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Alec Forbes of Howglen, a novel by George MacDonald |
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Chapter 63 |
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_ CHAPTER LXIII Alec too lay awake and listened to the untiring rain. Weary of the house, he had made use of the missionar kirk to get out of it, and had been one of Mr Turnbull's congregation that night. Partly because his mind was unoccupied by any fear from without, for he only laughed at the prophecy, something in that sermon touched him deeper than any one else in the place perhaps, awoke some old feelings of responsibility that had been slumbering for a long time, and made him reflect upon an unquestioned article of his creed--the eternal loss and misery and torture of the soul that did not repent and believe. At the same time, what repentance and belief really meant--what he had to do first--he did not know. All he seemed to know was that he was at that moment in imminent danger of eternal damnation. And he lay thinking about this while the rain kept pouring upon the roof out of the thick night overhead, and the Glamour kept sweeping by through the darkness to the sea. He grew troubled, and when at last he fell asleep, he dreamed frightfully. When he woke, it was a dull morning, full of mist and rain. His dreams had fled even from his memory, but had left a sense of grievous discomfort. He rose and looked out of the window. The Glamour spread out and rushed on like the torrent of a sea forsaking its old bed. Down its course swept many dark objects, which he was too far off to distinguish. He dressed himself, and went down to its edge--not its bank: that lay far within and far beneath its torrent. The water, outspread where it ought not to be, seemed to separate him from the opposite country by an impassable gulf of space, a visible infinitude--a vague marvel of waters. Past him swept trees torn up by the roots. Down below, where he could not see, stones were rolling along the channel. On the surface, sheaves and trees went floating by. Then a cart with a drowned horse between the shafts, heaved past in the central roll of the water. Next came something he could not understand at first. It was a great water-wheel. This made him think of the mill, and he hurried off to see what the miller was doing. Truffey went stumping through the rain and the streams to the morning school. Gladly would he have waited on the bridge, which he had to cross on his way, to look at the water instead. But the master would be there, and Truffey would not be absent. When Mr Malison came, Truffey was standing in the rain waiting for him. Not another boy was there. He sent him home. And Truffey went back to the bridge over the Glamour, and there stood watching the awful river. Mr Malison sped away westward towards the Wan Water. On his way he found many groups of the inhabitants going in the same direction. The bed of the Wan Water was here considerably higher than that of the Glamour, although by a rapid descent it reached the same level a couple of miles below the town. But its waters had never, to the knowledge of any of the inhabitants, risen so high as to surmount the ridge on the other slope of which the town was built. Consequently they had never invaded the streets. But now people said the Wan Water would be down upon them in the course of an hour or two, when Glamerton would be in the heart of a torrent, for the two rivers would be one. So instead of going to school, all the boys had gone to look, and the master followed them. Nor was the fear without foundation; for the stream was still rising, and a foot more would overtop the ground between it and the Glamour. But while the excited crowd of his townsmen stood in the middle of a stubble-field, watching the progress of the enemy at their feet, Robert Bruce was busy in his cellar preparing for its reception. He could not move his cask of sugar without help, and there was none of that to be had. Therefore he was now, in his shirt-sleeves, carrying the sugar up the cellar-stairs in the coal-scuttle, while Mrs Bruce, in a condition very unfit for such efforts, went toiling behind him with the _meal-bossie_ filled far beyond the brim. As soon as he had finished his task, he hurried off to join the watchers of the water. James Johnstone's workshop was not far from the Glamour. When he went into it that morning, he found the treadles under water, and thought he had better give himself _the play_. "I'll jist tak a daun'er (stroll) doon to the brig to see the spate gang by," he said to himself, and, putting on his grandfather's hat, went out into the rain. As he came near the bridge, he saw cripple Truffey leaning over the parapet with horror-stricken looks. The next moment he bounded to his one foot and his crutch, and _spanged_ over the bridge as if he had been gifted with six legs. When James reached the parapet, he could see nothing to account for the terror and eagerness in Truffey's pale face, nor for his precipitate flight. But being short-sighted and inquisitive, he set off after Truffey as fast as the dignity proper to an elderly weaver and a deacon of the missionars would permit. As Alec came near the mill he saw two men standing together on the verge of the brown torrent which separated them from it. They were the miller--the same whose millstone Curly had broken by shutting down the sluice--and Thomas Crann, the latest architect employed about the building. Thomas had been up all night, wandering hither and thither along the shore of the Wan Water, sorely troubled about Glamerton and its careless people. Towards morning he had found himself in the town again, and, crossing the Glamour, had wandered up the side of the water, and so come upon the sleepless miller contemplating his mill in the embrace of the torrent. "Ye maun alloo it's _hard_, Thamas," said the miller. "_Hard_?" retorted Thomas with indignation. "Hoo daur ye say sic a thing! Here hae ye been stickin' yer bit water-wheel i' the mids o' ane o' the Lord's burns, and the Lord has ca'd it roon and roon for you and yer forbears aboon a hunner yer, and ye've grun' yer breid oot o' 't, and the breid o' yer bairns, and noo whan it's i' the Lord's gait, and he maun hae mair room to sen' doon the waters frae his hills, ye grummle an' compleen at the spate that's been foreordeen't frae the verra black mirk o' eternity. What wad ye think o' a bairn gaein' compleenin' o' you 'cause your backwater had ta'en awa' his wheelie o' rashes, whaur it was whurlin' bonnie afore ye liftit the sluice?" Thomas's zeal had exposed him to the discomfiture of those who, if they do not actually tell lies for God, yet use very bad arguments for him. The miller rejoined: "You or me, Thomas, wad see bairnie an' wheelie alike safe, afore we liftit the sluice. The Lord _micht_ hae managed ohn ta'en awa' my mull." "Yer mull's nae doon the water yet, Simon. It's in some extremity, I confess; but whether it's to be life or deith, none kens but ane. Gang hame, man, and gang doon upo' yer knees, and pray." "Pray to God aboot an auld meal-mull?" said Simon with indignation. "'Deed, I winna be sae ill-bred." And so saying, he turned and went home, leaving Thomas muttering-- "Gin a body wad pray aboot onything, they micht, maybe, tak' a likin' till 't. A prayer may do a body guid whan it's no jist o' the kin' to be a'thegither acceptable to the min' o' the Almichty. But I doobt his ear's gleg for ony prayer that gangs up his gait." The last two sentences were spoken aloud as he shook hands with Alec, of whose presence he had been aware from the first, although he had taken no notice of his arrival. Before another word was uttered, their attention was attracted by a large mass floating down the river. "What's that, Thomas?" said Alec. "I houp it winna tak' awa' the brig." He meant the wooden bridge a few hundred yards below them, which, inaccessible from either side, was now very little above the level of the water. "It's jist the riggin' o' some cottar's bit hoosie," answered Thomas. "What's come o' them that was aneath it, the Lord only kens. The water's jist liftit the roof bodily. There it gangs--throu' aneath the brig.--The brig's doon. It's no doon.--It's stan'in' yet.--But the puir fowk, Alec!--Eh, gin they warna preparet! Think o' that, Alec." "I houp they wan oot," answered Alec. "Houps are feckless things, Alec," returned Thomas, censoriously. But the talk was turned into another channel by the appearance--a few ridges off--for they were standing in a field--of Truffey, who, with frantic efforts to get on, made but little speed, so deep did his crutch sink in the soaked earth. He had to pull it out at every step, and seemed mad in his foiled anxiety to reach them. He tried to shout, but nothing was heard beyond a crow like that of a hoarse chicken. Alec started off to meet him, but just as he reached him his crutch broke in the earth, and he fell and lay unable to speak a word. With slow and ponderous arrival, Thomas Crann came up. "Annie Anderson!" panted out Truffey at length. "What aboot _her_?" said both in alarm. "Tibbie Dyster!" sobbed Truffey in reply. "Here's Jeames Johnstone!" said Thomas; "he'll tell's a' aboot it." He surmised the facts, but waited in painful expectation of assurance from the deacon, who came slipping and sliding along the wet ridges. "What's this?" he cried fiercely, as James came within hearing. "What is't?" returned the weaver eagerly. If Thomas had been a swearing man, what a terrible oath he would have sworn in the wrath which this response of the weaver roused in his apprehensive soul! But Truffey was again trying to