Robert Michael Ballantyne
Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication
Story 1—Chapter 20.
Mysterious Matters—A Happy Return, etcetera
The morning which followed the events narrated in the last chapter broke with unclouded splendour. It was the second of the four bright days which relieved the monotony of those six dreary weeks of rain.
Rejoicing in the glorious aspect of earth and sky, and in the fresh scents which the rain had called forth from every shrub and flower on the mountains, Mr Sudberry dashed about the White House—in and out—awaiting the assembling of the family to breakfast with great impatience. His coat-tails that morning proved the means of annihilating the sugar-basin—the last of the set which had graced the board on his arrival in the Highlands, and which had been left, for some time past, “blooming alone,” all its former companions having been shattered and gone long ago.
According to custom, Mr Sudberry went forward to the barometrical banjo, intending to tap it—not that he expected correct information now. No; he had found out its falsehood, and was prepared to smile at anything it should say. He opened his eyes, however, and exclaimed “Hallo!” with unwonted energy, on observing that, as if in sheer defiance of the weather, of truth, and of public opinion, its index aimed point-blank at “stormy!”
He speedily discovered that this tremendous falsehood was the result of a careful intestine examination, to which the instrument had been privately subjected by Master Jacky the evening before; in the course of which examination the curious boy, standing below the barometer, did, after much trouble, manage to cut the bulb which held the mercury. That volatile metal, being set free, at once leaped into its liberator’s bosom, and gushed down between his body and his clothes to the floor!
“I’ll thrash him to within an inch—”
Mr Sudberry clinched his teeth and his fists, and burst out of the room, (it was at this moment that the last of the set became “faded and gone”), and rushed towards the nursery. “No, I won’t,” he muttered, suddenly wheeling round on his heel and returning slowly to the parlour. “I’ll say nothing whatever about it.” And Mr Sudberry kept his word—Jacky never heard of it from that day to this!
Seizing the opportunity of the fine day, Mr Sudberry and George went out to fish. They fished with worm now, the streams being too much swollen for fly.
Meanwhile, Master Jacky sauntered down alone, in a most free-and-easy independent manner, to visit old Moggy, who was thought to be in a dying state—at least the doctor said so, and it was to be presumed that he was right.
Jacky had regularly constituted himself sick nurse to the old woman. Despite the entreaties of Flora and his sister, who feared that the disease might be infectious, he could not be prevailed on to remain away. His nursing did not, indeed, consist in doing much that was useful. He confined himself chiefly to playing on the river-banks near the hut, and to making occasional inquiries as to how the patient was getting on. Sometimes he also assisted Flora in holding sundry cups, and glasses, and medicine bottles, and when Flora was away he amused himself by playing practical jokes on the young woman who had volunteered to act as regular nurse to the old invalid.
Towards the afternoon, Jacky put his hands behind his back—he would have put them under his coat-tails if he had had any, for he was very old-mannish in his tendencies—and sauntered down the road towards the pass. At this same time it chanced that another little boy, more than twice Jacky’s age, was walking smartly along the same road towards the same pass from the other side of it. There were as yet several miles between the two boys, but the pace at which the elder walked bid fair to bring them face to face within an hour. The boy whom we now introduce was evidently a sailor. He wore blue trousers, a blue vest with little brass buttons, a blue jacket with bigger brass buttons, and a blue cap with a brass button on either side—each brass button, on coat, cap, and vest, having an anchor of, (apparently), burnished gold in the centre of it. He had clear blue eyes, brown curly hair, and an easy, offhand swagger, which last was the result of a sea-faring life and example; but he had a kindly and happy, rather than a boastful or self-satisfied, expression of face, as he bowled along with his hands in his pockets, kicking all the stones out of his way, and whistling furiously. Sometimes he burst into a song, and once or twice he laughed, smote his thigh, and cheered, but never for a moment did he slacken his pace, although he had walked many a mile that day.
Curiously enough, at this same time, a man was crouching behind some bushes in the centre of the pass towards which these two boys were approaching. This man had a pair of grey eyes which might have been beautiful had they not been small and ferocious-looking, and a nose which might have been aquiline had the bridge not been broken, and a head of shaggy hair which might have been elegant had it been combed, oiled, curled, and dyed, and a general appearance which might have been prepossessing had it not been that of a thorough blackguard. This lovely specimen of humanity sat down on a rock, and waited, and fidgeted; and the expression of his sweet face betrayed, from time to time, that he was impatient, and anything but easy in his mind.
As Jack walked very leisurely and stopped frequently to play, his progress towards the pass was slow, and as our waiting friend, whom the reader no doubt recognises as the gypsy, could not see far along the road in that direction, he was not aware of his approach. On the other hand, the sailor-boy came on fast, and the road was so open and straight in that direction that the gypsy saw him when he was far enough away to seem like a mere blue spot in the distance.
