Mary was silent for a second or two. Then she said, in an absent kind of way —
"There are wrongs and injuries done that can never be undone. I can never rebuild Castle Heimra."
CHAPTER III.
THE CAVE OF THE CROWING COCK
Mary Stanley's eyes had not deceived her; the boat of which she had caught a momentary glimpse was a smart little yawl of twenty tons or so, that was making in for Heimra Island; and there were three men on deck – two redcaps forward, the master at the helm. This last was a young fellow of about six and twenty, a little, not much, over middle height, of somewhat pale complexion, and with singularly dark eyes and hair. The curious thing was this: though you could not say that any of his features were particularly fine (except, perhaps, his coal-black eyes, which were clearly capable of flame, if the occasion demanded) the general effect of them was striking; they seemed to convey an impression of strength – of a certain lazy audacity of strength; while the forehead revealed by the peaked cap being pushed carelessly backward denoted at once intelligence and resolution. But indeed at this moment the young man's attitude was one of merely quiescent indifference – though there was an occasional quick scrutiny of the neighbouring coast; all the graver perils of the voyage were over; they were running easily before a steady wind; and they would get safely to their anchorage ere the light had wholly died out of the western skies.
"Down foresail!" he called to the men. For now they were passing a headland that formed one of two arms encircling a sheltered little bay – a strangely silent and solitary-looking place it seemed in this mysterious light. Sterile, too; tumbled masses of rock with hardly a scrap of vegetation on them; a few clumps of birches here and there; an occasional dark green pine higher up the cliffs. But at all events it was quiet and still; the water lapped clear and crisp along the shingle; while the murmur of the outer sea was still everywhere around, and also, on the northern side of the bay, there was a long out-jutting reef where there was a continuous surge of white foam over the saw-toothed edge.
"Down jib!" The sound of a human voice was so strange in this solitude – far stranger than the mere rattle of blocks and tackle.
"Main sheet!"
The two men came aft: the steersman jammed down his helm; the vessel slowly rounded into the wind – the boom being hauled in meanwhile – the mainsail flapping and shivering in the light breeze.
"Stand by to let go!" was the next order; and the hands went forward again – the vessel gradually losing the way that was on her, until she seemed absolutely motionless.
"Let go!"
There was a splash and a roar that sent a thousand shuddering echoes through the silence. A heron uttered a hoarse croak and rose on heavy and slow-moving wings to make for some distant shelter. A pair of dunlins – unseen in the dusk – added their shrill piping cry. Then all was still again, save for the continual moaning of the surge on the distant reef.
"Give a haul at the topping-lift, lads!" This was the final direction; and then, with another keen look round the little bay, young Ross of Heimra – or Donuil Og Vich Iain Vich Ruari, as some were proud to call him – went down into the cabin to put a few things together before going ashore.
Of the two sailors now left on the deck one was a powerfully built man of about thirty, with a close-clipped brown beard, bushy brown eyebrows, and eyes of a clear Celtic grey. His name was Kenneth Macleod; but he was more generally known as Coinneach Breac– that is to say, Kenneth of the small-pox marks. His companion was younger than himself – a lad of twenty or two-and-twenty; long and loutish of figure; but with a pleasant expression of face. This was Malcolm, or rather, Calum, as they called him. Probably he had some other name; but it was never heard of; the long, lumpish, heavily-shouldered lad was simply known throughout this neighbourhood as Calum, or Calum-a-bhata, Calum of the Boat.
"It is I who will have a sound sleep this night," said he, in Gaelic, as he stretched his hands above his head and yawned.
"And I, too, when the work is over," said his neighbour, pulling out a short black pipe. "And now you see what it is to have many friends. Oh, I know you, Calum; you are a young lad: and you are strong: you think of nothing but fighting, like the other young lads. But let me tell you this, Calum; it is not a good thing, fighting and quarrelling, and making enemies; it is easier to make enemies than to make friends: and many times you will be sorry when it is too late, and when that has been put wrong which you cannot put right. For you know what the wise man of Islay said. Calum; he said – 'He who killed his mother a few moments ago would fain have her alive now!'"
"But who was talking about fighting, Coinneach – tell me that?" said the youth, angrily.
