had its usual effect. The father and daughter threw themselves into
each other’s arms, kissed and wept for joy, although their escape
was connected with the prospect of passing a tempestuous night upon a
precipitous ledge of rock, which scarce afforded footing for the four
shivering beings, who now, like the sea-fowl around them, clung there
in hopes of some shelter from the devouring element which raged beneath.
The spray of the billows, which attained in fearful succession the foot
of the precipice, overflowing the beach on which they so lately stood,
flew as high as their place of temporary refuge; and the stunning sound
with which they dashed against the rocks beneath, seemed as if they
still demanded the fugitives in accents of thunder as their destined
prey. It was a summer night, doubtless; yet the probability was slender,
that a frame so delicate as that of Miss Wardour should survive till
morning the drenching of the spray; and the dashing of the rain, which
now burst in full violence, accompanied with deep and heavy gusts of
wind, added to the constrained and perilous circumstances of their
situation.
“The lassie!--the puir sweet, lassie!” said the old man: “mony such a
night have I weathered at hame and abroad, but, God guide us, how can
she ever win through it!”
His apprehension was communicated in smothered accents to Lovel; for
with the sort of freemasonry by which bold and ready spirits correspond
in moments of danger, and become almost instinctively known to each
other, they had established a mutual confidence.--“I’ll climb up the
cliff again,” said Lovel--“there’s daylight enough left to see my footing;
I’ll climb up, and call for more assistance.”
“Do so, do so, for Heaven’s sake!” said Sir Arthur eagerly.
“Are ye mad?” said the mendicant: “Francie o’ Fowlsheugh, and he was the
best craigsman that ever speel’d heugh (mair by token, he brake his neck
upon the Dunbuy of Slaines), wodna hae ventured upon the Halket-head
craigs after sun-down--It’s God’s grace, and a great wonder besides,
that ye are not in the middle o’ that roaring sea wi’ what ye hae done
already--I didna think there was the man left alive would hae come down
the craigs as ye did. I question an I could hae done it mysell, at this
hoar and in this weather, in the youngest and yaldest of my strength--But
to venture up again--it’s a mere and a clear tempting o’ Providence.”
“I have no fear,” answered Lovel; “I marked all the stations perfectly
as I came down, and there is still light enough left to see them quite
well--I am sure I can do it with perfect safety. Stay here, my good
friend, by Sir Arthur and the young lady.”
“Dell be in my feet then,” answered the bedesman sturdily; “if ye gang,
I’ll gang too; for between the twa o’ us, we’ll hae mair than wark
eneugh to get to the tap o’ the heugh.”
“No, no--stay you here and attend to Miss Wardour--you see Sir Arthur is
quite exhausted.”
“Stay yoursell then, and I’ll gae,” said the old man;--“let death spare
the green corn and take the ripe.”
“Stay both of you, I charge you,” said Isabella, faintly; “I am well,
and can spend the night very well here--I feel quite refreshed.” So
saying, her voice failed her--she sunk down, and would have fallen from
the crag, had she not been supported by Lovel and Ochiltree, who placed
her in a posture half sitting, half reclining, beside her father,
who, exhausted by fatigue of body and mind so extreme and unusual, had
already sat down on a stone in a sort of stupor.
“It is impossible to leave them,” said Lovel--“What is to be done?--Hark!
hark!--did I not hear a halloo?”
“The skreigh of a Tammie Norie,” answered Ochiltree--“I ken the skirl
weel.”
“No, by Heaven!” replied Lovel, “it was a human voice.”
A distant hail was repeated, the sound plainly distinguishable among the
various elemental noises, and the clang of the sea-mews by which they
were surrounded. The mendicant and Lovel exerted their voices in a loud
halloo, the former waving Miss Wardour’s handkerchief on the end of
his staff to make them conspicuous from above. Though the shouts were
repeated, it was some time before they were in exact response to
their own, leaving the unfortunate sufferers uncertain whether, in the
darkening twilight and increasing storm, they had made the persons who
apparently were traversing the verge of the precipice to bring them
assistance, sensible of the place in which they had found refuge. At
length their halloo was regularly and distinctly answered, and their
courage confirmed, by the assurance that they were within hearing, if
not within reach, of friendly assistance.
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
There is a cliff, whose high and bending head
Looks fearfully on the confined deep;
Bring me but to the very brim of it,
And I’ll repair the misery thou dost bear.
King Lear.
