The internal economy of a Scotch parish is not so clearly comprehensible
now-a-days as it was in former times. Civilization itself has made
countless inroads upon the original unities everywhere, and the changes
that have come to pass within the recollection of the living generation
are almost as great though very different from those which made Scotland
during last century so picturesque in its state of transition. When
Sunday morning dawned upon the Holy Loch, it did not shine upon that
pretty rural picture of unanimous church-going so well-known to the
history of the past. The groups from the cottages took different
ways--the carriage from the Castle swept round the hill to the other
side of the parish, where there was an “English Chapel.” The reign of
opinion and liking was established in the once primitive community. Half
of the people ascended the hillside to the Free Church, while the others
wound down the side of the loch to the Kirk, which had once accommodated
the whole parish. This state of affairs had become so usual that even
polemical feeling had ceased to a great extent, and the two streams of
church-going people crossed each other placidly without recriminations.
This day, for a wonder, the sun was shining brightly, notwithstanding a
cloudy stormy sky, which now and then heaved forward a rolling mass of
vapour, and dispersed it sharply over the hills in a flying mist and
shower.
The parish church lay at the lower end of the loch, a pretty little
church built since the days when architecture had penetrated even into
Scotland. Colin of Ramore and his family were there in their pew, the
boys arranged in order of seniority between Mrs. Campbell, who sat at
the head, and the farmer himself who kept the seat at the door.
Black-eyed Johnnie, with his hair bleached white by constant exposure,
and his round eyes wandering over the walls and the pews and the pulpit
and the people, sat by his mother’s side, and the younger Colin occupied
his post of seniority by his father. They were all seated, in this
disposition, when the present occupant of the Castle, Sir Thomas
Frankland, lounged up the little aisle, with his son after him. Sir
Thomas was quite devout and respectable, a man who knew how to conduct
himself even in such a novel scene--and after all a Presbyterian church
was no novelty to the sportsman--but to Harry the aspect of everything
was new, and his curiosity was excited. It was a critical moment in the
history of the parish. The former minister had been transferred only a
few weeks before to a more important station, and the Earl, the patron,
had, according to Scotch phraseology, “presented” a new incumbent to the
living. This unhappy man was ascending the pulpit when the Franklands,
father and son, entered the church. For the Earl’s presentation by no
means implied the peaceable entrance of the new minister; he had to
preach, to give the people an opportunity of deciding whether they liked
him or not; and if they did not like him, they had the power of
“objecting,” that is, of urging special reasons for their dislike before
the Presbytery, with a certainty of making a little noise in the
district, and a reasonable probability of disgusting and mortifying the
unlucky presentee, to the point of throwing up his appointment. All this
was well known to the unfortunate man, who rose up in the pulpit as Sir
Thomas found a seat, and proceeded to read the psalm with a somewhat
embarrassed and faltering voice. He was moderately young and
well-looking, with a face, at the present moment, more agitated than was
quite harmonious with the position in which he stood: for he was quite
aware that everybody was criticizing him, and that the inflections of
his voice and the fiery tint of his hair were being noted by eager
commentators bent upon finding ground for an “objection” in everything
he said. Such a consciousness naturally does not promote ease or
comfort. His hair looked redder than ever, as a stray ray of sunshine
gleamed in upon him, and his voice took a nervous break as he looked
over the many hard unsympathetic faces which were regarding him with the
sharp curiosity and inspection of excited wits.
But while Harry Frankland made, as he thought, “an ass of himself” on
every occasion that offered--standing bolt upright when the congregation
began to sing, which they did at their leisure, seated in the usual
way--and kicking his heels in an attempt to kneel when everybody round
him rose up for the prayer, and feeling terribly red and ashamed at each
mistake, Colin the younger, of Ramore, occupied himself, like a
heartless young critic as he was, in making observations on the
minister. Colin, like his father, had a high opinion of “popular
rights.” It was his idea, somehow drawn in with the damp Highland air he
breathed, that the right of objecting to a presentee was one of the most
important privileges of a Scotch Churchman. Then, he was to be a
minister himself, and the consciousness of this fact intensified the
natural opposition which prompted the boy’s mind to resist anything and
everything that threatened to be imposed on him. Colin even listened to
the prayer, which was a thing not usual with him, that he might find out
the objectionable phrases. And to be sure there were plenty of
objectionable phrases to mar the real devotion; the vainest of vain
repetitions, well-known and familiar as household words to every Scotch
ear, demonstrated how little effect the absence of a liturgy has in
promoting fervent and individual supplications. The congregation in
general listened, like young Colin, standing up in easy attitudes, and
observing everything that passed around them with open-eyed composure.
