Mainly About Myra

: The Mystery Of The Green Ray

The train slowed down into Mallaig station. I thrilled with

anticipation, for now I had only the journey on the boat, and Myra

would be waiting for me at Glenelg. The train had hardly stopped when

I seized my bag and jumped out on to the platform. The next instant I

was nearly knocked back into the carriage again. A magnificent Great

Dane had jumped at me with a deep bark of flattering welcome, and

planted his paws on y shoulders.



"Sholto, my dear old man!" I cried in excitement, dropping my bag and

looking round expectantly. It was Myra's dog, and there, sure enough,

was a beautiful vision of brown eyes and brown-gold hair, in a

heather-coloured Burberry costume, running down the platform to meet

me.



"Well--darling?" I said, as I met her half-way.



"Well?" she whispered, as she took my hand, and I looked into the

depths of those wonderful eyes. Truly I was a lucky dog. The world was

a most excellent place, full of delightful people; and even if I were

an impecunious young barrister I was richer than Croesus in the

possession of those beautiful brown eyes, which looked on all the

world with the gentle affection of a tender and indulgent sister, but

which looked on me with----Oh! hang it all!--a fellow can't write

about these sort of things when they affect him personally. Besides,

they belong to me--thank God!



"I got your telegram, dear," said Myra, as we strolled out of the

station behind the porter who had appropriated my bag. Sholto brought

up the rear. He had too great an opinion of his own position to be

jealous of me--or at any rate he was too dignified to show it--and he

had always admitted me into the inner circle of his friendship in a

manner that was very charming, if not a little condescending.



"Did you, darling?" I said, in reply to Myra's remark.



"Yes; it was delivered first thing this morning, and father was very

pleased about it."



"Really!" I exclaimed. "I am glad. I was afraid he might be rather

annoyed."



"I was a little bit surprised myself," she confessed, "though I'm sure

I don't know why I should be. Dad's a perfect dear--he always was and

he always will be. But he has been very determined about our

engagement. When I told him you'd wired you were coming he was

tremendously pleased. He kept on saying, 'I'm glad; that's good news,

little woman, very good news. 'Pon my soul I'm doocid glad!' He said

you were a splendid fellow--I can't think what made him imagine

that--but he said it several times, so I suppose he had some reason

for it. I was frightfully pleased. I like you to be a splendid fellow,

Ron!"



I was very glad to hear that the old General was really pleased to

hear of my visit. I had intended to stay at the Glenelg Hotel, as I

could hardly invite myself to Invermalluch Lodge, even though I had

known the old man all my life. Accordingly I took it as a definite

sign that his opposition was wearing down when Myra told me I was

expected at the house.



"And he said," she continued, "that he never heard such ridiculous

nonsense as your saying you were coming to the hotel, and that if you

preferred a common inn to the house that had been good enough for him

and his fathers before him, you could stop away altogether. So there!"



"Good--that's great!" I said enthusiastically. "But did you come over

by the boat from Glenelg, or what?"



"No, dear; I came in the motor-boat, so we don't need to hang about

the pier here. We can either go straight home or wait a bit, whichever

you like. I wanted to meet you, and I thought you'd rather come back

with me in the motor-boat than jolt about in the stuffy old Sheila."



"Rather, dear; I should say I would," said I--and a lot more besides,

which has nothing to do with the story. Suddenly Myra's motherly

instinct awoke.



"Have you had breakfast?" she asked.



"Yes, dear--at Crianlarich. The only decent meal to be got on a

railway in this country is a Crianlarich breakfast."



"Well, in that case you're ready for lunch. It's gone twelve. I could

do with something myself, incidentally, and I want to talk to you

before we start for home. Let's have lunch here."



I readily agreed, and after calling Sholto, who was being conducted on

a tour of inspection by the parson's dog, we strolled up the hill to

the hotel. As we entered the long dining-room we came upon Hilderman,

seated at one of the tables with his back to us.



"Yes," he was saying to the waiter, "I have been spending the week-end

on the Clyde in a yacht. I joined the train at Ardlui this morning,

and I can tell you----"



I didn't wait to hear any more. Rather by instinct than as a result of

any definite train of thought, I led Myra quickly behind a Japanese

screen to a small table by a side window. After all, it was no

business of mine if Hilderman wished to say he had joined the train at

Ardlui. He probably had his own reasons. Possibly Dennis was right,

and the man was a detective. But I had seen him at King's Cross and

again at Edinburgh before we reached Ardlui, so I thought it might

embarrass him if I walked in on the top of his assertion that he had

just come from the Clyde. However, Myra was with me, which was much

more important, and I dismissed Hilderman and his little fib from my

mind.



