The Eagle Cliff, R. M. Ballantyne [best fiction books to read .txt] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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“Pardon this intrusion, Miss Moss. I really did not know you were in this neighbourhood till a few minutes ago,” said Barret, sitting down on the heather beside her. “I accidentally observed you, and I have been so very fortunate in finding rare plants this morning, that I thought I might venture, just for a few minutes, to interrupt the privacy of your picnic. See, here!” he added, taking off the botanical box and opening it; “just look at all this!”
“It is very kind of you to take so much trouble on my account, Mr Barret,” said Milly, becoming deeply, almost too deeply-interested in the plants. “And, oh, what a splendid specimen of the heliographipod. My dear mother will be so glad to get this, for she is quite as fond of botany as I am.”
“Indeed! Do you expect her soon?”
“Yes; her last letter leads me to expect her very soon now.”
Milly looked up as she said this, but there was an expression on Barret’s face which induced her instantly to recur to scientific research.
Now, good reader, if you think we are going further, and expect us rudely to draw aside the curtain here, and betray confidences, you are mistaken. But there is no reason against—indeed, the development of our story supplies every reason in favour of—our taking note of certain facts which bear indirectly on the subject before us.
Far away on a shoulder of the mountain, which rose on the other side of the valley, lying between it and the Eagle Cliff, a grey speck might have been seen perched on a rock. Even as the crow flies the distance was so great that the unassisted human eye could not have distinguished what it was. It might have been a grey cow, or a grew crow, or a grey rabbit, or a grey excrescence of the rock itself; but a telescope would have revealed the fact that it was Allan Gordon, the laird of Kinlossie!
Serenity was stamped on the old man’s brow, for he was amiable by nature, and he had been rendered more amiable that morning by having had a pleasant chat, while ascending the mountain, with Mabberly and Jackman. The latter he had begun facetiously to style the “Woods and Forester.” The shooting party had left him there, according to previous arrangement, and the old gentleman had seated himself on the grey rock to rest and commune with nature for a short time, before beginning the descent of the steep mountain path, and wending his way homeward.
From his commanding point of observation the entire range of the Eagle Cliff lay spread out before him, with the sea visible on the extreme of either hand. The great valley lay between, with impassable gulfs and gorges caused by its wild torrents, and its level patches, strewn with the fallen débris of ages, out of which the larger masses of rock rose like islands in a grey ocean; but these huge masses became almost insignificant, owing to the overpowering impression of the cliff itself. For some time the laird gazed at it in silent admiration. Presently a smile beamed on his countenance.
“Ha! my puss, is that you?” he muttered, as he took a binocular telescope from his pocket and adjusted it. “I guessed as much. The Eagle Cliff has powerful attractions for you, what with its grandeur and the ‘rare plants’ you are so mad about. I think it is you, though at such a distance I might easily mistake a sheep or a deer for you—and, after all, that would be no mistake, for you are a dear!”
He did not condescend to smile at his own mild little joke, as he applied the telescope to his eyes.
“Yes, I’m right—and very comfortable you seem too, though I can’t make out your party. Both Aggy and Junkie seem to have left you. Perhaps the rocks may hide them. It’s so far off that—hallo!”
A sudden frown clouded the laird’s face as he gave vent to that hallo.
“The rascal!” he muttered between his compressed lips. “He heard at breakfast, as well as the rest of us, that Milly wanted no intruders. Humph! I had given him credit for better taste than this implies. Eh! come, sir, this is quite inexcusable!”
The laird became excited as he continued to gaze, and his indignation deepened as he hastily wiped the glasses of the binocular. Applying them again to his eyes, his frown became still darker.
“For shame, you young scamp!” he continued to mutter, “taking advantage of your contemptible botany to bring your two heads together in a way that Milly would never have permitted but for that ridiculous science. Ha! they’ve let the whole concern fall—serves ’em right—and—no! dropped it on purpose. What! Do you dare to grip my niece’s hand, and—and—she lets you! Eh! your arm round— Stop!” shouted the wrathful man, springing up and almost hurling his binocular at the unconscious pair. But his shout, although fifty times louder, would have failed to cross the valley. Like his anger, it was unavailing. Thrusting the glass into its case with a bang, he strode down the mountain-side in rampant fury, leaving the solemn eagle to watch the lovers as they plighted their troth under the mighty cliff. Happily they brought the momentous transaction to a close just before Junkie and the highly convalescent Aggy Anderson re-appeared upon the scene.
That afternoon, before dinner, John Barret asked Mr Gordon to accord him the pleasure of a private interview in the library.
“Certainly, sir,” said the laird sternly; “and all the more that I had very much desired some private conversation with you.”
Barret was not a little surprised at the old man’s tone and manner, but took no notice of it, and went alone with him into the library, where he made a full and frank confession of his love for Milly, and of his having proposed to her and been accepted—on condition that her mother did not object.
“And now, Mr Gordon,” added the youth, earnestly, “I have come to apologise to you, to ask your forgiveness, in fact, and to express my extreme regret at the precipitancy of my conduct. It had been my full intention, I do assure you, to wait until I had Mrs Moss’ sanction to pay my addresses to her daughter, but a—a—sudden opportunity, which I had not sought for or expected—for, of course, I knew nothing of the place where the picnic was to be—this—this—opportunity, I say, took me by surprise, and threw me off my guard—and—and—in short, love— Oh! you know well enough the power of love, Mr Gordon, and can make allowance for my acting precipitately!”
The old gentleman was touched on a tenderer spot than the young man was aware of when he made this appeal to his own experience, for, in days gone by, young Allan Gordon had himself acted precipitately.
But, although the appeal had touched him, he did not allow the fact to be seen, nor did he interrupt the youth’s confession.
“Observe, Mr Gordon,” continued Barret, drawing himself up slightly, “the only wrong-doing for which I ask pardon is undue haste. My position, financially and otherwise, entitles me to marry, and darling Milly has a right to accept whom she will. If it be thought that she is too young and does not know her own mind, I am willing to wait. If she were to change her mind in the meantime, I would accept the inevitable—but I have no fear of that!”
The laird’s features had been relaxing while the enthusiastic youth proceeded, but the last speech upset his gravity altogether.
“Well, well, Barret,” he said, “since you have condemned yourself for acting hastily, it would ill become your host to overwhelm you with reproaches, and to say truth, after what you have said, I hope that the course of true love will in your case run smooth. But, my young friend,” he added, in more serious tones, “I must strictly forbid any further reference to this with Milly, till her mother comes. She is under my care and, being responsible for her, I must see that nothing further takes place till I am able to hand her, and all her affairs, over to her mother. I will explain this to Milly, and give her to understand that you will behave to her in all respects as you did before the occurrence of this unfortunate picnic. Meanwhile it may comfort you to know that her mother is already predisposed in your favour—naturally too, for she would be ungrateful, as well as eccentric, if she had no regard for the man who has twice saved her child’s life. Ah! there goes the dinner-bell, and I’m glad of it, for prolonged speaking fatigues me. Come along.”
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 keeper this time, 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
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