A Child of Nature. A romance ... Second edition

Front matter

i Crown Svo., cloth extra, for the Library, 3s. 6d. each. THE PICCADILLY NOVELS. Popular tljc ursSt authors. bi. Ellice Quentin. By Julian Hawthorne. Sebastian Strome. By Julian Hawthorne. Thornicroft's Model. By Mrs. Hunt. The Leaden Casket. By Mrs. Hunt. Fated to be Free. By Jean Ingelow. Confidence. By Henry James, jun. Queen of Connaught. By Harriett Ja)-. The Dark Colleen. By Harriett Jay. Number Seventeen. By Henry Kingsley. Oakshott Castle. By Henry Kingsley. World Well Lost. By E. Lynn Linton. The Atonement of Leam Dundas. By E. Lynn Linton. Patricia Kemball. By E. Lynn Linton Under Which Lord ? By E. Lynn Linton. With a Silken Thread. By E. L. Linton. Rebel of the Family. By E. Lynn Lintun 'My Love I' By E. Lynn Linton. The Waterdale Neighbours. By Justin McCarthy. My Enemy's Daughter.

By J. McCarthy. Linley ROChfOrd. By Justin McCarthy. A Fair Saxon. By Justin McCarthy. Dear Lady Disdain. By Justin McCarthy Miss Misanthrope. By Justin McCarthy. Donna Quixote. By Justin McCarthy. Quaker Cousins. By Mrs. Macdonell. Lost Rose. By Katharine S. Macquoid. The Evil Eye. ByKatharine S. Macquoid. Open ! Sesame ! By Florence Marryat. Written in Fire. By Florence Marryat. Touch and Go. By Jean Middlemass. A Life's Atonement. By D. C. Murray. Whiteladies. By Mrs. Oliphant. Lost Sir Massingberd. Ey James Payn. The Best of Husbands. By James Payn. Fallen Fortunes. By James Payn. Halves. By James Payn. Walter's Word. By James Payn. What He Cost Her. By James Payn. Less Black than We're Painted. By James Payn. By Proxy. By James Payn. Under One Roof. By James Payn. High Spirits. By James Payn.

A Confidential Agent. By James Payn. Carlyon's Year. By James Payn. From Exile. By James Payn. Her Mother's Darling. By Mrs. J. H Riddel]. Bound to the Wheel. By John Saunders. Guy Waterman. By John Saunders. One Against the "World. By John Saunders. The Lion in the Path. By John Saunders. The Two Dreamers. By John Saunders. The Violin-player. By Bertha Thomas. Proud Maisie. By Bertha Thomas. Cressida. By Bertha Thomas. What She Came Through. By Sarah Tytler. Way We Live Now. By Anthony Trollope. American Senator. By Anthony Trollope Diamond Cut Diamond. ByT. A. Trollope Maid, Wife, or Widow ? By Mrs. Alexander. Ready -Money Mortiboy. By Walter Besant and James Rice My Little Girl. By W. Besant and J. Rice. The Case of Mr. Lucrast. By Walter Besant and Tames Rice. This Son of Vulcan. By Walter Besant and James Rice.

Chapter I. One White Sail In

A WASTE OF GREY. On the afternoon of a summer day, a small schooner yacht, closely reefed, made her appearance off the mouth of Loch Uribol, a long and lonely sea fjord in the remote north of Scotland, and while beating to and fro in the open sea, in the midst of the southerly squalls from the neighbouring mountains, hoisted the inverted red flag to the foremast, as a signal that the parties on board were in need of assistance. It had been a dark, dry day, with the wind blowing fresh from the south-east very steady and strong, and the yacht, a tiny thing of fifteen or sixteen tons, with a small cockpit, had beaten round Cape Wrath at early dawn, across the tossing waters which divide the dark serrated peaks of Scotland from the far-off Norwegian shores. Lightly as a bird she had bounded over the great rollers of the sea, splashing the foam over herself from stem to stern, but seldom taking on board a drop of 'green.' The wind was almost steady ahead, so that her progress eastward was slow indeed.

