Chapter Eleven.Peculiar Incidents of a Sabbath among the Western Isles.One beautiful Sunday morning while the party assembled in Kinlossie House was at breakfast, a message was brought to the laird that he “wass wantit to speak wi’ the poy Tonal’.”“Well, Donald, my lad, what want ye with me this fine morning?” asked the laird, on going out to the hall.“I wass telt to tell ye the’ll be no kirk the day, for the minister’s got to preach at Drumquaich.”“Very well, Donald. Have you had breakfast?”“Oo, ay.”“Go into the kitchen, then, and they will give you some more.”“Thenkee, sir.”“I find,” said the laird on returning to his friends, “that we are to have no service to-day in our little church, as our minister has to take the duty at Drumquaich, on the other side of the loch. So those of you who are bent on going to church must make up your minds to cross the loch in the boat.”“Is Drumquaich the little village close under the pine wood, that we see on doubling Eagle Point?” asked Mabberly.“The same. The little church there, like our own, is not supplied regularly. Sometimes a Divinity student is sent down to them. Occasionally they have a great gun from Edinburgh.”“I think some of the students are better than the great guns,” remarked Mrs Gordon quietly.“True, my dear, and that is most natural, for it stands to reason that some at least of the students must be the great guns of the future in embryo; and they have the freshness of youth to set against the weight of erudition.”“The student who preached to us here last Sunday,” observed Barret, “must surely be an embryo great gun, for he treated his subject in a learned and masterly way that amazed me. From the look of him I would not have expected even an average discourse.”“That was partly owing to his modest air and reticence,” returned the laird. “If you heard him converse on what he would call metapheesical subjects, you would perhaps have been still more surprised.”“Well, I hope he will preach to-day,” said Barret.“From which I conclude that you will be one of the boat party. My wife and Milly make three, myself four; who else?”“No—don’t count me” interrupted the hostess; “I must stay with Flo; besides, I must visit poor Mrs Donaldson, who is again laid up. But I’ll be glad if you will take Aggy Anderson. Ever since the poor girl came here for a little change of air she has been longing to go out in the boat. I really believe it is a natural craving for the free, fresh breezes of the sea. May she go?”“By all means; as many as the boat will hold,” returned the laird.It was finally arranged that, besides those already mentioned, Mabberly, Jackman, MacRummle, Quin, the three boys, Roderick the groom, and Ian Anderson, as boatman in charge, should cross over to the little church at Drumquaich, about eight miles distant by water.While they were getting ready, Mrs Gordon and Flo, with the beloved black dolly, paid a visit to old Molly, the keeper’s mother. They found her in her arm-chair, sitting by the large, open chimney, on the hearth of which a very small fire was burning—not for the sake of warmth, but for the boiling of an iron pot which hung over it.The old woman was enveloped in a large, warm shawl—a gift from the “Hoose.” She also wore a close-fitting white cap, or “mutch,” which was secured to her head by a broad, black ribbon. The rims of her spectacles were of tortoiseshell, and she had a huge family Bible on her knee, while her feet rested upon a three-legged stool. She looked up inquiringly as her visitors entered.“Why, Molly, I thought you were in bed. They told me you were ill.”“Na, mem, I’m weel eneuch in body; it’s the speerit that’s ill. And ye ken why.”She spoke in a faint, quavering voice, for her old heart had been crushed by her wayward, self-indulgent son, and a few tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks; but she was too old and feeble to give way to demonstrative grief. Little Flo, whose heart was easily touched, went close to the poor old woman, and looked up anxiously in her face.“My bonny doo! It’s a pleasure to look at ye,” said the old woman, laying her hand on the child’s head.Mrs Gordon drew in a chair and sat down by her side.“Tell me about it,” she said confidentially; “has he given way again, after all his promises to Mr Jackman?”“Oo, ay; Maister Jackman’s a fine man, but he canna change the hert o’ my son—though it is kind o’ him to try. No, the only consolation I hev is here.”She laid her hand on the open Bible.“Where is he just now?” asked the lady.As she spoke, a fierce yell was heard issuing from the keeper’s cottage, which, as we have said, stood close to his mother’s abode.“Ye hear till ’im,” said the old woman with a sorrowful shake of the head. “He iss fery pad the day. Whiles he thinks that horrible craters are crawlin’ ower him, an’ whiles that fearful bogles are glowerin’ at him. Sometimes he fancies that the foul fiend himsel’ has gotten haud o’ him, an’ then he screeches as ye hear.”“Would it do any good, Molly, if I were to go and speak to him, think you?”“Na, ye’d better let him lie. He’s no’ hissel’ the now, and there’s no sayin’ what he might do. Oh! drink! drink!” cried the old creature, clasping her hands; “ye took my man awa’, an’ now ye’re ruinin’ my son! But,” she added with sudden animation, “we can pray for him; though it iss not possible for you or Maister Jackman to change my bairn’s hert, the Lord can do it, for wi’ Him ‘a’ things are possible.’”To this Mrs Gordon gave a hearty assent. Sitting still as she was, with hand resting on the old woman’s arm, she shut her eyes and prayed fervently for the salvation of the enslaved man.She was still engaged in this act of worship when another shriek was heard. At the same time the door of the keeper’s cottage was heard to open, and Ivor’s feet were heard staggering towards his mother’s cottage. Poor Flo took refuge in great alarm behind Mrs Donaldson, while her mother, rising quickly, drew back a few paces.Next moment the small door was burst open, and the keeper plunged, almost fell, into the room with something like a savage cheer. He was a terrible sight. With wildly dishevelled hair, bloodshot eyes, and distorted features, he stood for a few seconds glaring at his mother; his tall figure swaying to and fro, while he held a quart bottle aloft in his right hand. He did not appear to observe the visitors, but continued to stare at his mother with an expression that perplexed her, accustomed though she was to his various moods.“See, mother,” he shouted fiercely, “I have done wi’ the accursed thing at last!”He dashed the bottle on the hearth with tremendous violence as he spoke, so that it vanished into minute fragments, while its contents spurted about in all directions. Happily very little of it went into the fire, else the cottage would have been set ablaze.With another wild laugh the man wheeled round, staggered out of the cottage, and went his way.“You are not hurt, I trust?” said the lady, anxiously bending down over the poor old creature, who had remained calmly seated in her chair, without the slightest appearance of alarm.“No, I’m not hurt, thank the Lord,” she answered.“Don’t you think that that was an answer to our prayer?” asked the lady with some eagerness.Old Molly shook her head dubiously. “It may be so,” she replied; “but I hev often seen ’im i’ that mind, and he has gone back to it again and again, like the soo that was washed, to her wallowin’ i’ the mire. Yet there did seem somethin’ different aboot ’im the day,” she added thoughtfully; “but it iss not the first time I hev prayed for him without gettin’ an answer.”“Answers do not always come as we expect them,” returned her visitor; “yet they may be granted even while we are asking. I don’t know how it is, but I feel sure that Jesus will save your son.”Poor little Flo, who had been deeply affected by the terrible appearance of her favourite Ivor, and who had never seen him in such a plight before, quietly slipped out of old Molly’s hut and went straight to that of the keeper. She found him seated on a chair with his elbows on his knees, his forehead resting on his hands, and his strong fingers grasping his hair as if about to tear it out by the roots. Flo, who was naturally fearless and trustful, ran straight to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He started and looked round.“Bairn! bairn!” he said grasping her little head, and kissing her forehead, “what brings ye here?”“Muzzer says she issureJesus will save you; so I came to tell you, for muzzerneversays what’s not true.”Having delivered her consoling message, Flo ran back at once to Molly’s cottage with the cheerful remark that it was all right now, for she had told Ivor that he was going to be saved!While Mrs Gordon and Flo were thus engaged on shore, the boat party were rowing swiftly down the loch to the little hamlet of Drumquaich. The weather was magnificent. Not a breath of air stirred the surface of the sea, so that every little white cloud in the sky was perfectly reproduced in the concave below. The gulls that floated on the white expanse seemed each to be resting on its own inverted image, and the boat would have appeared in similar aspect but for the shivering of the mirror by its oars.“Most appropriate type of Sabbath rest,” said Jackman.“Ay, but like all things here pelow,” remarked Ian Anderson, who possessed in a high degree the faculty of disputation, “it’s not likely to last long.”“What makes you think so, Ian?” asked Milly, who sat in the stern of the boat between John Barret and Aggy Anderson.“Well, you see, muss,” began Ian, in his slow, nasal tone, “the gless has bin fallin’ for some time past, an’—Tonal’, poy, mind your helm; see where you’re steerin’ to!”Donald, who steered, was watching with profound interest the operations of Junkie, who had slily and gravely fastened a piece of twine to a back button of MacRummle’s coat and tied him to the thwart on which he sat. Being thus sternly asked where he was steering to, Donald replied, “Oo, ay,” and quickly corrected the course.“But surely,” returned Milly, “there is no sign of a rapid change, at least if we may judge from the aspect of Nature; and I am a fervent believer in Nature, whatever the glass may predict.”“I am not sure o’ that, muss,” said Ian. “You needn’t pull quite so hard, Muster Mabberly; we hev plenty o’ time. Tak it easy. Well, as I wass sayin’, muss, I hev seen it as calm as this i’ the mornin’ mony a time, an’ plowin’ a gale at nicht.”“Let us hope that that won’t be our experience to-day,” said the laird. “Anyhow, we have a good sea-boat under us.”“Weel, the poat’s no’ a pad wan, laird, but I hev seen petter. You see, when the wund iss richt astern, she iss given to trinkin’.”“That’s like Ivor,” said Junkie with a laugh; “onlyheis given to drinkin’, no matter how the wind blows.”“What do you mean?” asked Milly, much perplexed.Barret here explained that a boat which takes in much water over the bow is said to be given to drinking.“I’m inclined that way myself,” said Jackman, who had been pulling hard at one of the oars up to that time.“Has any one thought of bringing a bottle of water?”“Here’s a bottle,” cried MacRummle, laughing.“Ah, sure, an’ there seems to be a bottle o’ milk, or somethin’ white under the th’ort,” remarked Quin, who pulled the bow oar.“But that’s Milly’s bottle of milk,” shouted Junkie.“And Aggy’s,” chimed in Eddie.“Yes—no one must touch that,” said Junkie.“Quite right, boys,” said Jackman; “besides, milk is not good for quenching thirst.”On search being made, it was found that water had not been brought with them, so that the thirsty rowers had to rest content without it.“Is that Eagle Cliff I see, just over the knoll there?” asked Barret.“It is,” answered the laird; “don’t you see the eagle himself like a black speck hovering above it? My shepherd would gladly see the bird killed, for he and his wife make sad havoc among the lambs sometimes; but I can’t say that I sympathise with the shepherd. An eagle is a noble bird, and there are none too many of them now in this country.”“I agree with you heartily,” said Barret; “and I would regard the man who should kill that eagle as little better than a murderer.”