Chapter II: The Night of Storm

The Antiquary continued to hear good reports of his young friend, and, as it struck him that the lad must be lonely in such a place as Fairport, he resolved to ask Lovel to dinner, in order to show him the best society in the neighbourhood--that is to say, his friend, Sir Arthur Wardour of Knockwinnock, and his daughter Isabella.

Sir Arthur was something of an antiquary also, but far less learned and serious than Mr. Oldbuck. Living so near each other the two quarrelled often about the Pictish Kings of Scotland, the character of Queen Mary, and even other matters more modern--such as the lending of various sums of money. For Sir Arthur always wanted to borrow, whereas the Antiquary did not always want to lend. Sir Arthur was entirely careless as to paying back, while Mr. Oldbuck stood firmly rooted upon the rights of principal and interest. But on the whole they were good friends enough, and the Baronet accordingly accepted, in a letter written by his daughter, the invitation to Monkbarns.

Lovel arrived punctually on the afternoon appointed, for, in the Antiquary's day, dinners took place at four o'clock! It was a brooding, thundery day, sultry and threatening--the 17th of July, according to the calendar.

Mr. Oldbuck had time to introduce his "most discreet sister Griselda" as he called her, who came arrayed in all the finery of half a century before, and wearing a mysterious erection on her head, something between a wedding-cake and the Tower of Babel in a picture Bible, while his niece, Miss MacIntyre, a pretty young woman with something of bright wit about her, which came undoubtedly from her uncle's family, was arrayed more in the fashion of the day.

Sir Arthur, with his daughter on his arm, presently arrived, and respects, compliments, and introductions were interchanged. The dinner was made up chiefly of Scottish national dainties, and everything went well, save that the solan goose, a fragrant bird at all times, proved so underdone that Mr. Oldbuck threatened to fling it at the head of the housekeeper.

As soon as the ladies left the dining room, Sir Arthur and the Antiquary plunged into their controversies, with a bottle of good port wine between them, while Lovel set himself to listen with much amusement.

The language of the Picts, the building of the earliest Edinburgh Castle, with other subjects, on none of which they agreed, made the two wiseacres grow hotter and hotter, till at last the wrath of the man of pedigree was roused by a chance statement of the Antiquary's that the Baronet's famous ancestor, Gamelyn de Guardover, who had signed the Ragman Roll, showed thereby a mean example of submitting to Edward of England.

"It is enough, sir," said Sir Arthur, starting up fiercely. "I shall hereafter take care how I honour with my company one who shows himself so ungrateful for my condescension."

"In that you will do as you find most agreeable, Sir Arthur," returned the Antiquary. "I hope that, as I was not aware of the full extent of the obligation you had done me by visiting my poor house, I may be excused for not having carried my gratitude to the extent of servility."

"Mighty well--mighty well, Mr. Oldbuck--I wish you a good evening, Mr.--ah--ah--Shovel--I wish you a very good evening."

And so saying Sir Arthur flounced out, and with long strides traversed the labyrinth of passages, seeking for the drawing-room of Monkbarns.

"Did you ever see such a tup-headed old ass?" said the Antiquary, "but I must not let him burst in on the ladies in this mad way either."

So Mr. Oldbuck ran after his adversary, who was in great danger of tumbling down the back stairs and breaking his shins over various collections of learned and domestic rubbish piled in dark corners.

"Stay a minute, Sir Arthur," said the Antiquary, at last capturing him by the arm; "don't be quite so hasty, my good old friend! I _was_ a little rude to you about Sir Gamelyn--why, he is an old acquaintance of mine--kept company with Wallace and Bruce, and only subscribed the Ragman Roll with the just intention of circumventing the Southern--'twas right Scottish craft--hundreds did it! Come, come--forget and forgive--confess we have given the young fellow here a right to think us two testy old fools."

"Speak for yourself, Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck," said Sir Arthur, with much majesty.

"Awell--awell," said the Antiquary, with a sigh, "a wilful man must have his way!"

And the Baronet accordingly stalked into the drawing-room, pettishly refused to accept either tea or coffee, tucked his daughter under his arm, and, having said the driest of good-byes to the company at large, off he marched.

