THE FIND.
Long ere daylight the storm had died away. The new-risen sun shone in
a sky of transparent blue, with not a cirrhus rag to shew of the
enswathing vapours of the night before.
The air, bracingly fresh but calm, stirred faintly among the sandhills
by the shore, shaking out the bent and grasses laid limp and tangled
by their drenching overnight.
When the minister set forth on his return, the sun still hung low over
the eastern sea, and reddened the waves, foam-flecked and tossing in
angry recollection of the lash of last night's gale. In the ebb they
had shrunk far back across the sands, but again the tide had turned
and was advancing. The fisher folk were not astir. No boats could be
expected home that morning. Such as were away during the gale must
have put in for refuge somewhere, or been swallowed by the sea; nor
would any stir outside the harbour till the sea went down. Perforce
they must rest; and they rested. The cottages were still shut up, and
no smoke curled from the chimneys as Roderick rode over the roughly
causewayed street, past the harbour, where a lugger or two swayed up
and down upon the heaving tide, and down upon the sands beyond, that
he might avoid the long detour of the night before.
The Effick Water spreads itself out into a small firth or bay some
three or four miles round, but the mouth of this bay is encumbered by
upstanding rocks and boulders, and about these a bar or beach has
gathered, standing up out of the water at all times, save the highest
tides, or when the sea is driven up by an easterly gale. Through this
beach the Effick cuts a channel for its own escape, and that of the
water in the bay at the tide's turn, but it is fordable at any time,
and at low water is but an insignificant trickling over the shingly
beach. The Point of Inverlyon divides Inverlyon bay and harbour from
the Bay of Effick, it runs sharply out into the sea and completely
conceals the one from the other; and, in those days of scanty
provision for the ship-wrecked, a vessel might be driven ashore in the
latter desolate bay without the people of the village being aware,
especially if the catastrophe took place after dark; and their first
intimation would be when in scanning the shore after a gale they came
on the wreckage.
It was an hour or two after Roderick had started before the first band
of prowlers set forth to search for the rejected spoils of victorious
Ocean. The shore was solitary, and he was the first to come upon the
tokens of the night's disaster. On passing the point, he found the
shattered relics scattered on every side--boxes, barrels, planks,
wreckage of every kind. By and by he came upon a stove-in boat, and a
little further along the body of a drowned sailor lay upon the sand.
He was but partly dressed, and the dark yellow tinge of his skin, the
straight black hair, prominent features, and set of the eyes, as well
as the long, strange-looking knife, tied securely to his waist, showed
him to be a Lascar. So the ship probably had been an East Indiaman,
had sailed in safety round the Cape, crossed the Bay of Biscay, and
escaped who can tell how many perils, and all to be cast away in the
end on this solitary shore, within a few leagues or hours of her
destined haven.
Roderick dismounted and examined the poor fellow, but he was
manifestly dead, and there was no dwelling near to which he might
carry him; so he drew the body up above high-water mark, to await the
searchers who were sure to arrive shortly in search of plunder. He had
visitations and a meeting to fill up his day on getting home--service
due, as he told himself, to the living, and therefore more important
than ceremonial cares for the dead.
Hastening forward, he crossed the shingly beach at the mouth of the
Effick, and reached the sands gathered about the base of the rocks,
and sloping on the one side to the sea, on the other to the inner
basin or firth of the little stream,--at high water a brimming lake,
but now at the ebb a slimy hollow full of pools, boulders, seaweed,
and mussel beds, where gulls and crows met to quarrel over the spoils
of sea and land. There he came upon a sight sadder than the last, two
women thrown together upon the sand, surrounded and partly covered
with wreckage, as though a specially strong eddy had set in this
direction, and there unburdened itself of its prey. The first he
examined was clad in thin and peculiar garments of white cotton, a
life-preserver was made fast about her body, and her hands clung with
the inextricable grasp of death to the clothes of her companion. Her
feet were bare, so was her head, her skin was a dark olive, and her
dress and appearance showed her to be an Ayah or Indian maid, in
attendance doubtless on some lady returning to Europe. Her long black
hair was clotted and stained with blood, and closer inspection showed
terrible wounds and bruises on the head, as though the waves had
dashed and pounded her against the rocks before at length
relinquishing their hold. Clearly there could be no hope of
resuscitation there, and Roderick passed to the other.
