climb was decidedly pleasant; the wintry air, the excitement coming
from the spirit of adventure, the vigorous exercise--all tended to
raise the young man's ardor, and he trod the upward path with the
steady, swinging pace of a Highlander.
The moon had scarcely risen when clouds began to drift across the sky,
and the wind became more boisterous. The darkness increased, and soon
it became almost impossible to discern the path. Then cold, soft
particles brushed his cheek, and he realized that snow was beginning to
fall. In a snowstorm he had no better prospect of finding his way to
his bicycle down below than up to Davie Forbes' house. So he kept
mechanically groping his way upward, although the storm had commenced
in earnest now.
There was less difficulty in progressing while the pretty well-defined
pathway could be kept to; but the falling snow began to obliterate its
traces. His entire surroundings soon became shut out from the man's
vision. He moved on resolutely, although his face smarted and his eyes
were blinded by the steadily descending snow, which surrounded him on
all sides like a moving curtain of grayish white. He owned to himself
that it was impossible to proceed, but what was he to do? To return
was just as impossible!
Fortune at last favored him. Staggering through the wind and snow of
the ever-increasing storm, he ran unexpectedly upon a lofty wall of
rock looking to him like a high cliff. He had evidently lost the path,
for here was an insurmountable obstacle. Clinging to the rough
surface, he cautiously felt his way along the rock for some yards. He
was still ascending, but the ground was rough and piled with small
stones, which had crumbled off from the main wall and lay in heaps
beneath it. He knew enough about Scottish mountains to expect to find
an opening in the wall large enough to enable him to creep into some
kind of shelter; he was not disappointed, for soon he came upon a
crevice--not deep enough to be called a cave, but affording some
temporary relief from the storm, which had by this time assumed a
furious aspect.
The retreat happened to be under the lee of the rock, so that although
it had little depth, he was protected from the violence of the storm;
the relief was great after the fatiguing struggle he had been
undergoing. He managed to strike a match and look at his watch; it was
only six o'clock. Had he to pass the night in that chill and dreary
region?
Gruesome anecdotes rushed tormentingly to memory. It was but last
winter that he had read of the finding of a man's body, stark and cold,
not fifty yards from his own threshold; he had fallen helpless, faint
from incessant struggling through the snow-drifts and too weak to make
his cries for help heard above the rushing of the wind and the swish of
the snow on the window behind which his terrified wife was anxiously
awaiting his coming.
And what of Bonar himself? He might at that instant be miles away from
any human habitation; it might be days before a human being chanced to
pass that way! Would his body confront some wandering shepherd or some
sportsman months hence, when the snows had gone, and, perhaps--horrible
thought, yet possible to be realized!--after carrion birds had made
their onslaught on the foul thing it had become?
Be sure he called himself every kind of idiot for venturing on such a
fool's errand at such a time. But that did not warm his shivering
limbs or infuse patience into his almost despairing heart. The cold
was intense. He was obliged at last to move away from his
shelter--such as it was--and in spite of the thick snow beneath his
feet, and the hurrying flakes still noiselessly but relentlessly
falling, to trample some kind of pathway in which he might pace
backwards and forwards to keep the blood circulating in his veins.
It was not quite dark, but the gray curtain of falling snow shut out
everything from his vision; no sound could be heard but the rush of the
wind over the slopes, and an occasional wail nearer at hand, as it
swished round a corner of the rocks behind him. He dare not attempt to
climb higher, nor dare he descend. What unexplored expanses of
moorland might lie beyond, to lure him farther away from the chance of
shelter or rescue? What hidden pitfalls might not lurk below, to trap
his inexperienced feet and hurl him to his death?
Warmed by his exercise, he crept back into his recess to await the
possibility of some cessation of the storm. Busied with anxious
thoughts, he failed to notice the gradual lessening of the snow-flakes
and the lull in the wind beyond the rocks. It was only when the moon
shone out clearly once more that he perceived that the storm was over.
