Chapter Thirteen.A Chapter of Catastrophes.It was the very next day after the conversation in the library that the waggonette was sent over to Cove to meet the steamer and fetch Mrs Moss, who was expected to arrive. As Ian Anderson and Donald with the ragged head had to return home that day, they were offered a lift by their friend Roderick.“I wad raither waalk, Rodereek,” said Ian; “but I dar’ say I may as weel tak a lift as far as the Cluff; chump up, Tonal’.”Donald was not slow to obey. Although active and vigorous as a mountain goat, he had no objection to repose under agreeable conditions.“What think ye o’ the keeperthistime, Rodereek?” asked the boatman as they drove away.“Oo, it wull be the same as last time,” answered the groom. “He’ll haud on for a while, an’ then he wull co pack like the soo to her wallowin’ i’ the mire.”“I doubt ye’re richt,” returned Ian, with a solemn shake of the head. “He’s an unstiddy character, an’ he hes naither the fear o’ Cod nor man pefore his eyes. But he’s a plees’nt man when he likes.”“Oo, ay, but there iss not in him the wull to give up the trink. He hes given it up more than wance before, an’ failed. He will co from pad to worse in my opinion. There iss no hope for him, I fear.”“Fery likely,” and on the strength of that opinion Ian drew a flask from his pocket, and the two cronies had what the groom called a “tram” together.Farther up the steep road they overtook John Barret and Giles Jackman, who saluted them with pleasant platitudes about the weather as they passed. Curiously enough, these two chanced to be conversing on the very subject that had engaged the thoughts of Ian and the groom.“They say this is not the first time that poor Ivor has dashed his bottle to pieces,” said Barret. “I fear it has become a disease in this case, and that he has lost the power of self-control. From all I hear I have little hope of him. It is all the more sad that he seems to have gained the affections of that poor little girl, Aggy Anderson.”“Indeed!” exclaimed Giles, laughing; “a fellow-feeling makes you wondrous sharp, I suppose, for I had not observed that interesting fact. But why do you speak in such pitiful tones of Aggy?”“Because she is an invalid, and her lover is a drunkard. Sufficient reasons, I should think.”“No, not quite, because she has almost recovered her usual health while here, and poor Ivor is, after all, only one of the sinners for whom Jesus Christ died. I have great hopes of him.”“I’m glad to hear you say so, Jackman, though I don’t see that the fact of our Saviour’s dying for us all proves his case to be hopeful. Are there not hundreds of men of whom the same may be said, yet they are not delivered from drunkenness, and don’t seem likely to be?”“That is unquestionably true,” rejoined his friend; “but such men as you refer to have not been brought to the condition of renouncing self, and trustingonlyin our Saviour. They want to have some credit in the matter of their own salvation—hence they fail. Ivor, I have good reason to believe,hasbeen brought to that condition—a condition which insures success—hence my great hopes of him. I became aware of his state of mind, partly from having had a long talk with him the other day, and partly from the report of his good old mother. She told me yesterday that Ivor had come to her, laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, ‘Mither, I’ve lost all hope o’ mysel’ noo,’ to which the old woman answered, ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard for mony a day, my son, for noo the Lord wull let ye see what He can do for ye.’ Ivor’s reply to that was, ‘I believe ye’re richt, mither.’ Now I think that was a great deal to come from two such undemonstrative Celts.”At this point in the conversation they reached a part of the road where a footpath diverged down to the river, the road itself rising abruptly towards the Eagle Cliff.“We separate here,” said Jackman. “I need scarcely ask where you are going, or what going to do! Botany, coupled with inaccessible cliffs, seems to be your mania just now. Oh! John Barret, my friend, may I not with truth, in your case, paraphrase a well-known couplet,—“Milly in the heart breeds Milly in the brain,And this reciprocally that again?”“Your paraphrases are about equal to your compositions, Jackman, and, in saying that, I don’t compliment you. Pray, may I ask why you have forsaken your favourite weapon, the gun, and taken to the rod to-day?”“Because of amiability—pure and simple. You know I don’t care a rush for fishing, but, to my surprise, this morning MacRummle expressed a wish to try my repeating rifle at the rabbits, and offered to let me try his rod, and—I might almost add—his river. Wasn’t it generous of him? So I’m off to have a try for ‘that salmon,’ and he is off no one knows where, to send the terrified rabbits into their holes. Good-bye, old fellow—a pleasant day to you.”Left alone, Barret began to devote himself to the cliffs. It was arduous work, for the said cliffs were almost perpendicular, and plants grew in such high-up crevices, and on such un-get-at-able places, that it seemed as if “rare specimens” knew their own value, as well as the great demand for them, and selected their habitations accordingly.It was pleasant work, and our hero revelled in it! To be in such exceptional circumstances, with the grand cliffs above and below him, with no one near, save the lordly eagle himself, to watch his doings, with the wild sweeps of mountain-land everywhere, clothed with bracken, heather, and birch, and backed by the island-studded sea; with the fresh air and the bright sun, and brawling burns, and bleating sheep, and the objects of his favourite science around him, and the strong muscular frame and buoyant spirits that God had given to enable him to enjoy it all, was indeed enough to arouse a feeling of gratitude and enthusiasm; but when, in addition to this, the young man knew that he was not merely botanising on his own account, but working at it for Milly, he felt as though he had all but attained to the topmost pinnacle of felicity!It is sad to think that in human affairs this condition is not unfrequently the precursor of misfortune. It is not necessarily so. Happily, it is not always so. Indeed, we would fain hope that it is not often so, but it was so on this occasion.Barret had about half filled his botanical box with what he believed to be an interesting collection of plants that would cause the eyes of Milly Moss to sparkle, when the position of the sun and internal sensations induced him to think of his midday meal. It was tied up in a little square paper package. There was a spring at the bottom of the cliffs. It was near the stone where he had met Milly, and had given way to precipitancy. Not far from the spot also where he had made Milly up into a bundle, with a plaid, and started with her towards Kinlossie. No place could be better than that for his solitary luncheon. He would go there.Descending the cliffs, he gained the road, and was walking along towards the selected spot, when the sound of wheels arrested him. Looking up, he saw the waggonette turn sharp round the projecting cliff, and approach him at a walk. He experienced a little depression of spirit, for there was no one in it, only the groom on the box. Milly would be sorely disappointed!“Mrs Moss has not come, I see,” he said, as the groom reined up.“Oo, ay, sir, she’s come. But she iss a queer leddy. She’s been chumpin’ in an’ oot o’ the waginette a’ the way up, like a whutret, to admire the scenery, as she says. When we cam’ to the heed o’ the pass she chumped oot again, an’ telt me to drive on slow, an wait at the futt o’ the first hull for her. She’s no far ahint.”“I’ll go and meet her. You can drive on, slowly.”Barret hurried forward with feelings of considerable uncertainty as to whether this chance of meeting his mother-in-law to be (he hoped!) alone, and in these peculiar circumstances, would be an advantage or otherwise. She might be annoyed by a sudden interruption in “admiring the scenery.” There would be the awkwardness of having to introduce himself, and she might be fatigued after all her “chumpin’” in and out of the waggonette.He was still pondering these points while he walked smartly forward, turned the projecting cliff above referred to, and all but overturned the identical little old lady whom he had run down on his bicycle, weeks before, in London!To say that these two drew back and gazed at each other intently—the lady quivering and pale, the youth aghast and red—is to give but a feeble account of the situation.“Young man,” she said, indignantly, in a low, repressed voice, “you have a peculiar talent for assaulting ladies.”“Madam,” explained the youth, growing desperate, “you are right. I certainly have a talent—at least a misfortune—of that sort—”He stopped short, for, being quite overwhelmed, he knew not what to say.“It is sad,” continued the little old lady in a tone of contempt, “that a youth like you should so much belie your looks. It was so mean of you to run away without a word of apology, just like a bad little boy, for fear of being scolded—not that I cared much for being run down with that horrid bicycle, for I was not hurt—though Imighthave been killed—but it was the cowardly way in which you left me lying helpless among bakers, and sweeps, and policemen, and dirty boys. Oh! it was disgraceful.”Poor Barret became more and more overwhelmed as she went on.“Spare me, madam,” he cried, in desperation. “Oh; if you only knew what I have suffered on your account since that unlucky day! Believe me, it was not cowardice—well, I cannot say that exactly—but it was not the fear of your just reproaches that made me fly. It was the approach of the police, and the fear of being taken up, and a public trial, and the disgrace of—of—and—then I felt ashamed before I had fled more than a few hundred yards, and I returned to the spot, but you were gone, and I had no means of—of—”“That will do, young man. There is no need to keep me standing in this wild place. You are living somewhere in this neighbourhood, I suppose?”“Yes. I am living in the neighbourhood,” said Barret bitterly.“Well, I am going to stay at Kinlossie House. You know Kinlossie House, I suppose?”“Oh, yes, I know it.”“There is no occasion to look so fierce or bitter, young sir. I am going to be at Kinlossie for some time. If you choose to call there, I shall be ready to listen to your explanations and apologies, for I have no desire to appear either harsh or unforgiving. Meanwhile, I wish you good morning.”Saying which, and with a sweeping bow of a rather antiquated style, the offended lady passed on.For a considerable time Barret stood motionless, with folded arms, “admiring the scenery” with a stony stare. A stone about the size of his fist lay at his foot. He suddenly kicked that violently into space. Had it been the size of his head, he would probably not have kicked it! Then he gave vent to a wild laugh, became suddenly grave, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and walked up the road with clenched teeth and a deadly stride.Mrs Moss heard the laugh as it echoed among the great cliffs.