Kitabı oku: «The Eagle Cliff», sayfa 11
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 is sure Jesus will save you; so I came to tell you, for muzzer never says 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; “only he is 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.”
“Quite as 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.
“Of course I 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 the pulpit.
“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 travellers believed in 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 who call themselves Christians, 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.
