies did indeed continue to shine over the great city ; and the air seemed sweet and clear enough, as it generally does to any one whose every heart-beat is only another throb of conscious gladness. In this first intoxication of wonder, and pride, and gratitude, he had forgotten all about the ingenious theories which, in former days, he had constructed to prove to himself that Gertrude White should give up her present way of life. "Was it true, then, that he had rescued the white slave 1 Was it once and for ever that Nature, encountering the subtle demon of Art, had closed and Avrestled with the insidious thing, had seized it by the throat, and choked it, and flung it aside from the fair roadway of life 1 He had forgotten about those theories now. All that he was conscious of was this eager joy, with now and again a wild wonder that ho should indeed have acquired so priceless a possession. Was it possible that she would really withdraw herself from the eyes of all the world and give herself to him alone 1 — that some day, in the beautiful and laughing future, the glory of her presence woidd light up the sombre halls of Castle Dare 1 Of course he poured all his pent-up confidences into the ear of the astonished Major, and again and again expressed his gratitude to his companion for having given him the opportunity of securing this transcendent happiness. The Major was somewhat frightened. He did not know in what measure he might be regarded as an accomplice by the silver-haired lady of Castle Dare. And in any case he was alarmed by the vehemence of the young man. " My dear Macleod," said he with an oracular air, " you never have any hold on yourself. You fling the reins on the horse's neck, and gallop down-hill : a very slight check would send you whirling to the bottom. Now, you should take the advice of a man of the world, who is older than you, and who — if I may say so — has kept his eyes open. I don't want to discourage you ; but you should take it for granted that accidents may happen. AY SUSSEX ci 5 I would feel the reins a little bit, if I were you. Once you've got her into the church — and see her with a white veil over her heaO — then you may be as perfervid as you like " And so the simple-minded Major prattled on ; Macleod paying but little heed. There had been nothing about Major Stewart's courtship and marriage to shake the world : why, he said to himself, when the lady was pleased to lend a favouring ear, was there any reason for making such a fuss ] "Your happiness will all depend on one tiling," said he to Macleod, with a complacent wisdom in the round and jovial face. " Take my word for it. I hear of people studying the character — the compatibilities and what not — of other people ; but I never knew of a young man thinking of such things when he was in love. He plunges in, and finds out afterwards. Now, it all comes to this — is she likely, or not likely, to prove a signer ? " '■ A what?" said Macleod, apparently awaking from a trance. A woman who goes about the house all day sighing — whether over your sins or her own, she won't tell you." "Indeed I cannot say," Macleod said, laughing. "I should not. I think slic has excellent spirits." • \h ! " said the Major thoughtfully \ and he himself sighed; perhaps he was thinking of a certain house far away in Mull, to which he had shortly to return. Macleod did no! know how to show his gratitude towards this tured friend. II would have given him half-a-dozen day ; and Maj-.r Stewart liked a London dinner. But what he did offer as a great reward was this : that Major Stewart should go up the i,,.\i morning t" a particular church, and take up a particular position in that church, and then then he would i glimpse of the m lerful creature the world had seen. Oddly enough, the Major did not eagerly accept this munificent offer. To anothi t proposal that he should go up to Mi'. While's on tie- first day alter their return from Sussex, and meet the young at. luncheon he seemed 1" tter inclined. " Hut why shouldn't we go to the theatre to night f" said ho in hi- ample way. I embarra ed. 2i6 MACLEOD OF DARE " Frankly , then, Stewart," said he, " I don't want you to make her acquaintance as an actress." ' Oh, very well," said he, not greatly disappointed. " Perhaps it is better. You see, I may bo questioned at Castle Dare. Have you considered that matter ] " " Oh no ! " Macleod said lightly and cheerfully ; " I have had time to consider nothing as yet. I can scarcely believe ii to bo ail real. It takes a deal of hard thinking to convince myself that I am not dreaming." But the true fashion in which Macleod showed his gratitude to his friend was in concealing his great reluctance on going down with him into Sussex. It was like rending his heart-strings for him to leave London for a single hour at this time. What beautiful confidences, and tender timid looks, and sweet small words he was leaving behind him, in order to go and shoot a lot of miserable pheasants ! He was rather gloomy when he met the Major at the Victoria Station. They got into the train ; and away through the darkness of the November afternoon they rattled to Three Bridges ; but all the eager sportsman had gono out of him, and he had next to nothing to say in answer to tho Major's excited questions. Occasionally he would rouse himself from his reverie, and he would talk in a perfunctory sort of fashion about tho immediate business of the moment. Ho confessed that he had a certain theoretical repugnance to a battue, if it were at all like what people in the newspapers declared it to be. On the other hand, he could not well understand — judging by his experiences in tho Highlands — how the shooting of driven birds could be so marvellously easy ; and he was not quito sure that the writers he had referred to had had many opportunities of practising, or even observing, so very expensive an amusement. Major Stewart, for his part, freely admitted that he had no scruples whatever. Shooting birds, he roundly declared, was shooting birds, whether you shoot two or two score. And ho demurely hinted that, if he had his choice, he would rather shoot the two score. " Mind you, Stewart," Macleod said, " if we are posted any- where near each other, mind you shoot at any bird that comes IN SUSSEX 217 my way. I should like you to make a big bag that you may talk about in Mull ; and I don't really care about it." And this was the man 'whom Miss Carry had described as being nothing but a slayer of wild animals and a preserver of beasts' skins ! Perhaps in that imaginary duel between Nature and Art the enemy was not so thoroughly beaten and thrown aside after all. So they got to Three Bridges ; and there they found the carriage awaiting them ; and presently they were whirling away along the dark rc^ads, with the lamps shining now on a lino of hedge and again on a long stretch of ivied brick-wall. And at last they passed a lodge-gate ; and drove through a great and silent park ; and finally, rattling over the gravel, drew up in front of some grey steps and a blaze of light coming from the wMu-open doors. Under Lord Beauregard's guidance, they went into the drawing-room, and found a number of people idly chatting there, or reading by the subdued light of the various lamps on the small tables. There was a good deal of talk about the weather. Mucluod, vaguely conscious that these people were only stranger^, and that the one heart that was thinking of him was now far away, paid but little heed ; if ho had been told that the barometer predicted fifteen thunder-storms for the morrow, he would liavi; 1 .■ (-11 neither startled nor dismayed. But he managed to say to his host, aside — " Beauregard, look here. I suppose in this sort of shooting you have some little understanding with your head-keeper about the posts — who i to be a bit favoured, you know 1 Well, I wish would ask him to look after my friend Stewart. Ho can le out altogether, it be Liki fellow, there will be I any difference j but I will look after your friend my elf. I sup] i have no guns with yoa I" " I have 1 LOgilvie's. Stewart has none." " I will get "ii" for liini." I'., and by they wenl up tairs to their respective rooms, and ' 'ii"— tli it, ! , he was scarcely aware of the present of the man who was opening his portmanteau and 2 I S MA CLEOD OF DARE putting out his things. He lay back in the low easy-chair, anil stared absently into the blazing fire. This was a beautiful but a lonely house. There were many strangers in it. But if she had been one of the people below — if he could at this moment look forward to meeting her at dinner — if there was a chance of his sitting beside her and listening to the low and sweet voice — with what an eager joy he would have Avaited for the sound of the bell ! As it was, his heart was in London. He had no sort of interest in this big house; or in the strangers whom he had met ; or in the proceedings of the morrow, about w,hich all the men were talking. It was a lonely house. He was aroused by a tapping at the door. " Come in," he said — and Major Stewart entered, blooming and roseate over his display of white linen. " Good gracious ! " said he, " aren't you dressed yet 1 It wants but ten minutes to dinner-time. What have you been doing V Macleod jumped up with some shamefacedness, and began to array himself quickly. "Macleod," said the Major, subsiding into the big arm-chair very carefully, so as not to crease his shining shirt-front, " I must give you another piece of advice. It is serious. I have heard again and again that when a man thinks only of one thing — when he keeps brooding over it day and night — he is bound to become mad. They call it monomania. You are becoming a monomaniac." "Yes, I think I am," Macleod said, laughing; "but it is a very pleasant sort of monomania, and I am not anxious to become sane. But you really must not be hard on me, Stewart. You know this is rather an important thing that has happened to me; and it wants a good deal of thinking over." " Bah !" the Major cried, "why take it so much ecu grand ux ? A girl likes you ; says she'll marry you ; probably, if she continues in the same mind, she will. Consider yourself a lucky dog; and don't break your heart if an accident occurs. Hope for the best; that you and she mayn't quarrel; and that she mayn't prove a sigher. Now what do you think of this house 1 I consider it an uncommon good dodge to put each person's name outside his bedroom-door; there can't be any IN SUSSEX 219 confounded mistakes — and women squealing — if you come up late at night, Why, Macleod, you don't mean that this affair has destroyed all your interest in the shooting 1 Man, I have heen down to the gun-room with your friend Beauregard ; have seen the head-keeper ; got a gun that suits me first-rate — a trifle long in the stock perhaps, hut no matter. You won't tip any more than the head-keeper, eh? And the fellow who carries your cartridge-hag 1 I do think it uncommonly civil of a man, not only to ask you to go shooting, hut find you in guns and cartridges as well; don't you?" The Major chatted on with great cheerfulness. He clearly considered that he had got into excellent quarters. At dinner he told some of his most famous Iudian stories to Lady 1 regard, near whom he was sitting; and at night, in the smoking-room, he was great on deer-stalking. It was not necessary for Macleod, or anybody else, to talk. The Major was in full flow, though he stoutly refused to touch the spirits on tin; table. He wanted a clear head and a steady hand for the mornir All-;! alas! The next morning presented a woful spectacle. 7 skies — heavy and rapidly drifting clouds — pouring rain — runnels <>f clear water by tin- side of every gravel-path — a rook or two battling with the squally south-west er high over the wide and desolate park— the wild duck at the margin of the ruffled flapping their wings a if the wet was too much even for them — nearer at hand the firs and evergreens all dripping. After breakfa I the m tie | andered disconsolately into the cold billiard-room, and began knocking the balls about. All the loquacious cheerfulne 1 of the Major had fled. He Looked out on the '■ b and the ombre woods ; and ighed. • twelve o'clock there was a hurry and confusion throughout the house ; for all of a sudden the ski< the west cleared ; there was a glimmer of blue, and then gleams another during tlii beautiful brief November u tied hi 'in '••. er his Bhoulder even when the whirring, bright-plumagcd bird tarting from time to 222 MACLEOD OF DARE time from tlio hedge-rows — and devoted most of his attention to warning his friend when and where to shoot. However, an incident occurred which entirely changed the aspect of affairs. At one beat lie was left quite alone — posted in an open space of low brushwood close by the corner of a wood. He rested the butt of his gun on his foot ; ho was thinking, not of any pheasant or hare, but of the beautiful picture Gertrude White would mako if she were coming down one of these open glades, between the green stems of the trees, with the sunlight around her and the fair sky overhead. Idly he watched the slowly-drifting clouds ; they were going away northward — by and by they would sail over London. The rifts of blue widened in the clear silver ; surely the sunlight would now be shining over Regent's Park 1 Occasionally a pheasant came clattering along ; he only regarded the shining colours of its head and neck brilliant in the sunlight. A hare trotted by him ; he let it go. But while he was standing thus, and vaguely listening to the rattle of guns on the other side, he was suddenly startled by a quick cry of pain ; and he thought he heard some one call " Macleod ! Macleod ! " In- stantly he put his gun against a bush ; and ran. He found a hedge at the end of the wood ; he drove through it, and got into the open field. There was tiic unlucky Major, with blood running clown his face, a handkerchief in his hand, and two men beside him — one of them offering him some brandy from a flask. However, after the first fright was over it was seen that Major Stewart was but slightly hurt. The youngest member of the party had fired at a bird coming out of the wood ; had missed it ; had tried to wheel round to send the second barrel after it ; but his feet, having sunk into the wet clay, had caught there, and in his stumbling fall, somehow or other the second barrel went off, one pellet just catching the Major under the eye. The surface wound caused a good shedding of blood, but that was all ; and when the Major had got his face washed, he shouldered his gun again, and with indomitable pluck said he would see the tiling out. It was nothing but a scratch, he declared. It might have been dangerous; but what was the good of considering what might have been? To the young man who had been the cause of the accident, and who was quite unable to express his IN SUSSEX 223 profound sorrow and shame, he was generously considerate, saying that he had a mind to fine him in the sum of one penny by taking a postage-stamp to cover the wound. " Lord Beauregard," said he, cheerfully, " I want you to show me a thorough-going hot corner. You know I am an ignoramus at this kind of thing." '•' "Well," said his host, " there is a good hit along here — if you would rather go on." " Go on 1 " said he. " Of course ! " And it was a "hot corner." They came to it at the end of a long double hedge-row connected with the wood they had just beaten ; and as there was no " stop " at the corner of the wood, the pheasants, in large numbers, had run into the channel between the double line of hedge. Here they were followed by the keepers and beaters, who kept gently driving them along. Occasionally one got up, and was instantly knocked over by one of the guns ; but it was evident that the" hot corner" would be at the end of this hedge-row, where there was stationed a k frocked rustic who, down on his knees, was gently tapping with a bit ' f stick. The number of birds getting up increased, bo 'hat the six guns had pretty sharp work to reckon with them ; and not a few of the wildly whirring objects got clean away into the : '1 -Lord Beauregard all the time calling out from the other side of the hedge, " Shoot high I shoot high!" But at the end of the hedge row an extraordinary scene occurred. One after the other then in twos and threes — the birds sprung high over the bushes \ the rattle of mui ketry all the guns being ther dow— was deafening; the air was oiled with gun- '.