Chapter IV: Part 4

Accordingly, the poor lady threw on her bonnet and shawl and set off with George for the cottage, leaving Mrs Brown, now relieved from all anxiety, kicking and screaming violently on the sofa, to the great alarm of Hobbs, who just then returned from his fruitless search.

"My son, my darling!" cried Mrs Sudberry, as she rushed into the cottage, and clasped Jacky in her arms. She could say no more, and if she had said more it could not have been heard, for her appearance created dire confusion and turmoil in the hovel. The lost and found wanderers started up to welcome her, the little dog sprang up to bark furiously and repel her, and the old woman ran at her, screaming, with intent to rescue Jacky from her grasp. There was a regular scuffle, for the old woman was strong in her rage, but George and Fred held her firmly, though tenderly, back, while Mr Sudberry hurried his alarmed spouse and their child out of the hut, and made for home as fast as possible. Lucy followed with George almost immediately after, leaving Fred to do his best to calm and comfort the old woman. For his humane efforts Fred received a severe scratching on the face, and was compelled to seek refuge in flight.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 13.

VISITING THE POOR.

For some time after this the Sudberry Family were particularly careful not to wander too far from their mountain home. Mr Sudberry forbade everyone, on pain of his utmost displeasure, to venture up among the hills without McAllister or one of his lads as a guide. As a further precaution, he wrote for six pocket compasses to be forwarded as soon as possible.

"My dear," said his wife, "since you are writing home, you may as well--"

"My dear, I am not writing--"

"You're writing to London for compasses, are you not?"

"No," said Mr Sudberry with a smile. "I believe they understand how to manufacture the mariner's compass in Scotland--I am writing to my Edinburgh agent for them."

"Oh! ah well, it did not occur to me. Now you mention it, I think I have heard that the Scotch have sort of scientific tendencies."

"Yes, they are `feelosophically' inclined, as our friend McAllister would say. But what did you want, my love?"

"I want a hobby-horse to be sent to us for Jacky; but it will be of no use writing to Edinburgh for one. I suppose they do not use such things in a country where there are so few real horses, and so few roads fit for a horse to walk on."

Mr Sudberry made no reply, not wishing to incur the expense of such a useless piece of furniture, and his wife continued her needlework with a sigh. From the bottom of her large heart she pitied the Scottish nation, and wondered whether there was the remotest hope of the place ever being properly colonised by the English, and the condition of the aborigines ameliorated.

"Mamma, I'm going with Flora Macdonald to visit her poor people," said Lucy, entering at the moment with a flushed face,--for Lucy was addicted to running when in a hurry,--and with a coquettish little round straw hat.

"Very well, my love, but do take that good-natured man to guide you--Mr What's-his-name, I've _such_ a memory! Ah! McCannister; do take him with you, dear."

"There is no need, mamma. Nearly all the cottages lie along the road-side, and Flora is quite at home here, you know."

"True, true, I forgot that."

Mrs Sudberry sighed and Lucy laughed gaily as she ran down the hill to meet her friend. The first cottage they visited was a little rough thatched one with a low roof; one door, and two little windows, in which latter there were four small panes of glass, with a knot in each. The interior was similar to that of old Moggy's hut, but there was more furniture in it, and the whole was pervaded by an air of neatness and cleanliness that spoke volumes for its owner.

"This is Mrs Cameron's cottage," whispered Flora as they entered. "She was knocked over by a horse while returning from church last Sunday, and I fear has been badly shaken.--Well, Mrs Cameron, how are you to-day?"

A mild little voice issued from a box-bed in a corner of the room. "Thankee, mem, I'm no that ill, mem. The Lord is verra kind to me."-- There was a mild sadness in the tone, a sort of "the world's in an awfu' state,--but no doot it's a' for the best, an' I'm resigned to my lot, though I wadna objec' to its being a wee thing better, oo-ay,"--feeling in it, which told of much sorrow in years gone by, and of deep humility, for there was not a shade of complaint in the tone.

"Has the doctor been to see you, my dear granny?" inquired Flora, sitting down at the side of the box-bed, while Lucy seated herself on a stool and tried to pierce the gloom within.

"Oo, ay, he cam' an' pood aff ma mutch, an' feel'd ma heed a' over, but he said nothin'--only to lie quiet an' tak a pickle water-gruel, oo-ay."

As the voice said this its owner raised herself on one elbow, and, peering out with a pair of bright eyes, displayed to her visitor the small, withered, yet healthy countenance of one who must have been a beautiful girl in her youth. She was now upwards of seventy, and was, as Lucy afterwards said, "a sweet, charming, dear old woman." Her features were extremely small and delicate, and her eyes had an anxious look, as if she were in the habit of receiving periodical shocks of grief, and were wondering what shape the next one would take.

"I have brought you a bottle of wine," said Flora; "now don't shake your head--you _must_ take it; you cannot get well on gruel. Your daughter is at our house just now: I shall meet her on my way home, and will tell her to insist on your taking it."

The old woman smiled, and looked at Lucy.

"This is a friend whom I have brought to see you," said Flora, observing the glance. The old woman held out her hand, and Lucy pressed it tenderly. "She has come all the way from London to see our mountains, granny."

"Ay?" said the old woman with a kind motherly smile: "it's a lang way to Lunnon, a lang way, ay. Ye'll be thinkin' we're a wild kind o' folk here-away; somewhat uncouth we are, no doot."

