And at last we, too, get down to the edge of a channel – some hundred yards lower than Howard Smith's post – and from behind a rock we have a pretty clear view of the scene of operations. Apparently there is no sign of any living thing – except that a big fish leaps into the air, some dozen yards off. Thereafter a dead silence.
After waiting about a quarter of an hour or so, the Laird seemed to become violently excited, though he would neither budge nor speak. And there, between two islands right opposite young Smith, appeared two shining black heads on the still water; and they were evidently coming down this very channel. On they came – turning about one way and another, as if to look that the coast was clear. Every moment we expected to hear the crack of the rifle. Then the heads silently disappeared.
The Laird was beside himself with disappointment.
"Why did he no shoot? Why did he no shoot?" he said, in an excited whisper.
He had scarcely spoken when he was startled by an apparition. Right opposite to him – not more than twenty yards off – a black thing appeared on the water – with a glistening smooth head, and large, soft eyes. Then another. We dared not move. We waited for the whistle of the rifle-bullet. The next instant the first seal caught sight of the Laird; raised its head for an instant at least six inches higher; then silently plunged along with its companion. They were gone, at all events.
The Youth came marching along the rocks, his rifle over his shoulder.
"Why didn't you fire?" his uncle said, almost angrily.
"I thought they were coming nearer," said he. "I was just about to fire when they dived. Mind, it isn't very easy to get on to a thing that is bobbing about like that, with a rifle. I propose we have luncheon, now, until the tide ebbs a bit; then there may be a chance of catching one lying on the rocks. That is the proper time for getting a shot at a seal."
We had luncheon: there was no difficulty about securing that. But as for getting at the seals – whether we crawled over the rocks, or lay in hiding, or allowed the boat to drift towards some island, on the chance of one of them rising in our neighbourhood – it was no use at all. There were plenty of seals about: a snap shot now and again served to break the monotony of the day; but that present tor Mary Avon seemed as remote as ever. And when one is determined on shooting a seal, one is not likely to waste one's attention, and cartridges, on such inferior animals as skarts.
The silver-grey day became more golden; there was a touch of warm purple about the shadows of Staffa.
"Come," said the Laird at last. "We must go back. It is no use. I have often heard people say that if you miss the first chance at a seal it never gives ye another."
"Better luck next time, uncle," said the Youth; but his uncle refused to be comforted. And the first thing he said to Mary Avon when he got back to the yacht was —
"We have not got it."
"Got what?" said she.
"The seal-skin I wanted to have dressed for ye. No, nor the skarts I wanted to have made into a muff or a bag for ye."
"Oh," said she, promptly, "I am very glad. I hope you won't shoot any of those poor things on my account; I should be very sorry indeed."
The Laird took this as one of the familiar protestations on the part of women, who wouldn't for the world have poor things shot, but who don't object to wearing any amount of furs and feathers, to say nothing of having innocent sheep sheared and harmless silkworms robbed in order to deck themselves out. She should have that dressed seal-skin, and that muff of skarts' breasts, all the same.
Nothing of stupendous importance happened that evening except that – after we had caught three dozen of good-sized lithe and returned to the yacht with this welcome addition to our stores – there was a general discussion of our plans for the next few days. And our gentle hostess was obviously looking forward to Angus Sutherland's coming back to us with great pleasure; and we were to make our return to suit his convenience; and she would write to him whenever we got near a post-office again.
Mary Avon had sate silent during all this. At last, she said – apparently with some effort and yet very deliberately —
"I – I think you are a little cruel to Dr. Sutherland. You are forcing him to come with you against his better judgment – for you know, with his prospects, and the calls on his time, he cannot afford such long idleness. Do you think it is quite fair?"
The woman stared at this girl, who spoke with some earnestness, though her eyes were downcast.