“Quiteas bad as a murderer!” said Milly with energy. “I am glad you speak out so clearly, Mr Barret; for I fear there are some among us who would not hesitate to shoot if the poor bird were to come within range.”“Pray don’t look so pointedly at me, Miss Moss,” said Jackman; “I assure you I have no intention of attempting murder—at least not in that direction.”“Och! an’ it’s murder enough you’ve done already for wan man,” said Quin in an undertone.“Oh! I say, that reminds me. Do tell us the rest of the story of the elephant hunt, Mr Jackman,” cried Junkie.“Not just now, my boy. It’s a long story. Besides, we are on our way to church! Some other time I will tell it you.”“It would take half the romance away from my mother’s visit if the eagle were killed,” remarked Milly, who did not overhear the elephant parenthesis.“Has your mother, then, decided to come?” asked Barret.“Yes. In spite of the sea, which she dreads, and steamers, which she hates, she has made up her mind to come and take me home.”“How charming that will be!” said Barret.“Indeed!” returned Milly, with a significant look and smile.“OfcourseI did not mean that,” returned Barret, laughing. “I meant that it would be charming for you to have your mother out here, and to return home in her company. Is she likely to stay long?”“I cannot tell. That depends on so many things. But I am sure of one thing, that she longs to see and thank you for the great service you rendered me on the day of your arrival here.”Barret began to protest that the service was a comparatively small one, and such as any man might gladly render to any one, when the arrival of the boat at the landing-place cut him short.About thirty or forty people had assembled from the surrounding districts, some of whom had come four or even six miles to attend church. They formed a quiet, grave, orderly company of men and women in homespun garments, with only a few children among them. The arrival of the laird’s party made a very considerable addition to the congregation, and, as the hour for meeting had already passed by a few minutes, they made a general move towards the church.The building was wonderfully small, and in the most severely simple style of architecture, being merely an oblong structure of grey stone, with small square windows, and a belfry at one end of the roof. It might have been mistaken for a cottage but for this, and the door being protected by a small porch, and placed at one end of the structure, instead of at the side.A few of the younger men remained outside in conversation, awaiting the advent of the minister. After a time, however, these dropped in and took their seats, and people began to wonder why the minister was so late. Presently a boy with bare legs and a kilt entered the church and whispered to a very old man, who turned out to be an elder. Having heard the boy’s message, the elder crossed over to the pew in which the laird was seated and whispered to him, not so low, however, as to prevent Giles Jackman from hearing all that passed. The minister’s horse had fallen, he said, and bruised the minister’s legs so that he could not officiate.“Very awkward,” returned the laird, knitting his brows. “What’s to be done? It seems absurd that so many of us should assemble here just to look solemn for a few minutes and then go home.”“Yes, sir, it iss akward,” said the elder. “Could you not gif us a discoorse yoursel’, sir, from the prezenter’s dask?”The latter part of the proposition was to guard himself from the imputation of having asked the laird to mount thepulpit.“Me preach!” exclaimed the laird; “I never did such a thing in my life.”“Maype you’ll read a chapter, what-ë-ver,” persisted the elder.“Impossible! I never read a chapter since I was born—in public, I mean, of course. But why not do it yourself, man?”“So I would, sir, but my throat’ll not stand it.”“Is there no other elder who could do it?”“Not wan, sir. I’m afraid we will hev to dismiss the congregation.”At this point, to the laird’s relief and no little surprise, Jackman leaned forward, and said in a low voice, “If you have no objection, I will undertake to conduct the service.”The elder gave the laird a look which, if it had been translated into words, would probably have conveyed the idea— “Is he orthodox?”“By all means, Mr Jackman,” said the laird; “you will be doing us a great favour.”Accordingly Jackman went quietly to the precentor’s desk and mounted it, much to the surprise of its proper occupant, a man with a voice like a brass trumpet, who thereupon took his seat on a chair below the desk.Profound was the interest of the congregation when they saw this bronzed, broad-shouldered, big-bearded young man pull a small Bible out of his pocket and begin to turn over the leaves. And it was noted with additional interest by several of the people that the Bible seemed to be a well-worn one. Looking up from it after a few minutes, during which it was observed that his eyes had been closed, Jackman said, in an easy, conversational tone, that quite took the people by surprise—“Friends, it has been my lot in life to wander for some years in wild and distant lands, where ministers of the Gospel were few and far between, and where Christians were obliged to conduct the worship of God as best they could. Your minister being unable to attend, owing to an accident, which I trust may not turn out to be serious, I shall attempt, with the permission of your elder, to lead your thoughts Godward, in dependence on the Holy Spirit. Let us pray.”The jealous ears of the rigorously orthodox heard him thus far without being able to detect absolute heresy, though they were sensitively alive to the unusual style and very unclerical tone of the speaker’s voice. The same ears listened reverently to the prayer which followed, for it was, after the pattern of the Lord’s Prayer, almost startlingly short; still it was very earnest, extremely simple, and, all things considered, undeniably orthodox.Relieved in their minds, therefore, the people prepared themselves for more, and the precentor, with the brazen but tuneful voice, sang the first line of the psalm which the young preacher gave out— “I to the hills will lift mine eyes”—with rasping energy. At the second line the congregation joined in, and sang praise with reverent good-will, so that, when a chapter of the Word had been read and another psalm sung, they were brought to a state of hopeful expectancy. The text still further pleased them, when, in a quiet voice, while turning over the leaves of the well-used Bible, Jackman said, “In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.”Laying down his little Bible, and looking at the people earnestly and in silence for a few moments, the preacher said—“I have travelled in Italy, France, Germany, Switzerland, and other places, and I never yet went in these countries without a guide-book. More than that, never in all my experience have I seen men or women travelling in these countries without a guide-book. The travellers always carried their guide-books in their hands, or in their pockets, and consulted them as they went along. In the evenings, round the tables or on the sofas of the salons, they would sometimes sit poring over the pages of their guide-books, considering distances and the best routes, and the cost of travelling and board. Any man who would have travelled without a guide-book, or who, having one, neglected to use it, would have been considered weak-minded at the least. Still further, I have noted that such travellersbelievedin their guide-books, and usually acted on the advice and directions therein given.“But one journey I can tell of in which all this seems to be reversed—the journey from earth towards heaven. And here is our guide-book for that journey,” said the preacher, holding up the little Bible. “How do we treat it? I do not ask scoffers, who profess not to believe in the Bible. I ask those whocallthemselvesChristians, and who would be highly offended if we ventured to doubt their Christianity. Is it not true that many of us consult our Guide-book very much as a matter of form and habit, without much real belief that it will serve us in all the minute details of life? We all wish to get on in life. The most obstinate and contradictory man on earth admits that. Even if he denies it with his lips, all his actions prove that he admits it. Well, what says our Guide-book in regard to what is called ‘getting on’? ‘In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct thy paths.’ Now, what could be simpler—we might even say, what could be easier—than this? Him whom we have to acknowledge is defined in the previous verse as ‘the Lord’—that is, Jesus, Immanuel, or God with us.”From this point the sunburnt preacher diverged into illustration, leaning over the desk in a free-and-easy, confidential way, and thrilling his audience with incidents in his own adventurous career, which bore directly on the great truth that, as regards the Great End of life, success and blessedness result from acknowledging the Lord, and that failure and disaster inevitably await those who ignore Him.While Jackman proceeded with his discourse, the sky had become overcast, dark thunderclouds had been gathering in the nor’-east, rain had also begun to descend; yet so intently were the people listening to this unusual style of preacher, that few of them observed the change until a distant thunder-clap awoke them to it.Quietly, but promptly, Jackman drew his discourse to a close, and stepped out of the desk, remarking, in the very same voice with which he had preached, that he feared he had kept them too long, and that he hoped none of the congregation had far to go.“We hev that, sir,” said the old elder, shaking him warmly by the hand; “but we don’t heed that, an’ we are fery glad that we came, what-ë-ver.”As the wind had also risen, and it seemed as if the weather was not likely to improve, the laird hurried his party down to the boat. Waterproofs were put on, umbrellas were put up, the sails were hoisted, and the boat put off.“I fear the sea is very rough,” remarked Milly Moss, drawing close to Aggy Anderson, so as to shelter her somewhat from the driving rain.“Oo, ay; it iss a wee rough,” assented Ian, who now took the helm; “but we wull soon rin ower. Haud you the main sheet, Mr Mabberly, an’ pe ready to let co when I tell ye. It iss a wee thing squally.”It was indeed a little more than a “wee thing squally,” for just then a vivid flash of lightning was seen to glitter among the distant crags of the Eagle Cliff. This was followed by a loud clap of thunder, which, leaping from cliff to crag, reverberated among the mountains with a succession of crashes that died away in ominous mutterings. At the same time a blue line towards the nor’-east indicated an approaching squall.“Had we not better take in a reef, Ian?” asked the laird anxiously.“We had petter weather the pint first,” said the boatman; “efter that the wund wul pe in oor favour, an’—but, ye’re richt. Tak in a reef, Roderick an’ Tonal’. Mind the sheet, Mr Mabberly, an’ sit low in the poat, poys.”These orders were promptly obeyed, for the squall was rushing down the loch very rapidly. When it burst on them the boat leaned over till her lee gunwale almost ran under water, but Ian was a skilful boatman, and managed to weather the point in safety.After that, as he had said, the wind was more favourable, enabling them to run before it. Still, they were not out of danger, for a wide stretch of foaming sea lay between them and the shores of Kinlossie, while a gathering storm was darkening the sky behind them.
One beautiful Sunday morning while the party assembled in Kinlossie House was at breakfast, a message was brought to the laird that he “wass wantit to speak wi’ the poy Tonal’.”
“Well, Donald, my lad, what want ye with me this fine morning?” asked the laird, on going out to the hall.
“I wass telt to tell ye the’ll be no kirk the day, for the minister’s got to preach at Drumquaich.”
“Very well, Donald. Have you had breakfast?”
“Oo, ay.”
“Go into the kitchen, then, and they will give you some more.”