“What a dreadful young man!” she muttered, hurrying forward.She thought of asking her driver who he was, but she had found Roderick to be a very taciturn Highlander. He had not shown much disposition to converse on the way up, and his speech had not been very intelligible to her English—or Anglicised—ears. She re-entered the waggonette, therefore, in silence. Roderick drove on also in silence, although much surprised that the “young shentleman” had not returned with the “leddy.” But that was none of his business “what-ë-ver.”As the little old lady brooded over the matter, she resolved to say nothing of the meeting to Milly. She happened to possess a spice of humour, and thought it might be well to wait until the youth should call, and then, after forgiveness sought and obtained, introduce him at Kinlossie as the young man who ran her down in London!Meanwhile Barret walked himself into a better state of mind, clambered to a nook on the face of one of the cliffs, and sat down to meditate and consider what was best to be done.Although he had not gone out that day to shoot, but to botanise, he carried a light double-barrelled shot gun, in case he might get a chance at a hare, which was always acceptable to the lady of Kinlossie.While the incidents just described were being enacted at the base of the Eagle Cliff higher up, on a distant part of the same cliff, MacRummle might have been seen prowling among the grey rocks, with the spirit of Nimrod, and the aspect of Bacchus.It was the habit of MacRummle, being half blind, to supplement his vision with that peculiar kind of glasses which support—or refuse to support—themselves on the human countenance by means of the nose. These, although admirably adapted for reading, and even for quietly fishing by the river-side, he found to be miserably unsuited for sporting among the cliffs, for they were continually tumbling off as he stumbled along, or were twitched off by his rifle when he was in the act of making false points.Perseverance was, however, the strong point in the old man’s character—if it had a strong point at all. He replaced the glasses perpetually, and kept pointing persistently. He did little more than point, because the thing that he pointed at, whatever it was, usually got out of the way before MacRummle obtained a reliable aim. With a shot gun he might have done better, for that weapon admits of snap-shooting, with some chance of success, even in feeble hands. But the old man was ambitious. His object was to “pot” something, as he expressed it, with a single ball. Of course it was not all pointing. He did fire occasionally, with no other result than awaking the echoes and terrifying the rabbits. But the memory of his former success with the same weapon was strong upon him, and perseverance, as we have said, was rampant. On the whole, the fusillade that he kept up was considerable, much to the amusement of Barret (before meeting Mrs Moss!), who rightly guessed the cause of all the noise.About midday, like Barret, he prepared to comfort himself with lunch, and, unlike our unfortunate hero, he enjoyed it in comfort, sitting on a green patch or terrace, high up near the summit of the cliffs, and a full mile distant from the spot where the peculiar meeting took place.Like a giant refreshed MacRummle rose from lunch, a good deal more like Bacchus, and much less like Nimrod. A rabbit had been watching him from the cliff above nearly all the time he was eating. It moved quietly into its burrow when he rose, though there was no occasion to do so, because, although within easy rifle shot, MacRummle did not see it. When the sportsman was past, the rabbit came out and looked after him.Fixing his glasses firmly he advanced in that stooping posture, with the rifle at the “ready,” which is so characteristic of keen sportsmen! Next moment a rabbit stood before him—an easy shot. It sat up on its hind legs even, as if inviting its fate, and gazed as though uncertain whether the man was going to advance or not. He did not advance, but took a steady, deadly aim, and was on the point of pulling the trigger when the glasses dropped off.MacRummle was wonderfully patient. He said nothing. He merely replaced his glasses and looked. The rabbit was gone. Several surrounding rabbits saw it go, but did not follow its example. They evidently felt themselves safe.Proceeding cautiously onward, the sportsman again caught sight of one of the multitude that surrounded him. It was seated on the edge of its burrow, ready for retreat. Alas! for that rabbit, if MacRummle had been an average shot, armed with a shot gun. But it was ignorant, and with the characteristic presumption of ignorance, it sat still. The sportsman took a careful and long—very long—aim, and fired! The rabbit’s nose pointed to the world’s centre, its tail to the sky, and when the smoke cleared away, it also was gone.“Fallen into its hole! Dead, I suppose,” was the remark with which the sportsman sought to comfort himself. A bullet-mark on a rock, however, two feet to the left of the hole, and about a foot too high, shook his faith a little in this view.It was impossible, however, that a man should expend so much ammunition in a region swarming with his particular prey without experiencing something in the shape of a fluke. He did, after a time, get one shot which was effectual. A young rabbit sat on the top of a mound looking at him with an air of impudence which is sometimes associated with extreme youth. A fat old kinsman—or woman—was seated in a hollow some distance farther on. MacRummle fired at the young one, missed it, and shot the kinsman through the heart. The disappointment of the old man when he failed to find the young one, and his joy on discovering the kinsman, we leave to the reader’s imagination.Thus he went on, occasionally securing something for the pot, continually alarming the whole rabbit fraternity, and disgusting the eagle, which watched him from a safe distance in the ambient atmosphere above.By degrees he worked his way along till he came to the neighbourhood of the place where poor John Barret sat in meditative dejection. Although near, however, the two friends could neither see nor get at each other, being separated by an impassable gulf—the one being in a crevice, as we have said, not far from the foot of the cliff, the other hidden among the crags near the summit. Thus it came to pass that although Barret knew of MacRummle’s position by his noise, the latter was quite ignorant of the presence of the former.“This is horrible!” muttered the youth in his crevice below.“Now I call this charming!” exclaimed the old man on his perch above.Such is life—viewed from different standpoints! Ay, and correctly estimated, too, according to these different standpoints; for the old man saw only the sunny surrounding of the Present, while the young one gazed into the gloomy wreck of the Future.Being somewhat fatigued, MacRummle betook himself to a sequestered ledge among the cliffs, and sat down under a shrub to rest. It chanced to be a well concealed spot. He remained quietly there for a considerable time, discussing with himself the relative advantages of fishing and shooting. It is probable that his sudden disappearance and his prolonged absence induced the eagle to imagine that he had gone away, for that watchful bird, after several circlings on outstretched and apparently motionless wings, made a magnificent swoop downwards, and again resumed its floating action in the lower strata of its atmospheric world. There it devoted its exclusive attention to the young man, whose position was clearly exposed to its view.As he sat there in gloomy thought, Barret chanced to raise his eyes, and observed the bird high above him—far out of gunshot.“Fortunate creature!” he said aloud; “whatever may be the troubles of your lot, you are at least safe from exasperatingrencontreswith your future mother-in-law!”We need not point out to the intelligent reader that Barret, being quite ignorant of the eagle’s domestic relations, indulged in mere assumptions in the bitterness of his soul.He raised his fowling-piece as he spoke, and took a long, deliberate aim at the bird.“Far beyond range,” he said, lowering the gun again; “but even if you were only four yards from the muzzle, I would not fire, poor bird! Did not Milly say you were noble, and that it would be worse than murder to kill you? No, you are safe from me, at all events, even if you were not so wary as to keep yourself safe from everybody. And yet, methinks, if MacRummle were still up there, he would have the chance of giving you a severe fright, though he has not the skill to bring you down.”Now it is well-known to trappers and backwoodsmen generally that the most wary of foxes, which cannot by any means be caught by one trap, may sometimes be circumvented by two traps. It is the same with decoys, whether these be placed intentionally, or place themselves accidentally. On this occasion Barret acted the part of a decoy, all unwittingly to that eagle or to MacRummle.In its extreme interest in the youth’s proceedings the great bird soared straight over his head, and slowly approached the old man’s position. MacRummle was not on the alert. He never was on the alert! but his eyes chanced to be gazing in the right direction, and his glasses happened to be on. He saw it coming—something big and black! He grasped his repeater and knocked his glasses off.“A raven, I think! I’ll try it. I should like it as a trophy—a sort of memorial of—”Bang!The man who was half blind, who had scarcely used gun or rifle all his life, achieved that which dead shots and ardent sportsmen had tried in vain for years—he shot the eagle right through the heart, and that, too, with a single bullet!Straight down it fell with a tremendous flutter, and disappeared over the edge of its native cliff.MacRummle went on his knees, and, craning his neck, replaced his glasses; but nothing whatever could be seen, save the misty void below. Shrinking back from the giddy position, he rose and pulled out his watch.“Let me see,” he muttered, “it will take me a full hour to go round so as to reach the bottom. No; too late. I’ll go home, and send the keeper for it in the morning. The eagle may have picked its bones by that time, to be sure; but after all, a raven is not much of a trophy.”While he was thus debating, a very different scene was taking place below.Barret had been gazing up at the eagle when the shot was fired. He saw the spout of smoke. He heard the crashing shot and echoes, and beheld the eagle descending like a thunder-bolt. After that he saw and heard no more, for, in reaching forward to see round a projecting rock that interfered with his vision, his foot slipped, and he fell headlong from the cliff. He had not far to fall, indeed, and a whin bush broke the force of the shock when he did strike; but he was rendered insensible, and rolled down the remainder of the slope to the bottom. There he lay bruised, bleeding, and motionless on the grass, close to the road, with his bent and broken gun beneath him, and the dead eagle not more than a dozen yards from his side!“It is not like Barret to be late,” observed the laird that evening, as he consulted his watch. “He is punctuality itself, as a rule. He must have fallen in with some unusually interesting plants. But we can’t wait. Order dinner, my dear, for I’m sure that my sister must be very hungry after her voyage.”“Indeed I am,” returned the little old lady, with a peculiar smile. “Sea-sickness is the best tonic I know of, but it is an awful medicine to take.”“Almost as good as mountain air,” remarked MacRummle, as they filed out of the drawing-room. “I do wish I had managed to bring that raven home.”At first the party at dinner was as merry as usual. The sportsmen were graphic in recounting the various incidents of the day; Mrs Moss was equally graphic on the horrors of the sea; MacRummle was eulogistic of repeating rifles, and inclined to be boastful about the raven, which he hoped to show them on the morrow, while Milly proved herself, as usual, a beautiful and interested listener, as well as a most hearty laugher.But as the feast went on they became less noisy. Then a feeling of uneasiness manifested itself, but no one ventured to suggest that anything might have occurred to the absentee until the evening had deepened into night. Then the laird started up suddenly. “Somethingmusthave happened to our friend,” he exclaimed, at the same time ringing the bell violently. “He has never been late before, and however far he may have gone a-field, there has been more than time for him to return at his slowest pace. Duncan,” (as the butler entered), “turn out all the men and boys as fast as you can. Tell Roderick to get lanterns ready—as many as you have. Gentlemen, we must all go on this search without another moment’s delay!”There is little need to say that Barret’s friends and comrades were not slow to respond to the call. In less than a quarter of an hour they were dispersed, searching every part of the Eagle Cliff, where he had been last seen by Giles Jackman.They found him at last, pale and blood-stained, making ineffectual efforts to crawl from the spot where he had fallen, both the eagle and the broken gun being found beside him.“No bones broken, thank God!” said Giles, after having examined him and bound up his wounds. “But he is too weak to be questioned. Now, lads, fetch the two poles and the plaid. I’ll soon contrive a litter.”“All right, old fellow! God bless you!” said Barret, faintly, as his friend bent over him.Roderick and Ivor raised him softly, and, with the eagle at his side, bore him towards Kinlossie House. Soon after, their heavy tramp was heard in the hall as they carried him to his room, and laid him gently in bed.
