Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication, R. M. Ballantyne [read dune .txt] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication, R. M. Ballantyne [read dune .txt] 📗». Author R. M. Ballantyne
Let us recall the picture:—
Father, in shirt sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, and trousers rolled up to the knees, in the middle of the pool, trying to upheave from the bottom a rock larger than himself—if he only knew it! But he doesn’t, because it is deeply embedded, therefore he toils on in hope. George building, with turf and stone, a strong embankment with a narrow outlet, to allow the surplus water to escape. Fred, Lucy, Tilly, and Peter cutting turf and carrying stones. Mother superintending the whole, and making remarks. Jacky making himself universally disagreeable, and distracting his mother in a miscellaneous sort of way.
“It’s as good as Robinson Crusoe any day!” cries father, panting and wiping his bald forehead. “What a stone! I can’t budge it.” He stoops again, to conquer, if possible; but the great difficulty with father is, that the water comes so near to his tucked-up trousers that he cannot put forth his full strength without wetting them; and mother insists that this must not be done. “Come, George and Fred, bring the pick-axe and the iron lever, we must have this fellow out, he’s right in the middle of the pool. Now, then, heave!”
The lads obey, and father straddles so fiercely that one leg slips down.
“Hah! there, you’ve done it now!” from mother.
“Well, my dear, it can’t be helped,” meekly, from father, who is secretly glad, and prepares to root out the stone like a Hercules. Jacky gets excited, and hopes the other leg will slip down and get wet, too!
“Here, hand me the lever, George; you don’t put enough force to it.” George obeys and grins. “Now then, once more, with will—ho! hi! hup!” Father strains at the lever, which, not having been properly fixed, slips, and he finds himself suddenly in a sitting posture, with the water round his waist. As the cool element embraces his loins, he “h–ah–ah!” gasps, as every bather knows how; but the shock to his system is nothing compared with the aggravation to his feelings when he hears the joyful yell of triumph that issues from the brazen lungs of his youngest hope.
“Never mind, I’ll work all the better now—come, let us be jolly, and clear out the rest of the pool.” Good man! nothing can put him out. Gradually the bottom is cleared of stones, (excepting the big one), and levelled, and the embankment is built to a sufficient height.
“Now for the finishing touch!” cries George; “bring the turf; Fred—I’m ready!” The water of the burn is rushing violently through the narrow outlet in the “dike.” A heavy stone is dropped into the gap, and turf is piled on.
“More turf! more stones! quick, look alive!—it’ll burst everything—there, that’s it!”
All hands toil and work at the opening, to smother it up. The angry element leaks through, bursts, gushes—is choked back with a ready turf; and squirts up in their faces. Mother is stunned to see the power of so small a stream when the attempt is made to check it thoroughly; she is not mechanically-minded by nature, and has learned nothing in that way by education. It is stopped at last, however.
For a quarter of an hour the waters from above are cut off from those below, as completely as were those of the Jordan in days of old. They all stand panting and silent, watching the rising of the water, while George keeps a sharp eye on the dike to detect and repair any weakness. At last it is full, and the surplus runs over in a pretty cascade, while the accommodating stream piles mud and stones against the dike, and thus unwittingly strengthens the barrier. The pool is formed, full three feet deep by twenty broad. Jacky wants to bathe at once.
“But the pool is like pea-soup, my pet—wait until it clears.”
“I won’t—let me bathe!”
“O Jacky, my darling!”
He does; for in his struggles he slips on the bank, goes in head foremost, and is fished out in a disgusting condition!
So the bathing-pool was made. It was undoubtedly a “great institution;” they did not know at the time, that, like many such institutions, it was liable to destruction; but they lived to see it.
Meanwhile, to return from this long digression, Lucy, Tilly, and Jacky bathed, while Mrs Brown watched and scolded. This duty performed, they returned to the house, where they found the remainder of the party ready for a journey on foot to Lake “What-you-may-call-it,” which lake Lucy named the Lake of the Clouds, its Gaelic cognomen being quite unpronounceable.
Little did good Mr Sudberry think what an excursion lay before him that day, when, in the pride of untried strength and unconquerable spirits, he strode up the mountain-side, with his dutiful family following like a “tail” behind him. There was a kind of narrow sheep-path, up which they marched in single file. Father first, Lucy next, with her gown prettily tucked-up; George and Fred following, with large fishing-baskets stuffed with edibles; Jacky next, light and active, but as yet quiescent; timorous Peter bringing up the rear. He, also, was laden, but not heavily. Mr Sudberry carried rod and basket, for he had been told that there were large trout in the Lake of the Clouds.
Ever and anon the party halted and turned round to wave hats and kerchiefs to Mrs Sudberry, Tilly, and Mrs Brown, who returned the salute with interest, until the White House appeared a mere speck in the valley below, and Mrs Brown became so small, that Jacky, for the first time in his life, regarded her as a contemptible little thing! At last a shoulder of the hill shut out the view of the valley, and they began to feel that they were in a deep solitude, surrounded by wild mountain peaks.