"He would do anything to please you," Mary Avon continued, as if she were determined to get through with some speech that she had prepared, "and he is very fond of sailing: but do you think you should allow him to injure his prospects in this way? Wouldn't it be a greater kindness to write and say that, if he really feels he ought to return to London, you would not hold him to his promise? I am sure he would not be offended: he would understand you at once. And I am sure he would do what is clearly right: he would go straight back to London, and resume his work – for his own sake and for the sake of those who count on a great future for him. I, for one, should be very sorry to see him come back to idle away his time in sailing."
And still Queen Tita stared at the girl, though their eyes did not meet. And she could scarcely believe that it was Mary Avon who had counselled this cold dismissal.
CHAPTER VI.
"UNCERTAIN, COY, AND HARD TO PLEASE."
There are two people walking up and down the deck this beautiful morning: the lazy ones are still below, dawdling over breakfast. And now young Smith, though he is not much more than an acquaintance, talks quite confidentially to his hostess. She has his secret; he looks to her for aid. And when they do have a quiet moment like this together there is usually but one person of whom they speak.
"I must say she has an extraordinary spirit," he observes, with some decision. "Why, I believe she is rather pleased than otherwise to have lost that money. She is not a bit afraid of going up to London to support herself by her work. It seems to amuse her on the whole!"
"Mary has plenty of courage," says the other quietly.
"I don't wonder at my uncle being so fond of her: he likes her independent ways and her good humour. I shouldn't be surprised if he were to adopt her as his daughter, and cut me out. There would be some sense in that."
"I am glad you take it so coolly," says our governor-general, in a matter-of-fact way that rather startles him. "More unlikely things have happened."
But he recovers himself directly.
"No, no," says he, laughing. "There is one objection. She could not sit on any of the parochial Boards of Strathgovan. Now I know my uncle looks forward to putting me on the Police Committee and the Lighting Committee, and no end of other Committees. By the way, she might go on the School Board. Do they have women on the School Boards in Scotland?"
On this point his hostess was no better informed than himself.
"Well," said he, after a bit, "I wouldn't call her pretty, you know; but she has a singularly interesting face."
"Oh, do you think so?" says the other, quite innocently.
"I do, indeed," answers the ingenuous Youth. "And the more you see of her the more interesting it becomes. You seem to get so well acquainted with her somehow; and – and you have a sort of feeling that her presence is sort of necessary."
This was somewhat vague; but he made another wild effort to express himself.
"What I mean is – that – that suppose she were to leave the yacht, wouldn't the saloon look quite different? And wouldn't the sailing be quite different? You would know there was something wanting."
"I should, indeed," is the emphatic reply.
"I never knew any one," says the Youth, warming to his work of thorough explanation, "about whose presence you seem so conscious – even when she isn't here – I don't mean that exactly – I mean that at this moment now, you know she is on board the yacht – and it would be quite different if she were not. I suppose most people wouldn't call her pretty. There is nothing of the Book of Beauty about her. But I call it a most interesting face. And she has fine eyes. Anybody must admit that. They have a beautiful, soft expression; and they can laugh even when she is quite silent – "
"My dear Mr. Smith," says his hostess, suddenly stopping short, and with a kind of serious smile on her face, "let me talk frankly to you. You acted very sensibly, I think, in coming with us to humour your uncle. He will come to see that this scheme of his is impracticable; and in the meantime, if you don't mind the discomfort of it, you have a holiday. That is all quite well. But pray don't think it necessary that you should argue yourself into falling in love with Mary. I am not in her confidence on such a delicate matter; but one has eyes; and I think I might almost safely say to you that, even if you persuaded yourself that Mary would make an excellent wife – and be presentable to your friends – I say even if you succeeded in persuading yourself, I am afraid you would only have thrown that labour away. Please don't try to convince yourself that you ought to fall in love with her."
This was plain speaking. But then our admiral-in-chief was very quickly sensitive where Mary Avon was concerned; and perhaps she did not quite like her friend being spoken of as though she were a pill that had to be swallowed. Of course the Youth instantly disclaimed any intention of that kind. He had a very sincere regard for the girl, so far as he had seen her; he was not persuading himself; he was only saying how much she improved when you got better acquainted with her.
