Chapter Eleven.
Folding the Flock.
After the busiest week known in the island by anybody living there, the Sabbath-day came in, calm and mild. The winters, however stormy, were never severely cold in this sea-beaten spot. It was seldom that ice was seen; and it was never more than half an inch thick. When, as on this Sunday, the wind was lulled and the sky was clear, the climate was as mild as in spring on the mainland. As soon as the aspect of the sunrise showed the experienced that the day would be fair, busy hands moved into the old roofless chapel the pulpit and benches which the pastor had brought with him—the pulpit being a mere desk of unpainted wood, and the benches of the roughest sort. For these the interior space of the old building had been cleared during the week; the floor was trodden hard and even; the walls were so far repaired as to make a complete enclosure; and some rough stones were placed as steps whereby to enter the burying-ground. Some willing hands had done more—had cleared the burying-ground of stones, so that the graves, though sunk, and unmarked by any memorial but a rough and broken headstone here and there, could be distinguished by an eye interested in searching out the dead of a century ago.
Another week, if sufficiently fair, was to see the walls finished and the roof on: and afterwards would be discharged the pious task of enclosing the burying-ground, and preparing room for those whom death would lay to rest in their own island. While the minister remained here, no more of the dead would be carried over the sea to some place where there was a pastor to commit them to the grave. Room was to be secured for the graves of the fifty people who were now living on the island, and for their children after them: and to all the inhabitants the island appeared a better place when this arrangement was made.
In the weak sunlight of that Sunday morning appeared gay groups of people, all excited with the great thought that they were going to the kirk. They were wonderfully cell clad. How such clothes could come out of such dwellings would have been a marvel to any stranger. Festival days were so rare that a holiday dress lasted for many years. The women’s cloth coats fitted at any age; and the caps with gay ribbons and bright cotton handkerchiefs did not wear out. On this remarkable day all wore their best, and a pretty sight it was to see the whole fifty people drawing towards the chapel as the pastor, his wife, and two children, issued from their lowly abode to meet the flock for the first time.
Presently the island might have appeared deserted. Far round as the eye could reach not a human being was visible outside the chapel. But something was heard which told that the place was not only inhabited, but Christianised. The slow psalm rose into the still air. Everyone who could speak could sing a psalm. It was a practice lovingly kept up in every house. Some voices were tremulous, and a few failed; but this was from emotion. The strongest was Annie’s, for hers was the most practised. It was her wont to sing some of the many psalms she knew on summer days, when she sat at work on the platform of her house, and on winter nights, when Rollo was away. Now that she was once more joining in social worship, her soul was joyful, and she sang strong and clear—perhaps the more so for the thought of the one absent person, pining in the cavern on the shore, or looking from afar, in desolation of heart, at the little throng who came privileged to worship. Perhaps Annie’s voice might unconsciously rise as if to reach the lonely one, and invite her to come to the house of God and seek rest. However this might be, Annie’s tones so animated some hearts and strengthened some voices as that the psalm might be, and was, heard a long way off. It reached an unwilling ear, and drew forward reluctant steps. The links of old association, are, however, the strongest of chains, and no charm is so magical as that of religious emotion. Lady Carse was drawn nearer and nearer, in hope of hearing ano, her psalm, till the solemn tones of prayer reached her, and presently she was crouching under the wall outside, weeping like a sinner who dares not knock at the gate of heaven.
Before the service was quite finished, angry voices were heard from without, almost overpowering that of the pastor as he gave the blessing. One of Macdonald’s people, who had stepped out to collect the ponies for some of the women and children, had seen the lady, and, after one start back as from the ghost of a drowned woman, had laid hold of her gown, and said she must stay where she could be spoken with by Macdonald on his return from Skye. She struggled to escape, and did break away—not down the hill, but into the chapel.
The consternation was inexpressible. The people, supposing her drowned, took her for a ghost, though there was no ghostly calm about her; but her eyes were swollen, her hair disordered, her lips quivering with violent emotion. There was a solemnity about her, too; for extreme anguish is always solemn, in proportion as it approaches to despair. She rushed to the front of the pulpit, and held out her hands, exclaiming aloud to Mr Ruthven that she was the most persecuted and tormented of human beings; that she appealed to him against her persecutors; and if he did not see her righted, she warned him that he would be damned deeper than hell. Mrs Ruthven shuddered, and left her seat to place herself by her husband. And now she encountered the poor lady’s gaze, and, moreover, had her own grasped as it had never been before.
