White Wings: A Yachting Romance, Volume II. William Black

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      So once more we get the vessel under way; and the breeze is beginning to blow somewhat more briskly; and we notice with hopefulness that there is rougher water further down the Sound. But with this slow process of beating, how are we to get within sight of Castle Osprey before the great steamer comes up from the South?

      The Laird is puzzling over the Admiralty Sailing Directions. The young lady, deeply offended, who sits beside him, pays him great attention, and talks "at" the rest of the passengers with undisguised contempt.

      "It is all haphazard, the sailing of a yacht," she says to him, though we can all hear. "Anybody can do it. But they make a jargon about it to puzzle other people, and pretend it is a science, and all that."

      "Well," says the Laird, who is quite unaware of the fury that fills her brain, "there are some of the phrases in this book that are verra extraordinary. In navigating this same Sound of Mull, they say you are to keep the 'weather shore aboard.' How can ye keep the weather shore aboard?"

      "Indeed, if we don't get into a port soon," remarks our hostess and chief commissariat-officer, "it will be the only thing we shall have on board. How would you like it cooked, Mary?"

      "I won't speak to any of you," says the disgraced skipper, with much composure.

      "Will you sing to us, then?"

      "Will you behave properly if you are reinstated in command?" asks Angus Sutherland.

      "Yes, I will," she says, quite humbly; and forthwith she is allowed to have the tiller again.

      Brisker and brisker grows the breeze; it is veering to the south, too; the sea is rising, and with it the spirits of everybody on board. The ordinarily sedate and respectable White Dove is showing herself a trifle frisky, moreover; an occasional clatter below of hairbrushes or candlesticks tells us that people accustomed to calms fall into the habit of leaving their cabins ill-arranged.

      "There will be more wind, sir," says John of Skye, coming aft; and he is looking at some long and streaky "mare's tails" in the south-western sky. "And if there wass a gale o' wind, I would let her have it!"

      Why that grim ferocity of look, Captain John? Is the poor old White Dove responsible for the too fine weather, that you would like to see her driven, all wet and bedraggled, before a south-westerly gale? If you must quarrel with something, quarrel with the barometer; you may admonish it with a belaying-pin if you please.

      Brisker and brisker grows the breeze. Now we hear the first pistol-shots of the spray come rattling over the bows; and Hector of Moidart has from time to time to duck his head, or shake the water from his jersey. The White Dove breasts these rushing waves and a foam of white water goes hissing away from either side of her. Speine Mor and Speine Beg we leave behind; in the distance we can descry the ruins of Aros Castle and the deep indentation of Salen Bay; here we are passing the thick woods of Funeray. "Farewell, farewell, to Funeray!" The squally look in the south-west increases; the wind veers more and more. Commander Mary Avon is glad to resign the helm, for it is not easy to retain hold in these plunging seas.

      "Why, you will catch the steamer after all, Angus!" says his hostess, as we go tearing by the mouth of Loch Aline.

      "This is a good one for the last!" he calls to her. "Give her some more sheet, John; the wind is going round to the north!"

      Whence comes the whirling storm in the midst of the calm summer weather? The blue heavens are as blue as the petal of a crane'sbill: surely such a sky has nothing to do with a hurricane. But wherever it comes from, it is welcome enough; and the brave White Dove goes driving through those heavy seas, sometimes cresting them buoyantly, at other times meeting them with a dull shock, followed by a swish of water that rushes along the lee scuppers. And those two women-folk – without ulsters or other covering: it is a merry game to play jack-in-the-box, and duck their heads under the shelter of the gig when the spray springs into the air. But somehow the sea gets the best of it. Laugh as they may, they must be feeling rather damp about their hair; and as for Mary Avon's face – that has got a bath of salt-water at least a dozen times. She cares not. Sun, wind and sea she allows to do their worst with her complexion. Soon we shall have to call her the Nut-brown Maid.

      Brisker and brisker grows the breeze. Angus Sutherland, with a rope round the tiller, has his teeth set hard: he is indeed letting the White Dove have it at last, for he absolutely refuses to have the topsail down. The main tack, then: might not that be hauled up? No; he will have none of John of Skye's counsels. The White Dove tears her way through the water – we raise a cloud of birds from the rocks opposite Scallasdale – we see the white surf breaking in at Craignure – ahead of us is Lismore Lighthouse, perched over the whirling and struggling tides, shining white in the sunlight above the dark and driven sea.

      Ahead she goes; the land she knows!

      – past the shadowy ruins of Duart, and out and through the turbulent tides off the lighthouse rocks. The golden afternoon is not yet far advanced; let but this brave breeze continue, and soon they will descry the White Dove from the far heights of Castle Osprey!

      But there was to be no Castle Osprey for Angus Sutherland that evening, despite the splendid run the White Dove had made. It was a race, indeed, between the yacht and the steamer for the quay; and notwithstanding that Mary Avon was counselling everybody to give it up as impossible, John of Skye would hold to it in the hope of pleasing Dr. Sutherland himself. And no sooner was the anchor let go in the bay, than the gig was down from the davits; the men had jumped in; the solitary portmanteau was tossed into the stern; and Angus Sutherland was hurriedly bidding his adieux. The steamer was at this instant slowing into the quay.

      "I forbid any one to say good-bye to him," says our Admiral-in-chief, sternly. "Au revoir – auf Wiedersehen – anything you like – no good-bye."

      Last of all he took Mary Avon's hand.

      "You have promised, you know," she said, with her eyes cast down.

      "Yes," said he, regarding her for an instant with a strange look – earnest perhaps, and yet timid – as if it would ask a question, and dared not – "I will keep my promise." Then he jumped into the boat.

      That was a hard pull away to the quay; and even in the bay the water was rough, so that the back-sweep of the oars sometimes caught the waves and sent the spray flying in the wind. The Chevalier had rung her bells. We made sure he would be too late. What was the reason of this good-natured indulgence? We lost sight of the gig in at the landing-slip.

      Then the great steamer slowly steamed away from the quay: who was that on the paddle-box waving good-bye to us?

      "Oh, yes, I can see him plainly," calls out Queen T., looking through a glass; and there is a general waving of handkerchiefs in reply to the still visible signal. Mary Avon waves her handkerchief, too – in a limp fashion. We do not look at her eyes.

      And when the gig came back, and we bade good-bye for the time to the brave old White Dove, and set out for Castle Osprey, she was rather silent. In vain did the Laird tell her some of the very best ones about Homesh; she seemed anxious to get into the house and to reach the solitude of her own room.

      But in the meantime there was a notable bundle of letters, newspapers, and what not, lying on the hall-table. This was the first welcome that civilisation gave us. And although we defied these claims – and determined that not an envelope should be opened till after dinner – Mary Avon, having only one letter awaiting her, was allowed to read that. She did it mechanically, listlessly – she was not in very good spirits. But suddenly we heard her utter some slight exclamation; and then СКАЧАТЬ