Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication by R. M. Ballantyne (top ten ebook reader .txt) đź“•
Read free book «Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication by R. M. Ballantyne (top ten ebook reader .txt) 📕» - read online or download for free at americanlibrarybooks.com
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Read book online «Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication by R. M. Ballantyne (top ten ebook reader .txt) 📕». Author - R. M. Ballantyne
“Now don’t be late,” said he; “be at the inn by half-past four precisely.”
“Ay, ay; yes, yes,” from everybody; and away he went alone to enjoy his favourite sport.
The rest of the party scattered. Some went to good points for sketching, some to botanise, and others to ascend the highest of the neighbouring peaks. Mrs Brown and Hobbs were left in charge of the débris of luncheon, to the eating up of which they at once devoted themselves with the utmost avidity as soon as the others were gone.
“Come, this is wot I calls comfortable,” said Hobbs; (he spoke huskily, through an immense mouthful of sandwich.) “Ain’t it, Mrs Brown?”
“Humph!” said Mrs Brown.
It is to be remarked that Mrs Brown was out of temper—not that that was an unusual thing; but she had found the expedition more trying than she had anticipated, and the torments of mind and body to which Jacky had subjected her were of an uncommonly irritating nature.
“Wot,” continued Hobbs, attacking a cold tongue, “d’you think of the natives of this ’ere place?”
“Nothink at all,” was Mrs Brown’s prompt rejoinder.
Hobbs, who was naturally of a jolly, sociable disposition, felt a little depressed at Mrs Brown’s repellent manner; so he changed his mode of address.
“Try some of this ’ere fowl, Mrs Brown, it’s remarkably tender, it is; just suited to the tender lips of—dear me, Mrs Brown, how improvin’ the mountain hair is to your complexion, if I may wenture to speak of improvin’ that w’ich is perfect already.”
“Get along, Hobbs!” said Mrs Brown, affecting to be displeased.
“My dear, I’m gettin’ along like a game chicken, perhaps I might say like Dan, who’s got the most uncommon happetite as I ever did see. He’s a fine fellow, Dan is, ain’t he, Mrs Brown?”
“Brute,” said Mrs Brown; “they’re all brutes.”
“Ah!” said Hobbs, shaking his head, “strong language, Mrs Brown. But, admitting that, (merely for the sake of argument, of course), you cannot deny that they are raither clever brutes.”
“I do deny it,” retorted Mrs Brown, taking a savage bite out of the leg of a chicken, as if it represented the whole Celtic race. “Don’t they talk the most arrant stuff?—specially that McAllister, who is forever speakin’ about things that he don’t understand, and that nobody else does!”
“Speak for yourself; ma’am,” said Hobbs, drawing himself up with as much dignity as was compatible with a sitting posture.
“I do speak for myself. Moreover, I speak for some whom I might name, and who ain’t verra far away.”
“If, ma’am, you mean that insinivation to apply—”
“I make no insinivations. Hand me that pot of jam—no, the unopened one.”
Hobbs did as he was required with excruciating politeness, and thereafter took refuge in dignified silence; suffering, however, an expression of lofty scorn to rest on his countenance. Mrs Brown observed this, and her irate spirit was still further chafed by it. She meditated giving utterance to some withering remarks, while, with agitated fingers, she untied the string of the little pot of cranberry-jam. Worthy Mrs Brown was particularly fond of cranberry-jam. She had put up this pot in her own basket expressly for her own private use. She now opened it with the determination to enjoy it to the full, to smack her lips very much and frequently, and offer none of it to Hobbs. When the cover was removed she gazed into the pot with a look of intense horror, uttered a piercing shriek, and fell back in a dead faint.
This extraordinary result is easily accounted for. Almost every human being has one grand special loathing. There is everywhere some creature which to some individual is an object of dread—a creature to be shrunk from and shuddered at. Mrs Brown’s horror was frogs. Jacky knew this well. He also knew of Mrs Brown’s love for cranberry-jam, and her having put up a special pot. To abstract the pot, replace it by a similar pot with a live frog imprisoned therein, and then retire to chuckle in solitude and devour the jam, was simple and natural. That the imp had done this; that he had watched with delight the deceived woman pant up Glen Ogle with the potted frog on her arm and perspiration on her brow; that he had asked for a little cranberry-jam on the way, with an expression of countenance that almost betrayed him; and that he had almost shrieked with glee when he observed the anxiety with which Mrs Brown—having tripped and fallen—opened her basket and smiled to observe that the pot was not broken; that the imp, we say, had been guilty of all this, was known only to himself; but much of it became apparent to the mind of Hobbs, when, on Mrs Brown’s fainting, he heard a yell of triumph, and, on looking up, beheld Master Jacky far up the heights, clearly defined against the bright sky, and celebrating the success of his plot with a maniacal edition of the Highland fling.
At a quarter-past four all the party assembled at the inn except Mr Sudberry.
Five arrived—no Mr Sudberry. The coach could not wait! The gentlemen, in despair, rushed up the bed of the stream, and found him fishing, in a glow of excitement, with his basket and all his pockets full of splendid trout.