"I think Sir Arthur has got the black dog on his back again!" said Miss Oldbuck.

"Black dog! Black deil!" cried her brother; "he's more absurd than womankind. What say you, Lovel? Why, the lad's gone too."

"Yes," said Miss MacIntyre, "he took his leave while Miss Wardour was putting on her things."

"Deil's in the people!" cried the Antiquary. "This is all one gets by fussing and bustling, and putting one's self out of the way to give dinners. O Seged, Emperor of Ethiopia," he added, taking a cup of tea in one hand and a volume of the _Rambler_ in the other, "well hast thou spoken. No man can presume to say, 'This shall be a day of happiness.'"

Oldbuck had continued his studies for the best part of an hour, when Caxton, the ancient barber of Fairport, thrusting his head into the room, informed the company--first, that it was going to be "an awfu' nicht," secondly, that Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour had started out to return to Knockwinnock Castle _by way of the sands!_

Instantly Miss MacIntyre set off to bear the tidings to Saunders Mucklebackit, the old fisherman, while the Antiquary himself, with a handkerchief tied round his hat and wig to keep them from being blown away, searched the cliffs for any signs of his late guests.

Nor was the information brought by Caxton one whit exaggerated. Sir Arthur and his daughter had indeed started out to reach their home by the sands. On most occasions these afforded a safe road enough, but in times of high tide or when the sea was driven shoreward by a wind, the waves broke high against the cliffs in fury.

Talking earnestly together as they walked, Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour did not observe the gathering of the tempest till it had broken upon them. They had reached a deep sickle-shaped bay, and having with difficulty passed one headland, they were looking with some anxiety toward the other, hoping to reach and pass it before the tide closed in upon them, when they saw a tall figure advancing toward them waving hands and arms. Their hearts rejoiced, for, they thought, where that man had passed, there would still be a road for them.

But they were doomed to be disappointed. The figure was no other than that of the old Blue-Gown Edie Ochiltree. As he advanced he continued to sign to them and to shout words which were carried away by the blast, till he had arrived quite close.

"Turn back! Turn back!" he cried, when at last they could hear. "Why did you not turn back when I waved to you?"

"We thought," said Sir Arthur, much disturbed, "that we could still get round Halket Head."

"Halket Head!" cried the vagrant; "why, the tide will be running on Halket Head by this time like the Falls of Foyers. It was all I could do to get round it twenty minutes since."

"'Turn back! Turn back!' he cried, when at last they could hear. 'Why did you not turn back when I waved to you?'"]

It was now equally impossible to turn back. The water was dashing over the skerries behind them, and the path by which Miss Wardour and her father had passed so recently was now only a confusion of boiling and eddying foam.

There was nothing for it but to try to climb as far up the cliffs as possible, and trust that the tide would turn back before it reached them. With the help of the old beggar, they perched themselves upon the highest shelf to which, on that almost perpendicular wall of rock, they could hope to attain. But, nevertheless, as the waves leaped white beneath, it seemed very far indeed from safety.

Sir Arthur, struck with terror, offered lands and wealth to the Blue-Gownsman if he would only guide them to a place of safety.

But the old beggar could only shake his head and answer sadly: "I was a bold enough cragsman once. Many a kittywake's and seagull's nest have I taken on these very cliffs above us. But now my eyesight and my footstep and my handgrip all have failed this many and many a day! But what is that?" he cried, looking eagerly upward. "His Name be praised! Yonder comes some one down the cliff, even now."

And taking heart of grace, he cried directions up through the gathering darkness to the unseen helper who was descending toward them.

"Right! Right! Fasten the rope well round the Crummie's Horn--that's the muckle black stone yonder. Cast two plies about it! That's it! Now creep a little eastwards, to that other stone--the Cat's Lug, they call it. There used to be the root of an old oak tree there. Canny now! Take time! Now ye maun get to Bessie's Apron--that's the big, blue, flat stone beneath ye! And then, with your help and the rope, I'll win at ye, and we will be able to get up the young lady and Sir Arthur!"