“Are these children yours?” she was asked.
“Yes,” faltered Mrs Ruthven.
“Then you must help me to recover mine. Had you ever,”—and here she turned to the pastor—“had you ever an enemy?” Her voice turned hoarse as she uttered the word.
“No—yes—Oh, yes!” said he. “I have had enemies, as every man has.”
“Then, as you wish them abased and tormented, you must help me to abase and torment mine—my husband, and Lord Lovat—”
“Lord Lovat!” repeated many wondering voices.
“And Sir Alexander Macdonald; and his tenant of this place; and—”
As Mr Ruthven looked round him, perplexed and amazed, one of Macdonald’s people went up to him, and whispered into his ear that this lady had come from some place above or below, for she was drowned last week. Mr Ruthven half smiled.
“I will know,” cried the lady, “what that fellow said. I will hear what my enemies tell you against me. My only hope is in you. I am stolen from Edinburgh; they pretended to bury me there— Eh? what?” she cried, as another man whispered something into the pastor’s other ear. “Mad! There! I heard it. I heard him say I was mad. Did he not tell you I was mad?”
“He did; and one cannot— really I cannot—”
As he looked round again in his perplexity, the widow rose from her seat, and said, “I know this lady; my son and I know her better than anyone else in the island does; and we should say that she is not mad.”
“Not mad!” Mr Ruthven said, with a mingling of surprise in his tone which did not escape the jealous ear of Lady Carse.
“Not mad, sir; but grievously oppressed. If you could quietly hear the story, sir, at a fitting time—”
“Ay, ay; that will be best,” declared Mr Ruthven.
“Let me go home with you,” said Lady Carse. “I will go home with you; and—”
Mrs Ruthven exchanged a glance with her husband, and then said, in an embarrassed way, while giving a hand to each of the two children who were clinging to her, that their house was very small, extremely small indeed, with too little room for the children, and none whatever left over.
“It is my house,” exclaimed Lady Carse, impatiently. “It was built with a view to you; but it was done under my orders, and I have a claim upon it. And what ails the children?” she cried, in a tone which made the younger cry aloud. “What are they afraid of?”
“I don’t know, I am sure,” said their mother, helping them, however, to hide their faces in her gown. “But—”
Again Annie rose and said, “There could be no difficulty about a place for the lady if she would be pleased to do as she did before—live in her cottage. The two dwellings might almost be called one, and if the lady would go home with her—”
Gratitude was showered on Annie from all the parties. As the lady moved slowly towards the widow’s house, holding Annie’s arm, and weeping as she went, and followed by the Ruthvens, the eyes of all the Macdonalds gazed after her, in a sort of doubt whether she were a witch, or a ghost, or really and truly a woman.
As soon as Macdonald’s sloop could be discerned on its approach the next day, Mr Ruthven went down, and paced the shore while daylight lasted, though assured that the vessel would not come up till night. As soon as a signal could be made in the morning for the yawl, he passed to the sloop, where he had a conference with Macdonald, the consequence of which was, that as soon as he was set ashore the sloop again stood out to sea.
Mrs Ruthven and Lady Carse saw this, as they stood hand in hand at the door of the new dwelling. They kissed each other at the sight. They had already kissed each other very often, for they called themselves dear and intimate friends who had now one great common object in life—to avenge Lady Carse’s wrongs.
“Well, what news?” they both cried, as Mr Ruthven came towards them, panting from the haste with which he had ascended.
“The tenant is gone back,” said he, “he has returned to Sir Alexander to contradict his last news—of your being drowned. By-the-way, I promised to contradict it, too—to the man who is watching for the body every tide.”
“Oh, he must have heard the facts from some of the people at the chapel.”