•■ ; and everj cond or 1 wo another bird came tumbling down on to the young com, Macleod, with a sort of ive laugh, pal I 1 over hi 1 shoulder. '•This is down kupidity," he aid to Major Stewart, who ly b b it I a 1 ever he could cram cart 1 idges into the . "f bis gun. STou can'l tell whether you are bittu l 1 . not. There ! Chn s mi □ fin d at that bird — and the other t- not touched." The fa illade la ted (or about eight or ten minutes; and then it was discovered thai though certainly two or' three hundred 224 MACLEOD OF DARk pheasants had got up at this corner, only twenty-two and a half brace were killed — to five guns. "Well," said the Major, taking off his cap and wiping his forehead, "that was a hit of a scrimmage." " Perhaps," said Macleod, who had been watching with some amusement his friend's fierce zeal ; " but it was not shooting. I defy you to say how many birds you shot. Or I will do this with you — I will het you a sovereign that, if you ask each man to tell you how many birds he has shot during the day, and add them all up, the total will be twice the number of birds the keepers will take home. But I am glad you seem to enjoy it, Stewart." " To tell you the truth, Macleod," said the other, " I think I have had enough of it. I don't want to make a fuss ; but I fancy I don't quite see clearly with this eye — it may be only some slight inflammation — but I think I will go back to the house, and see if there's any surgeon in the neighbourhood." " There you are right ; and I will go back with you," Macleod said promptly. When their host heard of this, he was for breaking up the party; but Major Stewart warmly remonstrated; and so one of the men was sent with the two friends to show them the way back to the house. When the surgeon came he examined the wound and pronounced it to be slight enough in itself, but possibly dangerous when so near so sensitive an organ as the eye. He advised the Major, if any symptoms of inflammation declared thi mselves, to go at once to a skilful oculist in London, and not to leave for the north until he was assured. " That sounds rather well, Macleod," said he ruefully. " Oh, if you must remain in London — though I hope not— 1 will stay with you," Macleod said. It was a great sacrifice — ■ his remaining in London, instead of going at once back to Castle Dare ; but what will not one do for one's friend 1 AN INTERVIEW 225 CHAPTER XXVI. AN INTERVIEW. On the eventful morning on which Major Stewart was to he presented to the chosen bride of Macleod of Dare, the simple- ted soldier — notwithstanding that he had a shade over one eye — made himself exceedingly smart. He would show the young lady that Maclcod's friends in the north were not barbarians. The Major sent hack his hoots to he brushed a second time. A more smoothly-fitting pair of gloves Bond • never saw. " Dut you have not the air," said he to Macleod, "of a young » to see bus sweetheart. "What is the matter, man'?" I hesitated for a momi at. ■• Well, I am anxious she should impress you favourably," said li'' frankly, " a awkward position for her -and shewill mbarrassed, no doubt — and I have some pity for her, and almost wish some other way had been taken " "Oh, nonsense/' the Major said, cheerfully, "you need not ho on her account. Why, man, the silliest girl in the world c 'Ui an old fool like me. Once upon a time, perhaps, J may have considered myself a connoisseur — well, you know, '. 1 once was near as slim as yourself; but now, Mess you, if a tolerably pi irl only says a civil word or two to me I it' I were her guardian angel — in loco . and that kind of thing— and I would B LOT hang It' than 1 an hi c dre is or say a word ahout, her figure. Do think shewill be afraid of a critic with one eyel Have . man! I dare bel a sovereign she is quite capable of taking care, of herself, tt's her bu iie Macleod flushed quickly ; and tie' one ej e of the Major caught thai sudden I me or re entment. "Whal I meant wa . dd in tantly, "that nature, had hi the imple t of vii 1 tain ti el. of fence - oh yi , don't you be afraid. Embni at] tf there is nny ono Q 2z6 MACLEOD OF DARE embarrassed, it will not be me, ami it will not be she. Why, she'll begin to wonder whether you are really one of the Maeleods if you Bhow yourself nervous, apprehensive, frightened like this." " And indeed, Stewart," said he, rising as if to shake off some weight of gloomy feeling, "I scarcely know what is the matter with me. I ought to he the happiest man in the world : and sometimes this very happiness seems so great that it is like to suffocate me — I cannot breathe fast enough; and then again I get into such unreasoning fears and troubles — well, let us. get out into the fresh air." The Major carefully smoothed his hat once more, and took up his cane. lie followed Macleod down-stairs — like Sancho Pan/a waiting on Don Quixote, as he himself expressed it; and then the two friends slowly sauntered away northward, on this fairly clear and pleasant December morning. "Your nerves are not in a healthy state, that's the fact, Macleod," said the Major, as they walked along. " The climate of London is too exciting for you ; a good, long, dull winter in Mull will restore your tone. Bat in the mean time don't cut my throat, or your own, or anybody else's." " Am I likely to do that 1 " Macleod said, laughing. " There was young Bouverie," the Major continued, not heeding the question, — " what a handsome young fellow he was when he joined us at Gawulpoor — and he hadn't been in the place a week but he must needs go regular head over heels about our colonel's sister-in-law. An uncommon pretty woman she was too — an Irish girl, and fond of riding ; and dash me if that fellow didn't fairly try to break his neck again and again just that she should admire his pluck. He was as mad as a hatter about her. Well, one day two or three of us had been riding for two or three hours on a blazing hot morning, and we came to one of the irrigation reservoirs — big wells, you know — and what does he do but offer to bet twenty pounds he would dive into the well and swim about for five minutes, till we hoisted him out at the end of the rope. I forget who took the bet — for none of us thought he would do it : but I believe he would have done anything so that the story of his pluck might be carried to the girl, don't you know. Well, off went his clothes, and in he jumped into the ice-cold water. AN INTERVIEW 22? Nothing would stop him. But at the end of the five minutes when we hoisted up the rope, there was no Bouverie there. It appeared that on clinging on to the rope he had twisted it some- how, and suddenly found himself about to have his neck broken, so he had to shake himself free and plunge into the water again. When at last we got him out, he had had a longer bath than he had bargained for; but there was apparently nothing the matter with him — and he had won the bet, and there would be a talk about him. However, two days afterwards, when he was at dinner, he Buddenly felt as though he had got a blow on the back of the head — so he told us afterwards — and fell back insensible. That was the beginning of it. It took him five or six years to shake off the effects of that dip " "And did she many him after all?" Macleod said eagerly. " Oh dear no. I think he had been invalided home not more than two or three months when Bhe married Connolly, of the Madras Infantry. Then she ran away from him with some civilian fellow ; and I lonnolly blew his brains out. That," said the Major, honestly, "is always a puzzle to me. How a fellow can 1 e such an ass as to blow his brains out when his wife runs away from him beats my comprehension altogether. Now what I should do would be this; I should thank goodness I was rid ich a piece of baggage ; I would get all the good fellows I know, and give them a rattling fine dinner; and I would drink a bumper to her health, and another bumper to her never coming k." \ih1 I would send you our Donald, and he would play Cha till mi tuilich for yo 1.' Macleod said. •• Bui as for blowin brains out ! Well," the Major, added, with a philosophic air, "when a man is mad he cares neither fox his own life nor for ai j . Look at (hose u continually see in the papei j lung man La in love with a young woman ; tbey quarrel, or he prefers so) neeise; win' he do but lay hold of her some evening and cut her throal 1 c her and then he 1 lly give himself np to the police and 13 he is quite content to be hanged." "Stewart," said Macleod, laughing, "1 don't like thia talk Q 2 223 MACLEOD OF DARE about hanging. You said a minute or two ago that I was mad." " More or less," observed the Major, with absolute gravity, — ■ " as the lawyer said when he mentioned the Fifteen-acre Park at Dublin." " Well, let us get into a hansom," Macleod said. " When I am hanged you will ask them to write over mytombstone that I never kept anybody waiting for either luncheon or dinner." The smart maid-servant who opened the door greeted Macleod with a pleasant smde ; she was a sharp wench, and had discovered that lovers have lavish hands. She showed the two visitors into the drawing-room; Macleod silent, and listening intently, the one-eyed Major observing everything, and perhaps curious to know whether the house of an actress differed from that of any- body else. He very speedily came to the conclusion that, in his small experience, he had never seen any house of its size so tastefully decorated and accurately managed as this simple home. " But what's this ! " he cried, going to the mantelpiece and taking down a drawing that was somewhat ostentatiously placed there. " Well ! if this is English hospitality ! By Jove ! an insult to me, and my father, and my father's clan — that blood alone wdl wipe out ! The astonishment of Sandy MacAlister Mhor on beholding a glimpse of sunlight : look ! " He showed this rude drawing to Macleod — a sketch of a wild Highlander, with his hair on end, his eyes starting out of his head, and his hands uplifted in bewilderment. This work of art was the production of Miss Carry, who, on hearing the knock at the door, had whipped into the room, placed her bit of savage satire over the mantelpiece, and whipped out again. But her deadly malice so far failed of its purpose that, instead of inflicting any annoyance, it most effectually broke the embarrassment of Mass Gertrude's entrance and introduction to the Major. " Carry has no great love for the Highlands," she said, laughing and slightly blushing at the same time, " but she need not have prepared so cruel a welcome for you. Won't you sit down, Major Stewart? Papa will be here directly." " I think it is uncommonly clever," the Major said, fixing his one eye on the paper as if he would give Miss White distinctly AN INTERVIEW 229 to understand that lie had not come to stave at her. " Perhaps she will like us better when she knows more about us." " Do you think," said Miss White demurely, " that it is possible for any one born in the south to learn to like the >ipes?" '• No," said Macleod quickly, and it was not usual for him to break in in this eager way about a usual matter of talk, " that is all a cpiestion of association. If you had been brought up to associate the sound of the pipes with every memorable thing — with the sadness of a funeral, and the welcome of friends come ee you, and the pride of going away to war, then you would understand why the Cogadh na Sith, or the Failte Phrionsa, or that one that is called I had a Kiss of the King's Hand — why i bring the tears to a Highlander's eyes. The pibrochs irve our legends for us," he went on to say, in rather an cxcit'-l fashion — for ho was obviously nervous, and perhaps a trifl': paler thai) usual. "They remind us of what our families done in all parts of the world ; and there is not one you do not ' • with some friend ot relative who is gone away; or with some greal merrymaking ; or with the death of one who was deaz to you. You never saw that — the boat taking the coffin the loch, and the friends of the dead sitting with bent heads, and the piper at the bow playing the slow Lament to the time of the oai 3 —if you bad seen that you would know what the iJiadh Mhic a T ' ach is to a Highlander. And if you have a friend come to see you, what is it first tells you of his in^'] When you can hear nothing fox the waves, you ran hear the pip I And if you were going into a battle, what would to your head but to hear the march thai you know r brothers and uncles and cou Ins la t heard when they inarched on with a cl t to 1 ike death a II happened to come to theml You might as well wonder at the Highlanders loving (ho ther. That is not a very handsome flower." Miss Whil ug quite calm and collected, A covert g] ince or I the Major thai she was entirely of th" situation. If there was any one nen emb I, excited tl it this interview, it was not Miss Gertrude White, 230 , ICLEOD OF DARE "The other morning," she said complacently — and she pulled down her dainty white cuffs another sixteenth of an inch — " I was going along Buckingham Palace Road, and I met a detach- ment — is a detachment right, Major Stewart? — of a Highland regiment. At least I supposed it was part of a Highland regiment, because they had eight pipers playing at their head; and I noticed that the cab-horses were far more frightened