“Thenkee, sir.”
“I find,” said the laird on returning to his friends, “that we are to have no service to-day in our little church, as our minister has to take the duty at Drumquaich, on the other side of the loch. So those of you who are bent on going to church must make up your minds to cross the loch in the boat.”
“Is Drumquaich the little village close under the pine wood, that we see on doubling Eagle Point?” asked Mabberly.
“The same. The little church there, like our own, is not supplied regularly. Sometimes a Divinity student is sent down to them. Occasionally they have a great gun from Edinburgh.”
“I think some of the students are better than the great guns,” remarked Mrs Gordon quietly.
“True, my dear, and that is most natural, for it stands to reason that some at least of the students must be the great guns of the future in embryo; and they have the freshness of youth to set against the weight of erudition.”
“The student who preached to us here last Sunday,” observed Barret, “must surely be an embryo great gun, for he treated his subject in a learned and masterly way that amazed me. From the look of him I would not have expected even an average discourse.”
“That was partly owing to his modest air and reticence,” returned the laird. “If you heard him converse on what he would call metapheesical subjects, you would perhaps have been still more surprised.”
“Well, I hope he will preach to-day,” said Barret.
“From which I conclude that you will be one of the boat party. My wife and Milly make three, myself four; who else?”
“No—don’t count me” interrupted the hostess; “I must stay with Flo; besides, I must visit poor Mrs Donaldson, who is again laid up. But I’ll be glad if you will take Aggy Anderson. Ever since the poor girl came here for a little change of air she has been longing to go out in the boat. I really believe it is a natural craving for the free, fresh breezes of the sea. May she go?”
“By all means; as many as the boat will hold,” returned the laird.
It was finally arranged that, besides those already mentioned, Mabberly, Jackman, MacRummle, Quin, the three boys, Roderick the groom, and Ian Anderson, as boatman in charge, should cross over to the little church at Drumquaich, about eight miles distant by water.
While they were getting ready, Mrs Gordon and Flo, with the beloved black dolly, paid a visit to old Molly, the keeper’s mother. They found her in her arm-chair, sitting by the large, open chimney, on the hearth of which a very small fire was burning—not for the sake of warmth, but for the boiling of an iron pot which hung over it.
The old woman was enveloped in a large, warm shawl—a gift from the “Hoose.” She also wore a close-fitting white cap, or “mutch,” which was secured to her head by a broad, black ribbon. The rims of her spectacles were of tortoiseshell, and she had a huge family Bible on her knee, while her feet rested upon a three-legged stool. She looked up inquiringly as her visitors entered.
“Why, Molly, I thought you were in bed. They told me you were ill.”
“Na, mem, I’m weel eneuch in body; it’s the speerit that’s ill. And ye ken why.”
She spoke in a faint, quavering voice, for her old heart had been crushed by her wayward, self-indulgent son, and a few tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks; but she was too old and feeble to give way to demonstrative grief. Little Flo, whose heart was easily touched, went close to the poor old woman, and looked up anxiously in her face.
“My bonny doo! It’s a pleasure to look at ye,” said the old woman, laying her hand on the child’s head.
Mrs Gordon drew in a chair and sat down by her side.
“Tell me about it,” she said confidentially; “has he given way again, after all his promises to Mr Jackman?”
“Oo, ay; Maister Jackman’s a fine man, but he canna change the hert o’ my son—though it is kind o’ him to try. No, the only consolation I hev is here.”
She laid her hand on the open Bible.
“Where is he just now?” asked the lady.
As she spoke, a fierce yell was heard issuing from the keeper’s cottage, which, as we have said, stood close to his mother’s abode.
“Ye hear till ’im,” said the old woman with a sorrowful shake of the head. “He iss fery pad the day. Whiles he thinks that horrible craters are crawlin’ ower him, an’ whiles that fearful bogles are glowerin’ at him. Sometimes he fancies that the foul fiend himsel’ has gotten haud o’ him, an’ then he screeches as ye hear.”
“Would it do any good, Molly, if I were to go and speak to him, think you?”
“Na, ye’d better let him lie. He’s no’ hissel’ the now, and there’s no sayin’ what he might do. Oh! drink! drink!” cried the old creature, clasping her hands; “ye took my man awa’, an’ now ye’re ruinin’ my son! But,” she added with sudden animation, “we can pray for him; though it iss not possible for you or Maister Jackman to change my bairn’s hert, the Lord can do it, for wi’ Him ‘a’ things are possible.’”
To this Mrs Gordon gave a hearty assent. Sitting still as she was, with hand resting on the old woman’s arm, she shut her eyes and prayed fervently for the salvation of the enslaved man.
She was still engaged in this act of worship when another shriek was heard. At the same time the door of the keeper’s cottage was heard to open, and Ivor’s feet were heard staggering towards his mother’s cottage. Poor Flo took refuge in great alarm behind Mrs Donaldson, while her mother, rising quickly, drew back a few paces.
Next moment the small door was burst open, and the keeper plunged, almost fell, into the room with something like a savage cheer. He was a terrible sight. With wildly dishevelled hair, bloodshot eyes, and distorted features, he stood for a few seconds glaring at his mother; his tall figure swaying to and fro, while he held a quart bottle aloft in his right hand. He did not appear to observe the visitors, but continued to stare at his mother with an expression that perplexed her, accustomed though she was to his various moods.
“See, mother,” he shouted fiercely, “I have done wi’ the accursed thing at last!”
He dashed the bottle on the hearth with tremendous violence as he spoke, so that it vanished into minute fragments, while its contents spurted about in all directions. Happily very little of it went into the fire, else the cottage would have been set ablaze.
With another wild laugh the man wheeled round, staggered out of the cottage, and went his way.
“You are not hurt, I trust?” said the lady, anxiously bending down over the poor old creature, who had remained calmly seated in her chair, without the slightest appearance of alarm.
“No, I’m not hurt, thank the Lord,” she answered.
“Don’t you think that that was an answer to our prayer?” asked the lady with some eagerness.
Old Molly shook her head dubiously. “It may be so,” she replied; “but I hev often seen ’im i’ that mind, and he has gone back to it again and again, like the soo that was washed, to her wallowin’ i’ the mire. Yet there did seem somethin’ different aboot ’im the day,” she added thoughtfully; “but it iss not the first time I hev prayed for him without gettin’ an answer.”
“Answers do not always come as we expect them,” returned her visitor; “yet they may be granted even while we are asking. I don’t know how it is, but I feel sure that Jesus will save your son.”
Poor little Flo, who had been deeply affected by the terrible appearance of her favourite Ivor, and who had never seen him in such a plight before, quietly slipped out of old Molly’s hut and went straight to that of the keeper. She found him seated on a chair with his elbows on his knees, his forehead resting on his hands, and his strong fingers grasping his hair as if about to tear it out by the roots. Flo, who was naturally fearless and trustful, ran straight to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He started and looked round.
“Bairn! bairn!” he said grasping her little head, and kissing her forehead, “what brings ye here?”
“Muzzer says she issureJesus will save you; so I came to tell you, for muzzerneversays what’s not true.”
Having delivered her consoling message, Flo ran back at once to Molly’s cottage with the cheerful remark that it was all right now, for she had told Ivor that he was going to be saved!
While Mrs Gordon and Flo were thus engaged on shore, the boat party were rowing swiftly down the loch to the little hamlet of Drumquaich. The weather was magnificent. Not a breath of air stirred the surface of the sea, so that every little white cloud in the sky was perfectly reproduced in the concave below. The gulls that floated on the white expanse seemed each to be resting on its own inverted image, and the boat would have appeared in similar aspect but for the shivering of the mirror by its oars.
“Most appropriate type of Sabbath rest,” said Jackman.
“Ay, but like all things here pelow,” remarked Ian Anderson, who possessed in a high degree the faculty of disputation, “it’s not likely to last long.”
“What makes you think so, Ian?” asked Milly, who sat in the stern of the boat between John Barret and Aggy Anderson.
“Well, you see, muss,” began Ian, in his slow, nasal tone, “the gless has bin fallin’ for some time past, an’—Tonal’, poy, mind your helm; see where you’re steerin’ to!”
Donald, who steered, was watching with profound interest the operations of Junkie, who had slily and gravely fastened a piece of twine to a back button of MacRummle’s coat and tied him to the thwart on which he sat. Being thus sternly asked where he was steering to, Donald replied, “Oo, ay,” and quickly corrected the course.
“But surely,” returned Milly, “there is no sign of a rapid change, at least if we may judge from the aspect of Nature; and I am a fervent believer in Nature, whatever the glass may predict.”
“I am not sure o’ that, muss,” said Ian. “You needn’t pull quite so hard, Muster Mabberly; we hev plenty o’ time. Tak it easy. Well, as I wass sayin’, muss, I hev seen it as calm as this i’ the mornin’ mony a time, an’ plowin’ a gale at nicht.”
“Let us hope that that won’t be our experience to-day,” said the laird. “Anyhow, we have a good sea-boat under us.”
“Weel, the poat’s no’ a pad wan, laird, but I hev seen petter. You see, when the wund iss richt astern, she iss given to trinkin’.”
“That’s like Ivor,” said Junkie with a laugh; “onlyheis given to drinkin’, no matter how the wind blows.”
“What do you mean?” asked Milly, much perplexed.
Barret here explained that a boat which takes in much water over the bow is said to be given to drinking.
“I’m inclined that way myself,” said Jackman, who had been pulling hard at one of the oars up to that time.
“Has any one thought of bringing a bottle of water?”
“Here’s a bottle,” cried MacRummle, laughing.
“Ah, sure, an’ there seems to be a bottle o’ milk, or somethin’ white under the th’ort,” remarked Quin, who pulled the bow oar.
“But that’s Milly’s bottle of milk,” shouted Junkie.
“And Aggy’s,” chimed in Eddie.
“Yes—no one must touch that,” said Junkie.
“Quite right, boys,” said Jackman; “besides, milk is not good for quenching thirst.”
On search being made, it was found that water had not been brought with them, so that the thirsty rowers had to rest content without it.
“Is that Eagle Cliff I see, just over the knoll there?” asked Barret.
“It is,” answered the laird; “don’t you see the eagle himself like a black speck hovering above it? My shepherd would gladly see the bird killed, for he and his wife make sad havoc among the lambs sometimes; but I can’t say that I sympathise with the shepherd. An eagle is a noble bird, and there are none too many of them now in this country.”