"Indeed, I think you are very nice people," said Lucy, earnestly. "I had no idea how charming your country was, until I came to it."

"Oo-ay! we can only get ideas by seein' or readin'. It's a grawnd thing, travellin', but it's wonderfu' what readin' 'll do. My guid-man, that's deed this therteen year,--ay,--come Marti'mas, he wrought in Lunnon for a year before we was marrit, an' he sent me the newspapers reglar once a month--ay, the English is fine folk. My guid-man aye said that."

Lucy expressed much interest in this visit of the departed guid-man, and, having touched a chord which was extremely sensitive and not easily put to rest after having been made to vibrate, old Mrs Cameron entertained her with a sweet and prolix account of the last illness, death, and burial of the said guid-man, with the tears swelling up in her bright old eyes and hopping over her wrinkled cheeks, until Flora forbade her to say another word, reminding her of the doctor's orders to keep quiet.

"Oo-ay, ye'll be gawin' to read me a bit o' the book?"

"I thought you would ask that; what shall it be?"

"Oo, ye canna go wrang."

Flora opened the Bible, and, selecting a passage, read it in a slow, clear tone, while the old woman lay back and listened with her eyes upturned and her hands clasped.

"Isn't it grawnd?" said she, appealing to Lucy with a burst of feeling, when Flora had concluded.

Lucy was somewhat taken aback by this enthusiastic display of love for the Bible, and felt somewhat embarrassed for an appropriate answer; but Flora came to her rescue:

"I have brought you a book, granny; it will amuse you when you are able to get up and read. There now, no thanks--you positively _must_ lie down and try to sleep. I see your cheek is flushed with all this talking. Good-day, granny!"

"The next whom we will visit is a very different character," said Flora, as they walked briskly along the road that followed the windings of the river; "he dwells half a mile off."

"Then you will have time to tell me about old Moggy," said Lucy. "You have not yet fulfilled your promise to tell me the secret connected with her, and I am burning with impatience to know it."

"Of course you are; every girl of your age is set on fire by a secret. I have a mind to keep you turning a little longer."

"And pray, grandmamma," said Lucy, with an expressive twinkle in her eyes, "at what period of your prolonged life did you come to form such a just estimate of character in girls of _my_ age?"

"I'll answer that question another time," said Flora; "meanwhile, I will relent and tell you about old Moggy. But, after all, there is not much to tell, and there is no secret connected with her, although there is a little mystery."

"No secret, yet a mystery! a distinction without a difference, it seems to me."

"Perhaps it is. You shall hear:--

"When a middle-aged woman, Moggy was housekeeper to Mr Hamilton, a landed proprietor in this neighbourhood. Mr Hamilton's gardener fell in love with Moggy; they married, and, returning to this their native hamlet, settled down in the small hut which the old woman still occupies. They had one daughter, named Mary, after Mr Hamilton's sister. When Mary was ten years old her father died of fever, and soon afterwards Moggy was taken again into Mr Hamilton's household in her old capacity; for his sister was an invalid, and quite unfit to manage his house. In the course of time little Mary became a woman and married a farmer at a considerable distance from this neighbourhood. They had one child, a beautiful fair-haired little fellow. On the very day that he was born his father was killed by a kick from a horse. The shock to the poor mother was so great, that she sank under it and died. Thus the little infant was left entirely to the care of his grandmother. He was named Willie, after his father.

"Death seemed to cast his shadow over poor Moggy's path all her life through. Shortly after this event Mr Hamilton died suddenly. This was a great blow to the housekeeper, for she was much attached to her old master, who had allowed her to keep her little grandson beside her under his roof. The sister survived her brother about five years. After her death the housekeeper returned to her old hut, where she has ever since lived on the interest of a small legacy left her by her old master. Little Willie, or wee Wullie, as she used to call him, was the light of old Moggy's eyes, and the joy of her heart. She idolised and would have spoiled him, had that been possible; but the child was of a naturally sweet disposition, and would not spoil. He was extremely amiable and gentle, yet bold as a young lion, and full of fun. I do not wonder that poor old Moggy was both proud and fond of him in an extraordinary degree. The blow of his removal well-nigh withered her up, body and soul--"

"He died?" said Lucy, looking up at Flora with tearful eyes.

"No, he did not: perhaps it would have been better if the poor child _had_ died; you shall hear. When Willie was six years old a gang of gypsies passed through this hamlet, and, taking up their abode on the common, remained for some time. They were a wild, dangerous set, and became such a nuisance that the inhabitants at last took the law into their own hands, and drove them away. Just before this occurred little Willie disappeared. Search was made for him everywhere, but in vain. The gypsies were suspected, and their huts examined. Suspicion fell chiefly on one man, a stout ill-favoured fellow, with an ugly squint and a broken nose; but nothing could be proved either against him or the others, except that, at the time of the child's disappearance, this man was absent from the camp. From that day to this, dear little Willie has never been heard of.

"At first, the poor old grandmother went about almost mad with despair and anxiety, but, as years passed by, she settled down into the moping old creature you have seen her. It is five years since that event. Willie will be eleven years old now, if alive; but, alas! I fear he must be dead."

"What a sad, sad tale!" said Lucy. "I suppose it must be because our Jacky is about the age that Willie was when he was stolen, that the poor woman has evinced such a fondness for him."

