Chapter Nine.
The “Snowbird” at Anchor—Preparations for Departure—Farewell to the Land of the Rock and the Wild Wood.
The Snowbird lay at anchor in the lake, not far from the creek where the cutter used to swing, and just beneath the birch-clad braes of Arrandoon. A steady breeze was blowing from the west-sou’-west, a breeze that made the landsman’s heart glad. It was a balmy wind and a drying wind—a wind that chased away the winter from the glens, that breathed encouragement to the green and tender corn peeping shyly up from the brown earth; a wind that went sighing through the woods, and whispered to the trees that spring had come; ay, and a breeze that rejoiced the heart of the sailor; a breeze he liked to stand against, and feel, and wave his arms in, as he gazed skywards, and longed to be “up anchor and away.”
And the saucy Snowbird never felt a bit more saucy than she did that morning. She felt impatient, and she showed it, too, in many little ways. She pulled and “titted,” as Ap phrased it, at her anchor; she bent forwards and she bent sternwards; then she would roll, perhaps once to port and twice to starboard, or vice versâ, as the thought struck her; then she would positively stop steady for a few moments, as if listening for an order.
“What can the captain be thinking about?” she seemed to say. “Why don’t they hoist the Blue Peter? Oh! shouldn’t I like to spread my wings in this beautiful wind and be off!”
But we must leave the Snowbird to herself for a little while, impatient though she be, and pay a visit to the castle, from the higher windows of which the yacht could be seen, both masts and hull. Had we come here about two weeks ago, we would have found a great deal of bustle and stir going on, especially among the female portion of the establishment, for Mrs McGregor and her gentle daughter Helen had, with the help of their maids, undertaken the superintendence not only of the upholstering and decoration of the cabins and staterooms of the Snowbird, but of all the purely domestic arrangements therein. This had cost them months of work, and entailed besides a great many journeys, not only to Inverness, but to Glasgow itself. The duties they had undertaken had been instigated by love, and they were not without good results to the performers. They had kept them from thinking. An only son and an only brother, Allan had never been very far away from home as yet, and it is needless to say that he was very dearly loved indeed. But now that he was to leave his home and leave his country, and to journey far over the sea, to lands unknown, where dangers were to be encountered, the nature of which could hardly be guessed at, or even dreamt of, it is no wonder that his mother and sister felt sad and sorrowful as the time drew near for parting.
Ah! these partings, reader! Surely one of the joys of heaven will be to think we never again will have to breathe the painful word “Farewell.”
And the Snowbird was now ready for sea; all was done to her, inside and out, that could be done. Even the crew were on board, and, as soon as Ralph should return with his father from the south, they would weigh anchor, and the cruise would be begun in earnest. If I were to analyse the feelings uppermost in Mrs McGregor’s mind at this time, I should find sorrow without doubt, but no regrets at granting her boy permission to roam over sea and land for a year or two. Why, she reasoned, should not she suffer bereavement for a little while as well as many other mothers, when it would be for Allan’s advantage and good? So her sadness never found vent in tears—at least nobody ever saw them. She went about as cheerfully, to all appearance, as before, only—and this Allan felt and knew—she tried now to have her boy near her as often as she could. Helen was less brave. Helen was but a girl, little more than a child, and if the truth must be told, she very often cried herself to sleep of nights. Her mother used to find the pillow wet in the morning, and well knew the cause.
But there was one thing they both could do—they could pray. And what a comfort that was! Oh! what a weary, dreary wilderness this world of ours would be if this power of praying were denied us, if we could not appeal in times of grief or danger to our kind Friend, who is nigh us everywhere, whether we are at peace and at home, or amidst the din and strife of battle, or far away at sea, fighting for life ’mid billows and tempest. I myself have travelled much and far, and I have oftentimes had reason to thank Him who gave me a mother who taught me to pray.