The Eagle Cliff

Chapter Twelve

Stirring Events of more Kinds than One

The squall which blew the Kinlossie boat round the Eagle Point was but the precursor of a succession of heavy squalls which quickly changed into a furious gale, compelling Ian Anderson to close reef his sails. Even when this was done, the boat rushed through the foaming water with tremendous velocity, and exhibited that tendency to drinking, to which reference has already been made; for every time she plunged into the trough of the sea, a little water came over the bow.

Of course, going as they were at such a rate, the traversing of six or eight miles of water occupied but little time, and they were soon close to the bay, at the head of which Kinlossie House nestled among its trees.

“Come aft, poys,” shouted Ian, whose voice, strong though it was, could scarcely be heard in the bow owing to the roaring of the gale; “she’s trinkin’ too much; come aft, an’ look sherp!”

The three boys obeyed with alacrity, being well accustomed to boats, and aware of the necessity of prompt obedience in circumstances of danger.

Thus lightened, the boat ceased drinking at the bow, but, being rather overweighted at the stern, she now and then took in a little water there.

Unfortunately the point of rocks which formed the southern end of Kinlossie Bay obliged Ian to change his course a little in order to weather them. This was a critical operation. Even the girls had some sort of idea of that, as their looks bore witness. John Barret felt a strong inclination to slip his arm round Milly’s waist and whisper, “Don’t be afraid, beloved, I’ll take care of you!” but want of courage—to say nothing of a sense of propriety—kept his lips silent and his arm still.

“Noo, keep stiddy, all of ye,” said Ian, as he shifted the helm a little.

An irrepressible shriek burst from Aggy Anderson, for the boat lay over so much that the hissing water rippled almost into her, and seemed about to swallow them up.

“Tak anither haul o’ the sheet, Maister Mabberly,” cried Ian.

Assisted by Jackman, Mabberly obeyed, and the boat went, as Quin said, “snorin’” past the rocks, which were now close under her lee, with the waves bursting wildly over them. Another minute and the outermost rock was under their port bow. To the eyes of the girls it seemed as if destruction were inevitable. To make matters worse, at that moment a vivid flash was succeeded by a loud thunder-clap, which, mingling with the gale, seemed to intensify its fury, while a deluge of rain came down. But Ian knew what he was about. With a firm hand on the tiller he steered past the point, yet so closely that it seemed as if an active man might have leaped upon the outermost rock, which rose, black and solid, amid the surging foam.

Another moment and the boat swept safely round into the bay, and was again put before the wind.

“We’re a’ richt noo, what-ë-ver,” said Ian with a grunt of satisfaction.

Never before did a self-sufficient boatman have his words more effectually or promptly falsified than on that occasion. The distance between boat and shore at that moment was only a few hundred yards; but the water all the way was deep, and the waves, in consequence, were large and wild. There were great possibilities within the brief space of distance and time that lay before them!

“Tak an oar, Maister Quin, an’ help Rodereek to fend off,” cried the boatman. “Hold ticht to the sheet, sir, an’ pe ready to let co the moment I tell ye. Are ye ready wi’ the halyards, Muster Airchie?”

“All right, Ian,” replied the boy, who stood ready to lower the sail.

They could see that several men were standing on the beach, ready to render assistance, among them Duncan, the butler, and Ivor, the gamekeeper. The latter, who had evidently recovered himself, was standing waist-deep in the foam, as if anxious to grasp the boat when it grounded.

“Ivor is unusually keen to help us to-day,” remarked the laird, with a peculiar look; but no one was sufficiently disengaged to listen to or answer him.

At that critical moment Junkie took it into his unaccountable head to scramble to the fore part of the boat, in order, as he said, to lend a hand with a rope. On reaching the bow he stumbled; the boat plunged heavily, as if to accommodate him, and he went overboard with a suddenly checked yell, that rose high and sharp above the roaring gale!

Of course every man near him sprang to the side and made a wild grasp at him. The gunwale went down, the sea rushed in, and, in a space of time brief as the lightning-flash, all the occupants of the boat were struggling in the waves!

A great cry arose from the shore, and Ivor, plunging into the surf, was seen to breast the billows with the force of a Hercules. In the moment of upsetting, John Barret’s cowardice and scruples vanished. He seized Milly by the arm, and held her up when they rose from the plunge.