"Ronnie," said Myra, in the middle of lunch, "you haven't said

anything about the war."



"No, dear," I answered clumsily. "It----" It was an astonishingly

difficult thing to say when it came to saying it.



"And yet that was what you came to see me about?"



"Yes, darling. You see, I----"



"I know, dear. You've come to tell me that you're going to enlist. I'm

glad, Ronnie, very glad--and very, very proud."



Myra turned away and looked out of the window.



"I hate people who talk a lot about their duty," I said; "but it

obviously is my duty, and I know that's what you would want me to do."



"Of course, dear, I wouldn't have you do anything else." And she

turned and smiled at me, though there were tears in her dear eyes.

"And I shall try to be brave, very brave, Ronnie. I'm getting a big

girl now," she added pluckily, attempting a little laugh. And though,

of course, we afterwards discussed the regiment I was to join, and how

the uniform would suit me, and how you kept your buttons clean, and a

thousand other things, that was the last that was said about it from

that point of view. There are some people who never need to say

certain things--or at any rate there are some things that never need

be said between certain people.



After lunch we strolled round the "fish-table," a sort of subsidiary

pier on which the fish are auctioned, and listened to the excited

conversations of the fish-curers, gutters, and fishermen. It was a

veritable babel--the mournful intonation of the East Coast, the broad

guttural of the Broomielaw, mingled with the shrill Gaelic scream of

the Highlands, and the occasional twang of the cockney tourist. Having

retrieved Sholto, who was inspecting some fish which had been laid out

to dry in the middle of the village street, and packed him safely in

the bows, we set out to sea, Myra at the engine, while I took the

tiller. As we glided out of the harbour I turned round, impelled by

some unknown instinct. The parson's dog was standing at the head of

the main pier, seeing us safely off the premises, and beside him was

the tall figure of my friend J. G. Hilderman. As I looked up at him I

wondered if he recognised me; but it was evident he did, for he raised

his cap and waved to me. I returned the compliment as well as I could,

for just then Myra turned and implored me not to run into the

lighthouse.



"Someone you know?" she asked, as I righted our course.



"Only a chap I met on the train," I explained.



"It looks like the tenant of Glasnabinnie, but I couldn't be certain.

I've never met him, and I've only seen him once."



"Glasnabinnie!" I exclaimed, with a new interest. "Really! Why, that's

quite close to you, surely?"



"Just the other side of the loch, directly opposite us. A good swimmer

could swim across, but a motor would take days to go round. So we're

really a long way off, and unless he turns up at some local function

we're not likely to meet him. He's said to be an American millionaire;

but then every American in these parts is supposed to have at least

one million of money."



"Do you know anything about him--what he does, or did?" I asked.



"Absolutely nothing," she replied, "except, of course, the silly

rumours that one always hears about strangers. He took Glasnabinnie in

May--in fact, the last week of April, I believe. That rather surprised

us, because it was very early for summer visitors. But he showed his

good sense in doing so, as the country was looking gorgeous--Sgriol,

na Ciche, and the Cuchulins under snow. I've heard (Angus McGeochan,

one of our crofters, told me) he was an inventor, and had made a few

odd millions out of a machine for sticking labels on canned meat. That

and the fact that he is a very keen amateur photographer is the

complete history of Mr. Hilderman so far as I know it. Anyway, he has

a gorgeous view, hasn't he? It's nearly as good as ours."



"He has indeed," I agreed readily. "But I don't think Hilderman can be

very wealthy; no fishing goes with Glasnabinnie, there's no yacht

anchorage, and there's no road to motor on. How does he get about?"



"He's got a beautiful Wolseley launch," said Myra jealously, "a

perfect beauty. He calls her the Baltimore II. She was lying

alongside the Hermione at Mallaig when we left. Oh! look up the

loch, Ron! Isn't it a wonderful view?"



