Читать книгу A Princess in Tatters - Elsie Jeanette Dunkerley - Страница 5

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Raby sat impatiently waiting on the shore, but Eilidh did not appear. He was tired of the loch and hills, and hungry for his new model.

“Eily!—a form of Eileen, I suppose.—Helen! I’d like to see her properly dressed. I’d like to see her grown up. But she doesn’t know how to keep an appointment. I shall have to look her up.”

He rose and stood looking down the loch. “Now, what did Duncan Munro mean? He did his best to put me off coming to Darmidale. I wonder why? For all his talk was rot, you know, Sambo. The loch is just perfect. The water—the hills—the heather—those splendid trees—all reflected—it’s magnificent. Munro was talking utter rubbish. Wonder why? As for the rain he promised—nonsense! Tommy-rot! Wasn’t it, Sambo? I would like to know——! Now, I wonder what this young lady has to say for herself.”

Mrs. Maclachlan at the farm greeted him with troubled face. The child had not come home, and might not appear till late. More than once, when in disgrace, she had stayed away all day. They did not know where to find her, or they would send——

Here the five-year-old baby tugged at her skirt and gave some information in Gaelic, and her face cleared.

“Jock will be saying he can show you where she iss hiding, sir. If you woult go with him——”

“Certainly! Come along, Jock!”

“Will it be troubling you if the weans go too, sir? I cannot haf them apout the kitchen.”

He laughed. “Let them come, by all means, if it’s not too far.”

The youngest baby chose to stay at home, as he could only just stand alone. But the five elders—ranging in age from two to five—led the way down the stony brae and along the road.

Beyond the tiny fields the rocks rose again in a sheer cliff, its brow crowned with rowans and brambles, its face tufted with ferns and heather. Between road and loch was a thin screen of trees, and through the leaves shone the silver gleam of the water.

The five scarlet-clad babies trudged on solemnly, without a glance at the stranger behind. He followed, studying the backs of their sturdy little figures with much amusement. Jock, the eldest, was a stolid youth of five. Then came another boy, very little younger or smaller, but lacking Jock’s calm air of leadership. Then two small girls, walking hand in hand, and undoubtedly twins; and lastly, a tiny fellow who could just run alone—Jimmy of the burn. They were almost startlingly alike in their round solemn faces and colourless fair hair, and there was certainly not more than a year between the ages of any two. Raby did not wonder at Mrs. Maclachlan’s weary face, and forgave her momentary anger with Eilidh.

The curtain of trees at the edge of the shore ended abruptly, and the road ran by the water. Looking towards the sea, Raby saw that they had rounded a point, which shut out the lower end of the loch. It had widened again into a quiet stretch of water, surrounded by wooded hills, and all very lonely, with no steamers or fishing-boats, and scarcely a cottage among the trees. He wondered much that there was no pier on these upper reaches, but he had no Gaelic, and the babies had no English, so conversation was impossible.

Jock stopped suddenly.

“Eilidh!” he said, and pointed.

A break in the cliff showed a rocky glen, narrow and shut in by the rugged hill behind. The rocks were covered with heather, between the boulders were rowan trees heavy with berries, and everywhere was waist-high golden bracken. Eilidh was nowhere to be seen, but she might easily be hiding here.

“You think she’s in there?” he asked, and laughed at their blank looks. “Here, do you understand these?” and he pulled out a handful of coppers and gave one each all round.

The stolid faces broke into smiles, and Jock responded with shy Gaelic thanks. Then they sat down in the road to discuss this sudden wealth, and he laughed and turned into the glen.

It was some time before he found her, but traced her at last by means of the trampled bracken. A silver line of water fell over a rock, and splashed into a pool among the stones. Eilidh was crouching in a corner at the foot of the rock, but he could scarcely see which was rock and which her dark dress, which was bracken and which were the brighter shades of her hair.

“Eily!” he said quietly, “I want to speak to you. Won’t you come out?” but she did not move.

He spoke again, but received no answer, and at last turned away, wondering what to do. Was she shy?—or sulky? Should he fetch her out? But that would not make for future friendship.

On a stone sat the big sandy cat, watching with bright, unwinking eyes a bird bathing in the pool. With a sudden thought he sat down on a rock and pulled out his sketch-book.

For a while there was silence, save for the splash of the water and the soft touch of brush on paper. Then he sat back and looked critically at his work. The sandy cat was there in all its delicate shades, from white and palest yellow, through gold to light brown. And from behind came a little gasp of surprise, and a delighted whisper,

“Oh, that iss good! It iss shust like Sandy!”

“Yes,” he said quietly, “I think it is. Shall I put in the water and the bird?”

He painted steadily, and she watched, breathless.

“There! It makes quite a nice little picture. It’s for you, Eily.”

“For me? Oh, that iss good of you!”

The soft, shy voice trembled with eager gratitude, and he felt he had made a good beginning. He took out his pencil, and wrote beneath the picture—“For Eily. Sandy by the Pool.”

“Oh, how ferry nice! But you haf not put my name right.”

“Oh? What’s wrong?”

“It iss E-i-l-i-d-h, you know,” she explained importantly.