And now, for the first time in his life, our hero found the advantage of having trained himself, not only in all manly exercises, but in the noble art of rescuing life from the water. Instead of rising to the wild discovery of helpless ignorance as to what was the best way of using his great strength, he rose with the comfortable knowledge, first, that he was a powerful swimmer, and second, that he knew exactly what to do—at least to attempt. Instead, therefore, of allowing himself to be hugged, and probably drowned, by the girl he loved, he held her off at arm’s length until he managed to grasp her by both arms close to the shoulders, and with her back towards him—treading water while doing so. Then, swimming on his own back, he gently drew her upon his breast, so that her head rested close to his chin. Thus the girl’s face was turned upwards and held well out of the water, and the youth was able to say almost in her ear, “Trust in God, dearest, He will save us!” while he struck out vigorously with his legs. Thus, swimming on his back, he headed for the shore.

Lest the reader should fancy that we are here merely inventing a mode of action, it may be well to state that we have conversed with a man styled “the Rescue,” whose duty it was to watch the boys of Aberdeen while bathing on the dangerous coast there, and who told us that he had saved some hundreds of lives—many of them in the manner above described.

Every one in the boat was fortunately able to swim, more or less, except Milly and Aggie Anderson. With the utmost anxiety to save the latter, her Uncle Ian made a desperate plunge when the boat upset, at the spot where, in the confusion, he thought he saw her go down. He grasped something under water, which clutched him violently in return. Rising to the surface he found that he had got hold of Giles Jackman, who, animated by the same desire to rescue the same girl, had also made a plunge at her. Flinging each other off almost angrily, they swam wildly about in search of her, for Giles had observed that Barret was sufficiently intent on Milly.

But poor Aggie was in even better hands. Ivor Donaldson had kept his eyes on her from the moment that he could distinguish faces in the approaching boat. He was a splendid swimmer. Even against wind and waves he made rapid headway, and in a few seconds caught the girl by the hair. In his case the absence of a plan of rescue was to some extent remedied by sheer strength of body, coupled with determination. The poor girl did her best to choke him, as drowning people will, but, happily, she was too weak for the purpose and he too strong! He suffered her to do her worst, and, with the arm which she left free made his way gallantly to the beach, where Duncan and all the domestics were ready to receive them.

Barret and Milly had landed just before them. Immediately after Archie and Eddie were swept in amid the foam, and Junkie himself—who, like his brothers, could swim like a cork—came careering in on the top of a wave, like a very water-imp! With all the energy of his nature he turned, the moment his feet touched ground, to lend a hand to his friend Tonal’, who was not far behind him.

Thus, one by one, the whole party got safely to land, for the laird, although old, was still vigorous, and, like the others, able to swim. MacRummle came in last, and they had some difficulty in getting him out of the water, for he was rather sluggish, as well as heavy; but he was none the worse for his immersion, and to the anxieties afterwards expressed by his friends, he replied quietly that he had become pretty well used to the water by that time. It was a trying experience, however, for all of them, and, in the opinion of Ian Anderson, as he gave it to his wife when they met, “it was a queer way o’ feenishin’ off a fery extraor’nar Sawbath tay—what-ë-ver!”

One morning, not long after this incident, the gentlemen made up a shooting party to try the summit of the hill for mountain hares—their hostess having twitted them with their inability to keep the household supplied with hare soup.

“I will accompany you, gentlemen, to the shoulder of the first hill,” observed their host, as he finished his breakfast, “but not farther, for I am not so young as I once was, and cannot be expected to keep pace with a ‘Woods and Forester.’”

“That is not a good reason for your stopping short, laird,” retorted Jackman, with a smile, “because it is quite possible for the ‘Woods and Forester’ to regulate his pace to that of the Western Isles.”

“Well, we shall see,” returned his host. “And what does my reckless Milly intend to do with herself?”

“I mean to have a little picnic—all by myself,” said Milly; “that is to say with nobody but me and Aggy Anderson.”

“D’you think that quite safe, so soon after her ducking?” asked Mrs Gordon.

“Quite safe, auntie, for she has not felt a bit the worse for that ducking; indeed, she seems much the better for it, and I am quite sure that hill air is good for her.”

“Oh! then, you mean to have your very select picnic on the hills?” said the laird.

“Yes, but no one shall know to what part we are going, for, as I have said, we mean to have a day of it all to ourselves; only we will take Junkie to protect us, and carry our provisions.”