It is a fact, that there is something peculiarly invigorating in mountain air. What that something is we are not prepared to say. Oxygen and ozone have undoubtedly something to do with it, but in what proportions we know not. Scientific men could give us a learned disquisition on the subject, no doubt; we therefore refer our readers to scientific men, and confine our observations to the simple statement of the fact, that there is something extremely invigorating in mountain air. Every mountaineer knows it; Mr Sudberry and family proved it that day beyond dispute, excepting, by the way, poor Peter, whose unfortunate body was not adapted for rude contact with the rough elements of this world.
The whole party panted and became very warm as they toiled upwards; but, instead of growing fatigued, they seemed to gather fresh strength and additional spirit at every step—always excepting Peter, of course. Soon a wild spirit came over them. On gaining a level patch of springy turf, father gave a cheer, and rushed madly, he knew not, and cared not, whither. Sons and daughters echoed the cheer, and followed his example. The sun burst forth at the moment, crisping the peaks, gorges, and clouds—which were all mingled together—with golden fires. Each had started off without definite intention, and they were scattered far and wide in five minutes, but each formed the natural resolve to run to the nearest summit, in order to devour more easily the view. Thus they all converged again and met on a neighbouring knoll that overtopped a terrific precipice which over hung a small lake.
“The—Lake—of the—Clouds!” exclaimed Lucy, as she came up, breathless and beaming.
“Impossible!” cried her father; “McAllister says it is on the other side of the ridge, and we’re not near the top yet. Where are Peter and Jacky?”
“I cannot see them!” said George and Fred, in a breath.
“No more can I,” cried Lucy.
No more could anybody, except a hunter or an eagle, for they were seated quietly among grey rocks and brown ferns, which blended with their costume so as to render them all but invisible.
The party on the knoll were, however, the reverse of invisible to Jacky and his exhausted companion. They stood out, black as ink, against the bright blue sky, and were so sharply defined that Jacky declared he could see the “turn-up of Lucy’s nose.”
The reader must not suppose that Master Jacky was exhausted, like his slender companion. A glance at his firm lip, flushed cheek, sturdy little limbs, and bright eyes, would have made that abundantly plain. No, Jacky was in a peculiar frame of mind—that was all. He chose to sit beside Peter, and, as he never condescended to give a reason for his choice, we cannot state one. He appeared to be meditatively inclined that day. Perhaps he was engaged in the concoction of some excruciating piece of wickedness—who knows?
Suddenly Jacky turned with a look of earnest gravity towards his companion, who was a woebegone spectacle of exhaustion. “I say, we’d better go on, don’t you think?”
Peter looked up languidly, sighed heavily, and laid his hand on the fishing-basket full of sandwiches, which constituted his burden. It was small and light, but to the poor boy it felt like a ton. Jacky’s eyes became still more owlishly wide, and his face graver than ever. He had never seen him in this condition before—indeed, Jacky’s experience of life beyond the nursery being limited, he had never seen any one in such a case before.
“I say, Peter, are you desprit blow’d?”
“Desprit,” sighed Peter.
Jacky paused and gazed at his companion for nearly a minute.
“I say, d’ye think you could walk if you tried?”
“Oh, yes!” (with a groan and a smile;) “come, I’ll try to push ahead now.”
“Here, give me the basket,” cried Jacky, starting up with sudden and tremendous energy, and wrenching the basket out of Peter’s hand. He did it with ease, although the small clerk was twice the size of the imp.
Peter remonstrated, but in vain. Mrs Brown, a woman of powerful frame and strong mind, could not turn Jacky from his purpose—it was not likely, therefore, that an amiable milk-and-water boy, in a state of exhaustion, could do it. Jacky swung the basket over his shoulder with an amount of exertion that made him stagger, and, commanding Peter to follow, marched up the hill with compressed lips and knitted brows.
It was an epoch in the mental development of Jacky—it was a new sensation to the child. Hitherto he had known nothing but the feeling of dependence. Up to this point he had been compelled by the force of circumstances to look up to everyone—and, alas! he had done so with a very bad grace. He had never known what it was to help any one. His mother had thoroughly spoiled him. Strange infatuation in the mother! She had often blamed the boy for spoiling his toys; but she had never blamed herself for spoiling the boy. “Darling Jacky! don’t ask the child to do anything for you—he’s too young yet.” So Jacky was never asked to help any one in any way, except by Mrs Brown, who did not “ask,” but commanded, and, although she never rewarded obedience with the laurel, either literally or figuratively, she invariably punished disobedience with the palm. Little Tilly always did everything she wanted done herself; and could never do enough for Jacky, so that she afforded no opportunity for her brother to exercise amiable qualities. Thus was Jacky trained to be a selfish little imp, and to this training he superadded the natural wickedness of his own little heart. But now, for the first time, the tables were turned. Jacky felt that Peter was dependent on him—that he could not get on without him.
“Poor Peter, I’ll help him—he’s a weak skinny
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