The daring adventurer, no other than Lovel himself, soon reached the place pointed out, and, throwing down the rope, it was caught by Edie Ochiltree, who ascended to the flat blue stone formerly spoken of. From this point of vantage the two of them were able by their united strength to raise Miss Wardour to safety. Then Lovel descended alone, and fastening the rope about Sir Arthur (who was now utterly unable, from fear and cold, to do anything for himself), they soon had him beside them on Bessie's Apron.

Yet, even so, it seemed impossible that they could remain there all night. The wind and the dashing spray every moment threatened to sweep them from the narrow ledge they had reached. Besides, how was one so delicate as Miss Wardour to stand out such a night? Lovel offered, in spite of the gathering darkness, once more to climb the cliff, and to seek further assistance. But the old Blue-Gown withheld him.

No cragsman in broadest daylight could do such a thing, he asserted. Even he himself, in the fullest of his strength, would never have attempted the feat. It was death to ascend ten yards. Miss Wardour begged that neither of them should try. She was already much better, she said. Besides, their presence was needed to control her father, who was clearly not responsible for his actions.

Just then a faint halloo came from high above. Edie answered it with a shout, waving at the same time Miss Wardour's handkerchief at the end of his long beggar's staff, as far out from the cliff as possible. In a little while the signals were so regularly replied to, that the forlorn party on Bessie's Apron knew that they were again within hearing, if not within reach, of friendly assistance.

On the top of the cliffs Monkbarns was heading the party of searchers. Saunders Mucklebackit, an old fisherman and smuggler, had charge of the rescue apparatus. This consisted of the mast of a boat, with a yard firmly fixed across it. Through the ends of the yard a rope ran in two blocks, and by this Saunders hoped to lower a chair down the cliffs, by means of which (said the old smuggler) the whole party would presently be "boused up and landed on board, as safe as so many kegs of brandy."

The chair was accordingly let down, together with a second rope--which, being held by some one below, would keep the chair from dashing about in the wind against the rock. This Saunders called the "guy" or guide rope.

Miss Wardour, after some persuasion, mounted first, being carefully bound in the rude seat by means of Lovel's handkerchief and neckcloth, in addition to the mendicant's broad leathern belt passed about her waist.

Sir Arthur, whose brain appeared quite dazed, continued loudly to protest. "What are you doing with my bairn?" he cried. "What are you doing? She shall not be separated from me. Isabel, stay with me--I command you!"

But the signal being given to hoist away, the chair mounted, intently watched by Lovel, who stood holding the guide rope, to the last flutter of the lady's white dress. Miss Wardour was duly and safely landed. Sir Arthur and Edie followed, and it remained for Lovel to make the more hazardous final ascent. For now there was no one left below to help him by holding the "guy" rope. Nevertheless, being young and accustomed to danger, he managed, though much banged and buffeted about by the wind, to fend himself off the rocks with the long pike-staff belonging to the beggar, which Edie had left him for that purpose.

It was only when Lovel reached the safety of the cliff that he felt himself for a moment a little faint. When he came to himself Sir Arthur had already been removed to his carriage, and all that Lovel saw of the girl he had rescued from death was the last flutter of her dress vanishing through the storm.

"She did not even think it worth while waiting to see whether I was dead or alive--much less to thank me for anything I had done!"

And he resolved to leave Fairport on the morrow, without visiting Knockwinnock, or again seeing Miss Wardour. But what he did not know was that Miss Wardour had waited till she had been assured that Lovel was safe and sound, having sent Sir Arthur on before her to the carriage.

But as the young man was not aware that she had shown him even this limited sympathy, his heart continued to be bitter within him.

It was arranged that he was to sleep that night at Monkbarns. Indeed Mr. Oldbuck would hear of no other way of it. The Antiquary had looked forward to the chicken pie and the bottle of port which Sir Arthur had left untasted when he bounced off in a fume. What then was his wrath when his sister, Miss Grizel, told him how that the minister of Trotcosey, Mr. Blattergowl, having come down to Monkbarns to sympathise with the peril of all concerned, had so much affected Miss Oldbuck by his show of anxiety that she had set the pie and the wine before him--which he had accordingly consumed to show his good-will.

