Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Eagle Cliff by R. M. Ballantyne (good books to read for women .TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Eagle Cliff by R. M. Ballantyne (good books to read for women .TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
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 call themselves 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.
“I fear the sea is very rough,” remarked Milly Moss, drawing close to Aggy Anderson, so as to shelter her somewhat from the driving rain.
“Oo, ay; it iss a wee rough,” assented Ian, who now took the helm; “but we wull soon rin ower. Haud you the main sheet, Mr Mabberly, an’ pe ready to let co when I tell ye. It iss a wee thing squally.”
It was indeed a little more than a “wee thing squally,” for just then a vivid flash of lightning was seen to glitter among the distant crags of the Eagle Cliff. This was followed by a loud clap of thunder, which, leaping from cliff to crag, reverberated among the mountains with a succession of crashes that died away in ominous mutterings. At the same time a blue line towards the nor’-east indicated an approaching squall.
“Had we not better take in a reef, Ian?” asked the laird anxiously.
“We had petter weather the pint first,” said the boatman; “efter that the wund wul pe in oor favour, an’—but, ye’re richt. Tak in a reef, Roderick an’ Tonal’. Mind the sheet, Mr Mabberly, an’ sit low in the poat, poys.”
These orders were promptly obeyed, for the squall was rushing down the loch very rapidly. When it burst on them the boat leaned over till her lee gunwale almost ran under water, but Ian was a skilful boatman, and managed to weather the point in safety.
After that, as he had said, the wind was more favourable, enabling them to run before it. Still, they were not out of danger, for a wide stretch of foaming sea lay between them and the shores of Kinlossie, while a gathering storm was darkening the sky behind them.
The squall which blew the Kinlossie boat round the Eagle Point was but the precursor of a succession of heavy squalls which quickly changed into a furious gale, compelling Ian Anderson to close reef his sails. Even when this was done, the boat rushed through the foaming water with tremendous velocity, and exhibited that tendency to drinking, to which reference has already been made; for every time she plunged into the trough of the sea, a little water came over the bow.
Of course, going as they were at such a rate, the traversing of six or eight miles of water occupied but little time, and they were soon close to the bay, at the head of which Kinlossie House nestled among its trees.
“Come aft, poys,” shouted Ian, whose voice, strong though it was, could scarcely be heard in the bow owing to the roaring of the gale; “she’s trinkin’ too much; come aft, an’ look sherp!”
The three boys obeyed with alacrity, being well accustomed to boats, and aware of the necessity of prompt obedience in circumstances of danger.
Thus lightened, the boat ceased drinking at the bow, but, being rather overweighted at the stern, she now and then took in a little water there.
Unfortunately the point of rocks which formed the southern end of Kinlossie Bay obliged Ian to change his course a little in order to weather them. This was a critical operation. Even the girls had some sort of idea of that, as their looks bore witness. John Barret felt a strong inclination to slip his arm round Milly’s waist and whisper, “Don’t be afraid, beloved, I’ll take care of you!” but want of courage—to say nothing of a sense of propriety—kept his lips silent and his arm still.
“Noo, keep stiddy, all of ye,” said Ian, as he shifted the helm a little.
An irrepressible shriek burst from Aggy Anderson, for the boat lay over so much that the hissing water rippled almost into her, and seemed about to swallow them up.
“Tak anither haul o’ the sheet, Maister Mabberly,” cried Ian.
Assisted by Jackman, Mabberly obeyed, and the boat went, as Quin said, “snorin’” past the rocks, which were now close under her lee, with the waves bursting wildly over them. Another minute and the outermost rock was under their port bow. To the eyes of the girls it seemed as if destruction were inevitable. To make matters worse, at that moment a vivid flash was succeeded by a loud thunder-clap, which, mingling with the gale, seemed to intensify its fury, while a deluge of rain came down. But Ian knew what he was about. With a firm hand on the tiller he steered past the point, yet so closely that it seemed as if an active man might have leaped upon the outermost rock, which rose, black and solid, amid the surging foam.
Another moment and the boat swept safely round into the bay, and was again put before the wind.
“We’re a’ richt noo, what-ë-ver,” said Ian with a grunt of satisfaction.
Never before did a self-sufficient boatman have his words more effectually or promptly falsified than on that occasion. The distance between boat and shore at that moment was only a few hundred yards; but the water all the way was deep, and the waves, in consequence, were large and wild. There were great possibilities within the brief space of distance and time that lay before them!
“Tak an oar, Maister Quin, an’ help Rodereek to fend off,” cried the boatman. “Hold ticht to the sheet, sir, an’ pe ready to let co the moment I tell ye. Are ye ready wi’ the halyards, Muster Airchie?”
“All right, Ian,” replied the boy, who stood ready to lower the sail.
They could see that several men were standing on the beach, ready to render assistance, among them Duncan, the butler, and Ivor, the gamekeeper. The latter, who had evidently recovered himself, was standing waist-deep in the foam, as if anxious to grasp the boat when it grounded.
“Ivor is unusually keen to help us to-day,” remarked the laird, with a peculiar look; but no one was sufficiently disengaged to listen to or answer him.
At that critical moment Junkie took it into his unaccountable head to scramble to the fore part of the boat, in order, as he said, to lend a hand with a rope. On reaching the bow he stumbled; the boat plunged heavily, as if to accommodate him, and he went overboard with a suddenly checked yell, that rose high and sharp above the roaring gale!
Of course every man near him sprang to the side and made a wild grasp at him. The gunwale went down, the sea rushed in, and, in a space of time brief as the lightning-flash, all the occupants of the boat were struggling in the waves!
A great cry arose from the shore, and Ivor, plunging into the surf, was seen to breast the billows with the force of a Hercules. In the moment of upsetting, John Barret’s cowardice and scruples vanished. He seized Milly by the arm, and held her up when they rose from the plunge.
And now, for the first time in his life, our hero found the advantage of having trained himself, not only in all manly exercises, but in the noble art of rescuing life from the water. Instead of rising to the wild discovery of helpless ignorance as to what was the best way of using his great strength, he rose with the comfortable knowledge, first, that he was a powerful swimmer, and second, that he knew exactly what to do—at least to attempt. Instead, therefore, of allowing himself to be hugged, and probably drowned, by the girl he loved, he held her off at arm’s length until he managed to grasp her by both arms close to the shoulders, and with her back towards him—treading water while
Comments (0)