Courage returned at once. He left his shelter and tried to find the
direction of the upward path. Light had dispelled his fears. It was
better to trust himself to the dangers of the higher level than to risk
a fall into some crevice on the downward way. Before his eyes lay
stretched out a vast snowfield! More dazzlingly white in the moonlight
than before, a thick carpet of snow lessened every inequality of
surface; it softened every hard outline, while it filled up
depressions. Sounding every step as he advanced, he trod slowly
upwards; plowing now and again into drifts waist-deep, staggering over
submerged bowlders and stony heaps whose unexpected existence would
often imperil his balance, he managed to climb considerably higher.
But his progress was necessarily slow. He kept as near as possible to
the rocky ridge which had sheltered him; for on his other hand the
ground sloped downwards in a steep gradient, and the treacherous snow
might well conceal many a deadly peril.
His strength was becoming exhausted by the severe strain of wading
through the deep drifts when, turning round a corner of the wall of
rock beside him, his eyes were gladdened by a welcome sight. Across
the expanse of snow he could see shining a tiny bright light. It was
no reflection from the moonbeams, for it burned with a reddish glow
amid the dazzling whiteness all around. His courage revived; he was
certainly not far from some habitation--perhaps the very one he sought!
The thought filled him with fresh vigor; his wearied limbs gained new
strength, and he climbed forward with energy and decision. But, alas!
in spite of his efforts, the light seemed to recede; it grew gradually
smaller and less bright until he lost sight of it altogether.
The man's powers of endurance were well-nigh spent. His food had been
eaten long before while he lay in shelter; his flask--more carefully
husbanded--was now empty. He almost gave up striving. Why not give
way to the almost uncontrollable desire to lie down and rest in the
snow? He could hold out no longer!
It was at that critical moment that through the intense stillness of
the mountain solitudes he heard the bark of a dog! Once more he picked
up courage. Staggering on a few steps further, he saw from behind an
intervening rock, which had concealed it till then, the light from a
window not far ahead!
All interest in his errand had departed long before. What did he care
if the mountain were full of illicit stills? The only desire that
possessed him now was that roused by the human instinct in every man in
peril of his life--the desire to escape from danger. Oh, for
sufficient strength to creep onwards! If he could but hold out a
little, shelter and warmth, and--above all--safety would be his! So
once again, wearily, painfully, and slowly, he plowed his way through
the drifts toward the beacon that shone ahead.
* * * * * *
Within the modest dwelling to which Davie Forbes was wont to refer as
his "hoosachie" (little house), on snow-clad Ben Sguarrach, the
living-room looked cosy enough on that wild evening. By the two
windows--one at the gable-end of the house, the other near the door--no
icy draught could enter, for both apertures were hermetically sealed!
All the ventilation deemed necessary during the daytime came through
the usually open door, by which Maggie Jean was continually passing in
and out, bent on domestic duties. (Like other Scottish housewives, she
carried out much of her rougher and dirtier housework in the open.) At
night, when work was over, the bright lamp and fire of glowing peat and
blazing logs kept the house warm and snug; the pungent "reek" from the
peat, too, acted as a healthy disinfectant.
Everything was scrupulously clean. The flagged floor, the deal table,
the dresser, with its shelves filled with crockery--all spoke of
frequent and thorough scrubbing. The high mantel-shelf bore brass
candlesticks--more for ornament than use--which had been polished till
they shone like gold. The very walls had been so often subjected to
Maggie Jean's whitewashing brush that they were spotless.
Under the overhanging ingle-nook, in which a ham or two were hanging
overhead, sat Davie in his own special corner and his own special
chair, calmly smoking; opposite sat Jock, a black-bearded man of sturdy
build, who was also smoking. Both were listening to Maggie Jean, who,
seated near her father, was reading in a monotonous voice the choice
extracts from a three-days-old local paper. Now and again, as the snow
beat more forcibly upon the window, or the wind moaned round the corner
of the house, or drove the peat reek in gusts into the room, she would
pause and glance anxiously through the uncurtained window near the
door. For Peter had gone down to the croft to bring back a bag of
turnips for her "coo" during this unforeseen spell of fierce weather.
The storm had come on suddenly, and provender was low; so Peter had
volunteered his services in his characteristically shy way (which a
southron, perhaps, would have taken for an indication of surliness),
and his sister, in equally characteristic Scottish fashion, had
accepted the offer with the air of one who had a right to it. Yet all
the while (I am sure, for I know the type well!) Peter was full of
tender compassion for the poor beast, and Maggie Jean's heart
overflowed with solicitude for her brother's safe return.
