Part 33 (1/2)

There was just a morsel of a moon, but it was seldom seen for the black drifting clouds. It must be nigh midnight, thought those storm-tossed sailors. All hands were on deck. No bells were struck, nor could a watch be looked at. Suddenly, during a temporary gleam of moonlight, a blacker cloud than any yet seen appeared on the horizon. Every _old_ sailor knew what that cloud was--a wall of beetling cliffs.

”Ready about?”

Yes, but it was too late. Next moment she had struck with fearful violence, and reeling back tottered and began to sink.

Boat after boat was lowered, only to be smashed to pieces.

One was safely got away from the sinking s.h.i.+p, and steered for lights they could see to the left. A signal was fired. A blue light burned.

Lights were seen waving on sh.o.r.e as if to encourage them.

They are close in sh.o.r.e, among the awful surf. Can they do it? The night got clearer far now. There was a good show of moonlight on the water and the light from the foam itself. When it seemed as almost impossible the boat could reach the sh.o.r.e, a dozen hardy fishermen rushed into the sea, the painter was thrown to them and grasped, and next moment they were safe, though wholly exhausted.

Morning broke immediately after, showing how much they had been mistaken in thinking it but midnight when the vessel struck. But time flies quickly, even in danger, when one is busy.

The s.h.i.+pwrecked men--the few saved--were kindly cared for. Harvey found himself inside a curious and humble dwelling, tended by the funniest little old man he had ever seen. The house was made out of a boat. The funny little old man was our old friend Duncan Reed.

Duncan, next day, told him a wondrous deal about the glen and about Kenneth's old friends, all of which were duly chronicled in Harvey's mind, and in due time found their way in writing to his comrades beyond the sea.

They say that possession is nine points of the law; this does not hold good, however, in the case, say, of a thief being caught with a dozen silver spoons in his pocket.

”Might is right” is another common saying, but neither the might of wealth nor the fact of his being in possession of the Alva estate prevented Mr Steve, the millionaire, having finally to leave it.

When the news of McGregor's success came, the rejoicing in the clachan and the glens was such as had never been remembered before. Bonfires blazed on every hill. Lads and la.s.ses danced, old men wrung each other by the hands, and old wives wept for joy.

Old Duncan is even reported to have danced a hornpipe.

Poor Duncan! he was offered a kindly home at the mansion of Alva.

”It is mindful of you, sir,” old Duncan replied, ”but out o' sight of the sea, out o' hearin' o' the waves, Duncan wouldna live a week. I'll lay my bones beside her soon.”

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

IN THE ”FA' O' THE YEAR.”

”'Mid pleasures and palaces where'er we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.”

Old Song.

”Fareweel, fareweel, my native hame, Thy lonely glens and heath-clad mountains; Fareweel thy fields o' storied fame, Thy leafy shaws and sparklin' fountains.”

A. Hume.

Scene: Glen Alva. Down in the clachan and lowlands, and around the mansion house, the autumnal tints are on the trees; the chestnuts, the lime and the maples have turned a rich yellow, and soon the leaves will fall; but the elm and oak retain their st.u.r.dy green. So do the waving pines. High on the hillsides the heather still blooms. There is silence almost everywhere to-day. Silence on mountain and silence in forest. Only the sweet plaintive twitter of the robin is heard in garden and copse. He sings the dirge of the departed summer. It is indeed the ”fa' o' the year.”

Time: Five years have elapsed since the date of the events described in last chapter.

In my humble opinion--and I daresay many coincide with me--the great poet never spoke truer words than these:--

”There's a Divinity that shapes our lives, Rough-hew them as we will.”

Who could have thought that Harvey McGregor, with his fearless nature, his tameless spirit, and roaming disposition, would ever have settled down in quiet Glen Alva, or that Kenneth McAlpine would have developed into a farmer in the Far West.