It was the very next day after the conversation in the library that the waggonette was sent over to Cove to meet the steamer and fetch Mrs Moss, who was expected to arrive. As Ian Anderson and Donald with the ragged head had to return home that day, they were offered a lift by their friend Roderick.
“I wad raither waalk, Rodereek,” said Ian; “but I dar’ say I may as weel tak a lift as far as the Cluff; chump up, Tonal’.”
Donald was not slow to obey. Although active and vigorous as a mountain goat, he had no objection to repose under agreeable conditions.
“What think ye o’ the keeperthistime, Rodereek?” asked the boatman as they drove away.
“Oo, it wull be the same as last time,” answered the groom. “He’ll haud on for a while, an’ then he wull co pack like the soo to her wallowin’ i’ the mire.”
“I doubt ye’re richt,” returned Ian, with a solemn shake of the head. “He’s an unstiddy character, an’ he hes naither the fear o’ Cod nor man pefore his eyes. But he’s a plees’nt man when he likes.”
“Oo, ay, but there iss not in him the wull to give up the trink. He hes given it up more than wance before, an’ failed. He will co from pad to worse in my opinion. There iss no hope for him, I fear.”
“Fery likely,” and on the strength of that opinion Ian drew a flask from his pocket, and the two cronies had what the groom called a “tram” together.
Farther up the steep road they overtook John Barret and Giles Jackman, who saluted them with pleasant platitudes about the weather as they passed. Curiously enough, these two chanced to be conversing on the very subject that had engaged the thoughts of Ian and the groom.
“They say this is not the first time that poor Ivor has dashed his bottle to pieces,” said Barret. “I fear it has become a disease in this case, and that he has lost the power of self-control. From all I hear I have little hope of him. It is all the more sad that he seems to have gained the affections of that poor little girl, Aggy Anderson.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Giles, laughing; “a fellow-feeling makes you wondrous sharp, I suppose, for I had not observed that interesting fact. But why do you speak in such pitiful tones of Aggy?”
“Because she is an invalid, and her lover is a drunkard. Sufficient reasons, I should think.”
“No, not quite, because she has almost recovered her usual health while here, and poor Ivor is, after all, only one of the sinners for whom Jesus Christ died. I have great hopes of him.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so, Jackman, though I don’t see that the fact of our Saviour’s dying for us all proves his case to be hopeful. Are there not hundreds of men of whom the same may be said, yet they are not delivered from drunkenness, and don’t seem likely to be?”
“That is unquestionably true,” rejoined his friend; “but such men as you refer to have not been brought to the condition of renouncing self, and trustingonlyin our Saviour. They want to have some credit in the matter of their own salvation—hence they fail. Ivor, I have good reason to believe,hasbeen brought to that condition—a condition which insures success—hence my great hopes of him. I became aware of his state of mind, partly from having had a long talk with him the other day, and partly from the report of his good old mother. She told me yesterday that Ivor had come to her, laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, ‘Mither, I’ve lost all hope o’ mysel’ noo,’ to which the old woman answered, ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard for mony a day, my son, for noo the Lord wull let ye see what He can do for ye.’ Ivor’s reply to that was, ‘I believe ye’re richt, mither.’ Now I think that was a great deal to come from two such undemonstrative Celts.”
At this point in the conversation they reached a part of the road where a footpath diverged down to the river, the road itself rising abruptly towards the Eagle Cliff.
“We separate here,” said Jackman. “I need scarcely ask where you are going, or what going to do! Botany, coupled with inaccessible cliffs, seems to be your mania just now. Oh! John Barret, my friend, may I not with truth, in your case, paraphrase a well-known couplet,—
“Milly in the heart breeds Milly in the brain,And this reciprocally that again?”
“Milly in the heart breeds Milly in the brain,And this reciprocally that again?”
“Your paraphrases are about equal to your compositions, Jackman, and, in saying that, I don’t compliment you. Pray, may I ask why you have forsaken your favourite weapon, the gun, and taken to the rod to-day?”
“Because of amiability—pure and simple. You know I don’t care a rush for fishing, but, to my surprise, this morning MacRummle expressed a wish to try my repeating rifle at the rabbits, and offered to let me try his rod, and—I might almost add—his river. Wasn’t it generous of him? So I’m off to have a try for ‘that salmon,’ and he is off no one knows where, to send the terrified rabbits into their holes. Good-bye, old fellow—a pleasant day to you.”
Left alone, Barret began to devote himself to the cliffs. It was arduous work, for the said cliffs were almost perpendicular, and plants grew in such high-up crevices, and on such un-get-at-able places, that it seemed as if “rare specimens” knew their own value, as well as the great demand for them, and selected their habitations accordingly.
It was pleasant work, and our hero revelled in it! To be in such exceptional circumstances, with the grand cliffs above and below him, with no one near, save the lordly eagle himself, to watch his doings, with the wild sweeps of mountain-land everywhere, clothed with bracken, heather, and birch, and backed by the island-studded sea; with the fresh air and the bright sun, and brawling burns, and bleating sheep, and the objects of his favourite science around him, and the strong muscular frame and buoyant spirits that God had given to enable him to enjoy it all, was indeed enough to arouse a feeling of gratitude and enthusiasm; but when, in addition to this, the young man knew that he was not merely botanising on his own account, but working at it for Milly, he felt as though he had all but attained to the topmost pinnacle of felicity!
It is sad to think that in human affairs this condition is not unfrequently the precursor of misfortune. It is not necessarily so. Happily, it is not always so. Indeed, we would fain hope that it is not often so, but it was so on this occasion.
Barret had about half filled his botanical box with what he believed to be an interesting collection of plants that would cause the eyes of Milly Moss to sparkle, when the position of the sun and internal sensations induced him to think of his midday meal. It was tied up in a little square paper package. There was a spring at the bottom of the cliffs. It was near the stone where he had met Milly, and had given way to precipitancy. Not far from the spot also where he had made Milly up into a bundle, with a plaid, and started with her towards Kinlossie. No place could be better than that for his solitary luncheon. He would go there.
Descending the cliffs, he gained the road, and was walking along towards the selected spot, when the sound of wheels arrested him. Looking up, he saw the waggonette turn sharp round the projecting cliff, and approach him at a walk. He experienced a little depression of spirit, for there was no one in it, only the groom on the box. Milly would be sorely disappointed!
“Mrs Moss has not come, I see,” he said, as the groom reined up.
“Oo, ay, sir, she’s come. But she iss a queer leddy. She’s been chumpin’ in an’ oot o’ the waginette a’ the way up, like a whutret, to admire the scenery, as she says. When we cam’ to the heed o’ the pass she chumped oot again, an’ telt me to drive on slow, an wait at the futt o’ the first hull for her. She’s no far ahint.”
“I’ll go and meet her. You can drive on, slowly.”
Barret hurried forward with feelings of considerable uncertainty as to whether this chance of meeting his mother-in-law to be (he hoped!) alone, and in these peculiar circumstances, would be an advantage or otherwise. She might be annoyed by a sudden interruption in “admiring the scenery.” There would be the awkwardness of having to introduce himself, and she might be fatigued after all her “chumpin’” in and out of the waggonette.
He was still pondering these points while he walked smartly forward, turned the projecting cliff above referred to, and all but overturned the identical little old lady whom he had run down on his bicycle, weeks before, in London!
To say that these two drew back and gazed at each other intently—the lady quivering and pale, the youth aghast and red—is to give but a feeble account of the situation.
“Young man,” she said, indignantly, in a low, repressed voice, “you have a peculiar talent for assaulting ladies.”
“Madam,” explained the youth, growing desperate, “you are right. I certainly have a talent—at least a misfortune—of that sort—”
He stopped short, for, being quite overwhelmed, he knew not what to say.
“It is sad,” continued the little old lady in a tone of contempt, “that a youth like you should so much belie your looks. It was so mean of you to run away without a word of apology, just like a bad little boy, for fear of being scolded—not that I cared much for being run down with that horrid bicycle, for I was not hurt—though Imighthave been killed—but it was the cowardly way in which you left me lying helpless among bakers, and sweeps, and policemen, and dirty boys. Oh! it was disgraceful.”
Poor Barret became more and more overwhelmed as she went on.
“Spare me, madam,” he cried, in desperation. “Oh; if you only knew what I have suffered on your account since that unlucky day! Believe me, it was not cowardice—well, I cannot say that exactly—but it was not the fear of your just reproaches that made me fly. It was the approach of the police, and the fear of being taken up, and a public trial, and the disgrace of—of—and—then I felt ashamed before I had fled more than a few hundred yards, and I returned to the spot, but you were gone, and I had no means of—of—”
“That will do, young man. There is no need to keep me standing in this wild place. You are living somewhere in this neighbourhood, I suppose?”
“Yes. I am living in the neighbourhood,” said Barret bitterly.
“Well, I am going to stay at Kinlossie House. You know Kinlossie House, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes, I know it.”
“There is no occasion to look so fierce or bitter, young sir. I am going to be at Kinlossie for some time. If you choose to call there, I shall be ready to listen to your explanations and apologies, for I have no desire to appear either harsh or unforgiving. Meanwhile, I wish you good morning.”
Saying which, and with a sweeping bow of a rather antiquated style, the offended lady passed on.
For a considerable time Barret stood motionless, with folded arms, “admiring the scenery” with a stony stare. A stone about the size of his fist lay at his foot. He suddenly kicked that violently into space. Had it been the size of his head, he would probably not have kicked it! Then he gave vent to a wild laugh, became suddenly grave, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and walked up the road with clenched teeth and a deadly stride.
Mrs Moss heard the laugh as it echoed among the great cliffs.
“What a dreadful young man!” she muttered, hurrying forward.
She thought of asking her driver who he was, but she had found Roderick to be a very taciturn Highlander. He had not shown much disposition to converse on the way up, and his speech had not been very intelligible to her English—or Anglicised—ears. She re-entered the waggonette, therefore, in silence. Roderick drove on also in silence, although much surprised that the “young shentleman” had not returned with the “leddy.” But that was none of his business “what-ë-ver.”
