Kenneth McAlpine Part 33

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 ship, 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 shipwrecked 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.

But so, indeed, it was.

Ambition--well guided--is a n.o.ble thing. All my three heroes were ambitious. Harvey's ambition, perhaps, was tinctured with some degree of pride. He fought long and manfully for fortune, and when he fell, he had the grace to own it. Kenneth's and Archie's ambition was more to be admired, and I love the man or boy who has a feeling of independence in his breast, and who, if he should fail in one line of life, turns cheerfully to another, with a determination to do his duty, and never give up. Dost remember the lines of the good poet Tupper? They are better than many a hymn, and may help to cheer you in hours when life seems dark and hopeless.

"Never give up! It is wiser and better Always to hope, than once to despair; Fling off the load of Doubt's heavy fetter, And break the dark spell of tyrannical Care.

Never give up! or the burden may sink you, Providence kindly has mingled the cup; And in all trials and troubles, bethink you, The watchword of life must be, Never give up!

Never give up, there are chances and changes, Helping the hopeful, a hundred to one, And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges Ever success,--if you'll only hope on.

Never give up! for the wisest is boldest, Knowing that Providence mingles the cup, And of all maxims the best, as the oldest, Is the true watchword of Never give up."

Yes, ambition is a n.o.ble thing; yet it should not be a selfish ambition.

Blessed is he who works and toils and struggles for the happiness of the ma.s.ses, as well as for his own. Has not He Who spoke as never man spake left us a glorious example to follow--follow, if only afar off?

But now let us take a peep into the tartan parlour of Alva House, a peep at the fireside life of young Laird McGregor, on this quiet autumnal afternoon.

When we were introduced into this same parlour, we found it the scene of a revel, over which it is as well to draw the curtain of oblivion.

But now, here are seated Harvey McGregor and his young wife. Yes, he is married, and a babe has come to bless him, too.

Near the fire, in a high-backed chair, is Harvey's mother. She looks very contented, and there are smiles chasing each other all round her lips and eyes.

But where, think you, is baby? On his mother's lap, you say? Nay, but positively on his father's knee--his father, the quondam rover of the sea and the prairies.

It is somewhat absurd, I grant you, but there is no getting over facts.

Sometimes brave soldiers or sailors make the best of fireside folks, when they _do_ settle down.

And Harvey McGregor is not only nursing his young heir, but he is actually nodding at him and talking sweet nonsense to him, while baby crows, and Harvey's wife looks on delightedly.

So busily are all engaged that they do not hear the hall door bell ring, nor know anything at all about its being rung either, until suddenly a Highland servant enters with two cards on a tray.

Harvey hands baby to his mother in some confusion--I'm not at all sure he did not blush a little; but no sooner has he taken the cards and read them, than he jumps up from his chair as if a hornet had stung him.

"Hurrah!" he cries.

"Dear me, Harvey! what is it?" his wife exclaims.

"Nothing, my dear," says Harvey; "that is--it is everything, I mean. It is joy in the house of McGregor. Hurrah!"

And away he rushes, leaving his wife and mother to wonder.

They were in the library, the pair of them. They had not even sat down, because they knew Harvey would soon come.

And they were not mistaken.

"Why, Kenneth! Archie!" he cried, extending a hand to each, "my dear old shipmates, 'pals,' and partners, how are you?"

"Took you by surprise, eh?" replied Kenneth, laughing.