"Possibly; and, now I think of it, there is a good deal of resemblance between the two, especially about the hair and eyes, though Willie was much more beautiful. You have noticed, no doubt, that Moggy wears a clean plaid--"

"Oh, yes," interrupted Lucy; "I have observed that."

"That was the plaid that Willie used to wear in winter. His grandmother spends much of her time in washing it; she takes great pains to keep it clean. The only mystery about the old woman is the old chest in one corner of her hut. She keeps it jealously locked, and no one has ever found out what is in it, although the inquisitive folk of the place are very anxious to know. But it does not require a wizard to tell that. Doubtless it contains the clothing and toys of her grandson. Poor old Moggy!"

"I can enlighten you on that point," said Lucy, eagerly opening the lid of a small basket which hung on her arm, and displaying the small suit of Highland clothing in which Jacky had been conveyed home on the night when the Sudberrys were lost on the hills. "This suit came out of the large chest; and as I knew you meant to visit Moggy to-day, I brought it with me."

The two friends reached the door of a small cottage as Lucy said this, and tapped.

"Come in!" gruffly said a man's voice. This was one of Flora's difficult cases. The man was bed-ridden, and was nursed by a grand-daughter. He was quite willing to accept comfort from Flora, especially when it took the shape of food and medicine; but he would not listen to the Bible. Flora knew that he liked her visits, however; so, with prayers in her heart and the Bible in her hand, she persevered hopefully, yet with such delicacy that the gruff old man became gruffer daily, as his conscience began to reprove him for his gruffness.

Thus, from hut to hut she went, with love to mankind in her heart and the name of Jesus on her lip; sometimes received with smiles and sent away with blessings, occasionally greeted with a cold look, and allowed to depart with a frigid "good-day!"

Lucy had often wished for some such work as this at home, but had not yet found courage to begin. She was deeply sympathetic and observant. Old Moggy was the last they visited that day. Flora was the only female she would tolerate.

"I've been tryin' to say't a' night an' I _canna_ do't!" she said stoutly, as the ladies entered.

"You forget the words, perhaps, dear Moggy--`The Lord gave, and the Lord hath--'"

"Na, na, I dinna forget them, but I _canna_ say them." So Flora sat down on a stool, and gently sought, by means of the Bible, to teach the old woman one of the most difficult lessons that poor human nature has got to learn in this world of mingled happiness and woe.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 14.

A SURPRISE AND A BATTLE.

"Here! halloo! hi! Hobbs! I say," shouted Mr Sudberry, running out at the front door, after having swept Lucy's work-box off the table and trodden on the cat's tail. "Where has that fellow gone to? He's always out of the way. Halloo!" (looking up at the nursery window), "Mrs Brown!"

Mrs Brown, being deeply impressed with the importance of learning, (just because of Mrs Sudberry's contempt thereof), was busily engaged at that moment in teaching Miss Tilly and Master Jacky a piece of very profound knowledge.

"Now, Miss Tilly, what is the meaning of procrastination?" ("Ho! hi! halloo-o-o-o," from Mr Sudberry; but Mrs Brown, supposing the shout is meant for any one but herself; takes no notice of it.)

_Tilly_.--"Doing to-day what you might have put off till to-morrow." ("Halloo! ho! don't you hear? hi!" from below.)

_Mrs Brown_.--"No, you little goose! What is it, Jacky?"

_Jacky_.--"Doing to-morrow what you might have put off till to-day." ("Hi! halloo! are you deaf up there?")

_Mrs Brown_.--"Worse and worse, stupid little goose!"

_Jacky_, (indignantly).--"Well, then, if it's neither one thing nor t'other, just let's hear what _you_ make it out to be--" ("Hi! ho! halloo! Mrs Bra-a-own!")

"Bless me, I think papa is calling on me. Yes, sir. Was you calling, sir?" (throwing up the window and looking out.)

"Calling! no; I wasn't `calling.' I was shrieking, howling, yelling. Is Hobbs there?"

"No, sir; 'Obbs is not 'ere, sir."

"Well, then, be so good as to go and look for him, and say I want him directly to go for the letters."

"'Ere I am, sir," said Hobbs, coming suddenly round the corner of the house, with an appearance of extreme haste.

Hobbs had, in fact, been within hearing of his master, having been, during the last half-hour, seated in McAllister's kitchen, where the uproarious merriment had drowned all other sounds. Hobbs had become a great favourite with the Highland family, owing to his hearty good humour and ready power of repartee. The sharp Cockney, with the easy-going effrontery peculiar to his race, attempted to amuse the household--namely, Mrs McAllister, Dan, Hugh, and two good-looking and sturdy-limbed servant-girls--by measuring wits with the "canny Scot," as he called the farmer. He soon found, however, that he had caught a Tartar. The good-natured Highlander met his raillery with what we may call a smile of grave simplicity, and led him slyly into committing himself in such a way that even the untutored servants could see how far the man was behind their master in general knowledge; but Hobbs took refuge in smart reply, confident assertion, extreme volubility, and the use of hard words, so that it sometimes seemed to the domestics as if he really had some considerable power in argument. Worthy Mrs McAllister never joined in the debate, except by a single remark now and then. She knew her son thoroughly, and before the Sudberrys had been a week at the White House she understood Hobbs through and through.

She was wont to sit at her spinning-wheel regarding this intellectual sparring with grave interest, as a peculiar phase of the human mind. A very sharp encounter had created more laughter than usual at the time when Mr Sudberry halloed for his man-servant.

