in the least squalid; and he had a red woollen comforter round his neck.
"Good evening!" said she, with a most winning smile.
But the propitiating dimple, that had hitherto been all-conquering, was of no avail here. He looked at her. He did not raise his cap.
"Cha 'n 'eil beurla agam," said he, with a sort of affected indifference.
She was taken aback only for a moment.
"What does he say?" she asked of Mr. Purdie, who had followed her.
"He says he has no English," the factor answered; and then he added, vindictively: "But he would have plenty of English if he wanted to tell you of his grievances – oh, ay, plenty! Start him on that, and he'll find plenty of English! He's one of the most ill-condeetioned men in the whole place – and I suppose he has enough English to understand that!"
"Tell him who I am," said she, rather disappointedly; for she had set out with the determination to get to know all the circumstances and wants and wishes of her tenants, especially of the poorer ones, without the intervention of any factor.
Hereupon Mr. Purdie, in unnecessarily severe tones, as it seemed to her, addressed a few sentences in Gaelic to the stubborn-looking old man, who, in turn – and with no abatement of his hostile attitude – replied in the same tongue. But to Mary's surprise, he suddenly added – fixing morose eyes upon her —
"She – no my laird! Ross of Heimra – my laird. Young Donald – he my laird. She no my laird at ahl!"
"Oh, but that is absurd, you know," Mary said, eagerly, and with a quick delight that she could enter into direct communication with him. "You forget – you are mistaken – my uncle bought the estate from the late Mr. Ross of Heimra. Surely you understand that? Surely you know that? The whole place was bought in open market. Mr. Ross sold the land, and all the rights belonging to it – yes, and the obligations, too; and my uncle bought it. Don't you understand?"
The man turned away his eyes, and sulkily muttered something in Gaelic.
"What is it?" asked Mary, compelled to appeal once more to the factor.
"Like the scoundrel's impertinence!" said the Little Red Dwarf, darting an angry look at the crofter. "He says the Englishman – that is your uncle, Miss Stanley – the Englishman bought the land but not the hearts of the people."
"And that is quite right!" Mary exclaimed. "That is quite right and true. Tell him I quite agree with him. But tell him this – tell him that if my uncle did not buy the hearts of the people, I mean to win them – "
"Oh, Mary," Käthchen struck in, rather shamefacedly, "don't talk like that! They won't understand you. Be practical. Ask him what complaint he has to make about his farm – ask him what he wants – "
"I can tell ye that beforehand!" said Mr. Purdie, in his irascible scorn. "He wants more arable land, and he wants more pasture; and both for nothing. And no doubt he would like a steam plough thrown in, and maybe a score or two o' black-faced wethers – "
But Mary interrupted. She had formed for herself some idea, before she came to this country, as to how she meant to proceed.
"Mr. Purdie," said she, in her clear, firm way, "I wish you to ask this man if he has anything to complain of; and I wish you to tell me precisely what he says."
The Troich Bheag Dhearg, being thus ordered, obeyed; but he scowled upon the stubborn crofter – and it was apparent there was no love lost on the other side either. At the end of their brief, and unwilling, conversation, the factor made his report.
"Well, there are many things he would like – who could doubt that? – but in especial he wants the pasture of Meall-na-Cruagan divided amongst the crofters of this district, and the tax for the dyke taken off the rent. But Meall-na-Cruagan never did belong to the crofters at any time; and it is part of Mr. Watson's sheep-farm – he has it under lease."
"I will look into that afterwards," said she. "What is the tax you mentioned?"
"Well, when the dyke along there – the embankment," said the factor, "was built to keep the river from flooding the land, the interest of the money expended was added on to the rents of the crofts, as was natural – and that's what they call a tax!"
"How long have they been paying that tax?" she asked.
"It is about thirty years since the dyke was built."
"Thirty years!" she said. "Thirty years! These poor people have been paying a tax all this time for an embankment built to improve the property? Really, Mr. Purdie! – "
"They get the value of it!" he said, as testily as he dared. "The land is no longer flooded – "
"Tell this man," said she, with some colour mounting to her face, "that the tax for the dyke is abolished – here and now!"
"Godiva!" said Käthchen, in an undertone, with a bit of a titter.
And the factor would have protested from his own point of view. But this young woman's heart was all aflame. She cared nothing for ridicule, nor for any sort of more practical opposition. Here was some definite wrong that she could put right. She did not want to hear from Mr. Purdie, or from anybody else, what neighbouring landlords might think, or what encouragement it might give the crofters to make other and more impossible demands.
"I don't care what other landlords may say!" said she with firm lips: "You tell me that I improve my property – and then charge these poor people with the cost! And for thirty years they have been paying? Well, I wish you to say to this man that the tax no longer exists – from this moment it no longer exists – it is not to be heard of again!"
The factor made a brief communication: the taciturn crofter answered not a word – not a word of recognition, much less of thanks. But Mary Stanley was not to be daunted by this incivility: as she descended to the waggonette, her face wore a proud look – right and justice should be done, as far as she was able, in this her small sphere: the rest was with the gods.
And again they drove on; but now was there not some subtle softening of the air, some moist odour as of the sea, some indication of the neighbourhood of the Atlantic shores? Clearly they were getting down to the coast. And unhappily, as they went on, the land around them seemed to be getting worse and worse – if there could be a worse. A wilderness of crags and knolls – of Hebridean gneiss mostly; patches of swamp, with black gullies of peat; sterile hills that would have threatened a hoodie crow with starvation: such appeared to be Miss Stanley's newly found property. But a very curious incident now occurred to withdraw her attention from these immediate surroundings – an incident the meaning of which she was to learn subsequently. They had come in sight of a level space that had evidently at one time been a lake, but was now a waste of stones, with a touch of green slime and a few withered rushes here and there; and in the middle of this space, on a mound that had apparently been connected with the mainland, was a heap of scattered blocks that looked like the tumbled-down ruins of some ancient fort.
"What is that, Mr. Purdie?" she called out, still anxious for all possible information.
A malignant grim came over the face of the Little Red Dwarf.
"That," said he, "was once Castle Heimra; and then it was Castle Stanley; and now it is nothing!"
He had scarcely uttered the words when the driver slashed at the neck of one of the horses; and both animals sprung forward with a jerk – a jerk so sudden and violent that Mr. Purdie