The time slipped by, however. The gloomy crags of the wild North Cape grew fainter and fainter, and the shores of the northern coast, which at first had been scarcely dis tinguishable on the horizon, gradually loomed more and more distinct — stretching in one desolate and lonely direction from the high hills of Ben Derg past the faint, low lying flats of Roan to the dark and rocky shores which fringe the cliffs of Tongue. Not once in the long day had the sun actually made his appearance. The atmosphere had been full of a palpitating silver light, in which the skies seemed close to the earth and very grey, and the waves of the sea, where they did not break into white foam, unusually black and sinister-looking. Yet it was ' good weather,' a safe, snug day for sailing, and the sombre, colourless tone of all things — sea, far-off land, and sky — was not without its charms for those who have learned to love the pathetic 'neutral tint' of the melancholy northern coast But as evening approached the sun looked out from a grey chasm above the outlying hills, and shed a lurid light over the dancing sea, illumining to rose-colour the white sails of the little yacht, which was now within a few miles of the dangerous coast Just about this time a weather beaten West Highlander, who was steering the little vessel, cocked his eye up to the sunset, and, relinquishing the tiller to a young man who sat in the cockpit beside him, said quietly : ' She's going to give a puff out o' the east yonder, and Loch Uribol's a terrible place for squalls.

We'll take off the foresail altogether, and let her sail cannie wi' mainsail, staysail, and jib.' Scarcely had the speaker, with the assistance of another man who had been lying listlessly in the fore-part of the vessel, carried out his precaution, and taken the foresail down, when the first squall from the land came up white as foam, and laid the vessel over to the cooming of the cockpit. Squall after squall followed, while the light from the sun set grew every moment of a more lurid crimson, and the wind streamed out of a great rent in the vast mountains of cloud to the south-east The yacht was too lightly ballasted to carry her canvas well, and more than once the wind struck her so savagely as to threaten to founder her out right, the water passing along the lee decks in one green torrent, and drenching the helmsman to the skin.

The sea ONE WHITE SAIL IN A WASTE OF GREY. 3 was comparatively smooth, however, owing to the shelter of the hills. From the dark precipices and distant misty glens the gusts shot out with a force only realisable by him who has navigated these coasts in a small vessel. With the fury of hate and the strength of despair, so to speak, they plunged one by one upon the schooner, like wild beasts frantically endeavouring to tear her to pieces. With a light laugh, the helmsman dashed the wet hair out of his eyes, and strained his gaze towards the land. 'Which is the Uribol land?' he cried to the old Celt who had first spoken. ' Can you make out the mouth of the loch ? ' The old man shook his head. ' I know fine she lies somewhere in yonder,' he said ; "but I've never passed the mouth. Luff, sir, luff!

We'll put about directly — there's a nasty bit o' water fair ahead.' The young man uttered an exclamation expressive of impatience. ' Here, Calum, take the helm, and let me have a look at the chart' So saying, he again resigned the tiller to the old man, and plunging down the ' companion ' to the cabin, soon re-emerged with the Government chart of the coast in his hand. Spreading it out on the ' coach roof,' and following the marks with his finger, he studied it attentively, now and then glancing at the land, while the yacht, having put about, was dashing along through squall after squall, and coming nearer and nearer to the shore. He was a man of eight or nine and twenty, with a rather handsome style of face — broad high brow, a nose of the so called Grecian sort, and a proud, sarcastic mouth.

His skin was dark and tanned, as if he had lived long in the sun of warmer climates. He was clean shaven, all save the upper lip, where he wore a thick, flossy moustache, very fair in colour. His eyes were blue and very large, though he had a habit of contracting them very much when he was looking at any person. In his whole person, and in every gesture, there was a certain air which bespoke the gentleman by birth. His expression, nevertheless, was marred by audacity and superciliousness, and his laugh had not the ringing clear ness of youth, but sounded hollow at times, with a sort of spasmodic gaiety his face did not share. As he studied the mysterious lines of the chart his face grew very black. 'Why the devil did I come here without a pilot?' he exclaimed. 'Look here, Calum. The mouth of the loch is full of sunken rocks in every direction.

