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Produced by Al Haines.




                              WHITE WINGS:

                          A Yachting Romance.


                                   BY

                            *WILLIAM BLACK,*

            AUTHOR OF "THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON,"
                 "GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY," ETC.



                           _IN THREE VOLUMES_

                                VOL. II.



                                London:
                           MACMILLAN AND CO.
                                 1880.

        _The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved._




                                LONDON:
                       R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR.
                           BREAD STREET HILL.




                              *CONTENTS.*


                               CHAPTER I.

VILLANY ABROAD

                              CHAPTER II.

AN ULTIMATUM

                              CHAPTER III.

THE NEW SUITOR

                              CHAPTER IV.

CHASING A THUNDERSTORM

                               CHAPTER V.

CHASING SEALS

                              CHAPTER VI.

"UNCERTAIN, COY, AND HARD TO PLEASE"

                              CHAPTER VII.

SECRET SCHEMES

                             CHAPTER VIII.

BEFORE BREAKFAST

                              CHAPTER IX.

A PROTECTOR

                               CHAPTER X.

"MARY, MARY!"

                              CHAPTER XI.

AN UNSPOKEN APPEAL

                              CHAPTER XII.

HIS LORDSHIP

                             CHAPTER XIII.

THE LAIRD'S PLANS

                              CHAPTER XIV.

A SUNDAY IN FAR SOLITUDES

                              CHAPTER XV.

HIDDEN SPRINGS




                             *WHITE WINGS:*

                         *A Yachting Romance.*



                              *CHAPTER I.*

                           *VILLANY ABROAD.*


It is near mid-day; two late people are sitting at breakfast; the
skylight overhead has been lifted, and the cool sea-air fills the
saloon.

"Dead calm again," says Angus Sutherland, for he can see the rose-red
ensign hanging limp from the mizen-mast, a blaze of colour against the
still blue.

There is no doubt that the _White Dove_ is quite motionless; and that a
perfect silence reigns around her.  That is why we can hear so
distinctly--through the open skylight--the gentle footsteps of two
people who are pacing up and down the deck, and the soft voice of one of
them as she speaks to her friend.  What is all this wild enthusiasm
about, then?

"It is the noblest profession in the world!" we can hear so much as she
passes the skylight. "One profession lives by fomenting quarrels; and
another studies the art of killing in every form; but this one lives
only to heal--only to relieve the suffering and help the miserable. That
is the profession I should belong to, if I were a man!"

Our young Doctor says nothing as the voice recedes; but he is obviously
listening for the return walk along the deck.  And here she comes again.

"The patient drudgery of such a life is quite heroic--whether he is a
man of science, working day and night to find out things for the good of
the world, nobody thanking him or caring about him, or whether he is a
physician in practice with not a minute that can be called his
own--liable to be summoned at any hour----"

The voice again becomes inaudible.  It is remarked to this young man
that Mary Avon seems to have a pretty high opinion of the medical
profession.

"She herself," he says hastily, with a touch of colour in his face, "has
the patience and fortitude of a dozen doctors."

Once more the light tread on deck comes near the skylight.

"If I were the Government," says Mary Avon, warmly, "I should be ashamed
to see so rich a country as England content to take her knowledge
second-hand from the German Universities; while such men as Dr.
Sutherland are harassed and hampered in their proper work by having to
write articles and do ordinary doctor's visiting.  I should be ashamed.
If it is a want of money, why don't they pack off a dozen or two of the
young noodles who pass the day whittling quills in the Foreign
Office?----"

Even when modified by the distance, and by the soft lapping of the water
outside, this seems rather strong language for a young lady.  Why should
Miss Avon again insist in such a warm fashion on the necessity of
endowing research?

But Angus Sutherland's face is burning red. Listeners are said to hear
ill of themselves.

"However, Dr. Sutherland is not likely to complain," she says, proudly,
as she comes by again.  "No; he is too proud of his profession.  He does
his work; and leaves the appreciation of it to others.  And when
everybody knows that he will one day be among the most famous men in the
country, is it not monstrous that he should be harassed by drudgery in
the meantime?  If I were the Government----"

But Angus Sutherland cannot suffer this to go on.  He leaves his
breakfast unfinished, passes along the saloon, and ascends the
companion.

"Good morning!" he says.

"Why, are you up already?" his hostess says.  "We have been walking as
lightly as we could, for we thought you were both asleep. And Mary has
been heaping maledictions on the head of the Government because it
doesn't subsidise all you microscope-men.  The next thing she will want
is a licence for the whole of you to be allowed to vivisect criminals."

"I heard something of what Miss Avon said," he admitted.

The girl, looking rather aghast, glanced at the open skylight.

"We thought you were asleep," she stammered, and with her face somewhat
flushed.

"At least, I heard you say something about the Government," he said,
kindly.  "Well, all I ask from the Government is to give me a trip like
this every summer."

"What," says his hostess, "with a barometer that won't fall?"

"I don't mind."

"And seas like glass?"

"I don't mind."

"And the impossibility of getting back to land?"

"So much the better," he says defiantly.

"Why," she reminds him, laughing, "you were very anxious about getting
back some days ago.  What has made you change your wishes?"

He hesitates for a moment, and then he says--

"I believe a sort of madness of idleness has got possession of me.  I
have dallied so long with that tempting invitation of yours to stay and
see the _White Dove_ through the equinoctials that--that I think I
really must give in----"

"You cannot help yourself," his hostess says, promptly.  "You have
already promised.  Mary is my witness."

The witness seems anxious to avoid being brought into this matter; she
turns to the Laird quickly, and asks him some question about Ru-na-Gaul
light over there.

Ru-na-Gaul light no doubt it is--shining white in the sun at the point
of the great cliffs; and there is the entrance to Tobbermorry; and here
is Mingary Castle--brown ruins amid the brilliant greens of those
sloping shores--and there are the misty hills over Loch Sunart. For the
rest, blue seas around us, glassy and still; and blue skies overhead,
cloudless and pale.  The barometer refuses to budge.

But suddenly there is a brisk excitement. What though the breeze that is
darkening the water there is coming on right ahead?--we shall be moving
any way.  And as the first puffs of it catch the sails, Angus Sutherland
places Mary Avon in command; and she is now--by the permission of her
travelling physician--allowed to stand as she guides the course of the
vessel.  She has become an experienced pilot: the occasional glance at
the leach of the top-sail is all that is needed; she keeps as accurately
"full and by" as the master of one of the famous cuptakers.

"Now, Mary," says her hostess, "it all depends on you as to whether
Angus will catch the steamer this evening."

"Oh, does it?" she says, with apparent innocence.

"Yes; we shall want very good steering to get within sight of Castle
Osprey before the evening."

"Very well, then," says this audacious person.

At the same instant she deliberately puts the helm down.  Of course the
yacht directly runs up to the wind, her sails flapping helplessly.
Everybody looks surprised; and John of Skye, thinking that the new
skipper has only been a bit careless, calls out--

"Keep her full, mem, if you please."

"What do you mean, Mary?  What are you about?" cries Queen T.

"I am not going to be responsible for sending Dr. Sutherland away," she
says, in a matter-of-fact manner, "since he says he is in no hurry to
go.  If you wish to drive your guest away, I won't be a party to it.  I
mean to steer as badly as I can."

"Then I depose you," says Dr. Sutherland promptly.  "I cannot have a
pilot who disobeys orders."

"Very well," she says, "you may take the tiller yourself"--and she goes
away, and sits down in high dudgeon, by the Laird.

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