The Eagle Cliff

The sun was high next morning when the wrecked men awoke, and began to feel the outcries of nature with reference to breakfast. Long before that time the men of Cove had gone off to the hills, the peat-hags, or the sea, according to their respective callings. But Mrs Anderson had a sumptuous breakfast of oatmeal porridge and fresh milk ready for the strangers.

“Musha! but it’ll make me mouth wather all the afthernoon thinkin’ of it,” said Quin, on finishing his second plateful.

“It’s prime wittles,” remarked Tips, as he helped himself to more.

“Now, Barret, have you finished?” asked Mabberly.

“No; why?”

“Because, in the first place, you are evidently eating too much for your health, and, in the second place, I want you to go up to what Ian calls the Hoose, as a deputation to the laird. You see, although we are forced, as it were, to throw ourselves on his hospitality, I don’t quite like to descend on him all at once with the whole strength of our party. It will be better for one of us to break the ice, and as you are the best-looking and most hypocritically urbane, when you choose, I think we could not do better than devolve the duty upon you.”

“Right, Bob, as usual; but don’t you think,” said Barret, helping himself to another ladleful of the porridge, “that my going may cut in two directions? Doubtless the laird would be agreeably surprised to meet with me; but then that will raise his expectations so high, that he will be woefully disappointed on meeting with you!”

“Come, friends,” cried Jackman, “it is dangerous to play with edged tools immediately after a meal. My medical knowledge assures me of that. I quite approve of Barret forming the deputation, and the sooner he starts off the better. The rest of us will assist Ian to fish in his absence.”

Thus authorised and admonished, Barret finished breakfast, put on his own garments—which, like those of his companions, were semi-nautical—and sallied forth for an eight miles’ walk over the mountains to the mansion of the laird, which lay on the other side of the Eagle’s Cliff ridge, on the shores of Loch Lossie.

He was guided the first part of the journey by Tonal’ with the ragged head, who, with an activity that seemed inexhaustible, led him up into wild and rugged places such as he had never before dreamed of—rocky fastnesses which, looked at from below, seemed inaccessible, even to goats, but which, on being attempted, proved to be by no means beyond the powers of a steady head and strong limbs.

Reaching the summit of a heather-clad knoll that projected from a precipitous part of the mountain-side, Barret paused to recover breath and look back at the calm sea. It lay stretched out far below him, looking, with its numerous islets in bird’s-eye view, somewhat like a map. The mists had completely cleared away, and the sun was glittering on the white expanse like a line of light from the shore to the horizon. Never before had our Englishman felt so like a bird, both as to the point of vision from which he surveyed the glorious scene, and the internal sensation of joy which induced him not only to wish that he could fly, but to think that a very little more of such exultation of spirit would enable him to do so!

“Is that the Cove down there?” he asked of the ragged companion who stood beside him.

“Ay, that’s the Cove!”

“Why, Donald, it looks like a mere speck in the scene from here, and the men look no bigger than crows.”

As this observation called for no answer none was given, and Donald seemed to regard his companion as one who was rather weak-minded.

“Have we come half-way yet, Donald?”

“No—no’ near.”

“Is it difficult to find the rest of the way from this point?”

“No; but it wad be diffeecult to miss it.”

“Well, Donald, my boy, I have a strong desire to be alone—that is, to try if I cannot go the rest of the way without guidance; so, if you will just give me a little direction, I’ll let you go home, and many thanks for coming thus far. Now, point out the landmarks.”

He turned, as he spoke, towards the grand mountain that still towered behind him.

“There’s naethin’ t’ pint oot,” returned the boy; “ye’ve only t’ haud on by this sheep track till ee come close under the cliff yonder.”

“The Eagle Cliff?”

“Ay. It’ll bring ee to a cairt road, an’ ye’ve only to follow that through the pass, an’ haud on till ee come to the hoose. Ye can see the hoose frae the other side o’ the pass.”

“And what is the ‘hoose’ called?” asked Barret.

“Kinlossie.”

“Thank you. Good-bye, my boy.”

A few coppers sent the youth of the ragged head away in high spirits. The young man watched him till he was concealed by a clump of small birch trees that hung like a fringe on the top of a neighbouring precipice. Barret had just turned to continue the ascent to the Eagle Cliff, whose frowning battlements still rose high above him, when a wild shout from the boy made him turn and look anxiously back. The place which he had reached was strewn with great masses of rock that had fallen from the cliffs. He was about to clamber on to one of these, in order to obtain a better view, when the cause of the shout became obvious. A splendid stag, frightened from its lair by the boy, burst from the birchwood, and, with antlers laid well back, bounded up the slope towards him. It was closely followed by two does.

Barret crouched at once behind the mass of rock. The deer, thinking, doubtless, only of the danger behind, had failed to observe him.

“Oh for Giles, with his rifle!” thought the youth, as the agile creatures passed within less than a hundred yards of him, and headed straight for the pass of the Eagle Cliff.

