Chapter Twenty Three.
The Wanderer’s Return.
“Dear land of my birth, far from thee have I been,
By streamlets so flowery and valleys so green,
In vain seeking fortune; but still as of yore
The home of my heart is the Vale of Strathmore.”
Old Scottish Song.
Scene: Sunset on the sea. So close to the ocean is the old castle built that, looking from the window which almost overhangs it, nothing else can be seen but the golden-tipped waves, golden-tipped even to the far-off horizon, and breaking with pleasing murmur on the beach beneath. The mountains that rise inland from the castle are either wholly green, or patched with purple heather. In a room overlooking the sea, in high-backed cushioned chair, sits a lady,—but little past the prime of life, perhaps, though her hair is like the snow. Her face is very pleasant to behold, so calm and resigned is it. Near her on a stool a maid is reading to her.
“I think now, Mary,” said the lady at last, “it is time to order tea.”
Mary, a modest, wee Highland maiden, rose, and quietly retired.
As she opened the door a great black-as-jet Newfoundland came bounding in, all white teeth and eager eyes. He went straight away, and placed his head on his mistress’s lap, and was gently caressed.
“Where have you been, Bran?” she said. “Not in the sea at this time of night? But you do go in sometimes later, you know, and then hie away to the kitchen, sly dog, to get your coat dried before you come to see me.”
Mary tapped at the door and entered. Her face was bright with pleasure.
“Oh! Mrs McGregor,” she said, “Mr Smith has come by steamer from Oban!”
Mrs McGregor’s face assumed an expression of great seriousness.
“Oh!” she cried, “I trust it is no bad news he brings about my brother.”
“No, no,” the girl hastened to say; “he bade me tell you it was all a visit of pleasure. I showed him to the old room, and he will be here in a few minutes.”
Mr Smith, I may tell the reader, was family solicitor to Mrs McGregor’s brother, in whose house she had resided since her husband’s death. The solicitor lived in London, but not unfrequently ran down to enjoy the sea or the land sport, so easily obtained in this lone but lovely isle of the Hebrides.
“Surprised to see me, Mrs McGregor?” said the gentleman, as he shook hands and sat down. “Hope I didn’t frighten you much? Just ran down from town to get a mouthful of sea-air. Been rather overworked of late. Tea, did you say? Yes, with pleasure, but Mary must really bring me something substantial to go along with it. My journey has made me hungry.”
“And you have seen my brother?”
“Only two days ago, and he is looking hale and hearty, and hopes to return in a week.”
“Well, Mr Smith, you must stay here till he returns.”
“It is doubtful if I can; business, you know, business. What a lovely sunset, to be sure! Bodes a fine day to-morrow I should think.”
“You seem happy, Mr Smith?”
“I feel as fresh as a daisy.”
“And yet, but a minute ago, you hinted at being fagged by over-work.”
“Oh!” replied the solicitor, shaking his head, “that was before I left town. Bless you, madam, two gulps of Highland air set me on my legs again at any time.”
The two chatted very pleasantly together over the evening meal; but towards the end of it Mr Smith managed adroitly to turn the conversation to bygone times.
“I seem to sadden you though,” he said.
“Oh! no: I’m resigned to everything now. My time will not be very long, and I know the good God in whom I trust has done all for the best. But the loss of my son was a great blow; then my husband’s death.”
“Why, Mrs McGregor, do you make that distinction? You talk of your husband’s death, but always speak of poor Harvey’s loss.”
“Because, Mr Smith, I saw my husband die; my son went away, and ah! foolish though it may be, I cherish half a hope he may yet return to close his mother’s eyes.”
“Well, well, I daresay stranger things may have happened,” said the solicitor, thoughtfully looking and pretending to read a fortune in the grounds of his tea-cup.
Now, the fact is, that no sooner had Harvey McGregor left Mr Steve’s than he had hurried up to town, and called on Mr Smith, the only man-at-law he knew. He speedily convinced that gentleman of his identity, and got his mother’s address. Heedless Harvey would have hurried away home—as he called it—at once, but wise Mr Smith would not hear of it.
“Come a day after me,” he had advised. “I’ll go down and break the news, for, don’t you know, my boy, that joy can kill?”
Hence Mr Smith’s present visit to the old castle.
“Whose fortune are you trying to read in that tea-cup?” said Mrs McGregor, with a strange ring in her voice, a strange sparkle in her eye. “Give me the cup,” she added.
She turned it round and round.
“I see,” she said; “my boy’s barques sailing everywhere over the world. Sometimes they are wrecked, but he is never drowned. I see the prows of these ships pointing everywhere, but never homeward. My boy is proud. Ah I at last here comes one, and my boy, my boy is in it!”
She almost dashed down the cup as she spoke, and sprang to her feet. “Smith,” she cried, “you cannot deceive me; there is something in my breast, born of a mother’s love, that tells me Harvey has come.”
Mr Smith hummed and haa’ed, as the saying is, and muttered something about a letter.
“No, no, no,” she cried; “you only thought you ought to break the news gently to me, but I saw strange joy in your eye as soon as you entered. Now, dear Mr Smith, I appreciate all your kindness, but you see I can bear joy as well as grief. Tell me all about it.”
And the solicitor did so. At the conclusion she took out her handkerchief, and sobbed just a little.
Then she abruptly rose and left the room.