"I was giving you advice, Calum, my son," said Coinneach – lighting his pipe and pulling away, though there appeared to be very little tobacco inside. "I was telling you that it was a good thing to have many friends, as the master has. Oh, he is the one to make friends, and no doubt about that! For look you at this, Calum; you know what is stowed in the cabin; and here we come into the bay, without waiting for the night at all, and just as if there was nothing on board but a few tins of meat for our own use and a loaf or two. That is the wisdom of having many friends, as I am telling you. Why, if there was any one after us, if there was any one wishing to put trouble upon us, do you know what would have happened this evening? – there would have been a bonfire on every headland between Ru Gobhar and the Black Bay. And that is what I tell you, Calum, that it is a very good thing to have plenty of friends ashore, who are as your own kinspeople to you, and will come between you and the stranger, and will see that the stranger does not harm you. The master, he is the one to make friends with old and young; and believe me as far as that goes, Calum. Ay, you are a young lad; and you do not know what the world is; and you do not know what it is to go sailing with a hard skipper; and if you are an apprentice, a bucket of water in your bunk to wake you in the morning. But the master – oh, well, now, look at this: if there is bad weather, and there is something difficult to be done, and you do it smartly, why, then he calls out to you 'Fhir mo chridhe!'1 and that is a far more welcome thing to you than cursing and swearing; it is a far more welcome thing, and a good thing to comfort you." He shook the ashes out of his pipe, and put it in his pocket. "Well, now, see to the tackle, Calum, and we'll get the boat hoisted out, for the master will be going ashore."
The boat – a twelve-footer or thereabouts – had been stowed on deck; but they soon had her launched over the side, and everything put ship-shape and in readiness. And presently the young man who had gone down into the cabin re-appeared again; he threw some things into the boat, and took his place in the stern-sheets; the men shoved off, and presently they were well on their way to the beach, where there was a rudely-formed slip. By this time the streaks of lemon-hued light that had appeared in the west were dying away; darkness was coming over land and sea; already, in the east, one or two stars were visible between the thinning and breaking clouds. Young Ross landed at the slip, and made his way up to a level plateau on which stood a long, rambling, one-storeyed building mostly of timber: a sort of bungalow, with a slated porch, and with some little pretence of a garden round it, though at this time of the year nothing, of course, was visible in it but a few leafless bushes. At the door stood an old woman neatly and smartly dressed, whose eyes were still expressive enough to show how pleased she was.
"Good evening to you, Martha," said he in Gaelic, "and I hope you are well."
"Indeed I am all the better for seeing you back, sir," replied the old woman, with many smiles. "The house is no house at all when you are away."
She followed him obsequiously into the narrow hall. He only glanced at the newspapers and letters on the table. But there was something else there – a brace of grouse.
"Will I cook one of the birds for Mr. Ross's dinner?" she asked, her Highland politeness causing her to address him in the third person.
A quick frown came over his face.
"Who brought these here?" he demanded.
"Oh, well – they were left," said old Martha, evasively.
"Yes, yes, left; but who left them?" he asked again.
"Oh, well; maybe it was the Lochgarra keepers," said she.
"The keepers? Nonsense!" he said angrily. "Do you tell me the keepers would shoot grouse at this time of the year, when the birds have paired, and soon will be nesting? It was Gillie Ciotach,2 I'll be bound. Now you will tell the Gillie Ciotach, Martha, that if he does not stop his tricks I will have him sent across the land to go before the Sheriff at Dingwall; and how will he like that?"
"Oh, well, indeed, sir," said Martha, in a deprecating way, "the poor young lad meant no harm. He was coming over here anyway, because he lost a dog, and he was wishing to find the dog."
At this the young master burst out laughing.
"The Gillie Ciotach is an excellent one for lies, and that is certain!" said he. "His dog? And how could his dog swim across from Lochgarra to Eilean Heimra? Tell Gillie Ciotach from me that when he comes over here he may look after the lobsters, but he will be better not to tell lies about a dog, and also he will do well to leave the Lochgarra grouse alone. And now, Martha, if there is any dinner for me, let me have it at once; for I am going back to the yacht by-and-bye."
