long, strong pull together! —Ho, ro, clansmen!
"We'll beat! we'll beat!" cries the Laird, in great delight. "Give it her, boys! Not one halfpennyworth o' that wind will we lose!"
The bow cleaves the blue water; the foam hisses away from her rudder. It is a race of the North against the South. Then the chorus again —
Ho, ro, clansmen!
A long, strong pull together! —
Ho, ro, clansmen!
Hurrah! hurrah! As the gig is run alongside, and guns and birds handed up, that spreading blue has not quite reached the yacht; there is no appreciable stir of the lazy ensign. But there is little time to be lost. The amateurs swing the gig to the davits, while the men are getting in the slack of the anchor chain; the women are incontinently bundled below, to be out of the way of flapping sheets. Then, all hands at the halyards! And by the time the great White Wings are beginning to spread, the breeze stirs the still air around us; and the peak sways gently this way and that; and they who are hard at work at the windlass are no doubt grateful for this cool blowing from the south. Then there is a cessation of noise; we become vaguely aware that we are moving. At last the White Dove has spread her wings; her head is turned towards the south. Good-bye! you lonely loch, with the silent shores and the silent tombs – a hundred farewells to you, wherever we may be going!
And slowly we beat down the loch, against this light southerly breeze. But as we get further and further into the open, surely there is something in the air and in the appearance of the southern sky that suggests that the glass has not been falling for nothing. The sea is smooth; but there is a strange gloom ahead of us; and beyond the islands that we visited yesterday nothing is visible but a wan and sultry glare. Then, afar, we can hear a noise as of the approach of some storm; but perhaps it is only the low sound of the swirling of the tides round the shores. Presently another sound attracts attention – a murmured hissing, and it comes nearer and nearer; dark spots, about the size of a threepenny-piece, appear on the white decks. The women have scarcely time to send below for their sunshades when the slight shower passes by – the decks are not even left damp. Then further and further we creep away towards the south; but where we expected to catch some far glimpse of the Irish coast – the blue line of Rathlin or the Antrim cliffs – there is only that dim, sultry haze.
Then another sound – a dull flop! flop! – in the distance; and the stragglers who have remained below after luncheon are hastily summoned on deck. And there, far away in the haze, we can dimly descry the successive curved forms of a school of dolphins, racing each other, and springing twenty or thirty feet in the air before they come down with that heavy thud on the water. Those of us who have watched the beautiful lithe fish racing and chasing by the side of an Atlantic vessel, would fain have been somewhat nearer; but we can only see the dim forms springing into the haze. Then the dull pistol-shots in the south slowly cease, and we are left alone on the low murmuring sea.
"But where is Miss Mary?" says the Laird, suddenly becoming aware of the absence of his chief companion.
"Oh, she is in the saloon!" says his hostess, quickly and anxiously. "She is doing something to one of her water-colours. I suppose we must not disturb her."
"No, no; certainly not," returns the Laird, lightly; and then he adds, with a smile which is meant to be very significant, "There is never any harm in hard work. Let her go on; she will have a fine collection of sketches before she leaves the White Dove."
But our Queen Tita does not respond to that careless joke. There is a curious, constrained look on her face; and she quite peremptorily negatives a suggestion of the Youth that he should go below for the draught-board. Then one of us perceives that Angus Sutherland is not on deck.
Has the opportunity come at last, then, for the clearing away of all secret troubles? What end is there to be to this momentous interview? Is it Stornoway harbour? Is our frank-eyed young Doctor to come up with a silent wonder and joy on his face – a message that needs no speech – a message that only says, "About with the yacht, and let us run away to the northern seas and Stornoway?" The friend of these two young people can hardly conceal her anxiety. She has got hold of the case of an opera glass, and opens and shuts it quickly and aimlessly. Then there is a step on the companion way; she does not look; she only knows that Angus Sutherland comes on deck, and then goes forward to the bow of the gig, and stands by himself, and looks out to sea.
There is silence on board; for a low rumble of thunder has been heard once or twice, and we are listening. The mountains of Jura are dark now, and the sultry mist in the south is deeper in its gloom. This condition of the atmosphere produces a vague sense of something about to happen, which is in itself uncomfortable; one would almost like to see a flash of lightning, or hear the thunderous advance of a storm breaking in upon the oppressive calm.
The Laird goes forward to Angus Sutherland.
"Well, Doctor, and what think ye of the weather now?"
The younger man starts and turns round, and for a second looks at the Laird as if he had not quite comprehended the question.
"Oh, yes!" he says. "You are quite right. It does look as if we were going to have a dirty night."
And with that he turns to the sea again.
"Aye," says the Laird, sententiously. "I am glad we are in a boat we need have no fear of – none! Keep her away from the shore, and we are all right. But – but I suppose we will get into some harbour to-night, after all?"
"It does not matter," he says, absently; and then he goes away up to the bow. He is alone there; for the men have gone below for dinner – with the exception of John of Skye, who is at the helm.
Presently the special friend of the young man puts aside that opera-glass case, and walks timidly forward to the bow of the yacht. She regards him somewhat anxiously; but his face is turned away from her – looking over to the gloomy Jura hills.
"Angus," she says, briskly, "are we not going very near Jura, if it is West Loch Tarbert we are making for?"
He turned to her then, and she saw by his face that something had happened.
"You have spoken to her, Angus?" she said, in a low voice; and her earnest, kind eyes regarded the young man as if to anticipate his answer.
"Yes."
For a second or so he seemed disinclined to say more; but presently he added, scarcely looking at her —
"I am sorry that I must leave you the first time we get near land."
"Oh, Angus!"
It was almost a cry – uttered in that low, piteous voice. Then he looked at her.
"You have been very kind to me," said he, so that no one should hear. "It is only a misfortune. But I wish I had never seen the White Dove."
"Oh, Angus; don't say that!"
"It is my own fault. I should never have come from Edinburgh. I knew that. I knew I was hazarding everything. And she is not to blame – "
He could say no more, for one or two of the men now came up from the forecastle. His hostess left him and went aft, with a hurt and indignant look on her face. When the Laird asked why Miss Mary did not come on deck, she said, "I don't know," with an air which said she had ceased to take any further care in Mary Avon's actions. And at dinner, what heed did she pay to the fact that Mary Avon was rather white, and silent, and pained-looking? She had been disappointed. She had not expected the friend of her