"You must be getting deaf; Hobbs, I fear," said the master, at once pacified by the man's arrival; "go down and fetch--"

"Pray do not send him away just now," cried Mrs Sudberry: "I have something particular for him to do. Can you go down yourself, dear?"

The good man sighed. "Well, I will go," and accordingly away he went.

"Stay, my dear."

"Well."

"I expect one or two small parcels by the coach this morning; mind you ask for 'em and bring 'em up."

"Ay, ay!" and Mr Sudberry, with his hands in his pockets, and his wideawake thrust back and very much on one side of his head, sauntered down the hill towards the road.

One of the disadvantageous points about the White House was its distance from any town or market. The nearest shop was four miles off, so that bread, butter, meat, and groceries, had to be ordered a couple of days beforehand, and were conveyed to their destination by the mail-coach. Even after they were deposited at the gate of Mr McAllister's farm, there was still about half a mile of rugged cart-road to be got over before they could be finally deposited in the White House. This was a matter of constant anxiety to Mr Sudberry, because it was necessary that someone should be at the gate regularly to receive letters and parcels, and this involved constant attention to the time of the mail passing. When no one was there, the coachman left the property of the family at the side of the road. Hobbs, however, was usually up to time, fair weather and foul, and this was the first time his master had been called on to go for the letters.

Walking down the road, Mr Sudberry whistled an extremely operatic air, in the contentment of his heart, and glanced from side to side, with a feeling amounting almost to affection, at the various objects which had now become quite familiar to him, and with many of which he had interesting associations.

There was the miniature hut, on the roof of which he usually laid his rod on returning from a day's fishing. There was the rude stone bridge over the burn, on the low parapet of which he and the family were wont to sit on fine evenings, and commune of fishing, and boating, and climbing, and wonder whether it would be possible ever again to return to the humdrum life of London. There was the pool in the same burn over which one day he, reckless man, had essayed to leap, and into which he had tumbled, when in eager pursuit of Jacky. A little below this was the pool into which the said Jacky had rushed in wild desperation on finding that his father was too fleet for him. Passing through a five-barred gate into the next field, he skirted the base of a high, precipitous crag, on which grew a thicket of dwarf-trees and shrubs, and at the foot of which the burn warbled. Here, on his left, stood the briar bush out of which had _whirred_ the first live grouse he ever set eyes on. It was at this bird, that, in the madness of his excitement, he had flung first his stick, then his hat, and lastly his shout of disappointment and defiance. A little further on was that other bush out of which he had started so many grouse that he now never approached it without a stone in each hand, his eyes and nostrils dilated, and his breath restrained. He never by any chance on these occasions sent his artillery within six yards of the game; but once, when he approached the bush in a profound reverie, and without the usual preparation, he actually saw a bird crouching in the middle of it! To seize a large stone and hit the ground at least forty yards beyond the bush was the work of a moment. Up got the bird with a tremendous whizz! He flung his stick wildly, and, hitting it, (by chance), fair on the head, brought it down. To rush at it, fall on it, crush it almost flat, and rise up slowly holding it very tight, was the result of this successful piece of poaching. Another result was a charming addition to a dinner a few days afterwards.

At all these objects Mr Sudberry gazed benignantly as he sauntered along in the sunshine, indulging in sweet memories of the recent past, and whistling operatically.

The high-road gained, he climbed upon the gate, seated himself upon the top bar to await the passing of the mail, and began to indulge in a magnificent air, the florid character of which he rendered much more effective than the composer had intended by the introduction of innumerable flourishes of his own.

It was while thus engaged, and in the middle of a tremendous shake, that Mr Sudberry suddenly became aware of the presence of a man not more than twenty yards distant. He was lying down on the embankment beside the road, and his ragged dress of muddy-brown corduroy so resembled the broken ground, on which he lay that he was not a very distinct object, even when looked at point-blank. Certainly Mr Sudberry thought him an extremely disagreeable object as he ended in an ineffective quaver and with a deep blush; for that man must be more than human, who, when caught in the act of attempting to perpetrate an amateur concert in all its parts, does not _feel_ keenly.

Being of a sociable disposition, Mr Sudberry was about to address this ill-favoured beggar--for such he evidently was--when the coach came round a distant bend in the road at full gallop. It was the ordinary tall, top-heavy mail of the first part of the nineteenth century. Being a poor district, there were only two horses, a white and a black; but the driver wore a stylish red coat, and cracked his whip smartly. The road being all down hill at that part, the coach came on at a spanking pace, and pulled up with a crash.

The beggar turned his face to the ground, and pretended to be asleep.

Mr Sudberry noticed this; but, being interested in his own affairs, soon forgot the circumstance.

"Got any letters for me to-day, my man?"

Oh, yes, he has letters and newspapers too. Mr Sudberry mutters to himself as they are handed down, "Capital!--ha!--business; hum!-- private; ho!--compasses; good! Any more?"

There are no more; but there is a parcel or two. The coachman gets down and opens the door of the box behind. The insides peep out, and the outsides look down with interest. A great many large and heavy things are pulled out and laid on the road.

Mr Sudberry remarks that it would have been "wiser to have stowed _his_ parcels in front."

The coachman observes that _these_ are _his_ parcels, shuts the door, mounts the box, and drives away, with the outsides grinning and the insides stretching their heads out, leaving Mr Sudberry transfixed and staring.

