Lady Ca.r.s.e did not at present discern where the dangerous sympathy with her case was to come from. But there was no saying how many dwellings there might be behind that ridge. She once more insisted on landing by daylight; and was once more told that it was out of the question. She resolved to keep as wide awake as her suspicions, in order to see what was to be done with her. She was anxiously on the watch in the darkness an hour before midnight, when Macdonald said to her, "Now for it, madam!

I will presently show you something curious."

The sloop began to move under the soft breathing night wind; and in a few minutes Macdonald asked her if she saw anything before her, a little to the right. At first she did not; but was presently told that a tiny spark, too minute to be noticed by any but those who were looking for it, was a guiding light.

"Where is it?" asked the lady. "Why have not you a more effectual light?"

"We are thankful enough to have any: and it serves our turn."

"Oh! I suppose it is a smuggler's signal, and it would not do to make it more conspicuous."

"No, madam. It is far from being a smuggler's signal. There is a woman, Annie Fleming, living in the grey house I showed you, an honest and pious soul, who keeps up that light for all that want it."

"Why? Who employs her?"

"She does it of her own liking. Some have heard tell, but I don't know it for true, that when she and her husband were young she saw him drown, from his boat having run foul in the harbour that she overlooks, and that from that day to this she has had a light up there every night. I can say that I never miss it when I come home; and I always enter by night, trusting to it as the best landmark in this difficult harbour."

"And do the other inhabitants trust to it, and come in by night?"

Macdonald answered that his was the only boat on the island; but he believed that all who had business on the sea between this and Skye knew that light, and made use of it, on occasion, in dangerous weather. And now he must not talk, but see to his vessel.

This is the only boat on the island! He must mean the only sloop.

There must be fishing boats. There must and should be, the lady resolved; for she would get back to the mainland. She would not spend her days here, beyond the westerly Skye, where she had just learned that this island lay.

The anxious business of entering the harbour was accomplished by slow degrees, under the guidance of the spark on the hill-side. At dawn the little vessel was moored to a natural pier of rock, and the lady was asked whether she would proceed to Macdonald's house immediately or take some hours' rest first.

Here ended her fears of being secluded from popular sympathy. She was weary of the sea and the vessel, and made all haste to leave them.

Her choice lay between walking and being carried by Highlanders. She chose to walk; and with some fatigue, and no little internal indignation, she traversed a mile and a half of rocky and moorland ways, then arriving at a sordid and dreary looking farmhouse, standing alone in a wild place, to which Macdonald proudly introduced her as Sir Alexander's estate on this island, of which he was the tenant.

CHAPTER SIX.

THE STEADFAST

It was a serene evening when, the day after her landing, Lady Ca.r.s.e approached Widow Fleming's abode. The sun was going down in a clear sky; and when, turning from the dazzling western sea, the eye wandered eastwards, the view was such as could not but transport a heart at ease.

The tide was low, and long shadows from the rocks lay upon the yellow sands and darkened, near the sh.o.r.e, the translucent sea. At the entrance of the black caverns the spray leaped up on the advance of every wave,--not in threatening but as if at play. Far away over the lilac and green waters arose the craggy peaks of Skye, their projections and hollows in the softest light and shadow. As the sea-birds rose from their rest upon the billows, opposite the sun, diamond drops fell from their wings. Nearer at hand there was little beauty but what a brilliant sunset sheds over every scene. There were shadows from the cottage over the dull green sward, and from the two or three goats which moved about on the ledges and slopes of the upper rocks. The cottage itself was more lowly and much more odd than the lady had conceived from anything she had yet seen or heard of. Its walls were six feet thick, and roofed from the inside, leaving a sort of platform all round, which was overgrown with coa.r.s.e herbage. The outer and inner surfaces of the wall were of stones, and the middle part was filled in with earth; so that gra.s.s might well grow on the top. The roof was of thatch--part straw, part sods, tied down to cross poles by ropes of twisted heather.

