A STORM.
The rumble of the stage coach past the window died away down the
street, and silence fell on the room we have been considering. The
scratching of Roderick's pen could be heard in the stillness, save
when lost in the momentary roar of a gust descending the chimney,
followed by the hiss of its watery burden on the coals, or when a bar
of 'The Lass o' Gowrie' escaped for an instant from the suppression in
which it was held that the sermon might not be disturbed.
At length there sounded the shuffling of feet and the opening and
closing of a door. A tap, and the door of their own room opened; and
entered the beadle, Joseph Smiley, a little ferrety-looking man with
sharp restless eyes, that seemed as though they would squint in their
alert impatience to look at everything at once. His dress was a rusty
black coat, like the old one of an undertaker's man, and a soiled
white wisp of neckcloth. He took off with both hands a limp and sodden
hat, streaming with moisture, and deposited it under the table, with a
sort of deprecatory bow to Mary, as who should say, 'It is not strong
enough to be treated in the usual way, let us lay it down tenderly.'
Recovering, he turned to the door, and with an encouraging 'Come in,
boy,' introduced a tall over-grown lad of seventeen, dressed in a
fisherman's oilskin suit, from which the rain trickled in copious
streams.
'I wuss ye gude e'en, mem an' sir,' said Joseph 'Though it's faar frae
what I wad ca' a gude e'en mysel', an' deed an' it's juist a most
terrible nicht, though nae doubt them 'at sent it kens best.--Ay, Sir!
It was juist the powerfu' ca' o' duty 'at garred me lay by the drap
parrich an' steer frae the ingle neuk this nicht. Here's a laddie come
a' the gate frae Inverlyon, e'y tap o' the coach to fesh ye back wi'
him to see his granny 'ats lyin' near hand her end.'
'But Inverlyon is fen miles off, and in another parish,' the minister
was here able to interrupt, a matter not always to be obtained when
Joseph held forth, for he loved the continuous sound of his own voice
above every other noise.
'And why did they not get Mr. Watson, the minister of Inverlyon?' put
in Mary; 'I am sure Mr. Watson would have gone at once, and he is so
good and so kind a man.'
'Na, na, mem! Naebody 'at kens my granny wad ventur to bring Mester
Watson in ower by her!' cried the fisher lad, casting aside his
bashfulness, and steadying himself on the tall limbs on which he had
been swaying to and fro. 'He bed in, whan a' the gude folk cam out,
an' sae she'll hae nane o' him!'
'But why should you want to take Mr. Brown all that distance to-night?
and a night like this? Has your grandmother some dreadful secret on
her mind? And would not a writer be the best person to get?'
'Na, mem! na! There's nothing like that! My Granny's a godly auld
wife, tho' maybe she's gye fraxious whiles, an' mony's the sair
paipin' she's gi'en me; gin there was ocht to confess she kens the
road to the Throne better nor maist. But ye see there's a maggit
gotten intil her heid, an' she says she beut to testifee afore she
gangs hence.'
'Ay! weel I wat,' said Joseph, swaying his head solemnly to and fro,
'she's a holy auld wife that same Luckie Corbet! an' I'm sure,
minister, it'll be a preev'ledge to ye to resaive her testimony! She's
rael zealous against Erastianism an' a' the sins in high places. I'm
thinkin', sir, she's gye an' like thae covenanters lang syne, 'at
Mester Dowlas was tellin' 's about whan he lectur'd up by on the
Hurlstane Muir, about Jenny Geddes down Edinbro' way, an' mair sic
like.'
'Ay! an' I'm thinkin' it's that auld carline, Jenny Geddes, 'at's
raised a' the fash! My granny gaed to hear Mester Dowlas whan he
preached among the whins down by the shore, an' oh, but he was bonny!
