Читать книгу A Princess in Tatters - Elsie Jeanette Dunkerley - Страница 4

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He sat on a camp-stool on the shore, painting busily.

She crouched in the bracken on the bank above, and gazed at him.

It lay on the stones at his feet, and kept watch.

He sat up and looked at his painting, then glanced down the loch. He seemed only quiet and busy, but inwardly he was exulting in his discovery. This lonely nook was off the beaten track. He would paint it, and the world would learn from his picture that such a lovely spot was to be found.

The loch was a smooth, unbroken stretch, gleaming silver in the sun, dark with reflections near the shore. On his right the hills rose steep and rugged. Across the water the lower slopes were clothed with dense woods of feathery larches and sombre firs, but the rounded crests above were bare. The shining water between stretched away to the mouth of the loch, where, instead of the sea, rose the fiery purple hills of a great island, with a tiny green islet at their feet. Above the heathery crags were two twin mountain peaks, palest blue against the sky.

She was more interested in the painter than the painting. The loch, the hills, the peaks, were part of her life, but the arrival of a stranger was a rare event. She wondered when he had come, and why, where he was living, how long he would stay. He must have come yesterday, though she had not heard of it, for there was the morning steamer only leaving the pier now.

It lay, nose on paws, with one eye closed and one on the sea-gulls. A fish rose with a splash and sent widening ripples to the shore, and one black ear cocked watchfully. For It was a black Pomeranian, small and quick, with silky hair, upstanding ears, sharp nose, and bright, dark eyes.

He was not painting now, but doing something mysterious on the flat thing in his hand. She was curious, and crept nearer. Bare feet on grass tread very lightly, and she stood behind him, holding her breath, but undiscovered.

Horses’ feet in the distance, a rumble along the road, the barking of dogs and tooting of a horn, and the Glenaroon coach bumped heavily past, with its scarlet-coated driver and crowd of tourists bound for the old church and castle up the glen.

It sprang up, barking excitedly. He turned quickly and looked into the little face peeping over his shoulder.

“By—Jove!” escaped him, and then she was gone.

He laughed, and went on with his painting. But he could not forget what he had seen. A lovely child’s face, great, wistful, gray eyes, fair skin lightly tanned, and a cloud of sunny hair waving about cheeks and shoulders and nearly to her eyes. He tried to keep his mind to his work, and to think only of the trees, the colour of the heather, the gleam of the water. But he was conscious of a sudden new desire. What a picture she would make, with those great, shy eyes and all that tumbled, red-gold hair! He had come seeking no models but those of hill, and loch, and shore, but these already failed to satisfy them.

He rose abruptly. “Sambo, my boy, I’ll leave you in charge. Watch, Sambo! Now, where shall I find her? I saw no cottages or farms, but she was a cottage child. I saw bare legs as she went up the bank. Did she think I’d bite, I wonder? I shall have to search for her. Well, she’s worth it.”

He sprang up the bank and strode off along the road. On the right hand lay shore and loch, on the left a rocky cliff, every cranny filled with fairy-like ferns or clinging heather. She was nowhere to be seen, but just in front the road turned a sharp corner. She might be among the trees beyond.

At the bend of the road the cliff on his left hand fell away in a steep bank, and here, on the hillside, stood a tiny white farm. It seemed to cling to the hill, so steep was the slope, and the ground all round was rocky and thinly covered with grass. Two hungry-looking cows were feeding in the bracken, and up on the hill were a score of sheep. Where the ground was level and rather less stony, were small fields, but it was a poor site for a farm, for the slope was steep from crest to waterline, and offered little hold for dwelling or cultivation.

But he did not glance twice at the forlorn little homestead. On the shore was a group of children. A little river—a broad “burn”—ran across the road after watering the farm, and streamed through the stones into the loch. Across the brown stream was a heathery knoll, and playing at the foot of this, among the stones, were half a dozen babies. All were dressed alike in scarlet frocks and blue pinafores, all had thin flaxen hair and bare heads and feet, all seemed about the same size. With them on the shore were some cocks and hens, pecking among the stones, and a couple of collies asleep in the sun.

On the knoll among the heather sat his hoped-for model. Her hands were clasped round her knees, she was gazing out across the loch, a wistful look in her eyes. By her side sat a great sandy-coloured cat, watching the gulls wheeling and screaming over the water.

The painter sat down on a rock behind a screen of blackberry bushes, and pulled out his sketch-book. She sat quite still, paying no heed to the noisy babies playing by the burn-side. He was drawing her face, noting approvingly the curve of the little nose and chin and parted lips, but his eyes took in the details of her dress, and he drew his own conclusions.

A short blue skirt, much darned and patched, scarcely reached her brown knees. Over her shoulders, and crossed on her breast, was a fringed shawl of green and black tartan. Her neck was bare, save where the bright waves of hair fell heavily over it; arms, legs, and feet were brown with sun and wind.

