Alec too lay awake and listened to the untiring rain. Weary of the
house, he had made use of the missionar kirk to get out of it, and had
been one of Mr Turnbull's congregation that night. Partly because his
mind was unoccupied by any fear from without, for he only laughed at
the prophecy, something in that sermon touched him deeper than any one
else in the place perhaps, awoke some old feelings of responsibility
that had been slumbering for a long time, and made him reflect upon an
unquestioned article of his creed--the eternal loss and misery and
torture of the soul that did not repent and believe. At the same time,
what repentance and belief really meant--what he had to do first--he
did not know. All he seemed to know was that he was at that moment in
imminent danger of eternal damnation. And he lay thinking about this
while the rain kept pouring upon the roof out of the thick night
overhead, and the Glamour kept sweeping by through the darkness to the
sea. He grew troubled, and when at last he fell asleep, he dreamed
frightfully.
When he woke, it was a dull morning, full of mist and rain. His dreams
had fled even from his memory, but had left a sense of grievous
discomfort. He rose and looked out of the window. The Glamour spread
out and rushed on like the torrent of a sea forsaking its old bed. Down
its course swept many dark objects, which he was too far off to
distinguish. He dressed himself, and went down to its edge--not its
bank: that lay far within and far beneath its torrent. The water,
outspread where it ought not to be, seemed to separate him from the
opposite country by an impassable gulf of space, a visible
infinitude--a vague marvel of waters. Past him swept trees torn up by
the roots. Down below, where he could not see, stones were rolling
along the channel. On the surface, sheaves and trees went floating by.
Then a cart with a drowned horse between the shafts, heaved past in the
central roll of the water. Next came something he could not understand
at first. It was a great water-wheel. This made him think of the mill,
and he hurried off to see what the miller was doing.
Truffey went stumping through the rain and the streams to the morning
school. Gladly would he have waited on the bridge, which he had to
cross on his way, to look at the water instead. But the master would be
there, and Truffey would not be absent. When Mr Malison came, Truffey
was standing in the rain waiting for him. Not another boy was there. He
sent him home. And Truffey went back to the bridge over the Glamour,
and there stood watching the awful river.
Mr Malison sped away westward towards the Wan Water. On his way he
found many groups of the inhabitants going in the same direction. The
bed of the Wan Water was here considerably higher than that of the
Glamour, although by a rapid descent it reached the same level a couple
of miles below the town. But its waters had never, to the knowledge of
any of the inhabitants, risen so high as to surmount the ridge on the
other slope of which the town was built. Consequently they had never
invaded the streets. But now people said the Wan Water would be down
upon them in the course of an hour or two, when Glamerton would be in
the heart of a torrent, for the two rivers would be one. So instead of
going to school, all the boys had gone to look, and the master followed
them. Nor was the fear without foundation; for the stream was still
rising, and a foot more would overtop the ground between it and the
Glamour.
But while the excited crowd of his townsmen stood in the middle of a
stubble-field, watching the progress of the enemy at their feet, Robert
Bruce was busy in his cellar preparing for its reception. He could not
move his cask of sugar without help, and there was none of that to be
had. Therefore he was now, in his shirt-sleeves, carrying the sugar up
the cellar-stairs in the coal-scuttle, while Mrs Bruce, in a condition
very unfit for such efforts, went toiling behind him with the
_meal-bossie_ filled far beyond the brim. As soon as he had finished
his task, he hurried off to join the watchers of the water.
James Johnstone's workshop was not far from the Glamour. When he went
into it that morning, he found the treadles under water, and thought he
had better give himself _the play_.
"I'll jist tak a daun'er (stroll) doon to the brig to see the spate
gang by," he said to himself, and, putting on his grandfather's hat,
went out into the rain.
As he came near the bridge, he saw cripple Truffey leaning over the
parapet with horror-stricken looks. The next moment he bounded to his
one foot and his crutch, and _spanged_ over the bridge as if he had
been gifted with six legs.
When James reached the parapet, he could see nothing to account for the
terror and eagerness in Truffey's pale face, nor for his precipitate
flight. But being short-sighted and inquisitive, he set off after
Truffey as fast as the dignity proper to an elderly weaver and a deacon
of the missionars would permit.
