The Eagle Cliff

Chapter Thirteen

A Chapter of Catastrophes

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 have not been brought to the condition of renouncing self, and trusting only in our Saviour. They want to have some credit in the matter of their own salvation—hence they fail. Ivor, I have good reason to believe, has been brought to that condition—a condition which insures success—hence my great hopes of him. I became aware of his state of mind, partly from having had a long talk with him the other day, and partly from the report of his good old mother. She told me yesterday that Ivor had come to her, laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, ‘Mither, I’ve lost all hope o’ mysel’ noo,’ to which the old woman answered, ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard for mony a day, my son, for noo the Lord wull let ye see what He can do for ye.’ Ivor’s reply to that was, ‘I believe ye’re richt, mither.’ Now I think that was a great deal to come from two such undemonstrative Celts.”

At this point in the conversation they reached a part of the road where a footpath diverged down to the river, the road itself rising abruptly towards the Eagle Cliff.

“We separate here,” said Jackman. “I need scarcely ask where you are going, or what going to do! Botany, coupled with inaccessible cliffs, seems to be your mania just now. Oh! John Barret, my friend, may I not with truth, in your case, paraphrase a well-known couplet,—

“Milly in the heart breeds Milly in the brain,
And this reciprocally that again?”

“Your paraphrases are about equal to your compositions, Jackman, and, in saying that, I don’t compliment you. Pray, may I ask why you have forsaken your favourite weapon, the gun, and taken to the rod to-day?”

“Because of amiability—pure and simple. You know I don’t care a rush for fishing, but, to my surprise, this morning MacRummle expressed a wish to try my repeating rifle at the rabbits, and offered to let me try his rod, and—I might almost add—his river. Wasn’t it generous of him? So I’m off to have a try for ‘that salmon,’ and he is off no one knows where, to send the terrified rabbits into their holes. Good-bye, old fellow—a pleasant day to you.”

Left alone, Barret began to devote himself to the cliffs. It was arduous work, for the said cliffs were almost perpendicular, and plants grew in such high-up crevices, and on such un-get-at-able places, that it seemed as if “rare specimens” knew their own value, as well as the great demand for them, and selected their habitations accordingly.

It was pleasant work, and our hero revelled in it! To be in such exceptional circumstances, with the grand cliffs above and below him, with no one near, save the lordly eagle himself, to watch his doings, with the wild sweeps of mountain-land everywhere, clothed with bracken, heather, and birch, and backed by the island-studded sea; with the fresh air and the bright sun, and brawling burns, and bleating sheep, and the objects of his favourite science around him, and the strong muscular frame and buoyant spirits that God had given to enable him to enjoy it all, was indeed enough to arouse a feeling of gratitude and enthusiasm; but when, in addition to this, the young man knew that he was not merely botanising on his own account, but working at it for Milly, he felt as though he had all but attained to the topmost pinnacle of felicity!

It is sad to think that in human affairs this condition is not unfrequently the precursor of misfortune. It is not necessarily so. Happily, it is not always so. Indeed, we would fain hope that it is not often so, but it was so on this occasion.

Barret had about half filled his botanical box with what he believed to be an interesting collection of plants that would cause the eyes of Milly Moss to sparkle, when the position of the sun and internal sensations induced him to think of his midday meal. It was tied up in a little square paper package. There was a spring at the bottom of the cliffs. It was near the stone where he had met Milly, and had given way to precipitancy. Not far from the spot also where he had made Milly up into a bundle, with a plaid, and started with her towards Kinlossie. No place could be better than that for his solitary luncheon. He would go there.

Descending the cliffs, he gained the road, and was walking along towards the selected spot, when the sound of wheels arrested him. Looking up, he saw the waggonette turn sharp round the projecting cliff, and approach him at a walk. He experienced a little depression of spirit, for there was no one in it, only the groom on the box. Milly would be sorely disappointed!

“Mrs Moss has not come, I see,” he said, as the groom reined up.

“Oo, ay, sir, she’s come. But she iss a queer leddy. She’s been chumpin’ in an’ oot o’ the waginette a’ the way up, like a whutret, to admire the scenery, as she says. When we cam’ to the heed o’ the pass she chumped oot again, an’ telt me to drive on slow, an wait at the futt o’ the first hull for her. She’s no far ahint.”

“I’ll go and meet her. You can drive on, slowly.”

Barret hurried forward with feelings of considerable uncertainty as to whether this chance of meeting his mother-in-law to be (he hoped!) alone, and in these peculiar circumstances, would be an advantage or otherwise. She might be annoyed by a sudden interruption in “admiring the scenery.” There would be the awkwardness of having to introduce himself, and she might be fatigued after all her “chumpin’” in and out of the waggonette.

He was still pondering these points while he walked smartly forward, turned the projecting cliff above referred to, and all but overturned the identical little old lady whom he had run down on his bicycle, weeks before, in London!

To say that these two drew back and gazed at each other intently—the lady quivering and pale, the youth aghast and red—is to give but a feeble account of the situation.

“Young man,” she said, indignantly, in a low, repressed voice, “you have a peculiar talent for assaulting ladies.”

“Madam,” explained the youth, growing desperate, “you are right. I certainly have a talent—at least a misfortune—of that sort—”

He stopped short, for, being quite overwhelmed, he knew not what to say.

“It is sad,” continued the little old lady in a tone of contempt, “that a youth like you should so much belie your looks. It was so mean of you to run away without a word of apology, just like a bad little boy, for fear of being scolded—not that I cared much for being run down with that horrid bicycle, for I was not hurt—though I might have been killed—but it was the cowardly way in which you left me lying helpless among bakers, and sweeps, and policemen, and dirty boys. Oh! it was disgraceful.”

Poor Barret became more and more overwhelmed as she went on.

“Spare me, madam,” he cried, in desperation. “Oh; if you only knew what I have suffered on your account since that unlucky day! Believe me, it was not cowardice—well, I cannot say that exactly—but it was not the fear of your just reproaches that made me fly. It was the approach of the police, and the fear of being taken up, and a public trial, and the disgrace of—of—and—then I felt ashamed before I had fled more than a few hundred yards, and I returned to the spot, but you were gone, and I had no means of—of—”

“That will do, young man. There is no need to keep me standing in this wild place. You are living somewhere in this neighbourhood, I suppose?”

“Yes. I am living in the neighbourhood,” said Barret bitterly.

“Well, I am going to stay at Kinlossie House. You know Kinlossie House, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, I know it.”

“There is no occasion to look so fierce or bitter, young sir. I am going to be at Kinlossie for some time. If you choose to call there, I shall be ready to listen to your explanations and apologies, for I have no desire to appear either harsh or unforgiving. Meanwhile, I wish you good morning.”

Saying which, and with a sweeping bow of a rather antiquated style, the offended lady passed on.

For a considerable time Barret stood motionless, with folded arms, “admiring the scenery” with a stony stare. A stone about the size of his fist lay at his foot. He suddenly kicked that violently into space. Had it been the size of his head, he would probably not have kicked it! Then he gave vent to a wild laugh, became suddenly grave, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and walked up the road with clenched teeth and a deadly stride.

Mrs Moss heard the laugh as it echoed among the great cliffs.

“What a dreadful young man!” she muttered, hurrying forward.

She thought of asking her driver who he was, but she had found Roderick to be a very taciturn Highlander. He had not shown much disposition to converse on the way up, and his speech had not been very intelligible to her English—or Anglicised—ears. She re-entered the waggonette, therefore, in silence. Roderick drove on also in silence, although much surprised that the “young shentleman” had not returned with the “leddy.” But that was none of his business “what-ë-ver.”