But after some very characteristic grumbling, cold beef and hard-boiled eggs did just as well for the two friends, and while Lovel partook of them, Miss Grizel entertained him with tales of the Green Room in which he was to sleep. This apartment was haunted, it seemed, by the spirit of the first Oldenbuck, the celebrated printer of the Augsburg Confession. He had even appeared in person to a certain town-clerk of Fairport, and showed him (at the point of his toe) upstairs to an old cabinet in which was stored away the very document for the want of which the lairds of Monkbarns were likely to be worsted in a famous lawsuit before the Court of Session in Edinburgh. Furthermore, a famous German professor, a very learned man, Dr. Heavysterne by name, had found his rest so much disturbed in that very room that he could never again be persuaded to sleep there.

Lovel, however, laughed at such fears, and was accordingly shown by the Antiquary up to the famous Green Room, a large chamber with walls covered by a tapestry of hunting scenes,--stags, boars, hounds, and huntsmen, all mixed together under the greenwood tree, the boughs of which, interlacing above, gave its name to the room.

Lovel fell asleep after a while, still bitterly meditating on how unkindly Miss Wardour had used him, and his thoughts, mixed with the perilous adventures of the evening, made him not a little feverish. At first his dreams were wild, confused, and impossible. He flew like a bird. He swam like a fish. He was upborne on clouds, and dashed on rocks which yet received him soft as pillows of down. But at last, out of the gloom a figure approached his bedside, separating himself from the wild race of the huntsmen upon the green tapestry,--a figure like that which had been described to him as belonging to the first laird of Monkbarns. He was dressed in antique Flemish garb, a furred Burgomaster cap was on his head, and he held in his hands a black volume with clasps of brass.

Lovel strove to speak, but, as usual in such cases, he could not utter a word. His tongue refused its office. The awful figure held up a warning finger, and then began deliberately to unclasp the volume he held in his hands. He turned the leaves hastily for a few minutes; then, holding the book aloft in his left hand, he pointed with his right to a line which seemed to start forth from the page glowing with supernatural fire. Lovel did not understand the language in which the book was printed, but the wonderful light with which the words glowed impressed them somehow on his memory. The vision shut the volume. A strain of music was heard, and Lovel awoke. The sun was shining full into the Green Room, and somewhere not far away a girl's voice was singing a simple Scottish air.

INTERLUDE OF WARNING

It was the spinner of yarns himself who broke the
silence which fell on the party at the close of the
first tale told out of the treasure-house of _The
Antiquary_.

"If I catch you," were the words of warning which
fell from his lips, "you, Hugh John, or you, Toady
Lion, trying to hoist one another up a cliff with a
rope and a chair--well, the rope will most
certainly be used for quite another purpose, and
both of you will just hate to look at a chair for a
fortnight after! Do you understand?"

They understood perfectly.

"It was me they were going to hoist," confided Maid
Margaret, coming a little closer. "I saw them
looking at me all the time you were telling the
story!"

"Well," I said, "just let me catch them at it,
that's all!"

This caution being necessary for the avoidance of
future trouble, I went on to read aloud the whole
of the Storm chapters, to the children's
unspeakable delight. Hugh John even begged for the
book to take to bed with him, which privilege he
was allowed, on the solemn promise that he would
not "peep on ahead." Since Sweetheart's prophecies
as to Die Vernon, such conduct has been voted
scoundrelly and unworthy of any good citizen of the
nursery.

On the whole, however, I could not make out
whether _The Antiquary_ promised to be a favourite
or not. The storm scene was declared "famous," but
the accompanying prohibition to break their own or
their family's necks, by pulling chairs up and down
rocks, somewhat damped the ardour of the usual
enthusiasts.

As, however, the day was hopeless outside, the snow
beating more and more fiercely on the windows, and
hanging in heavy fleecy masses on the smallest
twigs of the tree-branches and leafless rose stems,
it was decided that nothing better could be
imagined, than just to proceed with our second tale
from _The Antiquary_. But before beginning I
received two requests, somewhat difficult to
harmonize the one with the other.

"Tell us all about Miss Wardour and Lovel. He's
nice!" said Sweetheart.

"Skip ALL the love-making!" cried Hugh John and Sir
Toady in a breath.

* * * * *

THE SECOND TALE FROM "THE ANTIQUARY"