“I dinna approve of that expression,” said Eben of Barnton. “To speak of saying your prayers in the kirk is pure papistry. Say your prayers at hame, as I hope we a’ do, at the family altar, no to speak of private devotions,” said this defender of the faith, with a glance at the unlucky individual who had just spoken, and who was understood not to be so regular in the article of family prayer as he ought to have been. “We gang to the kirk to have our minds stirred up and put in remembrance. I dinna approve of the English fashion of putting everything into the prayers.”
“Weel, weel, I meant nae harm,” said the previous speaker. “We a’ gaed to the Kirk, was what I meant to say; and there’s the Queen, she aye sets a grand example. You’ll no find her driving off three or four miles to an English Chapel. I consider it’s a great respect to the parish to see Sir Thomas in the Castle pew.”
“I would rather see him respect the Sabbath day,” said Eben Campbell, pointing out a little pleasure-boat, a tiny little cockleshell, with a morsel of snow-white sail, which just then appeared in the middle of the loch, rushing up beautifully before the wind, through the placid waters, and lighting up the landscape with a touch of life and motion. Young Colin was at Eben’s elbow, and followed the movement of his hand with keen eyes. A spark of jealousy had kindled in the boy’s breast—he could not have told why. He was not so horrified as he ought to have been at the sight of the boat disturbing the Sunday quiet; but, with a swell of indignation and resentment in his boyish heart, he thought of the difference between himself and the young visitor at the Castle. It looked symbolical to Colin. He, trudging heavily over the muddy, lengthy road; the other, flying along in that dainty, little, bird-like boat, with those white wings of sail, which pleased Colin’s eye in spite of himself, carrying him on as lightly and swiftly as heart could desire. Why should one boy have such a wonderful advantage over another? It was the first grand problem which had puzzled and embittered Colin’s thoughts.
“There they go!” said the boy. “It’s fine and easy, running like that before the wind. They’ll get to the end o’ the loch before we’ve got over a mile. That makes an awfu’ difference,” said Colin, with subdued wrath; he was thinking of other things besides the long walk from church and the muddy road.
“We’ll may be get home as soon, for all that,” said his father, who guessed the boy’s thoughts; for the elder Colin’s experienced eye had already seen that mists were rising among the hills, and that the fair breeze would soon be fair no longer. The scene changed as if by enchantment while the farmer spoke. Such changes come and go like breath over the Holy Loch. The sunshine which had been making the whole landscape into a visible paradise, vanished suddenly off the hills and waters like a frightened thing, and a visible darkness came brooding over the mountains, dropping lower every moment like a pall of gloom over the lower banks and the suddenly paled and shivering loch. The joyous little boat, which had been careering on as if by a natural impulse of delight, suddenly changed its character along with all the other details of the picture. The spectators saw its white sail, fluttering like an alarmed seabird, against the black background of cloud. Then it began to tack and waver and make awkward tremulous darts across the darkened water. The party of pedestrians stood still to watch it, as the position became dangerous. They knew the loch and the winds too well to look on with composure. As for young Colin of Ramore, his heart began to leap and swell in his boyish bosom. Was that his adversary, the favoured rival whom he had recognised by instinct, who was fighting for his life out there in midwater, with the storm gaining on him, and his little vessel staggering in the wind? Colin did not hear the remarks of the other spectators. He felt in his heart that he was looking on at a struggle which was for life or death, and his contempt for the skill of the amateur sailor, whose unused hands were so manifestly unable to manage the boat, was mingled with a kind of despair lest a stronger power should snatch this opponent of his own out of the future strife, in which Colin had vowed to himself to be victorious.
“You fool! take in the sail,” he shouted, putting both his hands to his mouth, forgetting how impossible it was that the sound could reach; and then scarcely knowing what he was about, the boy rushed down to the beach, and jumped into the nearest boat. The sound of his oars furiously plashing through the silence was the first indication to his companions of what he had done. And he did not even see nor hear the calls and gestures with which he was summoned back again. His oars, and how to get there at a flight like a bird, occupied his mind entirely. Yet even in his anxiety he scorned to ask for help which would have carried him so much sooner to the spot he aimed at. As this sudden sound echoed through the profound silence, various outcries came from the group on the bank.
“It’s tempting Providence,” cried Eben Campbell. “Yon’s a judgment on the Sabbath-breaker,—and what can the laddie do? Come back, sir, this moment, come back! Ye’ll never win there in time.”
As for the boy’s mother, after his first start she clasped her hands together, and watched the boat with an interest too intense for words. “He’s in nae danger,” she said to herself softly; and it would have been hard to tell whether she was sorry or glad that her boy’s enterprise was attended by no personal peril.
“Let him be,” said the farmer of Ramore, pushing aside his anxious neighbour, who was calling Colin ineffectually but without intermission. Colin Campbell’s face had taken a sudden crimson flush which nobody could account for. He went off up the beach with heavy rapid steps, scattering the shingle round his feet, to a spot exactly opposite the struggling boat, and stood there watching with wonderful eagerness. The little white sail was still fluttering and struggling like a distressed bird upon the black overclouded water. Now it lurched over till the very mast seemed to touch the loch—now recovered itself for a tremulous moment—and finally, shivering like a living creature, gave one wild sudden stagger, and disappeared. When the speck of white vanished out of the black landscape, a cry came out of all their hearts; and hopeless as it was, the very man who had been calling Colin back, rushed in his turn to a boat, and pushed off violently into the loch. The women stood huddled together, helpless with terror and grief. “The bit laddie! the bit laddie!” cried one of them—“some poor woman’s bairn.” As for Mrs. Campbell, the world grew dark round her as she strained her eyes after Colin’s boat. She did not faint, for such was not the habit of the Holy Loch; but she sank down suddenly on the wet green bank, and put up her hand over her eyes as if to shade them from some imaginary sunshine, and gazed, not seeing anything, after her boy. To see her, delicate as she was, with the woman weakness which they all understood, seating herself in this wild way on the wet bank, distracted the attention of her kindly female neighbours, even from the terrible event which had just taken place before their eyes.
“Maybe the lad can swim,” said Eben Campbell’s wife—“onyway yonder’s your Colin running races with death to save him. But you maunna sit here—come into Dugald Macfarlane’s house. There’s my man away in another boat and some mair. But we canna let you sit here.”