As the little old lady brooded over the matter, she resolved to say nothing of the meeting to Milly. She happened to possess a spice of humour, and thought it might be well to wait until the youth should call, and then, after forgiveness sought and obtained, introduce him at Kinlossie as the young man who ran her down in London!
Meanwhile Barret walked himself into a better state of mind, clambered to a nook on the face of one of the cliffs, and sat down to meditate and consider what was best to be done.
Although he had not gone out that day to shoot, but to botanise, he carried a light double-barrelled shot gun, in case he might get a chance at a hare, which was always acceptable to the lady of Kinlossie.
While the incidents just described were being enacted at the base of the Eagle Cliff higher up, on a distant part of the same cliff, MacRummle might have been seen prowling among the grey rocks, with the spirit of Nimrod, and the aspect of Bacchus.
It was the habit of MacRummle, being half blind, to supplement his vision with that peculiar kind of glasses which support—or refuse to support—themselves on the human countenance by means of the nose. These, although admirably adapted for reading, and even for quietly fishing by the river-side, he found to be miserably unsuited for sporting among the cliffs, for they were continually tumbling off as he stumbled along, or were twitched off by his rifle when he was in the act of making false points.
Perseverance was, however, the strong point in the old man’s character—if it had a strong point at all. He replaced the glasses perpetually, and kept pointing persistently. He did little more than point, because the thing that he pointed at, whatever it was, usually got out of the way before MacRummle obtained a reliable aim. With a shot gun he might have done better, for that weapon admits of snap-shooting, with some chance of success, even in feeble hands. But the old man was ambitious. His object was to “pot” something, as he expressed it, with a single ball. Of course it was not all pointing. He did fire occasionally, with no other result than awaking the echoes and terrifying the rabbits. But the memory of his former success with the same weapon was strong upon him, and perseverance, as we have said, was rampant. On the whole, the fusillade that he kept up was considerable, much to the amusement of Barret (before meeting Mrs Moss!), who rightly guessed the cause of all the noise.
About midday, like Barret, he prepared to comfort himself with lunch, and, unlike our unfortunate hero, he enjoyed it in comfort, sitting on a green patch or terrace, high up near the summit of the cliffs, and a full mile distant from the spot where the peculiar meeting took place.
Like a giant refreshed MacRummle rose from lunch, a good deal more like Bacchus, and much less like Nimrod. A rabbit had been watching him from the cliff above nearly all the time he was eating. It moved quietly into its burrow when he rose, though there was no occasion to do so, because, although within easy rifle shot, MacRummle did not see it. When the sportsman was past, the rabbit came out and looked after him.
Fixing his glasses firmly he advanced in that stooping posture, with the rifle at the “ready,” which is so characteristic of keen sportsmen! Next moment a rabbit stood before him—an easy shot. It sat up on its hind legs even, as if inviting its fate, and gazed as though uncertain whether the man was going to advance or not. He did not advance, but took a steady, deadly aim, and was on the point of pulling the trigger when the glasses dropped off.
MacRummle was wonderfully patient. He said nothing. He merely replaced his glasses and looked. The rabbit was gone. Several surrounding rabbits saw it go, but did not follow its example. They evidently felt themselves safe.
Proceeding cautiously onward, the sportsman again caught sight of one of the multitude that surrounded him. It was seated on the edge of its burrow, ready for retreat. Alas! for that rabbit, if MacRummle had been an average shot, armed with a shot gun. But it was ignorant, and with the characteristic presumption of ignorance, it sat still. The sportsman took a careful and long—very long—aim, and fired! The rabbit’s nose pointed to the world’s centre, its tail to the sky, and when the smoke cleared away, it also was gone.
“Fallen into its hole! Dead, I suppose,” was the remark with which the sportsman sought to comfort himself. A bullet-mark on a rock, however, two feet to the left of the hole, and about a foot too high, shook his faith a little in this view.
It was impossible, however, that a man should expend so much ammunition in a region swarming with his particular prey without experiencing something in the shape of a fluke. He did, after a time, get one shot which was effectual. A young rabbit sat on the top of a mound looking at him with an air of impudence which is sometimes associated with extreme youth. A fat old kinsman—or woman—was seated in a hollow some distance farther on. MacRummle fired at the young one, missed it, and shot the kinsman through the heart. The disappointment of the old man when he failed to find the young one, and his joy on discovering the kinsman, we leave to the reader’s imagination.
Thus he went on, occasionally securing something for the pot, continually alarming the whole rabbit fraternity, and disgusting the eagle, which watched him from a safe distance in the ambient atmosphere above.
By degrees he worked his way along till he came to the neighbourhood of the place where poor John Barret sat in meditative dejection. Although near, however, the two friends could neither see nor get at each other, being separated by an impassable gulf—the one being in a crevice, as we have said, not far from the foot of the cliff, the other hidden among the crags near the summit. Thus it came to pass that although Barret knew of MacRummle’s position by his noise, the latter was quite ignorant of the presence of the former.
“This is horrible!” muttered the youth in his crevice below.
“Now I call this charming!” exclaimed the old man on his perch above.
Such is life—viewed from different standpoints! Ay, and correctly estimated, too, according to these different standpoints; for the old man saw only the sunny surrounding of the Present, while the young one gazed into the gloomy wreck of the Future.
Being somewhat fatigued, MacRummle betook himself to a sequestered ledge among the cliffs, and sat down under a shrub to rest. It chanced to be a well concealed spot. He remained quietly there for a considerable time, discussing with himself the relative advantages of fishing and shooting. It is probable that his sudden disappearance and his prolonged absence induced the eagle to imagine that he had gone away, for that watchful bird, after several circlings on outstretched and apparently motionless wings, made a magnificent swoop downwards, and again resumed its floating action in the lower strata of its atmospheric world. There it devoted its exclusive attention to the young man, whose position was clearly exposed to its view.
As he sat there in gloomy thought, Barret chanced to raise his eyes, and observed the bird high above him—far out of gunshot.
“Fortunate creature!” he said aloud; “whatever may be the troubles of your lot, you are at least safe from exasperatingrencontreswith your future mother-in-law!”
We need not point out to the intelligent reader that Barret, being quite ignorant of the eagle’s domestic relations, indulged in mere assumptions in the bitterness of his soul.
He raised his fowling-piece as he spoke, and took a long, deliberate aim at the bird.
“Far beyond range,” he said, lowering the gun again; “but even if you were only four yards from the muzzle, I would not fire, poor bird! Did not Milly say you were noble, and that it would be worse than murder to kill you? No, you are safe from me, at all events, even if you were not so wary as to keep yourself safe from everybody. And yet, methinks, if MacRummle were still up there, he would have the chance of giving you a severe fright, though he has not the skill to bring you down.”
Now it is well-known to trappers and backwoodsmen generally that the most wary of foxes, which cannot by any means be caught by one trap, may sometimes be circumvented by two traps. It is the same with decoys, whether these be placed intentionally, or place themselves accidentally. On this occasion Barret acted the part of a decoy, all unwittingly to that eagle or to MacRummle.
In its extreme interest in the youth’s proceedings the great bird soared straight over his head, and slowly approached the old man’s position. MacRummle was not on the alert. He never was on the alert! but his eyes chanced to be gazing in the right direction, and his glasses happened to be on. He saw it coming—something big and black! He grasped his repeater and knocked his glasses off.
“A raven, I think! I’ll try it. I should like it as a trophy—a sort of memorial of—”
Bang!
The man who was half blind, who had scarcely used gun or rifle all his life, achieved that which dead shots and ardent sportsmen had tried in vain for years—he shot the eagle right through the heart, and that, too, with a single bullet!
Straight down it fell with a tremendous flutter, and disappeared over the edge of its native cliff.
MacRummle went on his knees, and, craning his neck, replaced his glasses; but nothing whatever could be seen, save the misty void below. Shrinking back from the giddy position, he rose and pulled out his watch.
“Let me see,” he muttered, “it will take me a full hour to go round so as to reach the bottom. No; too late. I’ll go home, and send the keeper for it in the morning. The eagle may have picked its bones by that time, to be sure; but after all, a raven is not much of a trophy.”
While he was thus debating, a very different scene was taking place below.
Barret had been gazing up at the eagle when the shot was fired. He saw the spout of smoke. He heard the crashing shot and echoes, and beheld the eagle descending like a thunder-bolt. After that he saw and heard no more, for, in reaching forward to see round a projecting rock that interfered with his vision, his foot slipped, and he fell headlong from the cliff. He had not far to fall, indeed, and a whin bush broke the force of the shock when he did strike; but he was rendered insensible, and rolled down the remainder of the slope to the bottom. There he lay bruised, bleeding, and motionless on the grass, close to the road, with his bent and broken gun beneath him, and the dead eagle not more than a dozen yards from his side!
“It is not like Barret to be late,” observed the laird that evening, as he consulted his watch. “He is punctuality itself, as a rule. He must have fallen in with some unusually interesting plants. But we can’t wait. Order dinner, my dear, for I’m sure that my sister must be very hungry after her voyage.”
“Indeed I am,” returned the little old lady, with a peculiar smile. “Sea-sickness is the best tonic I know of, but it is an awful medicine to take.”
“Almost as good as mountain air,” remarked MacRummle, as they filed out of the drawing-room. “I do wish I had managed to bring that raven home.”
At first the party at dinner was as merry as usual. The sportsmen were graphic in recounting the various incidents of the day; Mrs Moss was equally graphic on the horrors of the sea; MacRummle was eulogistic of repeating rifles, and inclined to be boastful about the raven, which he hoped to show them on the morrow, while Milly proved herself, as usual, a beautiful and interested listener, as well as a most hearty laugher.
But as the feast went on they became less noisy. Then a feeling of uneasiness manifested itself, but no one ventured to suggest that anything might have occurred to the absentee until the evening had deepened into night. Then the laird started up suddenly. “Somethingmusthave happened to our friend,” he exclaimed, at the same time ringing the bell violently. “He has never been late before, and however far he may have gone a-field, there has been more than time for him to return at his slowest pace. Duncan,” (as the butler entered), “turn out all the men and boys as fast as you can. Tell Roderick to get lanterns ready—as many as you have. Gentlemen, we must all go on this search without another moment’s delay!”