The walls did not rise more than five feet from the ground; and nothing could be easier than for the goats to leap up, when tempted to graze there. A kid was now amusing itself on one corner. As Lady Ca.r.s.e walked round, she was startled at seeing a woman sitting on the opposite corner. Her back was to the sun--her gaze fixed on the sea, and her fingers were busy knitting. The lady had some doubts at first about its being the widow, as this woman wore a bright cotton handkerchief tied over her head: but a glance at the face when it was turned towards her a.s.sured her that it was Annie Fleming herself.

"No, do not come down," said the lady. "Let me come up beside you. I see the way."

And she stepped up by means of the projecting stones of the wall, and threw herself down beside the quiet knitter.

"What are you making? Mittens? And what of? What sort of wool is this?"

"It is goats' hair."

"Tiresome work!" the lady observed. "Wool is bad enough; but these short lengths of hair! I should never have patience."

The widow replied that she had time in these summer evenings; and she was glad to take the chance of selling a few pairs when Macdonald went to the main, once or twice a year.

"How do they sell? What do you get for them?"

"I get oil to last me for some time."

"And what else?"

"Now and then I may want something else; but I get chiefly oil--as what I want most."

The widow saw that Lady Ca.r.s.e was not attending to what she said, and was merely making an opening for what she herself wanted to utter: so Annie said no more of her work and its payment, but waited.

"This is a dreadful place," the lady burst out. "n.o.body can live here."

"I have heard there are kindlier places to live in," the widow replied.

"This island must appear rather bare to people who come from the south,--as I partly remember myself."

"Where did you come from? Do you know where I come from? Do you know who I am?" cried the lady.

"I came from Dumfries. I have not heard where you lived, my lady. I was told by Macdonald that you came by Sir Alexander Macdonald's orders, to live here henceforward."

"I will not live here henceforward. I would sooner die."

The widow looked surprised. In answer to that look Lady Ca.r.s.e said, "Ah! you do not know who I am, nor what brought me here, or you would see that I cannot live here, and why I would rather die.--Why do not you speak? Why do you not ask me what I have suffered?"

"I should not think of it, my lady. Those who have suffered are slow to speak of their heart pain, and would be ashamed before G.o.d to say how much oftener they would rather have died."

"I must speak, however, and I will," declared Lady Ca.r.s.e. "You know I must; and you are the only person in the island that I can speak to.--I want to live with you. I must. I know you are a good woman. I know you are kind. If you are kind to mere strangers that come in boats, and keep a light to save them from shipwreck, you will not be cruel to me-- the most ill used creature--the most wretched--the most--"

She hid her face on her knees, and wept bitterly.

"Take courage, my lady," said Annie. "If you have not strength enough for your troubles to-day, it only shows that there is more to come."

"I do not want strength," said the lady. "You do not know me. I am not wanting in strength. What I want--what I must have--is justice."

"Well--that is what we are all most sure of when G.o.d's day comes," said Annie. "That we are quite sure of. And we may surely hope for patience till then, if we really wish it. So I trust you will be comforted, my lady."

"I cannot stay here, however. There are no people here. There is n.o.body that I can endure at Macdonald's, and there are none others but labourers, and they speak only Gaelic. And it is a wretched place.

They have not even bread.--Mrs Fleming, I must come and live with you."

"I have no bread, my lady. I have nothing so good as they have at Macdonald's."

"You have a kind heart. Never mind the bread now. We will see about that. I don't care how I live; but I want to stay with you. I want never to go back to Macdonald's."

The widow stepped down to the ground, and beckoned to the lady to follow her into the house. It was a poor place as could be seen:--one room with a glazed window looking towards the harbour, a fireplace and a bed opposite the window;--a rickety old bedstead, with an exhausted flock bed and a rug upon it; and from one end of the apartment, a small dim s.p.a.ce part.i.tioned off, in which was a still less comfortable bed, laid on trestles made of driftwood.

"Who sleeps here?"

"My son, when he is at home. He is absent now, my lady: and see, this is the only place;--no place for you, my lady."