"And if," said he, with just a touch of dignity, "if Miss Avon is – is – engaged – "
"Oh, I did not say that," his hostess quickly interposed. "Oh, certainly not. It was only a guess on my part – "
" – or likely to be engaged," he continued, with something of the same reserve, "I am sure I am very glad for her sake; and whoever marries her ought to have a cheerful home and a pleasant companion."
This was a generous sentiment; but there was not much of a "wish-you-may-be-happy" air about the young man. Moreover, where was the relief he ought to have experienced on hearing that there was an obstacle – or likelihood of an obstacle – to the execution of his uncle's scheme which would absolve him from responsibility altogether?
However, the subject could not be continued just then; for at this moment a tightly-brushed small head, and a narrow-brimmed felt hat, and a shapely neck surrounded by an upstanding collar and bit of ribbon of navy-blue, appeared at the top of the companion, and Mary Avon, looking up with her black eyes full of a cheerful friendliness, said —
"Weil, John, are you ready to start yet?"
And the great, brown-bearded John of Skye, looking down at this small Jack-in-the-box with a smile of welcome on his face, said —
"Oh, yes, mem, when the breakfast is over."
"Do you think it is blowing outside, then?"
"Oh, no, mem, but there is a good breeze; and maybe there will be a bit of a rowl from the Atlantic. Will Mr. – himself be for going now?"
"Oh, yes, certainly," she says, with a fine assumption of authority. "We are quite ready when you are ready, John; Fred will have the things off the table in a couple of minutes."
"Very well, mem," says the obedient John of Skye, going forward to get the men up to the windlass.
Our young Doctor should have been there to see us getting under way. The Sound of Ulva is an excellent harbour and anchorage when you are once in it; but getting out of it, unless with both wind and tide in your favour, is very like trying to manoeuvre a man-of-war in a tea-cup. But we had long ago come to the conclusion that John of Skye could sail the White Dove through a gas-pipe, with half a gale of wind dead in his teeth; and the manner in which he got us out of this narrow and tortuous channel fully justified our confidence.
"Very prettily done, Captain John!" said the Laird – who was beginning to give himself airs on nautical matters – when we had got out into the open.
And here, as we soon discovered, was the brisk fresh breeze that John of Skye had predicted; and the running swell, too, that came sweeping in to the mouth of Loch-na-Keal. Black indeed looked that far-reaching loch on this breezy, changeful morning – as dark as it was when the chief of Ulva's Isle came down to the shore with his runaway bride; and all along Ben-More and over the Gribun cliffs hung heavy masses of cloud, dark and threatening as if with thunder. But far away in the south there was a more cheerful outlook; the windy sea shimmering in light; some gleams of blue in the sky; we knew that the sunshine must be shining on the green clover and the beautiful sands of Iona. The White Dove seemed to understand what was required of her. Her head was set for the gleaming south; her white wings outspread; as she sprang to meet those rushing seas we knew we were escaping from the thunder-darkness that lay over Loch-na-Keal.
And Ulva: had we known that we were now leaving Ulva behind us for the last time, should we not have taken another look back, even though it now lay under a strange and mysterious gloom? Perhaps not. We had grown to love the island in other days. And when one shuts one's eyes in winter, it is not to see an Ulva of desolate rocks and leaden waves; it is a fair and shining Ulva, with blue seas breaking whitely along its shores; and magical still channels, with mermaid's halls of seaweed; and an abundant, interesting life – all manner of sea-birds, black rabbits running among the rocks, seals swimming in the silent bays. Then the patch of civilisation under shelter of the hills; the yellow corn-fields; the dots of human creatures and the red and tawny-grey cattle visible afar in the meadow; the solitary house; the soft foliage of trees and bushes; the wild-flowers along the cliffs. That is the green-shored island: that is the Ool-a-va of the sailors; we know it only in sunlight and among blue summer seas: it shines for us for ever!