than they would have been at twice the noise coming from an ordinary band. I was wondering whether they might think it the roar of some strange animal — you know how a camel frightens a horse. But I envied the officer who was riding in the front of the soldiers. He was a very handsome man ; and I thought how proud he must feel to be at the head of those fine, stalwart fellows. In fact, I felt for a moment that I should like to have command of a regiment myself." "Faith," said the Major gallantly, "I would exchange into that regiment if I had to serve as a drummer-boy." Embarrassed by this broad compliment 1 'Not a bit of it. Sho laughed lightly ; and then rose to introduce the two visitors to her father, who had just entered the room. It was not to be expected that Mr. White, knowing the errand of his guests, should give them an inordinately effusive welcome. But he was gravely polite. He prided himself on being a man of common sense ; and he knew it was no use fighting against the inevitable. If his daughter would leave the stage, she would ; and there was some small compensation in the fact that by her doing so she would become Lady Macleod. He would have less money to spend on trinkets two hundred years old ; but ho would gain something — a very little, no doubt — from the reflected lustre of her social position. " We were talking about officers, papa," she said brightly, "and I was about to confess that I have always had a great liking for soldiers. I know if I had been a man I should have been a soldier. But do you know, Sir Keith, you were once very rude to me about your friend Lieutenant OgUvie 1 " Macleod started. " I hope not," said he, gravely. " Oh yes, you were. Don't you remember the Caledonian AN INTERVIEW 231 Ball? I only remarked that Lieutenant Ogilvie, who seemed to me a bonnie boy, did not look as if he were a very formidable warrior ; and you answered with some dark saying — what was it ] — that nobody could tell what sword was in a scabbard until it was drawn % " " Oh," said he, laughing somewhat nervously, " you forget : I was talking to the Duchess of Devonshire." " And I am sure her Grace "was much obliged to you for frightening her so," Miss White said with a dainty smile. Major Stewart was greatly pleased by the appearance and charming manner of this young lady. If Macleod, who was confessedly a handsome young fellow, had searched all over land, he could not have chosen a fitter mate. But he was distinctly of opinion — judging by his one eye only — that nobody needed to be alarmed about this young lady's exceeding sensitiveness and embarrassment before strangers. He thought would on all occasions be fairly capable of holding her own. And he was qui ivinced too that the beautiful, clear eyes, under the long lashes, pretty accurately divined what was going forward. But what did this impression of the honest soldier's amount to 1 ? Only, in other words, that Miss Gertrude White, though a pretty woman, was not a fool. Luncheon was announced, and they went into the other room, mpanied by Mi i Carry, who bad suffered herself to bo Major Stewarl with a certain proud sedateness. And played the part of the accepted lover's friend II tte next Miss White herself ; and no matter wh.it. the talk was about, he man iged to bring LI round to some- thing that redounded to Mac! ;e. Macleod could do tin , and Macleod could do that; it was all Macleod, and Macleod, and MacL 1 1. \nd if yon should 1 ae t" our part of the world, i\l Wli. I the Major- not letting hi a meet hers -"you will I imething of the old loyalty and affection and devotion the people In the Highlands show to their chief I don't believe there is a man, woman, or child about the place who would n a hand cut off than that •;od should liave a thorn b I im. \nd it is all tho 232 MACLEOD Or DARE more singular, you know, that they are not Macleods. Mull is the country of the Macleans ; and the Macleans and the Macleods had their fights in former times. There is a cave they will show you round the point from Ru na Gaid lighthouse that is called Uamh-na-Ceann — that is, the Cavern of the Skulls — where the Macleods murdered fifty of the Macloans, though Alastair Crotach, the humpbacked son of Macleod, was himself killed." "I beg your pardon, Major Stewart," said Miss Carry, with a grand statcliness in her tone, "but Avill you allow me to ask if this is true 1 It is a passage I saw cpioted in a book the other day, and I copied it out. It says something about the character of the people you are talking about." She handed him the bit of paper ; and he read these words : — " Trew it is, that tJiir Ilandlsh men ar of nature verie prowd, suspicious, avaricious, full of deccpt and cvill invcntioun each aganis his nychthour, be what way soever he may circumvin him. Besydis all this, they ar sa crewall in taking of revenge that nather have they regard to person, cage, tyme, or cans ; sa arthey generallie all sa far addictit to thair awin tyrannicall opinions that, in all respects, they exceed in creweltie the maist barbarous people that ever lies bene sen the begynning of the ivarld." "Upon my word," said the honest Major, "it is a most formidable indictment. You had hotter ask Sir Keith about it." He handed the paper across the table ; Macleod read it, and burst out laughing. " It is too true, Carry," said he. " We are a dreadful lot of people up there among the hills. Nothing but murder and rapine from morning till night." "I was telling him this morning he would probably be hanged," observed the Major, gravely. " For what 1 " Miss White asked. " Oh," said the Major carelessly, " I did not specify the offence. Cattledifting, probably." Miss Carry's fierce onslaught was thus laughed away, and they proceeded to other matters ; the Major meanwhile not failing to remark that this luncheon differed considerably from the bread and cheese and glass of whisky of a shooting-day in Mull. AN INTERVIEW 233 Then they returned to the drawing-room, and had tea there, and some further talk. The Major had hy this time quite abandoned his critical and observant attitude. He had succumbed to the enchantress. He was ready to declare that Gertrude White was the most fascinating woman he had ever met, while, as a matter of fact, she had been rather timidly making suggestions and asking his opinion all the time. And when they rose to leave she said — "I am very sorry, Major Stewart, that this unfortunate lent should have altered your plans ; but since you must lain in London, I hope we shall see you often before you go." " You arc very kind," said he. " We cannot ask you to dine with us," she said, quite simply and frankly, "because of my engagements in the evening; but wo are always at home at lunch-time, and Sir Keith knows tho "Thank ; y much," said tho Major, as he warmly pi — 1 het hand. The two friends passed out into the street. '.\y dear fellow," said the Major, "you have been lucky — don't imagine I am humbugging you— a really handsome lass, and a thorough woman of the world too — trained and titled at ry point — none of your farm-yard beauties. But I say, !, I say," lie continued solemnly, "won't she find it a trifle dull al ' -the change, you know." ■■It isnol iry that she should live at Dare," Macleod «< 1 1 -..,11 know your own plans best." ■■I 1 All that IS in tli" a t. -\iel SO yOU do not think I h : mi I ike 1 " -I .... ; fa 1 ad-twenty, and could make a mistake like that," .- dd the Major, with a igh. M mwhile I ' I irry had confronted her sis! fa ive fa ten Inspected, 1 1 '0 you think you ('' "Go away, and don't be Imp ', yOU silly girl," said tho oth-T, a 1 naturedly. 234 MACLEOD OF DARE Carry pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket, and, advancing, placed it on the table. " There," said she, " put that in your purse, and don't tell mo you have not been warned, Gertrude White." The elder sister did as she was hid ; but indeed she was not thinking at that moment of the cruel and revengeful character of the Western Highlanders, which Miss Carry's quotations set forth in such plain terms. She was thinking that she had never before seen Glenogie look so soldier-like and handsome. CHAPTER XXVII. AT A RAILWAY STATION. Tiie few days of grace obtained by the accident that happened to Major Stewart fled too quickly away ; and the time came for Baying farewell. With a dismal apprehension Macleod looked forward to this moment. Ho had seen her on the stage bid a pathetic good-bye to her lover ; and there it was beautiful enough — with her shy coquetries, and her winning ways, and the timid, reluctant confession of her love. But there was nothing at all beautiful about this ordeal through which he must pass. It was harsh and horrible. Ho trembled oven as ho thought of it. Tho last day of his stay in London arrived ; he roso with a sense of some awful doom hanging over him that he could in no wise shake off. It was a strange day too — the world of London vaguely shining through a pale fog, the sun a globe of red fire. There was hoar-frost on the window-ledges ; at last the winter aed about to begin. And then, as ill-luck would have it, Miss White had some important business at the theatre to attend to, so that she could not see hhn tdl the afternoon ; and he had to pass the empty morning somehow. AT A RAIL If A Y STA TION 235 •• You look like a man going to be hanged," said the Major, it noon; "come, shall we stroll down to the river now? We have a chat with your friend before lunch, and a look over his boat." Colonel Ross, being by chance at Erith, had heard of Macleod's being in town, and had immediately come up in his little steam yacht, the Iris, which now lay at anchor close to AVestminster Bridge, on the Lambeth side. He had proposed, merely for tho oddity of the thing, that Macleod and his friend the Major should lunch on board, and young Ogilvie had promised to run up from Aldershot. "Macleud," said the gallant soldier, as the two friends walked irely down towards the Thames, " if you let this monomania ■uch a hold of you, do you know how it will end'? You will in to show signs of having a conscience." " What do you mean?" said he, absently. " Y rvous system will break down, and you will begin to 1 :e. Th it is a sure sign, in cither a man or a nation. .Man, don't [ see it all around us now in this way of [ndia and trie colonies? "We had no conscience — wo in robust health a- a nation — when we thrashed the French out of Canada; an [India; and stole land just wherever ould put oni- fingers on it all over the globe ; but now it is fjuitc different we are only educating these countries up to all in tin: interest of morality that wo ■ them- a on as they wi h to go we will give them our we have got a con cience, because the national and nervou . Y in l ioi out, or you will get into udition. Fou will begin to ask whether it, 1 right tiy littl inord r to 1 it them; you will become ' ii m ; an 1 yon v, ill take ' •' id MacL id, waking up, " what is this all about?" ■• I' B •," ol Major, or icu] irly, " wa 1 a healthy man. I will make you a bet ho was not much troubled by chilblains." "Stewart," Bfacleod cried, "do you want to drive me mad? What on earth 1 I dicing about?" 236 MACLEOD OF DARE "Anything," tlio Major confessed frankly, "to rouso you out of your monomania, because I don't want to have my tliroat cut by a lunatic some night up at Castle Dare." " Castle Dare,'' repeated Macleod, gloomily. " I think I shall scarcely know the place again ; and we have been away about a fortnight ! " No sooner had they got down to the landing-steps on the Lambeth side of the river than they were descried from the deck of the beautiful little steamer, and a boat was sent ashore for them. Colonel Ross was standing by the tiny gangway to receive them ; they got on board, and passed into the glass-surrounded saloon. There certainly was something odd in the notion of being anchored in the middle of the great city ; absolutely cut off from it and inclosed in a miniature floating world ; the very sound of it hushed and remote. And, indeed, on this strango morning the big town looked more dream-like than usual as they regarded it from the windows of the saloon : — the buildings opal- like in the pale fog ; a dusky glitter on the high toAvers of the Houses of Parliament; and some touches of rose-red on tho ripples of the yellow water around them. Right over there was the very spot to which he had idly wandered in the clear dawn, to have a look at the peacefully flowing stream. How long ago % It seemed to him, looking back, somehow the morning of life — shining clear and beautiful, before any sombre anxieties, and joys scarcely less painful, had come to cloud the fair sky. He thought of himself at that time Avith a sort of Avonder. He saAV himself standing there, glad to Avatch tho pale and growing glory of the dawn, careless as to Avhat the day might bring forth; and he knew that it was another and an irrecoverable Macleod he was mentally regarding. Well, when his friend Ogilvie arrived, he endeavoured to assume some greater spirit and cheerfulness, and they had a pleasant enough luncheon-party in the gently-moving saloon. Thereafter Colonel Eoss was for getting up steam and taking them for a run somewhere : but at this point Macleod begged to be excused for running away ; and so having consigned Major SteA\ r art to the care of his host for the moment, and having bade good-bye to Ogdvie, he Avent ashore. He made his Avay up tc AT A RAIL WA V STA TION 237 the ccttagc in South Bank. Be entered the drawing-room and sate down, alone. "When she came in, she said, with a quick anxiety — " You are not ill 1 " " Ho, no," he said, rising — and his face was haggard somewhat, "but it is not pleasant to come to say good-bye " " You must not take it so seriously as that," she said, with a friendly smile. '• Mv going away i3 like going into a grave," he said slowly } " it is dark." And then he took her two hands in his, and regarded her with such an i ty of look that she almost drew back, afraid. "Sometimes," he said, watching her eyes, "I think I shall ii." " ( >li. Keith," said she, drawing her hands away and speaking playfully, " you really frighten me. And even if you were lin, wouldn't it be a very good thing for you 1 Y iu would have gol rid of a bad bargain." '• It would not be a very good thing for me," he said, still rding her. ■ 'h, well, don't speak of it," said she, lightly; "let us speak of all tl. be done in the long lime that must pass before we meet " "Bui why 'must'l" he said eagerly. "Why 'murt'l If knew how I tool forward to the blackness of this winter i up tl. 1 faraway from you that I shall forget the oh I you cannot know what it is to me I " II li 1 1 it down again; hi eyi , with a sort of pained and hui .. in them, benl on the floor, "Bui thi ' you know," she said cheerfully, " and should be en ible folk and ci cognize it, Xou know I ought 1 