"Eh! But it's a fearfu' nicht, and nae mistak'!" old Davie would
exclaim, as the storm made itself felt more than usual.
"Aye, aye, it is thot," was Jock's imperturbable reply.
And Maggie Jean, with an anxious sigh, would resume her slow chant,
punctuated by occasional glances outside.
But a dash at the door from without, and Don's joyful barking, told of
the return of the dog and his master. Snow-clad Peter, with his
lantern, looking like some rustic Santa Claus--all white from head to
foot--made his appearance, and with much stamping and shaking off of
the snow from his garments, divested himself of his wraps, and joined
the family circle, pushing his way past Jock to the corner nearest the
fire, his dog following at his heels.
"Eh! But it's bin gey stormy!" he said as he filled his pipe.
"Nae doot o' thot!" hazarded Jock, solemnly sucking away at his.
"The sna's gey deep, I doot," remarked Davie interrogatively.
"Some o' the reefs is fower foot an' mair," answered Peter
nonchalantly, between puffs of smoke.
The announcement caused no visible surprise. Maggie Jean made a
diversion.
"It's fair noo," she said, glancing through the window, "and there's a
bonny moon!"
"Aye," responded Peter. "There's bin nae sna' this guid while."
The party had settled down to silent contemplation of the cheery fire,
the men enjoying their pipes, Maggie Jean busy with her knitting. No
sound disturbed the peaceful calm except the regular faint click of the
rapidly moving knitting-pins.
Suddenly there was a loud noise at the door. It was not so much a
knock as the fall of some heavy body against it. Don's startled bark
roused all from their seats, and Peter made for the door at once,
having first quieted the dog by the forcible argument of a
well-directed kick. "It's a mon," he cried in surprise as he opened
the door, "faint wi' the cauld!" And at once strong arms lifted the
prostrate form out of the snow and bore it to the warm hearthside.
It was a man--young and handsome. He was well dressed, and his thick
gloves, gaiters and strong boots, together with his warm clothing,
showed him to be not altogether unprovided against the cold whose
unusual potency had overcome him. He had evidently tramped for some
distance in deep snow, and gave proofs of more than one fall into the
drifts.
The men busied themselves in efforts for his restoration. Maggie Jean
produced whiskey, which they administered in small doses; Jock and
Peter drew off the man's sodden boots and socks, and chafed his hands
and feet in the warmth of the fire. Old Davie stood regarding the
stranger attentively during these proceedings.
"It's himsel', I doot," he remarked to Jock at last. "D'ye ken him?"
"Aye, aye," said Jock dispassionately. "I ken him fine. I see him in
the toon last market-day. It's himsel', sure enough!"
"Eh! Puir body!" exclaimed old Davie. "And mayhe the creetur wes on
his wye t' oor still."
"Nae doot o' thot," remarked Peter, while Jock wisely nodded assent.
"No' but what he'd find it gey hard to come up wi't in the sna' and
a'!" added the latter, in a tone of unrestrained congratulation.
They spoke in half-whispers, and never ceased their charitable
ministrations the while. Not a word passed on the subject again, for
in a few minutes the stranger had gained consciousness. He looked in a
puzzled way from one face to another, not realizing for the moment
where he was. Davie was the first to speak.
"The storm's bin ower muckle for ye, sir, I'm thinkin'," he said
kindly. "It's weel ye chanced to find y'r wye t' oor wee hoosachie.
It's nae muckle to be prood on; but it's better ner bein' ootside in
siclike weather, I doot!"
Bonar suddenly became aware of the identity of his hosts. He had no
doubt that this was Davie Forbes, whom he had come to spy upon and
denounce! But he was no coward, and quickly reassured himself that
duty alone had led him. Still, he was indebted to his enemies!
"I'm greatly obliged to you, indeed," he said with genuine gratitude.
"I probably owe my life to the good luck that led me to your door."
"Na, na, mon," replied Davie. "Ye've naething to thank us for. But
ye'll need a bit supper!" he added, as Bonar rose to his feet and
seemed about to prepare for departure. (He felt rather unsteady on his
legs, but go he must, as he assured himself resolutely.)