“I agree with you heartily,” said Barret; “and I would regard the man who should kill that eagle as little better than a murderer.”
“Quiteas bad as a murderer!” said Milly with energy. “I am glad you speak out so clearly, Mr Barret; for I fear there are some among us who would not hesitate to shoot if the poor bird were to come within range.”
“Pray don’t look so pointedly at me, Miss Moss,” said Jackman; “I assure you I have no intention of attempting murder—at least not in that direction.”
“Och! an’ it’s murder enough you’ve done already for wan man,” said Quin in an undertone.
“Oh! I say, that reminds me. Do tell us the rest of the story of the elephant hunt, Mr Jackman,” cried Junkie.
“Not just now, my boy. It’s a long story. Besides, we are on our way to church! Some other time I will tell it you.”
“It would take half the romance away from my mother’s visit if the eagle were killed,” remarked Milly, who did not overhear the elephant parenthesis.
“Has your mother, then, decided to come?” asked Barret.
“Yes. In spite of the sea, which she dreads, and steamers, which she hates, she has made up her mind to come and take me home.”
“How charming that will be!” said Barret.
“Indeed!” returned Milly, with a significant look and smile.
“OfcourseI did not mean that,” returned Barret, laughing. “I meant that it would be charming for you to have your mother out here, and to return home in her company. Is she likely to stay long?”
“I cannot tell. That depends on so many things. But I am sure of one thing, that she longs to see and thank you for the great service you rendered me on the day of your arrival here.”
Barret began to protest that the service was a comparatively small one, and such as any man might gladly render to any one, when the arrival of the boat at the landing-place cut him short.
About thirty or forty people had assembled from the surrounding districts, some of whom had come four or even six miles to attend church. They formed a quiet, grave, orderly company of men and women in homespun garments, with only a few children among them. The arrival of the laird’s party made a very considerable addition to the congregation, and, as the hour for meeting had already passed by a few minutes, they made a general move towards the church.
The building was wonderfully small, and in the most severely simple style of architecture, being merely an oblong structure of grey stone, with small square windows, and a belfry at one end of the roof. It might have been mistaken for a cottage but for this, and the door being protected by a small porch, and placed at one end of the structure, instead of at the side.
A few of the younger men remained outside in conversation, awaiting the advent of the minister. After a time, however, these dropped in and took their seats, and people began to wonder why the minister was so late. Presently a boy with bare legs and a kilt entered the church and whispered to a very old man, who turned out to be an elder. Having heard the boy’s message, the elder crossed over to the pew in which the laird was seated and whispered to him, not so low, however, as to prevent Giles Jackman from hearing all that passed. The minister’s horse had fallen, he said, and bruised the minister’s legs so that he could not officiate.
“Very awkward,” returned the laird, knitting his brows. “What’s to be done? It seems absurd that so many of us should assemble here just to look solemn for a few minutes and then go home.”
“Yes, sir, it iss akward,” said the elder. “Could you not gif us a discoorse yoursel’, sir, from the prezenter’s dask?”
The latter part of the proposition was to guard himself from the imputation of having asked the laird to mount thepulpit.
“Me preach!” exclaimed the laird; “I never did such a thing in my life.”
“Maype you’ll read a chapter, what-ë-ver,” persisted the elder.
“Impossible! I never read a chapter since I was born—in public, I mean, of course. But why not do it yourself, man?”
“So I would, sir, but my throat’ll not stand it.”
“Is there no other elder who could do it?”
“Not wan, sir. I’m afraid we will hev to dismiss the congregation.”
At this point, to the laird’s relief and no little surprise, Jackman leaned forward, and said in a low voice, “If you have no objection, I will undertake to conduct the service.”
The elder gave the laird a look which, if it had been translated into words, would probably have conveyed the idea— “Is he orthodox?”
“By all means, Mr Jackman,” said the laird; “you will be doing us a great favour.”
Accordingly Jackman went quietly to the precentor’s desk and mounted it, much to the surprise of its proper occupant, a man with a voice like a brass trumpet, who thereupon took his seat on a chair below the desk.
Profound was the interest of the congregation when they saw this bronzed, broad-shouldered, big-bearded young man pull a small Bible out of his pocket and begin to turn over the leaves. And it was noted with additional interest by several of the people that the Bible seemed to be a well-worn one. Looking up from it after a few minutes, during which it was observed that his eyes had been closed, Jackman said, in an easy, conversational tone, that quite took the people by surprise—
“Friends, it has been my lot in life to wander for some years in wild and distant lands, where ministers of the Gospel were few and far between, and where Christians were obliged to conduct the worship of God as best they could. Your minister being unable to attend, owing to an accident, which I trust may not turn out to be serious, I shall attempt, with the permission of your elder, to lead your thoughts Godward, in dependence on the Holy Spirit. Let us pray.”
The jealous ears of the rigorously orthodox heard him thus far without being able to detect absolute heresy, though they were sensitively alive to the unusual style and very unclerical tone of the speaker’s voice. The same ears listened reverently to the prayer which followed, for it was, after the pattern of the Lord’s Prayer, almost startlingly short; still it was very earnest, extremely simple, and, all things considered, undeniably orthodox.
Relieved in their minds, therefore, the people prepared themselves for more, and the precentor, with the brazen but tuneful voice, sang the first line of the psalm which the young preacher gave out— “I to the hills will lift mine eyes”—with rasping energy. At the second line the congregation joined in, and sang praise with reverent good-will, so that, when a chapter of the Word had been read and another psalm sung, they were brought to a state of hopeful expectancy. The text still further pleased them, when, in a quiet voice, while turning over the leaves of the well-used Bible, Jackman said, “In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.”
Laying down his little Bible, and looking at the people earnestly and in silence for a few moments, the preacher said—
“I have travelled in Italy, France, Germany, Switzerland, and other places, and I never yet went in these countries without a guide-book. More than that, never in all my experience have I seen men or women travelling in these countries without a guide-book. The travellers always carried their guide-books in their hands, or in their pockets, and consulted them as they went along. In the evenings, round the tables or on the sofas of the salons, they would sometimes sit poring over the pages of their guide-books, considering distances and the best routes, and the cost of travelling and board. Any man who would have travelled without a guide-book, or who, having one, neglected to use it, would have been considered weak-minded at the least. Still further, I have noted that such travellersbelievedin their guide-books, and usually acted on the advice and directions therein given.
“But one journey I can tell of in which all this seems to be reversed—the journey from earth towards heaven. And here is our guide-book for that journey,” said the preacher, holding up the little Bible. “How do we treat it? I do not ask scoffers, who profess not to believe in the Bible. I ask those whocallthemselvesChristians, and who would be highly offended if we ventured to doubt their Christianity. Is it not true that many of us consult our Guide-book very much as a matter of form and habit, without much real belief that it will serve us in all the minute details of life? We all wish to get on in life. The most obstinate and contradictory man on earth admits that. Even if he denies it with his lips, all his actions prove that he admits it. Well, what says our Guide-book in regard to what is called ‘getting on’? ‘In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct thy paths.’ Now, what could be simpler—we might even say, what could be easier—than this? Him whom we have to acknowledge is defined in the previous verse as ‘the Lord’—that is, Jesus, Immanuel, or God with us.”
From this point the sunburnt preacher diverged into illustration, leaning over the desk in a free-and-easy, confidential way, and thrilling his audience with incidents in his own adventurous career, which bore directly on the great truth that, as regards the Great End of life, success and blessedness result from acknowledging the Lord, and that failure and disaster inevitably await those who ignore Him.
While Jackman proceeded with his discourse, the sky had become overcast, dark thunderclouds had been gathering in the nor’-east, rain had also begun to descend; yet so intently were the people listening to this unusual style of preacher, that few of them observed the change until a distant thunder-clap awoke them to it.
Quietly, but promptly, Jackman drew his discourse to a close, and stepped out of the desk, remarking, in the very same voice with which he had preached, that he feared he had kept them too long, and that he hoped none of the congregation had far to go.
“We hev that, sir,” said the old elder, shaking him warmly by the hand; “but we don’t heed that, an’ we are fery glad that we came, what-ë-ver.”
As the wind had also risen, and it seemed as if the weather was not likely to improve, the laird hurried his party down to the boat. Waterproofs were put on, umbrellas were put up, the sails were hoisted, and the boat put off.
“I fear the sea is very rough,” remarked Milly Moss, drawing close to Aggy Anderson, so as to shelter her somewhat from the driving rain.
“Oo, ay; it iss a wee rough,” assented Ian, who now took the helm; “but we wull soon rin ower. Haud you the main sheet, Mr Mabberly, an’ pe ready to let co when I tell ye. It iss a wee thing squally.”
It was indeed a little more than a “wee thing squally,” for just then a vivid flash of lightning was seen to glitter among the distant crags of the Eagle Cliff. This was followed by a loud clap of thunder, which, leaping from cliff to crag, reverberated among the mountains with a succession of crashes that died away in ominous mutterings. At the same time a blue line towards the nor’-east indicated an approaching squall.
“Had we not better take in a reef, Ian?” asked the laird anxiously.
“We had petter weather the pint first,” said the boatman; “efter that the wund wul pe in oor favour, an’—but, ye’re richt. Tak in a reef, Roderick an’ Tonal’. Mind the sheet, Mr Mabberly, an’ sit low in the poat, poys.”
These orders were promptly obeyed, for the squall was rushing down the loch very rapidly. When it burst on them the boat leaned over till her lee gunwale almost ran under water, but Ian was a skilful boatman, and managed to weather the point in safety.
After that, as he had said, the wind was more favourable, enabling them to run before it. Still, they were not out of danger, for a wide stretch of foaming sea lay between them and the shores of Kinlossie, while a gathering storm was darkening the sky behind them.