Scarcely had the thought occurred, when a flapping noise behind caused him to turn quickly. It was the eagle himself, sailing majestically and slowly overhead, as though he knew full well that an Englishman without a gun was a harmless creature!

Considerably excited by these unexpected and, to him, stirring sights, Barret pushed steadily upward, and soon reached a part of the pass whence he could see the valley beyond, with a house in the far distance—which, of course, must be Kinlossie—standing in a clump of wood on the margin of an inlet of the sea, known by the name of Loch Lossie.

But a far more astonishing sight than anything he had beheld that morning was yet in store for Barret. On turning round a projecting rock at the foot of the Eagle Cliff, he suddenly came upon a young girl, lying on the road as if dead!

Springing towards her, he knelt and raised her head. There was no blood upon the face, which was deadly pale, and no apparent injury. She did not seem to breathe, but on feeling her pulse he fancied that he felt a flutter there. A feeling of desperate regret passed through him as he thought of his utter destitution alike of medical or surgical knowledge. But Barret was not by any means a helpless man. Running to one of the many streams of water which trickled from the cliff, he filled the top of his wideawake therewith, and, returning, laved the girl’s face, and poured a little into her mouth.

His efforts were successful. She recovered consciousness, opened her eyes, and asked, with a confused look, what was the matter.

“You must have had a fall, dear child; but you’ll be better presently. Let me raise you.”

The girl tried to rise, but, with a sharp cry of pain, fell back again unconscious.

Barret soon ascertained that one of the poor girl’s arms was severely bruised, perhaps broken. He knew not what to do, but he knew that the greatest present evil was delay. He therefore wrapped her in the shepherd’s plaid which she wore, and raised her as gently as possible in his arms—making use of the plaid as a sort of sling, with part of it round his own neck. Then, thanking God for the strong limbs and muscles with which he had been endowed, he set off with vigorous tread for Kinlossie House.

Chapter Four

The Family at Kinlossie

Serenity was the prevailing feature in the character of old Allan Gordon, the laird of Kinlossie; but when that amiable, portly, grand, silver-headed old gentleman suddenly met an unknown young man of fine proportions carrying his favourite niece, wrapped up as a bundle in his arms, all his serenity disappeared, and he stared, glared, almost gasped, with mingled astonishment and consternation.

A very brief explanation, however, quickly sufficed to charge his susceptible spirit to overflowing with a compound of grave anxiety and heartfelt gratitude.

“Come in, my dear sir, come in; luckily our doctor is spending the day with me. But for you, my poor dear Milly might have been— This way, to her own room. Are you sure the arm is broken?”

“I fear so,” replied Barret, entering the mansion; but before he could proceed farther his words were drowned in a shriek of surprise from four little Gordons, aged from sixteen to four, who yelled rather than demanded to know what ailed their cousin—ranging from Archie’s, “What’s wrong with Cousin Milly,” to Flora’s, “Wass wong wid Cuzn Miwy?”

By that time Mrs Gordon, a pleasant-voiced lady, with benignity in her, looks, appeared on the scene, followed quickly by a man and several maid servants, all of whom added to the confusion, in the midst of which Cousin Milly was conveyed to her room and deposited on her bed. The family doctor, a rotund little man of fifty-five, was speedily in attendance.

“So fortunate that the doctor happens to be here,” said the laird, as he led Barret to the library and offered him a glass of wine. “No! you don’t drink? Well, well, as you please. Here, Duncan, fetch milk, lemonade, coffee, hot, at once. You must be tired after carrying her so far, even though she is a light weight. But, forgive me; in my anxiety about my poor niece I have quite forgotten to ask either your name or how you came here, for no steamer has been to the island for a week past. Pray be seated, and, wherever you may be bound for ultimately, make up your mind that my house is to be your home for a week at least. We suffer no visitor ever to leave us under that period.”

“You are very kind,” returned the young man, smiling, “and I accept your proffered hospitality most gladly. My name is John Barret. I came to the other side of the island in a yacht, and swam on shore in my clothes with six companions, spent the night at Cove, and have walked over here to make known these facts to you.”

“You speak in riddles, my young friend,” returned the laird, with an amused look.

“Yet I speak the truth,” returned Barret, who thereupon gave a circumstantial account of the disaster that had befallen himself and his friends.

“Excuse me,” said Mr Gordon, rising; throwing up the window he shouted to a man who was passing at the moment, “Roderick, get the big waggonette ready to go to Cove, and bring it round here as fast as you can. You see,” he added to Barret, “the road is considerably longer than the short cut by which you came, and we must have them all over here without delay. Don’t distress yourself about room. We have plenty of accommodation. But come, I’ll take you to your own room, and when you have made yourself comfortable, we will talk over your future plans. Just let me say, however, to prevent your mind running away on wrong ideas, that in the circumstances we won’t allow you to leave us for two months. The post goes out to-morrow, so you can write to your father and tell him so.”