"Aye, sure!" cried Maggie Jean, seconding her father's hospitable
invitation. And without another word she produced from various hidden
receptacles tablecloth, knives and forks, bread, oatcake, butter,
cheese, and jam, with the rapidity of a conjurer--as the dazed Bonar
thought. Then down came a frying-pan, and she began to cook eggs and
ham over the bright fire.
It was impossible to resist, and Bonar had no wish to refuse the food
he needed so badly.
"You're very good, I'm sure!" he faltered out. "I really think it was
hunger alone that made me faint. I've never done such a thing in my
life before!"
"Ye'd be nane the worse for a wee drappie sperrits afore y'r supper,"
said Davie. "Peter, lad, fetch oot a drap frae yon jar beyont!"
Peter dutifully obeyed, retiring into some back recess and returning
with a small jug of whiskey, from which his father poured out drams for
the guest and himself.
"Y'r guid health, sir!" he said hospitably, lifting his glass. "May ye
be nane the worse for y'r wettin', the nicht!"
Bonar would have been less than human to have refused. He quietly
sipped his whiskey, which was excellent. The spirit gave him renewed
strength; the savor of Maggie Jean's cooking whetted his appetite. He
owed it to himself to take ordinary care of his health, he reasoned
interiorly. He would tell them who he was, though, before he left.
He had indeed been saved from serious disaster, if not from death, by
means of this family. Peter's lantern--which he had not troubled to
extinguish when the moon rendered it no longer necessary--had been
Bonar's first guiding-star. Don's bark had renewed his energy, and the
result was shelter and hospitality. Like a sensible man he accepted
the good fortune which had fallen to him, and ate a hearty meal.
When it came to the question of starting out again, he found it less
easy than he had anticipated.
"Ye'll nae think o' leavin' this hoose the nicht!" the old man
declared, when, after his supper and a pipe, Bonar touched on the
subject.
"It's an impossibeelity for ony mon as disna' ken the hill yon to find
his wye up or doon in siclike weather," Jock added grimly.
Bonar knew how true was Jock's remark. Nevertheless, he felt very
uncomfortable at the prospect of remaining there for the night, as
Davie had proposed. Did they know who he was? It seemed most
unlikely, with the kindness they had shown him! Yet he could not stay,
he told himself, under false pretences.
"It's more than kind of you to treat me like this," he said. "I could
never have expected such a friendly welcome to one who is a perfect
stranger to you all."
"Nae altogither a stranger, whateever," returned Davie--and for a
moment there was ever so slight a suspicion of a twinkle in his kindly
old eyes. "Ye're the new gauger we've haird sae muckle aboot, I'm
thinkin'."
"Quite so," stammered Bonar, rather shamefacedly, "and--it's really
very good of you to show me so much kindness."
"Na, na, sir," said the old man warmly. "I should be wantin' in human
feelin' if I wes to turn a dog oot sic a nicht--still mair a
fellow-creetur. Na, na, sir! Juist ye sit still, and Maggie Jean'll
redd up the bed for ye beyont for y'r nicht's rest!"
So in the smuggler's very house the smuggler's natural enemy was bound
to rest for the night, having been warmed at the smuggler's hearth and
cheered and invigorated by whiskey that had paid no duty!
It was with changed mien that Bonar trod his downward path next morning
under Peter's guidance.
Be sure he lost no time in applying for removal to a new sphere of
labor! Let others tackle Davie Forbes and his sons if they wished; as
for himself, he could never so repay the fearless generosity to which
he owed--as he firmly believed--the saving of his life!
VIII
PHENOMENA
"This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him."
(_"Hamlet" Act I, Sc. 1._)
Strolling across the little stableyard one day to have a look at Tim, our
pony, I heard from the open door of the kitchen Penny's voice, raised in
expostulation.
"_Ghost_, indeed!" And withering scorn was expressed in the very tone of
her ejaculation. "When you're my _h_age you'll have learned to take no
'eed of such nonsense! There's no such a thing; and I'm surprised as a
Catholic girl, born and bred, should be that superstitious! You mustn't
believe such rubbish!"
I scented entertainment, for Penny dogmatizing on spiritualism was likely
to prove interesting.
