The Eagle Cliff

He had not sauntered far when he came upon a sight which is calculated, whenever seen, to arouse sentiments of interest in the most callous beholder—a young lady painting! It would be wrong to say he was surprised, but he was decidedly pleased, to judge from the expression of his handsome face. He knew who the lady was, for by that time he had studied the face and figure of Milly Moss until they had been indelibly photographed on his—well, on the sensitive-plate of his soul, wherever that lay.

Milly had quite recovered from her accident by that time and had resumed her favourite pursuits.

“I’m very glad to have caught you at work at last, Miss Moss,” he said, on coming up to the picturesque spot on which her easel was erected. “I wish much to receive that lesson which you so kindly promised to give me.”

“I thought it was just the other way. Did you not say that you would teach me some of those perplexing rules of perspective which my book lays down so elaborately—and, to me, so incomprehensibly?”

“I did, but did not you promise to show me how to manipulate oils—in regard to which I know absolutely nothing? And as practice is of greater importance than theory, you must be the teacher and I the pupil.”

Upon this point they carried on a discussion until Milly, declaring she was wasting her time and losing the effects of light and shade, went seriously to work on the canvas before her. Barret, whose natural colour was somewhat heightened, stood at a respectful distance, looking on.

“You are quite sure, I hope,” said the youth, “that it does not disturb you to be overlooked? You know I would not presume to do so if you had not promised to permit me. My great desire, for many a day, has been to observe the process of painting in oils by one who understands it.”

How he reconciled this statement with the fact that he was not looking at the picture at all, but at the little white hand that was deftly applying the brush, and the beautiful little head that was moving itself so gracefully about while contemplating the work, is more than we can explain.

Soon the painter became still more deeply absorbed in her work, and the pupil more deeply still in the painter. It was a magnificent sweep of landscape that lay before them—a glen glowing with purple and green, alive with flickering sunlight and shadow, with richest browns and reds and coolest greys in the foreground; precipices, crags, verdant slopes of bracken, pine and birch woods hanging on the hillsides, in the middle distance, and blue mountains mingling with orange skies in the background, with MacRummle’s favourite stream appearing here and there like a silver thread, running through it all. But Barret saw nothing of it. He only saw a pretty hand, a blushing cheek and sunny hair!

The picture was not bad. There was a good deal of crude colour in the foreground, no doubt, without much indication of form; and there was also some wonderfully vivid green and purple, with impossible forms and amazing perspective—both linear and aerial—in places, and Turneresque confusion of yellow in the extreme distance. But Barret did not note that—though by means of some occult powers of comprehension he commented on it freely! He saw nothing but Milly Moss.

It was a glorious chance. He resolved to make the most of it.

“I had no idea that painting in oils was such a fascinating occupation,” he remarked, without feeling quite sure of what he said.

“I delight in it,” returned the painter, slowly, as she touched in a distant sheep, which—measured by the rules of perspective, and regard being had to surrounding objects—might have stood for an average cathedral.

Milly did not paint as freely as usual that afternoon. There was something queer, she said, about the brushes. “I can’t get it to look right,” she said at last, wiping out an object for the third time and trying again.

“No doubt,” murmured the youth, “a cottage like that must be difficult to—”

“Cottage!” exclaimed Milly, laughing outright; “it is not a cottage at all; it’s a cow! Oh! Mr Barret, that is a very poor compliment to my work and to your own powers of discernment.”

“Nay, Miss Moss,” retorted the pupil, in some confusion, “but you have wiped it out twice, confessing, as you did so, that you could not paint it! Besides, my remark referred to the cottage which I thought you were going to paint—not to your unsuccessful representations of the cow.”

The poor youth felt that his explanation was so lame that he was somewhat relieved when the current of their thoughts was diverted by a loud shouting in the road farther down the glen. A shade of annoyance, however, rested for a moment on the face of his companion, for she recognised the voices, and knew well that the quiet tête-à-tête with her willing and intelligent pupil must now be interrupted.

“My cousins,” she remarked, putting a touch on the cow that stamped that animal a lusus naturae for all time coming.

