"Ah, now it is Bryde--come, we will go to the horses," and she sprang to her feet.

With the serving-man at his mother's door she had a word--

"You will come home in the morning--to-night you will stay with your mother."

On the road, with Bryde mounted alongside of her on the servant's beast, she set spurs to her horse Hillman, and he reared, and as he pawed in the air she laughed, and she pointed with her whip outstretched--

"Take me over that hill, and we will not come back ever, ever again."

And after the first mad gallop--

"I will tell you--you love Margaret, why--because Margaret is here always since you were ver' little boy, always Margaret. . . ."

"Helen, I am loving Margaret because--I will not can tell why, but there is peace and a great happiness in me when she is near me."

"I understand; it is that so great calm--me, I would kill you if you love me and become cold; but she--she would smile and her heart be breaking."

"I am thinking that too," said Bryde, and his eyes were soft. The horses were walking side by side, snapping a little playfully, for they were loving the night.

"Mon coeur," whispered the la.s.s, and her voice was low and her face half-shamed, but very brave. "We would have so great a son," said she, and hung her head low after one long look at the man. At the jerk on the rein, the horses stopped.

"You are the bravest la.s.s I will ever meet," said Bryde, and there was a fire of admiration in his eyes, and a ring in his voice. Her hands groped out to his blindly, and she swayed to him.

"It is heaven to be here," said she, and pressed her face against his breast, her eyes wide and dark, and her face half hidden. "Dear,"--her whole body quivered at the word,--"there is not any word a man can say will be telling how much I am loving the bravery of you for that word.

It is in me to hold you here against my heart for the bravery of it."

"Take me," she whispered--"see, I am ready," and she opened her arms wide and held her face upwards. Her eyes were fast shut and the long lashes dark on her cheek. There came a look of infinite tenderness on the fierce swarthy face of Bryde McBride.

"And afterwards, my brave la.s.s?"

"Ah, then, I could not let you go. Jesu aid me . . . you are mine from the beginning; it is not right that you love that other. Be kind to me, Bryde, let me whisper--je t'adore, always I love you--thus," she cried, and kissed him wildly in a kind of madness. "I think," said she, "when I am standing with Hugh to be married, I think I will run to you," and then--

"Take me home now," all brokenly she spoke, "my brave night is finished."

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

HOW JOHN McCOOK HEARS OF THE PLOY AT THE CLATES.

There is a fate that stalks in the hills and plays with the lives of the folk in the valleys. "You will stop with your mother,"--these were the words that Helen gave her serving-man, John McCook, that night she rode with Bryde, and McCook stayed for a little in his mother's house, and then, being young and of good spirit, he made his way to the inn to be seeing his friends. And he sat with them in McKelvie's place above the quay, and now and then when Robin would be bringing drink into a room a little apart, he would be hearing gusts of laughter, and whiles the s.n.a.t.c.hes of words.

And McCook was wanting to know who would be in the room, to be telling his news when he reached Scaurdale, and he moved his stool so that his ear was near to the crack of the door, and he could see a little into the place. There was great company in that room--McGilp and Dan McBride were there, and Ronald McKinnon and his son Angus, and two or three of the men of the old names who would be sailor-men too, and there was great argument, for the men would be sailing their boats, and their gla.s.ses on the table representing the sloops. Once there came high voices and deep oaths when a Kelso luffed his vessel so close to his rival's that he spilled Charleach Ian's gla.s.s, but Rob McKelvie righted the vessel and loaded her again with spirits, and the racing would be continued.

As the time went on the voices were none so loud, but still he could hear, and it was Ronny McKinnon that was speaking most, and the tale that came to McCook was this:--

"There would be folk at the South End," said Ronald, "bien folk of his own name some of them, and the harvest was very good for this year, and there would be a considerable of spirit and salt to be taken across quietly. It will be hidden well," said Ronald, "at the Cleiteadh mor, and the _Gull_ will be there in the offing, and send her boats ash.o.r.e.

There will be none to expect a ploy that night, for it will be the night that Hugh McBride will be married on the English lady, and that will be a diversion."

For, indeed, on such an occasion the half of a parish would be merry with the eating of hens and drinking of spirit, and the piping and dancing.

"I will be there," said Dan, "and my son Bryde. It's long since I will have been at the smuggling," and then there came singing of Gaelic songs that you can be hearing yet, and at that McCook took off his dram and went out at the door, for he would be early on the road the next day.

There is a fate that stalks in the hills and plays with the lives of the folk in the valley.

Kate Dol Beag, as ye ken, was a la.s.s at her service at Scaurdale, a bonny dark ruddy la.s.s and keen for the marrying, and the lad she had her eye on was the serving-man, McCook. And when these two were in the stackyard at Scaurdale and well hidden behind the ricks on the next night, she yoked on him.

"It is not me you are liking," said she, and put his hand from her neck, "for last night you did not come home and me waiting."

"I could not be coming home, my la.s.s," said he, "for the young mistress made me stop at my mother's, and Bryde McBride, the sailor, rode with her."

"Ay," said Kate, "she came home like a la.s.s that goes to her grave-claes instead o' her braws, and never a word from her, but a white hue round her lips and her eyes staring. . . . Did you go to my father's," said Kate, for she was of a jealous nature.

"No, I was at McKelvie's for a wee after I would be with my mother, and I was thinking Dol Beag your father would be there too."

"There was no la.s.s you were with, then?"--this a little more softly and her body came closer to his.

"There was no la.s.s that I saw," said McCook, "but there were many people at the inn," said he.

"Give me the news, then," she cried, and put an arm round his neck now that she kent he would not have been with another woman. And then he told her how the South End folk would be at the smuggling on the night of the wedding, and all that he had heard, meaning no ill, and the la.s.s was laughing, and her kindness came back to her.

"I will not have been good to you," said she, and lay back against the stack, "and I am wearying this long while for your arms round me, and the jagging of your hair on my face."

And as she sat there was more of her ankle showing than she would maybe be liking in strange company.

"Ye have the fine legs," said John, looking at them, for he would be a great gallant by his way of it; but the la.s.s just smiled and pulled them under her.

"It will be as well ye should ken, my man," said she, "and I will be needing them the morn, for I am to be walking hame and seeing my folk."

And there they were in each other's arms, and he promised to meet her well on, on the road home, for she was feart of the giant that lived in the glen and was killed by the folk long ago--but that is an old wife's tale.

They were good to her at hame the next day when she was seated with her folk at a meal, and after that she was with her mother for a while, a little red in the face, but brave enough.

"He will be marrying me, mother," said she; "I ken he will be coming to you soon, and--and there will be no cutty-stool either," said she, "for he is a nice lad and dacent, if he will be a little game," maybe thinking of the stackyard.

"Time will be curing that," said her mother.

"I daresay that," and then with a hearty laugh and her head flung back, "Kate will be helping too," said she, and ran into the kitchen.

Dol Beag, her father, was baiting a long line, his crook back throwing a great black shadow on the wall.

"There will be great doings at your place soon, Kate," said he.