probationary period, as il were Like a nun, you know, e 1 1 fit to " If White paused, with a Little embarra mentj but he charged the difficulty, and said with a slight I 1 ' the veil, In fact. STou must give mo time to 2 3 3 MACLEOD OF DARE become accustomed to a whole heap of things : if we were to do anything suddenly now, we might blunder into some great mistake, perhaps irretrievable. I must train myself by degrees for another kind of life altogether; and I am going to surpri.se yon, Keith — I am indeed. If papa takes me to the Highlands next year, you won't recognize me at all. I am going to read up all about the Highlands, and learn the tartans, and the names of fishes and birds j and I will walk in the rain and try to think nothing about it; and perhaps I may learn a little Gaelic : indeed, Keith, when you see me in the Highlands, you will find me a thorough Highland woman." "You will never become a Highlandwoman," he said, with a grave kindness. " Is it needful? I would rather see you as you are than playing a part." Her eyes expressed some quick wonder, for he had almost quoted her father's words to her. "You would rather see me as I am?" she said demurely. "But what am 1 1 I don't know myself." "You are a beautiful and gentle-hearted Englishwoman," he said, with honest admiration — " a daughter of the south. Why should you wish to be anything else] When you come to us, I will show you a true Highlandwoman — that is, my cousin Janet." " Now you have spoiled all my ambition," she said somewhat petulantly. " I had intended spending all the winter in training myself to forget the habits and feelings of an actress ; and I was going to educate myself for another kind of life; and now I find that when I go to the Highlands you will compare me with your cousin Janet ! " "That is impossible," said he absently, for he was thinking of the time when the summer seas would be blue again, and the winds soft, and the sky clear; and then he saw the long gig of the Umpire going merrily out to the great steamer to bring the beautiful stranger from the south to Castle Dare ! "Ah, well, I am not going to quarrel with you on this our last day together," she said, and she gently placed her soft white hand on the clenched fist that rested on the table. " I see you are in great trouble — T wish I could lessen it. And yet how AT A RAIL IV A V S TA TION 239 couLl I wish that you should think of me less, even during the ■ winter evenings, when it will be so much more lonely for than for me? But you must leave me my Lobby all the same ; and you must think of me always as preparing myself and looking forward ; for at least, you know you will expect me to be able to sing a Highland ballad to your friends ! " "Yes, yes," he said hastily, " if it is all true — if it is all possible — what you speak of. Sometimes I think it is madness of me to fling away my only chance ; to have everything I care for in the world near me, and to go away and perhaps never return ; sometimes I know in my heart that I shall never see you again — never after this day." " All, now," Baid Bhe brightly — for she fcmcd this black demon .11 of him again, " I will kill that superstition at V 1 .-■//"// see me after to-day ; for, as sure as my name rtrude "Whit'', I will go up to the railway-station to-morrow morning, and see you oil'. There!" •• Y ; will ? " he Baid, with a flush of joy on his face. " But I don't want any one else to sec me," Bhe said, looking down. " oli, I will manage that," he said eagerly. " I will get Major Stewart into the carriage ten minutes before the train starts." ■• Colonel Ross?" "II • ■ - Ki< k to Erith to night." \n'l I will bring to the station," Baid she, with some shy colour in her face, " a little present— if you should peak of me air mother you mi •• her thie from me— it belonged to my mother." Could anything have been more delicately devised than this tender and timid mi "You have a won, in' heart," he said. ■ 1 then in the Bame low voice he began to explain that she would lik'' ln'in to go to the theatre thai evening; and that perhaps he would go al ne ; and would he do her the favour to :i a particular boxl Bhe took a piece of paper from her e, and shyly banded it. to him. Bow could he refuse? — though he Q [I he a ked, " I will know where you are," 1. 240 MACLEOD OF DARE And so lie was not to bid good-bye to her on this occasion, after all. But he bade good-bye to Mr. White, and to Miss Carry, who was quite civil to him now that he was going away ; and then ho went out into the cold and grey December afternoon. They were lighting the lamps. But gaslight throws no cheerful- ness on a grave. He went to the theatre later on; and the talisman she had given him took him into a box almost level with the stage, and so near to it that the glare of the footlights bewildered his eyes until he retired into the corner. And once more he saw the puppets come and go ; with the one live woman among them, whose every tone of voice made his heart leap. And then this drawing-room scene, in which she comes in alone, and talking to herself? She sits down to the piano, carelessly. Some one enters, unpercuived, and stands silent there, to listen to the sing- ing. And this air that she sings, Avaywardly, like a light-hearted school-girl? — o " Hi-ri-libhin o, Brave Maclntyre, Ili-ri-libhin o, Costly thy wooing ! Thou'st slain the maid. Ilug-o-rin-o, "lis thy undoing. " Hi-ri-libhin o, Friends of my love, Ili-ri-libhin o, Do not upbraid him ; He was leal. Hug-o-rin-o, Chance betrayed him." Macleod's breathing came quick and hard. She had not sung this ballad of the brave Maclntyre when formerly he had seen the piece. Did she merely wish him to know— by this arch rendering of the gloomy song — that she was pursuing her High- land studies? And then the last verse she sang in the Gaelic ! He was so near that he could hear this adjuration to the unhappy lover to seek his boat and fly, steering wide of Jura and avoiding Mull :— " Ili-ri-libhin o, Buin Bata, Hi-ri-libhin o, Fag an duthaicfl, Seacha'n Mule, Hug-o-rin-o : Sna taodh Jura ! ,; AT A RAIL WA Y ST A TION 241 Was she laughing, then, at her pronunciation of the Gaelic when sho carelessly rose from the piano — and, in doing so, directed one glance towards him which made him quail % The foolish piece went on. She was more bright, vivacious, coquettish than ever : how could she have such spirits in view of the long separation that lay on his heart like lead 1 Then, at the end of the piece, there was a tapping at the door, and an envelope was handed in to him. It only contained a card, with the message " Good night ! " scrawled in pencil. It was the last time ho ever was in any theatre. Then that next morning, — cold, and raw, and damp, with a blustering north-west wind that seemed to bring an angry summons from the far seas. At the station, his hand was trembling like the hand of a drunken man; his eyes wild and troubled ; his face haggard. And as the moment arrived for the train to start, he became more and more excited. " Como and take your place, Macleod," the Major said. "There is no use worrying about leaving. Wo have eaten our . The frolic is at an end. All wo can do is to sing, 'Then you well, my Mary Wane,' and put up with whatever is ahead. If I could only have a drop of real, genuine Taliskei to ly my nerves " But here the Major, who had been incidentally leaning out of window, caught sight of a figure ; and instantly he withdrew his head. Macleod disappeared. Xh ' '11 —with the hollow footfalls of strangers, ;m ,l )],,. cries oul ide. 1 1 quite white, when he took her hand, •■ I am very late," nil©. II old no! alL He 6 ced hi 1 j hi 1 1 with a intensity, a Lf he would read het eery oul ; and what could one find thi re bu itlene and Lncerity, and the frank confid< n< e of on< who had nothing to conceal I : he al 1 1 1, •• v.li itever happen itoua two, you will never forge! that I loved you." " I think I may be are of that," le ud, looking down. 'lb' j rang a bell oul lidc. . then." B 243 MACLEOD OF DARE Ho tightly grasped the hand ho held ; once more ho gazed into those clear and confiding eyes — with an almost piteously-auxious look : then he kissed her, and hurried away. But she Avas hold enough to follow. Her eyes were moist. Her heart was heating fast. If Glenogie had there and then challenged her, and said, " Come, then, sweetheart ; will you flu with me ? And the proud mother will meet you. And the gentle cousin will attend on you. And Castle Dare will welcome the young bride/" — what would she have said ] The moment was over. She only saw the train go gently away from the station ; and she saw the piteous eyes lixed on hers ; and while he was in sight she waved her handkerchief. When the train had disappeared, she turned away with a sigh. "Poor fellow," she was thinking, "he is very much in earnest — far more in earnest than even poor Howson. It would break my heart if I were to bring him any trouble." By the time sho had got to the end of the platform, her thoughts had taken a more cheerful turn. " Dear me," she was saying to herself, " I quite forgot to ask him whether my Gaelic was good." When she had got into the street outside, the day was brightening. " I wonder," sho was asking herself, " whether Carry would come and look at that exhibition of water-colours ; and how long should we he in getting there 1 " CHAPTER XXVIII. A DISCLOSURE. , a ow hi wa all eagerness to bravo the first dragon in his way— the certain opposition of this proud old lady at Castle Dare. No doubt Bhe would stand aghast at the mere mention such a thing ; perhaps in her sudden indignation she might A DISCLOSURE 243 utter sharp words that -would rankle afterwards in the memory. In any case he knew the struggle would be long, and bitter, and harassing ; and he had not the skill of speech to persuasively bend a woman's will. There was another way — impossible, alas ! — he had thought of. If only he could have taken Gertrude AVhite by the hand — if only he could have led her up the hall, and presented her to his mother, and said, " Mother, this is your daughter : is she not fit to be the daughter of so proud a mother?" — the light would have been over. How could any one withstand the appeal of those fearless and tender clear eyes'? Impatiently he waited for the end of dinner on the evening of his arrival; impatiently he heard Donald, the piper lad, play the Salute— the wild shrill yell overcoming the low thunder of the Atlantic outside ; and he paid but little attention to the old and familiar Cumhadh na Cloinne. Then Hamish put the whisky and the claret on the table; and withdrew. They were left alone. ■• And now, Keith," said his cousin Janet, with tho wise grey erful and kind, "you will tell us about all the pie you saw in London; and was there much gaiety going OH ; and did you Bee the Queen at all ; and did you give any lino dinners?" "How can I answer you all at once, Janet?" said he, laugh- ing in a Bomewhal nervous way. " 1 did nut see the Queen, for ■ Wii 1 ; 1 ad I > it •-; 244 MACLEOD OF DARE you could understand why every one speaks so well of her, and why she is a friend with every one " He had handed the packet to his mother, and the old lady had adjusted her eye-glasses, and was turning over the various photographs. " She is very gooddooking," said Lady Macleod. " Yes, she is very gooddooking. And that is hor sister 1 " " Yes." Janet was looking over them too. " But where did you get the photographs of her, Keith 1 " she said. " They are from all sorts of places — Scarhorough, Newcastle, Brighton " " I got them from herself," said he. " Oh, do you know her so well 1 " " I know her very well. She was an intimate friend of tho people whose acquaintance I first made in London," he said, simply ; and then he turned to his mother : " I wish photo- graphs could speak, mother, for then you might make her acquaintance, and as she is coming to tho Highlands next year " "We have no theatre in Mull, Keith," Lady Macleod said, with a smile. " But by that time she will not he an actress at all : did I not tell you that before 1" he said, eagerly. "Did I not tell you that? She is going to leave the stage — perhaps sooner or later, but certainly by that time; and when she comes to tho Highlands next year with her father, she will bo travelling just like any one else. And I hope, mother, you won't let them think that we Highlanders are less hospitable than the people of London." He made the suggestion in an apparently careless fashion ; but there was an anxious look in his eyes. Janet noticed that. "It would be strange if they were to come to so unfrequented a place as the west of Mull," said Lady Macleod, somewhat ••'''Idly, as she put the photographs aside. " But I have told them all about the place and what they will see; and thej are eag< rly looking forward to it; and you surely would not have them put up at the inn at Bunessan, mother?'' A DISCLOSURE 245 " Keally, Keith, I think you have heen imprudent. It was little matter our receiving a bachelor friend like Norman Ogilvie ; hut I don't think we are quite in a condition to entertain strangers at Dare." " Xo one objected to me as a stranger when I went to London," I he, proudly. " If they are anywhere in the neighbourhood," said Lady Macleod, " I should be pleased to show them all the attention in my power, as you say they were friendly with you in London; but really, Keith, I don't think you can ask me to invite two strangers to Dare " " Then it is to the inn at Bunessan they must go? " he asked. " Now, auntie," said Janet Macleod, with her gentle voice, " you are not going to put poor Keitli into a fix ; I know you won't do that. I see the whole thing ; it is all because Keith was so thorough a Highlander. They were talking about Scot- land ; and no doubt he said there was nothing in the country to be compared with onr islands, and caves, and cliffs. And then they spoke of coming ; and of course he threw open the doors of the house to them. He would not have been a Highlander if he had done anything else, auntie j and I know you won't bo the one to make him break off an invitation. And if wo cannot them grand entertainments at Dare, wo can give them a 1 1 ighland welcome anyway." This appeal to the Highland pride of the mother was not to be with t iod "Very well, Keith," said she. ""We shall do what we can for your friends ; though it isn't much in this old place." "Shu will not look at it that way," he said, eagerly. "I know that. She will be proud to meet you, mother \ and to shake bands with you ; and to go about with you, and do just whatever you an doing " Lady Macleod I trted. ' How lo ou propose this vi it bould 1 a t?" 1 be said. "Oh, tdon'i know," said he, hastily. " But you know, mother, you would ii"! hurry your 1 am sure you would be id any one to show them that we have things worth seeing. We should take her to tb Iral at I ton