There is little need to say that Barret’s friends and comrades were not slow to respond to the call. In less than a quarter of an hour they were dispersed, searching every part of the Eagle Cliff, where he had been last seen by Giles Jackman.
They found him at last, pale and blood-stained, making ineffectual efforts to crawl from the spot where he had fallen, both the eagle and the broken gun being found beside him.
“No bones broken, thank God!” said Giles, after having examined him and bound up his wounds. “But he is too weak to be questioned. Now, lads, fetch the two poles and the plaid. I’ll soon contrive a litter.”
“All right, old fellow! God bless you!” said Barret, faintly, as his friend bent over him.
Roderick and Ivor raised him softly, and, with the eagle at his side, bore him towards Kinlossie House. Soon after, their heavy tramp was heard in the hall as they carried him to his room, and laid him gently in bed.
Chapter Fourteen.Suspicions, Revelations, and other Matters.With a swelled and scratched face, a discoloured eye, a damaged nose, and a head swathed in bandages—it is no wonder that Mrs Moss failed to recognise in John Barret the violent young man with the talent for assaulting ladies!She was not admitted to his room until nearly a week after the accident, for, although he had not been seriously injured, he had received a rather severe shock, and it was thought advisable to keep him quiet as a matter of precaution. When she did see him at last, lying on a sofa in a dressing-gown, and with his head and face as we have described, his appearance did not call to her remembrance the faintest resemblance to the confused, wild, and altogether incomprehensible youth, who had tumbled her over in the streets of London, and almost run her down in the Eagle Pass.Of course Barret feared that she would recognise him, and had been greatly exercised as to his precise duty in the circumstances; but when he found that she did not recognise either his face or his voice, he felt uncertain whether it would not be, perhaps, better to say nothing at all about the matter in the meantime. Indeed, the grateful old lady gave him no time to make a “clean breast of it,” as he had at first intended to do.“Oh! Mr Barret,” she exclaimed, sitting down beside him, and laying her hand lightly on his arm, while the laird sat down on another chair and looked on benignly, “I cannot tell you how thankful I am that you have not been killed, and how very grateful I am to you for all your bravery in saving my darling Milly’s life. Now, don’t say a word about disclaiming credit, as I know you are going to do—”“But, dear madam,” interrupted the invalid, “allow me to explain. I cannot bear to deceive you, or to sail under false colours—”“Sail under false colours! Explain!” repeated Mrs Moss, quickly. “What nonsense do you talk? Has not my daughter explained, andsheis not given to colouring things falsely.”“Excuse me, Mrs Moss,” said Barret; “I did not mean that. I only—”“I don’t care what you mean, Mr Barret,” said the positive little woman; “it’s of no use your denying that you have behaved in a noble, courageous manner, and I won’t listen to anything to the contrary; so you need not interrupt me. Besides, I have been told not to allow you to speak much; so, sir, if I am to remain beside you at all, I must impose silence.”Barret sank back on his couch with a sigh, and resigned himself to his fate.So much for the mother. Later in the same day the daughter sat beside his couch. The laird was not present on that occasion. They were alone.“Milly,” said the invalid, taking her small hand in his, “have you mentioned it yet to your mother?”“Yes, John,” replied Milly, blushing in spite of—nay, rather more in consequence of—her efforts not to do so. “I spoke to her some days ago. Indeed, soon after the accident, when we were sure you were going to get well. And she did not disapprove.”“Ay, but have you spoken since she has seen me—since this morning?”“Yes, John.”“And she is still of the same mind—not shocked or shaken by my appearance?”“She is still of the same mind,” returned Milly; “and not shocked in the least. My darling mother is far too wise to be shocked by trifles—I—I mean by scratches and bruises. She judges of people by their hearts.”“I’m glad to hear that, Milly, for I have something shocking to tell her about myself, that will surprise her, if it does nothing else.”“Indeed!” said Milly, with the slightest possible rise of her pretty eyebrows.“Yes. You have heard from your mother about that young rascal who ran into her with his bicycle in London some time ago?”“Yes; she wrote to me about it,” replied Milly, with an amused smile. “You mean, I suppose, the reckless youth who, after running her down, had the cowardice to run away and leave her lying flat on the pavement? Mother has more than once written about that event with indignation, and rightly, I think. But how came you to know about it, John?”“Milly,” said Barret, holding her hand very tight, and speaking solemnly, “Iamthatcowardlyman!”“Now, John, you are jesting.”“Indeed—indeed I am not.”“Do you really mean to say that it wasyouwho ran against my— Oh! youmustbe jesting!”“Again I say I amnot. I am the man—the coward.”“Well, dear John,” said Milly, flushing considerably, “I must believe you; but the fact does not in the least reduce my affection for you, though it will lower my belief in your prudence, unless you can explain.”“I will explain,” said Barret; and we need scarcely add that the explanation tended rather to increase than diminish Milly’s affection for, as well as her belief in, her lover! But when Barret went on further to describe the meeting in the Eagle Pass, she went off into uncontrollable laughter.“And you are sure that mother has no idea that you are the man?” she asked.“Not the remotest.”“Well, now, John, you must not let her know for some time yet. You must gain her affections, sir, before you venture to reveal your true character.”Of course Barret agreed to this. He would have agreed to anything that Milly proposed, except, perhaps, the giving up of his claim to her own hand. Deception, however, invariably surrounds the deceiver with more or less of difficulty. That same evening, while Milly was sitting alone with her mother, the conversation took a perplexing turn.There had been a pretty long pause, after a rather favourable commentary on the character of Barret, when the thin little old lady had wound up with the observation that the subject of their criticism was a remarkably agreeable man, with a playfully humorous and a delightfully serious turn of mind—“andsomodest” withal!Apparently the last words had turned her mind into the new channel, for she resumed—“Talking of insolence, my dear—”“Werewe talking of insolence, mother?” said Milly, with a surprised smile.“Well, my love, I was thinking of the opposite of modesty, which is the same thing. Do you know, I had a meeting on the day of my arrival here which surprised me very much? To say truth, I did not mention it sooner, because I wished to give you a little surprise. Why do you change your seat, my love? Did you feel a draught where you were?”“No—no. I—I only want to get the light a little more at my back—to keep it off my face. But go on, mother. What was the surprise about? I’m anxious to know.”If Milly did not absolutely know, she had at least a pretty good idea of what was coming!“Well, of course you remember about that young man—that—thatcowardlyyoung man who—”“Who ran you down in London? Yes, yes,Iknow,” interrupted the daughter, endeavouring to suppress a laugh, and putting her handkerchief suddenly to her face. “I remember well. The monster! What about him?”“You may well call him a monster! Can you believe it? I have met him here—in this very island, where he must be living somewhere, of course; and he actually ran me down again—allbut.” She added the last two words in order to save her veracity.“You don’t really mean it?” exclaimed Milly, giving way a little in spite of herself. “With a bicycle?”It was the mother’s turn to laugh now.“No, you foolish thing; evenIhave capacity to understand that it would be impossible to use those hideous—frightful instruments, on the bad hill-roads of this island. No; but it seems to be the nature of this dis-disagreeable—I had almost said detestable—youth, to move only under violent impulse, for he came round a corner of the Eagle Cliff at such a pace that, as I have said, heallbutran into my arms and knocked me down.”“Dreadful!” exclaimed Milly, turning her back still more to the light and working mysteriously with her kerchief.“Yes, dreadful indeed! And when I naturally taxed him with his cowardice and meanness, he did not seem at all penitent, but went on like a lunatic; and although what he said was civil enough, his way of saying it was very impolite and strange; and after we had parted, I heard him give way to fiendish laughter. I could not be mistaken, for the cliffs echoed it in all directions like a hundred hyenas!”As this savoured somewhat of a joke, Milly availed herself of it, set free the safety-valve, and, so to speak, saved the boiler!“Why do you laugh so much, child?” asked the old lady, when her daughter had transgressed reasonable limits.“Well, you know, mother, if youwillcompare a man’s laugh to a hundred hyenas—”“I didn’t compare the man’s voice,” interrupted Mrs Moss; “I said that the cliffs—”“That’s worse and worse! Now, mother, don’t get into one of your hypercritical moods, and insist on reasons for everything; but tell me about this wicked—this dreadful young man. What was he like?”“Like an ordinary sportsman, dear, with one of those hateful guns in his hand, and a botanical box on his back. I could not see his face very well, for he wore one of those ugly pot-caps, with a peak before and behind; though what the behind one is for I cannot imagine, as men have no eyes in the back of their heads to keep the sun out of. No doubt some men would make us believe they have! but it was pulled down on the bridge of his nose. What I did see of his face seemed to be handsome enough, and his figure was tall and well made, unquestionably, but his behaviour—nothing can excuse that! If he had only said he was sorry, one might have forgiven him.”“Did henotsay he was sorry?” asked Milly in some surprise.“Oh, well, I suppose he did; and begged pardon after a fashion. But what truth could there be in his protestations when he went away and laughed like a hyena.”“You said a hundred hyenas, mother.”“No, Milly, I said the cliffs laughed; but don’t interrupt me, you naughty child! Well, I was going to tell you that my heart softened a little towards the young man, for, as you know, I am not naturally unforgiving.”“I know it well, dear mother!”“So, before we parted, I told him that if he had any explanations or apologies to make, I should be glad to see him at Kinlossie House. Then I made up my mind to forgive him, and introduce him to you as the man that ran me down in London! This was the little surprise I had in store for you, but the ungrateful creature has never come.”“No, and he never will come!” said Milly, with a hearty laugh.“How do you know that, puss?” asked Mrs Moss, in surprise.Fortunately the dinner-bell rang at that moment, justifying Milly in jumping up. Giving her mother a rather violent hug, she rushed from the room.“Strange girl!” muttered Mrs Moss as she turned, and occupied herself with some mysterious—we might almost say captious—operations before the looking-glass. “The mountain air seems to have increased her spirits wonderfully. Perhaps love has something to do with it! It may be both!”She was still engaged with a subtle analysis of this question—in front of the glass, which gave her the advantage of supposing that she talked with an opponent—when sudden and uproarious laughter was heard in the adjoining room. It was Barret’s sitting-room, in which his friends were wont to visit him. She could distinguish that the laughter proceeded from himself, Milly, and Giles Jackman, though the walls were too thick to permit of either words or ordinary tones being heard.