Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication, R. M. Ballantyne [read dune .txt] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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At this point Peter’s thoughts went out altogether in sleep, leaving the happy youth in peaceful oblivion. He started suddenly after an hour’s nap, under the impression that he was tumbling over a precipice.
To give a little scream and clutch wildly at the heather was natural. He looked round. The sun was still hot and high. Scratching his head, as if to recall his faculties, Peter stared vacantly at the sandwiches which lay beside him on a piece of old newspaper. Gradually his hand wandered towards them, and a gleam of intelligence, accompanied by a smile, overspread his countenance as he conveyed one to his lips. Eating seemed fatiguing, however. He soon laid the remnant down, drew the plaid over him, nestled among the heather, and dropped into a heavy sleep with a sigh of ineffable comfort.
When Peter again woke up, the sun was down, and just enough of light remained to show that it was going to be an intensely dark night. Can anyone describe, can anyone imagine, the state of Peter’s feelings? Certainly not! Peter, besides being youthful, was, as we have said, an extremely timid boy. He was constitutionally afraid of the dark, even when surrounded by friends. What, then, were his sensations when he found himself on the mountain alone—lost! The thought was horror! Peter gasped; he leaped up with a wild shout, gazed madly round, and sank down with a deep groan. Up he sprang again, and ran forward a few paces. Precipices occurred to him—he turned and ran as many paces backward. Bogs occurred to him—he came to a full stop, fell on his knees, and howled. Up he leaped again, clapped both hands to his mouth, and shouted until his eyes threatened to come out, and his face became purple, “Master! Master! George! hi! hallo–o! Jacky! ho–o–o!” The “O!” was prolonged into a wild roar, and down he went again quite flat. Up he jumped once more; the darkness was deepening. He rushed to the right—left—all round—tore his hair, and gazed into the black depths below—yelled and glared into the dark vault above!
Poor Peter! Thus violently did his gentle spirit seek relief during the first few minutes of its overwhelming consternation.
But he calmed down in the course of time into a species of mild despair. A bursting sob broke from him occasionally, as with his face buried in his hands, his head deep in the heather, and his eyes tight shut, he strove in vain to blind himself to the true nature of his dreadful position. At last he became recklessly desperate, and, rising hastily, he fled. He sought, poor lad, to fly from himself. Of course the effort was fruitless. Instead of distancing himself—an impossibility at all times—doubly so in a rugged country—he tumbled himself over a cliff, (fortunately not a high one), and found himself in a peat-bog, (fortunately not a deep one). This cooled and somewhat improved his understanding, so that he returned to the knoll a wiser, a wetter, and a sadder boy. Who shall describe the agonies, the hopes, the fears, the wanderings, the faggings, and the final despair of the succeeding hours? It is impossible to say who will describe all this, for we have not the slightest intention of attempting it.
Towards midnight Dan reached a very dark and lonely part of the mountains, and was suddenly arrested by a low wail. The sturdy Celt raised his lantern on high. Just at that moment Peter’s despair happened to culminate, and he lifted his head out of the heather to give free vent to the hideous groan with which he meant, if possible, to terminate his existence. The groan became a shriek, first of terror, then of hope, after that of anxiety, as Dan came dancing towards him like a Jack-o’-lantern.
“Fat is she shriekin’ at?” said Dan.
“Oh! I’m so glad—I’m so–o–ow–hoo!”
Poor Peter seized Dan round the legs, for, being on his knees, he could not reach higher, and embraced him.
“Fat’s got the maister?”
Peter could not tell.
“Can she waalk?”
Peter couldn’t walk—his limbs refused their office.
“Here, speel up on her back.”
Peter could do that. He did it, and hugged Dan round the neck with the tenacity of a shipwrecked mariner clinging to his last plank. The sturdy Celt went down the mountain as lightly as if Peter were a fly, and as if the vice-like grip of his arms round his throat were the embrace of a worsted comforter.
“Here they are, ma’am!” screamed Mrs Brown.
She was wrong. Mrs Brown was usually wrong. Peter alone was deposited before the eager gaze of Mrs Sudberry, who fainted away with disappointment. Mrs Brown said “be off” to Peter, and applied scent-bottles to her mistress. The poor boy’s grateful heart wanted to embrace somebody; so he went slowly and sadly upstairs, where he found the cat, and embraced it. Hours passed away, and the Sudberry Family still wandered lost, and almost hopeless, among the mountains.
We left Mr Sudberry and his children in the nearly dry bed of a mountain-torrent, indulging the belief that matters were as bad as could be, and that, therefore, there was no possibility of their getting worse.
A smart shower of rain speedily induced them to change their minds in this respect. Seeking shelter under the projecting ledge of a great cliff, the party stood for some time there in silence.
“You are cold, my pet,” said Mr Sudberry.
“Just a little, papa; I could not help shuddering,” said Lucy, faintly.
“Now for the brandy,” said her father, drawing forth the flask.