fcome 246 MACLEOD OF DARE moonlight night ; and then some day wo could go out to the Duhh Artach lighthouse — and you know how the men are delighted to see a new face " " You would never think of that, Keith," his cousin said. "Do you think a London young lady would have the courage to be swung on to the rocks and to climb up all those steps out- sider' " She has the courage for that, or for anything," said he. " And, then, you know she would be greatly interested in the clouds of puffins and the skarts behind Staffa ; and we would take her to the great caves in the cliffs at Gribun ; and I have no doubt she Avould like to go out to one of the uninhabited islands." Lady Macleod had preserved a stern silence. When she had so far yielded as to promise to ask those two strangers to come to Castle Dare on their round of the western islands, she had taken it for granted that their visit would necessarily bo of the briefest ; but the projects of which Keith Macleod now spoke seemed to suggest something like a summer passed at Dare. And he went on talking in this strain, nervously delighted with the pictures that each promised excursion called up. Miss "White would be charmed with this, and delighted with that. Janet would find her so pleasant a companion ; the mother would be inclined to pet her at first sight. " She is already anxious to make your acquaintance, mother," said he to the proud old dame who sat there ominously silent. " And she could think of no other message to send you than this - — it belonged to her mother." He opened the little package — of old lace, or something of that kind — and handed it to his mother ; and at the same time, his impetuosity carrying him on, he said that perhaps the mother would write now and propose the visit in the summer. At this Lady Macleod's surprise overcame her reserve. " You must be mad, Keith | To write in the middle of winter and send an invitation for the summer ! And really the whole thing is so extraordinary — a present coming to me from an abso lute stranger — and that stranger an actress who is quite unknown to any one I know " A DISCLOSURE 24? " Mother, mother," he cried, " don't say any more. She has promised to he my wife." Lady Macleod stared at him — as if to see whether he had really gone mad ; and rose, and pushed hack her chair. " Keith," she said, slowly, and with a cold dignity, " when you choose a wife, I hope I will he the first to welcome her : and. I shall he proud to see you with a wife worthy of the name that you hear ; hut in the mean time I do not think that such a subject should he made the occasion of a foolish jest." And with that she left the apartment ; and Keith Macleod turned in a bewildered sort of fashion to his cousin. Janet Macleod had risen too ; she was regarding him with anxious and trouhled and tender eyes. "Janet," .said he, " it is no jest at all !" " I know that," said she, in a low voice, and her face wa3 somewhat pale. "I have known that. I knew it before you Went away to England this last time." And suddenly she went over to him, and bravely held out her hand ; and there were quick tears in the beautiful grey eyes. '■ Keith," said she, " there is no one will be more proud to sco yotl happy than I ; and I will do what I can for you now, if you will let me ; for I see your whole heart is set on it ; and how can I ibt that yon have chosen a good wife 1 ?" '■ I m. Janet, if you could only see her and know her ! " She turned aside for a moment— only for a moment. When he nexl iv hi i- face - ho wa 1 quite g ly. "You must know, Keith," said Blie, with a Bmile shilling through the tears of thi friendly eyes, "that women folk are very jeal I all of asuddeu you come to auntie and me, ami tell m that a sham, r hi- taken away your heart from us ami from ael you must ex] I as to be angry and resentful jusl a little hit at first." "I never could expect that from you, Janet," said he. "I knew that was always Impossible from you." " As for auntie, then," d, warmly, "is it not natural that irpri 1 and pi rhaps offended V '■Hut she says she d< believe it— that I am making 1 joke of it " 243 MACLEOD OF DARE " That is only her way of protesting, you know," said the wise cousin. "And you must expect her to ho angry and obdurate; because women have their prejudices, you know, Keith ; and this young lady — well, it is a pity she is not known to some one auntie knows." " She is known to Norman Ogilvie, and to dozens of Norman Ogilvie's friends, and Major Stewart has seen her," said he quickly ; and then he drew hack. " But that is nothing. I do not choose to have any one to vouch for her." " I know that ; I understand that, Keith," Janet Macleod said, gently. " It is enough for me that you have chosen her to he your wife ; I know you would choose a good woman to he your wife ; and it will he enough for your mother when she comes to reflect. But you must he patient." " Patient I would he, if it concerned myself alone," said he, " hut the reflection — the insult of the douht " " Now, now, Keith," said she, " don't let the hot hlood of the Macleods get the hetter of you. You must he patient, and considerate. If you will sit down now quietly, and tell me all ahout the young lady, I will he your amhassador, if you like : and I think I will he ahle to persuade auntie." " I wonder if there ever was any woman as kind as you arc, Janet?" said he, looking at her with a sort of wondering admir- ation. "You must not say that any more now," she said, with a smile. " You must consider the young lady you have chosen as perfection in all things. And this is a small matter. If auntie is difficult to persuade, and should protest, and so forth, what she says will not hurt me, whereas it might hurt you very sorely. And now you will tell me all ahout the young lady ; for I must have my hands full of arguments when I go to your mother." And so this Court of Inquiry was formed ; with one witness not altogether unprejudiced in giving his evidence ; and with a judge ready to hecome the accomplice of the witness at any point. Somehow Macleod avoided speaking of Gertrude "White's appearance. Janet was rather a plain woman — despite those tender Celtic eyes. He spoke rather of her filial duty and her sisterly affection \ he minutely descrihed her qualities as a house- A DISCLOSURE 249 mistress; and he was enthusiastic about the heroism she had shown in determining to throw aside the glittering triumphs of her calling to live a simpler and wholesomer life. That passage in the career of Miss Gertrude "White somewhat puzzled Janet Macleod. If it were the case that the ambitions and jealousies and simulated tions of a life devoted to art had a demoralising and degrading effect on the character, why had not the young lady made the discovery a little earlier'? What was the reason of her very sudden conversion] It was no doubt very noble on her part, if she really were convinced that this continual stirring up of iment without leading to practical issues had an unwhole- some influence on her woman's nature, to voluntarily surrender all the intoxication of success, with its praises and flatteries. Bat why was the change in her opinions so sudden ] According t > Macleod's own account, Miss Gertrude White, when ho first it up to London, was wholly given over to the ambition of succeeding in her profession. She was then the " white slave." She made no protest against the repeatedly-announced theories of her father to the effect that an artist ceased to live for himself or herself, and became merely a medium for the expression of the emotions of others. Perhaps the gentle cousin Janet would had a clearer view of the whole case if she had known that Mi Gh rtrade White's awakening doubts as to the wholesorne- 1 of simulated emotions on the human soul were strictly coincident in point of time with her conviction that at any moment she p] he might call herself Lady Macleod. With all the art he knew he de cribed the beautiful Bmall court ad tender way 1 of the little household at Rose Bank j and he made it appear that this young lady, brought up amid the of the south, was making an enoi is in offering t'> brave, for his sake, the tran ference to the harder and harsher ways of the north. 1 know, Keith, iod deal for herself," I I, turning over the photographs, and looking at them perhaps a little wi 1 fully. "It is a pretty face. It aiany friends for her. [f he were here hei elfnow, 1 don't think auntie would hold "'if, for a moment." "That is what I know," said he, eagerly. "That is why I 250 MACLEOD OF DARE am anxious she should come here. And if it were only possible to bring her now, there would be no more trouble ; and I think we could get her to leave the stage — at least I would try. But how could we ask her to Dare in the winter-time 1 ? The sea and the rain would frighten her, and she would never consent to live here. And perhaps she needs time to quite make up her mind ; she said she would educate herself all the winter through, and that, when I saw her again, she would be a thorough High- landwoman. That shows you how willing she is to make any sacrifice, if she thinks it right." " But if she is convinced," said Janet, doubtfully, " that she ought to leave the stage, why does she not do so at once % You say her father has enough money to support the family 1 " " Oh yes, he has," said Macleod ; and then he added, with some hesitation, "Well, Janet, I did not like to press that. She has already granted so much. But I might ask her." At this moment Lady Macleod's maid came into the hall and said that her mistress wished to see Miss Macleod. " Perhaps auntie thinks I am conspiring with you, Keith," she said, laughing, when the girl had gone. " Well, you will leave the whole thing in my hands; and I will do what I can. And be patient and reasonable, Keith, even if your mother won't hear of it for a day or two. We women are very prejudiced against each other, you know; and we have quick tempers, and we want a little coaxing and persuasion — that is all." "You have always been a good friend to me, Janet," he said. "And I hope it will all turn out for your happiness, Keith," she said, gently, as she left. But as for Lady Macleod, when Janet reached her room, the haughty old dame was "neither to hold nor to bind." There was nothing she would not have done for this favourite son of hers but this one thing. Give her consent to such a marriage? The ghosts of all the Macleods of Dare would call shame on her ! " Oh, auntie," said the patient Janet, " he has been a good son to you. And you must have known he would marry some day." •' Marry !" said the old lady, and she turned a quick eye on Janet herself. " I was anxious to see him married. And when FIRST IMPRESSIONS 251 he was choosing a wife I think lie might have looked nearer home, Janet." " What a wild night it is ! " said Janet Macleod quickly— and she went for a moment to the window. "The Dunara will hi; coming round the Mull of Cantire just ahout now. And where is the present, auntie, that the young lady sent you 1 ? You must write and thank her for that, at all events ; and shall I write the letter for you in the morning 1" CHAPTER XXIX. 1 [RST IMPRESSIONS. Lady Macleod remained obdurate ; Janet went ahout the house with look mi her face; and Macleod, tired of the formal courtesy that governed the relations between his mother and him elf, spent most of bis time in snipe an 1 duck shooting about the islands — braving the wild winds and wilder seas in a gnat open, lug-sailed boat, the Umpire having long ago been sent to hei winter quarters. But the harsh, rough life had its com- i ne from the south — treasures to be pored overnight after night with an increasing wonder and admiration. Gertrude White was a charming letter- writer j and now then was do 1 traint .-it ;ill over her frank confessions and nil humours. Ber letters were ;i prolonged 'hat — bright, rambling, merry, thoughtful, just a- the mood occurred. She told him of her small adventures and the incidents of her every-day life, so that he could delight himself with vivid I of herself and her surroundings. And again and again she hinted rather than 1 iid that she was continually thinkin tip- Highland , and of the greal change in tore for her. ".Yesterday morning," she wrote, "1 was going down the ' 1, and whom 1 hould I see hut. 1 wo small b drc. • Highlanders, ; into the window of s 232 MACLEOD OF DARE shop. Stalwart young fellows they were, with ruddy complex- ions and brown legs, and their Glengarries coquettishly placed on the side of their head ; and I could see at once that their plain kilt was no holiday-dress. How could I help speaking to them? — I thought perhaps they had come from Mull. And so I went up to them and asked if they would let me buy a toy for each of them. • We dot money,' says the younger, with a bold stare at my impertinence. ' But you can't refuse to accept a present from a lady]' I said. 'Oh no, ma'am,' said the elder boy, and he politely raised his cap ; and the accent of his speech — well, it made my heart jump. But I was very nearly disappointed when I got them into the shop ; for I asked what their name was ; and they answered ' Lavender.' 'Why, surely that is not a Highland name,' I said. 'No, ma'am,' said the elder lad ; ( but my mamma is from the Highlands, and we are from the Highlands, and we are going back to spend the New Year at home.' ' And where is your home?' I asked; but I have forgotten the name of the place — I understood it was somewhere away in the north. And then I asked them if they had ever been to Mull. ' We have passed it in the Clansman] said the elder boy. ' And do you know one Sir Keith Macleod there % ' I asked. ' Oh no, ma'am,' said he, staring at me with his clear blue eyes as if I was a very stupid person, 'the Macleods are in Skye.' 'But, surely one of them may live in Mull ] ' I suggested. ' The Macleods are in Skye,' he maintained, ' and my papa was at Dunvegan last year.' Then came the business of choosing the toys ; and the smaller child would have a boat, though his elder brother laughed at him, and said something about a former boat of his having been blown out into Loch Rogue — which seemed to me a strange name for even a Highland loch. But the elder lad, he must needs have a sword ; and when I asked him what he wanted that for, he said, cpiite proudly, 'To kill the Frenchmen with.' 