CHAPTER III.
MAINLY ABOUT MYRA.
The train slowed down into Mallaig station. I thrilled withanticipation, for now I had only the journey on the boat, and Myrawould be waiting for me at Glenelg. The train had hardly stopped whenI seized my bag and jumped out on to the platform. The next instant Iwas nearly knocked back into the carriage again. A magnificent GreatDane had jumped at me with a deep bark of flattering welcome, andplanted his paws on my shoulders.
"Sholto, my dear old man!" I cried in excitement, dropping my bag andlooking round expectantly. It was Myra's dog, and there, sure enough,was a beautiful vision of brown eyes and brown-gold hair, in aheather-coloured Burberry costume, running down the platform to meetme.
"Well--darling?" I said, as I met her half-way.
"Well?" she whispered, as she took my hand, and I looked into thedepths of those wonderful eyes. Truly I was a lucky dog. The world wasa most excellent place, full of delightful people; and even if I werean impecunious young barrister I was richer than Croesus in thepossession of those beautiful brown eyes, which looked on all theworld with the gentle affection of a tender and indulgent sister, butwhich looked on me with----Oh! hang it all!--a fellow can't writeabout these sort of things when they affect him personally. Besides,they belong to me--thank God!
"I got your telegram, dear," said Myra, as we strolled out of thestation behind the porter who had appropriated my bag. Sholto broughtup the rear. He had too great an opinion of his own position to bejealous of me--or at any rate he was too dignified to show it--and hehad always admitted me into the inner circle of his friendship in amanner that was very charming, if not a little condescending.
"Did you, darling?" I said, in reply to Myra's remark.
"Yes; it was delivered first thing this morning, and father was verypleased about it."
"Really!" I exclaimed. "I _am_ glad. I was afraid he might be ratherannoyed."
"I was a little bit surprised myself," she confessed, "though I'm sureI don't know why I should be. Dad's a perfect dear--he always was andhe always will be. But he has been very determined about ourengagement. When I told him you'd wired you were coming he wastremendously pleased. He kept on saying, 'I'm glad; that's good news,little woman, very good news. 'Pon my soul I'm doocid glad!' He saidyou were a splendid fellow--I can't think what made him imaginethat--but he said it several times, so I suppose he had some reasonfor it. I was frightfully pleased. I like you to be a splendid fellow,Ron!"
I was very glad to hear that the old General was really pleased tohear of my visit. I had intended to stay at the Glenelg Hotel, as Icould hardly invite myself to Invermalluch Lodge, even though I hadknown the old man all my life. Accordingly I took it as a definitesign that his opposition was wearing down when Myra told me I wasexpected at the house.
"And he said," she continued, "that he never heard such ridiculousnonsense as your saying you were coming to the hotel, and that if youpreferred a common inn to the house that had been good enough for himand his fathers before him, you could stop away altogether. So there!"
"Good--that's great!" I said enthusiastically. "But did you come overby the boat from Glenelg, or what?"
"No, dear; I came in the motor-boat, so we don't need to hang aboutthe pier here. We can either go straight home or wait a bit, whicheveryou like. I wanted to meet you, and I thought you'd rather come backwith me in the motor-boat than jolt about in the stuffy old _Sheila_."
"Rather, dear; I should say I would," said I--and a lot more besides,which has nothing to do with the story. Suddenly Myra's motherlyinstinct awoke.
"Have you had breakfast?" she asked.
"Yes, dear--at Crianlarich. The only decent meal to be got on arailway in this country is a Crianlarich breakfast."
"Well, in that case you're ready for lunch. It's gone twelve. I coulddo with something myself, incidentally, and I want to talk to youbefore we start for home. Let's have lunch here."
I readily agreed, and after calling Sholto, who was being conducted ona tour of inspection by the parson's dog, we strolled up the hill tothe hotel. As we entered the long dining-room we came upon Hilderman,seated at one of the tables with his back to us.
"Yes," he was saying to the waiter, "I have been spending the week-endon the Clyde in a yacht. I joined the train at Ardlui this morning,and I can tell you----"
I didn't wait to hear any more. Rather by instinct than as a result ofany definite train of thought, I led Myra quickly behind a Japanesescreen to a small table by a side window. After all, it was nobusiness of mine if Hilderman wished to say he had joined the train atArdlui. He probably had his own reasons. Possibly Dennis was right,and the man was a detective. But I had seen him at King's Cross andagain at Edinburgh before we reached Ardlui, so I thought it mightembarrass him if I walked in on the top of his assertion that he hadjust come from the Clyde. However, Myra was with me, which was muchmore important, and I dismissed Hilderman and his little fib from mymind.