And so the magnificent purple-gray summit of Sgor na Ciche, at the

head of Loch Nevis, claimed our attention--(that and other matters of

a personal nature)--and J. G. Hilderman went completely from our

minds. Myra was a real Highlander of the West. She lived for its

mountains and lochs, its rivers and burns, its magnificent coast and

its fascinating animal life. She knew every little creek and inlet,

every rock and shallow, every reef and current from Fort William to

the Gair Loch. I have even heard it said that when she was twelve she

could draw an accurate outline of Benbecula and North Uist, a feat

that would be a great deal beyond the vast majority of grown-ups

living on those islands themselves. As we turned to cross the head of

Loch Hourn, Myra pointed out Glasnabinnie, nestling like a lump of

grey lichen at the foot of the Croulin Burn. Anchored off the point

was a small steam yacht, either a converted drifter or built on

drifter lines.



"Our friend has visitors," said Myra, "and he's not there to receive

them. How very rude! That yacht is often there. She only makes about

eight knots as a rule, although she gives you the impression she could

do more. You see, she's been built for strength and comfort more than

for looks. She calls at Glasnabinnie in the afternoons sometimes, and

is there after dark, and sails off before six." (Myra was always out

of doors before six in the morning, whatever the weather.) "From which

I gather," she continued, "that the owner lives some distance away and

sleeps on board. She can't be continuously cruising, or she would make

a longer stay sometimes."



"You seem to know the ways of yacht-owners, dear," I said. "Hullo!

what is that hut on the cliff above the falls? That's new, surely."



"Oh! that beastly thing," said Myra in disgust. "That's his, too. A

smoking-room and study, I believe. He had it built there because he

has an uninterrupted view that sweeps the sea."



"Why 'beastly thing'?" I asked. "It's too far away to worry you,

though it isn't exactly pretty, and I know you hate to see anything in

the shape of a new building going up."



"Oh! it annoys me," she answered airily, "and somehow it gets on

daddy's nerves. You see, it has a funny sort of window which goes all

round the top of the hut. This is evidently divided into several small

windows, because they swing about in the wind, and when the sun shines

on them they catch the eye even at our distance. And, as I say, they

get on daddy's nerves, which have not been too good the last week or

two."



"Never mind," I consoled her; "he'll be all right when his friends

come up for the Twelfth. I think the doctors are wrong to say that he

should never have a lot of people hanging round him, because there can

surely be no harm in letting him see a few friends. I certainly think

he's right to make an exception for the grouse."



"Grouse!" sniffed Myra. "They come for the Twelfth because they like

to be seen travelling north on the eleventh! And I have to entertain

them. And some of the ones who come for the first time tell me they

suppose I know all the pretty walks round about! And in any case," she

finished, in high indignation, "can you imagine me entertaining

anybody?"



"Yes, my dear, I can," I replied; and the "argument" kept us busy

till we reached Invermalluch. The old General came down to the

landing-stage to meet us, and was much more honestly pleased to see

me than I had ever known him before.



"Ah! Ronald, my boy!" he exclaimed heartily. "'Pon my soul, I'm glad

to see you. It's true, I suppose? You've heard the news?"



The question amused me, because it was so typical of the old fellow.

Here had I come from London, where the Cabinet was sitting night and

day, to a spot miles from the railway terminus, to be asked if I had

heard the news!



"You mean the war, of course?" I replied.



"Yes; it's come, my boy, at last. Come to find me on the shelf! Ah,

well! It had to come sooner or later, and now we're not ready. Ah,

well, we must all do what we can. Begad, I'm glad to see you, my boy,

thundering glad. It's a bit lonely here sometimes for the little

woman, you know; but she never complains." (In point of fact, she even

contrived to laugh, and take her father's arm affectionately in

her's.) "And besides, there are many things I want to have a talk with

you about, Ronald--many things. By the way, had lunch?"



"We lunched at Mallaig, thank you, sir," I explained.



"Well, well, Myra will see you get all you want--won't you, girlie?"

he said.



"I say, Ronnie," Myra asked, as we reached the house, "are you very

tired after your journey, or shall we have a cup of tea and then take

our rods for an hour or so?"



I stoutly declared I was not the least tired--as who could have been

in the circumstances?--and I should enjoy an hour's fishing with Myra

immensely. So I ran upstairs and had a bath, and changed, and came

down to find the General waiting for me. Myra had disappeared into the

kitchen regions to give first-aid to a bare-legged crofter laddie who

had cut his foot on a broken bottle.



"Well, my boy," said the old man, "you've come to tell us something.

What is it?"



"Oh!" I replied, as lightly as I could, "it is simply that we are in

for a row with Germany, and I've got a part in the play, so to speak.