"`One or two small parcels,'" murmured the good man, recalling his wife's words; "`and mind you bring 'em up.' One salmon, two legs of mutton, one ham, three dozen of beer, a cask of--of--something or other, and a bag of--of--ditto, (groceries, I suppose), `and mind you bring 'em up!' How! `_that_ is the question!'" cried Mr Sudberry, quoting Hamlet, in desperation.

Suddenly he recollected the beggar-man. "Halloo! friend; come hither."

The man rose slowly, and rising did not improve his appearance. He was rather tall, shaggy, loose-jointed, long-armed, broad-shouldered, and he squinted awfully. His nose was broken, and his dark colour bespoke him a gypsy.

"Can you help me up to yonder house with these things, my man?"

"No," said the man, gruffly, "I'm footsore with travellin', but I'll watch them here while you go up for help."

"Oh! ahem!" said Mr Sudberry, with peculiar emphasis; "you seem a stout fellow, and might find more difficult ways of earning half a crown. However, I'll give you that sum if you go up and tell them to send down a barrow."

"I'll wait here," replied the man, with a sarcastic grin, limping back to his former seat on the bank.

"Oh! very well, and I will wait _here_," said Mr Sudberry, seating himself on a large stone, and pulling out his letters.

Seeing this, the gypsy got up again, and looked cautiously along the road, first to the right and then to the left. No human being was in sight. Mr Sudberry observed the act, and felt uncomfortable.

"You'd better go for help, sir," said the man, coming forward.

"Thank you, I'd rather wait for it."

"This seems a handy sort of thing to carry," said the gypsy, taking up the sack that looked like groceries, and throwing it across his shoulder. "I'll save you the trouble of taking this one up, anyhow."

He went off at once at a sharp walk, and with no symptom either of lameness or exhaustion. Mr Sudberry was after him in a moment. The man turned round and faced him.

"Put that where you took it from!" thundered Mr Sudberry.

"Oh! you're going to resist."

The gypsy uttered an oath, and ran at Mr Sudberry, intending to overwhelm him with one blow, and rob him on the spot. The big blockhead little knew his man. He did not know that the little Englishman was a man of iron frame; he only regarded him as a fiery little gentleman. Still less did he know that Mr Sudberry had in his youth been an expert boxer, and that he had even had the honour of being knocked flat on his back more than once by _professional_ gentlemen--in an amicable way, of course--at four and sixpence a lesson. He knew nothing of all this, so he rushed blindly on his fate, and met it--that is to say, he met Mr Sudberry's left fist with the bridge of his nose, and his right with the pit of his stomach; the surprising result of which was that the gypsy staggered back against the wall.

But the man was not a coward, whatever other bad qualities he might have been possessed of. Recovering in a moment, he rushed upon his little antagonist, and sent in two sledge-hammer blows with such violence that nothing but the Englishman's activity could have saved him from instant defeat. He ducked to the first, parried the second, and returned with such prompt good-will on the gypsy's right eye, that he was again sent staggering back against the wall; from which point of observation he stared straight before him, and beheld Mr Sudberry in the wildness of his excitement, performing a species of Cherokee war-dance in the middle of the road. Nothing daunted, however, the man was about to renew his assault, when George and Fred, all ignorant of what was going on, came round a turn of the road, on their way to see what was detaining their father with the letters.

"Why, that's father!" cried Fred.

"Fighting!" yelled George.

They were off at full speed in a moment. The gypsy gave but one glance, vaulted the wall, and dived into the underwood that lined the banks of the river. He followed the stream a few hundred yards, doubled at right angles on his course, and in ten minutes more was seen crossing over a shoulder of the hill, like a mountain hare.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 15.

A DREAM AND A BALL.

That evening Mr Sudberry, having spent the day in a somewhat excited state--having swept everything around him, wherever he moved, with his coat-tails, as with the besom of destruction--having despatched a note to the nearest constabulary station, and having examined the bolts and fastenings of the windows of the White House--sat down after supper to read the newspaper, and fell fast asleep, with his head hanging over the back of his chair, his nose turned up to the ceiling, and his mouth wide open. His loving family--minus Tilly and Jacky, who were abed-- encircled the table, variously employed; and George stood at his elbow, fastening up a pair of bookshelves of primitive construction, coupled together by means of green cord.

While thus domestically employed, they heard a loud, steady thumping outside. The Sudberrys were well acquainted by this time with that sound and its cause. At first it had filled Mrs Sudberry with great alarm, raising in her feeble mind horrible reminiscences of tales of burglary and midnight murder. After suffering inconceivable torments of apprehension for two nights, the good lady could stand it no longer, and insisted on her husband going out to see what it could be. As the sound appeared to come from the cottage, or off-shoot from the White House, in which the McAllisters lived, he naturally went there, and discovered that the noise was caused by the stoutest of the two servant-girls. This sturdy lass, whose costume displayed a pair of enormous ankles to advantage, and exhibited a pair of arms that might have made a prize-fighter envious, was standing in the middle of the floor, with a large iron pot before her and a thick wooden pin in her hands, with the end of which she was, according to her own statement, "champin' tatties."

Mrs McAllister, her son, Hugh and Dan, and the other servant-girl, were seated round the walls of the room, watching the process with deep interest, for their supper was in that pot. The nine dogs were also seated round the room, watching the process with melancholy interest; for their supper was _not_ in that pot, and they knew it, and wished it was.