There were two of the gentlemen who declined the shooting expedition. John Barret said he would start with them, but would at a certain point drop behind and botanise. MacRummle also preferred to make one more effort to catch that grilse which had risen so often to him of late, but was still at large in the big pool under the fall. The result of the morning’s discussion was that only Mabberly and Jackman proceeded to assault the hares on the mountain-top, accompanied by Archie and Eddie, with Ivor Donaldson to guide them.

Up in the nursery—that devastated region which suggested the idea of an hospital for broken furniture and toys—poor little neglected Flo sat down on the floor, and, propping her favourite doll up against the remnant of a drum, asked that sable friend what she would like to do. Receiving no answer, she said, in a cheery, confidential tone, which she had acquired from her mother, “I’ll tell you what, Miss Blackie, you an’ I will go for a picnic too. Zere’s plenty places for you an’ me, as well as for Cuzn Miwy to go to, an’ we will let muzzer go wid us—if she’s dood. So go, like a dood chile’, an’ get your things on.”

As the day was particularly bright and warm, this minor picnic was splendidly carried into effect, in a little coppice close to the house. There Mrs Gordon knitted and sometimes read, and behaved altogether like a particularly “dood chile,” while Flo and Blackie carried on high jinks around her.

The Eagle Cliff was the spot which Milly Moss had fixed on for her select little picnic with the niece of the fisherman. Strange to say, and without the slightest knowledge or suspicion of this fact (so he said), John Barret had selected the very same spot for his botanical ramble. It must be remembered, however, that it was a wide spot.

Seated in a secluded nook, not long after noon, Milly and Aggy, with Junkie, enjoyed the good things which were spread on a mass of flat rock in front of them.

“Now I call this jolly!” said Junkie, as well as he could, with a mass of jam-tart stopping the way.

“It is indeed,” returned Milly; “but I don’t feel quite sure whether you refer to the splendour of the scenery or the goodness of the tart.”

“To both,” returned the boy, inarticulately.

“Do you think you could eat any more?” asked Milly with a grave, earnest look that made Aggy giggle—for Aggy was a facile giggler!

“No, I don’t,” said Junkie. “I’m stuffed!”

“Well, then, you are at leisure to fill the cup again at the spring; so run, like a good boy, and do it.”

“How hard you are on a fellow, Cousin Milly,” grumbled the youngster, rising to do as he was bid; but the expression of his jammy face showed that he was no unwilling slave.

“How old are you, Aggy?” asked Milly when he was gone.

“Sixteen last birthday,” returned the girl.

“Ah! how I wish I was sixteen again!” said Milly, with a profound sigh, as she gazed over the rim of a tartlet she happened to be eating, at the glittering sea and the far-off horizon. She was evidently recalling some very sad and ancient memories.

“Why?” asked her companion, who exhibited a very slight tendency to laugh.

“Because I was so light-hearted and happy at that age.”

“How old are you now, Miss Milly?” asked Aggy, in a tone of increased respect.

“Nineteen,” replied the other with a sigh.

Again Aggy’s pretty round face was rippled by a suppressed giggle, and it is highly probable that she would have given way altogether if Junkie had not returned at the moment and rescued her.

“Here’s the water, Milly. Now, Aggy, have you had enough?”

“Yes, quite enough,” laughed the highly convalescent invalid.

“Well, then, come along wi’ me and I’ll show you the place where Cousin Milly fell down. You needn’t come, Milly. I want to show it to Aggy all by herself, an’ we won’t be long away.”

“Very well, Junkie, as you please. I daresay I shall manage to pass the time pleasantly enough till you return.”

She leant back on a thick heather bush as she spoke, and indulged herself in that most enjoyable and restful of occupations, on a bright warm day, namely, looking straight up into the sunny sky and contemplating the soft fleecy clouds that float there, changing their forms slowly but continually.

Now it so happened that John Barret, in his botanical wanderings about the Eagle Cliff, in quest of the “rare specimens” that Milly loved, discovered Milly herself! This was not such a matter-of-course discovery as the reader may suppose, for the Eagle Cliff occupied a vast space of the mountain-side, among the rugged ramparts and knolls of which several persons might have wandered for hours without much chance of observing each other, unless they were to shout or discharge the echo-disturbing gun.

