The Eagle Cliff

“Ah, sure, an’ there seems to be a bottle o’ milk, or somethin’ white under the th’ort,” remarked Quin, who pulled the bow oar.

“But that’s Milly’s bottle of milk,” shouted Junkie.

“And Aggy’s,” chimed in Eddie.

“Yes—no one must touch that,” said Junkie.

“Quite right, boys,” said Jackman; “besides, milk is not good for quenching thirst.”

On search being made, it was found that water had not been brought with them, so that the thirsty rowers had to rest content without it.

“Is that Eagle Cliff I see, just over the knoll there?” asked Barret.

“It is,” answered the laird; “don’t you see the eagle himself like a black speck hovering above it? My shepherd would gladly see the bird killed, for he and his wife make sad havoc among the lambs sometimes; but I can’t say that I sympathise with the shepherd. An eagle is a noble bird, and there are none too many of them now in this country.”

“I agree with you heartily,” said Barret; “and I would regard the man who should kill that eagle as little better than a murderer.”

“Quite as bad as a murderer!” said Milly with energy. “I am glad you speak out so clearly, Mr Barret; for I fear there are some among us who would not hesitate to shoot if the poor bird were to come within range.”

“Pray don’t look so pointedly at me, Miss Moss,” said Jackman; “I assure you I have no intention of attempting murder—at least not in that direction.”

“Och! an’ it’s murder enough you’ve done already for wan man,” said Quin in an undertone.

“Oh! I say, that reminds me. Do tell us the rest of the story of the elephant hunt, Mr Jackman,” cried Junkie.

“Not just now, my boy. It’s a long story. Besides, we are on our way to church! Some other time I will tell it you.”

“It would take half the romance away from my mother’s visit if the eagle were killed,” remarked Milly, who did not overhear the elephant parenthesis.

“Has your mother, then, decided to come?” asked Barret.

“Yes. In spite of the sea, which she dreads, and steamers, which she hates, she has made up her mind to come and take me home.”

“How charming that will be!” said Barret.

“Indeed!” returned Milly, with a significant look and smile.

“Of course I did not mean that,” returned Barret, laughing. “I meant that it would be charming for you to have your mother out here, and to return home in her company. Is she likely to stay long?”

“I cannot tell. That depends on so many things. But I am sure of one thing, that she longs to see and thank you for the great service you rendered me on the day of your arrival here.”

Barret began to protest that the service was a comparatively small one, and such as any man might gladly render to any one, when the arrival of the boat at the landing-place cut him short.

About thirty or forty people had assembled from the surrounding districts, some of whom had come four or even six miles to attend church. They formed a quiet, grave, orderly company of men and women in homespun garments, with only a few children among them. The arrival of the laird’s party made a very considerable addition to the congregation, and, as the hour for meeting had already passed by a few minutes, they made a general move towards the church.

The building was wonderfully small, and in the most severely simple style of architecture, being merely an oblong structure of grey stone, with small square windows, and a belfry at one end of the roof. It might have been mistaken for a cottage but for this, and the door being protected by a small porch, and placed at one end of the structure, instead of at the side.

A few of the younger men remained outside in conversation, awaiting the advent of the minister. After a time, however, these dropped in and took their seats, and people began to wonder why the minister was so late. Presently a boy with bare legs and a kilt entered the church and whispered to a very old man, who turned out to be an elder. Having heard the boy’s message, the elder crossed over to the pew in which the laird was seated and whispered to him, not so low, however, as to prevent Giles Jackman from hearing all that passed. The minister’s horse had fallen, he said, and bruised the minister’s legs so that he could not officiate.

“Very awkward,” returned the laird, knitting his brows. “What’s to be done? It seems absurd that so many of us should assemble here just to look solemn for a few minutes and then go home.”

“Yes, sir, it iss akward,” said the elder. “Could you not gif us a discoorse yoursel’, sir, from the prezenter’s dask?”

The latter part of the proposition was to guard himself from the imputation of having asked the laird to mount the pulpit.

“Me preach!” exclaimed the laird; “I never did such a thing in my life.”

“Maype you’ll read a chapter, what-ë-ver,” persisted the elder.

“Impossible! I never read a chapter since I was born—in public, I mean, of course. But why not do it yourself, man?”

“So I would, sir, but my throat’ll not stand it.”

“Is there no other elder who could do it?”

“Not wan, sir. I’m afraid we will hev to dismiss the congregation.”

At this point, to the laird’s relief and no little surprise, Jackman leaned forward, and said in a low voice, “If you have no objection, I will undertake to conduct the service.”

The elder gave the laird a look which, if it had been translated into words, would probably have conveyed the idea— “Is he orthodox?”