An' a graand screed o' doctrine he gae us. For twa hale hours he
preached an' expundet an' never drew breath, for a the wind was
skirlin', an' the renn whiles skelpin' like wild. An' I'm thinkin' my
granny's gotten her death o't a'. But oh! an' he was graand on Jenny
Geddes! an' hoo she was a mither in Israel, an' hoo she up wi' the
creepie an' heaved it at the Erastian's heid. An' my granny was juist
fairly ta'en wi't a', an' she vooed she beut to be a mither in Israel
tae, an' whan she gaed hame she out wi' the auld hugger 'at she keeps
the bawbees in, aneath the hearth-stane, for to buy a creepie o' her
ain,--she thocht a new ane wad be best for the Lord's wark,--an' she
coupet the chair whaur hung her grave claes, 'at she airs fornent the
fire ilka Saturday at e'en, an' out there cam a lowe, an' scorched a
hole i' the windin' sheet, an' noo puir body we'll hae to hap her in
her muckle tartan plaid. An' aiblins she'll be a' the warmer'e'y
moulds for that. But, however, she says the sheet was weel waur'd, for
the guid cause. An' syne she took til her bed, wi' a sair host, an'
sma' winder, for there was a weet dub whaur she had been sittin' amang
the whins. An' noo the host's settled on her that sair, she whiles
canna draw her breath. Sae she says she maun let the creepie birlin'
slide, but she beut to testifee afore some godly minister or she gangs
hence. An' I'm fear'd, sir, ye maun hurry, for she's rael far
through.'
Joseph listened with a groan of solemn approval. 'Oh, minister, but
it's a high preev'lidge! an' I'm no grudgin' the weet an' the gutters
comin' ower to fesh ye, forby the drap parrich growin' cauld at hame!'
'Roderick! It is impossible for you to go. Ten miles! and such a
night! And then, think of kind Mr. Watson; how hurt he will be!'
Joseph sighed, and muttered under his breath about sojourners in
Meshech, but Mr. Brown took no notice, and replied to his sister,--
'The coach will pass going down at seven to-morrow morning.'
'I'm fear'd, sir, ye'll be ower late by than. She'll maybe no live or
mornin.' An' she canna thole waitin', my granny.'
'But we have no gig, you must remember, and I know the inn gig is
away, so it cannot be helped,' replied Mary.
'I'm thinkin' sir,' suggested Joseph, 'Patey Soutar wad be wullen' to
gie us his pownie, seein' its you. It's a sore nicht for the puir
beast, but than there's the gude cause, an' ye'll no be forgettin' the
ruch wather e'y pay, sir. Patey's pownie's a canny baste, an'
sure-fittet e'y dark. Mony's the time he's brocht Patey safe hame, an'
him wi' a drappie in's heid 'at garred him see no' that strecht afore
him.'
'Yes,' returned the minister, with a patient shrug; 'and he won't run
away with me, that's certain.' It was manifest he would have to go,
reason or no reason. To reduce the question to one of common sense
would have raised too many questions hard or inconvenient to answer;
and as to his own comfort, he had long learned to yield that. In a
popular movement the people who are wont to be led will sometimes
drive by the mere force already communicated to their inertia, and the
minister, accustomed to lead, will sometimes find himself pushed or
driven by the very impulse he has himself originated.
Mary's remonstrances were in vain. She could only do her best towards
arming her brother against the storm, and seeing that his mackintosh
and plaid were securely wrapped around him. Considerate, as usual, for
every one but himself, the minister offered the young fisherman
shelter for the night, to await the morning coach, but that was
declined with a 'Na na, sir! Shanks' naig diz fine for the like o' me.
An' surely gin _ye_ can thole the rough nicht, I'se do weel enough.'
Up the steep hill road that runs eastward from Glen Effick and
gradually gains the upland moor dividing it from the sea, the two
wayfarers floundered in the darkness. The water-courses being already
choked with their hurrying floods, the road became the natural vent
for the superfluous deluge, and had changed into a roaring torrent,
carrying down stones and gravel in its course, and rendering travel
against the stream both difficult and dangerous. The pony had full
opportunity to prove his character for sagacity and sure-footedness,
and he vindicated it triumphantly, for he kept on his way despite of
all impediments, while poor Sandie, the fisher lad, found his footing
give way and himself rolled over among the rattling stones more than
once, when he would pick himself up again with a 'Hech sirse! but my
hirdies are sair forfuchan.'
