Читать книгу Goblin Island - Elsie Jeanette Dunkerley - Страница 6

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One day, in the early spring of that year, father came to me, looking worried.

“I’ve just heard from Jack Lesley, Jean.”

“Yes?” and I stopped work at once, for I could not listen to any one while I was typewriting, and did not like being interrupted.

Mr. Lesley was an artist, and a great friend of father’s. He had illustrated some of his books, and was often at our house on business. So I knew him very well, and also his wife and little daughter.

“They’re going abroad at once. Mrs. Lesley has been told she must not stay in England any longer. They are going to Australia by sailing ship for the sake of the voyage, and if it suits her they may settle out there for good.”

It took me a minute or two to grasp all this.

“I knew Mrs. Lesley wasn’t strong, but I had no idea it was so bad as that. And—oh, what about Marjory? They can’t take the poor child with them?”

“That’s the trouble. Such a journey would be out of the question for Marjory. They don’t know what to do. They have no relations who can take her. As for friends——”

“They know us better than any one. Do they want us to take Marjory?”

“It would be a great relief to them if we could. What do you say?”

“I should be afraid of the responsibility. But if they are willing to trust her to us, I will do my best for her, poor child!”

“She is feeling very bad about being left behind, Lesley says, but he thinks she would be happy with you. Indeed, Marjory told him so herself.”

That settled it, of course. Marjory Lesley became one of our family, and after her natural grief at parting with her parents had passed, I think she was very happy with us.

She had more reason than most children for being distressed at this change in her life. For she was only twelve years old, and she was a cripple. A fall, two years before, had injured her spine, and ever since she had had to lie on her back. Her parents and the doctors hoped that in time she might outgrow the injury, since she was young and strong. Marjory herself had no doubt of it. In the meantime she had to lie still and wait as patiently as she could.

But during April Marjory began to look pale, and we thought she needed a change. London in summer would not be good for her. So father said we would take a house in Scotland for four months, and one day he informed us that the arrangements were made. He had taken a house on the shore of Loch Avie, and it would be ready for us in the first week of May.

I was delighted, but Marjory sighed at the thought of the journey. She was very sensitive, and, as she said, “hated being looked at.” But we promised to do all possible to make it easy for her, and I assured her that once she was settled at Strongarra she would say it was more than worth the travelling.

It was arranged that I should go first to see that everything was ready, and father should bring Marjory two days later. He was so very gentle, and so strong and able to take care of her, that she admitted that with him the journey might not be so bad after all.

I was not to go quite alone. We sent off two of the servants to make preparations, and I followed the next day, taking Tib with me. She was my kitten, and Marjory was very fond of her. She was pure white, with blue eyes, and no other colour on her anywhere. I put her in a big basket, and let her out in the train to run about the carriage till she had satisfied herself as to her surroundings, after which she slept in my lap the rest of the way. She shared my sandwiches and biscuits, for she was a curious cat and much preferred bread to milk. But when we went on board the steamer on Loch Avie I had to shut her up again, and she mewed piteously all the time we were on the water, fearing, I think, that she would never see daylight again.

I had never seen Loch Avie. Our travels in Scotland had taken us chiefly into Perth and Fife and Aberdeen, so we did not know the Western Highlands at all. Of course I had read of the loch and the islands and Ben Aan, and had always longed to see them. So when I left the train at the end of the long journey and went on board the tiny steamer, my mind was full of eager anticipations.

I was not disappointed. The loch lay before us, a shining stretch of water. Rounded green hills rose on both sides, while away in front was a great green-gray mountain, with three round shoulders humping to the sky. As the little white steamer cut her way through the silvery water, sending great rollers back to the shore, green hills and mounds began to appear on the water-line at the foot of the mountain. These soon showed themselves as islands, thickly covered with trees. Under the branches were nooks carpeted with grass and moss, primroses and wild hyacinths. What perfect spots for picnics!

There were islands on both sides. The steamer crept through narrow straits, and the waves from her paddles splashed and tore through the ferns that hung into the water. She stopped at a tiny pier, hiding among great trees on an outstanding point—Balmona. Rocks and cliff were hidden in green, a road from the pier ran up among the trees, but no village was to be seen. Did Balmona consist only of a pier, I wondered?