Whether it was the mysterious attraction or the occult discernment of love that drew him, we cannot tell, but certain it is that when Barret, standing on the upper edge of the cliff, glanced from the eagle—which was watching him suspiciously—downward to the base of the cliff, where the sheep appeared like little buff spots on the green grass, his startled eyes alighted on Milly, lying on her back, contemplating the heavens!

At that distance she might have been a mole or a rabbit, as far as regards Barret’s power to discern her face or figure or occupation went; nevertheless, Barret knew at once that it was she, as his look and colour instantly indicated. There is something in such matters which we cannot understand, and, perhaps, had better not attempt to comprehend. It is sufficient to say that the young man instantly forgot his occupation, and began to descend the cliff by break-neck routes in a way that must have surprised—if not alarmed—the very eagle himself. He even trod some exceedingly rare “specimens” under foot in his haste. In a few minutes he drew near to the spot where Milly lay.

Then he suddenly stopped, for he remembered that she had that morning spoken of her picnic as a very private one; and was it not taking a base, unwarrantable advantage of her, thus to intrude on her privacy? But then—ah! how fatally, if not fortunately, that “but then” often comes in to seal our fate—“fix our flints,” as backwoodsmen are fond of putting it!—but then, was not the opportunity unsought—quite accidental? Would it not be utterly absurd, as well as disingenuous, to pass her and pretend not to see her, with his botanical box full of her own favourite plants and flowers?

Love is proverbially blind. The argument was more than sufficient. He shut his eyes, metaphorically, and rushed upon his fate.

Milly heard him rushing—in reality, walking—and knew his step! Another instance of the amazing—well— She started up in some confusion, just in time to appear as if engaged in viewing with interest the majestic landscape spread out before her. Swooping downwards, and hovering overhead on grand expanded pinions, the eagle seemed to watch with keen interest the result of this meeting.

“Pardon this intrusion, Miss Moss. I really did not know you were in this neighbourhood till a few minutes ago,” said Barret, sitting down on the heather beside her. “I accidentally observed you, and I have been so very fortunate in finding rare plants this morning, that I thought I might venture, just for a few minutes, to interrupt the privacy of your picnic. See, here!” he added, taking off the botanical box and opening it; “just look at all this!”

“It is very kind of you to take so much trouble on my account, Mr Barret,” said Milly, becoming deeply, almost too deeply-interested in the plants. “And, oh, what a splendid specimen of the heliographipod. My dear mother will be so glad to get this, for she is quite as fond of botany as I am.”

“Indeed! Do you expect her soon?”

“Yes; her last letter leads me to expect her very soon now.”

Milly looked up as she said this, but there was an expression on Barret’s face which induced her instantly to recur to scientific research.

Now, good reader, if you think we are going further, and expect us rudely to draw aside the curtain here, and betray confidences, you are mistaken. But there is no reason against—indeed, the development of our story supplies every reason in favour of—our taking note of certain facts which bear indirectly on the subject before us.

Far away on a shoulder of the mountain, which rose on the other side of the valley, lying between it and the Eagle Cliff, a grey speck might have been seen perched on a rock. Even as the crow flies the distance was so great that the unassisted human eye could not have distinguished what it was. It might have been a grey cow, or a grew crow, or a grey rabbit, or a grey excrescence of the rock itself; but a telescope would have revealed the fact that it was Allan Gordon, the laird of Kinlossie!

Serenity was stamped on the old man’s brow, for he was amiable by nature, and he had been rendered more amiable that morning by having had a pleasant chat, while ascending the mountain, with Mabberly and Jackman. The latter he had begun facetiously to style the “Woods and Forester.” The shooting party had left him there, according to previous arrangement, and the old gentleman had seated himself on the grey rock to rest and commune with nature for a short time, before beginning the descent of the steep mountain path, and wending his way homeward.

From his commanding point of observation the entire range of the Eagle Cliff lay spread out before him, with the sea visible on the extreme of either hand. The great valley lay between, with impassable gulfs and gorges caused by its wild torrents, and its level patches, strewn with the fallen débris of ages, out of which the larger masses of rock rose like islands in a grey ocean; but these huge masses became almost insignificant, owing to the overpowering impression of the cliff itself. For some time the laird gazed at it in silent admiration. Presently a smile beamed on his countenance.

“Ha! my puss, is that you?” he muttered, as he took a binocular telescope from his pocket and adjusted it. “I guessed as much. The Eagle Cliff has powerful attractions for you, what with its grandeur and the ‘rare plants’ you are so mad about. I think it is you, though at such a distance I might easily mistake a sheep or a deer for you—and, after all, that would be no mistake, for you are a dear!”