I'm enlisting."



"Good boy," he chuckled, "good boy! Applying for a commission, I

suppose--man of your class and education, and all that--eh?"



"Oh, heavens, no!" I laughed. "I shall just walk on with the crowd, to

continue the simile."



"Glad to hear it, my boy--I am, indeed. 'Pon my soul, you're a good

lad, you know--quite a good lad. Your father would have been proud of

you. He was a splendid fellow--a thundering splendid fellow. We always

used to say, 'You can always trust Ewart to do the straight, clean

thing; he's a gentleman.' I hope your comrades will say the same of

you, my boy."



"By the way, sir," I added, "I also intended to tell you that in the

circumstances I--I----Well, I mean to say that I shan't--shan't

expect Myra to consider herself under--under any obligations to me."



However difficult it was for me to say it, I had been quite certain

that the old General would think it was the right thing to say, and

would be genuinely grateful to me for saying it off my own bat without

any prompting from him. So I was quite unprepared for the outburst

that followed.



"You silly young fellow!" he cried. "'Pon my soul, you are a silly

young chap, you know. D'you mean to tell me you came here intending

to tell my little girl to forget all about you just when you are

going off to fight for your country, and may never come back? You mean

to run away and leave her alone with an old crock of a father? You

know, Ewart, you--you make me angry at times."



"I'm very sorry, sir," I apologised, though I had no recollection of

having made him angry before.



"Oh! I know," he said, in a calmer tone. "Felt it was your duty, and

all that--eh? I know. But, you see, it's not your duty at all. No.

Now, there are one or two things I want to tell you that you don't

know, and I'll tell you one of 'em now and the rest later. The first

thing--in absolute confidence, of course--is that----"



But at this point Myra walked in, and the General broke off into an

incoherent mutter. He was a poor diplomatist.



"Ah! secrets? Naughty!" she exclaimed laughingly. "Are you ready,

Ronnie?"



"He's quite ready, my dear," said the old man graciously. "I've said

all I want to say to him for the time being. Run along with girlie,

Ewart. You don't want to mess about with an old crock."



"Daddy," said Myra reproachfully, "you're not to call yourself names."



"All right, then; I won't," he laughed. "You young people will excuse

me, I'm sure. I should like to join you; but I have a lot of letters

to write, and I daresay you'd rather be by yourselves. Eh?--you young

dog!"



It was a polite fiction between father and daughter that when the old

fellow felt too unwell to join her or his guests he "had a lot of

letters to write." And occasionally, when he was in the mood to

overtax his strength, she would never refer to it directly, but often

she would remark, "You know you'll miss the post, daddy." And they

both understood. So we set out by ourselves, and I naturally preferred

to be alone with Myra, much as I liked her father. We went out on to

the verandah, and while I unpacked my kit Myra rewound her line, which

had been drying on the pegs overnight.



"Are you content with small mercies, Ron?" she asked, "or do you agree

that it is better to try for a salmon than catch a trout?"



"It certainly isn't better to-day, anyway," I answered. "I want to be

near you, darling. I don't want the distance of the pools between us.

We might walk up to the Dead Man's Pool, and then fish up stream; and

later fish the loch from the boat. That would bring us back in nice

time for dinner."



"Oh! splendid!" she cried; and we fished out our fly-books. Her's was

a big book of tattered pig-skin, which reclined at the bottom of the

capacious "poacher's pocket" in her jacket. The fly-book was an old

favourite--she wouldn't have parted with it for worlds. Having

followed her advice, and changed the Orange I had tied for the "bob"

to a Peacock Zulu, which I borrowed from her, we set out.



"Just above the Dead Man's Pool you get a beautiful view of

Hilderman's hideous hut," Myra declared as we walked along. I may

explain here that "Dead Man's Pool" is an English translation of the

Gaelic name, which I dare not inflict on the reader.



"See?" she cried, as we climbed the rock looking down on the gorgeous

salmon pool, with its cool, inviting depths and its subtle promise of

sport. "Oh! Ronnie, isn't it wonderful?" she cried. "Almost every day

of my life I have admired this view, and I love it more and more every

time I see it. I sometimes think I'd rather give up my life than the

simple power to gaze at the mountains and the sea."



"Why, look!" I exclaimed. "Is that the window you meant?"



