“I will not have it in the saloon; I will have it here.”
“Ferry well, mem,” Christina said, submissively. “But you will go into the saloon, mem, when I will mek the bed for you, and the lamp will hef to be lit, but Hamish he will light the lamp for you. And are there any other things you wass thinking of that you would like, mem?”
“No; I want something to eat.”
“And Hamish, mem, he wass saying I will ask you whether you will hef the claret-wine, or—or—the other wine, mem, that makes a noise—”
“Bring me some water. But the whole of you will pay dearly for this!”
“I ask your pardon, mem?” said Christina, with great respect.
“Oh, go away, and get me something to eat!”
And in fact Miss White made a very good dinner, though the things had to be placed before her on her dressing-table. And her rage and indignation did not prevent her having, after all a glass or two of the claret-wine. And then she permitted Hamish to come in and light the swinging lamp; and thereafter Christina made up one of the two narrow beds. Miss White was left alone.
Many a hundred times had she been placed in great peril—on the stage; and she knew that on such occasions it had been her duty to clasp her hand on her forehead and set to work to find out how to extricate herself. Well, on this occasion she did not make use of any dramatic gesture; but she turned out the lamp, and threw herself on the top of this narrow little bed; and was determined that, before they got her conveyed to their savage home in the North, she would make one more effort for her freedom. Then she heard the man at the helm begin to hum to himself “Fhir a bhata, na horo eile.” The night darkened. And soon all the wild emotions of the day were forgotten; for she was asleep.
* * * * *
Asleep—in the very waters through which she had sailed with her lover on the white summer day. But Rose-leaf! Rose-leaf! what faint wind will carry you NOW to the South?
THE VOYAGE OVER.
And now the brave old Umpire is nearing her Northern home once more; and surely this is a right royal evening for the reception of her. What although the sun has just gone down, and the sea around them become a plain of heaving and wrestling blue-black waves? Far away, in that purple-black sea, lie long promontories that are of a still pale rose-color; and the western sky is a blaze of golden-green; and they know that the wild, beautiful radiance is still touching the wan walls of Castle Dare. And there is Ardalanish Point; and that the ruddy Ross of Mull; and there will be a good tide in the Sound of Iona. Why, then, do they linger, and keep the old Umpire with her sails flapping idly in the wind?
“As you pass through
Bend your course by Scarba’s shore;
Shun, oh shun, the gulf profound
Where Corrievreckan’s surges roar!”