He did not condescend to smile at his own mild little joke, as he applied the telescope to his eyes.

“Yes, I’m right—and very comfortable you seem too, though I can’t make out your party. Both Aggy and Junkie seem to have left you. Perhaps the rocks may hide them. It’s so far off that—hallo!”

A sudden frown clouded the laird’s face as he gave vent to that hallo.

“The rascal!” he muttered between his compressed lips. “He heard at breakfast, as well as the rest of us, that Milly wanted no intruders. Humph! I had given him credit for better taste than this implies. Eh! come, sir, this is quite inexcusable!”

The laird became excited as he continued to gaze, and his indignation deepened as he hastily wiped the glasses of the binocular. Applying them again to his eyes, his frown became still darker.

“For shame, you young scamp!” he continued to mutter, “taking advantage of your contemptible botany to bring your two heads together in a way that Milly would never have permitted but for that ridiculous science. Ha! they’ve let the whole concern fall—serves ’em right—and—no! dropped it on purpose. What! Do you dare to grip my niece’s hand, and—and—she lets you! Eh! your arm round— Stop!” shouted the wrathful man, springing up and almost hurling his binocular at the unconscious pair. But his shout, although fifty times louder, would have failed to cross the valley. Like his anger, it was unavailing. Thrusting the glass into its case with a bang, he strode down the mountain-side in rampant fury, leaving the solemn eagle to watch the lovers as they plighted their troth under the mighty cliff. Happily they brought the momentous transaction to a close just before Junkie and the highly convalescent Aggy Anderson re-appeared upon the scene.

That afternoon, before dinner, John Barret asked Mr Gordon to accord him the pleasure of a private interview in the library.

“Certainly, sir,” said the laird sternly; “and all the more that I had very much desired some private conversation with you.”

Barret was not a little surprised at the old man’s tone and manner, but took no notice of it, and went alone with him into the library, where he made a full and frank confession of his love for Milly, and of his having proposed to her and been accepted—on condition that her mother did not object.

“And now, Mr Gordon,” added the youth, earnestly, “I have come to apologise to you, to ask your forgiveness, in fact, and to express my extreme regret at the precipitancy of my conduct. It had been my full intention, I do assure you, to wait until I had Mrs Moss’ sanction to pay my addresses to her daughter, but a—a—sudden opportunity, which I had not sought for or expected—for, of course, I knew nothing of the place where the picnic was to be—this—this—opportunity, I say, took me by surprise, and threw me off my guard—and—and—in short, love— Oh! you know well enough the power of love, Mr Gordon, and can make allowance for my acting precipitately!”

The old gentleman was touched on a tenderer spot than the young man was aware of when he made this appeal to his own experience, for, in days gone by, young Allan Gordon had himself acted precipitately.

But, although the appeal had touched him, he did not allow the fact to be seen, nor did he interrupt the youth’s confession.

“Observe, Mr Gordon,” continued Barret, drawing himself up slightly, “the only wrong-doing for which I ask pardon is undue haste. My position, financially and otherwise, entitles me to marry, and darling Milly has a right to accept whom she will. If it be thought that she is too young and does not know her own mind, I am willing to wait. If she were to change her mind in the meantime, I would accept the inevitable—but I have no fear of that!”

The laird’s features had been relaxing while the enthusiastic youth proceeded, but the last speech upset his gravity altogether.

“Well, well, Barret,” he said, “since you have condemned yourself for acting hastily, it would ill become your host to overwhelm you with reproaches, and to say truth, after what you have said, I hope that the course of true love will in your case run smooth. But, my young friend,” he added, in more serious tones, “I must strictly forbid any further reference to this with Milly, till her mother comes. She is under my care and, being responsible for her, I must see that nothing further takes place till I am able to hand her, and all her affairs, over to her mother. I will explain this to Milly, and give her to understand that you will behave to her in all respects as you did before the occurrence of this unfortunate picnic. Meanwhile it may comfort you to know that her mother is already predisposed in your favour—naturally too, for she would be ungrateful, as well as eccentric, if she had no regard for the man who has twice saved her child’s life. Ah! there goes the dinner-bell, and I’m glad of it, for prolonged speaking fatigues me. Come along.”