“If he had he would not believe them, Macdonald says, on any other authority than his. Nor will he leave his post till he finds the body, or—”
“Or sees me,” cried Lady Carse, laughing. “Come, let us go and call to him, and tell him he may leave off poking among the weeds. Come; I will show you the way.”
And she ran on with the spirits and pace of a girl. Mr and Mrs Ruthven looked at each other with smiles, and Mrs Ruthven exclaimed, “What a charming creature this was, and how shocking it was to think of her cruel fate.” Mr Ruthven shook his head and declared that he regarded the conduct of her persecutors with grave moral disapprobation. Meantime Lady Carse looked back, beckoned to them with her hand, and stamped with her foot, because they were stopping to talk.
“What a simple creature she is! So childlike!” exclaimed Mrs Ruthven.
“We must quicken our pace, my dear,” replied her husband. “It would not be right to detain the lady when she wishes to proceed.”
But now Lady Carse was beckoning to somebody else—to little Kate Ruthven, who, with her brother Adam, was peeping from the door of their new home.
“Come, Katie,” said her mother, “don’t you see that Lady Carse calls you? Bring Adam, and go with us.”
Kate turned very red, but did not come. Lady Carse came laughing back to fetch them; but they bolted into the house, and, when still pursued, scrambled under a bed. When caught, they screamed.
“Well, to be sure,” cried their mother; “what behaviour when a lady asks you to go with her! I declare I am quite ashamed.”
Papa now came up, and said—
“My dears, I do not approve such behaviour as this.”
Kate began to sob, and Adam followed her example.
“There, now, do not cry,” said papa; “I cannot permit you to cry. You may go with Lady Carse. Lady Carse is so kind as to wish you to go with her. You will like to go with the lady. Why do you not reply, my dears. You must reply when spoken to. You will like to go with the lady—eh?”
“No,” murmured Kate.
“No,” whispered Adam.
“I am astonished,” papa declared. “I never saw them conduct themselves in this manner before. Did you, my dear?”
“No; but it is an accident, I dare say. Something has put them out.”
“I must ascertain the cause, however,” papa declared. “Such an incident must not pass uncorrected. Listen to me, my dears, and answer me when I ask you a question. Look at this lady.”
Kate slowly lifted her eyes, and Adam then did the same. They seemed on the verge of another scream; and this was not extraordinary; for Lady Carse was not laughing now, but very far from it. There was something in her face that made the children catch at mamma’s gown.
“Listen to me, my dears,” papa went on; “and reply when I ask you a question. This good lady is going to live with us—”
A deeper plunge into the folds of mamma’s gown.
“And from this time forwards you must love this lady. You love this lady now, my dears, don’t you?”
After as long a pause as they dared make, the children said, “No.”
“Well, I never heard—!” exclaimed mamma.
“What can possess them?” inquired papa. “My dears, why do you not love the lady, eh,—Kate?”
“I don’t know,” said Kate.
“You don’t know?—That is foolish. Adam, why do you not love this lady who is to live with us? Do not tell me that you don’t know, for that is foolish. Why do you not love the lady?”
“Because I can’t.”
“Why, that is worse still. How perverse,” he said, looking at the ladies, “how perverse is the human heart. My dear, you can, and you must do what is right. You may love me and your mamma first, and next you must love this lady. Say you will try.”
“I’ll try,” said Kate.
Adam whimpered a little longer; but then he also said, “I’ll try.”
“That is right. That is the least you can say after your extraordinary behaviour. Now you may go with the lady, as she is so kind as to wish it.”
Lady Carse moved off in silence; and the children, tightly grasping each other’s hands, followed as if going to a funeral.
“Jump, my dears,” said papa, when they had reached the down. “Jump about: you may be merry now.”
Both looked as if they were immediately going to cry. “What now, Adam?” stooping down that the child might speak confidentially to him, but saying to Lady Carse as he did so, that it was necessary sometimes to condescend to the weakness of children. “Adam, tell me why you are not merry, when I assure you you may.”
“I can’t,” whispered Adam.