We set off again, this time right across the loch. Now I saw how big it really was—an inland sea, dotted with fairy islets, mostly tree-covered, but some mere rocks, and some with buildings or ruins upon them. The hills on shore had given place to mountains, thickly wooded at the base, bare and desolate above. To the north Ben Aan, the giant of the loch, seemed to fill the whole sky. His three shoulders grew bigger and bolder as we came under his shadow. He carried no trees, but was rugged and desolate from summit to water’s edge, every bare crag and boulder standing out against the sky, his sides scored with deep furrows, where thread-like streams glistened in the sun.

The islands were covered with firs, all standing straight and pointed to the sky, like the crowded spires of a cathedral, one behind the other, and the inner ranks higher than the outer, as the ground rose gradually. Each islet looked like a tiny green church, and as we passed close by their shores I could catch glimpses of gloomy aisles and dark corners among the trees. The water was very still, and the clouds and islands and stately firs were reflected in it till there seemed two lakes instead of one.

We passed a large island, and then I could see how the loch stretched away to the north, sweeping into great bays and round tree-covered points, washing the feet of Ben Aan, and disappearing at last among the mountains.

We drew near to an islet so thickly covered with trees and rocks that I could not see whether any one lived there or not. And then, above Tib’s frantic mewing, and the beat of the paddles, and the splashing of the waves at the stern, I heard music—a girl’s voice, singing to a banjo accompaniment.

She began suddenly, when we were near the shore, and I could hear the words:

“There was an old nigger and his name was uncle Ned,

But he’s dead long ago, long ago;

He had no wool on de top of his head,

In de place where de wool ought to grow.”

Children’s voices took up the chorus:

“Den lay down de shubble an’ de hoe,

Hang up de fiddle an’ de bow.

Dere’s no more hard work for poor old Ned,

He’s gone whar de good niggers go.”

The girl sang two more verses, and the last time the children shouted the chorus twice and evidently enjoyed it. As we left the island behind, I heard the singer beginning, “So early in the morning,” and the noisy chorus followed us as we drew in to another pier.

I wondered who the children could be, and if they lived on the islet. But I had no time to ask the captain, for the purser came to me, saying, “Lios, miss,” and I had to hurry ashore.

It was a tiny pier, very clean and very empty, and the village behind was just as tiny, and clean, and empty as the pier. Only a couple of farmers left the steamer besides myself, and on the pier there were only the pier-master and a boy. The farmers looked curiously at me, I supposed because of the terrified mewing from Tib’s basket, and the boy came up, touching his bonnet.

“I will trife you to Strongarra, mem, if you will come this way. The pony iss waiting.”

The Highland talk was very pretty, and suited his pleasant voice. He had an honest brown face and tumbled fair hair. He was not dressed in kilts, which rather disappointed me, but in a shabby suit, much too small for him. I liked his face, and asked his name by way of making friends.

“Sandy, mem,” he said shyly.

As we drove through Lios I looked about me curiously. It was a quaint little place, but very neat and pretty. There was one wide street, with whitewashed cottages on each side, each with its garden enclosed by a rude stone wall. The gardens were gay with primroses and forget-me-nots, and the cottages had climbing rose-trees trained round the windows and over the porches. Many of the roofs were thatched, with over-hanging eaves, but the post-office, the manse, and the inn were quite large buildings, and the little church boasted a belfry tower.

The winding street was empty, till some bare-legged and bare-headed children caught sight of me and ran to tell their mothers. Then several women, some with plaids drawn over their heads, came out to look at us, and Sandy waved his whip as we drove past.

He seemed very shy, and did not speak till I spoke to him. But he was evidently curious about me, and kept glancing shyly at me to see what I was like. I opened Tib’s basket and set her on my knee, and Sandy watched us with interest.

We left the straggling cottages behind, and drove down a lane, where great trees hung over the dykes on each side. A dyke is a low wall built of stones piled loosely on one another, and all the walls and fences round Lios were of this kind.