He went into the simply-furnished dining-room, where there was a lamp on the table and likewise a magnificent peat-fire ablaze in the big iron grate – a welcome change from the little stove in the cabin of the Sirène. He had brought his letters with him in his hand. He drew in a wickerwork lounging-chair towards the fireplace, and idly began to tear the envelopes open: here were tidings, various hushed voices, as it were, from the busy world that seemed so distant to him, living in these remote solitudes. It is true he had been away for a time from Eilean Heimra; but during that interval there had not been much of human companionship for him; nay, there was for the most part a greater loneliness than ever, especially when he took his watch on deck at night, sending the two men below for much-needed rest. Indeed these letters and newspapers seemed almost to make a stir and noise! – so used had he been to silence and the abstraction of his own thoughts.
Meanwhile Coinneach and Calum had returned to the yacht, had got some supper, and were now up at the bow, contemplatively smoking, and chatting to each other in their native tongue. Night had fallen; but the skies were becoming clearer and more clear; the starlit heavens were gradually revealing themselves. There was not a sound – since the rattle of the anchor had disturbed the quietude of the little bay.
"The work is not over yet," Coinneach was saying, in somewhat low tones, "and it is the part of the work that I have no liking for. Anything else I shrink not back from, when the master wishes; he is the one to follow, and I will go with him wherever he desires; and that in safety, too – for who knows the navigation like himself, yes, and speaking every language that is known upon the earth? I will go with him wherever he wishes; I will do whatever he wishes. But, Calum, I have no liking for the Uamh coilich na glaodhaich."3
"Nor I, Coinneach," said his companion. "Especially in the night-time."
"Day-time or night-time: what is the difference in the Uamh coilich na glaodhaich, when it is so dark that no man has ever been to the end of it, or knows to what it leads? Nor is any man likely to try to discover, since the one that went on and on, until he heard a cock crowing. Oh, God, that must have been a terrible thing, to be so near the edge of another world that you could hear a cock crowing there. And if the people had caught him and kept him – they would have taken him away to the place where the piper went when he played Cha till mi tuilich;4 and that is a tale that is told of many caves; and it may be this, Calum, that all the great caves lead to that other world; but who can tell about such fearful things? A cock crowing – that is nothing – when you are in your own home, with the daylight around you; but to hear the crowing of a cock after you have gone away into the earth, then that tells you of wonderful things, for you know the saying, 'Deep is the low of a cow upon strange pasture.' Well, well, what the master says must be done; but many's the time I am wishing that when the kegs have to be hidden, it was some other place we had for the hiding of them than the Cave of the Crowing Cock."
"Coinneach," said the lad, and he also spoke in a hushed kind of way, "how long ago is it since that one heard the cock crowing?"
"How long? Who can answer such questions? Can you tell me when the Macarthurs came into the world? For you have heard the saying, Calum: 'The hills and the streams and the Macalpines came together; but who can say when the Macarthurs came?' It is a long time ago: it is not any use asking. Ay, and there was something before all of these." He paused for a second: then he said darkly – "That was – that was when the Woman was in these islands."
"What woman?" said Calum, with the eager curiosity of youth.
But Coinneach seemed disinclined to answer.
"Have you not heard?" said he. "But it is wise not to speak of such things."
"What woman was that, Coinneach?" his companion persisted, fixing his eyes on Coinneach's face, that was full of a sombre meditation.
"Did you never hear of her – the Woman that was here before there were any people in these islands or in the mainland either? But it is not prudent to speak."
"Who was she, Coinneach?" said Calum. "Surely she cannot hurt you if she was dead these many thousands of years?"
"Do not say that," he responded rather gloomily. "Who can tell? – for there are strange things. You know I am not a coward, Calum."
"That is what I know well!" said Calum, confidently. "How many days is it since you stood up against the French skipper, and he with four of them at his back?"
"Ay, but there are things that are more terrible than blows; and it is of these that I am afraid. Or perhaps not quite afraid; but I think. And that is the difference between one man and another man, Calum. There is always ill-luck happening; but one man will suffer it and not inquire, while the other man will ask what caused it or who it was that did him the harm. And if it is not always prudent to speak of such affairs, at least the truth is the safest: you know the saying 'Speak the truth as if you were in the presence of kings.' And now I will tell you this, Calum, of a strange thing that happened to me when I was a boy."
He abated his voice, as if afraid of being overheard. Calum's eyes 'glowered' in the dusk.