'To kill Frenchmen with ! ' I said — for this young fire-eater seemed to mean what he said. ' Yes, ma'am,' said he, ' for they shoot the Bheep out on the Flan nan Islands when no one sees them; but we will catch them some day.' I was afraid to ask him where the Flannan Islands were, for I could see he was already FIRST IMPRESSIONS 253 regarding me as a very ignorant person ; so I had their toys tied up for them, and packed them off home. ' And when you get home,' I said to them, ' you will give my compliments to your mamma, and say that you got the ship and the sword from a lady who has a great liking for the Highland people.' ' Yes, ma'am,' says he, touching his cap again with a proud politeness ; and then they went their ways, and I saw them no more." Then the Christmas-time came, with all its mystery, and friendly observances and associations; and she described to him how Carry and she were engaged in decorating certain schools in which they were interested; and how a young curate had paid her a great deal of attention until some one went and told him, as a cruel joke, that Miss White was a celebrated dancor at a music-hall. Then, on Christmas morning, behold, the very first snow of year ! She got up early ; she went out alone; the holiday world of London was no! yet awake '• I never in my lit' 1 ' saw anything more beautiful," she wrote {•> him, "than 1: nt'fl Park this morning, in a pale fog, with ju-t a spi'inklin io\v on the green of the grass, and one How mansion shining through the mist — the sunlight on jt — like some magnificent distant palace. And I said to myself, if I poet or a painter T would take iho common things, an I how people the wonder and the beauty of them; for I believe the of wonder is a sorl of light that shines in the soul of the artist ; and the lea t bit of the 'denying spirit ' - the utterance of the word connu Bnuffs it out, at, once. Hut then, dear Keith, I caughl myself asking what I hail to do with all these dreams, and the a tl thai papa would like to I ah. ait. What had I In u know how happy she will be Avhen she res this message from you ? " I Iv Macleod left him the letter to address. He read it over fully; and though he saw that the handwriting was the handwriting of his mother, lie knew that the spirit that had prompted these words was that of the gentle cousin Janet. This concession had almost been forced from the old lady by the patience and mild persistence of Janet Macleod; but if anything could ha\ 1 her thai she had acted properly in yielding, it was the answer which Miss Gertrude White Bent in return. Mi - White wrote that, letter Beveral times before it "if, and it waa a clever piece of composition. The timid expri of gratitude; the hints of the writer's sym- pathy with the romance of the Highlands and the Highland character; the d< ference shown by youth to age : and here and there jut the smalle t glimpse of humour, to Bhow thai Mi 1 "White, though \.iv humble and respectful and all that, was not a men fool. Lady Macleod was pleased by this letter. She showed it t| I i I '■ a mil ■ water ■ 2 6o MACLEOD OF DARE bitter January day? And where was the loneliness of his lifo when always, wherever ho went by sea or shore, ho had these old friends around him — the red-beaked sea-pyots whirring along the rocks ; and tho startled curlews whistling their warning note across the sea ; and the shy duck swimming far out on tho smooth lochs ; to say nothing of tho black game that would scarcely move from their perch on the larch trees as ho ap- proached, and the deer that were more distinctly visible on tho far heights of Ben-an-Sloich when a slight sprinkling of snow had fallen ? But now all this was changed. The awfulness of the dark winter time amid those northern seas overshadowed him. " It is like going into a grave," he had said to her. And with all his passionate longing to see her and have speech of her once more, how could he dare to ask her to approach these dismal soli- tudes % Sometimes he tried to picture her coming, and to read in imagination the look on her face. See now ! — how she clings terrified to the side of the big open packet-boat that crosses tho Frith of Lorn ; and she dares not look abroad on the howling waste of waves. The mountains of Mull rise sad and cold and distant before her; there is no bright glint of sunshine to herald her approach. This small dog-cart now : it is a frail thing with which to plunge into the wild valleys, for surely a gust of wind might whirl it into the chasm of roaring waters below ! Glen- More : who that has ever seen Glen-More on a lowering January day will ever forget it — its silence, its loneliness, its vast and lifeless gloom % Her face is pale now ; she sits speechless and awe-stricken ; for the mountain-walls that overhang this sombro ravine seem ready to fall on her, and there is an awful darkness spreading along their summits under the heavy swathes of cloud. And then those black lakes far down in tho lone hollows, more death-like and horrible than any tourist-haunted Loch Coruisk : would she not turn to him, and with trembling hands implore him to take her back and away to the more familiar and bear- able south 1 He began to see all these things with her eyes. He began to fear the awful things of the winter time and the seas. The glad heart had gone out of him. Even the beautiful aspects of the Highland winter had some- A GRAVE 261 thing about them— an isolation, a terrible silence— that he grew almost to dread. What was this strange thing, for example \ Early in the morning he looked from the windows of his room ; and he could have imagined he was not at Dare at all. All the familiar objects of sea and shore had disappeared ; this was a new ■world — a world of fantastic shapes, all moving and unknown — a world of vague masses of grey, though here and there a gleam of lemon-colour shining through the fog showed that the dawn was reflected on a glassy sea. Then he began to make out the things around him. That great range of purple mountains was only Ulva — Ulva transfigured and become Alpine ! Then those wan gleams of yellow light on the sea 1 ? — he went to the other window, and behold ! the eastern heavens parted, and there was a blaze of clear, metallic green ; and the clouds bordering on that beautiful light were touched with a smoky and stormy saffron-hue that flashed and changed amid the seething and twisting shapes of the mist. He turned to the sea again — what phantom ship was this that appeared in mid-air, and ap- parently moving when there was no wind 1 lie iieard the sound of «>ars : the huge vessel turned out to be only the boat of the Gometra men going out to the lobster-traps. The yellow light on the glassy plain waxes stronger; new objects appear through the shifting fogj until at last a sudden opening shows him a wonderful thing fax away — apparently at Ihe very confines of the world — and awful in its solitary splendour. For that is the distant island of Staffa J and it has caught the colours of the dawn ; and amid the cold greys of the sea it shines a pale trans- parenl r lfme dingy old hulk relegated i" the duly of keeping II' c topmast ami bowsprit removed ; not m atitch of cord on her; only the black iron shrouds remaining of all her rigging; her skylighl and companion covered with tarpaulins — it was a ide. And then when they went below, even the •a] 1 ■. were blue-moulded and stiff. There was an odour ofd fcraw throughout. All the cu hions and carpets had been removed j there was nothing but the bare wood of the floor and the conches and the table; with a match box saturated with W"t ; an empty wine-bottle; a newspaper five months old; a 2b4 MACLEOD OF DARE rusty corkscrew J a patch of dirty water — the leakago from tho skylight overhead. That was what Hannah saw. What Macleod saw — as he stood there ahsently staring at the bare wood — was very different. It was a beautiful, comfortable saloon that he saw, all brightly furnished and gilded, and there was a dish of flowers — heather and rowan berries intermixed — on the soft red cover of the table. And who is this that is sitting there — clad in sailor-like blue and white — and laughing as she talks in her soft English speech 1 He is telling her that, if she means to be a sailor's bride, she must give up the wearing of gloves on board ship, although, to be sure, those gloved small hands look pretty enough as they rest on the table and play with a piece of bell-heather. How bright her smile is ; she is in a mood for teasing people ; the laughing face — but for the gentle- ness of the eyes — would be audacious. They say that the width between those long-lashed eyes is a common peculiarity of tho artist's face ; but she is no longer an artist ; she is only the brave young yachtswoman who lives at Castle Dare. The shepherds know her, and answer her in the Gaelic when she speaks to them in passing; the sailors know her, and would adventure their lives to gratify her slightest wish ; and the bearded fellows who live their solitary life far out at Dubh-Artach lighthouse, when she goes out to them with a new parcel of books and magazines, do not know how to show their gladness at the very sight of her bonnie face. There was once an actress of the same name ; but this is quite a different woman. And to-morrow — do you know what she is going to do to-morrow 1 — to-morrow she is going away in this very yacht to a loch in the distant island of Lewis ; and she is going to bring back with her some friends of hers who live there ; and there will be high holiday at Castle Dare. An actress! Her cheeks are too sun-browned for the cheeks of an actress. "Well, sir?" Hamish said, at length; and Macleod started. " Very well, then," he said, impatiently, " why don't you go on deck, and find out where the leakage of the skylight is ] " Hamish was not used to being addressed in this fashion ; and he walked away with a proud and hurt air. As he ascended the A GRAVE 265 companion-way, he was muttering to himself in his native tongue — " Yes, I om going on deck to find out where the leakage is, hut perhaps it would he easier to find out helow where the leakage is. If there is something the matter with the keel, is it to the cross-trees you will go to look for it 1 But I do not know what has come to the young master of late." When Keith Macleod was alone, he sate down on the wooden hench, and took out a letter, and tried to find there some assur- ance that this beautiful vision of his would some day be realized. He read it, and re-read it ; but his anxious scrutiny only left him the more disheartened. He went up on deck. He talked to Hamish in a perfunctory manner, about the smartening up of the Umpire. He appeared to have lost interest in that already. And then again he would seek relief in hard work, and try to forget altogether this hated time of enforced absence. One night word was brought by some one that the typhoid fever had broken out in the ill-drained cottages of Iona ; and he said at once that next morning he would go round to Bunessan and ask the sanitary inspector there to be so kind as to inquire into this matter, and see whether something could not be done to improve these hovels. " I am sure the Duke does not know of it, Keith," his cousin Janet said, "or he would have a great alteration made." " It is easy to make alterations," said he, "but it is not easy to make the poor people take advantage of them. They have "1 health from the sea air that they will not pay attenl ion Miliary cleanliness. Bat now that two or three of the young girls and children :\v ill, perhaps it is a good time to have Borne- thing done" Next morning, when he rose before it was quite daybreak, there was every promise of a fine day. The full moon was og behind the we tern Beas, touching the clouds there with a dusky yellow ; in the east there was ;i wilder glare of steely blue, high op over the inten te blackne 1 of the peaks of Ben-an- Sloich ; and the morning was still, for he hoard, Buddenly piercing the silence, the whistle of a curlew, ami that became more and more remote .as the on teen bird winged its flight far 266 MACLEOD OF DA R I over the sea. He lit the candles, and made the necessary pre- parations for his journey ; for he had some message to leave at Kinloch at the head of Loch Scridain, and he was going to ride round that way. By and hy the morning light had increased so much that he blew out the candles. No sooner had he done this than his eye caught sight of some- thing outside that startled him. It seemed as though great clouds of golden-white, all ablaze in sunshine, rested on the dark bosom of the deep. Instantly he went to the window ; and then ho saw that these clouds were not clouds at all, but the islands around glittering in the "white wonder of the snow," and catching here and there the shafts of the early sunlight that now streamed through the valleys of Mull. The sudden marvel of it ! There was Ulva, shining beautiful as in a sparkling bridal veil; and Gometra a paler blue-white in shadow; and Colonsay and Erisgeir also a cold white ; and Staffa a pale grey ; and then the sea that the gleaming islands rested on had become a mirror of pale green and rose-purple hues reflected from the morning sky. It was all dream-like, So still, and beautiful, and silent. But he now saw that the fine morning would not last. Behind the house, clouds of a suffused yellow began to blot out the peaks of Ben-an-Sloich. The colours of the plain of the sea were troubled with gusts of wind until they disappeared alto- gether. The sky in the north grew an ominous black ; until the further shores of Loch Tua were dazzling white against that bank of angry cloud. But to Bunessan he would go. Janet Macleod was not much afraid of the weather at any time, but she said to him at breakfast, in a laughing way — " And if you are lost in a snow-drift in Glen Finichcn, Keith, what are we to do for you % " " What are you to do forme 1 ? — why, Donald will make a fine Lament ; and what more than that \ " " Cannot you send one of the Camerons with a message, Keith 1 " his mother said. " Well, mother," said he, " I think I will go on to Fhion-fort and cross over to Iona myself, for the cottages are very bad there, I know ; and if I must write to the Duke, it is better that I should have made the inquiries myself." A GRAVE 267 And indeed when Macleod set out on his stout young pony- Jack, paying but little heed to the cold driftings of sleet that the sharp east wind was sending across, it seemed as though ho were destined to perform several charitable deeds all on the one errand. For, firstly, about a mile from the house, he met Duncan the policeman, who was making his weekly round in the interests of morality and order ; and who had to have his book signed by the heritor of Castle Dare as sure witness that his peregrinations had extended so far. And Duncan was not at all sorry to bo saved that trudge of a mile in the face of the bitter blasts of sleet ; and he was greatly obliged to Sir Keith Macleod for stopping his pony, and getting out his pencil with his benumbed fingers, and putting his initials to the page. And then, again, when he had got into Glen Fiuichen, he was talking to the pony and saying — " Well, Tack, I don't wonder you want to stop, for the way this sleet gets down one's throat is rather choking. Or are you afraid of the sheep loosening the rocks away up there, and sending two or three