“By all means, Mr Jackman,” said the laird; “you will be doing us a great favour.”

Accordingly Jackman went quietly to the precentor’s desk and mounted it, much to the surprise of its proper occupant, a man with a voice like a brass trumpet, who thereupon took his seat on a chair below the desk.

Profound was the interest of the congregation when they saw this bronzed, broad-shouldered, big-bearded young man pull a small Bible out of his pocket and begin to turn over the leaves. And it was noted with additional interest by several of the people that the Bible seemed to be a well-worn one. Looking up from it after a few minutes, during which it was observed that his eyes had been closed, Jackman said, in an easy, conversational tone, that quite took the people by surprise—

“Friends, it has been my lot in life to wander for some years in wild and distant lands, where ministers of the Gospel were few and far between, and where Christians were obliged to conduct the worship of God as best they could. Your minister being unable to attend, owing to an accident, which I trust may not turn out to be serious, I shall attempt, with the permission of your elder, to lead your thoughts Godward, in dependence on the Holy Spirit. Let us pray.”

The jealous ears of the rigorously orthodox heard him thus far without being able to detect absolute heresy, though they were sensitively alive to the unusual style and very unclerical tone of the speaker’s voice. The same ears listened reverently to the prayer which followed, for it was, after the pattern of the Lord’s Prayer, almost startlingly short; still it was very earnest, extremely simple, and, all things considered, undeniably orthodox.

Relieved in their minds, therefore, the people prepared themselves for more, and the precentor, with the brazen but tuneful voice, sang the first line of the psalm which the young preacher gave out— “I to the hills will lift mine eyes”—with rasping energy. At the second line the congregation joined in, and sang praise with reverent good-will, so that, when a chapter of the Word had been read and another psalm sung, they were brought to a state of hopeful expectancy. The text still further pleased them, when, in a quiet voice, while turning over the leaves of the well-used Bible, Jackman said, “In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.”

Laying down his little Bible, and looking at the people earnestly and in silence for a few moments, the preacher said—

“I have travelled in Italy, France, Germany, Switzerland, and other places, and I never yet went in these countries without a guide-book. More than that, never in all my experience have I seen men or women travelling in these countries without a guide-book. The travellers always carried their guide-books in their hands, or in their pockets, and consulted them as they went along. In the evenings, round the tables or on the sofas of the salons, they would sometimes sit poring over the pages of their guide-books, considering distances and the best routes, and the cost of travelling and board. Any man who would have travelled without a guide-book, or who, having one, neglected to use it, would have been considered weak-minded at the least. Still further, I have noted that such travellers believed in their guide-books, and usually acted on the advice and directions therein given.

“But one journey I can tell of in which all this seems to be reversed—the journey from earth towards heaven. And here is our guide-book for that journey,” said the preacher, holding up the little Bible. “How do we treat it? I do not ask scoffers, who profess not to believe in the Bible. I ask those who callthemselves Christians, and who would be highly offended if we ventured to doubt their Christianity. Is it not true that many of us consult our Guide-book very much as a matter of form and habit, without much real belief that it will serve us in all the minute details of life? We all wish to get on in life. The most obstinate and contradictory man on earth admits that. Even if he denies it with his lips, all his actions prove that he admits it. Well, what says our Guide-book in regard to what is called ‘getting on’? ‘In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct thy paths.’ Now, what could be simpler—we might even say, what could be easier—than this? Him whom we have to acknowledge is defined in the previous verse as ‘the Lord’—that is, Jesus, Immanuel, or God with us.”

From this point the sunburnt preacher diverged into illustration, leaning over the desk in a free-and-easy, confidential way, and thrilling his audience with incidents in his own adventurous career, which bore directly on the great truth that, as regards the Great End of life, success and blessedness result from acknowledging the Lord, and that failure and disaster inevitably await those who ignore Him.

While Jackman proceeded with his discourse, the sky had become overcast, dark thunderclouds had been gathering in the nor’-east, rain had also begun to descend; yet so intently were the people listening to this unusual style of preacher, that few of them observed the change until a distant thunder-clap awoke them to it.

Quietly, but promptly, Jackman drew his discourse to a close, and stepped out of the desk, remarking, in the very same voice with which he had preached, that he feared he had kept them too long, and that he hoped none of the congregation had far to go.

“We hev that, sir,” said the old elder, shaking him warmly by the hand; “but we don’t heed that, an’ we are fery glad that we came, what-ë-ver.”

As the wind had also risen, and it seemed as if the weather was not likely to improve, the laird hurried his party down to the boat. Waterproofs were put on, umbrellas were put up, the sails were hoisted, and the boat put off.