The shout of human voices from above was soon augmented, and the gleam
of torches mingled with those lights of evening which still remained
amidst the darkness of the storm. Some attempt was made to hold
communication between the assistants above and the sufferers beneath,
who were still clinging to their precarious place of safety; but
the howling of the tempest limited their intercourse to cries as
inarticulate as those of the winged denizens of the crag, which shrieked
in chorus, alarmed by the reiterated sound of human voices, where they
had seldom been heard.
On the verge of the precipice an anxious group had now assembled.
Oldbuck was the foremost and most earnest, pressing forward with
unwonted desperation to the very brink of the crag, and extending his
head (his hat and wig secured by a handkerchief under his chin) over the
dizzy height, with an air of determination which made his more timorous
assistants tremble.
“Haud a care, haud a care, Monkbarns!” cried Caxon, clinging to the
skirts of his patron, and withholding him from danger as far as his
strength permitted--“God’s sake, haud a care!--Sir Arthur’s drowned
already, and an ye fa’ over the cleugh too, there will be but ae wig
left in the parish, and that’s the minister’s.”
“Mind the peak there,” cried Mucklebackit, an old fisherman and
smuggler--“mind the peak--Steenie, Steenie Wilks, bring up the tackle--I’se
warrant we’ll sune heave them on board, Monkbarns, wad ye but stand out
o’ the gate.”
“I see them,” said Oldbuck--“I see them low down on that flat
stone--Hilli-hilloa, hilli-ho-a!”
“I see them mysell weel eneugh,” said Mucklebackit; “they are sitting
down yonder like hoodie-craws in a mist; but d’yo think ye’ll help
them wi’ skirling that gate like an auld skart before a flaw o’
weather?--Steenie, lad, bring up the mast--Od, I’se hae them up as we used
to bouse up the kegs o’ gin and brandy lang syne--Get up the pickaxe,
make a step for the mast--make the chair fast with the rattlin--haul
taught and belay!”
The fishers had brought with them the mast of a boat, and as half of the
country fellows about had now appeared, either out of zeal or curiosity,
it was soon sunk in the ground, and sufficiently secured. A yard across
the upright mast, and a rope stretched along it, and reeved through a
block at each end, formed an extempore crane, which afforded the means
of lowering an arm-chair, well secured and fastened, down to the flat
shelf on which the sufferers had roosted. Their joy at hearing the
preparations going on for their deliverance was considerably qualified
when they beheld the precarious vehicle by means of which they were to
be conveyed to upper air. It swung about a yard free of the spot which
they occupied, obeying each impulse of the tempest, the empty air all
around it, and depending upon the security of a rope, which, in the
increasing darkness, had dwindled to an almost imperceptible thread.
Besides the hazard of committing a human being to the vacant atmosphere
in such a slight means of conveyance, there was the fearful danger
of the chair and its occupant being dashed, either by the wind or the
vibrations of the cord, against the rugged face of the precipice. But
to diminish the risk as much as possible, the experienced seaman had let
down with the chair another line, which, being attached to it, and
held by the persons beneath, might serve by way of gy, as Mucklebackit
expressed it, to render its descent in some measure steady and regular.
Still, to commit one’s self in such a vehicle, through a howling tempest
of wind and rain, with a beetling precipice above and a raging abyss
below, required that courage which despair alone can inspire. Yet,
wild as the sounds and sights of danger were, both above, beneath, and
around, and doubtful and dangerous as the mode of escaping appeared to
be, Lovel and the old mendicant agreed, after a moment’s consultation,
and after the former, by a sudden strong pull, had, at his own imminent
risk, ascertained the security of the rope, that it would be best to
secure Miss Wardour in the chair, and trust to the tenderness and care
of those above for her being safely craned up to the top of the crag.
“Let my father go first,” exclaimed Isabella; “for God’s sake, my
friends, place him first in safety!”
“It cannot be, Miss Wardour,” said Lovel;--“your life must be first
secured--the rope which bears your weight may”--
“I will not listen to a reason so selfish!”
“But ye maun listen to it, my bonnie lassie,” said Ochiltree, “for a’
our lives depend on it--besides, when ye get on the tap o’ the heugh
yonder, ye can gie them a round guess o’ what’s ganging on in this
Patmos o’ ours--and Sir Arthur’s far by that, as I’m thinking.”
Struck with the truth of this reasoning, she exclaimed, “True, most
true; I am ready and willing to undertake the first risk--What shall I
say to our friends above?”
“Just to look that their tackle does not graze on the face o’ the crag,
and to let the chair down and draw it up hooly and fairly;--we will
halloo when we are ready.”
With the sedulous attention of a parent to a child, Lovel bound Miss
Wardour with his handkerchief, neckcloth, and the mendicant’s leathern
belt, to the back and arms of the chair, ascertaining accurately the
security of each knot, while Ochiltree kept Sir Arthur quiet. “What are
ye doing wi’ my bairn?--what are ye doing?--She shall not be separated
from me--Isabel, stay with me, I command you!”