Presently he gained the entrance to the pass and began the ascent, which was gradual, with a riotous windlass song, in which the sentiments, yo! heave! and ho! were most frequently expressed. As he drew near, the gypsy might have been observed to grin a smile that would have been quite captivating but for some obstinate peculiarity about the muscles of the mouth which rendered it very repulsive.
Next moment the sailor-boy was abreast of him. The moment after that the bushes parted, and the gypsy confronted his victim, cutting a tremendous “heave!” short in the middle, and converting the “ho!” that should have followed, into a prolonged whistle of astonishment.
“Hah! my lad, you remember me, it seems?”
“Remember you? Yes, I just do!” answered the boy, in whose countenance every trace of boyishness was instantly swallowed up in an intense gaze of manly determination.
This mute but meaning glance had such a strange effect upon the gypsy that he actually cowered for a moment, and looked as if he were afraid he was going to “catch it.” However, he forced a laugh and said—
“Come, Billy, you needn’t look so cross. You know I was hard put to it w’en I sent you aboord the ‘Fair Nancy,’ and you shouldn’t ought to owe me a grudge for puttin’ ye in the way o’ makin’ yer fortin’.”
The man kept edging towards the boy as he spoke, but the boy observed this and kept edging away, regarding the man with compressed lips and dilated eyes, but not vouchsafing a word in reply.
“I say, Billy, it’s unkind, you know, to forget old times like this. I want to shake hands; and there’s my old woman up on the hill as wants to see you again.”
Suddenly the fierce look left the boy’s face, and was replaced by a wild, waggish expression.
“Oh! your old woman wants to see me, does she? And you want to shake hands, do you? Now look here, Growler; I see through you! You thought to catch a flat, and you’ll find you’ve caught a tartar; or, rather, that the tartar has caught you. But I’ve grown merciful since I went to sea,” (the lad tucked-up his wristbands at this point, as if he really meditated a hand-to-hand encounter with his huge antagonist). “I do remember old times, and I know how richly you deserve to be hanged; but I don’t want to mix up my home-coming, if I can help it, with dirty work. Now, I’ll tell you what—I’ll give you your choice o’ two courses. Either take yourself off and be out o’ hail of this part of the country within twelve hours, or walk with me to the nearest police station and give yourself up. There—I’ll give you exactly two minutes to think over it.”
The youthful salt here pulled out an enormous double-case silver watch with an air of perfect nonchalance, and awaited the result. For a few seconds the gypsy was overwhelmed by the lad’s coolness; then he burst into a gruff laugh and rushed at him. He might as well have run at a squirrel. The boy sprang to one side, crossed the road at a bound, and, still holding the watch, said—
“Half a minute gone!”
Again the man rushed at his small opponent with similar result, and a cool remark, that another half minute was gone. This so exasperated the gypsy, that he ran wildly after the boy for half a minute, but the latter was as active as a kitten, and could not be caught.
“Time’s up; two minutes and a quarter; so don’t say that I’m not merciful. Now, follow me to the constable.”
So saying, Billy, as the man had called him, turned his back towards the pass, and ran off at full speed towards the village. The gypsy followed him at once, feeling that his only chance lay in capturing the boy; but so artfully did Billy hang back and allow his pursuer to come close up, that he had almost succeeded in enticing him into the village, when the man became suddenly aware of his folly, and stopped. Billy stopped too.
“What! you’re not game to come on?”
The man shook his fist, and, turning his face towards the pass, ran back towards his booth in the hills, intending to take the boy’s first piece of advice, and quit that part of the country. But Billy had no idea of letting him off thus. He now became the pursuer. However fast the gypsy ran, the sailor-lad kept up with him. If the man halted, as he frequently did in a breathless condition, and tried to gain over his adversary, Billy also stopped, said he was in no hurry, thrust his hands into his jacket pockets, and began to whistle. Thus he kept him in view until they once more stood in the pass. Here the man sat down on a large stone, thoroughly exhausted. The boy sat down on another stone opposite to him, looking quite fresh and jolly. Five years of hearty devotion to a noble calling had prepared the muscles of the little sailor for that day’s exercise. The same number of years spent in debauchery and crime had not prepared the vagabond giant for that day’s work.
“What has brought you back?” said Growler, savagely.
“To see the old granny whom you stole me from,” replied the boy. “Also, to have the satisfaction of puttin’ you in limbo; although I did not expect to have this pleasure.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Growler, sarcastically, “you’ll fail in both. It’s not so easy to put me in limbo as you think—and your grandmother is dyin’.”
“That’s false!” cried Billy, springing half way across the road and shaking his little fist at his enemy—“you know it is. The landlord of the ‘Blue Boar’ told me he saw her at church strong and well last Sunday.”