The people who go yachting are a fickle folk. The scene changes – and their interests change – every few minutes. Now it is the swooping down of a solan; again it is the appearance of another island far away; presently it is a shout of laughter forward, as some unlucky wight gets drowned in a shower of sea-spray: anything catches their attention for the moment. And so the White Dove swings along; and the sea gets heavier and heavier; and we watch the breakers springing high over the black rocks of Colonsay. It is the Laird who is now instructing our new guest; pointing out to him, as they come in view, Staffa, the Dutchman, Fladda, and Lunga, and Cairnaburg. Tiree is invisible at the horizon: there is too wild a whirl of wind and water.
The gloom behind us increases; we know not what is about to happen to our beloved but now distant Ulva – what sudden rumble of thunder is about to startle the silence of the dark Loch-na-Keal. But ahead of us the south is still shining clear: blow, winds, that we may gain the quiet shelter of Polterriv before the evening falls! And is it not full moon to-night? – to-night our new guest may see the yellow moon shining on the still waters of Iona Sound.
But the humiliating truth must be told. The heavy sea has been trying to one unaccustomed to life on board. Howard Smith, though answering questions well enough, and even joining voluntarily in conversation occasionally, wears a preoccupied air. He does not take much interest in the caves of Bourg. The bright look has gone from his face.
His gentle hostess – who has herself had moments of gloom on the bosom of the deep – recognises these signs instantly; and insists on immediate luncheon. There is a double reason for this haste. We can now run under the lee of the Erisgeir rocks, where there will be less danger to Master Fred's plates and tumblers. So we are all bundled down into the saloon; the swell sensibly subsides as we get to leeward of Erisgeir; there is a scramble of helping and handing; and another explosion in the galley tells us that Master Fred has not yet mastered the art of releasing effervescing fluids. Half a tumblerful of that liquid puts new life into our solemn friend. The colour returns to his face, and brightness to his eyes. He admits that he was beginning to long for a few minutes on firm land – but now – but now – he is even willing to join us in an excursion that has been talked of to the far Dubhartach lighthouse.
"But we must really wait for Angus," our hostess says, "before going out there. He was always so anxious to go to Dubhartach."
"But surely you won't ask him to come away from his duties again?" Mary Avon puts in hastily. "You know he ought to go back to London at once."
"I know I have written him a letter," says the other demurely. "You can read it if you like, Mary. It is in pencil, for I was afraid of the ink-bottle going waltzing over the table."
Miss Avon would not read the letter. She said we must be past Erisgeir by this time; and proposed we should go on deck. This we did; and the Youth was now so comfortable and assured in his mind that, by lying full length on the deck, close to the weather bulwarks, he managed to light a cigar. He smoked there in much content, almost safe from the spray.
Mary Avon was seated at the top of the companion, reading. Her hostess came and squeezed herself in beside her, and put her arm round her.
"Mary," said she, "why don't you want Angus Sutherland to come back to the yacht?"
"I!" said she, in great surprise – though she did not meet the look of the elder woman – "I – I – don't you see yourself that he ought to go back to London? How can he look after that magazine while he is away in the Highlands? And – and – he has so much to look forward to – so much to do – that you should not encourage him in making light of his work."
"Making light of his work!" said the other. "I am almost sure that you yourself told him that he deserved and required a long – a very long – holiday."
"You did, certainly."
"And didn't you?"
The young lady looked rather embarrassed.
"When you saw him," said she, with flushed cheeks, "so greatly enjoying the sailing – absorbed in it – and – and gaining health and strength, too – well, of course you naturally wished that he should come back and go away with you again. But it is different on reflection. You should not ask him."
"Why, what evil is likely to happen to him through taking another six weeks' holiday? Is he likely to fall out of the race of life because of a sail in the White Dove? And doesn't he know his own business? He is not a child."