“Lordsake, Sir Arthur, haud your tongue, and be thankful to God that
there’s wiser folk than you to manage this job,” cried the beggar, worn
out by the unreasonable exclamations of the poor Baronet.
“Farewell, my father!” murmured Isabella--“farewell, my--my friends!” and
shutting her eyes, as Edie’s experience recommended, she gave the signal
to Lovel, and he to those who were above. She rose, while the chair in
which she sate was kept steady by the line which Lovel managed beneath.
With a beating heart he watched the flutter of her white dress, until
the vehicle was on a level with the brink of the precipice.
“Canny now, lads, canny now!” exclaimed old Mucklebackit, who acted as
commodore; “swerve the yard a bit--Now--there! there she sits safe on dry
land.”
A loud shout announced the successful experiment to her fellow-sufferers
beneath, who replied with a ready and cheerful halloo. Monkbarns, in his
ecstasy of joy, stripped his great-coat to wrap up the young lady, and
would have pulled off his coat and waistcoat for the same purpose, had
he not been withheld by the cautious Caxon. “Haud a care o’ us! your
honour will be killed wi’ the hoast--ye’ll no get out o’your night-cowl
this fortnight--and that will suit us unco ill.--Na, na--there’s the
chariot down by; let twa o’ the folk carry the young leddy there.”
“You’re right,” said the Antiquary, readjusting the sleeves and collar
of his coat, “you’re right, Caxon; this is a naughty night to swim
in.--Miss Wardour, let me convey you to the chariot.”
“Not for worlds till I see my father safe.”
In a few distinct words, evincing how much her resolution had surmounted
even the mortal fear of so agitating a hazard, she explained the nature
of the situation beneath, and the wishes of Lovel and Ochiltree.
“Right, right, that’s right too--I should like to see the son of Sir
Gamelyn de Guardover on dry land myself--I have a notion he would sign
the abjuration oath, and the Ragman-roll to boot, and acknowledge Queen
Mary to be nothing better than she should be, to get alongside my bottle
of old port that he ran away from, and left scarce begun. But he’s safe
now, and here a’ comes”--(for the chair was again lowered, and Sir Arthur
made fast in it, without much consciousness on his own part)--“here a’
comes--Bowse away, my boys! canny wi’ him--a pedigree of a hundred links
is hanging on a tenpenny tow--the whole barony of Knockwinnock depends on
three plies of hemp--respice finem, respice funem--look to your end--look
to a rope’s end.--Welcome, welcome, my good old friend, to firm land,
though I cannot say to warm land or to dry land. A cord for ever against
fifty fathom of water, though not in the sense of the base proverb--a
fico for the phrase,--better _sus. per funem_, than _sus. per coll_.”
While Oldbuck ran on in this way, Sir Arthur was safely wrapped in the
close embraces of his daughter, who, assuming that authority which the
circumstances demanded, ordered some of the assistants to convey him to
the chariot, promising to follow in a few minutes, She lingered on the
cliff, holding an old countryman’s arm, to witness probably the safety
of those whose dangers she had shared.
“What have we here?” said Oldbuck, as the vehicle once more
ascended--“what patched and weather-beaten matter is this?” Then as the
torches illumed the rough face and grey hairs of old Ochiltree,--“What!
is it thou?--Come, old Mocker, I must needs be friends with thee--but who
the devil makes up your party besides?”
“Ane that’s weel worth ony twa o’ us, Monkbarns;--it’s the young stranger
lad they ca’ Lovel--and he’s behaved this blessed night as if he had
three lives to rely on, and was willing to waste them a’ rather than
endanger ither folk’s. Ca’ hooly, sirs, as ye, wad win an auld man’s
blessing!--mind there’s naebody below now to haud the gy--Hae a care o’
the Cat’s-lug corner--bide weel aff Crummie’s-horn!”
“Have a care indeed,” echoed Oldbuck. “What! is it my rara avis--my
black swan--my phoenix of companions in a post-chaise?--take care of him,
Mucklebackit.”
“As muckle care as if he were a graybeard o’ brandy; and I canna take
mair if his hair were like John Harlowe’s.--Yo ho, my hearts! bowse away
with him!”
Lovel did, in fact, run a much greater risk than any of his precursors.