Far out to the right hand there's Bo Scarbh, a regular reef, three feet under water at high springs ; close by — see ! there's another — Bo Something else ; and then there's half-a-dozen rocks peppered here, and another half-dozen there. To crown all, there's only six feet at low water in the deepest part of the channel, although we are drawing seven feet aft ; and, by George ! the channel itself at the Nanows is about two cables' length across. It would be certain shipwreck to enter without a pilot. What are w*e to do ? ' It was in answer to this question that Calum recom mended that they should signal to the shore for a pilot, and so the little yacht was kept running to and fro on the wind just off the shore. On coming thus close in under the mountains, they could just distinguish, about a mile ahead, the silvern gleam of the mouth of the loch, and, seen from afar, it looked very narrow indeed — only a few yards across.

Just inside, as they knew, there was good anchorage in a small snug basin nearly opposite the ' village.' An hour of great excitement passed, and there was no answer to their signal from the shore. Every instant the squalls grew more terrific, till it seemed the little vessel must be lost indeed. Worst of all, night was near ; the hills were already growing dim. ' It's an awfu' coast,' said Calum, reflectively, as he shook the boat through a violent squall. ' I mind once of a hooker of a hundred tons being clean foundered just off here. And there wasna any sea ; she was running for the south with herring, and had twa or three empty barrels on her deck ; and the wind came aft" yonder hill and sank her as ye'd sink a spoon in a bowl o' milk. I wouldna' sail na open boat here for a heap o' money.' ONE WHITE SAIL IN A WASTE OF GREY. 5 ' No one appears to take any notice of us,' cried the young man. 'What is to be done?

The boat won't stand much more of this.' ' The boat's a good boat,' said Calum, ' but the nicht's going to be bad ; and nae yacht o' this size can live if it comes on a gale. If nae man comes off from the shore, we'll have to run for Loch Uish, straight down the coast. It's no a cannie run in the dark, for there's the Mackenzie Rock, and the reef where Sandie Gow lost the Spell ; and forbye that, there's the Black Rocks • but we'll dae our best' ' Humph ! then it's only a chance that we get clear out of this confounded mess ? ' ' Oh ay, just a chance,' said Calum dryly. ' The folk'll be awa' at the fishing, and it's a bad nicht for a boat like this in the open.' Something in the perfectly unmoved and phlegmatic tone of the speaker took the other's attention, for the young man stared at him for some time with a half-comic, half sneering look of astonishment ; and seeing the grim, weather-beaten features perfectly unmoved, he broke into a hard laugh. ' You take it coolly enough, at any rate,' he cried. ' And what for should I no tak' it coolly ?

I'm only a common man, and maun tak' the winds as they come, an' earn my bread.' ' Can you swim ? ' ' Not a stroke,' replied Calum, burying his face in his hands to light his black cutty pipe, while the man at the forepart of the vessel, reclining against the bitts, hummed in a low voice the doleful lively ditty of ' Ghillie Callum.' Still finding secret amusement in the stolidity of his companions, the young man laughed again • then entering the cabin once more, he re-emerged with a fowling-piece, and fired two shots rapidly into the air. Scarcely had he done so, when an enormous black dog sprang up the com panion, and, rushing to the bulwarks, gazed eagerly out on the waters. ' Down, Nero, down ! ' cried the young man. ' He thinks I have shot something. Ha! the noise seems to have attracted attention at last.

Look yonder ! ' On a small eminence overlooking the entrance of the loch two or three figures were now dimly seen ■ but it was already too dark to make out who and what they were. The twilight had quite fallen, and the wind was rising with great fury. ' Hang off ten minutes longer,' the young man said, ' and then, if no one comes, we must risk the run back again along the coast' The helmsman nodded, ' put about ' once more, and ran through the wind. The squalls could still be seen whitening the sea to windward when they struck the water ; but every minute the coast grew dimmer, so that only a very familiar eye could have made out the landmarks. Ten minutes passed, and the order was already given to let the vessel run with a free sheet, when Calum, knocking the ashes of his pipe out into the water to leeward, said quietly : ' Wheest a minute ! I hear the sound of oars between us and the shore.'