"What's up, Penny?" I inquired with an air of innocence, as she suddenly
emerged from the kitchen, wrathfully brandishing a huge knife--as who
should say, in Hamlet's words:
"I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!"
had she not been bent upon the more peaceful, if prosaic, slaughter of a
lettuce for the luncheon salad.
Penny was just in the mood to give vent to her theological opinions
concerning the possibility of visits from another world, and at once
seized the opportunity of imparting a little wholesome instruction to any
audience obtainable.
"The nonsense that folks get into their 'eads nowadays, Mr. Edmund--what
with these trashy novels and 'apenny papers--is something past belief!
Not but what Elsie is a good, quiet girl enough, and reg'lar at her
duties every first Sunday in the month; but she's young, and I suppose we
'ave to make allowance for young folk."
I murmured in token of acquiescence.
"I let her off for the afternoon yesterday, to take tea with her _h_aunt
from America, and back she comes with a cock-and-bull story of a
_h_apparition her youngest brother Aleck imagined he saw the night before
last."
"An apparition!" I cried. "That's strange! Where did the boy see it?"
"He couldn't have seen it, Mr. Edmund, as you must know very well, with
your _h_education and experience. He was running home in the moonlight
and thought he saw some figure in the old mill, which, of course, he says
must have been a ghost."
"A ghost at the old mill!" I laughed heartily myself at the notion. "It
couldn't have been poor old Archie. It's not like him to terrify his
neighbors in that way."
"I gave the girl a good talking to," continued Penny. (I did not doubt
it!) "'Read your Penny Catechism,' I said, 'and see how strong it is
against dealing with the Devil by consulting spiritualists, and don't let
me hear another word about it.'"
It seemed rather hard on poor Elsie, who was, beyond doubt, innocent of
any such forbidden practices. But I refrained from comment, for I wanted
to hear more about the _h_apparition.
But Penny could not be drawn out. She professed herself so disgusted at
Elsie's "superstition" that I could get no coherent account of what Aleck
was supposed to have seen. So I left her to vent her wrath on the
defenceless vegetables, and determined to seek a more copious source of
information.
Willy and Bell would be capable of second-hand descriptions only, so I
resolved to approach the fountain-head and interrogate Aleck in person.
I found the youth in the garden of Fanellan farm, evidently just passing
the time by a cursory pruning of berry bushes. He had on his Sunday
suit, and was unusually smartened up for a weekday; for it was but
natural that neighbors might be expected to drop in for information as to
the supernatural manifestations he had experienced, and it was well to be
prepared. He was a fresh-looking, fair-haired lad of eighteen or
thereabouts. I had often noticed him on Sundays among the gathering
under the pine-trees near the church door, but had never spoken to him.
Aleck had not expected so illustrious a visitor as "the priest's
brother," and, though evidently gratified by my interest, was so
painfully shy that it would have needed an expert barrister to draw out
any satisfactory information from so bashful a witness. Luckily his
mother had espied me from the window, and promptly appeared on the scene,
and by means of her judicious prompting the youth was induced to tell his
tale.
It appeared that Aleck was out on the night in question at the unusual
hour of twelve. He had been "bidden," as his mother explained, to a
marriage in the neighborhood, and his father had allowed him to accept
the invitation on the condition of his return home by midnight. As is
not unusual in such cases, the attractions of the dance had led the youth
to postpone his departure, minute by minute, until it was questionable
whether he could possibly reach home by the appointed time, even if he
ran his best. Consequently he took all the short cuts he knew, and one
of them led him by the old mill.
I was well aware, from an anecdote related to me by Penny, that John
Farquhar, the lad's father, was a stern disciplinarian. Elsie's elder
sister, Jean, a lass of nineteen, had once happened to return home from
confession rather later than usual one Saturday evening, owing to the
exceptionally large number awaiting their turn in the church. On
reaching home about half-past eight on a spring evening, she became aware
of her father standing in the dusk at the garden gate, holding an
ominously slender walking-stick in his hand. With this he proceeded to
deal several far from gentle strokes upon the girl's shoulders,
regardless of her frightened remonstrances and explanations.
"I dinna' care wha ye come frae, chaipel or nae chaipel; ye'll nae be
alloowed oot at sic an hoor!"
In the light of this circumstance it was not difficult to understand
Aleck's desire to reach Fanellan punctually. But to return to his
adventure.