The Eagle Cliff, R. M. Ballantyne [best fiction books to read .txt] 📗

There is something very enjoyable in awaking in a strange bedroom with a feeling of physical strength and abounding health about one, with a glorious, early sunbeam irradiating the room—especially if it does not shine upon one’s face—with a window opposite, through which you can see a mountain rising through the morning mists, until its summit appears to claim kindred with the skies, and with the consciousness that work is over for a time, and recreation is the order of the day.

Some such thoughts and feelings caused John Barret to smile as he lay flat on his back, the morning after his arrival, with his hands under his head, surveying the low-roofed but cosy apartment which had been allotted to him in the mansion of Kinlossie. But the smile gave place to a grave, earnest expression as his eyes fell upon a framed card, on which was printed, in scarlet and blue and gold, “The earth is the Lords and the fulness thereof.”

“So it is,” thought the youth; “and my power to enjoy it comes from the Lord—my health, my strength, myself. Yet how seldom do I thank Him for the mere fact of a happy existence. God forgive me!”

Although Barret thus condemned himself, we would not have it supposed that he had been a careless unbeliever. His temperament was grave (not by any means gloomy) by nature, and a Christian mother’s love and teaching had, before her early death, deepened his religious impressions.

He was beginning to wonder whether it was Mrs Gordon who had hung the text there, and whether it had been executed by Milly Moss, when the “get up” gong sent forth a sonorous peal, causing him to bound out of bed. The act brought before his eyes another bed—a small one—in a corner of the room reminding him of what he had forgotten, that, the house being full to overflow by the recent accession of visitors, little Joseph, better known as Junkie, shared the room with him.

Junkie was at the moment sleeping soundly, after the manner of the hedgehog—that is, curled up in the form of a ball. It was plain that neither dressing gongs nor breakfast-bells had any effect upon him, for he lay still in motionless slumber.

“Hallo! Junkie, did you hear the gong?” said Barret, pushing the boy gently.

But Junkie answered not, and he had to push him three or four times gently, and twice roughly, before he could awaken the youngster. Uncoiling himself and turning on the other side, Junkie heaved a deep sigh, and murmured,—“Leave m’ ’lone.”

“Junkie! Junkie! you’ll be late for breakfast,” shouted Barret in his ear.

“Don’—wan’—any—br’kf’st,” murmured the boy. “Leave m’ ’lone, I say—or’ll wallop you!”

A laugh from Barret, and a still severer shake, roused the boy so far as to make him sit up and stare about him with almost supernatural solemnity. Then he yawned, rubbed his eyes, and smiled faintly.

“Oh! it’s you, is it?” he said. “I thought it was Eddie, and—”

Another yawn checked his utterance. Then he suddenly jumped up, and began to haul on his clothes with surprising rapidity. It was evident that Junkie had a will of his own, and was accustomed to exert it on all occasions. He continued to dress, wash himself, brush his hair and his teeth, without speaking, and with such vigour that he soon distanced his companion in the race. True, he did not do everything thoroughly. He did not render his little hands immaculately clean. He did not remember that the secret places behind his ears required to be particularly attended to, and, in brushing operations, he totally forgot that he was possessed of back-hair. Indeed, it is just possible that he disbelieved that fact, for he neglected it entirely, insomuch that when he had completed the operation to his own entire satisfaction, several stiff and independent locks pointed straight to the sky, and two or three to the horizon.

“That’s a pretty text on the wall, Junkie,” observed Barret, while the youngster was busy with the comb.

“Yes, it’s pretty.”

Barret wished to draw the boy out, but, like a tough piece of india-rubber, he refused to be drawn out.

“It is beautifully painted. Who did it?” asked the youth, making another attempt.

He had accidentally touched the right chord this time. It vibrated at once. Junkie looked up with sparkling eyes, and said that Milly did it.

“She does everything beautifully,” he added, as he brushed away at his forelock—a remarkably obstinate forelock, considering that it was the most highly favoured lock of his head.

“You like Milly, I see,” said his friend.

“Of course I do. Everybody does.”

“Indeed! Why does everybody like her so much?”

“’Cause she’s so nice,” said Junkie, dropping his brush on the floor—not accidentally, but as the easiest way of getting rid of it. “And she sometimes says that I’m good.”

“I’m glad to hear that, my boy, for if Milly says so it must be true.”

“No, it’s not true,” returned the boy promptly, as he fastened his necktie in a complex knot, and thrust his arm through the wrong hole of his little vest. “Milly is mistaken, that’s all. But I like her to say it, all the same. It feels jolly. But I’m bad—awful bad! Everybody says so. Father says so, an’ he must be right, you know, for he says he knows everything. Besides, I feel it, an’ I know it, an’ I don’t care!”

Having given vent to this reckless statement, and wriggled into his jacket—the collar of which he left half down and half up—Junkie suddenly plumped down on his knees, laid his head on his bed, and remained perfectly still for the space of about one quarter of a minute. Then, jumping up with the pleased expression of one who felt that he had done his duty, he was about to rush from the room, when Barret stopped him.

“I’m glad to see that you say your prayers, at all events,” he said.

“But I wouldn’t say them if it wasn’t for Milly,” returned the urchin. “I do it to please her. An’ I wash an’ brush myself, an’ all that, just ’cause she likes me to do it. I’d neither wash, nor pray, nor brush, nor anything, if it wasn’t to please Milly—and mother,” he added, after a moment’s reflection. “I like them, an’ I don’t care a button for anybody else.”

“What! for nobody else at all?”

“Well, yes, I forgot—I like Ivor, too.”

“Is that the sick gamekeeper, Junkie?”

“Sick! no; he’s the drunken keeper. Drunken Ivor, we call him—not to his face, you know. Wouldn’t we catch it if we did that! But I’m fond of drunken Ivor, an’ he’s fond of me. He takes me out sometimes when he goes to shoot rabbits and fish. Sometimes he’s awful fierce, but he’s never fierce to his old mother that lives in the hut close behind his—’cept when he’s drunk. D’ee know”—the boy