It did not look much like common supplication, nor did it pretend to
be--for the people were but _listening_ to the minister’s prayer, which,
to tell the truth, contained various expository and remonstrative
paragraphs, which were clearly addressed to the congregation; and they
were all very glad to sit down when it was over, and clear their
throats, and prepare for the sermon, which was the real business of the
day.
“I dinna like a’ that new-fangled nonsense to begin with,” said Eben
Campbell, of Barnton, as he walked home after church, with the party
from Ramore; “naebody wants twa chapters read at one diet of worship.
The Bible’s grand at hame, but that’s no what a man gangs to the kirk
for; that, and so mony prayers--it’s naething but a great offput of
time.”
“But we never can have ower muckle o’ the word of God,” said Colin of
Ramore’s wife.
“I’m of Eben’s opinion,” said another neighbour. “We have the word o’
God at hame, and I hope we make a good use o’ it; but that’s no what we
gang to the kirk to hear. When ye see a man that’s set up in the pulpit
for anither purpose a’thegether, spending half his time in reading
chapters and ither preliminaries, I aye consider it’s a sure sign that
he hasna muckle o’ his ain to say.”
They were all walking abreast in a leisurely Sunday fashion up the loch;
the children roaming about the skirts of the older party, some in front
and some behind, occasionally making furtive investigations into the
condition of the brambles, an anti-Sabbatical occupation which was
sharply interrupted when found out--the women picking their steps along
the edges of the muddy road, with now and then a word of pleasant
gossip, while the men trudged on sturdily through the puddles,
discussing the great subject of the day.
“Some of the new folk from the Castle were in the kirk to-day,” said one
of the party,--“which is a respect to the parish the Earl doesna pay
himself. Things are terrible changed in that way since my young days.
The auld Earl, this ane’s father, was an elder in the Kirk; and gentle
and simple, we a’ said our prayers thegether--”
“I dinna approve of that expression,” said Eben of Barnton. “To speak of
saying your prayers in the kirk is pure papistry. Say your prayers at
hame, as I hope we a’ do, at the family altar, no to speak of private
devotions,” said this defender of the faith, with a glance at the
unlucky individual who had just spoken, and who was understood not to be
so regular in the article of family prayer as he ought to have been. “We
gang to the kirk to have our minds stirred up and put in remembrance. I
dinna approve of the English fashion of putting everything into the
prayers.”
“Weel, weel, I meant nae harm,” said the previous speaker. “We a’ gaed
to the Kirk, was what I meant to say; and there’s the Queen, she aye
sets a grand example. You’ll no find her driving off three or four miles
to an English Chapel. I consider it’s a great respect to the parish to
see Sir Thomas in the Castle pew.”
“I would rather see him respect the Sabbath day,” said Eben Campbell,
pointing out a little pleasure-boat, a tiny little cockleshell, with a
morsel of snow-white sail, which just then appeared in the middle of the
loch, rushing up beautifully before the wind, through the placid waters,
and lighting up the landscape with a touch of life and motion. Young
Colin was at Eben’s elbow, and followed the movement of his hand with
keen eyes. A spark of jealousy had kindled in the boy’s breast--he could
not have told why. He was not so horrified as he ought to have been at
the sight of the boat disturbing the Sunday quiet; but, with a swell of
indignation and resentment in his boyish heart, he thought of the
difference between himself and the young visitor at the Castle. It
looked symbolical to Colin. He, trudging heavily over the muddy, lengthy
road; the other, flying along in that dainty, little, bird-like boat,
with those white wings of sail, which pleased Colin’s eye in spite of
himself, carrying him on as lightly and swiftly as heart could desire.
Why should one boy have such a wonderful advantage over another? It was
the first grand problem which had puzzled and embittered Colin’s
thoughts.
“There they go!” said the boy. “It’s fine and easy, running like that
before the wind. They’ll get to the end o’ the loch before we’ve got
over a mile. That makes an awfu’ difference,” said Colin, with subdued
wrath; he was thinking of other things besides the long walk from church
and the muddy road.