His weight was not sufficient to render his ascent steady amid such a
storm of wind, and he swung like an agitated pendulum at the mortal risk
of being dashed against the rocks. But he was young, bold, and active,
and, with the assistance of the beggar’s stout piked staff, which he had
retained by advice of the proprietor, contrived to bear himself from
the face of the precipice, and the yet more hazardous projecting cliffs
which varied its surface. Tossed in empty space, like an idle and
unsubstantial feather, with a motion that agitated the brain at once
with fear and with dizziness, he retained his alertness of exertion and
presence of mind; and it was not until he was safely grounded upon the
summit of the cliff, that he felt temporary and giddy sickness. As he
recovered from a sort of half swoon, he cast his eyes eagerly around.
The object which they would most willingly have sought, was already
in the act of vanishing. Her white garment was just discernible as she
followed on the path which her father had taken. She had lingered till
she saw the last of their company rescued from danger, and until she had
been assured by the hoarse voice of Mucklebackit, that “the callant had
come off wi’ unbrizzed banes, and that he was but in a kind of dwam.”
But Lovel was not aware that she had expressed in his fate even this
degree of interest,--which, though nothing more than was due to a
stranger who had assisted her in such an hour of peril, he would have
gladly purchased by braving even more imminent danger than he had that
evening been exposed to. The beggar she had already commanded to come to
Knockwinnock that night. He made an excuse.--“Then to-morrow let me see
you.”
The old man promised to obey. Oldbuck thrust something into his
hand--Ochiltree looked at it by the torchlight, and returned it--“Na,
na! I never tak gowd--besides, Monkbarns, ye wad maybe be rueing it the
morn.” Then turning to the group of fishermen and peasants--“Now, sirs,
wha will gie me a supper and some clean pease-strae?”
“I,” “and I,” “and I,” answered many a ready voice.
“Aweel, since sae it is, and I can only sleep in ae barn at ance, I’ll
gae down with Saunders Mucklebackit--he has aye a soup o’ something
comfortable about his begging--and, bairns, I’ll maybe live to put ilka
ane o’ ye in mind some ither night that ye hae promised me quarters and
my awmous;” and away he went with the fisherman.
Oldbuck laid the band of strong possession on Lovel--“Deil a stride
ye’s go to Fairport this night, young man--you must go home with me to
Monkbarns. Why, man, you have been a hero--a perfect Sir William Wallace,
by all accounts. Come, my good lad, take hold of my arm;--I am not a
prime support in such a wind--but Caxon shall help us out--Here, you old
idiot, come on the other side of me.--And how the deil got you down to
that infernal Bessy’s-apron, as they call it? Bess, said they? Why,
curse her, she has spread out that vile pennon or banner of womankind,
like all the rest of her sex, to allure her votaries to death and
headlong ruin.”
“I have been pretty well accustomed to climbing, and I have long
observed fowlers practise that pass down the cliff.”
“But how, in the name of all that is wonderful, came you to discover the
danger of the pettish Baronet and his far more deserving daughter?”
“I saw them from the verge of the precipice.”
“From the verge!--umph--And what possessed you dumosa pendere procul de
rupe?--though dumosa is not the appropriate epithet--what the deil, man,
tempted ye to the verge of the craig?”
“Why--I like to see the gathering and growling of a coming storm--or,
in your own classical language, Mr. Oldbuck, suave mari magno--and
so forth--but here we reach the turn to Fairport. I must wish you
good-night.”
“Not a step, not a pace, not an inch, not a shathmont, as I may
say,--the meaning of which word has puzzled many that think
themselves antiquaries. I am clear we should read salmon-length for
shathmont’s-length. You are aware that the space allotted for the
passage of a salmon through a dam, dike, or weir, by statute, is the
length within which a full-grown pig can turn himself round. Now I have
a scheme to prove, that, as terrestrial objects were thus appealed to
for ascertaining submarine measurement, so it must be supposed that the
productions of the water were established as gauges of the extent of
land.--Shathmont--salmont--you see the close alliance of the sounds;
dropping out two h’s, and a t, and assuming an l, makes the whole
difference--I wish to heaven no antiquarian derivation had demanded
heavier concessions.”
“But, my dear sir, I really must go home--I am wet to the skin.”
“Shalt have my night-gown, man, and slippers, and catch the antiquarian
fever as men do the plague, by wearing infected garments. Nay, I know
what you would be at--you are afraid to put the old bachelor to charges.
But is there not the remains of that glorious chicken-pie--which, meo
arbitrio, is better cold than hot--and that bottle of my oldest port, out
of which the silly brain-sick Baronet (whom I cannot pardon, since he
has escaped breaking his neck) had just taken one glass, when his infirm
noddle went a wool-gathering after Gamelyn de Guardover?”