"Ronnie," said Myra, in the middle of lunch, "you haven't saidanything about the war."
"No, dear," I answered clumsily. "It----" It was an astonishinglydifficult thing to say when it came to saying it.
"And yet that was what you came to see me about?"
"Yes, darling. You see, I----"
"I know, dear. You've come to tell me that you're going to enlist. I'mglad, Ronnie, very glad--and very, very proud."
Myra turned away and looked out of the window.
"I hate people who talk a lot about their duty," I said; "but itobviously is my duty, and I know that's what you would want me to do."
"Of course, dear, I wouldn't have you do anything else." And sheturned and smiled at me, though there were tears in her dear eyes."And I shall try to be brave, very brave, Ronnie. I'm getting a biggirl now," she added pluckily, attempting a little laugh. And though,of course, we afterwards discussed the regiment I was to join, and howthe uniform would suit me, and how you kept your buttons clean, and athousand other things, that was the last that was said about it fromthat point of view. There are some people who never need to saycertain things--or at any rate there are some things that never needbe said between certain people.
After lunch we strolled round the "fish-table," a sort of subsidiarypier on which the fish are auctioned, and listened to the excitedconversations of the fish-curers, gutters, and fishermen. It was averitable babel--the mournful intonation of the East Coast, the broadguttural of the Broomielaw, mingled with the shrill Gaelic scream ofthe Highlands, and the occasional twang of the cockney tourist. Havingretrieved Sholto, who was inspecting some fish which had been laid outto dry in the middle of the village street, and packed him safely inthe bows, we set out to sea, Myra at the engine, while I took thetiller. As we glided out of the harbour I turned round, impelled bysome unknown instinct. The parson's dog was standing at the head ofthe main pier, seeing us safely off the premises, and beside him wasthe tall figure of my friend J. G. Hilderman. As I looked up at him Iwondered if he recognised me; but it was evident he did, for he raisedhis cap and waved to me. I returned the compliment as well as I could,for just then Myra turned and implored me not to run into thelighthouse.
"Someone you know?" she asked, as I righted our course.
"Only a chap I met on the train," I explained.
"It looks like the tenant of Glasnabinnie, but I couldn't be certain.I've never met him, and I've only seen him once."
"Glasnabinnie!" I exclaimed, with a new interest. "Really! Why, that'squite close to you, surely?"
"Just the other side of the loch, directly opposite us. A good swimmercould swim across, but a motor would take days to go round. So we'rereally a long way off, and unless he turns up at some local functionwe're not likely to meet him. He's said to be an American millionaire;but then every American in these parts is supposed to have at leastone million of money."
"Do you know anything about him--what he does, or did?" I asked.
"Absolutely nothing," she replied, "except, of course,
the sillyrumours that one always hears about strangers. He took Glasnabinnie inMay--in fact, the last week of April, I believe. That rather surprisedus, because it was very early for summer visitors. But he showed hisgood sense in doing so, as the country was looking gorgeous--Sgriol,na Ciche, and the Cuchulins under snow. I've heard (Angus McGeochan,one of our crofters, told me) he was an inventor, and had made a fewodd millions out of a machine for sticking labels on canned meat. Thatand the fact that he is a very keen amateur photographer is thecomplete history of Mr. Hilderman so far as I know it. Anyway, he hasa gorgeous view, hasn't he? It's nearly as good as ours."
"He has indeed," I agreed readily. "But I don't think Hilderman can bevery wealthy; no fishing goes with Glasnabinnie, there's no yachtanchorage, and there's no road to motor on. How does he get about?"
"He's got a beautiful Wolseley launch," said Myra jealously, "aperfect beauty. He calls her the _Baltimore II._ She was lyingalongside the _Hermione_ at Mallaig when we left. Oh! look up theloch, Ron! Isn't it a wonderful view?"