As Alec came near the mill he saw two men standing together on the
verge of the brown torrent which separated them from it. They were the
miller--the same whose millstone Curly had broken by shutting down the
sluice--and Thomas Crann, the latest architect employed about the
building. Thomas had been up all night, wandering hither and thither
along the shore of the Wan Water, sorely troubled about Glamerton and
its careless people. Towards morning he had found himself in the town
again, and, crossing the Glamour, had wandered up the side of the
water, and so come upon the sleepless miller contemplating his mill in
the embrace of the torrent.
"Ye maun alloo it's _hard_, Thamas," said the miller.
"_Hard_?" retorted Thomas with indignation. "Hoo daur ye say sic a
thing! Here hae ye been stickin' yer bit water-wheel i' the mids o' ane
o' the Lord's burns, and the Lord has ca'd it roon and roon for you and
yer forbears aboon a hunner yer, and ye've grun' yer breid oot o' 't,
and the breid o' yer bairns, and noo whan it's i' the Lord's gait, and
he maun hae mair room to sen' doon the waters frae his hills, ye
grummle an' compleen at the spate that's been foreordeen't frae the
verra black mirk o' eternity. What wad ye think o' a bairn gaein'
compleenin' o' you 'cause your backwater had ta'en awa' his wheelie o'
rashes, whaur it was whurlin' bonnie afore ye liftit the sluice?"
Thomas's zeal had exposed him to the discomfiture of those who, if they
do not actually tell lies for God, yet use very bad arguments for him.
The miller rejoined:
"You or me, Thomas, wad see bairnie an' wheelie alike safe, afore we
liftit the sluice. The Lord _micht_ hae managed ohn ta'en awa' my
mull."
"Yer mull's nae doon the water yet, Simon. It's in some extremity, I
confess; but whether it's to be life or deith, none kens but ane. Gang
hame, man, and gang doon upo' yer knees, and pray."
"Pray to God aboot an auld meal-mull?" said Simon with indignation.
"'Deed, I winna be sae ill-bred."
And so saying, he turned and went home, leaving Thomas muttering--
"Gin a body wad pray aboot onything, they micht, maybe, tak' a likin'
till 't. A prayer may do a body guid whan it's no jist o' the kin' to
be a'thegither acceptable to the min' o' the Almichty. But I doobt his
ear's gleg for ony prayer that gangs up his gait."
The last two sentences were spoken aloud as he shook hands with Alec,
of whose presence he had been aware from the first, although he had
taken no notice of his arrival.
Before another word was uttered, their attention was attracted by a
large mass floating down the river.
"What's that, Thomas?" said Alec. "I houp it winna tak' awa' the brig."
He meant the wooden bridge a few hundred yards below them, which,
inaccessible from either side, was now very little above the level of
the water.
"It's jist the riggin' o' some cottar's bit hoosie," answered Thomas.
"What's come o' them that was aneath it, the Lord only kens. The
water's jist liftit the roof bodily. There it gangs--throu' aneath the
brig.--The brig's doon. It's no doon.--It's stan'in' yet.--But the puir
fowk, Alec!--Eh, gin they warna preparet! Think o' that, Alec."
"I houp they wan oot," answered Alec.
"Houps are feckless things, Alec," returned Thomas, censoriously.
But the talk was turned into another channel by the appearance--a few
ridges off--for they were standing in a field--of Truffey, who, with
frantic efforts to get on, made but little speed, so deep did his
crutch sink in the soaked earth. He had to pull it out at every step,
and seemed mad in his foiled anxiety to reach them. He tried to shout,
but nothing was heard beyond a crow like that of a hoarse chicken. Alec
started off to meet him, but just as he reached him his crutch broke in
the earth, and he fell and lay unable to speak a word. With slow and
ponderous arrival, Thomas Crann came up.
"Annie Anderson!" panted out Truffey at length.
"What aboot _her_?" said both in alarm.
"Tibbie Dyster!" sobbed Truffey in reply.
"Here's Jeames Johnstone!" said Thomas; "he'll tell's a' aboot it."
He surmised the facts, but waited in painful expectation of assurance
from the deacon, who came slipping and sliding along the wet ridges.
"What's this?" he cried fiercely, as James came within hearing.
"What is't?" returned the weaver eagerly.
If Thomas had been a swearing man, what a terrible oath he would have
sworn in the wrath which this response of the weaver roused in his
apprehensive soul! But Truffey was again trying to speak, and with a
"Be ashamed o' yersel', Jeames Johnstone," the mason bent his ear to
listen.
