The Eagle Cliff

“You said a hundred hyenas, mother.”

“No, Milly, I said the cliffs laughed; but don’t interrupt me, you naughty child! Well, I was going to tell you that my heart softened a little towards the young man, for, as you know, I am not naturally unforgiving.”

“I know it well, dear mother!”

“So, before we parted, I told him that if he had any explanations or apologies to make, I should be glad to see him at Kinlossie House. Then I made up my mind to forgive him, and introduce him to you as the man that ran me down in London! This was the little surprise I had in store for you, but the ungrateful creature has never come.”

“No, and he never will come!” said Milly, with a hearty laugh.

“How do you know that, puss?” asked Mrs Moss, in surprise.

Fortunately the dinner-bell rang at that moment, justifying Milly in jumping up. Giving her mother a rather violent hug, she rushed from the room.

“Strange girl!” muttered Mrs Moss as she turned, and occupied herself with some mysterious—we might almost say captious—operations before the looking-glass. “The mountain air seems to have increased her spirits wonderfully. Perhaps love has something to do with it! It may be both!”

She was still engaged with a subtle analysis of this question—in front of the glass, which gave her the advantage of supposing that she talked with an opponent—when sudden and uproarious laughter was heard in the adjoining room. It was Barret’s sitting-room, in which his friends were wont to visit him. She could distinguish that the laughter proceeded from himself, Milly, and Giles Jackman, though the walls were too thick to permit of either words or ordinary tones being heard.

“Milly,” said Mrs Moss, severely, when they met a few minutes later in the drawing-room, “what were you two and Mr Jackman laughing at so loudly? Surely you did not tell them what we had been speaking about?”

“Of course I did, mother. I did not know you intended to keep the matter secret. And it did so tickle them! But no one else knows it, so I will run back to John and pledge him to secrecy. You can caution Mr Jackman, who will be down directly, no doubt.”

As Barret had not at that time recovered sufficiently to admit of his going downstairs, his friends were wont to spend much of their time in the snug sitting-room which had been apportioned to him. He usually held his levées costumed in a huge flowered dressing-gown, belonging to the laird, so that, although he began to look more like his former self, as he recovered from his injuries, he was still sufficiently disguised to prevent recognition on the part of Mrs Moss.

Nevertheless, the old lady felt strangely perplexed about him.

One day the greater part of the household was assembled in his room when Mrs Moss remarked on this curious feeling.

“I cannot tell what it is, Mr Barret, that makes the sound of your voice seem familiar to me,” she said; “yet not exactly familiar, but a sort of far-away echo, you know, such as one might have heard in a dream; though, after all, I don’t think I ever did hear a voice in a dream.”

Jackman and Milly glanced at each other, and the latter put the safety-valve to her mouth while Barret replied—

“I don’t know,” he said, with a very grave appearance of profound thought, “that I ever myself dreamt a voice, or, indeed, a sound of any kind. As to what you say about some voices appearing to be familiar, don’t you think that has something to do with classes of men? No man, I think, is a solitary unit in creation. Every man is, as it were, the type of a class to which he belongs—each member possessing more or less the complexion, tendencies, characteristics, tones, etcetera, of his particular class. You are familiar, it may be, with the tones of the class to which I belong, and hence the idea that you have heard my voice before.”

“Philosophically put, Barret,” said Mabberly; “I had no idea you thought so profoundly.”

“H’m! I’m not so sure of the profundity,” said the little old lady, pursing her lips; “no doubt you may be right as regards class; but then, young man, I have been familiar with all classes of men, and therefore, according to your principle, I should have some strange memories connected with Mr Jackman’s voice, and Mr Mabberly’s, and the laird’s, and everybody’s.”

“Well said, sister; you have him there!” cried the laird with a guffaw; “but don’t lug me into your classes, for I claim to be an exception to all mankind, inasmuch as I have a sister who belongs to no class, and is ready to tackle any man on any subject whatever, between metaphysics and baby linen. Come now, Barret, do you think yourself strong enough to go out with us in the boat to-morrow?”

“Quite. Indeed, I would have begged leave to go out some days ago, but Doctor Jackman there, who is a very stern practitioner, forbids me. However, I have my revenge, for I compel him to sit with me a great deal, and entertain me with Indian stories.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Junkie, who happened to be in the room, “he hasn’t told you yet about the elephant hunt, has he?”