hundred-weight on our head?" Then he happened to look up the steep sides of the great ravine, and there, quite brown against the snow, he saw a sheep that had toppled over some rock, and was now lying with her 1 in the air. He jumped off his pony, and left Jack standing in the middle of the road. It was a stiff climb up that steep precipice, with the loose stones slippery with thesleel and snow; but at la t he gol a good grip of the sheep by the back of her neck, and hauled hex out of the holo into which she had fallen, and pul her, somewhai dazed bui apparently unhurt, on her lej again. Then he half slid and half ran down the lope again ; and got into the saddle. But what was this now? The sky in the east had grown quit tnd uddenly the blackm b in to fall b i if turn down by invisible hands. It came nearer and nearer, until it : nbled the dishevelled hair of a woman. And then there was a rattle and roai of wind and md hail combined ; so thai the pony was nearly thrown from it 1 feet, and Macleod vra so blinded that al fir 1 he knew not what to do. Then he some rocks ahead j and he urged the bewildered and staggering 263 MACLEOD OF DA NIC beast forward through the darkness of the storm. Night seemed to have returned. There was a flash of lightning overhead ; and a crackle of thunder rolled down the valley, heard louder than all the howling of the hurricane across the mountain sides. And then, when they had reached this place of shelter, Macleod dismounted, and crept as close as he could into the lee of the rocks. He was startled by a voice — it was only that of old John Macintyre the postman, who was glad enough to get into this place of refuge too. " It's a bad day for you to be out this day, Sir Keith," said he, in the Gaelic, " and you have no cause to bo out ; and why will you not go back to Castle Dare 1 " " Have you any letter for me, John 1 " said he eagerly. Oh, yes, there Avas a letter ; and the old man was astonished to see how quickly Sir Keith Macleod took that letter, and how anxiously he read it, as though the awfulness of the storm had no concern for him at all. And what was it all about — this wet sheet that he had to hold tight between his hands, or the gusts that swept round the rock would have whirled it up and away over the giant ramparts of Eourg 1 It was a very pretty letter ; and rather merry ; for it was all about a fancy-dress ball which was to take place at Mr. Lemuel's house ; and all the people were to wear a Spanish costume of the time of Philip IV. ; and there were to be very grand doings indeed. And as Keith Macleod had nothing to do in the dull winter-time but devote himself to books, would he be so kind as to read up about that period, and advise her as to which historical character she ought to assume ] Macleod burst out laughing — in a strange sort of way ; and put the wet letter in his pocket j and led Jack out into the road again. ' Sir Keith, Sir Keith," cried the old man, " you will not go on now 1 " — and as he spoke another blast of snow tore across the glen, and there was a rumble of thunder among the hills. " Why, John," Macleod called back again, from the grey gloom of the whirling snow and sleet, " would you have me go home and read books too 1 Do you know what a fancy-dres3 OVER THE SEAS 269 ball is, John ? And do you know what they think of us in the south, John — that we have nothing to do here in the Avinter time — nothing to do here but read books'?" The old man heard him laughing to himself, in that odd way, as he rode off and disappeared into the driving snow ; and his heart was heavy within him, ami his mind filled with strange forebodings. It was a dark and an awful glen — this great ravine that led down to the solitary shores of Loch Scridain. CHAPTElt XXXI. OVER Till; SEAS. 110 harm at all came of that reckless ride through the storm; and in a .lay m- two's time Macleod had almost argued himself into the belief that it was but natural for a young girl to be fascinated by these new friends. And how could he protest a fancy-dress ball when he himself had gone to one on his brief visit to London! It was a proof of her confidence in him that she wished to take ids advice about her costume. Then he turned to other matters ; for, as the slow weeks went by, one eagerly dispo -1 to lock fur the signs of the coming spring mighl occa tonally detect a new freshness in the morning air, or even find Q In tie hit of the willow "rass in flower anion- the m088 of an old wall. And Major Stewart, had come over to Dan ; and had privately given Lady Macleod and her niece och enthu ia tic accounts of Miss Gertrude White that the reference to her forthcoming vi it cea ed to be formal and me friendly and matter-of-course. It wa rarely, however, that Keith Macleod mentioned her name. ||,. did not seem to h for any - onfidant. P< rhap hi 1 Li bti 1 were enough. But on one on Janel Macleod aid to him, with a aby sraili " 1 think you 11111 t b a v. ,y pale 1,' Lover, Keith, to. pendal] 270 MACLEOD OF DARE the winter hero. Another young man would have wished to go to London." " And I would go to London, too ! " he said suddenly, and then he stopped. lie was somewhat embarrassed. "Well, I will tell you, Janet. I do not wish to see her any moro as an actress ; and she says it is better that I do not go to London ', and — and, you know, sho will soon cease to he an actress." " But why not now," said Janet Maclcod, with some wonder, " if she has such a great dislike for it ? " " That I do not know," said he, somewhat gloomily. But he wrote to Gertrude White, and pressed the point once more, with great respect, it is true, hut still with an earnestness of pleading that showed how near the matter lay to his heart. It was a letter that would have touched most women ; and even Miss Gertrude White was pleased to see how anxiously interested he was in her. " But you know, my dear Keith," she wrote hack, " when people are going to take a great plunge into the sea, they are warned to wet their head first. And don't you think I should accustom myself to the change you have in store for me by degrees'? In any case, my leaving the stage at the present moment could make no difference to us — you in the Highlands, I in London. And do you know, sir, that your request is particularly ill-timed ; for as it happens I am about to enter into a new dramatic project of which I should probably never have heard but for you. Does that astonish you? Well, here is the story. It appears that you told the Duchess of Wexford that I would give her a performance for the new training-ship she is getting up ; and, being challenged, could I break a promise made by you 1 And only fancy what these clever people have arranged — to flatter their own vanity in the name of charity. They have taken St. George's Hall; and the distinguished amateurs have chosen the play; and the play — don't laugh, dear Keith — is Romeo and Juliet / And I am to play Juliet to the Romeo of a certain Captain Brierley, who is a very good-looking man, but who is so solemn and stiff a Borneo that I know I shall burst out laughing on the dreaded night. He is as nervous now at a morning rehearsal as if it were his deMt at DruryLane; and he OVER THE SEAS 271 never even takes my hand without an air of apology, as if he were saying, ' Eeally, Miss "White, you must pardon me ; I am compelled hy my part to take your hand ; otherwise I would die rather than be guilty of such a liberty.' And when he addresses me in the balcony-scene, he will not look at mc ; ho makes his protestations of love to the flies ; and when I make my fine speeches to him, he blushes if his eyes should by chance meet mine, just as if he had been guilty of some awful indiscre- tion. I know, dear Keith, you don't like to see me act; but you might come up for this occasion only. Friar Lawrence is the funniest thing I have seen for ages. The nurse, however — Lady Bletherin — is not at all bad. I hear there is to bo a grand supper afterwards somewhere ; and I have no doubt I shall be nted to a number of ladies who will speak for the first time to an actress and be possessed with a wild fear; only, if they have daughters, I suppose they will keep the fluttering-hearted young tilings out of the Way, lest I should suddenly break out into Lin'; flame, and then disappear through the floor. I am quite convinced that Captain I hierley considers me a bold person iuse I look at him when I have to say — "0 gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully ! " Macleod crushed this letter together, and thrust it into his ! : rode "'it of the room, and called for Hamish. -'■nd Donald down to the quay," said he abruptly, "and tell them to get th ready. And he will take down my gun • old Hamish, noticing the expressi f hisi (, y ,,s , went off quickly enough, and 1 oon got hold of I >onald, the piper lad. ■• I ton ild,'' said he, in the < laelic, " you will run down to the ■ piny as I youi le . you, and you will tell them to get the boat ready, and not to lose any time in getting the boat ready, and I" have the eal dry, and lei th sre l" 1 no talking when Sir Keil "N board. And here is the gun, too; and the : and you will tell them to have no talking among themselvi • day." Wnen I I got down to I ,1 Btone pier, the two men 272 MACLEOD OF DARE were in the boat. Johnny Wickcs was standing at the door of the store-house. " Would you like to go for a sail, Johnny 1 " Macleod said, curtly — but there was no longer that dangerous light in his eyes. " Oh yes, sir," said the boy eagerly ; for he had long ago lost his dread of the sea. "Get in, then, and get up'to the bow." So Johnny Wickes went cautiously down the few slippery stone steps, half tumbled into the bottom of the great open boat, and then scrambled up to the bow. "Where will you be going, sir?" said one of the men, when Macleod had jumped into the stern, and taken the tiller. " Anywhere — right out ! " he answered carelessly. But it was all very well to say " right out ! " when there was a stiff breeze blowing right in. Scarcely had the boat put her nose beyond the pier, — and while as yet there was but little way on her — when a big sea caught her, springing high over her bows and coming rattling down on her with a noise as of pistol-shots. The chief victim of this deluge was the luckless Johnny Wickes., who tumbled down into the "bottom of the boat, vehemently blowing the salt water out of his mouth, and rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. Macleod burst out laughing. "What's the good of you as a look-out]" he eric J. "Didn't you see the water coming 1 " " Yes, sir," said Johnny, ruefully laughing too. But he Avould not be beaten. He scrambled up again to his post, and clung there, despite the fierce wind and the clouds of spray. '• Keep her close up, sir," said the man who had the sheet of the huge lug-sail in both his hands, as he cast a glance out at the darkening sea. But this great boat, rude and rough and dirty as she appeared, was a splendid specimen of her class ; and they know how to build such boats up about that part of the world. No matter with how staggering a plunge she wont down into the yawning green gulf — the white foam hissing away from her sides — before the next wave, high, awful, threatening, had come down on her with a crash as of mountains falling, she had glided buoyantly upwards, and the heavy blow only made her bows spring tho OVER THE SEAS 273 higher, as though she would shake herself free, like a bird, from the wet. But it was a wild day to be out. So heavy aud black was the sky in the west that the surface of the sea, out to the horizon, seemed to be a moving mass of white foam with only streaks of green and purple in it. The various islands changed every minute as the wild clouds whirled past. Already the great cliffs about Dare had grown distant and faint as seen through the spray ; and here were the rocks of Colonsay, black as jet as they reappeared through the successive deluges of white foam ; and far over there, a still gloomier mass against the gloomy sky told where the huge Atlantic breakers were rolling in their awful thunder into the Staffa caves. " I would keep off a bit, sir," said the sailor next Maclcod. lie did not like the look of the heavy breakers that were crashing on to the Colonsay rocks. Macleod, with his teeth set hard against the wind, was not thinking of the Colonsay rocks more than was necessary to give them a respectful berth. "Were you ever in a theatre, Duncan?" he said — or rather bawled — to the brown-visaged and black-haired young fellow, who had now got the sheet of the lug-sail under his foot as well as in the firm ^rij* of his bands. " Oh yes, Sir Keith/' said he, as he shook the salt water away from his shorl beard. " It wass at Greenock I will be at tho theatre, and more than three times or four times." " I [ow would you like to have a parrel of actors and actresses with as nowl" be said, with a laugh. "'Deed I would not like il at all," said Duncan, seriously; and be twi ted the sheet of the sail twice round his right wrist, bo thai his relieved left hand could covertly convey a bit of wet tobacco to his mouth. "The women they would chump apout, and then you do not know what, will happen al all." And ko they went, plunging and staggering and bounding onwards, with the roar of the water all around them, and tho foam at hex bows, a il sprang high into the air, showing quite whit. ■ the black sky ahead. The younger lad Duncan clearly of opinion thai his ma ter wa running too near the shores of Colon ij , bul he would say no more, for he knew that T 274 MACLEOD OF DARE Maeleod had a better knowledge of the currents and rooks of this wild coast than any man on the mainland of Mull. John Cameron, forward, kept his head down to the gunwale, his eyes looking far over that howling waste of sea; Duncan, his younger brother, had his gaze fixed mostly on the brown breadth of the sail, hammered at by the gusts of wind ; while as for tho boy at the bow, that enterprising youth had got a rope's end, and was endeavouring to strike at the crest of each huge wave as it came ploughing along in its resistless strength. But at one moment the boat gave a heavier lurch than usual, and the succeeding wave struck her badly. In the great rush of water that then ran by her side, Macleod's startled eye seemed to catch a glimpse of something red — something blazing and burning red in the waste of green, and almost the same glance showed him that there was no boy at the bow ! Instantly, with just one cry to arrest the attention of the men, ho had slipped over the side of the boat, just as an otter slips off a rock. The two men were bewildered but for a second. One sprang to the halyards and down came the great lug-sail ; the other got out one of the long oars, and the mighty blade of it fell into tho bulk of the next wave as if he would with one sweep tear her head round. Like