And so the magnificent purple-gray summit of Sgor na Ciche, at thehead of Loch Nevis, claimed our attention--(that and other matters ofa personal nature)--and J. G. Hilderman went completely from ourminds. Myra was a real Highlander of the West. She lived for itsmountains and lochs, its rivers and burns, its magnificent coast andits fascinating animal life. She knew every little creek and inlet,every rock and shallow, every reef and current from Fort William tothe Gair Loch. I have even heard it said that when she was twelve shecould draw an accurate outline of Benbecula and North Uist, a featthat would be a great deal beyond the vast majority of grown-upsliving on those islands themselves. As we turned to cross the head ofLoch Hourn, Myra pointed out Glasnabinnie, nestling like a lump ofgrey lichen at the foot of the Croulin Burn. Anchored off the pointwas a small steam yacht, either a converted drifter or built ondrifter lines.
"Our friend has visitors," said Myra, "and he's not there to receivethem. How very rude! That yacht is often there. She only makes abouteight knots as a rule, although she gives you the impression she coulddo more. You see, she's been built for strength and comfort more thanfor looks. She calls at Glasnabinnie in the afternoons sometimes, andis there after dark, and sails off before six." (Myra was always outof doors before six in the morning, whatever the weather.) "From whichI gather," she continued, "that the owner lives some distance away andsleeps on board. She can't be continuously cruising, or she would makea longer stay sometimes."
"You seem to know the ways of yacht-owners, dear," I said. "Hullo!what is that hut on the cliff above the falls? That's new, surely."
"Oh! that beastly thing," said Myra in disgust. "That's his, too. Asmoking-room and study, I believe. He had it built there because hehas an uninterrupted view that sweeps the sea."
"Why 'beastly thing'?" I asked. "It's too far away to worry you,though it isn't exactly pretty, and I know you hate to see anything inthe shape of a new building going up."
"Oh! it annoys me," she answered airily, "and somehow it gets ondaddy's nerves. You see, it has a funny sort of window which goes allround the top of the hut. This is evidently divided into several smallwindows, because they swing about in the wind, and when the sun shineson them they catch the eye even at our distance. And, as I say, theyget on daddy's nerves, which have not been too good the last week ortwo."
"Never mind," I consoled her; "he'll be all right when his friendscome up for the Twelfth. I think the doctors are wrong to say that heshould never have a lot of people hanging round him, because there cansurely be no harm in letting him see a few friends. I certainly thinkhe's right to make an exception for the grouse."
"Grouse!" sniffed Myra. "They come for the Twelfth because they liketo be seen travelling north on the eleventh! And I have to entertainthem. And some of the ones who come for the first time tell me theysuppose I know all the pretty walks round about! And in any case," shefinished, in high indignation, "can you imagine _me_ entertaininganybody?"
"Yes, my dear, I can," I replied; and the "argument" kept us busytill we reached Invermalluch. The old General came down to thelanding-stage to meet us, and was much more honestly pleased to seeme than I had ever known him before.
"Ah! Ronald, my boy!" he exclaimed heartily. "'Pon my soul, I'm gladto see you. It's true, I suppose? You've heard the news?"
The question amused me, because it was so typical of the old fellow.Here had I come from London, where the Cabinet was sitting night andday, to a spot miles from the railway terminus, to be asked if I hadheard the news!
"You mean the war, of course?" I replied.
"Yes; it's come, my boy, at last. Come to find me on the shelf! Ah,well! It had to come sooner or later, and now we're not ready. Ah,well, we must all do what we can. Begad, I'm glad to see you, my boy,thundering glad. It's a bit lonely here sometimes for the littlewoman, you know; but she never complains." (In point of fact, she evencontrived to laugh, and take her father's arm affectionately inher's.) "And besides, there are many things I want to have a talk withyou about, Ronald--many things. By the way, had lunch?"
"We lunched at Mallaig, thank you, sir," I explained.
"Well, well, Myra will see you get all you want--won't you, girlie?"he said.
"I say, Ronnie," Myra asked, as we reached the house, "are you verytired after your journey, or shall we have a cup of tea and then takeour rods for an hour or so?"
I stoutly declared I was not the least tired--as who could have beenin the circumstances?--and I should enjoy an hour's fishing with Myraimmensely. So I ran upstairs and had a bath, and changed, and camedown to find the General waiting for me. Myra had disappeared into thekitchen regions to give first-aid to a bare-legged crofter laddie whohad cut his foot on a broken bottle.
"Well, my boy," said the old man, "you've come to tell us something.What is it?"
"Oh!" I replied, as lightly as I could, "it is simply that we are infor a row with Germany, and I've got a part in the play, so to speak.I'm enlisting."