“We’ll may be get home as soon, for all that,” said his father, who
guessed the boy’s thoughts; for the elder Colin’s experienced eye had
already seen that mists were rising among the hills, and that the fair
breeze would soon be fair no longer. The scene changed as if by
enchantment while the farmer spoke. Such changes come and go like breath
over the Holy Loch. The sunshine which had been making the whole
landscape into a visible paradise, vanished suddenly off the hills and
waters like a frightened thing, and a visible darkness came brooding
over the mountains, dropping lower every moment like a pall of gloom
over the lower banks and the suddenly paled and shivering loch. The
joyous little boat, which had been careering on as if by a natural
impulse of delight, suddenly changed its character along with all the
other details of the picture. The spectators saw its white sail,
fluttering like an alarmed seabird, against the black background of
cloud. Then it began to tack and waver and make awkward tremulous darts
across the darkened water. The party of pedestrians stood still to watch
it, as the position became dangerous. They knew the loch and the winds
too well to look on with composure. As for young Colin of Ramore, his
heart began to leap and swell in his boyish bosom. Was that his
adversary, the favoured rival whom he had recognised by instinct, who
was fighting for his life out there in midwater, with the storm gaining
on him, and his little vessel staggering in the wind? Colin did not hear
the remarks of the other spectators. He felt in his heart that he was
looking on at a struggle which was for life or death, and his contempt
for the skill of the amateur sailor, whose unused hands were so
manifestly unable to manage the boat, was mingled with a kind of despair
lest a stronger power should snatch this opponent of his own out of the
future strife, in which Colin had vowed to himself to be victorious.
“You fool! take in the sail,” he shouted, putting both his hands to his
mouth, forgetting how impossible it was that the sound could reach; and
then scarcely knowing what he was about, the boy rushed down to the
beach, and jumped into the nearest boat. The sound of his oars furiously
plashing through the silence was the first indication to his companions
of what he had done. And he did not even see nor hear the calls and
gestures with which he was summoned back again. His oars, and how to
get there at a flight like a bird, occupied his mind entirely. Yet even
in his anxiety he scorned to ask for help which would have carried him
so much sooner to the spot he aimed at. As this sudden sound echoed
through the profound silence, various outcries came from the group on
the bank.
“It’s tempting Providence,” cried Eben Campbell. “Yon’s a judgment on
the Sabbath-breaker,--and what can the laddie do? Come back, sir, this
moment, come back! Ye’ll never win there in time.”
As for the boy’s mother, after his first start she clasped her hands
together, and watched the boat with an interest too intense for words.
“He’s in nae danger,” she said to herself softly; and it would have been
hard to tell whether she was sorry or glad that her boy’s enterprise was
attended by no personal peril.
“Let him be,” said the farmer of Ramore, pushing aside his anxious
neighbour, who was calling Colin ineffectually but without intermission.
Colin Campbell’s face had taken a sudden crimson flush which nobody
could account for. He went off up the beach with heavy rapid steps,
scattering the shingle round his feet, to a spot exactly opposite the
struggling boat, and stood there watching with wonderful eagerness. The
little white sail was still fluttering and struggling like a distressed
bird upon the black overclouded water. Now it lurched over till the very
mast seemed to touch the loch--now recovered itself for a tremulous
moment--and finally, shivering like a living creature, gave one wild
sudden stagger, and disappeared. When the speck of white vanished out of
the black landscape, a cry came out of all their hearts; and hopeless as
it was, the very man who had been calling Colin back, rushed in his turn
to a boat, and pushed off violently into the loch. The women stood
huddled together, helpless with terror and grief. “The bit laddie! the
bit laddie!” cried one of them--“some poor woman’s bairn.” As for Mrs.
Campbell, the world grew dark round her as she strained her eyes after
Colin’s boat. She did not faint, for such was not the habit of the Holy
Loch; but she sank down suddenly on the wet green bank, and put up her
hand over her eyes as if to shade them from some imaginary sunshine, and
gazed, not seeing anything, after her boy. To see her, delicate as she
was, with the woman weakness which they all understood, seating herself
in this wild way on the wet bank, distracted the attention of her kindly
female neighbours, even from the terrible event which had just taken
place before their eyes.
“Maybe the lad can swim,” said Eben Campbell’s wife--“onyway yonder’s
your Colin running races with death to save him. But you maunna sit
here--come into Dugald Macfarlane’s house. There’s my man away in
another boat and some mair. But we canna let you sit here.”
“Eh, my Colin, I canna see my Colin,” said the mistress of Ramore; but
they led her away into the nearest cottage, notwithstanding her
reluctance. There they all stood clustering at the window, aiding the
eyes which had failed her in her weakness. Colin’s mother sat silent in
the chair where they had placed her, trembling and rocking herself to
and fro. Her heart within her was praying and crying for the boys--the
two boys whom in this moment of confused anxiety she could not
separate--her own first-born, and the stranger who was “another woman’s
bairn.” God help all women and mothers!--though Colin was safe, what
could her heart do but break at the thought of the sudden calamity which
had shut out the sunshine from another. She rocked herself to and fro,
ceasing at last to hear what they said to her, and scarcely aware of
anything except the dull clank of the oars against the boat’s side;
somebody coming or going, she knew not which--always coming or
going--never bringing certain news which was lost and which saved.
