Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication, R. M. Ballantyne [read dune .txt] 📗

Rain, rain, rain; continual, pertinacious, unmitigated rain! The White House was no longer white, it was grey. Things were no longer damp, they were totally flooded. Mr McAllister’s principal hay-field was a pond—every ditch was a rivulet; “the burn” was a destructive cataract; the white torrents that raged down the mountains everywhere, far and near, looked like veins of quartz, and the river had become a lake with a strong current in the middle of it. There was no sunshine now in the Highlands,—not a gleam!

Nevertheless there was sunshine in the hearts of some who sojourned there. Mr Sudberry had found out that he could fish just as well in wet weather as in dry, and that the fish were more eager to be caught. That was sunshine enough for him! Lucy found a new and engrossing amusement, of a semi-scientific kind, in laying down and pressing her botanical specimens, and writing Latin names under the same, being advised thereto and superintended by Hector Macdonald. That was sunshine enough for her, and for him too apparently, for he came every day to help her, (and she declared she could not get on without help), and it was quite wonderful to observe how very slowly the laying-down progressed, although both of the semi-philosophers were intensely interested in their work. Flora was so sunny by nature that she lightened up the place around her wherever she went; she was thus in some measure independent of the sun. George was heard to say more than once that her face was as good as a sunbeam any day! Mrs Sudberry, poor woman, was so rampantly triumphant in the total discomfiture of her husband touching the weather, that she resigned herself to Highland miseries in a species of happy contentment, and thus lived in what may be likened to a species of mild moonshine of her own. Tilly, poor, delicate, unobtrusive Tilly, was at all times satisfied to bask in the moonlight of her mother’s countenance. As for Jacky—that arch-imp discovered that wet weather usually brought his victims within doors, and therefore kept them constantly within reach of his dreadful influence. He was supremely happy—“darling child.” Fred finished up his sketches—need we say that that was sunshine to him? The servants too shared in the general felicity. Indeed, they may, in a sense, be said to have been happier than those they served, for, having been transported to that region to work, they found the little bits of fun and amusement that fell to their lot all the more pleasant and enjoyable, that they were unexpected, and formed a piquant contrast to the monotonous routine of daily duty.

But the brightest blaze of internal sunshine—the most effulgent and dazzling beams of light were shed forth in the lowly hut of Jacky’s particular friend. Old Moggy did not die after all! To the total discomfiture of the parish doctor, and to the reflected discredit of the medical profession generally, that obstinate old creature got well in spite of the emphatic assurances of her medical adviser that recovery was impossible. The doctor happened to be a misanthrope. He was not aware that in the Materia Medica of Nature’s laboratory there is a substance called “joy,” which sometimes effects a cure when all else fails—or, if he did know of this medicine, he probably regarded it as a quack nostrum.

At all events this substance cured old Moggy, as Willie said, “in less than no time.” She took such deep draughts of it, that she quite surprised her old friends. So did Willie himself. In fact, these two absolutely took to tippling together on this medicine. More than that, Jacky joined them, and seemed to imbibe a good deal—chiefly through his eyes, which were always very wide open and watchful when he was in the old hut. He drank to them only with his eyes and ears, and could not be induced to enter into conversation much farther than to the extent of yes and no. Not that he was shy—by no means! The truth was that Jacky was being opened up—mentally. The new medicine was exercising an unconscious but powerful influence on his sagacious spirit. In addition to that he was fascinated by Willie—for the matter of that, so was old Moggy—for did not that small sailor-boy sing, and laugh, and talk to them for hours about sights and scenes of foreign travel of which neither of them had dreamed before? Of course he did, and caused both of them to stare with eyes and mouths quite motionless for half-hours at a time, and then roused them up with a joke that made Jacky laugh till he cried, and made Moggy, who was always crying more or less, laugh till she couldn’t cry! Yes, there was very brilliant sunshine in the hut during that dismal season of rain—there was the sunshine of human love and sympathy, and Flora was the means of introducing and mingling with it sunshine of a still brighter and a holier nature, which, while it intensified the other, rendered it also permanent.

At last the end of the Sudberrys’ rustication arrived; the last day of their sojourn dawned. It happened to be bright and beautiful—so bright and lovely that it made one feel as if there never had been a bad day since the world began, and never would be another bad one to the end of time. It was the fourth fine day of the six dreary weeks—the third, which occurred some days before, was only half-and-half; and therefore unworthy of special notice. Nevertheless, the Sudberrys felt sad. They were going away! The mental sunshine of the rainy season was beclouded, and the physical sunshine was of no avail to dispel such clouds.

“My dear,” said Mr Sudberry at breakfast that morning, in a very sad tone, “have you any further use for me?”

“My dear, no,” replied his partner, sorrowfully.

From the nature of these remarks and the tone in which they were uttered, an ignorant spectator might have imagined that Mr Sudberry, having suspected his wife of growing indifference, and having had his worst fears confirmed from her own lips, meant to go quietly away to the river and drown him in a deep pool with a strong eddy, so that he might run no chance of being prematurely washed upon a shallow. But the good man merely referred to “the packing,” in connection with which he had been his wife’s right hand during the last three or four days.

“Well, then, my love, as the heavy baggage has gone on before, and we are ready to start with the coach, which does not pass until the afternoon, I will go and take a last cast in the river.”

Mrs Sudberry made no objection; so Mr Sudberry, accompanied by George and Fred, went down to the “dear old river,” as they styled it, for the last time.

Now it must be known, that, some weeks previous to this time, Hobbs had been allowed by his master to go out for a day’s trout-fishing, and Hobbs, failing to raise a single fin, put on a salmon fly in reckless desperation.

He happened, by the merest chance, to cast over a deep pool in which salmon were, (and still are), wont to lie. To his amazement, a “whale,” as he styled it, instantly rose, sent its silvery body half out of the water, and fell over with a tremendous splash, but missed the fly. Hobbs was instantly affected with temporary insanity. He cast in violent haste over the same spot, as if he hoped to hook the fish by the tail before it should get to the bottom. Again! again! and over again, but without result. Then, dancing on the bank with excitement, he changed the fly; tried every fly in the book; the insanity increasing, tried two flies at once, back to back; put on a bunch of trout-flies in addition; wound several worms round all; failed in every