"Good boy," he chuckled, "good boy! Applying for a commission, Isuppose--man of your class and education, and all that--eh?"
"Oh, heavens, no!" I laughed. "I shall just walk on with the crowd, tocontinue the simile."
"Glad to hear it, my boy--I am, indeed. 'Pon my soul, you're a goodlad, you know--quite a good lad. Your father would have been proud ofyou. He was a splendid fellow--a thundering splendid fellow. We alwaysused to say, 'You can always trust Ewart to do the straight, cleanthing; he's a gentleman.' I hope your comrades will say the same ofyou, my boy."
"By the way, sir," I added, "I also intended to tell you that in thecircumstances I--I----Well, I mean to say that I shan't--shan'texpect Myra to consider herself under--under any obligations to me."
However difficult it was for me to say it, I had been quite certainthat the old General would think it was the right thing to say, andwould be genuinely grateful to me for saying it off my own bat withoutany prompting from him. So I was quite unprepared for the outburstthat followed.
"You silly young fellow!" he cried. "'Pon my soul, you are a sillyyoung chap, you know. D'you mean to tell me you came here intendingto tell my little girl to forget all about you just when you aregoing off to fight for your country, and may never come back? You meanto run away and leave her alone with an old crock of a father? Youknow, Ewart, you--you make me angry at times."
"I'm very sorry, sir," I apologised, though I had no recollection ofhaving made him angry before.
"Oh! I know," he said, in a calmer tone. "Felt it was your duty, andall that--eh? I know. But, you see, it's not your duty at all. No.Now, there are one or two things I want to tell you that you don'tknow, and I'll tell you one of 'em now and the rest later. The firstthing--in absolute confidence, of course--is that----"
But at this point Myra walked in, and the General broke off into anincoherent mutter. He was a poor diplomatist.
"Ah! secrets? Naughty!" she exclaimed laughingly. "Are you ready,Ronnie?"
"He's quite rea
dy, my dear," said the old man graciously. "I've saidall I want to say to him for the time being. Run along with girlie,Ewart. You don't want to mess about with an old crock."
"Daddy," said Myra reproachfully, "you're not to call yourself names."
"All right, then; I won't," he laughed. "You young people will excuseme, I'm sure. I should like to join you; but I have a lot of lettersto write, and I daresay you'd rather be by yourselves. Eh?--you youngdog!"
It was a polite fiction between father and daughter that when the oldfellow felt too unwell to join her or his guests he "had a lot ofletters to write." And occasionally, when he was in the mood toovertax his strength, she would never refer to it directly, but oftenshe would remark, "You know you'll miss the post, daddy." And theyboth understood. So we set out by ourselves, and I naturally preferredto be alone with Myra, much as I liked her father. We went out on tothe verandah, and while I unpacked my kit Myra rewound her line, whichhad been drying on the pegs overnight.
"Are you content with small mercies, Ron?" she asked, "or do you agreethat it is better to try for a salmon than catch a trout?"
"It certainly isn't better to-day, anyway," I answered. "I want to benear you, darling. I don't want the distance of the pools between us.We might walk up to the Dead Man's Pool, and then fish up stream; andlater fish the loch from the boat. That would bring us back in nicetime for dinner."
"Oh! splendid!" she cried; and we fished out our fly-books. Her's wasa big book of tattered pig-skin, which reclined at the bottom of thecapacious "poacher's pocket" in her jacket. The fly-book was an oldfavourite--she wouldn't have parted with it for worlds. Havingfollowed her advice, and changed the Orange I had tied for the "bob"to a Peacock Zulu, which I borrowed from her, we set out.
"Just above the Dead Man's Pool you get a beautiful view ofHilderman's hideous hut," Myra declared as we walked along. I mayexplain here that "Dead Man's Pool" is an English translation of theGaelic name, which I dare not inflict on the reader.
"See?" she cried, as we climbed the rock looking down on the gorgeoussalmon pool, with its cool, inviting depths and its subtle promise ofsport. "Oh! Ronnie, isn't it wonderful?" she cried. "Almost every dayof my life I have admired this view, and I love it more and more everytime I see it. I sometimes think I'd rather give up my life than thesimple power to gaze at the mountains and the sea."
"Why, look!" I exclaimed. "Is that the window you meant?"