The mistress of Ramore was still in this stupor of anxiety, when young
Harry Frankland, dripping and all but insensible, was carried into
Dugald Macfarlane’s cottage. The little room became dark instantly with
such a cloud of men that it was difficult to make out how he had been
saved, or if there was indeed any life left in the lad. But Dugald
Macfarlane’s wife, who had the ferry-boat at Struan, and understood
about drowning, had bestirred herself in the meantime, and had hot
blankets and other necessaries in the inner room where big Colin
Campbell carried the boy. Then all the men about burst at once into the
narrative. “If it hadna been for little Colin o’ Ramore”--was about all
Mrs. Campbell made out of the tale. The cottage was so thronged that
there was scarcely an entrance left for the doctor and Sir Thomas who
had both been summoned by anxious messengers. By this time the storm had
come down upon the loch, and a wild sudden tempest of rain was sweeping
black across hill and water, obliterating every line of the landscape.
Half-way across, playing on the surface of the water was a bit of spar
with a scarlet rag attached to it, which made a great show glistening
over the black waves. This was all that was visible of the pleasure-boat
in which the young stranger had been bounding along so pleasantly an
hour before. The neighbours dropped off gradually, dispersing to other
adjacent houses to talk over the incident, or pushing homeward with an
indifference to the storm that was natural to the dwellers on the Holy
Loch; and it was only when she was left alone, waiting for her husband,
who was in the inner room with Sir Thomas and the saved boy, that Mrs.
Campbell perceived Colin’s bashful face gleaming in furtively at the
open door.
“It’s no so wet as it was; come away, mother, now,” said Colin, “there’s
nae fears o’ _him_?” And the lad pointed half with an assertion, half
with an inquiry, towards the inner room. It was an unlucky moment for
the shy hero, for just then big Colin of Ramore appeared with Sir Thomas
at the door.
“This is the boy that saved my son,” said Harry’s father. “You are a
brave fellow; neither he nor I will ever forget it. Let me know if there
is anything I can serve you in, and to the best of my power I will help
you as you have helped me. What does he say?”
“I say,” said Colin the younger, with fierce blushes, “that it wasna me.
I’ve done naething to be thanked for. Yon fellow swims like a fish, and
he saved himsel.”
And then there came an answering voice from the inner room--a boy’s
voice subdued out of its natural falsetto into feminine tones of
weakness, “He’s telling a lie, that fellow there,” cried the other from
his bed; “he picked me up when I was about done for. I’ll fight him if
he likes as soon as I’m able. But that’s a lie he tells you; that’s
him--that Campbell fellow there.”
Upon which young Colin of Ramore clenched his fists in his wet pockets
and faced towards the door, which Dugald Macfarlane’s wife closed
softly, looking out upon him, shaking her head and holding up a finger
to impose silence; the two fathers meanwhile looked in each other’s
faces. The English baronet and the Scotch farmer both broke into a low,
unsteady laugh, and then with an impulse of fellowship, mutually
extended their hands.
“We have nae reason to think shame of our sons,” said Colin Campbell
with his Scotch dignity; “as for service or reward that is neither here
nor there; what my boy did your boy would do if he had the chance, and
there’s nae mair to be said that I can see.”
“There’s a great deal more to be said,” said Sir Thomas; “Lady Frankland
will call on Mrs. Campbell, and thank that brave boy of yours; and if
you think I can forget such a service,--I tell you there’s a great deal
more to be said,” said the sportsman, breaking down suddenly with a
little effusion, of which he was half ashamed.
“The gentleman’s right, Colin,” said the mistress of Ramore. “God be
thanked for the two laddies! My heart was breaking for the English lady.
God be thanked! That’s a’ there is to say. But I’ll be real glad to see
that open-hearted callant when he’s well, and his mother too,” said the
farmer’s wife, turning her soft eyes upon Sir Thomas, with a gracious
response to the overflowing of his heart. Sir Thomas took off his hat to
her as respectfully as he would have done to the Queen, when she took
her husband’s strong arm, and followed Colin, who by this time, with his
hands in his pockets and his heart beating loudly, was half way to
Ramore; and now they had other topics besides that unfailing one of the
new minister to talk of on the way.