"Yes," Myra replied, with an air of annoyance, "that's it. You can see

that light when the sun shines on it, which is nearly all day, and it

keeps on reminding us that we have a neighbour, although the loch is

between us. Besides, for some extraordinary reason it gets on father's

nerves. Poor old daddy!"



It may seem strange to the reader that anyone should take notice of

the sun's reflection on a window two and a quarter miles away; but it

must be remembered that all her life Myra had been accustomed to the

undisputed possession of an unbroken view.



"Anyhow," she added, as she turned away, "we came here to fish. One of

us must cross the stream here and fish that side. We can't cross

higher up, there's too much water, and there's no point in getting

wet. I'll go, and you fish this side; and when we reach the loch we'll

get into the boat. See, Sholto's across already."



And she tripped lightly from boulder to boulder across the top of the

fall which steams into the Dead Man's Pool, while I stood and admired

her agile sureness of foot as one admires the graceful movements of a

beautiful young roe. Sholto was pawing about in a tiny backwater, and

trying to swallow the bubbles he made, until he saw his beloved

mistress was intent on the serious business of fishing, and then he

climbed lazily to the top of a rock, where he could keep a watchful

eye on her, and sprawled himself out in the sun. I have fished better

water than the Malluch river, certainly, and killed bigger fish in

other lochs than the beautiful mountain tarn above Invermalluch Lodge;

but I have never had a more enjoyable day's sport than the least

satisfying of my many days there.



There was a delightful informality about the sport at the Lodge. One

fished in all weathers because one wanted to fish, and varied one's

methods and destination according to the day. There was no sign of

that hideous custom of doing the thing "properly" that the members of

a stockbroker's house-party seem to enjoy--no drawing lots for reaches

or pools overnight, no roping-in a gillie to add to the chance of

sending a basket "south." When there was a superfluity of fish the

crofters and tenants were supplied first, and then anything that was

left over was sent to friends in London and elsewhere. At the end of

the day's sport we went home happy and pleased with ourselves, not in

the least depressed if we had drawn a blank, to jolly and delightful

meals, without any formality at all. And if we were wet, there was a

great drying-room off the kitchen premises where our clothes were

dried by a housemaid who really understood the business. As for our

tackle, we dried our own lines and pegged them under the verandah, and

rewound them again in the morning, made up our own casts, and

generally did everything for ourselves without a retinue of

attendants. And thereby we enjoyed ourselves hugely.



Angus and Sandy, the two handy-men of the place, would carry the

lunch-basket or pull the boats on the loch or stand by with the gaff

or net--and what experts they are!--but the rest we did for ourselves.

By the time I had got a pipe on and wetted my line, Myra was some

fifty yards or so up stream making for a spot where she suspected

something. She has the unerring instinct of the inveterate poacher! I

cast idly once or twice, content to revel in the delight of holding a

rod in my hand once more, intoxicated with the air and the scenery and

the sunshine (What a good thing the fish in the west "like it

bright!"), and after a few minutes a sudden jerk on my line brought me

back to earth. I missed him, but he thrilled me to the serious

business of the thing, and I fished on, intent on every cast.



I suppose I must have fished for about twenty minutes, but of that I

have never been able to say definitely. It may possibly have been

more. I only know that as I was picking my way over some boulders to

enable me to cast more accurately for a big one I had risen, I heard

Myra give a sharp, short cry. I turned anxiously and called to her.



I could not distinguish her at first among the great gray rocks in the

river. Surely she could not have fallen in. Even had she done so, I

hardly think she would have called out. She was extraordinarily sure

on her feet, and, in any case, she was an expert swimmer. What could

it be? Immediately following her cry came Sholto's deep bay, and then

I saw her. She was standing on a tall, white, lozenge-shaped rock,

that looked almost as if it had been carefully shaped in concrete. She

was kneeling, and her arm was across her face. With a cry I dashed

into the river, and floundered across, sometimes almost up to my neck,

and ran stumbling to her in a blind agony of fear. Even as I ran her

rod was carried past me, and disappeared over the fall below.



"Myra, my darling," I cried as I reached her, and took her in my arms,

"what is it, dearest? For God's sake tell me--what is it?"



"Oh, Ronnie, dear," she said, "I don't know, darling. I don't

understand." Her voice broke as she lifted her beautiful face to me. I

looked into those wonderful eyes, and they gazed back at me with a

dull, meaningless stare. She stretched out her arm to grasp my hand,

and her own hand clutched aimlessly on my collar.



In a flash I realised the hideous truth.



Myra was blind!