"They'll be droont. They'll be taen awa. They canna win oot."
Thomas and Alec turned and stared at each other.
"The boat!" gasped Thomas.
Alec made no reply. That was a terrible water to look at. And the boat
was small.
"Can ye guide it, Alec?" said Thomas, his voice trembling, and the
muscles of his face working.
The terrors of the night had returned upon Alec. Would the boat live?
Was there more than a chance? And if she went down, was he not damned
for ever? He made no reply. He was afraid.
"Alec!" shouted Thomas, in a voice that might have been heard across
the roar of the Glamour, "Will ye lat the women droon?"
"Thomas," answered Alec, meekly, trembling from head to foot, "gin I
gang to the boddom, I gang to hell."
"Better be damned, doin' the will o' God, than saved doin' noathing!"
said Thomas.
The blood shot into Alec's face. He turned and ran.
"Thomas," said James Johnstone, with shy interposition, laying his
forefinger upon the stonemason's broad chest, "hae ye considered what
ye're drivin' the young man till?"
"Ay, weel eneuch, Jeames Johnstone. Ye're ane o' thae mealy-mou'd
frien's that like a man sae wel they wad raither hae him gang wi' his
back to the pleuch, nor ca't i' the face o' a cauld win'. I wad raither
see my frein' hangt nor see him deserve hangin'. Haud awa' wi' ye. Gin
he disna gang, I'll gang mysel', an' I never was in a boat i' my life."
"Come awa, Thomas," cried Alec, already across three or four ridges; "I
canna carry her my lane."
Thomas followed as fast as he could, but before he reached the barn, he
met Alec and one of the farm-servants, with the boat on their
shoulders.
It was a short way to the water. They had her afloat in a few minutes,
below the footbridge. At the edge the water was as still as a pond.
Alec seized the oars, and the men shoved him off.
"Pray, Alec," shouted Thomas.
"I haena time. Pray yersel'," shouted Alec in reply, and gave a stroke
that shot him far towards the current. Before he reached it, he shifted
his seat, and sat facing the bows. There was little need for pulling,
nor was there much fear of being overtaken by any floating mass, while
there was great necessity for looking out ahead. The moment Thomas saw
the boat laid hold of by the current, he turned his back to the
Glamour, fell upon his knees in the grass, and cried in an agony:
"Lord, let not the curse o' the widow and the childless be upo' me,
Thomas Crann."
Thereafter he was silent.
Johnstone and the farm-lad ran down the river-side. Truffey had started
for the bridge again, having tied up his crutch with a string. Thomas
remained kneeling, with his arms stretched out as stiff as the poles of
a scaffold, and the joints of his clasped fingers buried in the roots
of the grass. The stone piers of the wooden bridge fell into the water
with a rush, but he never heard it. The bridge floated past him bodily,
but his back was towards it. Like a wretch in sanctuary, he dared not
leave "the footstool of grace," or expose himself to the inroads of the
visible world around him, by opening his eyes.
Alec did not find it so hard as he had expected to keep his boat from
capsizing. But the rapidity with which the banks swept past him was
frightful. The cottage lay on the other side of the Glamour, lower
down, and all that he had to do for a while, was to keep the bows of
his boat down the stream. When he approached the cottage, he drew a
little out of the centre of the current, which, confined within rising
ground, was here fiercer than anywhere above. But out of the current he
could not go; for the cottage lay between the channel of the river and
the mill-race. Except for its relation, however, to the bridge behind
it, which he saw crowded with anxious spectators, he would not have
known where it ought to be--so much was the aspect of everything
altered. He could see that the water was more than half way up the
door, right at which he had resolved to send his boat. He was doubtful
whether the doorway was wide enough to let it through, but he saw no
other way of doing. He hoped his momentum would be sufficient to force
the door open, or, better still, to carry away the posts, and give him
more room. If he failed no doubt the boat would be in danger, but he
would not make any further resolutions, till action, becoming absolute,
should reveal the nature of its own necessity. As he drew near his
mark, therefore, he resumed the seat of a rower, kept taking good aim
at the door, gave a few vigorous pulls, and unshipping his oars, bent
his head forward from the shock. Bang went the _Bonnie Annie_; away
went door and posts; and the lintel came down on Alec's shoulders.
But I will now tell how the night had passed with Tibbie and Annie.