“Come along, Muir—I can’t pretend to cope with two west country people,” said Cuthbert. “Come, Lindsay will be waiting open-mouthed; and to-morrow we must make our pilgrimage together, and no one shall say I am ignorant of the enchanted palace any more. Come, Muir.”
Next day the little party set out upon their brief voyage. This freedom of enjoyment, without stealth or remorse, was new to Harry. He breathed freely. It seemed to him, as from a listener, he became a partaker in the conversation of Lindsay and Charteris, that this was indeed a new life, a bracing atmosphere, such as he had not known before. He became quiet at first—somewhat serious even—and looking up upon an April sky, and down upon the great stream chafing and foaming in the little vessel’s course, there came upon him the abstraction of a gentle reverie, picturing the times to come!
The times to come! Harry saw honour, wealth, independence, happiness, in a bright crowd before him. He did not see, would not see—poor, rash, incautious heart!—that a grim shadow lowered upon them all, the shadow of his conquering sin—nor that this presence held the keys of the joyous home he dreamed of, and stood defiant on its threshold, blighting the flowers around the door. He never trembled for himself—poor Harry! there seemed before him nothing but security and peace.
Overhead the clouds flew to the east like a pilgrimage of birds, sweeping over the breadth of heaven with a speed which made you dizzy; and the mass of shadow threw a sable gleam on the water, as it dashed up its foaming mane, and shook it in the breeze. There are no clouds down the Firth where Inchkeith yonder burns and expands in the full sunshine; but here we have only wayward glances of light, darting down upon us as if in play, which vanish in a moment into the pursuing cloud.
The little vessel leaps over the buoyant water with sometimes a mist of spray over her bows, and the passengers march in quick time along the decks, as if this swell and lengthened bound made music wild and martial, stirring the heart to quicker motion.
Now comes a sudden gleam, touching the russet outline of Inchcolm, as a painter would have it touched; and as we pass, the light glides on before us, glittering upon the dewy slopes of Fife, and quivering along the waves, till it seems to sink there, like a golden arrow launched out of the heavens; and the clouds again fly over us, away to the ungenial east.
St. Margaret’s Hope—Ah, Saxon Margaret, Atheling, Exile, Queen and Saint! was there hope in this quiet bay when the Scottish land stretched its brown arm of succour, and vowed its rude heart to thy service? Not very far off now is grey Dunfermline, forsaken of kings—and you may see a spire glitter on the further side of those withdrawing braes, pointing where the palace crumbles, and the wallflower and ivy flourish, over forlorn and solitary places, where queens had their bowers, and kings their council-chamber. Here too is the royal ferry, with its narrow gateway, bringing to a point the broad Firth on either side; and we rustle past the sentinel-rock, which has looked down often in the old times upon the passing boats of queens, and dash with a bound into the free course once more; past little busy ports, and slumbering villages, past the great houses in their nest of trees—till brave old Demeyet bows his stately head to us among the clouds, and the sun breaks out triumphant over the crowned rock of Stirling, and we glide into this silvery maze, radiant with flying lights and shadows—the links of Forth.
Here, by the side of the water, a great saugh tree droops its long locks, and trails them on the stream; behind it are a heavy mass of alders—by its side a hawthorn slowly whitening with its fragrant blossom—and above the alders you can see a regular line of elm and beech, marshalled in fair succession, which seem to form a mall or avenue on the river’s side. Beyond all appear the roof and gables of a hidden house. You cannot tell either size or form in the passing glimpse you gain of it from the river, but the heart of Harry Muir beats high as his eye falls on this home—a home it must be, for smoke curls from the chimneys, and a boat lies softly rocking on the water at the foot of the saugh tree.
“Neighbours,” said Harry to himself, under his breath; “and I, too, must have a boat for Lettie and Rose.”
“Mr. Muir,” said Lindsay, bending forward with a smile, “that is Allenders.”