Chapter II. The Fair

Ps LOT. Listening intensely all could hear the splash, splash of oars coming nearer and nearer. Immediately afterwards a small boat, rowed by a solitary figure, shot out of the shadow of the hills. It seemed to be a rude coble, quite at the mercy of the w*ind, but very skilfully managed. While Calum brought the boat up to the wind, the young man leant over the side of the vessel and regarded the small boat intently. Presently he uttered an exclamation which bore a suspicious resem blance to an oath, and turned angrily to Calum. ' Look there ! Confound the idiots ! They've sent out a woman.' THE FAIR PILOT. 7 Calum, who was quite as astonished, but exhibited more self-control, nodded sharply. The boat was indeed rowed by a female, to all appearances strong and young, but her head was covered by a dark hood, and they could not see her face.

Angrily enough Calum addressed the stranger in Gaelic. He was answered in clear ringing tones in the same tongue ; and almost before he could say another word the coble was alongside the yacht, and a light girlish figure with a speed and agility perfectly marvellous to the Southerner, had sprung on board. It was too dark to distinguish her features plainly, but she seemed fair-complexioned and very young. Her hood had fallen back, and her face and hair were damp with spray. Perfectly lost in amazement at so strange an apparition, the young man stood staring open-mouthed, while the stranger and Calum spoke to each other rapidly in Gaelic. 'What does the girl say?' he at last inquired impatiently. ' Is any one coming off to pilot us into the anchorage ? ' Calum replied in the methodical way peculiar to him and to his class : ' The lassie says there's no a man in the village this night that can pull an oar or draw a net.

The whole village is awa' after the herring at Loch Uish, and there's naething left but wives, bairns, and old bed-ridden men.' A furious squall struck the yacht as the fisherman spoke, and almost capsized her, for she had entirely lost way through being brought up to the wind. Again addressing Calum rapidly in Gaelic, the girl pushed him aside and seized the tiller. ' Hullo ! what are you doing ? ' cried the young man. ' You're never going to trust the boat to a girl like that ? ' The girl seemed either to understand what was said, or guessed at the meaning, for she laughed. By this time the yacht was again running rapidly through the water, steered by the stranger. 'The lassie says,' observed Calum phlegmatically, 'that there's no better pilot in the place than hersel' ; and if we leave the boat to her, she'll take us in all snug.

The tide's at the flood, she says, and we'll hae plenty o' water at the Narrows.' 'But it's nearly pitch-dark, and this is a mere child.' ' Never you fear, sir. See that ! She kens how to steer a boat ■ and take my word for it, she'll take us safe. I've had worse pilots than this before now. She's a bold lass, and a cannie, and better than many men.' A loud cry from the girl interrupted him. She seemed giving instructions in her own tongue. In a moment he ran forward to assist the other hand with the sheets, while the girl brought the vessel round just a few feet from a large black mass projecting out of the sea. "That's close work," cried the gentleman nervously. "I'm afraid we'll come to grief." The girl spoke again to Calum, and he interpreted. 'That's Dhu Squr, she says. But there's three fathom water to the very edge of the reef.

We're coming up to the Narrows now, and need every inch o' room.' Another cry from the girl, and the vessel was round again on another tack. They were now quite in the shadow of the hills, and all seemed darkness and confusion, especially to the unaccustomed senses of the young man. To him the land seemed closing in on every side, the mountains towering straight above, the wind coming in all directions. A wild roar was in the air, and the water seemed swirling and boiling below them with an angry roar. ' We're in the Narrows now,' cried Calum ; ' that's the boiling o' the tide.' The wind was sweeping dead out of. the mouth of the loch, and again and again the vessel put about — so rapidly indeed that she scarcely got way upon her on one tack before she had to come round again. Once, for this reason, she refused altogether to answer the helm in coming round, and seemed drifting right on the rocks of the channel ; but in a moment, urged by the girl, Callum boomed out the staysail to windward with an oar, and the vessel slowly com pleted her swing out All seemed to grow darker and darker after this, for they had got more and more in the shadow of the hills ; but by-and-by the young man saw* that they had emerged into more open water, and that several THE FAIR PILOT. 9 lights, like those of a village, were glimmering from the darkness of the shore.