Chapter Twelve.Stirring Events of more Kinds than One.The squall which blew the Kinlossie boat round the Eagle Point was but the precursor of a succession of heavy squalls which quickly changed into a furious gale, compelling Ian Anderson to close reef his sails. Even when this was done, the boat rushed through the foaming water with tremendous velocity, and exhibited that tendency to drinking, to which reference has already been made; for every time she plunged into the trough of the sea, a little water came over the bow.Of course, going as they were at such a rate, the traversing of six or eight miles of water occupied but little time, and they were soon close to the bay, at the head of which Kinlossie House nestled among its trees.“Come aft, poys,” shouted Ian, whose voice, strong though it was, could scarcely be heard in the bow owing to the roaring of the gale; “she’s trinkin’ too much; come aft, an’ look sherp!”The three boys obeyed with alacrity, being well accustomed to boats, and aware of the necessity of prompt obedience in circumstances of danger.Thus lightened, the boat ceased drinking at the bow, but, being rather overweighted at the stern, she now and then took in a little water there.Unfortunately the point of rocks which formed the southern end of Kinlossie Bay obliged Ian to change his course a little in order to weather them. This was a critical operation. Even the girls had some sort of idea of that, as their looks bore witness. John Barret felt a strong inclination to slip his arm round Milly’s waist and whisper, “Don’t be afraid, beloved,I’lltake care of you!” but want of courage—to say nothing of a sense of propriety—kept his lips silent and his arm still.“Noo, keep stiddy, all of ye,” said Ian, as he shifted the helm a little.An irrepressible shriek burst from Aggy Anderson, for the boat lay over so much that the hissing water rippled almost into her, and seemed about to swallow them up.“Tak anither haul o’ the sheet, Maister Mabberly,” cried Ian.Assisted by Jackman, Mabberly obeyed, and the boat went, as Quin said, “snorin’” past the rocks, which were now close under her lee, with the waves bursting wildly over them. Another minute and the outermost rock was under their port bow. To the eyes of the girls it seemed as if destruction were inevitable. To make matters worse, at that moment a vivid flash was succeeded by a loud thunder-clap, which, mingling with the gale, seemed to intensify its fury, while a deluge of rain came down. But Ian knew what he was about. With a firm hand on the tiller he steered past the point, yet so closely that it seemed as if an active man might have leaped upon the outermost rock, which rose, black and solid, amid the surging foam.Another moment and the boat swept safely round into the bay, and was again put before the wind.“We’re a’ richt noo, what-ë-ver,” said Ian with a grunt of satisfaction.Never before did a self-sufficient boatman have his words more effectually or promptly falsified than on that occasion. The distance between boat and shore at that moment was only a few hundred yards; but the water all the way was deep, and the waves, in consequence, were large and wild. There were great possibilities within the brief space of distance and time that lay before them!“Tak an oar, Maister Quin, an’ help Rodereek to fend off,” cried the boatman. “Hold ticht to the sheet, sir, an’ pe ready to let co the moment I tell ye. Are ye ready wi’ the halyards, Muster Airchie?”“All right, Ian,” replied the boy, who stood ready to lower the sail.They could see that several men were standing on the beach, ready to render assistance, among them Duncan, the butler, and Ivor, the gamekeeper. The latter, who had evidently recovered himself, was standing waist-deep in the foam, as if anxious to grasp the boat when it grounded.“Ivor is unusually keen to help us to-day,” remarked the laird, with a peculiar look; but no one was sufficiently disengaged to listen to or answer him.At that critical moment Junkie took it into his unaccountable head to scramble to the fore part of the boat, in order, as he said, to lend a hand with a rope. On reaching the bow he stumbled; the boat plunged heavily, as if to accommodate him, and he went overboard with a suddenly checked yell, that rose high and sharp above the roaring gale!Of course every man near him sprang to the side and made a wild grasp at him. The gunwale went down, the sea rushed in, and, in a space of time brief as the lightning-flash, all the occupants of the boat were struggling in the waves!A great cry arose from the shore, and Ivor, plunging into the surf, was seen to breast the billows with the force of a Hercules. In the moment of upsetting, John Barret’s cowardice and scruples vanished. He seized Milly by the arm, and held her up when they rose from the plunge.And now, for the first time in his life, our hero found the advantage of having trained himself, not only in all manly exercises, but in the noble art of rescuing life from the water. Instead of rising to the wild discovery of helpless ignorance as to what was the best way of using his great strength, he rose with the comfortable knowledge, first, that he was a powerful swimmer, and second, that he knew exactly what to do—at least to attempt. Instead, therefore, of allowing himself to be hugged, and probably drowned, by the girl he loved, he held her off at arm’s length until he managed to grasp her by both arms close to the shoulders, and with her back towards him—treading water while doing so. Then, swimming on his own back, he gently drew her upon his breast, so that her head rested close to his chin. Thus the girl’s face was turned upwards and held well out of the water, and the youth was able to say almost in her ear, “Trust in God, dearest, He will save us!” while he struck out vigorously with his legs. Thus, swimming on his back, he headed for the shore.Lest the reader should fancy that we are here merely inventing a mode of action, it may be well to state that we have conversed with a man styled “the Rescue,” whose duty it was to watch the boys of Aberdeen while bathing on the dangerous coast there, and who told us that he had saved some hundreds of lives—many of them in the manner above described.Every one in the boat was fortunately able to swim, more or less, except Milly and Aggie Anderson. With the utmost anxiety to save the latter, her Uncle Ian made a desperate plunge when the boat upset, at the spot where, in the confusion, he thought he saw her go down. He grasped something under water, which clutched him violently in return. Rising to the surface he found that he had got hold of Giles Jackman, who, animated by the same desire to rescue the same girl, had also made a plunge at her. Flinging each other off almost angrily, they swam wildly about in search of her, for Giles had observed that Barret was sufficiently intent on Milly.But poor Aggie was in even better hands. Ivor Donaldson had kept his eyes on her from the moment that he could distinguish faces in the approaching boat. He was a splendid swimmer. Even against wind and waves he made rapid headway, and in a few seconds caught the girl by the hair. In his case the absence of a plan of rescue was to some extent remedied by sheer strength of body, coupled with determination. The poor girl did her best to choke him, as drowning people will, but, happily, she was too weak for the purpose and he too strong! He suffered her to do her worst, and, with the arm which she left free made his way gallantly to the beach, where Duncan and all the domestics were ready to receive them.Barret and Milly had landed just before them. Immediately after Archie and Eddie were swept in amid the foam, and Junkie himself—who, like his brothers, could swim like a cork—came careering in on the top of a wave, like a very water-imp! With all the energy of his nature he turned, the moment his feet touched ground, to lend a hand to his friend Tonal’, who was not far behind him.Thus, one by one, the whole party got safely to land, for the laird, although old, was still vigorous, and, like the others, able to swim. MacRummle came in last, and they had some difficulty in getting him out of the water, for he was rather sluggish, as well as heavy; but he was none the worse for his immersion, and to the anxieties afterwards expressed by his friends, he replied quietly that he had become pretty well used to the water by that time. It was a trying experience, however, for all of them, and, in the opinion of Ian Anderson, as he gave it to his wife when they met, “it was a queer way o’ feenishin’ off a fery extraor’nar Sawbath tay—what-ë-ver!”One morning, not long after this incident, the gentlemen made up a shooting party to try the summit of the hill for mountain hares—their hostess having twitted them with their inability to keep the household supplied with hare soup.“I will accompany you, gentlemen, to the shoulder of the first hill,” observed their host, as he finished his breakfast, “but not farther, for I am not so young as I once was, and cannot be expected to keep pace with a ‘Woods and Forester.’”“That is not a good reason for your stopping short, laird,” retorted Jackman, with a smile, “because it is quite possible for the ‘Woods and Forester’ to regulate his pace to that of the Western Isles.”“Well, we shall see,” returned his host. “And what does my reckless Milly intend to do with herself?”“I mean to have a little picnic—all by myself,” said Milly; “that is to say with nobody but me and Aggy Anderson.”“D’you think that quite safe, so soon after her ducking?” asked Mrs Gordon.“Quite safe, auntie, for she has not felt a bit the worse for that ducking; indeed, she seems much the better for it, and I am quite sure that hill air is good for her.”“Oh! then, you mean to have your very select picnic on the hills?” said the laird.“Yes, but no one shall know to what part we are going, for, as I have said, we mean to have a day of it all to ourselves; only we will take Junkie to protect us, and carry our provisions.”There were two of the gentlemen who declined the shooting expedition. John Barret said he would start with them, but would at a certain point drop behind and botanise. MacRummle also preferred to makeonemoreeffort to catch that grilse which had risen so often to him of late, but was still at large in the big pool under the fall. The result of the morning’s discussion was that only Mabberly and Jackman proceeded to assault the hares on the mountain-top, accompanied by Archie and Eddie, with Ivor Donaldson to guide them.Up in the nursery—that devastated region which suggested the idea of an hospital for broken furniture and toys—poor little neglected Flo sat down on the floor, and, propping her favourite doll up against the remnant of a drum, asked that sable friend what she would like to do. Receiving no answer, she said, in a cheery, confidential tone, which she had acquired from her mother, “I’ll tell you what, Miss Blackie, you an’ I will go for a picnic too. Zere’s plenty places for you an’ me, as well as for Cuzn Miwy to go to, an’ we will let muzzer go wid us—if she’s dood. So go, like a dood chile’, an’ get your things on.”As the day was particularly bright and warm, this minor picnic was splendidly carried into effect, in a little coppice close to the house. There Mrs Gordon knitted and sometimes read, and behaved altogether like a particularly “dood chile,” while Flo and Blackie carried on high jinks around her.The Eagle Cliff was the spot which Milly Moss had fixed on for her select little picnic with the niece of the fisherman. Strange to say, and without the slightest knowledge or suspicion of this fact (so he said), John Barret had selected the very same spot for his botanical ramble. It must be remembered, however, that it was a wide spot.Seated in a secluded nook, not long after noon, Milly and Aggy, with Junkie, enjoyed the good things which were spread on a mass of flat rock in front of them.“Now I call this jolly!” said Junkie, as well as he could, with a mass of jam-tart stopping the way.“It is indeed,” returned Milly; “but I don’t feel quite sure whether you refer to the splendour of the scenery or the goodness of the tart.”“To both,” returned the boy, inarticulately.“Do you think you could eat any more?” asked Milly with a grave, earnest look that made Aggy giggle—for Aggy was a facile giggler!“No, I don’t,” said Junkie. “I’m stuffed!”“Well, then, you are at leisure to fill the cup again at the spring; so run, like a good boy, and do it.”“How hard you are on a fellow, Cousin Milly,” grumbled the youngster, rising to do as he was bid; but the expression of his jammy face showed that he was no unwilling slave.“How old are you, Aggy?” asked Milly when he was gone.“Sixteen last birthday,” returned the girl.