“Suppose I try to kindle a fire,” said George, swinging the bundle containing Jacky off his shoulder, and placing it in a hollow of the rocks.
“Well, suppose you try.”
George proceeded to do so; but on collecting a few broken twigs he found that they were soaking wet, and on searching for the match-box he discovered that it had been left in the provision-basket, so they had to content themselves with a sip of brandy all round—excepting Jacky. That amiable child was still sound asleep; but in a few minutes he was heard to utter an uneasy squall, and then George discovered that he had deposited part of his rotund person in a puddle of water.
“Come, let us move on,” said Mr Sudberry, “the rain gets heavier. It is of no use putting off time, we cannot be much damper than we are.”
Again the worthy man was mistaken; for, in the course of another hour, they were all so thoroughly drenched, that their previous condition might have been considered, by contrast, one of absolute dryness.
Suddenly, a stone wall, topped by a paling, barred their further progress. Fred, who was in advance, did not see this wall—he only felt it when it brought him up.
“Here’s a gate, I believe,” cried George, groping about. It was a gate, and it opened upon the road! For the first time for many hours a gleam of hope burst in upon the benighted wanderers. Presently a ray of light dazzled them.
“What! do my eyes deceive me—a cottage?” cried Mr Sudberry.
“Ay, and a witch inside,” said George.
“Why, it’s old—no, impossible!”
“Yes, it is, though—it’s old Moggy’s cottage.”
“Hurrah!” cried Fred.
Old Moggy’s dog came out with a burst of indignation that threatened annihilation to the whole party; but, on discovering who they were, it crept humbly back into the cottage.
“Does she never go to bed?” whispered George, as they approached and found the old woman moping over her fire, and swaying her body to and fro, with the thin dirty gown clinging close to her figure, and the spotlessly clean plaid drawn tightly round her shoulders.
“Good-evening, old woman,” said Mr Sudberry, advancing with a conciliatory air.
“It’s mornin’,” retorted the old woman with a scowl.
“Alas! you are right; here have we been lost on the hills, and wandering all night; and glad am I to find your fire burning, for my poor daughter is very cold and much exhausted. May we sit down beside you?”
No reply, save a furtive scowl.
“What’s that?” asked Moggy, sharply, as George deposited his dirty wet bundle on the floor beside the fire opposite to her.
The bundle answered for itself; by slowly unrolling, sitting up and yawning violently, at the same time raising both arms above its head and stretching itself. Having done this, it stared round the room with a vacant look, and finally fixed its goggle eyes in mute surprise on Moggy.
The sight of this wet, dirty little creature acted, as formerly, like a charm on the old woman. Her face relaxed into a smile of deep tenderness. She immediately rose, and taking the child in her arms carried him to her stool, and sat down with him in her lap. Jacky made no resistance; on the contrary, he seemed to have made up his mind to submit at once, and with a good grace, to the will of this strange old creature—to the amazement as well as amusement of his relations.
The old woman took no further notice of her other visitors. She incontinently became stone deaf; and apparently blind, for she did not deign to bestow so much as a glance on them, while they circled close round her fire, and heaped on fresh sticks without asking leave. But she made up for this want of courtesy by bestowing the most devoted attentions on Jacky. Finding that that young gentleman was in a filthy as well as a moist condition, she quietly undressed him, and going to a rough chest in a corner of the hut drew out a full suit of clothing, with which she speedily invested him. The garb was peculiar—a tartan jacket, kilt, and hose; and these seemed to have been made expressly for him, they fitted so well. Although quite clean, thin, threadbare, and darned, the appearance of the garments showed that they had been much-worn. Having thus clothed Jacky, the old woman embraced him tenderly, then held him at arm’s-length and gazed at him for a few minutes. Finally, she pushed him gently away and burst into tears—rocking herself to and fro, and moaning dismally.
Meanwhile Jacky, still perfectly mute and observant, sat down on a log beside the poor old dame, and stared at her until the violence of her grief began to subside. The other members of the party stared too—at her and at each other—as if to say, “What can all this mean?”
At last Jacky began to manifest signs of impatience, and, pulling her sleeve, he said—
“Now, g’anny, lollipops!”
Old Moggy smiled, rose, went to the chest again, and returned with a handful of sweetmeats, with which Jacky at once proceeded to regale himself, to the infinite joy of the old woman.
Mr Sudberry now came to the conclusion that there must be a secret understanding between this remarkable couple; and he was right. Many a time during the last two weeks had Master Jacky, all unknown to his parents, made his way to old Moggy’s hut—attracted thereto by the splendid “lollipops” with which the subtle old creature beguiled him, and also by the extraordinary amount of affection she lavished upon him. Besides this, the child had a strong dash of romance in his nature, and it was a matter of deep interest to him to be a courted guest in such a strange old hovel, and to be fondled and clothed, as he often was, in Highland costume, by one who scowled upon everyone else—excepting her
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