The wind still shrieking loudly. ' All's safe now, sir,' said Calum. ' We're close to the anchorage, oot o' a' danger.' So saying he ran forward and assisted his fellow-seaman to haul up the chain on deck, that it might run free, and to hoist the anchor over the bows. A minute afterwards the vessel was brought up to the wind, and glided steadily along through smooth water for about a hundred yards, when the girl cried out to the men forward, and released her hold of the tiller. The yacht was quite stationary. Down went the anchor, with that delicious sound which only the weary cruiser knows and loves. For some minutes there was confusion in the darkness. The young man went forward to see all snug, and to take a look about him. So far as he could make out in the night, they were in a nice natural harbour, surrounded on every side by hills, and sheltered almost entirely from the wind then blowing. ' Five fathom water,' said Calum, hauling in the lead-line ; 'and a fine soft mud for the bottom.

We couldn't be in a snugger berth.' The young man, who had been plunged in deep reflection, touched him on the shoulder. ' Come aft with me, and speak to the girl. In all proba bility she has saved our lives.' But when they went in search of her she had disappeared, and the old coble in which she had rowed out to their assistance had disappeared also. They strained their eyes into the surrounding darkness, and listened for the sound of oars ; but all was quite still, and they could not see a glimpse of the stranger.

Chapter III. An Old Letter

' You will perceive from the superscription and postmark of this letter that I have at last arrived at Ultima Thule. I bought a clipping little yacht, bran-new, for three hundred and fifty pounds, fitted her up snugly in the Clyde, and worked my way slowly up here with a crew of two — one of them an old fisherman, who knows this coast as well as the lines of his mother's face. On the way we put in at Iona, and were nearly blown to bits in Loch Scavaig, Skye. From the last-named place we sailed round Cape Wrath, and arrived off Uribol on the afternoon of the 5th. The w*hole journey was great fun, though I missed the comforts of the dinner-table. What I had in the way of food had to be cooked by myself, for I could not have trusted either of the men to cook for me ; so I contented myself with boiled eggs, hard biscuits, a little fish occasionally, tea and coffee made over the spirit-lamp, and any number of cigars !

I took a couple of dozen of claret aboard in the Clyde, but it vanished in no time, and since then I've been sticking to the national liquor, and really find it agrees with me exceed ingly. The modus bibendi is to throw back your head, and pour a glass of plain whiskey down at one draught, and then, with watering eyes and burning throat, to chuck approval in a certain indescribable way, by sticking the tongue against the roof of the mouth. ' The climate is detestable, and tries even my temper. Since I began to sail on this coast I have scarcely seen my old friend the sun ; all is grey, melancholy, dark, and though there has not been a great deal of actually heavy rain, the Scotch mist — which means an insidious dew-fall, turning your clothes into a wet blanket — has been perpetual. One scarcely wonders that the population is so small, when the cheerlessness of all things is taken into consideration.

For my part, I can't understand how people can exist for a lifetime in so cool a temperature. Although I am a Scotch man by birth, my blood runs freer in southern latitudes than here. If I stopped here long, I should. become as re served, as phlegmatic, and as superstitious as the natives. ' And yet, for all that, don't run away with the impression that I am disappointed. These weird, grey solitudes and lonely seas impressed me more than you can conceive, just as some old engravings, with their one sombre hue, haunt the imagination even more than the finest pictures. I have washed in to or three sketches in Indian ink — one of Loch Scavaig, another of the heads of Sutherland, etc., and really they seem strangely to reproduce this landscape without a tint of colour. Still, when you look closely into the tints of hill, lake, and sea, there is colour of the most subtle sort.

I never knew how many different greys there were till I made this journey • their combinations are most extraordinary, and (in the artistic sense) most pathetic. ' I have travelled far, as you know, but never, either on the American prairie, or in the Canadian backwoods, on the old continent, or on the new, did I find more perfect loveliness than surrounds me here. Few vessels navigate the seas, the inhabitants of the north are few and far be tween, and the whole prospect seems ages back in time. A letter from the remotest capital of Europe would reach you sooner than this will, though I am only about five hundred miles away as the crow flies, and this will be carried over waters as dangerous to the frail craft which navigates them as the Pacific waters are to the great mail steamers. In fact, Livingstone in Africa is not farther removed from civilisation than I am at this moment !