"My dear," said Mr Sudberry, on returning to the parlour, "they are `champing tatties.'"

"What?"

"`Champing tatties,' in other words, mashing potatoes, which it would seem, with milk, constitute the supper of the family."

Thus was Mrs Sudberry's mind relieved, and from that night forward no further notice was taken of the sound.

But on the present occasion the champing of the tatties had an unwonted effect on Mr Sudberry. It caused him to dream, and his dreams naturally took a pugilistic turn. His breathing became quick and short; his face began to twitch; and Lucy suggested that it would be as well to "awake papa," when papa suddenly awaked himself; and hit George a tremendous blow on the shoulder.

"Hallo! father," cried George remonstratively, rubbing the assaulted limb; "really, you know, if you come it in this way often, you will alienate my affections, I fear."

"My dear boy!--what?--where? Why, I was dreaming!"

Of course he was, and the result of his dream was that everybody in the room started up in surprise and excitement. Thereafter they sat down in a gay and very talkative humour. Soon afterwards a curious squeaking was heard in the adjoining cottage, and another thumping sound began, which was to the full as unremitting as, and much more violent than, that caused by "champin' tatties." The McAllister household, having supped, were regaling themselves with a dance.

"What say to a dance with them?" said George.

"Oh!" cried Lucy, leaping up.

"Capital!" shouted Mr Sudberry, clapping his hands.

A message was sent in. The reply was, "heartily welcome!" and in two minutes Mr Sudberry and stout servant-girl Number 1, George and stout girl Number 2, Hugh and Lucy, Dan and Hobbs, (the latter consenting to act as girl Number 3), were dancing the Reel o' Tullochgorum like maniacs, to the inspiring strains of McAllister's violin, while Peter sat in a corner in constant dread of being accidentally sat down upon. Fred, in another corner, looked on, laughed, and was caressed furiously by the nine dogs. Mrs Sudberry talked philosophy in the window, with grave, earnest Mrs McAllister, whose placid equanimity was never disturbed, but flowed on, broad and deep, like a mighty river, and whose interest in all things, small and great, seemed never to flag for a moment.

The room in which all this was going on was of the plainest possible description. It was the hall, the parlour, the dining-room, the drawing-room, and the library of the McAllister Family. Earth was the floor, white-washed and uneven were the walls, non-existent was the ceiling, and black with peat-smoke were the rafters. There was a dresser, clean and white, and over it a rack of plates and dishes. There was a fire-place--a huge yawning gulf; with a roaring fire, (for culinary purposes only, being summer),--and beside it a massive iron gallows, on which to hang the family pot. Said pot was a caldron; so big was it that there was a species of winch and a chain for raising and lowering it over the fire; in fact, a complicated sort of machinery, mysterious and soot-begrimed, towered into the dark depths of the ample chimney. There was a brown cupboard in one corner, and an apoplectic eight-day clock in another. A small bookshelf supported the family Bible and several ancient and much-worn volumes. Wooden benches were ranged round the walls; and clumsy chairs and tables, with various pails, buckets, luggies, troughs, and indescribable articles, completed the furniture of the picturesque and cosy apartment. The candle that lighted the whole was supported by a tall wooden candlestick, whose foot rested on the ground, and whose body, by a simple but clumsy contrivance, could be lengthened or shortened at pleasure, from about three to five feet.

But besides all this, there was a world of _materiel_ disposed on the black rafters above--old farm implements, broken furniture, an old musket, an old claymore, a broken spinning-wheel, etcetera, all of which were piled up and so mingled with the darkness of the vault above, that imagination might have deemed the spot a general rendezvous for the aged and the maimed of "still life."

Fast and furious was the dancing that night. Native animal spirits did it all. No artificial stimulants were there. "Tatties and mulk" were at the bottom of the whole affair. The encounter of that forenoon seemed to have had the effect of recalling the spirit of his youth to Mr Sudberry, and his effervescing joviality gave tone to all the rest.

"Now, Fred, you must take my place," said he, throwing himself in an exhausted condition on a "settle."

"But perhaps your partner may want a rest?" suggested Fred.

Lass Number 1 scorned the idea: so Fred began.

"Are your fingers not tired?" asked Mr Sudberry, wiping his bald forehead, which glistened as if it had been anointed with oil.

"Not yet," said McAllister quietly.

Not yet! If the worthy Highlander had played straight on all night and half the next day, he would have returned the same answer to the same question.

"You spend a jolly life of it here," said Mr Sudberry to Mrs McAllister.

"Ay, a pleasant life, no doot; but we're not _always_ fiddling and dancing."

"True, but the variety of herding the cattle on these splendid hills is charming."

"So it is," assented Mrs McAllister; "we've reason to be contented with our lot. Maybe ye would grow tired of it, however, if ye was always here. I'm told that the gentry whiles grow tired of their braw rooms, and take to plowterin' aboot the hills and burns for change. Sometimes they even dance wi' the servants in a Highland cottage!"

"Ha! you have me there," cried Mr Sudberry, laughing.

"Let me sit down, pa, pray do!" cried Lucy. Her father rose quickly, and Lucy dropped into his place quite exhausted.

"Come, father, relieve me!" cried Fred. "I'm done up, and my partner _won't_ give in."