"I had been over to Ru-Gobhar, where I had a sister married then; and I was returning home. It was a moonlight night; the sea very calm; there was no wind. Well, when I was at the highest point of the road, above the Black Bay, do you know what happened? But I will tell you what happened. And this is what I saw: the sea began to move, although there was not a breath of wind, and there was no noise either; only it moved and heaved in a terrible way; and there was a line of white, but it was more like white fire than white foam, all along the land, from Ru-Gobhar in to Minard, and all round the headlands to where I was. For I was standing looking, and very much afraid to see so strange a thing; and then this is what happened: I got to know that there was someone behind me; and then I got to know it was the Woman, and I durst not look round, for I was shaking with terror. May you never have such an experience in your life, Calum, as was mine that night. I knew that she had come across the sea, from the islands, noticing that I was alone and no one to help me; and now I knew that she was not only behind me, but in front of me, and all around me, though I could not see anything, for I was in such terror. She did not speak to me, nor touch me; but I felt myself choking at the throat as if she had a grip of me; and I gave myself up for dead – for I could not run away from her – and I knew it was the Woman who had a grip of my throat. Well, well, I gave myself up for dead; but all of a sudden it entered my mind that she would carry me away out to the islands and bury me in one of the caves; and with that I made a great effort, and cried out 'God on the cross, save me, save me!' That was the last I knew of it; when I came to myself I was lying in the road, cold as a stone; and the sea was quite smooth again. May you never have an experience like my experience of that night, Calurn!"
Calum was silent for a little while. Then he said, slowly —
"Coinneach, do you suppose the Woman came from the cave where the cock was heard crowing?"
"How can I tell?" was the answer. "Perhaps I have said too much. But what I have said to you, that is the least part of what happened to me that night, for it is not to be spoken of." And then he rose; and put his pipe in his pocket. "Come, Calum, my son, we must take the boat ashore now, for the master will be coming down to the slip. But do not you speak of such things as I have told you; for it is not good to speak of them."
And to this Calum merely replied —
"What the master wishes is enough for you and me, Coinneach; but I would rather not be going into the Uamh coilich na glaodhaich this night."
They rowed the boat in to the shore – they could see their way well enough, for now the heavens were quite clear, and a universe of white worlds was shining down on them; and there they ran her bow into the soft seaweed by the side of the slip. They had not long to wait. There was a sound of footsteps on the gravel-path; then from out of the shadow emerged a figure into the open space above the beach; they knew who this was. Young Ross of Heimra seemed to be in no great hurry; his hands were in his pockets; he came down towards the boat with long, lounging, leisurely strides; and he was whistling a gay air that was unfamiliar to them – for Coinneach and Calum could hardly be expected to recognise 'La Noce de Jeanne.'
"It is the master who is not afraid of anything," said the elder of the two men, under his breath.
"Indeed you may say that," rejoined Calum, as he, too, put his pipe in his pocket. "I think he would face old Donas5 himself, and not ask for any allowance."
Young Ross came down the beach.
"Lend a hand here, lads," he sung out, "and we'll take the other boat with us. Maybe we'll be able to do it in one trip; and I'm sure it's a good long sleep both of you will be wanting this night."
They speedily had the second boat launched and shoved along to the slip; then they attached the painter to the one in which they had come ashore; and presently they were pulling both boats quietly out to the Sirène. The gangway was open. Ross and the elder of the two men stepped on board; and proceeded to remove the skylight of the chief cabin – Calum securing the boats by the side of the yacht. And then began the final business of the expedition – the hoisting up on deck and the transferring to the boats alongside of a considerable number of kegs that were small enough to be handled with comparative ease. Young Ross, who was down in the cabin, worked just like the others: slim as his figure seemed, there was plenty of strength about his arms and shoulders. There was no lamp in the cabin, nor yet on deck; nor was there need of any; the black figures labouring away there did very well with the faint illumination shed by those thousands of tremulous stars. And in course of time the operation was complete; the casks that had been skilfully stowed in the main cabin of the Sirène were now ranged as tightly as might be in the boats alongside; then the men stepped in and took to the oars; while the young master went to the tiller. Calum had been told to put a couple of candles in his pocket; and he was not likely to forget that – for they were going to the Cave of the Crowing Cock.