Yes, I am wandering like a lonely traveller indeed. My object you know ; I need not allude to it here. All around me is strange — landscape, manners and customs, language. My old pilot is the only man who can speak a word of English. ' I fancy I can see you shrugging your shoulders with pity as you think of my forlorn condition, and hasten to flirt away the afternoon in roseate delight at the feet of a certain dark-haired and elegantly-attired young lady with luxurious eyes. " Poor devil ! " I hear you cry, " not even a pretty woman to talk to." Not so fast, however; don't B talk to me of your languid drawing-room beauties, your dainty dreamers over the last new poem, your conventional dolls that melt like wax in the sun of life, and only smile in the gaslight Give me rather the mild beauty of the American plains, adorable, refusing nothing, and demand ing nothing ; or the antelope-like maiden, so to speak, of southern latitudes.

Give me rather some humble fisher maiden, light, fresh, unsophisticated, graceful as a fawn, and blooming as a rose ! ' Here I seem to hear your cynic laugh. "Yes," you say, "' the conventional creature of third-rate poems and novels ; but I, who am acquainted pretty well with the lower orders, have never stumbled across the sylph-like being. Fisher maidens, even at Newhaven, where they bloom the best, have ugly feet, hard hands, shapely bodies, coarse features, and unclean tongues." And, speaking generally, I believe you are right Beauty does not improve with rough labour or with utter idleness, any more than the mind brightens with the ordinary conventional cramming at college. Beauty, modesty, and grace are rare in low life — about as rare, you know, as virtue in some walks of high life — still, they do exist.

Here and there in my short pilgrimage I have come across some flower of wondrous loveliness, some perfect specimen of uncultivated nature, all the more dazzling from the low and seemingly barren soil in which it grew. ' I know you are pricking up your ears now. You are right. I have discovered a phœnix, or something of the sort. It began in the most romantic way, as you shall hear. 'On the afternoon of the 5th, as I mentioned above, we arrived off this coast — wind, very stiff — squalls, dreadful — night coming fast on us, and the sea all round us sown with sunken rocks. The mouth of Loch Uribol is very dangerous, and I had relied on getting a pilot from the shore to take me to the anchorage. We signalled again and again in the midst of the peppering wind, but not a soul came to our assistance.

Twilight fell, and we were about to run for it when Providence intervened, and sent us a deliverer in the shape of a young native. ' Guess my astonishment when a girl, still in her teens, rowed up to the yacht's side, jumped on board without so much as "by your leave," and actually took command of the vessel under my very nose, giving her orders in a strange tongue, and being obeyed by my mutinous crew as if she were some spirit from another sphere. I was simply fossilised, with my eyes on the apparition. It would be quite in vain to explain what followed, unless you had a chart of Loch Uribol before you, and knew all the dangers of the passage. Enough to say, that the young girl of whom I speak, with a nautical skill that elicited my warmest admiration, took us through every danger in safety, and deposited the whole vessel, cargo, and crew at the proper anchorage inside the loch. ' So far, so good ; but I know the question on the tip of your tongue is the old one, " Was the girl good-looking ?

" and should I answer in the negative, I see all your interest in this narrative vanish like smoke. So superficial are men, so credulous of the impression which is only skin deep. Let me tell you, however, for your satisfaction, ' that this young creature seemed not only good-looking, but positively pretty ; and not only brave as an eagle, but elegant as a wild swan. I am speaking now merely from a first im pression, and possibly she would appear very different in broad-day. In the dusk of the hills that night she seemed of almost unearthly loveliness. ' Conceive the situation ! A stormy night — a vessel in distress — dangers on every side — and the apparition of a spirit, such as might have come to Ulysses in the old days, when there were fair spirits in the sea. The whole thing seemed unreal — a picture remembered out of Byron, or one of the "Sturm und Drang" German novelists.