“Ah! how I wish I was sixteen again!” said Milly, with a profound sigh, as she gazed over the rim of a tartlet she happened to be eating, at the glittering sea and the far-off horizon. She was evidently recalling some very sad and ancient memories.“Why?” asked her companion, who exhibited a very slight tendency to laugh.“Because I was so light-hearted and happy at that age.”“How old are you now, Miss Milly?” asked Aggy, in a tone of increased respect.“Nineteen,” replied the other with a sigh.Again Aggy’s pretty round face was rippled by a suppressed giggle, and it is highly probable that she would have given way altogether if Junkie had not returned at the moment and rescued her.“Here’s the water, Milly. Now, Aggy, have you had enough?”“Yes, quite enough,” laughed the highly convalescent invalid.“Well, then, come along wi’ me and I’ll show you the place where Cousin Milly fell down. You needn’t come, Milly. I want to show it to Aggy all by herself, an’ we won’t be long away.”“Very well, Junkie, as you please. I daresay I shall manage to pass the time pleasantly enough till you return.”She leant back on a thick heather bush as she spoke, and indulged herself in that most enjoyable and restful of occupations, on a bright warm day, namely, looking straight up into the sunny sky and contemplating the soft fleecy clouds that float there, changing their forms slowly but continually.Now it so happened that John Barret, in his botanical wanderings about the Eagle Cliff, in quest of the “rare specimens” that Milly loved, discovered Milly herself! This was not such a matter-of-course discovery as the reader may suppose, for the Eagle Cliff occupied a vast space of the mountain-side, among the rugged ramparts and knolls of which several persons might have wandered for hours without much chance of observing each other, unless they were to shout or discharge the echo-disturbing gun.Whether it was the mysterious attraction or the occult discernment of love that drew him, we cannot tell, but certain it is that when Barret, standing on the upper edge of the cliff, glanced from the eagle—which was watching him suspiciously—downward to the base of the cliff, where the sheep appeared like little buff spots on the green grass, his startled eyes alighted on Milly, lying on her back, contemplating the heavens!At that distance she might have been a mole or a rabbit, as far as regards Barret’s power to discern her face or figure or occupation went; nevertheless, Barret knew at once that it was she, as his look and colour instantly indicated. There is something in such matters which we cannot understand, and, perhaps, had better not attempt to comprehend. It is sufficient to say that the young man instantly forgot his occupation, and began to descend the cliff by break-neck routes in a way that must have surprised—if not alarmed—the very eagle himself. He even trod some exceedingly rare “specimens” under foot in his haste. In a few minutes he drew near to the spot where Milly lay.Then he suddenly stopped, for he remembered that she had that morning spoken of her picnic as a very private one; and was it not taking a base, unwarrantable advantage of her, thus to intrude on her privacy? But then—ah! how fatally, if not fortunately, that “but then” often comes in to seal our fate—“fix our flints,” as backwoodsmen are fond of putting it!—but then, was not the opportunity unsought—quite accidental? Would it not be utterly absurd, as well as disingenuous, to pass her and pretend not to see her, with his botanical box full of her own favourite plants and flowers?Love is proverbially blind. The argument was more than sufficient. He shut his eyes, metaphorically, and rushed upon his fate.Milly heard him rushing—in reality, walking—and knew his step! Another instance of the amazing—well— She started up in some confusion, just in time to appear as if engaged in viewing with interest the majestic landscape spread out before her. Swooping downwards, and hovering overhead on grand expanded pinions, the eagle seemed to watch with keen interest the result of this meeting.“Pardon this intrusion, Miss Moss. I really did not know you were in this neighbourhood till a few minutes ago,” said Barret, sitting down on the heather beside her. “I accidentally observed you, and I have been so very fortunate in finding rare plants this morning, that I thought I might venture, just for a few minutes, to interrupt the privacy of your picnic. See, here!” he added, taking off the botanical box and opening it; “just look at all this!”“It isverykind of you to take so much trouble on my account, Mr Barret,” said Milly, becoming deeply, almost too deeply-interested in the plants. “And, oh,whata splendid specimen of the heliographipod. My dear mother will be so glad to get this, for she is quite as fond of botany as I am.”“Indeed! Do you expect her soon?”“Yes; her last letter leads me to expect her very soon now.”Milly looked up as she said this, but there was an expression on Barret’s face which induced her instantly to recur to scientific research.Now, good reader, if you think we are going further, and expect us rudely to draw aside the curtain here, and betray confidences, you are mistaken. But there is no reason against—indeed, the development of our story supplies every reason in favour of—our taking note of certain facts which bear indirectly on the subject before us.Far away on a shoulder of the mountain, which rose on the other side of the valley, lying between it and the Eagle Cliff, a grey speck might have been seen perched on a rock. Even as the crow flies the distance was so great that the unassisted human eye could not have distinguished what it was. It might have been a grey cow, or a grew crow, or a grey rabbit, or a grey excrescence of the rock itself; but a telescope would have revealed the fact that it was Allan Gordon, the laird of Kinlossie!Serenity was stamped on the old man’s brow, for he was amiable by nature, and he had been rendered more amiable that morning by having had a pleasant chat, while ascending the mountain, with Mabberly and Jackman. The latter he had begun facetiously to style the “Woods and Forester.” The shooting party had left him there, according to previous arrangement, and the old gentleman had seated himself on the grey rock to rest and commune with nature for a short time, before beginning the descent of the steep mountain path, and wending his way homeward.From his commanding point of observation the entire range of the Eagle Cliff lay spread out before him, with the sea visible on the extreme of either hand. The great valley lay between, with impassable gulfs and gorges caused by its wild torrents, and its level patches, strewn with the fallendébrisof ages, out of which the larger masses of rock rose like islands in a grey ocean; but these huge masses became almost insignificant, owing to the overpowering impression of the cliff itself. For some time the laird gazed at it in silent admiration. Presently a smile beamed on his countenance.“Ha! my puss, is that you?” he muttered, as he took a binocular telescope from his pocket and adjusted it. “I guessed as much. The Eagle Cliff has powerful attractions for you, what with its grandeur and the ‘rare plants’ you are so mad about. Ithinkit isyou, though at such a distance I might easily mistake a sheep or a deer for you—and, after all, that would be no mistake, for youarea dear!”He did not condescend to smile at his own mild little joke, as he applied the telescope to his eyes.“Yes, I’m right—and very comfortable you seem too, though I can’t make out your party. Both Aggy and Junkie seem to have left you. Perhaps the rocks may hide them. It’s so far off that—hallo!”A sudden frown clouded the laird’s face as he gave vent to that hallo.“The rascal!” he muttered between his compressed lips. “He heard at breakfast, as well as the rest of us, that Milly wanted no intruders. Humph! I had given him credit for better taste than this implies. Eh! come, sir, this is quite inexcusable!”The laird became excited as he continued to gaze, and his indignation deepened as he hastily wiped the glasses of the binocular. Applying them again to his eyes, his frown became still darker.“For shame, you young scamp!” he continued to mutter, “taking advantage of your contemptible botany to bring your two heads together in a way that Milly would never have permittedbutfor that ridiculous science. Ha! they’ve let the whole concern fall—serves ’em right—and—no! dropped it on purpose. What! Do youdareto grip my niece’s hand, and—and—she lets you! Eh! your arm round— Stop!” shouted the wrathful man, springing up and almost hurling his binocular at the unconscious pair. But his shout, although fifty times louder, would have failed to cross the valley. Like his anger, it was unavailing. Thrusting the glass into its case with a bang, he strode down the mountain-side in rampant fury, leaving the solemn eagle to watch the lovers as they plighted their troth under the mighty cliff. Happily they brought the momentous transaction to a close just before Junkie and the highly convalescent Aggy Anderson re-appeared upon the scene.That afternoon, before dinner, John Barret asked Mr Gordon to accord him the pleasure of a private interview in the library.“Certainly, sir,” said the laird sternly; “and all the more that I had very much desired some private conversation withyou.”Barret was not a little surprised at the old man’s tone and manner, but took no notice of it, and went alone with him into the library, where he made a full and frank confession of his love for Milly, and of his having proposed to her and been accepted—on condition that her mother did not object.“And now, Mr Gordon,” added the youth, earnestly, “I have come to apologise to you, to ask your forgiveness, in fact, and to express my extreme regret at the precipitancy of my conduct. It had been my full intention, I do assure you, to wait until I had Mrs Moss’ sanction to pay my addresses to her daughter, but a—a—sudden opportunity, which I had not sought for or expected—for, of course, I knew nothing of the place where the picnic was to be—this—this—opportunity, I say, took me by surprise, and threw me off my guard—and—and—in short, love— Oh!youknow well enough the power of love, Mr Gordon, and can make allowance for my acting precipitately!”The old gentleman was touched on a tenderer spot than the young man was aware of when he made this appeal to his own experience, for, in days gone by, young Allan Gordon had himself acted precipitately.But, although the appeal had touched him, he did not allow the fact to be seen, nor did he interrupt the youth’s confession.“Observe, Mr Gordon,” continued Barret, drawing himself up slightly, “the only wrong-doing for which I ask pardon is undue haste. My position, financially and otherwise, entitles me to marry, and darling Milly has a right to accept whom she will. If it be thought that she is too young and does not know her own mind, I am willing to wait. If she were to change her mind in the meantime, I would accept the inevitable—but I have no fear ofthat!”The laird’s features had been relaxing while the enthusiastic youth proceeded, but the last speech upset his gravity altogether.“Well, well, Barret,” he said, “since you have condemned yourself for acting hastily, it would ill become your host to overwhelm you with reproaches, and to say truth, after what you have said, I hope that the course of true love will in your case run smooth. But, my young friend,” he added, in more serious tones, “I must strictly forbid any further reference to this with Milly, till her mother comes. She is under my care and, being responsible for her, I must see that nothing further takes place till I am able to hand her, and all her affairs, over to her mother. I will explain this to Milly, and give her to understand that you will behave to her in all respects as you did before the occurrence of this unfortunate picnic. Meanwhile it may comfort you to know that her mother is already predisposed in your favour—naturally too, for she would be ungrateful, as well as eccentric, if she had no regard for the man who has twice saved her child’s life. Ah! there goes the dinner-bell, and I’m glad of it, for prolonged speaking fatigues me. Come along.”
The squall which blew the Kinlossie boat round the Eagle Point was but the precursor of a succession of heavy squalls which quickly changed into a furious gale, compelling Ian Anderson to close reef his sails. Even when this was done, the boat rushed through the foaming water with tremendous velocity, and exhibited that tendency to drinking, to which reference has already been made; for every time she plunged into the trough of the sea, a little water came over the bow.
Of course, going as they were at such a rate, the traversing of six or eight miles of water occupied but little time, and they were soon close to the bay, at the head of which Kinlossie House nestled among its trees.