It was a long and laborious pull – the boat astern acting as a heavy drag; moreover, even with this clear starlight, they dared not go anywhere near that saw-toothed reef that guarded the next small bay whither they were bound. They could hear each successive thud of the surge, and the long receding roar; and they could even descry in a kind of way the line of white foam that boiled and churned incessantly along the almost invisible rocks. But once they were round this dangerous point – giving it a significantly wide berth – they found themselves in smooth water again. Not a word was spoken. The two men toiled away at the oars – most likely thinking of the welcome sleep awaiting them when all was done. The land ahead seemed to grow darker as they approached, even as the black precipitous cliffs appeared to soar higher and higher into the clear starlit skies. Then there was a whispering of water: the beach was near. Young Ross bade them pull more gently now: he was trying to make out the most suitable landing-place – in amongst those mysterious shadows.
Eventually the two boats were grounded, and dragged up to be secure from the tide; while the work of getting the kegs out began.
"Calum," said the young master, "take the candles now and get them lighted; and mind you do not light them until you are well inside the cave."
Calum appeared to receive this commission very unwillingly; at all events he hesitated.
"It is asking for your pardon I am, sir," said he; "but – I have brought a pistol with me."
"A pistol? And why so?" said Donald Ross.
"It is the pistol that I would like to be firing into the cave," said Calum, rather timidly, "before any of us went into it."
"And what is your reason for that, Calum?"
Calum rather hung his head; but he said all the same —
"If there would be wild beasts in the cave, it will scare them before we go in."
"Wild beasts? And what wild beasts are there in Eilean Heimra?" Then the young man laughed. "Calum, is it a badger, or a wild cat, or an otter that you fear? Or is it not rather the Dark Person you are afraid of, who used to come every night to Lochgarra to ask Mr. Stanley if he was not ready yet? Did you believe that story, Calum; and did you not think the Dark Person very foolish to talk Gaelic to Mr. Stanley, when he was not understanding a word of it?"
Calum did not answer: he was shamefacedly awaiting permission to fire into that dreaded place.
"Well, well, Calum," young Ross said, good-naturedly, "you are not long from your mother's apron-string: if you are afraid, give me the candles, and keep the pistol in your pocket. Give me the candles – and lend Coinneach here a hand with the kegs."
But at this Calum raised his head.
"Indeed that will I not do," said he, "for it is not Mr. Ross that must go first into the cave, when I am here, or when Coinneach is here. If I am not to fire the pistol, then I will not fire the pistol. But it's myself that am going to light the candles in the cave."
"And a lucifer-match, Calum," said the young master, turning away from him, "will frighten wild beasts as well as any pistol – besides making a great deal less noise."
The Uamh coilich na glaodhaich was only a few yards distant; but the entrance to it was concealed by a huge mass – a perpendicular pinnacle – of rock; and when Calum had got behind this gigantic natural screen, there were no more cheerful stars to guide him; he was confronted by darkness and unknown terrors. And yet he scrupulously obeyed his instructions. His trembling fingers, it is true, grasped the pistol, but he kept it in his pocket nevertheless; while with his left hand he groped his way well into the cave – dreading at every moment to see two fiery eyes glaring on him – before he set to work to light the candles. And how feeble and ineffectual were the small red flames in this vast cavern! Their flickering hardly showed the roof at all; but it was not the roof that Calum was regarding; it was the far-reaching and black abyss in front of him, that led – whither? Perhaps the inhabitants of that other world could see better than himself, and were now regarding him? – that other world in which the dawn began in the middle of the night, and where there were cocks crowing when all the natural universe was asleep. He had to fasten each lighted candle into the neck of a bottle that had been left there for the purpose; but all the while he did so he was staring into that vague and awful space that the feeble, dull red glow did not seem to penetrate at all – staring into it as if he expected to find two white eyes and a ghastly countenance suddenly become visible. And then again, when he had placed the bottles on a shelf of rock that ran along one side of the cave, a few feet from the ground, he did not instantly turn and go. He retreated backward – cautiously, for the shelving shingle was loose and slippery – keeping his face towards that hollow darkness, so that he might guard himself against any strange thing, or be warned by hearing any strange noise. Then a colder stirring of air told him that he was outside; he made his way past the over-looming rock and into the clear star-light again; and with a beating heart – but a thankful heart withal – he went quickly along the beach and rejoined his companions.