So saying he dragged Lovel forward, till the Palmer’s-port of Monkbarns
received them. Never, perhaps, had it admitted two pedestrians more
needing rest for Monkbarns’s fatigue had been in a degree very contrary
to his usual habits, and his more young and robust companion had that
evening undergone agitation of mind which had harassed and wearied him
even more than his extraordinary exertions of body.
CHAPTER NINTH.
“Be brave,” she cried, “you yet may be our guest,
Our haunted room was ever held the best.
If, then, your valour can the sight sustain
Of rustling curtains and the clinking chain
If your courageous tongue have powers to talk,
When round your bed the horrid ghost shall walk
If you dare ask it why it leaves its tomb,
I’ll see your sheets well air’d, and show the Room.”
True Story.
They reached the room in which they had dined, and were clamorously
welcomed by Miss Oldbuck.
“Where’s the younger womankind?” said the Antiquary.
“Indeed, brother, amang a’ the steery, Maria wadna be guided by me she
set away to the Halket-craig-head--I wonder ye didna see her.”
“Eh!--what--what’s that you say, sister?--did the girl go out in a night
like this to the Halket-head?--Good God! the misery of the night is not
ended yet!”
“But ye winna wait, Monkbarns--ye are so imperative and impatient”--
“Tittle-tattle, woman,” said the impatient and agitated Antiquary,
“where is my dear Mary?”
“Just where ye suld be yoursell, Monkbarns--up-stairs, and in her warm
bed.”
“I could have sworn it,” said Oldbuck laughing, but obviously much
relieved--“I could have sworn it;--the lazy monkey did not care if we were
all drowned together. Why did you say she went out?”
“But ye wadna wait to hear out my tale, Monkbarns--she gaed out, and she
came in again with the gardener sae sune as she saw that nane o’ ye were
clodded ower the Craig, and that Miss Wardour was safe in the chariot;
she was hame a quarter of an hour syne, for it’s now ganging ten--sair
droukit was she, puir thing, sae I e’en put a glass o’ sherry in her
water-gruel.”
“Right, Grizel, right--let womankind alone for coddling each other. But
hear me, my venerable sister--start not at the word venerable; it implies
many praiseworthy qualities besides age; though that too is honourable,
albeit it is the last quality for which womankind would wish to be
honoured--But perpend my words: let Lovel and me have forthwith the
relics of the chicken-pie, and the reversion of the port.”
“The chicken-pie! the port!--ou dear! brother--there was but a wheen
banes, and scarce a drap o’ the wine.”
The Antiquary’s countenance became clouded, though he was too well bred
to give way, in the presence of a stranger, to his displeased surprise
at the disappearance of the viands on which he had reckoned with
absolute certainty. But his sister understood these looks of ire. “Ou
dear! Monkbarns, what’s the use of making a wark?”
“I make no wark, as ye call it, woman.”
“But what’s the use o’ looking sae glum and glunch about a pickle
banes?--an ye will hae the truth, ye maun ken the minister came in,
worthy man--sair distressed he was, nae doubt, about your precarious
situation, as he ca’d it (for ye ken how weel he’s gifted wi’ words),
and here he wad bide till he could hear wi’ certainty how the matter was
likely to gang wi’ ye a’--He said fine things on the duty of resignation
to Providence’s will, worthy man! that did he.”
Oldbuck replied, catching the same tone, “Worthy man!--he cared not how
soon Monkbarns had devolved on an heir-female, I’ve a notion;--and
while he was occupied in this Christian office of consolation against
impending evil, I reckon that the chicken-pie and my good port
disappeared?”
“Dear brother, how can you speak of sic frivolities, when you have had
sic an escape from the craig?”
“Better than my supper has had from the minister’s craig, Grizzle--it’s
all discussed, I suppose?”
“Hout, Monkbarns, ye speak as if there was nae mair meat in the
house--wad ye not have had me offer the honest man some slight
refreshment after his walk frae the manse?”
Oldbuck half-whistled, half-hummed, the end of the old Scottish ditty,
O, first they eated the white puddings,
And then they eated the black, O,
And thought the gudeman unto himsell,
The deil clink down wi’ that, O!
His sister hastened to silence his murmurs, by proposing some of
the relies of the dinner. He spoke of another bottle of wine, but
recommended in preference a glass of brandy which was really excellent.
As no entreaties could prevail on Lovel to indue the velvet night-cap
and branched morning-gown of his host, Oldbuck, who pretended to a
little knowledge of the medical art, insisted on his going to bed
as soon as possible, and proposed to despatch a messenger (the
indefatigable Caxon) to Fairport early in the morning, to procure him a
change of clothes.