“Milly,” said Mrs Moss, severely, when they met a few minutes later in the drawing-room, “what were you two and Mr Jackman laughing at so loudly? Surely you did not tell them what we had been speaking about?”“Of course I did, mother. I did not know you intended to keep the matter secret. And it did so tickle them! But no one else knows it, so I will run back to John and pledge him to secrecy. You can caution Mr Jackman, who will be down directly, no doubt.”As Barret had not at that time recovered sufficiently to admit of his going downstairs, his friends were wont to spend much of their time in the snug sitting-room which had been apportioned to him. He usually held his levées costumed in a huge flowered dressing-gown, belonging to the laird, so that, although he began to look more like his former self, as he recovered from his injuries, he was still sufficiently disguised to prevent recognition on the part of Mrs Moss.Nevertheless, the old lady felt strangely perplexed about him.One day the greater part of the household was assembled in his room when Mrs Moss remarked on this curious feeling.“I cannot tell what it is, Mr Barret, that makes the sound of your voice seem familiar to me,” she said; “yet not exactly familiar, but a sort of far-away echo, you know, such as one might have heard in a dream; though, after all, I don’t think I ever did hear a voice in a dream.”Jackman and Milly glanced at each other, and the latter put the safety-valve to her mouth while Barret replied—“I don’t know,” he said, with a very grave appearance of profound thought, “that I ever myself dreamt a voice, or, indeed, a sound of any kind. As to what you say about some voices appearing to be familiar, don’t you think that has something to do with classes of men? No man, I think, is a solitary unit in creation. Every man is, as it were, the type of a class to which he belongs—each member possessing more or less the complexion, tendencies, characteristics, tones, etcetera, of his particular class. You are familiar, it may be, with the tones of the class to which I belong, and hence the idea that you have heard my voice before.”“Philosophically put, Barret,” said Mabberly; “I had no idea you thought so profoundly.”“H’m! I’m not so sure of the profundity,” said the little old lady, pursing her lips; “no doubt you may be right as regards class; but then, young man, I have been familiar with all classes of men, and therefore, according to your principle, I should have some strange memories connected with Mr Jackman’s voice, and Mr Mabberly’s, and the laird’s, and everybody’s.”“Well said, sister; you have him there!” cried the laird with a guffaw; “but don’t lug me into your classes, for I claim to be an exception to all mankind, inasmuch as I have a sister who belongs to no class, and is ready to tackle any man on any subject whatever, between metaphysics and baby linen. Come now, Barret, do you think yourself strong enough to go out with us in the boat to-morrow?”“Quite. Indeed, I would have begged leave to go out some days ago, but Doctor Jackman there, who is a very stern practitioner, forbids me. However, I have my revenge, for I compel him to sit with me a great deal, and entertain me with Indian stories.”“Oh!” exclaimed Junkie, who happened to be in the room, “he hasn’t told you yet about the elephant hunt, has he?”“No, not yet, Junkie,” returned Barret; “he has been faithful to his promise not to go on with that story till you and your brothers are present.”“Well, but tell it now, Mr Jackman, and I’ll go an call Eddie and Archie,” pleaded the boy.“You will call in vain, then,” said his father, “for they have both gone up the burn, one to photograph and the other to paint. I never saw such a boy as Archie is to photograph. I believe he has got every scene in the island worth having on his plates now, and he has taken to the cattle of late— What think ye was the last thing he tried? I found him in the yard yesterday trying to photograph himself!”“That must indeed have puzzled him; how did he manage?” asked MacRummle.“Well, it was ingenious. He tried to get Pat Quin to manipulate the instrument while he sat; but Quin is clumsy with his fingers, at least for such delicate work, and, the last time, he became nervous in his anxiety to do the thing rightly; so, when Archie cried ‘Now,’ for him to cover the glass with its little cap, he put it on with a bang that knocked over and nearly smashed the whole concern. So what does the boy do but sets up a chair in the right focus and arranges the instrument with a string tied to the little cap. Then he sits down on the chair, puts on a heavenly smile, and pulls the string. Off comes the cap! He counts one, two—I don’t know how many—and then makes a sudden dash at the camera an’ shuts it up! What the result may be remains to be seen.”“Oh, it’ll be the same as usual,” remarked Junkie in a tone of contempt. “There’s always something goes wrong in the middle of it. He tried to take Boxer the other day, andhewagged his tail in the middle of it. Then he tried the cat, and she yawned in the middle. Then Flo, and she laughed in the middle. Then me, an’ I forgot, and made a face at Flo in the middle. It’s a pity it has got a middle at all; two ends would be better, I think. But won’t you tell about the elephants tous, Mr Jackman? There’s plenty of us here—please!”“Nay, Junkie; you would not have me break my word, surely. When we are all assembled together you shall have it—some wet day, perhaps.”“Then there’ll be no more wet daysthisyear, if I’ve to wait for that,” returned the urchin half sulkily.That same day, Milly, Barret, and Jackman arranged that the mystery of the cowardly young man must be cleared up.“Perhaps it would be best for Miss Moss to explain to her mother,” said Giles.“That will not I,” said Milly with a laugh.“I have decided what to do,” said Barret. “I was invited by her to call and explain anything I had to say, and apologise. By looks, if not by words, I accepted that invitation, and I shall keep it. If you could only manage somehow, Milly, to get everybody out of the way, so that I might find your mother alone in—”“She’s alonenow,” said Milly. “I left her just a minute ago, and she is not likely to be interrupted, I know.”“Stay, then; I will return in a few minutes.”Barret retired to his room, whence he quickly returned with shooting coat, knickerbockers, pot-cap and boots, all complete.“‘Richard’s himself again!’ Allow me to congratulate you,” cried Jackman, shaking his friend by the hand. “But, I say, don’t you think it may give the old lady rather a shock as well as a surprise?”Barret looked at Milly.“I think not,” said Milly. “As uncle often says of dear mother, ‘she is tough.’”“Well, I’ll go,” said Barret.In a few minutes he walked into the middle of the drawing-room and stood before Mrs Moss, who was reading a book at the time. She laid down the book, removed her glasses, and looked up.“Well, I declare!” she exclaimed, with the utmost elevation of her eyebrows and distension of her eyes; “there you are at last! And you have not even the politeness to take your hat off, or have yourself announced. You are the most singularly ill-bred young man, for your looks, that I ever met with.”“I thought, madam,” said Barret in a low voice, “that you would know me better with my cap on—”He stopped, for the old lady had risen at the first sound of his voice, and gazed at him in a species of incredulous alarm.“Forgive me,” cried Barret, pulling off his cap; but again he stopped abruptly, and, before he could spring forward to prevent it, the little old lady had fallen flat upon the hearth-rug.“Quick! hallo! Milly—Giles! Ass that I am! I’ve knocked her downagain!” he shouted, as those whom he summoned burst into the room.They had not been far off. In a few more minutes Mrs Moss was reviving on the sofa, and alone with her daughter.“Milly, dear, this has been a great surprise; indeed, I might almost call it a shock,” she said, in a faint voice.“Indeed it has been, darling mother,” returned Milly in sympathetic tones, as she smoothed her mother’s hair; “and it was all my fault. But are you quite sure you are not hurt?”“I don’tfeelhurt, dear,” returned the old lady, with a slight dash of her argumentative tone; “and don’t you think that if Iwerehurt I shouldfeelit?”“Perhaps, mother; but sometimes, you know, people are somuchhurt that theycan’tfeel it.”“True, child, but in these circumstances they are usually unable to express their views about feeling altogether, which I am not, you see—no thanks to that—th–to John Barret.”“Oh! mother, I cannot bear to think of it—”“No wonder,” interrupted the old lady. “To think of my being violently knocked downtwice—almostthree times—by a big young man like that, and the first time with a horrid bicycle on the top of us—I might almost say mixed up with us.”“But, mother, henevermeant it, you know—”“I shouldthinknot!” interjected Mrs Moss with a short sarcastic laugh.“No, indeed,” continued Milly, with some warmth; “and if you only knew what he has suffered on your account—”“Milly,” cried Mrs Moss quickly, “is all thatIhave suffered onhisaccount to count for nothing?”“Of course not,dearmother. I don’t mean that; you don’t understand me. I mean the reproaches that his own conscience has heaped upon his head for what he has inadvertently done.”“Recklessly, child, not inadvertently. Besides, you know, his conscience is nothimself. People cannot avoid what conscience says to them. Its remarks are no sign of humility or self-condemnation, one proof of which is that wicked people would gladly get away from conscience if they could, instead of agreeing with it, as they should, and shaking hands with it, and saying, ‘we are all that you call us, and more.’”“Well, that is exactly what John has done,” said Milly, with increasing, warmth. “He has said all that, and more to me—”“Toyou?” interrupted Mrs Moss; “yes, but you are not his conscience, child!”“Yes, I am, mother; at least, if I’m not, I am next thing to it, for he sayseverythingto me!” returned Milly, with a laugh and a blush. “And you have no idea how sorry, how ashamed, how self-condemned, how overwhelmed he has been by all that has happened.”“Humph! I have been a good deal more overwhelmed than he has been,” returned Mrs Moss. “However, make your mind easy, child, for during the last week or two, in learning to love and esteem John Barret, I have unwittingly been preparing the way to forgive and forget the cowardly youth who ran me down in London. Now go and send Mr Jackman to me; I have a great opinion of that young man’s knowledge of medicine and surgery, though heisonly an amateur. He will soon tell me whether I have received any hurt that has rendered me incapable of feeling. And at the same time you may convey to that coward, John, my entire forgiveness.”Milly kissed her mother, of course, and hastened away to deliver her double message.After careful examination and much questioning, “Dr” Jackman pronounced the little old lady to be entirely free from injury of any kind, save the smashing of a comb in her back-hair, and gave it as his opinion that she was as sound in wind and limb as before the accident, though there had unquestionably been a considerable shock to the feelings, which, however, seemed to have had the effect of improving rather than deranging her intellectual powers. The jury which afterwards sat upon her returned their verdict in accordance with that opinion.It was impossible, of course, to prevent some of all this leaking into the kitchen, the nursery, and the stable. In the first-mentioned spot, Quin remarked to the housemaid,—“Sure, it’s a quare evint entirely,” with which sentiment the housemaid agreed.“Aunt Moss is a buster,” was Junkie’s ambiguous opinion, in which Flo and the black doll coincided.“Tonal’,” said Roderick, as he groomed the bay horse, “the old wumman iss a fery tough person.”To which “Tonal’” assented, “she iss, what-ë-ver.”