“Come aft, poys,” shouted Ian, whose voice, strong though it was, could scarcely be heard in the bow owing to the roaring of the gale; “she’s trinkin’ too much; come aft, an’ look sherp!”
The three boys obeyed with alacrity, being well accustomed to boats, and aware of the necessity of prompt obedience in circumstances of danger.
Thus lightened, the boat ceased drinking at the bow, but, being rather overweighted at the stern, she now and then took in a little water there.
Unfortunately the point of rocks which formed the southern end of Kinlossie Bay obliged Ian to change his course a little in order to weather them. This was a critical operation. Even the girls had some sort of idea of that, as their looks bore witness. John Barret felt a strong inclination to slip his arm round Milly’s waist and whisper, “Don’t be afraid, beloved,I’lltake care of you!” but want of courage—to say nothing of a sense of propriety—kept his lips silent and his arm still.
“Noo, keep stiddy, all of ye,” said Ian, as he shifted the helm a little.
An irrepressible shriek burst from Aggy Anderson, for the boat lay over so much that the hissing water rippled almost into her, and seemed about to swallow them up.
“Tak anither haul o’ the sheet, Maister Mabberly,” cried Ian.
Assisted by Jackman, Mabberly obeyed, and the boat went, as Quin said, “snorin’” past the rocks, which were now close under her lee, with the waves bursting wildly over them. Another minute and the outermost rock was under their port bow. To the eyes of the girls it seemed as if destruction were inevitable. To make matters worse, at that moment a vivid flash was succeeded by a loud thunder-clap, which, mingling with the gale, seemed to intensify its fury, while a deluge of rain came down. But Ian knew what he was about. With a firm hand on the tiller he steered past the point, yet so closely that it seemed as if an active man might have leaped upon the outermost rock, which rose, black and solid, amid the surging foam.
Another moment and the boat swept safely round into the bay, and was again put before the wind.
“We’re a’ richt noo, what-ë-ver,” said Ian with a grunt of satisfaction.
Never before did a self-sufficient boatman have his words more effectually or promptly falsified than on that occasion. The distance between boat and shore at that moment was only a few hundred yards; but the water all the way was deep, and the waves, in consequence, were large and wild. There were great possibilities within the brief space of distance and time that lay before them!
“Tak an oar, Maister Quin, an’ help Rodereek to fend off,” cried the boatman. “Hold ticht to the sheet, sir, an’ pe ready to let co the moment I tell ye. Are ye ready wi’ the halyards, Muster Airchie?”
“All right, Ian,” replied the boy, who stood ready to lower the sail.
They could see that several men were standing on the beach, ready to render assistance, among them Duncan, the butler, and Ivor, the gamekeeper. The latter, who had evidently recovered himself, was standing waist-deep in the foam, as if anxious to grasp the boat when it grounded.
“Ivor is unusually keen to help us to-day,” remarked the laird, with a peculiar look; but no one was sufficiently disengaged to listen to or answer him.
At that critical moment Junkie took it into his unaccountable head to scramble to the fore part of the boat, in order, as he said, to lend a hand with a rope. On reaching the bow he stumbled; the boat plunged heavily, as if to accommodate him, and he went overboard with a suddenly checked yell, that rose high and sharp above the roaring gale!
Of course every man near him sprang to the side and made a wild grasp at him. The gunwale went down, the sea rushed in, and, in a space of time brief as the lightning-flash, all the occupants of the boat were struggling in the waves!
A great cry arose from the shore, and Ivor, plunging into the surf, was seen to breast the billows with the force of a Hercules. In the moment of upsetting, John Barret’s cowardice and scruples vanished. He seized Milly by the arm, and held her up when they rose from the plunge.
And now, for the first time in his life, our hero found the advantage of having trained himself, not only in all manly exercises, but in the noble art of rescuing life from the water. Instead of rising to the wild discovery of helpless ignorance as to what was the best way of using his great strength, he rose with the comfortable knowledge, first, that he was a powerful swimmer, and second, that he knew exactly what to do—at least to attempt. Instead, therefore, of allowing himself to be hugged, and probably drowned, by the girl he loved, he held her off at arm’s length until he managed to grasp her by both arms close to the shoulders, and with her back towards him—treading water while doing so. Then, swimming on his own back, he gently drew her upon his breast, so that her head rested close to his chin. Thus the girl’s face was turned upwards and held well out of the water, and the youth was able to say almost in her ear, “Trust in God, dearest, He will save us!” while he struck out vigorously with his legs. Thus, swimming on his back, he headed for the shore.
Lest the reader should fancy that we are here merely inventing a mode of action, it may be well to state that we have conversed with a man styled “the Rescue,” whose duty it was to watch the boys of Aberdeen while bathing on the dangerous coast there, and who told us that he had saved some hundreds of lives—many of them in the manner above described.
Every one in the boat was fortunately able to swim, more or less, except Milly and Aggie Anderson. With the utmost anxiety to save the latter, her Uncle Ian made a desperate plunge when the boat upset, at the spot where, in the confusion, he thought he saw her go down. He grasped something under water, which clutched him violently in return. Rising to the surface he found that he had got hold of Giles Jackman, who, animated by the same desire to rescue the same girl, had also made a plunge at her. Flinging each other off almost angrily, they swam wildly about in search of her, for Giles had observed that Barret was sufficiently intent on Milly.
But poor Aggie was in even better hands. Ivor Donaldson had kept his eyes on her from the moment that he could distinguish faces in the approaching boat. He was a splendid swimmer. Even against wind and waves he made rapid headway, and in a few seconds caught the girl by the hair. In his case the absence of a plan of rescue was to some extent remedied by sheer strength of body, coupled with determination. The poor girl did her best to choke him, as drowning people will, but, happily, she was too weak for the purpose and he too strong! He suffered her to do her worst, and, with the arm which she left free made his way gallantly to the beach, where Duncan and all the domestics were ready to receive them.
Barret and Milly had landed just before them. Immediately after Archie and Eddie were swept in amid the foam, and Junkie himself—who, like his brothers, could swim like a cork—came careering in on the top of a wave, like a very water-imp! With all the energy of his nature he turned, the moment his feet touched ground, to lend a hand to his friend Tonal’, who was not far behind him.
Thus, one by one, the whole party got safely to land, for the laird, although old, was still vigorous, and, like the others, able to swim. MacRummle came in last, and they had some difficulty in getting him out of the water, for he was rather sluggish, as well as heavy; but he was none the worse for his immersion, and to the anxieties afterwards expressed by his friends, he replied quietly that he had become pretty well used to the water by that time. It was a trying experience, however, for all of them, and, in the opinion of Ian Anderson, as he gave it to his wife when they met, “it was a queer way o’ feenishin’ off a fery extraor’nar Sawbath tay—what-ë-ver!”
One morning, not long after this incident, the gentlemen made up a shooting party to try the summit of the hill for mountain hares—their hostess having twitted them with their inability to keep the household supplied with hare soup.
“I will accompany you, gentlemen, to the shoulder of the first hill,” observed their host, as he finished his breakfast, “but not farther, for I am not so young as I once was, and cannot be expected to keep pace with a ‘Woods and Forester.’”
“That is not a good reason for your stopping short, laird,” retorted Jackman, with a smile, “because it is quite possible for the ‘Woods and Forester’ to regulate his pace to that of the Western Isles.”
“Well, we shall see,” returned his host. “And what does my reckless Milly intend to do with herself?”
“I mean to have a little picnic—all by myself,” said Milly; “that is to say with nobody but me and Aggy Anderson.”
“D’you think that quite safe, so soon after her ducking?” asked Mrs Gordon.
“Quite safe, auntie, for she has not felt a bit the worse for that ducking; indeed, she seems much the better for it, and I am quite sure that hill air is good for her.”
“Oh! then, you mean to have your very select picnic on the hills?” said the laird.
“Yes, but no one shall know to what part we are going, for, as I have said, we mean to have a day of it all to ourselves; only we will take Junkie to protect us, and carry our provisions.”
There were two of the gentlemen who declined the shooting expedition. John Barret said he would start with them, but would at a certain point drop behind and botanise. MacRummle also preferred to makeonemoreeffort to catch that grilse which had risen so often to him of late, but was still at large in the big pool under the fall. The result of the morning’s discussion was that only Mabberly and Jackman proceeded to assault the hares on the mountain-top, accompanied by Archie and Eddie, with Ivor Donaldson to guide them.
Up in the nursery—that devastated region which suggested the idea of an hospital for broken furniture and toys—poor little neglected Flo sat down on the floor, and, propping her favourite doll up against the remnant of a drum, asked that sable friend what she would like to do. Receiving no answer, she said, in a cheery, confidential tone, which she had acquired from her mother, “I’ll tell you what, Miss Blackie, you an’ I will go for a picnic too. Zere’s plenty places for you an’ me, as well as for Cuzn Miwy to go to, an’ we will let muzzer go wid us—if she’s dood. So go, like a dood chile’, an’ get your things on.”
As the day was particularly bright and warm, this minor picnic was splendidly carried into effect, in a little coppice close to the house. There Mrs Gordon knitted and sometimes read, and behaved altogether like a particularly “dood chile,” while Flo and Blackie carried on high jinks around her.
The Eagle Cliff was the spot which Milly Moss had fixed on for her select little picnic with the niece of the fisherman. Strange to say, and without the slightest knowledge or suspicion of this fact (so he said), John Barret had selected the very same spot for his botanical ramble. It must be remembered, however, that it was a wide spot.
Seated in a secluded nook, not long after noon, Milly and Aggy, with Junkie, enjoyed the good things which were spread on a mass of flat rock in front of them.
“Now I call this jolly!” said Junkie, as well as he could, with a mass of jam-tart stopping the way.
“It is indeed,” returned Milly; “but I don’t feel quite sure whether you refer to the splendour of the scenery or the goodness of the tart.”
“To both,” returned the boy, inarticulately.
“Do you think you could eat any more?” asked Milly with a grave, earnest look that made Aggy giggle—for Aggy was a facile giggler!
“No, I don’t,” said Junkie. “I’m stuffed!”
“Well, then, you are at leisure to fill the cup again at the spring; so run, like a good boy, and do it.”
“How hard you are on a fellow, Cousin Milly,” grumbled the youngster, rising to do as he was bid; but the expression of his jammy face showed that he was no unwilling slave.
“How old are you, Aggy?” asked Milly when he was gone.