To say truth, it seemed as if the said partner, (stout lass Number 1), never would give in at all. From the time that the Sudberrys entered she had not ceased to dance reel after reel, without a minute of breathing-time. Her countenance was like the sun in a fog; her limbs moved as deftly and untiringly, after having tired out father and son, as they did when she began the evening; and she now went on, with a quiet smile on her face, evidently resolved to show their English guests the nature of female Highland metal.

In the midst of all this the dogs suddenly became restive, and began to growl. Soon after, a knock came to the door, and the dogs rushed at it, barking violently. Mr McAllister went out, and found that a company of wandering beggars had arrived, and prayed to be allowed to sleep in the barn. Unfortunate it was for them that they came so soon after Mr Sudberry's unpleasant rencounter with one of their fraternity. The good man of the house, although naturally humane and hospitable to such poor wanderers, was on the present occasion embittered against them; so he ordered them off.

This incident brought the evening to an abrupt termination, as it was incumbent on the farmer to see the intruders safely off his premises. So the Sudberrys returned, in a state of great delight, excitement, and physical warmth, to their own parlour.

The only other fact worth recording in regard to this event is, that the Sudberrys were two hours late for breakfast next morning!

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 16.

THE EFFECTS OF COMPASSES.

The first few weeks of the Sudberrys' residence in their Highland home were of an April cast--alternate sunshine and shower. Sometimes they had a day of beaming light from morning till night; at other times they had a day of unmitigated rain, or, as Mr Sudberry called it, "a day of cats and dogs;" and occasionally they had a day which embraced within its own circuit both conditions of weather--glorious bursts of sunshine alternating with sudden plumps of rain.

Thus far the weather justified and strengthened the diverse opinions of both husband and wife.

"Did I not tell you, my love, that the climate was charming?" was Mr Sudberry's triumphant remark when a dazzling blaze of light would roll over flood and fell, and chase the clouds away.

"There, didn't I say so?" was the withering rejoinder of Mrs Sudberry, when a black cloud rolled over the sky and darkened the landscape as with a wipe of ink.

Hitherto victory leaned decidedly to neither side, the smile of triumph and the humbled aspect of defeat rested alternate on either countenance, so that both faces taken together formed a sort of contradictory human barometer, which was not a bad one--at all events it was infinitely superior to that instrument of the banjo type, which Mr Sudberry was perpetually tapping in order to ascertain whether or not its tendencies were dropsical.

When father was up at "set fair," mother was certain to be depressed, inclining to much rain; yet, strangely enough, it was on such occasions _very dry_! When mother was "fair," (barometrically speaking, of course), father was naturally down at "changeable"! Yet there was wonderful contradiction in the readings of this barometer; for, when mother's countenance indicated "much rain," father sometimes went down to "stormy," and the tails of his coat became altogether unmanageable.

But, towards the middle of the holidays, father gained a decided victory. For three weeks together they had not a drop of rain--scarcely a cloud in the sky; and mother, although fairly beaten and obliged to confess that it was indeed splendid weather, met her discomfiture with a good grace, and enjoyed herself extremely, in a quiet way.

During this bright period the Sudberry Family, one and all, went ahead, as George said, "at a tremendous pace." The compasses having arrived, Mr Sudberry no longer laid restrictions on the wandering propensities of his flock but, having given a compass to each, and taught them all the use of it, sent them abroad upon the unexplored ocean of hills without fear. Even Jacky received a compass, with strict injunctions to take good care of it. Being naturally of an inquiring disposition, he at once took it to pieces, and this so effectually that he succeeded in analysing it into a good many more pieces than its fabricator had ever dreamed of. To put it together again would have taxed the ingenuity of the same fabricator--no wonder that it was beyond the power of Jacky altogether. But this mattered nothing to the "little darling," as he did not understand his father's learned explanation of the uses of the instrument. To do Mr Sudberry justice, he had not expected that his boy could understand him; but he was aware that if he, Jacky, did not get a compass as well as the rest of them, there would be no peace in the White House during _that_ season. Moreover, Jacky did not care whether he should get lost or not. In fact, he rather relished it; for he knew that it would create a pleasant excitement for a time in the household, and he entertained the firm belief that McAllister and his men could find any creature on the hills, man or beast, no matter how hopelessly it should be lost.

There being, then, no limit to the wanderings of the Sudberrys, they one and all gave themselves over deliberately to a spirit of riotous rambling. Of course they all, on various occasions, lost themselves, despite the compasses; but, having become experienced mountaineers, they always took good care to find themselves again before sunset. George and Fred candidly declared that they preferred to steer by "dead reckoning," and left their compasses at home. Lucy always carried hers, and frequently consulted it, especially when in her father's presence, for she was afflicted, poor girl, with that unfashionable weakness, an earnest desire to please her father even in trifles. Nevertheless, she privately confided to Fred one day that she was often extremely puzzled by her compass, and that she had grave doubts as to whether, on a certain occasion, when she had gone for a long ramble with Hector and Flora Macdonald, and been lost, the blame of that disaster was not due to her compass. Fred said he thought it was, and believed that it would be the means of compassing her final disappearance from the face of the earth if she trusted to it so much.