“You can’t! What a sudden fit of humility this boy has got, that he can’t do anything to-day. Unless, however, it be true, well-grounded humility, I fear—”
Mamma now tried what she could do. She saw, by Lady Carse’s way of walking on by herself, that she was displeased; and, under the inspiration of this grief, Mrs Ruthven so strove to make her children agreeable by causing them to forget everything disagreeable, that they were soon like themselves again. Mamma permitted them to look for hens’ eggs among the whins, because they had heard that when she was a little girl she used to look for them among bushes in a field. There was no occasion to tell them at such a critical moment for their spirits that it was mid-winter, or that whins would be found rather prickly by poultry, or that there were no hens in the island but Mrs Macdonald’s well sheltered pets. They were told that the first egg they found was to be presented to Lady Carse; and they themselves might divide the next.
Their mother’s hope, that if they did not find hens’ eggs, they might light upon something else, was not disappointed. Perhaps she took care that it should not. Adam found a barley-cake on the sheltered side of a bush; and it was not long before Kate found one just as good. They were desired to do with these what they would have done with the eggs—present one to Lady Carse and divide the other. As they were very hungry, they hastened to fulfil the condition of beginning to eat. Again grasping one another’s hands, they walked with desperate courage up to Lady Carse, and held out a cake, without yet daring, however, to look up.
“Well, what is that?” she asked sharply.
“A barley-cake.”
“Who bade you bring it to me?”
“Mamma.”
“You would not have brought it if mamma had not bid you?”
“No.”
“Allow me to suggest,” observed papa, “that they would not have ventured. It would be a liberty unbecoming their years to—”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried Lady Carse; “I hate these put-up manners. No, miss—no, young master—I will not take your cake. I take gifts only from those I love; and if you don’t love me, I don’t love you—and so there is a Rowland for your Oliver.”
The children did not know anything about Rowlands and Olivers; but they saw that the lady was very angry—so angry that they took to their heels, scampered away over the downs, and never stopped till they reached home, and had hidden themselves under the bed.
They were not followed. Punishment for their act of absconding was deferred till Lady Carse’s errand should be finished. When once down among the rocks, Lady Carse was eager to show her dear friends all the secrets of her late hiding. As soon as Macdonald’s watchman was convinced by the lady that she was not drowned, and by the minister that he might go home—as soon as he was fairly out of sight, the wonders of the caves were revealed to the pastor and his wife. The party were so interested in the anecdotes belonging to Lady Carse’s season of retreat, that they did not observe, sheltered as they were in eastern caves, that a storm was coming up from the west—one of the tempests which frequently rise from that quarter in the winter season, and break over the Western Islands.
The children were aware of it before their parents. When they found they were not followed, they soon grew tired of whispering under the bed, and came cautiously forth.
It was very dark, strangely dark, till a glare of lightning came, which was worse than the darkness. But the thunder was worse: it growled fearfully, so as to make them hold their breath. The next clap made them cry. After that cry came help.
The widow heard the wail from next door, and called to the children from her door; and glad enough were they to take refuge with a grown-up person who smiled and spoke cheerfully, in spite of the thunder.
“Are you not afraid of the thunder?” asked Kate, nestling so close to the widow that she was advised to take care lest the sharp bone knitting needles went into her eyes. “But are not you afraid of the thunder?”
“Oh, no!”
“Why?”
“Because I am not afraid of anything.”
“What, not of anything at all?”
“Not of anything at all. And there are many things much more harmful than thunder.”
“What things?”
“The wind is, perhaps, the most terrible of all.”
“How loud it is now!” said Adam, shivering as the rushing storm drowned his voice. When the gust had passed, the widow said, “It was not the wind that made all that noise, it was a dash of hail. Ah! if I do fear anything, it is large hail; not because it will hurt me, but because it may break my window, and let in the wind to blow out my lamp.”
“But why do not things hurt you? If the lightning was to kill you—”
“That would not hurt me,” said the widow, smiling. “I do not call that being hurt, more than dying in any other way that God pleases.”
“But if it did not kill you quite, but hurt you—hurt you very much indeed—burned you, or made you blind?”
“Then I should know that it was no hurt, but in some way a blessing, because the lightning comes from God. I always like to see it, because— There!” she said, as a vivid flash illumined the place. “Did you ever see anything so bright as that? How should we ever fancy the brightness of God’s throne, if He did not send us a single ray, now and then, in this manner—one single ray, which is as much as we can bear? I dare say you have heard it read in church how all things are God’s messengers, without any word being said about their hurting us,—‘fire and hail;’ here they are!”