“She’s dyin’, however, may be dead,” said the man, with a sneer so full of triumph, that it struck a chill to the heart of the poor boy.
Just at that moment, Jacky Sudberry turned slowly round a sharp angle of the road, and stood there transfixed, with his eyes like two saucers, and his mouth as round as an o.
The sight of this intruder distracted Billy’s attention for a moment. Growler at once bounded over the low wall and dived into the underwood. Billy hesitated to follow him, for the last piece of information weighed heavily on his mind. That moment’s hesitation was sufficient for the gypsy to make good his retreat. Although Billy leaped the wall the next moment, and darted hither and thither through the copse, he failed to catch sight of him again, and finally returned to the road, where he found Jacky seated on a stone, pondering in a state of bewilderment on what he had seen.
“Well, my boy, how goes it?” cried the sailor heartily, as he came forward, wiping his heated brow with a blue spotted cotton handkerchief.
“All right!” was Jacky’s prompt reply. “I say, was you fightin’ with that man?”
“Ay, that was I, and I’ve not done with him yet.”
Jacky breathed hard and looked upon the young sailor-lad with a deep reverential awe, feeling that he was in the presence of a real Jack the Giant-killer.
“He runn’d away!” said Jacky in amazement. “Did you hit him hard?”
“Not with my fists; they ain’t big enough for that yet. We’ve only had a sparring-match with words and legs.”
Jacky glanced at Billy’s legs as if he regarded them in the light of dire engines of destruction. Indeed, his active mind jumped at once to the conclusion that the sailor’s must be a kicking mode of warfare; but he was too much amazed to make any rejoinder.
“Now, my boy, I’m going this way, so I’ll bid you good-day,” said Billy. Jacky informed him that he was going the same way,—having only been taking a stroll,—and would willingly go back: whereupon Billy put his arm round his shoulder, as boys are wont to do, and Jacky grasped Billy round the waist, and thus they wandered home together.
“I say, you’re a funny chap,” observed the young sailor, in a comic vein, as they went along.
“So are you,” replied Jacky, with intense gravity, being deeply serious.
Billy laughed; but as the two friends at that moment emerged from the pass and came in sight of the White House, the laugh was suddenly checked, and was followed by a sound that was not unlike choking. Jacky looked up in alarm, and was surprised to see tears hopping over his companion’s brown cheeks. To find a lad who could put a giant to flight was wonderful enough, but to find one who could cry without any reason at all was beyond belief. Jacky looked perplexed and said, “I say, what’s the matter?”
“Oh! nothing; only this is my old home, and my scrimmage with that villain has made me come plump on it without thinkin’. I was born here. I know every stone and bush. I—I—there’s the old—”
He choked again at this point, and Jacky, whose mind was only opening, stood looking on in silent wonder.
“My old granny lives here; old Moggy—”
The expression of Jacky’s face caused Billy to stop.
“Why, what’s wrong, boy?”
“Is—is—o–old Moggy your granny?” cried Jacky, eagerly, stumbling over his words as if he had come upon stepping-stones in the dark.
“Ay; what then?”
“Eh! I know her.”
“Do you, my boy?”
“Ye–yes; sh–she’s dyin’!”
The result of this remark was that the sailor-boy turned deadly pale, and stared at his little friend without being able to utter a word. Mere human nature taught Jacky that he had made a mistake in being so precipitate: but home education had not taught him to consider the feelings of others. He felt inclined to comfort his new friend, but knew not how to do it. At last a happy thought occurred to him, and he exclaimed eagerly—
“B–but sh–she’s not dead yet!”
“Does she live in the same cottage?” asked the boy, in a low, husky voice, not considering that his companion could not know what cottage she had occupied in former days. Jacky, also ignoring this fact, nodded his head violently, being past speech with excitement, and pointed in the direction of the hut.
Without another word, Billy, (more correctly speaking, Willie), at once took to his heels, and was followed by Jacky as fast as his short legs could carry him.
Flora Macdonald was administering a glass of hot wine and water to her patient, when the door was quickly, yet gently, opened, and a sailor-lad sprang into the room, fell on his knees beside the lowly couch, seized the old woman’s hand, gazed for a few seconds into her withered face, and then murmuring, “Granny, it’s me,” laid his head on her shoulder and burst into tears.
Flora gently drew the boy away.
“Willie, is it possible; can it be you?”
“Is she dyin’?” said Willie, looking up in Flora’s face with an expression of agony.
“I trust not, dear boy; but the doctor says she is very ill, and must be kept quiet.”