"He would do a great deal to please you."
"I want him to please himself," said the other; and she added, with a deadly frown gathering on her forehead, "and I won't have you, Miss Dignity, interfering with the pleasures of my guests. And there is to be no snubbing, and no grim looks, and no hints about work, and London, and other nonsense, when Angus Sutherland comes back to us. You shall stand by the gangway – do you hear? – and receive him with a smiling face; and if you are not particularly kind, and civil, and attentive to him, I'll have you lashed to the yard-arm and painted blue – keel-haul me if I don't."
Fairer and fairer grew the scene around us as the brave White Dove went breasting the heavy Atlantic rollers. Blue and white overhead; the hot sunlight doing its best to dry the dripping decks; Iona shining there over the smoother waters of the Sound; the sea breaking white, and spouting up in columns, as it dashed against the pale red promontories of the Ross of Mull. But then this stiff breeze had backed to the west; and there was many a long tack to be got over before we left behind the Atlantic swell and ran clear into the Sound. The evening was drawing on apace as we slowly and cautiously steered into the little creek of Polterriv. No sooner had the anchor rattled out than we heard the clear tinkling of Master Fred's bell; how on earth had he managed to cook dinner amid all that diving and rolling and pitching?
And then, as we had hoped, it was a beautiful evening; and the long gig was got out, and shawls for the women-folk flung into the stern. The fishing did not claim our attention. Familiar as some of us were with the wonderful twilights of the north, which of us had ever seen anything more solemn, and still, and lovely than these colours of sea and shore? Half-past nine at night on the 8th of August; and still the west and north were flushed with a pale rose-red, behind the dark, rich, olive-green of the shadowed Iona. But what was that to the magic world that lay before us as we returned to the yacht? Now the moon had arisen, and it seemed to be of a clear, lambent gold; and the cloudless heavens and the still sea were of a violet hue – not imaginatively, or relatively, but positively and literally violet. Then between the violet-coloured sky and the violet-coloured sea, a long line of rock, jet black as it appeared to us. That was all the picture: the yellow moon, the violet sky, the violet sea, the line of black rock. No doubt it was the intensity of the shadows along this line of rock that gave that extraordinary luminousness to the still heavens and the still sea.
When we got back to the yacht a telegram awaited us. It had been sent to Bunessan, the nearest telegraph-station; but some kind friends there, recognising the White Dove as she came along by Erisgeir, and shrewdly concluding that we must pass the night at Polterriv, had been so kind as to forward it on to Fion-phort by a messenger.
"I thought so!" says Queen T. with a fine delight in her face as she reads the telegram. "It is from Angus. He is coming on Thursday. We must go back to meet him at Ballahulish or Corpach."
Then the discourtesy of this remark struck her.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Smith," said she, instantly. "Of course, I mean if it is quite agreeable to you. He does not expect us, you see; he would come on here – "
"I assure you I would as soon go to Ballahulish as anywhere else," says the Youth promptly. "It is quite the same to me – it is all new, you see, and all equally charming."
Mary Avon alone expressed no delight at this prospect of our going to Ballahulish to meet Angus Sutherland; she sate silent; her eyes were thoughtful and distant; it was not of anything around her that she was thinking.
The moon had got whiter now; the sea and the sky blue-black in place of that soft warm violet colour. We sate on deck till a late hour; the world was asleep around us; not a sound disturbed the absolute stillness of land and sea.
And where was the voice of our singing bird? Had the loss of a mere sum of money made her forget all about Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton, "and Mary Carmichael and me?" Or was the midnight silence too much for her; and the thought of the dusky cathedral over there; with the gravestones pale in the moonlight; and all around a whispering of the lonely sea? She had nothing to fear. She might have crossed over to Iona and might have walked all by herself through the ruins, and in calmness regarded the sculptured stones. The dead sleep sound.