“Oh? I didn’t know. I never met it before. What has the dh to do with the rest of it? You don’t say them, do you?”

“No. It iss shust Eily to say. I ton’t know why they are there. But Miss Anderson at the school, she said that wass the way.”

“Is that so? It’s never too late to learn. Well, now, let’s get to business.” He took one little brown hand so that she should not escape again. “Eilidh, I want to make a picture of you. Will you let me?”

“A picture—of me?” The great gray eyes opened to their widest in astonishment.

“Yes. Your mother—Mrs. Maclachan—says I may. You’ll only have to sit still. Will you do that?”

“But—but—I ton’t see why you want me! And I haf no pretty dress——”

“You’ll do first rate as you are.”

“And I haf to mind the babies——”

“And let them fall in the burn?”

She reddened. “Jimmy’s a bad wee boy. He knows ferry well——”

“If you had come home to dinner, Mrs. Maclachlan would have told you that I was waiting for you on the shore.”

“I didn’t want any dinner, and—and—she slapped me.”

“Well, you hadn’t been doing your duty, had you, Eilidh?”

“What iss that? I ton’t know what you mean.”

He guessed that her English was limited to the necessities of everyday life, so he explained gravely.

“Mrs. Maclachlan is very worried with all those babies to look after, and it’s washing day and very hot, and she was tired, and the babies had all got on clean frocks, and then you sat dreaming instead of looking after them, and gave her ever so much more trouble. Don’t you think it was too bad?”

“I’m—ferry—sorry!” and Eilidh hung her head.

“And then, instead of being sorry, you ran off in a temper, and left all those babies on her hands for the rest of the day,” he said severely, though inwardly much amused. “As if she wasn’t busy enough already!”

“I ton’t like being slapped!”

“She doesn’t like being worried.”

She glanced at him from under the thick lashes which had not escaped his notice; saw the smile in his eyes, and took courage.

“Why will you be wanting to make a picture of me? No one effer did before.”

“That’s good!”

“But why?”

“Whenever I see a strikingly ugly person, or place, or—or cat, Eilidh, I always make a sketch of it in my book—a kind of collection of uglies, you know.”

She looked at him suspiciously.

“Oh, ferry well! I ton’t want to be in that kind of book. Wheneffer I meet men who are ferry rude, I ton’t let them make pictures of me.”

He laughed. “When shall we begin?”

“I ton’t think I want to.”

“Shall we say to-morrow morning?”

“We’ll say not at all! I ton’t want to come.”

She pulled away her hand and was off among the bracken again.

He laughed. “I shall have to mind how I offend my lady. Hope she’ll soon come back.”

But the minutes passed and there was no sign of Eilidh. He grew impatient and called her once or twice, and thought he heard a delighted chuckle somewhere near. But he could not see her, and among the rocks were many shadowy corners where she could lie hidden.

“Very well, young lady! If I’m not mistaken you’ll think better of it presently. If you think I’m going to run after you you’re wrong. We’ll see who gets tired first.”

He turned to the sketch he had begun in the morning, and set to work filling in the outlines and colouring.

For a while there was silence, and he began to wonder if Eilidh was really sulky and had run off home. The babies had gone long since, but the big cat still lay sleeping in the sun.

Then across the glen he saw a little figure in the bracken. He worked on without looking up, and she crept out of hiding and waited to be called. He took no notice, and she wandered about among the rocks, trying to attract his attention, but unwilling to make the first advances.

“He iss ferry angry,” she was saying to herself. “He won’t speak to me. Oh, suppose he shoult go away?”

At the thought she crept nearer, and sat down to fondle the cat. She was only a few yards away, but he did not look up.

“Sandy,” she whispered, “I hate him! I ton’t like him at all. He issn’t ferry kind, Sandy. He iss ferry cross—oh, yess! He must haf seen I am sorry, but he won’t speak to me, whateffer.”

Suddenly she was standing by his side, not looking at him.

“Inteet—I’m—ferry sorry,” she faltered.

He looked up smiling, and held out his hand.

“I want to be friends, Eilidh, but it isn’t very easy when you get angry and run off like that.”

“Why will you be wanting to make a picture of me?”

“Sit down on that stone, and I’ll tell you.”

She sat down eagerly, clasping her hands round her knees and shaking back the hair that would fall into her eyes.

“I’m reaty to listen,” she said, and gazed up at him with a hungry look in her gray eyes.

“In London, every year, Eilidh, they have a great exhibition of all the very best pictures——”

“What iss that—an ex—?”

He explained. “And of course every painter wants to have a picture of his there, too.”

“Do they always haf yours?”

“They haven’t so far,” he confessed. “But I’ve only tried twice, and the third time’s lucky, you know. I want to paint you and see if they won’t hang you up in the very biggest room. You must look just like that—as you are now—as if you were wanting something very badly, and then they’ll say, ‘Dear me! Here iss Eilidh Maclachlan come all the way from Glenaroon, and she wants to go up on the walls so ferry badly that we really must put her there’!”

The wistful little face broke into a smile, then she laughed, then grew sober again.

“You are laughing at the way I speak,” she said reproachfully. “It issn’t my fault. It iss how I haf been taught. It issn’t ferry kind to laugh.”

