"The boy," says he, and laughed. "Lord, he is a boy, ye may weel say it, quiet and smiling, and fond of throwing back the head of him and laughing. He will aye be doing that; but there is no man will run foul o' him, drunk or sober, in these seas, and there are bold sailor-men in the Indies, ay, bold stark men. He carries a long lean sword wi' a bonny grip--the maiden, he will be calling her,--she will have kissed many, they were saying. . . ."

"And is he coming home?"

"He would be settling that," said the sailor; "but there were stories o' bonny bright eyes in Jamaica and the towns there-away--ay there is dancing and devilry in these bonny places"; and McKinnon's son sighed in a way that would have brought no pleasure to the ears of his mother, Mirren Stuart, that used to ride the Uist pony in her young days.

The gra.s.s was wet with dew when I left the sailor and made my road home, and I mind that I looked away to the suthard for a sail, and there was a queer gladness and a sorrow in me, and a grave doubt about that old woman Mhari nic Cloidh and her havers.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE RAKING BLACK SCHOONER.

I met Belle and Dan with the boy with them at the big stones away below the peat hags where the sea lies open to a man's look, and I took the young boy on my shoulder and laughed at Belle when she would be saying he was too big to be carried, and there was the look of pride in the swarthy face, pride and tenderness, as she stood, her hand on the arm of her man. But Dan kent me better.

"Out with it, Hamish. What good news gars ye giggle like a la.s.s?"

"Man," I said, "have ye no' heard?--McKinnon's son is home, and has word o' Bryde. Betty will be seeing him with this boy in his arms yet.

Bryde is coming home."

Belle's hands came to her heart for a little, and then her arms were round Dan like a wild thing.

"Oh, man, man, are you not glad?" she cried--"are you not glad?"

"Glad!" said Dan, and swallowed hard. "Ay, la.s.s, glad is not the word," and then he kept shaking my hand, and looking at me without words, but Belle was afire.

"Hamish," she cried, clinging to me with her daftlike foreign ways, "will you always be bringing me good news till I am old and ugly?"

That night old Betty forgot her growing-pains and sang to the boy, Hamish Og, and it was a mercy that he had not much of the Gaelic so far, for the songs were not very douce, and not what a body might be expecting from an old woman that had seen much sorrow; but I am often thinking that she would have her good days too, for she would be enjoying her biting, and putting a pith into it that made Dan himself stare in wonder.

And I told my uncle and my aunt the news when Margaret was not by, for I kept mind of her talk of old wives' havers, and I kent the mother of Margaret would not be telling her, nor the Laird either for that part, for he was a good deal under her thumb in these matters; but for all that I might have been sparing myself the bother, for this is what came of it.

We were gathered for the reading and Hugh a little late, as was usual when he went 'sourrying--G.o.d forbid that he should--when he went courting, and after the reading there was a little time to talk, and, said he, stretching his legs--

"Helen was telling me Bryde will be home one of these days."

Now here, thinks I, is a bonny kettle of fish, for Margaret was sitting with us, but for all the suddenness of it she never geed her beaver, and I kent then that she had word some way.

"Mistress Helen has quick news," said I.

"She has a maid yonder, Dol Beag's la.s.s, and she brought the word frae McKinnon's son, it seems; Kate Dol Beag had the news."

"Imphm," said I, for Margaret was looking down and smiling in a way that angered me a little--"imphm," said I. "Did she say was he bringing his wife with him?"

"Wife?" said Hugh with a start.

Margaret was not smiling now, but I will say this; she was making a brave try at it.

"Some lady in Jamaica," said I, "wi' bonny bright eyes, young McKinnon was thinking."

At that Hugh left us, smiling.

"Hamish," said Margaret, "you are not being kind to me any more--it is not true."

"Margaret, when did you see Ronald's son?"

"Oh, I was looking for a sailor coming home," said she, "since yon day we went to old Mhari nic Cloidh's, and then the la.s.sies told me Ronald's boy was home--and--and the night you were at Dan's they brought him here--a nice quiet boy--and I _happened_ to go into the kitchen when he was there . . . and, Hamish, it is not nice to be unfriends like this, you and me, and I would not be meaning yon I said to you about old wives' havers--_now_," and after that she came and sat beside me, and put an arm round my neck.

"Will you tell me this, Hamish?" says she in her wheedling voice.

"Will you tell me truly?"

"What is it?" said I.

"Did McKinnon's son say anything about bonny bright eyes?"

"He said there were bonny bright eyes in Jamaica and the towns thereabout, Margaret, and he kind o' looked as though maybe he was wearying to be back there."

"Poof!" said she, "and was that all. I am thinking I would maybe be like that myself, if the Lord had made me a boy."

"Well, my la.s.s, there's nane will deny that Bryde was a little that way himself--he would aye have a quick eye for a likely la.s.s from what I can mind."

"Well," said she, being very merry and bold, and showing herself before me, "am not I a likely la.s.s, Hamish, my dear?"

Now the old folk will use that expression with a very definite meaning, and when I thought of that I was feeling my face smiling, and me trying not to, as I looked at the la.s.s.

"Hamish," she cried, "did you ever look at a la.s.s like that before--it is a wonder to me you are not married long ago," and then with a frown on her face, but half laughing yet, "I ken," she cried, "she was married already, poor Hamish--was it Belle?"

But I was thinking it was time to be putting an end to her daffing.

"Listen, my dear," said I; "I ken another likely la.s.s."

"Oh?"

"Helen," said I.

"Likely," she cried--"likely, the likeliest la.s.s I will ever be seeing, Hamish--_for a sister_."

But for all that she would be jibing at Hugh and his marriage.

"Hughie," she would cry, "the fine sunny days are pa.s.sing. When I get a man I am thinking it will be half the joy of it to be out with him on the hills and among the trees, and maybe on the sea. You will be waiting till the rainy days come, and that will not be so lucky."

"Och," said Hugh, "I will be sitting inside with the la.s.s I marry on the wet days."

"Yes, Hugh; but I would be liking to be out with him in the rain and laughing at it and loving it, because I would be with him."

"The Lord should have made you a man," said I, "for you would be kissing your la.s.s on some hill-top with the rain in her brown face and clinging to her curls, Margaret."

"Brown face and curls," she cried. "I wonder. Would my la.s.s have been like that, Hamish, like Belle, or with a look--like Mistress Helen maybe; but I would be loving the kissing anyway," said she.