“Belongs to folk who try to be tidy, but find it hard even to keep her decent.—What neat little hands and feet!—Lives at the farm, probably. If they have all these youngsters to provide for, it must be a hard fight. It looked a poor place.—They can’t all be one family; they’re all the same size. Perhaps my lady keeps a school.—Wonder what she’s dreaming about? ‘I want’—she’s saying—‘I want’—what? Ah!”

One of the scarlet babies had ventured too near the stream at last, and had fallen in. He sprang up, but the girl had the breathless child out before he had left the road, so he withdrew into cover again to watch. She shook the sobbing boy vigorously, then stumbled off up the bank with him in her arms, while the other five watched stolidly from the shore. She went towards the farm, and the painter, satisfied that he would find her now, went down the beach to speak to the scarlet tribe.

At sight of him they drew together in a frightened bunch, the biggest boy valiantly in front. The youngest baby stood up, anxiously but unsteadily, then plumped down on the stones for a rest.

“I want to know your sister’s name, young man?”

They gazed at him blankly. Three babies put their fingers in their mouths in preparation for a howl.

“Your big sister—who has just gone home with the baby—what is her name?”

The biggest boy, who looked about five years old, made some unintelligible remark, and the others stared vacantly.

“Heavens! Is it possible they don’t understand English? Within half a day’s journey of Glasgow? Then there’s nothing for it but to follow her home.”

He turned towards the farm. The five-year-old said a word to the next-in-age, which probably meant, “Don’t let any more babies fall in the burn!” and sped off to give warning.

A stony road led up to the little farm. The buildings were thatched and whitewashed, and more or less out of repair. As he climbed the steep slope, a little figure rushed from the door of the nearest cottage and down the brae. He put out his hand to stop her, but she swerved aside and dived under his arm. He saw tears on her face and a red mark on one cheek, and thought it wiser to let her go. She was shaking with angry sobs, and he knew it would be useless to follow her. So he watched her dart up the road and out of sight, then turned to the farm again.

At the cottage door a woman met him. She was short and stout, with tired eyes and an always-worried look. Her skirt was turned up and her sleeves rolled past her elbows, and, like the children, she was barefoot.

Hoping that she at least spoke English, he said politely,

“Good-morning! I saw your little girl fall in the stream, and came to ask if she was hurt.”

To his relief she answered, with a broad Highland accent,

“It iss a boy t’at will fall in the burn. He iss all right, I thank you, sir. It iss not the first time, whateffer. But it wass ferry wrong of Eilidh. She iss not careful at all.”

“Eily? That is your eldest daughter, who was in charge of the little ones?”

“She iss not one of mine, inteet, sir, but she wass watching the weans—oh, yess!”

“And where does she live, may I ask? I want to see her parents.”

“She hass none, sir. She will live here with us.”

“Ah! Then it is you I must ask. I am an artist—my name is Raby—and I have come here to paint the loch and hills. I saw the little girl—Eily, did you say?—and would like to paint her. If you can spare her to sit to me, I will pay her for her time, of course.”

The woman’s anxious eyes brightened, and he guessed that she would be thankful for any help.

“Oh, I woult pe glad! But she hass not a good enough dress. You see, it hass been a ferry bad year, an’ the sheep haf died an’ the hay wass poor, and when my man went to the town to buy dresses for the weans there wass ferry little he could get, and——”

“I want her just as she is, please.”

“Oh, then! I will be pleased, sir.”

“And how soon can she come?”

“I ton’t know where she hass gone to shust now. She ran off, and mebbe she will not come back till efening. She iss angry so quick, wheneffer she iss punished. She iss a good girl most times, iss Eilidh, but she iss careless wi’ the bairns—oh, yess! You will understand how I was angry, sir. It iss the washing day”—by way of apology for her bare feet and arms—“an’ it iss hard work washing for so many, and hot too, whateffer! An’ then Eilidh she lets wee Jimmy fall in the burn.”

“It is trying, certainly. But it might have been worse. Eh, Jimmy?”

Jimmy, who had been hurried into a dry nightgown and wrapped in a plaid, stared at him stolidly, and the mother laughed.

“Bless you, sir, he ton’t know a word of English. They will be learning that at the school, but they’re no’ shust big enough for that yet. ’Deed, I wish some o’ them were! They only speak the Gaelic. We will be talking that at home, you see.”

“But Eily? Doesn’t she speak English?”

“Oh, yess! She will go to the school this six month past—on the fine days. But it iss six mile to the school, and as far to come home, so you see—— And there are the babies to mind, whateffer! And shust now it iss the holiday.”

“Then will you send her to me this afternoon? I shall be on the shore, just where I was this morning. She saw me, so she’ll know.”

“Oh, yess, sir, that I will, if she hass come home, but——”

“Oh, she’ll surely come home to dinner!” said Raby, and presently strolled away back to his work and Sambo.