Mr Smith said never a word. He knew she had gone to pray.
Next evening they were seated together—mother and son—mother and “prodigal son,” as Harvey would persist in calling himself.
Mr Smith respected their feelings. He went away to fish, and did not return till dinner-time.
But that evening the trio had much to talk about, many business matters to discuss.
“Alva shall return to its rightful owner,” exclaimed Mr Smith. “I’m determined on that, if Steve were nineteen times an American millionaire. It was sold for half, nay, but fourth its value. It was sold to pay London debts of honour forsooth. Turf and otherwise. Bah! The money shall be raised to repay Mr Steve, and out he shall go, as sure as I belong to the great family of Smith. I’ll employ London counsel that will astonish him. You’ll see I’ll do it. Can and shall. And I won’t let the grass grow under my feet either.”
Nor did the worthy solicitor.
He started for London the very next day, leaving Harvey and his mother alone.
Harvey felt, and almost looked, a boy again. He had so much to speak about, so much to tell of his hard adventurous life in search of fortune; and it is so pleasant to be listened to by one who loves you! No wonder Harvey McGregor felt happy. All the past blotted out and forgiven, all the future as hopeful as the past had been dark and oftentimes dismal.
With many, if not most, of his adventures, the reader is already familiar, but of his voyage home from New York I have said nothing.
Harvey then was possessed of some little money, and this he determined to convey home on his person. He might have had bills of exchange, but he was but little conversant with such aids to the transaction of business. Would he take it in gold and wear it in a waist-belt round his body? He was too old a sailor to do any such thing. For in event of being cast into the water he knew well that nothing sinks a man sooner than gold. It is the greed of gold, by the way, that sinks men on shore.
But Harvey knew the sight and feel of a crisp Bank of England note. He got these and sewed them into a waterproof bag, and this he put into a waist-belt, which he wore by night and by day.
He worked his passage home. He was no idler, and preferred work to play.
The vessel was a sailing ship, not a steamer, and bound for Glasgow. With fair winds she would fly across the wide Atlantic. And oh! how wide the Atlantic does seem to those who are homeward bound, I for one can tell from experience!
The winds were fair for a time; then they became baffling.
Often the Marianne, as she was called, had to lie to for days in a gale of wind; then fair weather would come again and all would be life and joy, fore and aft. Then round the wind would chop once more, and the sea wax fretful, angry, vicious, hitting the poor ship such vengeful blows, that she bent her head, and reeled and creaked in every timber.
Well, such is a seaman’s life in a sailing ship at almost any time, and Harvey would not have minded it a bit, only he was going home, and every day was precious.
Near the coast at long last. They would (d.v.) round the Mull of Cantyre in another day, then hurrah! and hurrah! for the beautiful Clyde.
But all at once the weather waxed dark and stormy, and the wind headed round. The glass came tumbling down, and at sunset things looked black and serious.
How the waves did dash and beat to be sure, and how the wind did rave and roar through the rigging and shrouds!
There was just a morsel of a moon, but it was seldom seen for the black drifting clouds. It must be nigh midnight, thought those storm-tossed sailors. All hands were on deck. No bells were struck, nor could a watch be looked at. Suddenly, during a temporary gleam of moonlight, a blacker cloud than any yet seen appeared on the horizon. Every old sailor knew what that cloud was—a wall of beetling cliffs.
“Ready about?”
Yes, but it was too late. Next moment she had struck with fearful violence, and reeling back tottered and began to sink.
Boat after boat was lowered, only to be smashed to pieces.
One was safely got away from the sinking ship, and steered for lights they could see to the left. A signal was fired. A blue light burned. Lights were seen waving on shore as if to encourage them.
They are close in shore, among the awful surf. Can they do it? The night got clearer far now. There was a good show of moonlight on the water and the light from the foam itself. When it seemed as almost impossible the boat could reach the shore, a dozen hardy fishermen rushed into the sea, the painter was thrown to them and grasped, and next moment they were safe, though wholly exhausted.
Morning broke immediately after, showing how much they had been mistaken in thinking it but midnight when the vessel struck. But time flies quickly, even in danger, when one is busy.
The shipwrecked men—the few saved—were kindly cared for. Harvey found himself inside a curious and humble dwelling, tended by the funniest little old man he had ever seen. The house was made out of a boat. The funny little old man was our old friend Duncan Reed.
Duncan, next day, told him a wondrous deal about the glen and about Kenneth’s old friends, all of which were duly chronicled in Harvey’s mind, and in due time found their way in writing to his comrades beyond the sea.
They say that possession is nine points of the law; this does not hold good, however, in the case, say, of a thief being caught with a dozen silver spoons in his pocket.
“Might is right” is another common saying, but neither the might of wealth nor the fact of his being in possession of the Alva estate prevented Mr Steve, the millionaire, having finally to leave it.
When the news of McGregor’s success came, the rejoicing in the clachan and the glens was such as had never been remembered before. Bonfires blazed on every hill. Lads and lasses danced, old men wrung each other by the hands, and old wives wept for joy.
Old Duncan is even reported to have danced a hornpipe.
Poor Duncan! he was offered a kindly home at the mansion of Alva.
“It is mindful of you, sir,” old Duncan replied, “but out o’ sight of the sea, out o’ hearin’ o’ the waves, Duncan wouldna live a week. I’ll lay my bones beside her soon.”