“Hoot, awa’ wi’ the doctor! He’s wrang,” cried old Moggy, suddenly raising herself with great energy on one elbow; “don’t I see my ain Willie there, as I’ve seen him in my dreams mony and mony a night?” (Flora grasped Willie’s arm to prevent his running towards her, and pointed to Jacky, who had at that moment entered the room, and was at once recognised by Moggy.) “Ay, little did I think when I said yestreen, ‘Thy wull be done,’ that He wad send my ain laddie back again!”
She folded Jacky, who had gone to the bedside, in her arms, and was with difficulty prevailed on to let him go. It was quite evident that her mind was wandering.
The effect of this little episode on Willie was powerful and twofold. A pang of jealousy at first shot through his heart like a flash of lightning; but when he perceived that the loving embrace was meant for his old self he broke down, and the tears once more tumbled over his brown cheeks.
“She cannot recognise you just now, dear Willie,” said Flora, deeply touched by the sorrow of the lad; “and, even if she could, I fear it would do her harm by exciting her too much. Come, my poor fellow,” (leading him softly to the door), “I am just going up to visit a kind English family, where they will be only too glad to put you up until it is safe to let her know that you have returned.”
“But she may die, and never know that I have returned,” said Willie, almost passionately, as he hung back.
“She is in God’s loving hands, Willie.”
“Can I not stay and help you to nurse her?” asked the boy, in pitiful tones.
Flora shook her head, and Willie meekly suffered himself to be led out of the hut.
This, then, was the home-coming that he had longed for so intensely; that he had dreamed of so often when far away upon the sea! No sooner was he in the open air than he burst away from Flora without a word, and ran off at full speed in the direction of the pass. At first he simply sought to obtain relief to his feelings by means of violent muscular exercise. The burning brain and throbbing heart were unbearable. He would have given the world for the tears that flowed so easily a short time before; but they would not now come. Running, leaping, bounding madly over the rough hill-side—that gave him some relief; so he held on, through bush and brake, over heathery knoll and peat swamp, until the hut was far behind him.
Suddenly his encounter with the gypsy occurred to him. The thought that he was the original cause of all this misery roused a torrent of indignation within him, and he resolved that the man should not escape. His wild race was no longer without purpose now. He no longer sprang into the air and bounded from rock to rock like a wild goat, but, coursing down the bed of a mountain-torrent, came out upon the road, and did not halt until he was in front of the constabulary station.
“Hallo! laddie, what’s wrang?” inquired a blue-coated official, whose language betokened him a Lowland Scot.
“I’ve seen him; come with me—quick! I’ll take you to his whereabouts,” gasped Willie.
“Seen whae?” inquired the man, with slow deliberation.
“The gypsy, Growler, who stole me, and would have murdered me this morning if he could have caught me; but quick, please! He’ll get off if you don’t look alive!”
The earnestness and fervour of the lad had the effect of exciting even the constable’s phlegmatic nature; so, after a short conversation, he summoned a comrade, and set off for the pass at a round trot, led by Willie.
“D’ye think it’s likely he’ll ken ye’ve come here to tell on him?” inquired the constable, as they ran.
“I said I would have him nabbed,” replied the boy.
“Hoot! mon; that was na wise-like. But after a’ ye’re ony a bairn. Here, Tam, ye’d better gang up by the Stank burn an’ keep a look-oot ower the hills, an’ I’ll start him.”
Thus advised, the second constable diverged to the right, and, plunging into the copsewood, was instantly out of sight.
Soon afterwards, Willie came to the place where he had met the gypsy. Here a consultation was held as to where the booth might probably be.
“He jumped over the wall here,” said Willie, “and I’m sure he took the hill in this direction at first.”
“Ay, laddie; but chiels o’ his stamp never gang straight to their mark. We’ll follow him up this way. Hoe long is’t sin’ ye perted wi’ him, said ee?” examining the place where the gypsy had entered the copse.
Willie returned no answer. The unusual amount of fatigue and the terrible mental excitement which he had undergone that day were too much for him. A feeling of deadly sickness came suddenly on him, and when the constable looked round he was lying on the road in a swoon.
This unexpected incident compelled the man to abandon further pursuit for the time. Giving utterance to a “puir laddie,” he raised the boy in his arms and carried him to the nearest hut, which happened to be that of old Moggy! No one was there but the young woman who acted as nurse to the invalid. It chanced that Moggy had had a sleep, and she awoke with her mental faculties much cleared, when the constable entered and laid Willie on a mat not far from her bed.
The old woman gazed long and earnestly in the boy’s face, and seemed much troubled and perplexed while the nurse applied water to his temples. At last Willie opened his eyes. Moggy at once recognised him. She strove eagerly to reach her long-lost child, and Willie, jumping up, sprang to her side; but ere they met she raised both arms in the air, and, uttering a long piercing cry, fell back insensible upon the bed.