As for Mr Sudberry himself; his faith in the compass was equal to that of any mariner. The worthy man was, or believed himself to be, (which is the same thing, you know!) of profoundly scientific _tendencies_. He was aware, of course, that he had never really _studied_ any science whatever; but he had dabbled in a number of them, and he felt that he had immense _capacity_ for deep thought and subtle investigation. His mind was powerfully analytical--that's what it was. One consequence of this peculiarity of mind was that he "took his bearings" on short and known distances, as well as on long venturesome rambles; he tested himself and his compass, as it were.

One day he had walked out alone in the direction of the village, four miles distant from the White House, whence the family derived their supplies. He had set out with his rod, (he never walked near the river without his rod), intending to take a cast in what he styled the "lower pools." By degrees he fished so near to the village that he resolved to push forward and purchase a few books. Depositing rod and basket among the bushes, he walked smartly along the road, having previously, as a matter of course, taken his bearings from the village by compass. A flock of sheep met him, gazed at him in evident surprise, and passed on. At their heels came the collie dog, with his tongue out. It bestowed a mild, intelligent glance on the stranger, and also passed on. Close behind the dog came the shepherd, with plaid bonnet and thick stick.

"A fine day, friend," said Mr Sudberry.

"Oo, ay, it _is_ a fine day."

He also passed on.

Another turn in the road, and Mr Sudberry met a drove of shaggy cattle, each cow of which looked sturdy and fierce enough for any ordinary bull; while the bull himself was something awful to look upon. There is nothing ladylike or at all feminine in the aspect of a Highland cow!

Mr Sudberry politely stepped to one side, and made way for them. Many of the animals paused for an instant, and gazed at the Englishman with profound gravity, and then went on their way with an air that showed they evidently could make nothing of him. The drover thought otherwise, for he stopped.

"Coot-tay to you, sir."

"Good-day, friend, good-day. Splendid weather for the--for the--"

Mr Sudberry did not know exactly for which department of agriculture the weather was most favourable, so he said--"for the cattle."

"Oo, ay, the w'ather's no that ill. Can she tell the time o' day?"

Out came the compass.

"West-nor'-west, and by--Oh! I beg your pardon," (pulling out his watch and replacing the compass), "a quarter-past two."

The drover passed on, and Mr Sudberry, chuckling at his mistake, took the bearings of a tall pine that grew on a distant knoll.

On gaining the outskirts of the village, Mr Sudberry felt a sensation of hunger, and instantly resolved to purchase a bun, which article he had now learned to call by its native name of "cookie." At the same instant a bright idea struck him--he would steer for the baker's shop by compass! He knew the position of the shop exactly--the milestone gave him the distance--he would lay his course for it. He would walk conscientiously with his eyes on the ground, except when it was necessary to refer to the compass, and he would not raise them until he stood within the shop. It would be a triumphant exhibition of the practical purposes, in a small way, to which the instrument might be applied.

Full of this idea, he took a careful observation of the compass, the sun, and surrounding nature; laid his course for the baker's shop, which was on the right side of the village, and walked straight into the butcher's, which lay on its left extremity. He was so much put out on lifting his eyes to those of the butcher, that he ordered a leg of mutton and six pounds of beefsteaks on the spot. The moment after, he recollected that two legs of mutton and a round of beef had been forwarded to the White House by coach the day before, and that there was a poached brace of moor-fowl in the larder at that moment; but, having given the order in a prompt, business tone of voice, he felt that he lacked moral courage to rescind it.

"Ye'll ha'e frien's comin' to veesit ye," observed the butcher, who was gifted with a peculiar and far-sighted faculty of "putting that and that together."

"No; we have no immediate prospect of such a pleasure."

"Ay? Hum! it's wonderfu' what an appeteet the hill air gives to strangers."

"A tremendous appetite! Good-day, friend."

Mr Sudberry said this heartily, and went off to the baker's--by dead reckoning--discomfited but chuckling.

The butcher pondered and philosophised over the subject the remainder of the afternoon with much curiosity, but with no success. Had the wisdom of Plato been mingled with his Scotch philosophy, the compound reduced to an essential oil of investigative profundity, and brought to bear on the subject in question, he would have signally failed to discover the reason of the Sudberrys' larder being crammed that week with an unreasonable quantity of butcher-meat.

Yes! during these three weeks of sunshine the Sudberrys made hay of their time as diligently as the McAllisters made hay of their grass, and the compasses played a prominent part in all their doings, and led them into many scrapes. Among other things, they led them to Glen Ogle. More of this in the next chapter.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 17.

THE TRIP TO GLEN OGLE.

Without entering into minute comparisons, it may be truly said that Glen Ogle is one of the grandest and wildest of mountain passes in the highlands of Perthshire. Unlike the Trossachs, which Sir Walter Scott has immortalised in his "Lady of the Lake," Glen Ogle is a wild, rugged, rocky pass, almost entirely destitute of trees, except at its lower extremity; and of shrubs, except along the banks of the little burn which meanders like a silver thread down the centre of the glen. High precipitous mountains rise on either hand--those on the left being more rugged and steep than those on the right. The glen is very narrow throughout--a circumstance which adds to its wildness; and which, in gloomy weather, imparts to the spot a truly savage aspect. Masses of _debris_ and fallen rocks line the base of the precipices, or speckle the sides of the mountains in places where the slopes, being less precipitous than elsewhere, have served to check the fallen matter; and the whole surface of the narrow vale is dotted with rocks of various sizes, which have bounded from the cliffs, and, overleaping every obstacle, have found a final resting-place on a level with the little stream.