The result was that the party had to return home in a large wagon, and it was night when at last they embarked in their boat and rowed down their own lake. It was a profound calm. The air was mild and balmy. There was just enough of light to render the surrounding mountains charmingly mysterious, and the fatigues of the day made the repose of the boat agreeable. Even Mrs Sudberry enjoyed that romantic night-trip on the water. It was so dark that there was a tendency to keep silence on landing to speak in low tones; but a little burst of delight broke forth when they surmounted the dark shoulder of the hill, and came at last in sight of the windows of the White House, glowing a ruddy welcome home.
It would seem to be a well-understood and undeniable fact that woman invariably gains the victory over man in the long-run; and even when she does not prove to be the winner, she is certain to come off the conqueror. It is well that it should be so. The reins of the world could not be in better hands!
But, strangely enough, woman triumphs, not only in matters over which she and man have, more or less, united control, but even in matters with which the human race cannot interfere. For instance, in regard to weather—despite the three weeks of unfailing sunshine, Mrs Sudberry maintained her original opinion, that, notwithstanding appearances being against her, the weather in the Highlands of Scotland was, as a rule, execrable. As if to justify this opinion, the weather suddenly changed, and the three weeks of sunshine were followed by six weeks of rain.
Whether there was something unusual in the season or not, we cannot positively say; but certain it is that, for the period we have named, it rained incessantly, with the exception of four days. During a great part of the time it rained from morning till night. Sometimes it was intermittent, and came down in devastating floods. At other times it came in the form of Scotch mist, which is simply small rain, so plentiful that it usually obliterates the whole landscape, and so penetrating that it percolates through everything except water-proof. It was a question which was the more wetting species of rain—the thorough down-pour or the heavy mist. But whether it poured or permeated, there was never any change in the leaden sky during these six weeks, and the mountains were never clearly seen except during the four accidental days already referred to.
At first Mrs Sudberry triumphed; but long before that season was over she had reached such a condition of humility that she would have actually rejoiced in a fine day.
As for the rest of the family, they bore up against it bravely for a time. On the first day of this wet season, they were rather pleased than otherwise to be obliged to stay in the house. Jacky, in particular, was delighted, as it afforded him a glorious opportunity of doing mischief, and making himself so disagreeable, that all, except his mother, felt as if they hated him. On the second day, indoor games of various kinds were proposed and entered into with much spirit. On the third day the games were tried again, with less spirit. On the fourth day they were played without any spirit at all, and on the fifth they were given up in disgust. The sixth day was devoted to reading and sulking, and thus they ended that week.
The seventh day, which chanced to be Sunday, was one of the four fine days before mentioned. The sky was blue, the sun intensely bright, and the inundated earth was steaming. The elastic spirits of the family recovered.
“Come, we’ll walk to church!” cried Mr Sudberry, as they rose from breakfast.
“What, my dear!” exclaimed his wife, “and the roads knee-deep in mud and water!”
“I care not if they were waist-deep!” cried the reckless man: “I’ve been glued to my seat for a week; so I’ll walk to church, if I should have to swim for it.”
“So will I! so will I!” from George and Fred; “So will we all!” from Lucy; “And me, too!” timidly, from Tilly; with “Hurrah!” furiously from the imp,—this decided the business.
“Very well!” said the resigned mother of the flock; “then I will go too!”
So away they went to church, through mud and mire and water, with the nine collie dogs at their heels, and Mr McAllister bearing them company.
Fred and McAllister walked together in rear of the rest, conversing earnestly, for the latter was learned in theology, and the former dearly loved a philosophical discussion. Mr Sudberry and Lucy walked in advance. As he approached the well-known bush, the force of habit induced him almost unconsciously to pick up a stone and walk on tip-toe. Lucy, who did not know the cause of this strange action, looked at her father in surprise.
Whirr! went a black-cock; bang! went the stone, and a yell instantly followed, accompanied by a hat—it was his best beaver!
“Why, dear papa, it is Sunday!”
“Dear me, so it is!” The good man was evidently much discomfited. “Ah! Lucy dear, that shows the effect and force of bad habit; that is to say, of habit, (for the simple act cannot be called bad), on the wrong day.”
“You cannot call throwing your best hat in the mud a good habit on any day,” said Mrs Sudberry, with the air of a woman who regarded her husband’s chance of mending as being quite hopeless.
“It was only forgetfulness, my dear!” said the worthy man, putting his hat quite meekly on the back of his head, and pushing forward in order to avoid further remarks. Coming to a hollow of the road, they found that it was submerged a foot deep by the river, which had been swollen into a small lake at that spot. There was much trouble here. McAllister, with native gallantry, offered to carry the ladies over in his arms; but the ladies would not listen to the proposal, with the exception of Tilly, who at once accepted it gladly. The rest succeeded in scrambling along by the projecting stones at the base of the wall that ran alongside of the road, and gained the other side, after many slips, much alarm, and
Comments (0)