two madmen the men pulled ; and the wind was with them, and the tide also ; but, nevertheless, when they caught sight — just for a moment — of some object behind them, that was a terrible way away. Yet there was no time, they thought, or seemed to think, to hoist the sail again ; and the small dingay attached to the boat would have been swamped in a second ; and so there was nothing for it but the deadly struggle with those immense blades against the heavy resisting mass of the boat. John Cameron looked round again ; then, with an oath, he pulled his oar across the boat. " Up with the sail, lad ! " he shouted ; and again he sprang to the halyards. The seconds, few as they were, that were necessary to this operation, seemed ages ; but no sooner had the wind got a pur- chase on the breadth of the sail than the boat flew through tho water, for she was now running free. OVER THE SEAS 275 " He has got him ! I can see iho two ! " shouted the elder Cameron. And as for the younger 1 At this mad speed the boat would bo close to JVIacleod in another second or two ; but in that brief space of time the younger Cameron had flung his clothes oil", and stood there stark naked in the cutting March wind. " This is foolishness ! " his brother cried in the Gaelic. " You will have to take an oar ! " "I will not take an oar!" the other cried, with both hands ready to let go the halyards. "And if it is foolishness, this is the foolishness of it ; I will not let you or any man say that Sir Keith Macleod was in the water and Duncan Cameron went home with a dry skin ! " And Duncan Cameron was as good as his word ; for as the boat went plunging forward to the neighbourhood in which they occasionally saw the head of Macleod appear on the side of a wave and then disappear again as soon as the wave broke — and as soon as the lug-sail had been rattled down — he sprang clear from the side of the boat. For a second or two, John Cameron, left by himself in the boat, could not see any one of the three; but at last he saw the black head of his brother, and then some few yards beyond, just as a wave happened to roll by, he saw his master and the hoy. The boat had almost enough way on to cany her the Length; he hail but to pull at the huge oar to bring her bead round a bit. And he pulled, madly ami blindly, until he was 1 tartled by a cry close by. He epran the side of the boat. Thei bi brother drifting by, holding with one arm. John Cameron rushed to the. atern to fling a rope; but Duncan Cameron had been drifting by with a purpose; f one he got clear of the bigger boat, he struck for the dingay, ami :are hy a back way ; and changed his clothes in his own room. Then he went away up -tairs to the small chamber in whieh Johnny Wickes lay in bed " Sou have, had the Bonp, then I You Look pretty comfortable." " Yes, sir," said the boy, whose face was now flushed red with the reaction alter tie- cold. " I beg your pardon, sir." " For tumbling into the water?" " Ye-, sir." ""Well, look here, m.i ter Wickes. You chose a good time, It' I had had trou ei on, and waterproof leggings over them, do you know where you would !"■ at tie- present moment? Xbu 378 MACLEOD OF DARE would lie having an interesting conversation with a number of lobsters at the bottom of the sea, off the Colonsay shores. And so yon thought because I had my kilt on, that I could fish you out of the water 1 " "No, sir," said Johnny "Wickes. " I beg your pardon, sir." "Well, you will remember that it was owing to the Highland kilt that you were picked out of the water ; and that it was Highland whisky put life into your blood again ; you will remember that well; and if any strange lady should come here from England and ask you how you like the Highlands, you will not forget 1 " " No, sir." " And you can have Oscar up here in the room with you, if you like, until they let you out of bed again ; or you can have Donald to play the pipes to you until dinner-time." Master "Wickes chose the less heroic remedy ; but, indeed, the companionship of Oscar was not needed ; for Janet Macleod — who might just as well have tried to keep her heart from beating as to keep herself away from any one who was ill or supposed to be ill — herself came up to this little room, and was very attentive to Master Wickes, not because he was suffering very much from the effects of his ducking, but because he was a child, and alone, and a stranger. And to her Johnny "Wickes told the wholo stor} r ; despite the warning he had received that, if Hamish came to learn of the peril in which Macleod had been placed by the carelessness of the English lad, the latter would have a bad time of it at Castle Dare. Then Janet hastened away again ; and finding her cousin's bedroom empty, entered; and there dis- covered that he had, with customary recklessness, hung up his wet clothes in his wardrobe. She had them at once conveyed away to the lower regions ; and she went with earnest remon- strances to her cousin and would have him drink some hot whisky-and- water ; and when Hamish arrived, went straight to him too, and told him the story in such a way that be said — " Ay, ay, it wass the poor little lad ! And he will mek a good sailor yet. And it wass not much dancher for him when Sir Keith wass in the boat ; for there is no one in the whole of OVER THE SEAS 279 the islands will sweeni in the water as he can sweem ; and it is like a fish in the water that he is." That was about the only incident of note — and little was made of it — that disturbed the monotony of life at Castle Dare at this time. But by and by, as the days passed, and as eager eyes looked abroad, signs showed that the beautiful summer-time was drawing near. The deep blue came into the skies and the sea again ; the yellow mornings broke earlier • far into the evening they could still make out the Dutchman's Cap, and Lunga, and the low-lying Coll and Tiree amid the glow at the horizon after the blood-red sunset had gone down. The white stars of the saxifrage appeared in the woods ; the white daisies were in the 9 ; as you walked along the lower slopes of Ben-an-Sloich the grouse that rose were in pairs. What a fresh green this was that shimmered over the young larches ! He sent her a basket of the first trout he caught in the loch. The wonderful glad time came nearer anel nearer. And every clear and beautiful day that shone over the white sands of Tona and the green shores of Ulva, with the blue seas all breaking joyfully along the rocks, was but a day thrown away that should have been reserved for her. And whether she came by the Dunara from Greenock, or by the Pioneer from Oban, would they hang the vessel in white roses in her honour; and have velvet carpetinga em the gangways for the dainty small feet to tread on ; and would the bountiful heavens grant but one shining blue day for her firs! glimpse of the far and lonely Castle Dare I • the kind-hearted was busy from morning till night — she I If would place the scant flower.-; (hat could be got in the The steward r>f the Pioneer had undertaken to bring any number of things from Oban; Donald the piper-lad had a brand new suit of tartan, and was determined that, short. of the, vi 1 I hia lunga, the English lady would havo d Salute played for hex that day. The Umpire, all bod ened Up ItOW, had be< put in a Safe anchorage in I .orb na Keal ; the men wore their new jerseys ; the long gig, its golden-yellow pine shining with varnish, was brought along to Dare, bo thai, it might, if the weather were favourable, go out to bring the Fair £ r to her Highland home. And then the heart of her 28o MACLEOD OF DARE lover cried — " winds and seas — if only for one day — be gentle now! — so that her first thoughts of us shall be all of peace, and loveliness, and of a glad welcome, and the delight of clear summer days!" CHAPTER XXXII. HAMISH. And now — -jok ! The sky is as blue as the heart of a sapphire, and the sea would be as blue too, only for the glad white of the rippling waves. And the wind is as soft as the winnowing of a sea-gull's wing; and green, green arc the laughing shores of Ulva ! The bride is coming. All around the coast the people are on the alert ; Donald in his new finery ; Hamish half frantic with excitement ; the crew of the Umpire down at the quay ; and the scarlet fla^ fluttering from the top of the white pole. And behold ! — as the cry goes along that the steamer is in sight, what is this strange thing? She comes clear out from the Sound of Iona ; but who has ever seen before that long line running from her stem to her masts and down again to her stern 1 " Oh, Keith," Janet Macleod cried, with sudden tears starting to her eyes, " do you know what Captain Macallum has done for you ? The steamer has got all her flags out ! " Macleod flushed red. " Well, Janet," said he, " I wrote to Captain Macallum, and I asked him to be so good as to pay them some little attention ; but who was to know that he would do that? " "And a very proper thing, too," said Major Stewart, who was standing hard by. " A very pretty compliment to strangers ; and you know you have not many visitors coming to Castle Dare." The Major spoke in a matter-of-fact way. Why should not the steamer show her bunting in honour of Macleod's guests 1 HAM IS H 28 1 But all the same the gallant soldier, as he stood and watched the steamer coming along, became a little bit excited too ; and he whistled to himself, and tapped his toe on the ground. It was a fine air he was whistling. It was all about breast-knots ! " Into the boat with you now, lads ! " Macleod called out ; and first of all to go down to the steps was Donald ; and the silver and cairngorms on his pipes were burnished so that they shone like diamonds in the sunlight ; and he wore his cap so far on one side that nobody could understand how it did not fall oiF. Macleod was alone in the stern. Away the shapely boat went through the blue waves. " Put your strength into it now," said he, in the Gaelic, " and show them how the Mull lads can row ! " And then again — " Steady now ! Well rowed, boys ! " And here are all tlie people crowding to one side of the steamer to see the strangers oh"; and the captain is on the bridge; and Sandy is at the open gangway ; and at the top of the iron stepa — there is only one whom Macleod sees — and she is all in while and blue — and he has caught her eyes — at last, at last ! He seized the rope, and sprang up the iron ladder. "Welcome to you, sweetheart ! " said he, in a low voice, ami his trembling hand grasped hers. " How do you, Keith?" said .she ,; Must we go down these steps!" II" had no time to wonder over the coldness — the petulance almost - of her manner \ for he had to get both father and daughter safely conducted into the stem of the boat ; and their pge had to be L'nt in ; and he had to say a word or two to the steward; and finally he had to hand down some loaves of bread to the man next bun, who placed them in the bottom of the boat 'The commissariat arrangements are primitive," said Mr. White in an undertone to his daughter; though she made no answer to his words or his smile. Hut indeed, even if Macleod had overheard, he would have taken no shame to himself that, he had secured a supply of white bread for his guests. Tho e who had gone yachting with Macleod— Major Stewart, for 282 MACLEOD OF DARE example, or Norman Ogilvie — bad soon learned not to despise their host's highly practical acquaintance with tinned meats, pickles, condensed milk, and such-like things. Who was it had proposed to erect a monument to him for his discovery of the effect of introducing a leaf of lettuce steeped in vinegar between the folds of a sandwich 1 Then he jumped down into the boat again; and the great steamer steamed away ; and the men struck their oars into the water. " We will soon take you ashore now," said he, with a glad light on his face ; but so excited was he that he could scarcely get the tiller-ropes right; and certainly he knew not what he was saying. And as for her — why was she so silent after the long separation? Had she no word at all for the lover who had so hungered for her coming % And then Donald, perched high at the bow, broke away into his wild welcome of her ; and there was a sound now louder than the calling of the seabirds and the rushing of the seas. And if the English lady knew that this proud and shrill strain had been composed in honour of her, would it not bring some colour of pleasure to the pale face 1 So thought Donald at least ; and he had his eyes fixed on her as he played as he had never played before that day. And if she did not know the cunning modu- lations and the clever fingering, Macleod knew them ; and the men knew them ; and after they got ashore they would say to him — "Donald, that was a good pibroch you played for the English lady." But what was the English lady's thanks 1 Donald had not played over sixty seconds when she turned to Macleod and said — " Keith, I wish you would stop him. I have a headache." And so Macleod called out at once, in the lad's native tongue. But Donald could not believe this thing — though he had seen trange lady turn to Sir Keith. And he would have continued had not one of the men turned to him and said — ■ "Donald, do you not hear? Put down the pipes." For an instant the lad looked dumbfounded; then he slowly HAMISH 283 took down the pipes from his shoulder, and put them beside hiui ; and then he turned his face to the bow so that no one should see the tears of wounded pride that had sprung to his eyes. And Donald said no word to any one till they got ashore ; and he went away by himself to Castle Dare, with his head bent down, and his pipes under his arm ; and when he was met at the door by Hamish, who angrily demanded why he was not down at the quay with his pipes, he only said — " There is no need of me or my pipes any more at Dare ; and it is somewhere else that I will now go with my pipes." But meanwhile Macleod was greatly concerned to find his sweetheart so cold and distant ; and it was all in vain that he pointed out to her the beauties of this summer day — that he showed her the various islands he had often talked about, and called her attention lo the skarts sitting on the Erisgeir rocks, and asked her — seeing that she sometimes painted a little in nrater-colour — whether she noticed the peculiar, clear, intense. and luminous blue of the shadows in the great cliffs which Ihey wen; approaching. Surely no clay could have been more auspicious for her coming to Dare 1 ? "The sea did not make you ill?" he sai«l. "Oh no," she answered j and that was true enough, though it had produced in her agonizing fears of becoming ill which had ■what, ruffled her temper. And besides she had a headache. And then she had a nervous fear of small boats. "It i a very small boat to be out in the open sea," she remarked, looking at the long and shapely gig that was cleaving the .'iimner w.i Not on a