By this time the kegs had been all got out; so that in case of any sudden danger, of which they appeared to have but little dread, the three of them could have jumped into one of the boats and made off. There remained, therefore, only the task of carrying along the casks and stowing them in the cave; and this work young Ross left to the two men. He remained on watch – if watch were needed – pacing up and down the shingle, looking at the far resplendent heavens and the darker sea, and listening to the continuous murmur of the distant surf. He had lit his pipe, too; he did not seem to have much apprehension of being interfered with. And indeed all went well; and in due course of time the two dark figures came along the beach with the intelligence that all the kegs had been safely stowed, and that they were now ready to row the master back to his own home.
"Coinneach," said Donald Ross, seated at the helm, when they were some way out on the black and tumbling water, that glanced and quivered here and there with the reflections of the stars, "they were telling me before we left in the yacht that the lady was shortly coming to Lochgarra House."
"And indeed I heard the same thing myself," said Coinneach, "and they were making ready at the big house for the coming of the Englishwoman."6
"And I have no doubt," the master continued, "that Purdie will come with her, to show her the property, and introduce her to the people."
"The Little Red Dwarf," said Coinneach; and then he muttered to himself: "It is the lowermost floor of hell that I am wishing for him, and for every one of his accursed house!"
Young Ross of Heimra took no notice of this pious ejaculation.
"Now listen," said he. "This is what I wish to say to you, Coinneach. When Purdie comes to Lochgarra with the lady who is the new proprietor, that would be a very good time indeed for widow Mac Vean to ask them to give her a cow in place of the one that she lost in the Meall-na-Fearn bog. Maybe they will give the poor woman a cow; and she will pay them back bit by bit if they allow her time."
"It is of no use asking the Little Red Dwarf for anything," said Coinneach, sullenly. "There is no goodwill in his heart towards the people. Nor is there any goodwill in their hearts towards him – God forbid that there should be any such thing. Indeed, now, there is something I could say about the Little Red Dwarf – But it does not serve to talk."
"What were you going to say, Coinneach?" the young master demanded – knowing Coinneach's ways.
"Oh, perhaps Mr. Ross would not like to hear," said Coinneach, evasively.
"Indeed, but I wish to hear. Now what is it you have to tell me about the Troich Bheag Dhearg?"
Coinneach was silent for a second or two.
"Well," said he, slowly, "it was some of the young lads they were saying that it only wanted a word from Mr. Ross. Yes; they were saying that. It was just a word from Mr. Ross; and they would see that the Little Red Devil did not trouble anyone any more, neither in this nor in any other country."
"Oh, indeed," said the master, placidly. "Then it is a murder the Gillie Ciotach and the rest of them are for planning – is that what you have to tell me?"
"I would not give a thing a bad name," said Coinneach, as he laboured at the oar. "No, no; they were not talking of a murder, or any bad thing like that. But – but there might be an accident; and a very good thing, too, if an accident happened to the Little Red Dwarf!"
"And what kind of an accident?"
"Oh well," said Coinneach, looking away out to the horizon as if the suggestion might come from any quarter. "Maybe he would be riding home on a dark night; and maybe there might be a wire stretched across the road; and if he was to break his neck, who could help that? And it is I who would laugh to hear that he had broken his neck; indeed I would laugh!" said Coinneach, though there was little laughter in his sombre tones.
"And that is what you call an accident, Coinneach? It is an accident that might end in your finding yourself with a hempen collar round your neck. And what was it set the young men talking like that?"
"Oh well, indeed, they were talking about the draining of the loch and the pulling down of Castle Heimra; and they were saying that nowadays the law was being altered by the people themselves, and that right and justice could be done without waiting for the courts. They were saying that. And they were saying that we have come into a new time, which is the truth. They were speaking of the people over there in the Lews; and the last that was heard was that the people would not wait any longer for more pasture to be given them; they would not wait for the courts; they were going to take the deer-forest to themselves, and hamstring every one of the stags – them that they could not eat; and they had got their tents and baggage ready, to go into the forest and take possession. In former times they would not have dared to do so; but times are different now; and people have not to wait for justice; it is they themselves who must say what is right, whether about the Little Red Dwarf, or anything else. They were telling me that. And who was to put the crofters and cottars out of the deer-forest over there in the Lews? Not all the policemen in the island: there are not enough. And if they were to send soldiers, the Queen's soldiers dare not fire on the Queen's subjects, or the officer would be hanged. That was what they were telling me."