“No, not yet, Junkie,” returned Barret; “he has been faithful to his promise not to go on with that story till you and your brothers are present.”

“Well, but tell it now, Mr Jackman, and I’ll go an call Eddie and Archie,” pleaded the boy.

“You will call in vain, then,” said his father, “for they have both gone up the burn, one to photograph and the other to paint. I never saw such a boy as Archie is to photograph. I believe he has got every scene in the island worth having on his plates now, and he has taken to the cattle of late— What think ye was the last thing he tried? I found him in the yard yesterday trying to photograph himself!”

“That must indeed have puzzled him; how did he manage?” asked MacRummle.

“Well, it was ingenious. He tried to get Pat Quin to manipulate the instrument while he sat; but Quin is clumsy with his fingers, at least for such delicate work, and, the last time, he became nervous in his anxiety to do the thing rightly; so, when Archie cried ‘Now,’ for him to cover the glass with its little cap, he put it on with a bang that knocked over and nearly smashed the whole concern. So what does the boy do but sets up a chair in the right focus and arranges the instrument with a string tied to the little cap. Then he sits down on the chair, puts on a heavenly smile, and pulls the string. Off comes the cap! He counts one, two—I don’t know how many—and then makes a sudden dash at the camera an’ shuts it up! What the result may be remains to be seen.”

“Oh, it’ll be the same as usual,” remarked Junkie in a tone of contempt. “There’s always something goes wrong in the middle of it. He tried to take Boxer the other day, and he wagged his tail in the middle of it. Then he tried the cat, and she yawned in the middle. Then Flo, and she laughed in the middle. Then me, an’ I forgot, and made a face at Flo in the middle. It’s a pity it has got a middle at all; two ends would be better, I think. But won’t you tell about the elephants to us, Mr Jackman? There’s plenty of us here—please!”

“Nay, Junkie; you would not have me break my word, surely. When we are all assembled together you shall have it—some wet day, perhaps.”

“Then there’ll be no more wet days this year, if I’ve to wait for that,” returned the urchin half sulkily.

That same day, Milly, Barret, and Jackman arranged that the mystery of the cowardly young man must be cleared up.

“Perhaps it would be best for Miss Moss to explain to her mother,” said Giles.

“That will not I,” said Milly with a laugh.

“I have decided what to do,” said Barret. “I was invited by her to call and explain anything I had to say, and apologise. By looks, if not by words, I accepted that invitation, and I shall keep it. If you could only manage somehow, Milly, to get everybody out of the way, so that I might find your mother alone in—”

“She’s alone now,” said Milly. “I left her just a minute ago, and she is not likely to be interrupted, I know.”

“Stay, then; I will return in a few minutes.”

Barret retired to his room, whence he quickly returned with shooting coat, knickerbockers, pot-cap and boots, all complete.

“‘Richard’s himself again!’ Allow me to congratulate you,” cried Jackman, shaking his friend by the hand. “But, I say, don’t you think it may give the old lady rather a shock as well as a surprise?”

Barret looked at Milly.

“I think not,” said Milly. “As uncle often says of dear mother, ‘she is tough.’”

“Well, I’ll go,” said Barret.

In a few minutes he walked into the middle of the drawing-room and stood before Mrs Moss, who was reading a book at the time. She laid down the book, removed her glasses, and looked up.

“Well, I declare!” she exclaimed, with the utmost elevation of her eyebrows and distension of her eyes; “there you are at last! And you have not even the politeness to take your hat off, or have yourself announced. You are the most singularly ill-bred young man, for your looks, that I ever met with.”

“I thought, madam,” said Barret in a low voice, “that you would know me better with my cap on—”

He stopped, for the old lady had risen at the first sound of his voice, and gazed at him in a species of incredulous alarm.

“Forgive me,” cried Barret, pulling off his cap; but again he stopped abruptly, and, before he could spring forward to prevent it, the little old lady had fallen flat upon the hearth-rug.

“Quick! hallo! Milly—Giles! Ass that I am! I’ve knocked her down again!” he shouted, as those whom he summoned burst into the room.

They had not been far off. In a few more minutes Mrs Moss was reviving on the sofa, and alone with her daughter.

“Milly, dear, this has been a great surprise; indeed, I might almost call it a shock,” she said, in a faint voice.

“Indeed it has been, darling mother,” returned Milly in sympathetic tones, as she smoothed her mother’s hair; “and it was all my fault. But are you quite sure you are not hurt?”