From under pieces of plank and broken cabin furniture he was able at
last to disentangle the form of a lady. She too was encased in a
life-preserver, which in her case too had failed to save her life. The
cruel rocks and breakers had made sure of that. Her head and face
especially showed contusions and bruises of the most dreadful
description, and there was a distortion of the features, as though her
last thought had been one of agony, in striking contrast to the calm
which had settled on the face of her companion. The arms too were
stretched out in an intensity of purpose that death had been unable to
paralyze, and the fingers were clenched on a bit of a chain composed
of coins connected by knotted links of gold. Could it be that the
parting of this chain, and the severance from what it held, was the
last agonizing idea which had passed through the poor creature's mind?
As Roderick gazed, a feeble wail hard by gave a new turn to his
musings. Not many steps away, but where the sand sloped inwards to the
protected waters of the bay, he descried a bundle of clothing, and
while he looked it seemed to move, and again the wail was heard.
Taking it up he found the bundle to be a tiny infant, warmly wrapped
up in many shawls and wound in a life-preserver. The poor drowned
mother had probably given her last care to make the little one as safe
as she could, and by a miracle she had succeeded. The lightness and
smallness of the tiny bundle had secured its safety. While heavier
bodies were being hurled and rolled among rocks and stones on the
beach, this slight thing had been caught up on the crest of a surge
and flung beyond the rocks and boulders margining the sea, into the
protected waters of the inner bay, where it would float in comparative
safety till, on the subsidence of the tide, it stranded on the shore.
Roderick took it up and undid the swathings, that it might freely use
its limbs. At once the infant ceased its wailing; it stretched its
little arms, and, looking into his face, it smiled. Who that is human,
not to say humane, could resist the appeal?--the flattery of being
approved by a pure fresh soul, all untarnished by the world's guile,
and so lately come from heaven!
[Illustration: "The baby smiled, and twined its fingers in his
whisker-ends." Page 19.]
Roderick was enthralled at once. 'You poor wee darling,' he said, 'we
cannot leave you here alone, waiting till other help finds you; you
must come with me!'
The baby smiled again, and twined its fingers in his whisker ends.
Roderick wrapped it again in its shawls, remounted the pony, and
proceeded on his way.
He could not but look back regretfully at the poor dead mother, whom
he seemed to be separating from her child; but there was nothing he
could do for her without assistance, and that he must go miles to
seek, and he knew it would arrive equally soon without his
intervention.
He passed a good deal more wreckage as he went, but nothing that had
life, nor any more bodies of the drowned. Leaving the shore, he came
in time to Effick Bridge. It had withstood the spate, and though badly
shaken, was still available for crossing the stream. The waters had
subsided over the flooded meadows, and after crossing these he began
to ascend the hill. It was a tedious task; the soil was washed away in
places, and in others stones had rolled from above, among which he had
to pick his way carefully, lest a jolt should disturb his fragile
burden.
The morning coach for Inverlyon reached the brow of the hill, coming
down, while he was still wending upwards. It stopped there, and its
passengers were required to alight, and make their way downward on
foot, while the driver, with all precaution, guided his team and the
empty vehicle over the encumbered track. The passengers included a
parishioner or two of the minister's, who by and by encountered him on
their descent, and greeted him effusively. His response, however, was
absent and constrained, he was wholly disinclined to stand still in
the middle of the tedious ascent, or engage in the desultory gossip so
dear to his rustic friends. In truth, he was worn out. His tempestuous
journey over-night, the early start without breakfast, the sad
spectacle of death which he had beheld, and doubts how best to do his
duty to his helpless charge, had thrown him into a melancholy and
preoccupied mood, and deprived him of all power to enter into
indifferent chat. He made no attempt, therefore, to rein up the
'pownie,' and that canny beast went tranquilly forward, picking his
steps as seemed best among the sods and heather tufts by the side of
the road.
'What's come ower the minister? He wad scarce gie us the time o' day
as he gaed by, an' he glowered at a body like the far awa end o'
Willie Cant's fiddle. An' what brings him awa down here at this time
o' day? An' ridin' on that godless chield, Patey Soutar's pownie! I'm
sair misdoubtin' but he's been after nae gude!'
'Hoot, awa! Peter Malloch, ye maunna judge sae hard. I'm jalousin'
he's been awa a' nicht, an' aiblins he's meditatin' on his next
discoorse. Gin he'd gotten as far as the twalthly, or even the
seventhly, ye see, he wadna be for brecken aff, to haver wi' a curran
fules, ower a' the clashes o' the country side.'
'Speak for yersel, Tammas! An' dinna ye be for judgin' the
office-bearers o' the Lord's Kirk by yer ain silly sel'. I'm thinkin
gin he'd kenned a' 'at I cud hae telt him, he'd hae frisket up his
legs, an' drawn bridle fast enough. The Sustentation Fund's prosperin'
bye a' expectation, an' I wad hae telled him a' about it. But noo he
can juist bide till the next Deacons' Coort, whan I'll read my report.