With a swelled and scratched face, a discoloured eye, a damaged nose, and a head swathed in bandages—it is no wonder that Mrs Moss failed to recognise in John Barret the violent young man with the talent for assaulting ladies!
She was not admitted to his room until nearly a week after the accident, for, although he had not been seriously injured, he had received a rather severe shock, and it was thought advisable to keep him quiet as a matter of precaution. When she did see him at last, lying on a sofa in a dressing-gown, and with his head and face as we have described, his appearance did not call to her remembrance the faintest resemblance to the confused, wild, and altogether incomprehensible youth, who had tumbled her over in the streets of London, and almost run her down in the Eagle Pass.
Of course Barret feared that she would recognise him, and had been greatly exercised as to his precise duty in the circumstances; but when he found that she did not recognise either his face or his voice, he felt uncertain whether it would not be, perhaps, better to say nothing at all about the matter in the meantime. Indeed, the grateful old lady gave him no time to make a “clean breast of it,” as he had at first intended to do.
“Oh! Mr Barret,” she exclaimed, sitting down beside him, and laying her hand lightly on his arm, while the laird sat down on another chair and looked on benignly, “I cannot tell you how thankful I am that you have not been killed, and how very grateful I am to you for all your bravery in saving my darling Milly’s life. Now, don’t say a word about disclaiming credit, as I know you are going to do—”
“But, dear madam,” interrupted the invalid, “allow me to explain. I cannot bear to deceive you, or to sail under false colours—”
“Sail under false colours! Explain!” repeated Mrs Moss, quickly. “What nonsense do you talk? Has not my daughter explained, andsheis not given to colouring things falsely.”
“Excuse me, Mrs Moss,” said Barret; “I did not mean that. I only—”
“I don’t care what you mean, Mr Barret,” said the positive little woman; “it’s of no use your denying that you have behaved in a noble, courageous manner, and I won’t listen to anything to the contrary; so you need not interrupt me. Besides, I have been told not to allow you to speak much; so, sir, if I am to remain beside you at all, I must impose silence.”
Barret sank back on his couch with a sigh, and resigned himself to his fate.
So much for the mother. Later in the same day the daughter sat beside his couch. The laird was not present on that occasion. They were alone.
“Milly,” said the invalid, taking her small hand in his, “have you mentioned it yet to your mother?”
“Yes, John,” replied Milly, blushing in spite of—nay, rather more in consequence of—her efforts not to do so. “I spoke to her some days ago. Indeed, soon after the accident, when we were sure you were going to get well. And she did not disapprove.”
“Ay, but have you spoken since she has seen me—since this morning?”
“Yes, John.”
“And she is still of the same mind—not shocked or shaken by my appearance?”
“She is still of the same mind,” returned Milly; “and not shocked in the least. My darling mother is far too wise to be shocked by trifles—I—I mean by scratches and bruises. She judges of people by their hearts.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Milly, for I have something shocking to tell her about myself, that will surprise her, if it does nothing else.”
“Indeed!” said Milly, with the slightest possible rise of her pretty eyebrows.
“Yes. You have heard from your mother about that young rascal who ran into her with his bicycle in London some time ago?”
“Yes; she wrote to me about it,” replied Milly, with an amused smile. “You mean, I suppose, the reckless youth who, after running her down, had the cowardice to run away and leave her lying flat on the pavement? Mother has more than once written about that event with indignation, and rightly, I think. But how came you to know about it, John?”
“Milly,” said Barret, holding her hand very tight, and speaking solemnly, “Iamthatcowardlyman!”
“Now, John, you are jesting.”
“Indeed—indeed I am not.”
“Do you really mean to say that it wasyouwho ran against my— Oh! youmustbe jesting!”
“Again I say I amnot. I am the man—the coward.”
“Well, dear John,” said Milly, flushing considerably, “I must believe you; but the fact does not in the least reduce my affection for you, though it will lower my belief in your prudence, unless you can explain.”
“I will explain,” said Barret; and we need scarcely add that the explanation tended rather to increase than diminish Milly’s affection for, as well as her belief in, her lover! But when Barret went on further to describe the meeting in the Eagle Pass, she went off into uncontrollable laughter.
“And you are sure that mother has no idea that you are the man?” she asked.
“Not the remotest.”
“Well, now, John, you must not let her know for some time yet. You must gain her affections, sir, before you venture to reveal your true character.”
Of course Barret agreed to this. He would have agreed to anything that Milly proposed, except, perhaps, the giving up of his claim to her own hand. Deception, however, invariably surrounds the deceiver with more or less of difficulty. That same evening, while Milly was sitting alone with her mother, the conversation took a perplexing turn.
There had been a pretty long pause, after a rather favourable commentary on the character of Barret, when the thin little old lady had wound up with the observation that the subject of their criticism was a remarkably agreeable man, with a playfully humorous and a delightfully serious turn of mind—“andsomodest” withal!
Apparently the last words had turned her mind into the new channel, for she resumed—
“Talking of insolence, my dear—”
“Werewe talking of insolence, mother?” said Milly, with a surprised smile.
“Well, my love, I was thinking of the opposite of modesty, which is the same thing. Do you know, I had a meeting on the day of my arrival here which surprised me very much? To say truth, I did not mention it sooner, because I wished to give you a little surprise. Why do you change your seat, my love? Did you feel a draught where you were?”
“No—no. I—I only want to get the light a little more at my back—to keep it off my face. But go on, mother. What was the surprise about? I’m anxious to know.”
If Milly did not absolutely know, she had at least a pretty good idea of what was coming!
“Well, of course you remember about that young man—that—thatcowardlyyoung man who—”
“Who ran you down in London? Yes, yes,Iknow,” interrupted the daughter, endeavouring to suppress a laugh, and putting her handkerchief suddenly to her face. “I remember well. The monster! What about him?”
“You may well call him a monster! Can you believe it? I have met him here—in this very island, where he must be living somewhere, of course; and he actually ran me down again—allbut.” She added the last two words in order to save her veracity.
“You don’t really mean it?” exclaimed Milly, giving way a little in spite of herself. “With a bicycle?”
It was the mother’s turn to laugh now.
“No, you foolish thing; evenIhave capacity to understand that it would be impossible to use those hideous—frightful instruments, on the bad hill-roads of this island. No; but it seems to be the nature of this dis-disagreeable—I had almost said detestable—youth, to move only under violent impulse, for he came round a corner of the Eagle Cliff at such a pace that, as I have said, heallbutran into my arms and knocked me down.”
“Dreadful!” exclaimed Milly, turning her back still more to the light and working mysteriously with her kerchief.
“Yes, dreadful indeed! And when I naturally taxed him with his cowardice and meanness, he did not seem at all penitent, but went on like a lunatic; and although what he said was civil enough, his way of saying it was very impolite and strange; and after we had parted, I heard him give way to fiendish laughter. I could not be mistaken, for the cliffs echoed it in all directions like a hundred hyenas!”
As this savoured somewhat of a joke, Milly availed herself of it, set free the safety-valve, and, so to speak, saved the boiler!
“Why do you laugh so much, child?” asked the old lady, when her daughter had transgressed reasonable limits.
“Well, you know, mother, if youwillcompare a man’s laugh to a hundred hyenas—”
“I didn’t compare the man’s voice,” interrupted Mrs Moss; “I said that the cliffs—”
“That’s worse and worse! Now, mother, don’t get into one of your hypercritical moods, and insist on reasons for everything; but tell me about this wicked—this dreadful young man. What was he like?”
“Like an ordinary sportsman, dear, with one of those hateful guns in his hand, and a botanical box on his back. I could not see his face very well, for he wore one of those ugly pot-caps, with a peak before and behind; though what the behind one is for I cannot imagine, as men have no eyes in the back of their heads to keep the sun out of. No doubt some men would make us believe they have! but it was pulled down on the bridge of his nose. What I did see of his face seemed to be handsome enough, and his figure was tall and well made, unquestionably, but his behaviour—nothing can excuse that! If he had only said he was sorry, one might have forgiven him.”
“Did henotsay he was sorry?” asked Milly in some surprise.
“Oh, well, I suppose he did; and begged pardon after a fashion. But what truth could there be in his protestations when he went away and laughed like a hyena.”
“You said a hundred hyenas, mother.”
“No, Milly, I said the cliffs laughed; but don’t interrupt me, you naughty child! Well, I was going to tell you that my heart softened a little towards the young man, for, as you know, I am not naturally unforgiving.”
“I know it well, dear mother!”
“So, before we parted, I told him that if he had any explanations or apologies to make, I should be glad to see him at Kinlossie House. Then I made up my mind to forgive him, and introduce him to you as the man that ran me down in London! This was the little surprise I had in store for you, but the ungrateful creature has never come.”
“No, and he never will come!” said Milly, with a hearty laugh.
“How do you know that, puss?” asked Mrs Moss, in surprise.
Fortunately the dinner-bell rang at that moment, justifying Milly in jumping up. Giving her mother a rather violent hug, she rushed from the room.
“Strange girl!” muttered Mrs Moss as she turned, and occupied herself with some mysterious—we might almost say captious—operations before the looking-glass. “The mountain air seems to have increased her spirits wonderfully. Perhaps love has something to do with it! It may be both!”
She was still engaged with a subtle analysis of this question—in front of the glass, which gave her the advantage of supposing that she talked with an opponent—when sudden and uproarious laughter was heard in the adjoining room. It was Barret’s sitting-room, in which his friends were wont to visit him. She could distinguish that the laughter proceeded from himself, Milly, and Giles Jackman, though the walls were too thick to permit of either words or ordinary tones being heard.
“Milly,” said Mrs Moss, severely, when they met a few minutes later in the drawing-room, “what were you two and Mr Jackman laughing at so loudly? Surely you did not tell them what we had been speaking about?”
“Of course I did, mother. I did not know you intended to keep the matter secret. And it did so tickle them! But no one else knows it, so I will run back to John and pledge him to secrecy. You can caution Mr Jackman, who will be down directly, no doubt.”
