Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication. Robert Michael Ballantyne

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СКАЧАТЬ slight frown gathered on Flora’s white forehead, and a flash shot from her dark eyes, as George said this, but George saw it not. Lucy did, however, and became observant, while George continued—

      “But methinks, Fred, that the long visit you paid her lately must have been sadly misapplied if you have not pumped her history out of her.”

      “I went to paint, not to pump. Perhaps Mr Macdonald can tell me about her.”

      “Not I,” said Hector, lighting a cigar. “I only know that she lost her grandson about six years ago, and that she’s been mad ever since, poor thing.”

      “For shame, Hector,” said Flora; “you know that poor old Moggy is no more mad than yourself.”

      “Possibly not, sweet sister, but as you often tell me that I am mad, and as I never deny the charge, it seems to me that you have said nothing to vindicate the old woman’s character for sanity.”

      “Poor thing,” said Flora, turning from her brother, and speaking with warmth to Fred; “if you knew how much that unhappy old creature has suffered, you would not be surprised to find her somewhat cross at times. She is one of my people, and I’m very glad to find that you take an interest in her.”

      “‘My people!’ Flora then takes an interest in the poor,” thought the observant Lucy. Another link was added to the chain of friendship.

      “Do tell us about her, please,” cried George. “There is nothing that I love so much as a story—especially a horrible one, with two or three dreadful murders to chill one’s blood, and a deal of retributive justice to warm it up again. I’m dying to know about old Moggy.”

      “Are you?” said Flora saucily. “I’m glad to hear that, because I mean to keep you in a dying state. I will tell the story as a dead secret to Lucy, when I take her to see my poor people, and you sha’n’t hear it for weeks to come.”

      George cast up his eyes in affected despair, and said with a groan, that he “would endeavour to exist notwithstanding.”

      “Oh! I know all about old Moggy,” cried Jacky with energy.

      Everyone looked at the boy in surprise. In the midst of the foregoing dialogue he had suddenly ceased to tempt his fate, and sat down quietly with a hand on each knee and his eyes fixed intently on Flora Macdonald—to the surprise and secret joy of his mother, who, being thus relieved from anxiety on his account, had leisure to transfer the agony of her attention to the boat.

      “What do you know about her, child?” asked Flora.

      “She’s jolly,” replied the boy with prompt vivacity.

      “Most genuine testimony in her favour,” laughed Hector, “though the word is scarcely appropriate to one whose temper is sour.”

      “Why do you think her jolly, my boy?” said Flora.

      “’Cause I do. She’s a old brick!”

      “Jacky, darling,” said Mrs Sudberry, “do try to give up those ugly slang words—they’re so naughty—that is to say—at least—they are very ugly if they’re not positively naughty.”

      “She’s a jolly old brick,” retorted Jacky, with a look at his mother that was the concentrated essence of defiance.

      “Dear child!”

      Lucy snickered and coughed somewhat violently into her handkerchief; while Flora, repressing a smile, said—

      “But why does Jacky like old Moggy so much?”

      “Hallo! don’t run us ashore,” shouted Mr Sudberry, starting up with a sudden impetuosity which shook the boat and sent a pang to the heart of his wife, the sharpness of which no words can convey. A piercing shriek, however, betrayed the state of her feelings as the boat was swept violently round by George to avoid a point of rock. As they were now drawing near to the spot where it was proposed that they should picnic, Jacky suddenly became alive to the fact that in his interest about old Moggy he had been betrayed into a forgetfulness of his opportunities. No time was to be lost. Turning round with a cheer, he made a desperate plunge at the water and went much farther over than he had intended, insomuch that he would certainly have taken a “header” into its depths, had not McAllister grasped him by the baggy region of his trousers and gravely lifted him into his mother’s lap. Next moment the boat’s keel grated sharply on the gravel, to the horror of Mrs Sudberry, who, having buried her face in the bosom of her saved son, saw not what had occurred, and regarded the shock as her death-warrant.

      Thus agreeably the picnic continued!

      Story 1—Chapter 7.

      The Picnic Concluded

      What a glorious day it was, and what spirits it put everybody in! The sun shone with an intensity almost torrid; the spot on which they had landed was green and bright, like a slice out of the realms of Fairy-land. No zephyr dared to disturb the leaves or the glassy water; great clouds hung in the bright blue sky—rotund, fat, and heavy, like mountains of wool or butter. Everything in nature seemed to have gone to sleep at noon, as if Spanish principles had suddenly imbued the universe.

      And what a business they had, to be sure, with the spreading of the viands and the kindling of the fire! The latter was the first duty. Hector said he would undertake it, but after attempting to light it with damp sticks he gave it up and assisted the ladies to lay the cloth on the grass. Then George and Fred got the fire to kindle, and Mr Sudberry, in attempting to mend it, burnt his fingers and put it out; whereupon McAllister came to his rescue and got it to blaze in right earnest. Jacky thereafter tried to jump over it, fell into it, and was saved from premature destruction by being plucked out and quenched before having received any further damage than the singeing of his hair and eyelashes. He was thus rendered a little more hideous and impish-like than Nature had intended him to be.

      Jacky happened to be particularly bad that day. Not only was he more bent on mischief than usual, but Fortune seemed to enhance the value, (so to speak), of his evil doings, by connecting them with disasters of an unexpected nature. He tried to leap over a small stream, (in Scotland styled a burn), and fell into it. This necessitated drying at the fire—a slow process and disagreeable in all circumstances, but especially so when connected with impatience and headstrong obstinacy. Then he put his foot on a plate of sandwiches, and was within an ace of sitting down on a jam tart, much to his own consternation, poor boy, for had he destroyed that, the chief source of his own prospective felicity would have been dried up.

      It is not to be supposed that everyone regarded Jacky’s eccentricities with the forgiving and loving spirit of his mother. Mr Sudberry, good man, did not mind much; he was out for a day’s enjoyment, and having armed himself cap-à-pie with benevolence, was invulnerable. Not so the other members of the party, all of whom had to exercise a good deal of forbearance towards the boy. McAllister took him on his knee and gravely began to entertain him with a story, for which kindness Jacky kicked his shins and struggled to get away; so the worthy man smiled sadly, and let him go, remarking that Ovid himself would be puzzled to metamorphose him into a good boy—this in an undertone, of course.

      Hector Macdonald was somewhat sanguine and irascible in temper. He felt a tingling in his fingers, and an irresistible desire to apply them to the ears of the little boy.

      “Come here, Jacky!” said he.

      Flora, who understood his feelings, smiled covertly while she busied herself with cups, СКАЧАТЬ