"Yes," Myra replied, with an air of annoyance, "that's it. You can seethat light when the sun shines on it, which is nearly all day, and itkeeps on reminding us that we have a neighbour, although the loch isbetween us. Besides, for some extraordinary reason it gets on father'snerves. Poor old daddy!"
It may seem strange to the reader that anyone should take notice ofthe sun's reflection on a window two and a quarter miles away; but itmust be remembered that all her life Myra had been accustomed to theundisputed possession of an unbroken view.
"Anyhow," she added, as she turned away, "we came here to fish. One ofus must cross the stream here and fish that side. We can't crosshigher up, there's too much water, and there's no point in gettingwet. I'll go, and you fish this side; and when we reach the loch we'llget into the boat. See, Sholto's across already."
And she tripped lightly from boulder to boulder across the top of thefall which steams into the Dead Man's Pool, while I stood and admiredher agile sureness of foot as one admires the graceful movements of abeautiful young roe. Sholto was pawing about in a tiny backwater, andtrying to swallow the bubbles he made, until he saw his belovedmistress was intent on the serious business of fishing, and then heclimbed lazily to the top of a rock, where he could keep a watchfuleye on her, and sprawled himself out in the sun. I have fished betterwater than the Malluch river, certainly, and killed bigger fish inother lochs than the beautiful mountain tarn above Invermalluch Lodge;but I have never had a more enjoyable day's sport than the leastsatisfying of my many days there.
There was a delightful informality about the sport at the Lodge. Onefished in all weathers because one wanted to fish, and varied one'smethods and destination according to the day. There was no sign ofthat hideous custom of doing the thing "properly" that the members ofa stockbroker's house-party seem to enjoy--no drawing lots for reachesor pools overnight, no roping-in a gillie to add to the chance ofsending a basket "south." When there was a superfluity of fish thecrofters and tenants were supplied first, and then anything that wasleft over was sent to friends in London and elsewhere. At the end ofthe day's sport we went home happy and pleased with ourselves, not inthe least depressed if we had drawn a blank, to jolly and delightfulmeals, without any formality at all. And if we were wet, there was agreat drying-room off the kitchen premises where our clothes weredried by a housemaid who really understood the business. As for ourtackle, we dried our own lines and pegged them under the verandah, andrewound them again in the morning, made up our own casts, andgenerally did everything for ourselves without a retinue ofattendants. And thereby we enjoyed ourselves hugely.
Angus and Sandy, the two handy-men of the place, would carry thelunch-basket or pull the boats on the loch or stand by with the gaffor net--and what experts they are!--but the rest we did for ourselves.By the time I had got a pipe on and wetted my line, Myra was somefifty yards or so up stream making for a spot where she suspectedsomething. She has the unerring instinct of the inveterate poacher! Icast idly once or twice, content to revel in the delight of holding arod in my hand once more, intoxicated with the air and the scenery andthe sunshine (What a good thing the fish in the west "like itbright!"), and after a few minutes a sudden jerk on my line brought meback to earth. I missed him, but he thrilled me to the seriousbusiness of the thing, and I fished on, intent on every cast.
I suppose I must have fished for about twenty minutes, but of that Ihave never been able to say definitely. It may possibly have beenmore. I only know that as I was picking my way over some boulders toenable me to cast more accurately for a big one I had risen, I heardMyra give a sharp, short cry. I turned anxiously and called to her.
I could not distinguish her at first among the great gray rocks in theriver. Surely she could not have fallen in. Even had she done so, Ihardly think she would have called out. She was extraordinarily sureon her feet, and, in any case, she was an expert swimmer. What couldit be? Immediately following her cry came Sholto's deep bay, and thenI saw her. She was standing on a tall, white, lozenge-shaped rock,that looked almost as if it had been carefully shaped in concrete. Shewas kneeling, and her arm was across her face. With a cry I dashedinto the river, and floundered across, sometimes almost up to my neck,and ran stumbling to her in a blind agony of fear. Even as I ran herrod was carried past me, and disappeared over the fall below.
"Myra, my darling," I cried as I reached her, and took her in my arms,"what is it, dearest? For God's sake tell me--what is it?"
"Oh, Ronnie, dear," she said, "I don't know, darling. I don'tunderstand." Her voice broke as she lifted her beautiful face to me. Ilooked into those wonderful eyes, and they gazed back at me with adull, meaningless stare. She stretched out her arm to grasp my hand,and her own hand clutched aimlessly on my collar.
In a flash I realised the hideous truth.
Myra was blind!