As Barret had not at that time recovered sufficiently to admit of his going downstairs, his friends were wont to spend much of their time in the snug sitting-room which had been apportioned to him. He usually held his levées costumed in a huge flowered dressing-gown, belonging to the laird, so that, although he began to look more like his former self, as he recovered from his injuries, he was still sufficiently disguised to prevent recognition on the part of Mrs Moss.
Nevertheless, the old lady felt strangely perplexed about him.
One day the greater part of the household was assembled in his room when Mrs Moss remarked on this curious feeling.
“I cannot tell what it is, Mr Barret, that makes the sound of your voice seem familiar to me,” she said; “yet not exactly familiar, but a sort of far-away echo, you know, such as one might have heard in a dream; though, after all, I don’t think I ever did hear a voice in a dream.”
Jackman and Milly glanced at each other, and the latter put the safety-valve to her mouth while Barret replied—
“I don’t know,” he said, with a very grave appearance of profound thought, “that I ever myself dreamt a voice, or, indeed, a sound of any kind. As to what you say about some voices appearing to be familiar, don’t you think that has something to do with classes of men? No man, I think, is a solitary unit in creation. Every man is, as it were, the type of a class to which he belongs—each member possessing more or less the complexion, tendencies, characteristics, tones, etcetera, of his particular class. You are familiar, it may be, with the tones of the class to which I belong, and hence the idea that you have heard my voice before.”
“Philosophically put, Barret,” said Mabberly; “I had no idea you thought so profoundly.”
“H’m! I’m not so sure of the profundity,” said the little old lady, pursing her lips; “no doubt you may be right as regards class; but then, young man, I have been familiar with all classes of men, and therefore, according to your principle, I should have some strange memories connected with Mr Jackman’s voice, and Mr Mabberly’s, and the laird’s, and everybody’s.”
“Well said, sister; you have him there!” cried the laird with a guffaw; “but don’t lug me into your classes, for I claim to be an exception to all mankind, inasmuch as I have a sister who belongs to no class, and is ready to tackle any man on any subject whatever, between metaphysics and baby linen. Come now, Barret, do you think yourself strong enough to go out with us in the boat to-morrow?”
“Quite. Indeed, I would have begged leave to go out some days ago, but Doctor Jackman there, who is a very stern practitioner, forbids me. However, I have my revenge, for I compel him to sit with me a great deal, and entertain me with Indian stories.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Junkie, who happened to be in the room, “he hasn’t told you yet about the elephant hunt, has he?”
“No, not yet, Junkie,” returned Barret; “he has been faithful to his promise not to go on with that story till you and your brothers are present.”
“Well, but tell it now, Mr Jackman, and I’ll go an call Eddie and Archie,” pleaded the boy.
“You will call in vain, then,” said his father, “for they have both gone up the burn, one to photograph and the other to paint. I never saw such a boy as Archie is to photograph. I believe he has got every scene in the island worth having on his plates now, and he has taken to the cattle of late— What think ye was the last thing he tried? I found him in the yard yesterday trying to photograph himself!”
“That must indeed have puzzled him; how did he manage?” asked MacRummle.
“Well, it was ingenious. He tried to get Pat Quin to manipulate the instrument while he sat; but Quin is clumsy with his fingers, at least for such delicate work, and, the last time, he became nervous in his anxiety to do the thing rightly; so, when Archie cried ‘Now,’ for him to cover the glass with its little cap, he put it on with a bang that knocked over and nearly smashed the whole concern. So what does the boy do but sets up a chair in the right focus and arranges the instrument with a string tied to the little cap. Then he sits down on the chair, puts on a heavenly smile, and pulls the string. Off comes the cap! He counts one, two—I don’t know how many—and then makes a sudden dash at the camera an’ shuts it up! What the result may be remains to be seen.”
“Oh, it’ll be the same as usual,” remarked Junkie in a tone of contempt. “There’s always something goes wrong in the middle of it. He tried to take Boxer the other day, andhewagged his tail in the middle of it. Then he tried the cat, and she yawned in the middle. Then Flo, and she laughed in the middle. Then me, an’ I forgot, and made a face at Flo in the middle. It’s a pity it has got a middle at all; two ends would be better, I think. But won’t you tell about the elephants tous, Mr Jackman? There’s plenty of us here—please!”
“Nay, Junkie; you would not have me break my word, surely. When we are all assembled together you shall have it—some wet day, perhaps.”
“Then there’ll be no more wet daysthisyear, if I’ve to wait for that,” returned the urchin half sulkily.
That same day, Milly, Barret, and Jackman arranged that the mystery of the cowardly young man must be cleared up.
“Perhaps it would be best for Miss Moss to explain to her mother,” said Giles.
“That will not I,” said Milly with a laugh.
“I have decided what to do,” said Barret. “I was invited by her to call and explain anything I had to say, and apologise. By looks, if not by words, I accepted that invitation, and I shall keep it. If you could only manage somehow, Milly, to get everybody out of the way, so that I might find your mother alone in—”
“She’s alonenow,” said Milly. “I left her just a minute ago, and she is not likely to be interrupted, I know.”
“Stay, then; I will return in a few minutes.”
Barret retired to his room, whence he quickly returned with shooting coat, knickerbockers, pot-cap and boots, all complete.
“‘Richard’s himself again!’ Allow me to congratulate you,” cried Jackman, shaking his friend by the hand. “But, I say, don’t you think it may give the old lady rather a shock as well as a surprise?”
Barret looked at Milly.
“I think not,” said Milly. “As uncle often says of dear mother, ‘she is tough.’”
“Well, I’ll go,” said Barret.
In a few minutes he walked into the middle of the drawing-room and stood before Mrs Moss, who was reading a book at the time. She laid down the book, removed her glasses, and looked up.
“Well, I declare!” she exclaimed, with the utmost elevation of her eyebrows and distension of her eyes; “there you are at last! And you have not even the politeness to take your hat off, or have yourself announced. You are the most singularly ill-bred young man, for your looks, that I ever met with.”
“I thought, madam,” said Barret in a low voice, “that you would know me better with my cap on—”
He stopped, for the old lady had risen at the first sound of his voice, and gazed at him in a species of incredulous alarm.
“Forgive me,” cried Barret, pulling off his cap; but again he stopped abruptly, and, before he could spring forward to prevent it, the little old lady had fallen flat upon the hearth-rug.
“Quick! hallo! Milly—Giles! Ass that I am! I’ve knocked her downagain!” he shouted, as those whom he summoned burst into the room.
They had not been far off. In a few more minutes Mrs Moss was reviving on the sofa, and alone with her daughter.
“Milly, dear, this has been a great surprise; indeed, I might almost call it a shock,” she said, in a faint voice.
“Indeed it has been, darling mother,” returned Milly in sympathetic tones, as she smoothed her mother’s hair; “and it was all my fault. But are you quite sure you are not hurt?”
“I don’tfeelhurt, dear,” returned the old lady, with a slight dash of her argumentative tone; “and don’t you think that if Iwerehurt I shouldfeelit?”
“Perhaps, mother; but sometimes, you know, people are somuchhurt that theycan’tfeel it.”
“True, child, but in these circumstances they are usually unable to express their views about feeling altogether, which I am not, you see—no thanks to that—th–to John Barret.”
“Oh! mother, I cannot bear to think of it—”
“No wonder,” interrupted the old lady. “To think of my being violently knocked downtwice—almostthree times—by a big young man like that, and the first time with a horrid bicycle on the top of us—I might almost say mixed up with us.”
“But, mother, henevermeant it, you know—”
“I shouldthinknot!” interjected Mrs Moss with a short sarcastic laugh.
“No, indeed,” continued Milly, with some warmth; “and if you only knew what he has suffered on your account—”
“Milly,” cried Mrs Moss quickly, “is all thatIhave suffered onhisaccount to count for nothing?”
“Of course not,dearmother. I don’t mean that; you don’t understand me. I mean the reproaches that his own conscience has heaped upon his head for what he has inadvertently done.”
“Recklessly, child, not inadvertently. Besides, you know, his conscience is nothimself. People cannot avoid what conscience says to them. Its remarks are no sign of humility or self-condemnation, one proof of which is that wicked people would gladly get away from conscience if they could, instead of agreeing with it, as they should, and shaking hands with it, and saying, ‘we are all that you call us, and more.’”
“Well, that is exactly what John has done,” said Milly, with increasing, warmth. “He has said all that, and more to me—”
“Toyou?” interrupted Mrs Moss; “yes, but you are not his conscience, child!”
“Yes, I am, mother; at least, if I’m not, I am next thing to it, for he sayseverythingto me!” returned Milly, with a laugh and a blush. “And you have no idea how sorry, how ashamed, how self-condemned, how overwhelmed he has been by all that has happened.”
“Humph! I have been a good deal more overwhelmed than he has been,” returned Mrs Moss. “However, make your mind easy, child, for during the last week or two, in learning to love and esteem John Barret, I have unwittingly been preparing the way to forgive and forget the cowardly youth who ran me down in London. Now go and send Mr Jackman to me; I have a great opinion of that young man’s knowledge of medicine and surgery, though heisonly an amateur. He will soon tell me whether I have received any hurt that has rendered me incapable of feeling. And at the same time you may convey to that coward, John, my entire forgiveness.”
Milly kissed her mother, of course, and hastened away to deliver her double message.
After careful examination and much questioning, “Dr” Jackman pronounced the little old lady to be entirely free from injury of any kind, save the smashing of a comb in her back-hair, and gave it as his opinion that she was as sound in wind and limb as before the accident, though there had unquestionably been a considerable shock to the feelings, which, however, seemed to have had the effect of improving rather than deranging her intellectual powers. The jury which afterwards sat upon her returned their verdict in accordance with that opinion.
It was impossible, of course, to prevent some of all this leaking into the kitchen, the nursery, and the stable. In the first-mentioned spot, Quin remarked to the housemaid,—“Sure, it’s a quare evint entirely,” with which sentiment the housemaid agreed.
“Aunt Moss is a buster,” was Junkie’s ambiguous opinion, in which Flo and the black doll coincided.
“Tonal’,” said Roderick, as he groomed the bay horse, “the old wumman iss a fery tough person.”
To which “Tonal’” assented, “she iss, what-ë-ver.”