“Eh, my Colin, I canna see my Colin,” said the mistress of Ramore; but they led her away into the nearest cottage, notwithstanding her reluctance. There they all stood clustering at the window, aiding the eyes which had failed her in her weakness. Colin’s mother sat silent in the chair where they had placed her, trembling and rocking herself to and fro. Her heart within her was praying and crying for the boys—the two boys whom in this moment of confused anxiety she could not separate—her own first-born, and the stranger who was “another woman’s bairn.” God help all women and mothers!—though Colin was safe, what could her heart do but break at the thought of the sudden calamity which had shut out the sunshine from another. She rocked herself to and fro, ceasing at last to hear what they said to her, and scarcely aware of anything except the dull clank of the oars against the boat’s side; somebody coming or going, she knew not which—always coming or going—never bringing certain news which was lost and which saved.
The mistress of Ramore was still in this stupor of anxiety, when young Harry Frankland, dripping and all but insensible, was carried into Dugald Macfarlane’s cottage. The little room became dark instantly with such a cloud of men that it was difficult to make out how he had been saved, or if there was indeed any life left in the lad. But Dugald Macfarlane’s wife, who had the ferry-boat at Struan, and understood about drowning, had bestirred herself in the meantime, and had hot blankets and other necessaries in the inner room where big Colin Campbell carried the boy. Then all the men about burst at once into the narrative. “If it hadna been for little Colin o’ Ramore”—was about all Mrs. Campbell made out of the tale. The cottage was so thronged that there was scarcely an entrance left for the doctor and Sir Thomas who had both been summoned by anxious messengers. By this time the storm had come down upon the loch, and a wild sudden tempest of rain was sweeping black across hill and water, obliterating every line of the landscape. Half-way across, playing on the surface of the water was a bit of spar with a scarlet rag attached to it, which made a great show glistening over the black waves. This was all that was visible of the pleasure-boat in which the young stranger had been bounding along so pleasantly an hour before. The neighbours dropped off gradually, dispersing to other adjacent houses to talk over the incident, or pushing homeward with an indifference to the storm that was natural to the dwellers on the Holy Loch; and it was only when she was left alone, waiting for her husband, who was in the inner room with Sir Thomas and the saved boy, that Mrs. Campbell perceived Colin’s bashful face gleaming in furtively at the open door.
“It’s no so wet as it was; come away, mother, now,” said Colin, “there’s nae fears o’ him?” And the lad pointed half with an assertion, half with an inquiry, towards the inner room. It was an unlucky moment for the shy hero, for just then big Colin of Ramore appeared with Sir Thomas at the door.
“This is the boy that saved my son,” said Harry’s father. “You are a brave fellow; neither he nor I will ever forget it. Let me know if there is anything I can serve you in, and to the best of my power I will help you as you have helped me. What does he say?”
“I say,” said Colin the younger, with fierce blushes, “that it wasna me. I’ve done naething to be thanked for. Yon fellow swims like a fish, and he saved himsel.”
And then there came an answering voice from the inner room—a boy’s voice subdued out of its natural falsetto into feminine tones of weakness, “He’s telling a lie, that fellow there,” cried the other from his bed; “he picked me up when I was about done for. I’ll fight him if he likes as soon as I’m able. But that’s a lie he tells you; that’s him—that Campbell fellow there.”
Upon which young Colin of Ramore clenched his fists in his wet pockets and faced towards the door, which Dugald Macfarlane’s wife closed softly, looking out upon him, shaking her head and holding up a finger to impose silence; the two fathers meanwhile looked in each other’s faces. The English baronet and the Scotch farmer both broke into a low, unsteady laugh, and then with an impulse of fellowship, mutually extended their hands.
“We have nae reason to think shame of our sons,” said Colin Campbell with his Scotch dignity; “as for service or reward that is neither here nor there; what my boy did your boy would do if he had the chance, and there’s nae mair to be said that I can see.”
“There’s a great deal more to be said,” said Sir Thomas; “Lady Frankland will call on Mrs. Campbell, and thank that brave boy of yours; and if you think I can forget such a service,—I tell you there’s a great deal more to be said,” said the sportsman, breaking down suddenly with a little effusion, of which he was half ashamed.
“The gentleman’s right, Colin,” said the mistress of Ramore. “God be thanked for the two laddies! My heart was breaking for the English lady. God be thanked! That’s a’ there is to say. But I’ll be real glad to see that open-hearted callant when he’s well, and his mother too,” said the farmer’s wife, turning her soft eyes upon Sir Thomas, with a gracious response to the overflowing of his heart. Sir Thomas took off his hat to her as respectfully as he would have done to the Queen, when she took her husband’s strong arm, and followed Colin, who by this time, with his hands in his pockets and his heart beating loudly, was half way to Ramore; and now they had other topics besides that unfailing one of the new minister to talk of on the way.