When that gust was past, she went on, “‘Snow and vapour, stormy winds fulfilling His word.’ Here we are in the midst of the fire and the hail and the stormy winds. If we looked out, perhaps we might see the ‘snow and vapour.’”
The children did not seem to wish it.
“Then again,” the widow went on, “we are told that ‘He causeth His wind to blow, and the waters flow.’ I am sure I can show you that. I am sure the sea must have risen much already, before such a wind as this. Come!” she continued, wrapping her plaid round herself and the children; “keep close to me and you will not be cold. The cold has not come yet: and if we stand under the sheltered side of the house we shall not be blown. Hark! there is the roar of the waves when the thunder stops. Now we shall see how ‘He causeth His wind to blow and the waters flow.’”
She looked so cheerful and promised them such a sight, that they did not like to beg to stay within. Though the hail came pelting in gusts, there was no rain at present to wet them. The wind almost strangled them at the first moment; but they were under the eastern gable of the cottage in an instant, out of the force of the blast.
There they sat down, all huddled together; and there the children saw more than they had been promised.
The tempest had not yet reached Skye; and they could see, in the intervals of rolling clouds, mountain peaks glittering with snow.
“There is the snow!” said the widow. “And see the vapours!—the tumbling, rolling vapours that we call steam-clouds! Look how the lightning flash darts out of them! and how the sea seems swelling and boiling up to meet the vapours! A little way from the land, the wind catches the spray and carries it up and away. If the wind was now from the east, as it will be in spring, that spray would wash over us, and drench us to the skin in a minute.”
“What, up here?”
“Oh, yes, and higher still. There! Adam felt some then.” And well he might. The sea was now wrought into such tumult that its waves rolled in upon the rocks with tremendous force, causing the caverns to resound with the thundering shock, and the very summit of the precipices to vibrate. Every projection sent up columns of spray, the sprinklings of which reached the heights, bedewing the window of the cottage, and sending in the party under the gable.
“There now,” said the widow, when she had fed her fire, and sat down, “we have seen a fine sight to-day; and there will be more to-morrow.”
“Shall we see it to-morrow?”
“Oh, yes; if you like to come to me to-morrow, I think I can promise to show you the shore all black with weed thrown up by the storm, and, perhaps we may get some wood. These storms often cast up wood, sometimes even thick logs. We must not touch the logs; they belong to Sir Alexander Macdonald, but we may take the smaller pieces, those of us who can get down before other people have taken them away. If the minister is not aware of this, we must tell him, and the weeds will be good to manure his kail-bed, if he can find nothing better.”
“Will you go to-morrow and pick up some wood?”
“If I can get down alone; but I cannot climb up and down as I used to do. I will show you something prettier than wood or weed that I picked up, after one of these storms, when I was younger.” And she took out of her chest three shells, one very large and handsome, which had been cast upon the western shore some years before. Adam thought this so beautiful that he begged to have it; but the widow could not give it away. She told him she must keep it for a particular reason; but he could see it whenever lie liked to come to her for the purpose.
But Adam thought he might pick up such an one himself, if he could go to-morrow to the western shore; and his friend could not say that this was impossible. Oh! then, would she not go and show him the way? Would she not try if he and Kate helped her with all their strength? They were very strong. If she would stand up they would show her how strong they were. She stood up, and they tried to carry her. Their faces were exceedingly red, and they were very near lifting up their friend, and she was laughing and wondering whether they could carry her down the rocks in that way, when the door burst open and Lady Carse appeared.
“The children must come home,” said she to Annie; “they have no business here.”
“I called them in, my lady, when the thunder frightened them.”
“They should not have come. They should have told you that they were under their parents’ displeasure.”
All now looked grave enough. The children stole away home, skilfully avoiding taking hold of the lady’s offered hands. She pulled the door after her in no gentle manner. She did not much care whether the children were fond of her; but it was somehow disagreeable to her that they should be happy with her next-door neighbour.