Set him up wi' his high looks! Is't no me 'ats gatherin' the siller
that's to pay him wi?'
'Hoot! Peter, man, I'm thinkin' he was that carried like in's mind, he
didna ken even wha it was gaed by! But I'm sayin', Peter, what was yon
the minister was carryin' afore him on the saidle, 'at he took sae
muckle tent on? It was sma' an' muckle happit up, an' he ne'er took
his e'en aff it. Gin it hadna been him I'd hae said it was a bairn,
an' he was blate ower 't.'
The subject of the discussion went on his way, unwitting of the
offence he had given. 'Tammas' was scarcely wrong in surmising that he
did not know who passed. Had he been questioned at the moment he would
no doubt have answered correctly, but as there was no one to do so,
the impression on his consciousness glanced off, causing, indeed, the
mechanical salutation at the moment, but powerless to influence his
thought.
Upward toils the pony, picking his steps from one soft sod to the
next; the rider sunk in a brown study lets the bridle hang loosely on
his neck, and the baby, rocked by the springy undulations of his gait,
sleeps again, unconscious and content. The summit is gained in time,
the road grows easier, and the pace mends, till a shout in front
startles their drowsy senses.
'Hallo! Roddie!--halt! You're not going to pass an old friend like
that!'
Roderick, wakening with a start, catches the bridle of the
good-natured beast, which has already come to a stand. A middle-aged
gentleman is descending a heathery knoll overhanging the road, and
carries a salmon rod on his shoulder, and a boy follows with his
basket, apparently well filled, and from which there peers a
companionable-looking bottle neck.
'Good morning! Captain Drysdale.'
'Good morning, Roddie! Glad to see you after so long.'
'Going to try a last cast at the salmon before the fishing closes? You
have every prospect of good sport. The water looked splendid at the
bridge as I came over. The spate has fallen, but the water is still
brown, and dotted with foam-spots. You will have a fine day's sport.'
'I hope so, lad! And I only wish you were coming with me! Od! Roddie,
do you ever think of the jolly days we used to have, when young
Kenneth was at home, lad! The fishing! and the days after the grouse!
we expect Kenneth home to-day for three months' leave,--in fact he
should have come last night. I wish you were to be with us too, old
man!'
'Thanks, Captain John; but that can scarcely be. A minister should
have other things to think about,--at least the Presbytery would say
so, and I do not think the General would relish the crack of a
dissenter's gun on any moor of his.'
'Hang the dissenters! and that weary Free Kirk that has set the people
by the ears. I never could understand how they contrived to inveigle a
sensible fellow like you--gentle born and bred, and your father's son,
in among a crew of canting demagogues.'
'Please don't! Captain Drysdale. Nothing but a conviction that it was
right could have led me to take the step, and give up so much of what
I valued most. Having that conviction, I am sure even you must approve
my acting up to it. My choice has cost me much, but I counted, the
cost before I made it. So, as regards the church, we had better "let
that flea stick to the wa'" as my beadle says. We might argue till we
vexed each other, but neither would be converted to the other's
views.'
'Well, Roddie! And probably your beadle says again--"They that will to
Cupar, maun to Cupar;"--there's no use speaking, but it's a great
pity!--And where, in the name of all that's wonderful, are you
trapezing to, at this hour of the morning? And of all the steeds in
the country side to carry a douse Free Kirk presbyter, if that is not
Patey Soutar the drunken cadger's pony! Bonny on-goings! my lad. What
would the 'Residuary' Presbytery, as you are pleased to denominate the
church of your fathers say to that? Ha, ha! I doubt not the Free is
both free and easy--ha! ha! And what may that be your reverence is
carrying home so gingerly? My stars! I believe it is a child!'
At this point the baby disturbed first by the cessation of the pony's
rocking gait, and then fairly awakened by the Captain's loud guffaw,
lifted up its small voice and wept.
'Indeed, Master Roddie, yours seems to be a very free church indeed!'
'Captain Drysdale, I do think some things should not be said even in
jest, which is all you mean, I know. But I do not think I have
hitherto so desecrated my sacred calling as to have laid myself open
to such insinuations even in jest.'
'Tush, man! Don't be so thin-skinned. One must have his joke. Besides,
after all, you have no need to be much vexed, "it is such a little
one," as the French girl said to her confessor.' And with a volley of
'ha, ha, ha!' Captain John bounded down the hill.