“I can’t help it, Eilidh. It’s so pretty.”

She gave him another quick, suspicious look.

“Why will you always be saying one thing and meaning another? We neffer do here. I ton’t quite like it.”

“It’s a habit—a very bad one,” he said gravely. “Will you help me with my picture, Eilidh?—so that I will get rich and famous, and everybody will want me to paint pictures for them?”

“Aren’t you rich? I thought English people were always ferry, ferry rich.”

“Dear me, no! I’m as poor as anything. I make pictures to get bread and butter.”

“We ton’t get butter most days,” she said regretfully. “It all hass to be sold to help pay the rent. But we haf porridge and potatoes, and a bit herring now and then from the loch, or a bit salmon from the river.”

He laughed. “Then you’ll help me with my picture, Eilidh? And not get angry and run away twice in every day?”

She reddened. “I’ll try not to. And I will help you—oh, yess! I woult like to.”

“That’s all right. What is it you are wanting all the time, Eilidh?” he asked presently, as the wistful look returned to her face. He was sketching her in various positions, making studies for the big picture.

“I want efferything,” was the somewhat startling reply. “I want to know such a lot of things, and you can tell me effer so many of them. When you were cross shust now, I was shust scared that you woult go away. I want to know about the place you live in, and people and things far away, and all about London and the big towns, and what rich people are like, and what iss written in books, and about the pictures people paint, and—and—efferything in the world. I haf neffer been away from here, I haf seen nothing but the loch, and nobody but the babies and the folk at the school. I hafn’t any books to read, and I can’t read quickly if I had, and I want to know things! You are different from the folk here, you think and speak different, you know things—I ton’t know how to say what I mean, but ton’t you understand?”

“I live in one world, you live in another. You want to hear about mine?” and Eilidh nodded vehemently.

“Your world iss the big one where great things happen, mine iss a wee hole where we are all half asleep——”

“But it’s very beautiful, Eilidh! You mustn’t despise it.”

“Oh, I won’t! It iss beautiful, an’ I love it all, but it iss not enough alone. It iss like that pool in the bit burn”—she pointed to the still brown pool into which fell the splashing stream over the rocks.—“You haf come tumbling into it. Before you go hurrying away to the loch and the sea, where wonderful places and people are, won’t you tell me all about it?”

He gazed at the eager little face.

“She’d pay for educating. Wish I was a millionaire!—Have you thought all that out since I came, Eilidh?”

“No. Most of it long ago. I want effer so badly to go away and see things and know efferything, and I sit and think about it till I’m—hungry! Won’t you tell me—please?”

“I’ll do what I can. I wish I was someone else who’d do it better! When did you lose your mother, Eilidh?”

“When I was born. I neffer saw her.”

“Ah! And your father is dead, too?”

“I ton’t know. I hafn’t seen him either.”

“Don’t know? Where is he, then?”

“He went away. I will tell you apout it. He lived in Glasgow, and my mother lived here with her sister, who had a wee farm. When they were married she went to Glasgow, too, but when he had his holiday they came here to live with Aunt Jeannie. I wass born here, and my mother died that same night. My father was ferry sorry inteet, and he went right away and left me with Aunt Jeannie, and we haf neffer heart a word of him since. When I was fife years old my auntie died, an’ Mrs. Maclachlan took me to live with her, for she had no weans then. But now I am eleffen, and effery year since there hass been a baby, and one year there were two, and it iss ferry hard to look after them all.”

“I wish I was a millionaire,” he said thoughtfully again, and she looked puzzled.

“What iss that? And why do you want to be one?”

“It’s odd about your father, Eilidh.”

“Oh, he iss dead, of course! I ton’t care apout him at all.—What iss a lord like, Mr. Raby?”

“A lord, Eilidh? Much like anybody else, I should imagine. I’ve never seen one. Why?”

“There iss a lord and a lady coming to live here, t’at iss all. Mebbe I shall see them soon.”

“Oh?” he said, pausing to look at her. “And where are they going to live?”

“At Darmidale Hall, in Glenaroon. Haf you not seen the big house yet? It iss shust a fine place—effer so big, with gardens and a farm of their own, and flowers and fruit in the gardens that we haf neffer seen anywhere else.”

“What’s their name?”

“I ton’t know. I do so want to see him! I wonder what a lord iss like! Will he be ferry grand and ferry fierce, do you think?”

“He’ll probably be an old, old chap, with gout and rheumatism, and he’ll drive about in a closed carriage, and hobble with a stick, and swear at every one who goes near him. I’d keep away if I were you.”

Eilidh’s eyes grew round. “Iss that what lords will be like? I thought——”

“Mind, I’m expecting you to sit to me to-morrow. You mustn’t keep me waiting while you go running after these grandees. I mean to work in earnest, and I shall need you.”

“Ferry well. I shall be there wheneffer you want me,” Eilidh nodded.

“And now let’s go home to tea. Sambo will be tired of waiting for me.”

“Let me carry your paints! Oh, I woult so like to!” she pleaded.

He laughed and handed her the box, and she clasped it in her arms and ran along by his side as he strode off down the road.