Another whoop told that the cousins were drawing near. In a few minutes they appeared in the path emerging from a clump of hazel bushes.

“They are evidently bent on a photographic expedition,” remarked Barret, as the boys approached, Junkie waving his hat with hilarious good-will when he discovered the painters.

“And Flo is with them,” said Milly, “from which I conclude that they are having what Junkie calls a day of it; for whenever they are allowed to take Flo, they go in for a high holiday, carrying provisions with them, so as to be able to stay out from morning till night.”

The appearance of the young revellers fully bore out Milly’s statement, for they were all more or less burdened with the means or signs of enjoyment. Archie carried his box of dry plates in his left hand, and his camera and stand over his right shoulder; Eddie bore a colour-box and sketching-book; Junkie wielded a small fishing-rod, and had a fishing-basket on his back; and Flo was encircled with daisy chains and crowned with laurel and heather, besides which, each of the boys had a small bag of provisions slung on his shoulder.

“Hooray! hooray!
Out for the day!”

sang, or rather yelled, Junkie, as he approached.

“Ramble and roam—
Never go home!”

added Archie, setting down his camera, and beginning to arrange it.

“All of us must
Eat till we bust!

“Junkie teached me zat,” said innocent Flo, with a look of grave surprise at the peals of laughter which her couplet drew from her brothers.

“Yes, that’s what we’re goin’ to do,” said Junkie; “we’ve had lunch at the foot of Eagle Glen, and noo we are going up to Glen Orrack to dine, and fish, an’ paint, an’ botanise. After that we’ll cross over the Swan’s Neck, an’ finish off the bustin’ business with supper on the sea-shore. Lots of grub left yet, you see.”

He swung round his little wallet as he spoke, and held it up to view.

“Would you like some, Cousin Milly?” asked Eddie, opening his bag. “All sorts here. Bread, cheese, ginger snaps, biscuits, jam— Oh! I say, the jam-pot’s broken! Whatever shall we do?”

He dipped his fingers into his wallet as he spoke, and brought them out magenta!

Their hilarity was dissipated suddenly, and grave looks were bestowed on Eddie’s digits, until Flo’s little voice arose like a strain of sweet music to dissipate the clouds.

“Oh! never mind,” she said; “I’s got anuzzer pot in my bag.”

This had been forgotten. The fact was verified by swift examination, and felicity was restored.

“What are you going to photograph?” asked Milly, seeing that Archie was busy making arrangements.

“You, Cousin Milly. You’ve no notion what a splendid couple you and Mr Barret look—stuck up so picturesquely on that little mound, with its rich foreground of bracken, and the grey rock beside you, and the peep through the bushes, with Big Ben for a background; and the easel, too—so suggestive! There, now, I’m ready. By the way, I might take you as a pair of lovers!”

Poor Milly became scarlet, and suddenly devoted herself to the lusus naturae! Barret took refuge in a loud laugh, and then said:

“Really, one would suppose that you were a professional, Archie; you order your sitters about with such self-satisfied presumption.”

“Yes, they always do that,” said Milly, recovering herself, and looking calmly up from the cow—which now resembled a megatherium—“but you must remember, Cousin Archie, that I am a painter, and therefore understand about attitudes, and all that, much better than a mere photographer. So, if I condescend to sit, you must take your orders from me!”

“Fire away then with your orders,” cried the impatient amateur.

“See, sir, I will sit thus—as if painting,” said Milly, who was desperately anxious to have it over, lest Archie should make some awkward proposition. “Mr Barret will stand behind me, looking earnestly at the picture—”

“Admiringly,” interposed Barret.

“Not so—earnestly, as if getting a lesson,” said Milly, with a teacher’s severity; “and Flo will sit thus, at my feet, taking care (hold it, dear,) of my palette.”

“More likely to make a mess of it,” said Junkie.

“Now, are you ready? Steady! Don’t budge a finger,” cried Archie, removing the little leather cap.

In her uncertainty as to which of her fingers she was not to budge, Flo nervously moved them all.

“You’re movin’, Flo!” whispered Junkie.