“Sixteen last birthday,” returned the girl.
“Ah! how I wish I was sixteen again!” said Milly, with a profound sigh, as she gazed over the rim of a tartlet she happened to be eating, at the glittering sea and the far-off horizon. She was evidently recalling some very sad and ancient memories.
“Why?” asked her companion, who exhibited a very slight tendency to laugh.
“Because I was so light-hearted and happy at that age.”
“How old are you now, Miss Milly?” asked Aggy, in a tone of increased respect.
“Nineteen,” replied the other with a sigh.
Again Aggy’s pretty round face was rippled by a suppressed giggle, and it is highly probable that she would have given way altogether if Junkie had not returned at the moment and rescued her.
“Here’s the water, Milly. Now, Aggy, have you had enough?”
“Yes, quite enough,” laughed the highly convalescent invalid.
“Well, then, come along wi’ me and I’ll show you the place where Cousin Milly fell down. You needn’t come, Milly. I want to show it to Aggy all by herself, an’ we won’t be long away.”
“Very well, Junkie, as you please. I daresay I shall manage to pass the time pleasantly enough till you return.”
She leant back on a thick heather bush as she spoke, and indulged herself in that most enjoyable and restful of occupations, on a bright warm day, namely, looking straight up into the sunny sky and contemplating the soft fleecy clouds that float there, changing their forms slowly but continually.
Now it so happened that John Barret, in his botanical wanderings about the Eagle Cliff, in quest of the “rare specimens” that Milly loved, discovered Milly herself! This was not such a matter-of-course discovery as the reader may suppose, for the Eagle Cliff occupied a vast space of the mountain-side, among the rugged ramparts and knolls of which several persons might have wandered for hours without much chance of observing each other, unless they were to shout or discharge the echo-disturbing gun.
Whether it was the mysterious attraction or the occult discernment of love that drew him, we cannot tell, but certain it is that when Barret, standing on the upper edge of the cliff, glanced from the eagle—which was watching him suspiciously—downward to the base of the cliff, where the sheep appeared like little buff spots on the green grass, his startled eyes alighted on Milly, lying on her back, contemplating the heavens!
At that distance she might have been a mole or a rabbit, as far as regards Barret’s power to discern her face or figure or occupation went; nevertheless, Barret knew at once that it was she, as his look and colour instantly indicated. There is something in such matters which we cannot understand, and, perhaps, had better not attempt to comprehend. It is sufficient to say that the young man instantly forgot his occupation, and began to descend the cliff by break-neck routes in a way that must have surprised—if not alarmed—the very eagle himself. He even trod some exceedingly rare “specimens” under foot in his haste. In a few minutes he drew near to the spot where Milly lay.
Then he suddenly stopped, for he remembered that she had that morning spoken of her picnic as a very private one; and was it not taking a base, unwarrantable advantage of her, thus to intrude on her privacy? But then—ah! how fatally, if not fortunately, that “but then” often comes in to seal our fate—“fix our flints,” as backwoodsmen are fond of putting it!—but then, was not the opportunity unsought—quite accidental? Would it not be utterly absurd, as well as disingenuous, to pass her and pretend not to see her, with his botanical box full of her own favourite plants and flowers?
Love is proverbially blind. The argument was more than sufficient. He shut his eyes, metaphorically, and rushed upon his fate.
Milly heard him rushing—in reality, walking—and knew his step! Another instance of the amazing—well— She started up in some confusion, just in time to appear as if engaged in viewing with interest the majestic landscape spread out before her. Swooping downwards, and hovering overhead on grand expanded pinions, the eagle seemed to watch with keen interest the result of this meeting.
“Pardon this intrusion, Miss Moss. I really did not know you were in this neighbourhood till a few minutes ago,” said Barret, sitting down on the heather beside her. “I accidentally observed you, and I have been so very fortunate in finding rare plants this morning, that I thought I might venture, just for a few minutes, to interrupt the privacy of your picnic. See, here!” he added, taking off the botanical box and opening it; “just look at all this!”
“It isverykind of you to take so much trouble on my account, Mr Barret,” said Milly, becoming deeply, almost too deeply-interested in the plants. “And, oh,whata splendid specimen of the heliographipod. My dear mother will be so glad to get this, for she is quite as fond of botany as I am.”
“Indeed! Do you expect her soon?”
“Yes; her last letter leads me to expect her very soon now.”
Milly looked up as she said this, but there was an expression on Barret’s face which induced her instantly to recur to scientific research.
Now, good reader, if you think we are going further, and expect us rudely to draw aside the curtain here, and betray confidences, you are mistaken. But there is no reason against—indeed, the development of our story supplies every reason in favour of—our taking note of certain facts which bear indirectly on the subject before us.
Far away on a shoulder of the mountain, which rose on the other side of the valley, lying between it and the Eagle Cliff, a grey speck might have been seen perched on a rock. Even as the crow flies the distance was so great that the unassisted human eye could not have distinguished what it was. It might have been a grey cow, or a grew crow, or a grey rabbit, or a grey excrescence of the rock itself; but a telescope would have revealed the fact that it was Allan Gordon, the laird of Kinlossie!
Serenity was stamped on the old man’s brow, for he was amiable by nature, and he had been rendered more amiable that morning by having had a pleasant chat, while ascending the mountain, with Mabberly and Jackman. The latter he had begun facetiously to style the “Woods and Forester.” The shooting party had left him there, according to previous arrangement, and the old gentleman had seated himself on the grey rock to rest and commune with nature for a short time, before beginning the descent of the steep mountain path, and wending his way homeward.
From his commanding point of observation the entire range of the Eagle Cliff lay spread out before him, with the sea visible on the extreme of either hand. The great valley lay between, with impassable gulfs and gorges caused by its wild torrents, and its level patches, strewn with the fallendébrisof ages, out of which the larger masses of rock rose like islands in a grey ocean; but these huge masses became almost insignificant, owing to the overpowering impression of the cliff itself. For some time the laird gazed at it in silent admiration. Presently a smile beamed on his countenance.
“Ha! my puss, is that you?” he muttered, as he took a binocular telescope from his pocket and adjusted it. “I guessed as much. The Eagle Cliff has powerful attractions for you, what with its grandeur and the ‘rare plants’ you are so mad about. Ithinkit isyou, though at such a distance I might easily mistake a sheep or a deer for you—and, after all, that would be no mistake, for youarea dear!”
He did not condescend to smile at his own mild little joke, as he applied the telescope to his eyes.
“Yes, I’m right—and very comfortable you seem too, though I can’t make out your party. Both Aggy and Junkie seem to have left you. Perhaps the rocks may hide them. It’s so far off that—hallo!”
A sudden frown clouded the laird’s face as he gave vent to that hallo.
“The rascal!” he muttered between his compressed lips. “He heard at breakfast, as well as the rest of us, that Milly wanted no intruders. Humph! I had given him credit for better taste than this implies. Eh! come, sir, this is quite inexcusable!”
The laird became excited as he continued to gaze, and his indignation deepened as he hastily wiped the glasses of the binocular. Applying them again to his eyes, his frown became still darker.
“For shame, you young scamp!” he continued to mutter, “taking advantage of your contemptible botany to bring your two heads together in a way that Milly would never have permittedbutfor that ridiculous science. Ha! they’ve let the whole concern fall—serves ’em right—and—no! dropped it on purpose. What! Do youdareto grip my niece’s hand, and—and—she lets you! Eh! your arm round— Stop!” shouted the wrathful man, springing up and almost hurling his binocular at the unconscious pair. But his shout, although fifty times louder, would have failed to cross the valley. Like his anger, it was unavailing. Thrusting the glass into its case with a bang, he strode down the mountain-side in rampant fury, leaving the solemn eagle to watch the lovers as they plighted their troth under the mighty cliff. Happily they brought the momentous transaction to a close just before Junkie and the highly convalescent Aggy Anderson re-appeared upon the scene.
That afternoon, before dinner, John Barret asked Mr Gordon to accord him the pleasure of a private interview in the library.
“Certainly, sir,” said the laird sternly; “and all the more that I had very much desired some private conversation withyou.”
Barret was not a little surprised at the old man’s tone and manner, but took no notice of it, and went alone with him into the library, where he made a full and frank confession of his love for Milly, and of his having proposed to her and been accepted—on condition that her mother did not object.
“And now, Mr Gordon,” added the youth, earnestly, “I have come to apologise to you, to ask your forgiveness, in fact, and to express my extreme regret at the precipitancy of my conduct. It had been my full intention, I do assure you, to wait until I had Mrs Moss’ sanction to pay my addresses to her daughter, but a—a—sudden opportunity, which I had not sought for or expected—for, of course, I knew nothing of the place where the picnic was to be—this—this—opportunity, I say, took me by surprise, and threw me off my guard—and—and—in short, love— Oh!youknow well enough the power of love, Mr Gordon, and can make allowance for my acting precipitately!”
The old gentleman was touched on a tenderer spot than the young man was aware of when he made this appeal to his own experience, for, in days gone by, young Allan Gordon had himself acted precipitately.
But, although the appeal had touched him, he did not allow the fact to be seen, nor did he interrupt the youth’s confession.
“Observe, Mr Gordon,” continued Barret, drawing himself up slightly, “the only wrong-doing for which I ask pardon is undue haste. My position, financially and otherwise, entitles me to marry, and darling Milly has a right to accept whom she will. If it be thought that she is too young and does not know her own mind, I am willing to wait. If she were to change her mind in the meantime, I would accept the inevitable—but I have no fear ofthat!”
The laird’s features had been relaxing while the enthusiastic youth proceeded, but the last speech upset his gravity altogether.
“Well, well, Barret,” he said, “since you have condemned yourself for acting hastily, it would ill become your host to overwhelm you with reproaches, and to say truth, after what you have said, I hope that the course of true love will in your case run smooth. But, my young friend,” he added, in more serious tones, “I must strictly forbid any further reference to this with Milly, till her mother comes. She is under my care and, being responsible for her, I must see that nothing further takes place till I am able to hand her, and all her affairs, over to her mother. I will explain this to Milly, and give her to understand that you will behave to her in all respects as you did before the occurrence of this unfortunate picnic. Meanwhile it may comfort you to know that her mother is already predisposed in your favour—naturally too, for she would be ungrateful, as well as eccentric, if she had no regard for the man who has twice saved her child’s life. Ah! there goes the dinner-bell, and I’m glad of it, for prolonged speaking fatigues me. Come along.”