The Cruise of the Land-Yacht "Wanderer" Part 28

Everything around us now was all a smother of mist. It reminded me of a white squall in the Indian Ocean. The rain came down in torrents, mingled with hail. It rattled loudly on the roof and hard and harsh against the panes, but not so loud as the pealing thunder.

The lightning was bright, vivid, incessant. The mirrors, the crystal lamps, the coloured gla.s.ses seemed to scatter the flashes in all directions; the whole inside of the Wanderer was like a transformation scene at a pantomime.

It was beautiful but dangerous.

I opened the door to look out, and noticed the row of ash-trees near by, st.u.r.dy though they were, bending like fishing-rods before the strength of the blast, while the field was covered with twiglets and small branches.

But the squall soon blew over, and the clouds rolled by, the thunder ceased or went growling away beyond the hills, and presently the sun shone out and began to dry the fields.

By the twelfth day of August--sacred to the Scottish sportsman--I had made up my literary leeway and got well to windward of editors and printers. I was once more happy.

That Terrible Twelfth of August.

We were to start on the twelfth of August for the north, _en route_ for the distant capital of the Scottish Highlands--Inverness.

What is more, we were going to make a day of it, for my brave little Highland cousin Bella (Mrs McLennan) and her not less spirited friend Mrs C were to go a-gipsying and journey with me from Chryston to Stirling.

It was all nicely arranged days beforehand. We promised ourselves sunshine and music and general joy, with much conversation about the dear old days of long ago. And we were to have a dinner _al fresco_ on the green sward after the manner of your true Romany Rye.

Alas for our hopes of happiness! The rain began at early morn. And such rain! I never wish to see the like again. The sky reminded me of some of Dore's pictures of the Flood.

During one vivid blink of sunshine the downpour of rain looked like gla.s.s rods, so thick and strong was it.

In less than two hours the beautiful meadow that erst was so hard and firm was a veritable Slough of Despond. This was misfortune Number 1.

Misfortune Number 2 lay in the fact that the 'busman did not meet the train the ladies were coming by, so for two long Scotch miles they had to paddle on as best they could through pelting rain and blackest mud.

Nor had the ladies come empty-handed, for between them they carried a large parrot-cage, a parcel, and a pie. [Polly had been spending a week in Glasgow, and was now returning.]

It was a pie of huge dimensions, of varied contents, and of curious workmanship--nay, but curious workwomanship--for had not my cousin designed it, and built it, and furnished it with her own fair fingers?

It was a genuine, palpable, edible proof of feminine forethought.

Not, however, all the rain that ever fell, or all the wind that ever blew, could damp the courage of my cousin. Against all odds they came up smiling, the Highland la.s.s and her English friend--the thistle and the rose.

But the rain got worse: it came down in bucketfuls, in torrents, in whole water. It was a spate.

Then came misfortune Number 3, for the wheels of the Wanderer began to sink deep in the miry meadow. We must draw on to the road forthwith, so Corn-flower and Pea-blossom were got out and put-to.

But woe is me! they could not start or move her. They plunged and pawed, and pawed and plunged in vain--the Wanderer refused to budge.

"I've a horse," said Mr R--, quietly, "that I think could move a church, sir."

"Happy thought!" I said; "let us put him on as a tracer."

The horse was brought out. I have seldom seen a bigger. He loomed in the rain like a mountain, and _appeared to be_ about nineteen hands high, more or less.

The traces were attached to buckles in our long breeching. Then we attempted to start.

It might now have been all right had the trio pulled together, but this was no part of Pea-blossom's or Corn-flower's intention.

They seemed to address that tall horse thus: "Now, old hoss, we've had a good try and failed, see what you can do."

So instead of pulling they hung back.

I am bound to say, however, that the tall horse did his very best.

First he gave one wild pull, then a second, then a third and a wilder one, and at that moment everything gave way, and the horse coolly walked off with the trace chains.

It was very provoking, all hopes of enjoyment fled. Hardly could the strawberries and cream that Mrs R brought console us. Here we were stuck in a meadow on the glorious twelfth, of all days, in a slough of despair, in a deluge of rain, and with our harness smashed.

No use lamenting, however. I sent my servant off to Glasgow to get repairs done at once, and obtain hydraulic a.s.sistance for the semi-wrecked Wanderer.

About noon there came round a kindly farmer Jackson.

"Men can do it," he said, after eyeing us for a bit. "There's nothing like men."

I had sent the ladies into the farmhouse for warmth, and was in the saloon by myself, when suddenly the caravan gave herself a shake and began to move forward.

In some surprise I opened the door and looked out. Why, surely all the manhood of Chryston was around us, cl.u.s.tering round the wheels, lining the sides, pushing behind and pulling the pole. With a hip! ho! and away we go!

"Hurrah, lads, hurrah!"

"Bravo, boys, bravo!"

In less time than it takes me to tell it, the great caravan was hoisted through that meadow and run high and dry into the farmer's courtyard.

To offer these men money would have been to insult them--they were Scotch. Nor can a kindness like this be measured by coin. I offered them liquid refreshment, however, but out of all who helped me I do not think that half-a-dozen partook.

All honour to the manly feelings of the good folks of Chryston.

But our day's enjoyment was marred and we were left lamenting.

_August 13th_. We are off.

We are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur. And happy we feel, on this bright, bracing morning, to be once more on the road again with our backs to old England, our faces to the north.

Click, click--click, click! Why, there positively does seem music in the very horses' feet. They seem happy as well as ourselves. Happy and fresh for, says my gentle Jehu, "They are pulling, sir, fit to drag the very arms out of ye."

"Never mind, John," I reply, "the Highland hills are ahead of us, and the heather hills, my Jehu. Knowest thou this song, John?"

"'O! glorious is the sea, wi' its heaving tide, And bonnie are the plains in their simmer pride; But the sea wi' its tide, and the plains wi' their rills, Are no half so dear as my ain heather hills.

I may heedless look on the silvery sea, I may tentless muse on the flowery lee, But my heart wi' a nameless rapture thrills When I gaze on the cliffs o' my ain heather hills.

Then hurrah, hurrah, for the heather hills, Where the bonnie thistle waves to the sweet bluebells, And the wild mountain floods heave their crests to the clouds, Then foam down the steeps o' my ain heather hills.'"

No wonder the rattling chorus brought half-dressed innocent cottage children to their doors to wave naked arms and shout as we pa.s.sed, or that their mothers smiled to us, and fathers doffed their bonnets, and wished us "good speed."

But summer has gone from nature if not from our hearts. All in a week the change has come, and many-tinted autumn was ushered in with wild and stormy winds, with rain and floods and rattling thunder.

Not as a lamb has autumn entered, but as a lion roaring; as a king or a hero in a pantomime, with blue and red fire and grand effects of all kinds.