As they won their way upwards, the darkness grew less intense, and the
flooding of the road less serious; but it was not till they had
reached the level of the moorland looking straight out to sea, that
they were able to realize the full fury of the tempest, which
threatened each moment to catch them up in its arms and dash them to
the ground. The rain, however, had abated, and there was refreshment
in the salt keen breath of the distant sea. An occasional rift in the
clouds let through a feeble glimmer, and as they staggered along they
could make out the broken horizon line of the black tumbling waters.
A flash--and the distant boom of a gun. 'I'm thinkin', sir, there's a
ship out yon'er. It's a sair nicht to be on the water.'
Presently another flash--and a rocket cleft its way aloft through the
darkness, while the roar of the angry ocean, as they drew near, grew
louder and louder.
They now began to descend from the higher level, encountering on the
downward course a repetition of the perils and difficulty which had
hindered their ascent. Their attention was fully engrossed in picking
their steps and left them no leisure to observe other things. At the
bottom of the hill there was a considerable breadth of flooded meadow,
and there a wooden bridge half submerged spanned the flooded waters of
the Effick, shivering in the boiling flood, and threatening to give
way beneath them as they hurried across. They now found themselves on
the sea road, level and well made, and their troubles or at least the
dangers of the way were at an end.
And now for the first time they could realize the horror of the raging
sea, with the great billows hurling themselves against the shore, and
casting their sheets of foam high in the air, and drenching the road
in showers of spray. Again they see the flash of a minute gun, but its
voice is drowned in the tumult of the elements. The flash now, not as
before, far out at sea--the ship was coming perilously near the shore.
'I'm fear'd they'll hae sair wark to win round Inverlyon pint, noo,'
said Sandie; 'they're ower far in shore!'--'The Lord pity them!' he
went on, as another flash showed the vessel to be still nearing the
land. 'They're driftin' fair in for the Effick Mouth! The Lord hae
mercy on their souls!'
'How is the tide to-night, Sandie?' the minister enquired. 'Do you
think we can cross the mouth of the bay by the sands under the rocks?
It will be wet, of course, with the spray from the waves, but we are
too wet ourselves to mind that, and it saves full four miles of the
way.'
'Na, sir! The sea's in the nicht, an' there's five feet o' water on
the sands. We maun gang round.'
As they journeyed along, they twice again saw the flash of the signal
guns; the second time the ship herself became visible, very near the
shore, a helpless waif apparently, tossed on the summit of a mountain
surge. The bulwarks, which showed as those of a large vessel, stood
out black against the murky horizon for an instant, and then sank
again among the tumbling waves. Two of her masts were gone, but the
third entangled in the wreck of rigging, still held out. Presently
there was a crash audible above the storm. Another, and they saw the
ship impaled on the jagged rocks at the mouth of the bay. The furious
billows rushed up after her, wave on wave, as if refusing to be
baulked of their prey, washed over her from end to end, broke down the
remaining mast, and shook and ground her among the rocks. A few cries
were carried shoreward, shrill above the tempest, and then went out in
the night. Another crash--and the wreck parted asunder and fell back
into the sea, and was whirled away among the furious breakers, which
tore it plank from plank, and strewed the relics of that goodly ship
for miles along the shore.
It was wearing towards morning, and the wind was perceptibly falling
when these wayfarers reached their destination. A candle burning in
the window seemed the only sign of life in the whole slumbering town;
and even that guttered and flickered low in its socket, an emblem of
the life slowly burning itself out on the adjoining bed. A stentorious
breathing, coming at irregular and ever-lengthening intervals, told
that Sandie's granny was already setting out on her long journey--that
she had closed her eyes for ever on all the things of time, even the
ministrations of religion; and that the mysteries to which those
ministrations can, at the best, but darkly point, would shortly be
uncovered to her immortal view.
The minister was dried and warmed and refreshed, but there was little
call for his services. The watchers were too weary with their watching
to give much heed to consolation; he did, however, what was possible
and retired to rest.