speak, and with a "Be ashamed o' yersel', Jeames Johnstone," the mason bent his ear to listen. "They'll be droont. They'll be taen awa. They canna win oot." Thomas and Alec turned and stared at each other. "The boat!" gasped Thomas. Alec made no reply. That was a terrible water to look at. And the boat was small. "Can ye guide it, Alec?" said Thomas, his voice trembling, and the muscles of his face working. The terrors of the night had returned upon Alec. Would the boat live? Was there more than a chance? And if she went down, was he not damned for ever? He made no reply. He was afraid. "Alec!" shouted Thomas, in a voice that might have been heard across the roar of the Glamour, "Will ye lat the women droon?" "Thomas," answered Alec, meekly, trembling from head to foot, "gin I gang to the boddom, I gang to hell." "Better be damned, doin' the will o' God, than saved doin' noathing!" said Thomas. The blood shot into Alec's face. He turned and ran. "Thomas," said James Johnstone, with shy interposition, laying his forefinger upon the stonemason's broad chest, "hae ye considered what ye're drivin' the young man till?" "Ay, weel eneuch, Jeames Johnstone. Ye're ane o' thae mealy-mou'd frien's that like a man sae wel they wad raither hae him gang wi' his back to the pleuch, nor ca't i' the face o' a cauld win'. I wad raither see my frein' hangt nor see him deserve hangin'. Haud awa' wi' ye. Gin he disna gang, I'll gang mysel', an' I never was in a boat i' my life." "Come awa, Thomas," cried Alec, already across three or four ridges; "I canna carry her my lane." Thomas followed as fast as he could, but before he reached the barn, he met Alec and one of the farm-servants, with the boat on their shoulders. It was a short way to the water. They had her afloat in a few minutes, below the footbridge. At the edge the water was as still as a pond. Alec seized the oars, and the men shoved him off. "Pray, Alec," shouted Thomas. "I haena time. Pray yersel'," shouted Alec in reply, and gave a stroke that shot him far towards the current. Before he reached it, he shifted his seat, and sat facing the bows. There was little need for pulling, nor was there much fear of being overtaken by any floating mass, while there was great necessity for looking out ahead. The moment Thomas saw the boat laid hold of by the current, he turned his back to the Glamour, fell upon his knees in the grass, and cried in an agony: "Lord, let not the curse o' the widow and the childless be upo' me, Thomas Crann." Thereafter he was silent. Johnstone and the farm-lad ran down the river-side. Truffey had started for the bridge again, having tied up his crutch with a string. Thomas remained kneeling, with his arms stretched out as stiff as the poles of a scaffold, and the joints of his clasped fingers buried in the roots of the grass. The stone piers of the wooden bridge fell into the water with a rush, but he never heard it. The bridge floated past him bodily, but his back was towards it. Like a wretch in sanctuary, he dared not leave "the footstool of grace," or expose himself to the inroads of the visible world around him, by opening his eyes. Alec did not find it so hard as he had expected to keep his boat from capsizing. But the rapidity with which the banks swept past him was frightful. The cottage lay on the other side of the Glamour, lower down, and all that he had to do for a while, was to keep the bows of his boat down the stream. When he approached the cottage, he drew a little out of the centre of the current, which, confined within rising ground, was here fiercer than anywhere above. But out of the current he could not go; for the cottage lay between the channel of the river and the mill-race. Except for its relation, however, to the bridge behind it, which he saw crowded with anxious spectators, he would not have known where it ought to be--so much was the aspect of everything altered. He could see that the water was more than half way up the door, right at which he had resolved to send his boat. He was doubtful whether the doorway was wide enough to let it through, but he saw no other way of doing. He hoped his momentum would be sufficient to force the door open, or, better still, to carry away the posts, and give him more room. If he failed no doubt the boat would be in danger, but he would not make any further resolutions, till action, becoming absolute, should reveal the nature of its own necessity. As he drew near his mark, therefore, he resumed the seat of a rower, kept taking good aim at the door, gave a few vigorous pulls, and unshipping his oars, bent his head forward from the shock. Bang went the _Bonnie Annie_; away went door and posts; and the lintel came down on Alec's shoulders. But I will now tell how the night had passed with Tibbie and Annie. _ |
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