“What a very pretty road!” I said to Sandy, in the hope of making him talk.

“It iss a pretty road, and a ferry coot road, whateffer,” he acknowledged.

I laughed. “I wonder if you can explain something to me, Sandy. When I was in the steamer we passed an island, and I heard children singing. Who do you think it would be?”

Sandy’s eyes snapped, and he laughed.

“It woult be old Peggy Colquhoun and her chiltren. She iss an old witch, and she steals the chiltren, and they will neffer pe able to get away from her again whateffer. Effery efening we will hear them singing.”

“Sandy, what nonsense! You don’t mean to say you believe in witches?”

Sandy’s eyes opened wide. “There iss an old witch at Ardtyre who hass the evil eye. If she looks at you, you’ll be ill or die.”

His face was quite serious, but his eyes twinkled, and I felt sure he was trying to make fun of me.

“I don’t think you believe that, Sandy.”

“Most folks do,” said Sandy, without committing himself.

“Who is Peggy Colquhoun? An old woman? Does she live on the island? But I did hear children singing. And a banjo, too! Sandy, what nonsense!”

Sandy laughed. “From this hill you will see the loch and the islands. There iss Goblin Island—haf you heart the tale about the Goblin?”

“No! Who is he?”

“He comes out at night to carry off young ladies. And there iss Heather Island, and the Big Island, and the wee one iss Innis Beg——”

“That’s where the singing was.”

“It iss Peggy Colquhoun’s island. And here iss Strongarra.”

The house lay before us, and I forgot Sandy’s nonsense as I looked forward eagerly. The boy jumped down and opened a white wooden gate, then drove on up a road between fields, one of which sloped down to the loch. The fields were divided by a dyke from the garden, where were lawns and neat flower beds, filled with daffodils and narcissus. On each side of the drive was a row of standard rose trees, and here and there on the lawn were great shady oaks and chestnuts.

The house itself was of white stone, with many big windows and a porch with seats in it. I did not wonder at the big windows when I glanced at the wonderful view of lake and mountains that faced them.

Katie, the housemaid I had sent before me, was waiting at the door, and I carried Tib up to the house, and forgot Sandy for the time.

So I did not see him, when he had driven the pony to the stables, hurry into Big Sandy’s cottage and shout for Wee Sandy, who came, in much bewilderment, to change clothes again.

“Whateffer will you be doing it for, Master Jack?”

Jack laughed. “Give me my own things, Sandy. I can’t stop now,” and he hastily changed to his kilt again.

Then he sped through the garden, jumped into his boat, and rowed off to Innis Beg.

Sing-song was over. Peggy was indoors, putting Boy Blue and Sheila to bed, for Mother Hubbard was over in Lios. Jill was waiting with Cigarette by the oak tree, but at sight of the boat she came eagerly to the water’s edge.

“Have you seen them? What are they like? Do hurry, Jack! I’m just dying to hear. I do wish I could have gone too.”

Jack sprang ashore and threw himself on the grass, laughing.

“Such fun! Wish you’d been there. Only one of them’s come. I talked to her. She thought I was Sandy, of course. She’s all right—about Peggy’s age—talks very English, and can’t say her r’s, but pleasant enough!——”

“Mind, she’s an enemy! You mustn’t get to like her!”

“Tuts! I won’t forget. She’d heard you singing from the steamer—did Peggy ask where I was?”

“Yes. I told her you had gone over to see Sandy.”

“Right! The Maxwell Girl wanted to know who it was singing. I told her it was a witch who lived here called Peggy Colquhoun——”

“Jack!”

“I did so. But she didn’t believe it. Oh, it was fun!”

“But why?”

“Oh, just to scare her. It was fun to see her open her eyes. They were as round as saucers.”

“What iss she like? What was she dressed in?” asked Jill, with feminine curiosity.

“Brown. Surely you don’t expect me to describe it. She’s not as tall as Peggy, but I think she has the usual amount of hair and eyes and teeth——”

“How stupid boys are! Did you wear Sandy’s suit?”

“Of course. He thought I was crazy.”

“I don’t wonder. I wish I could have gone too. Did you talk like Sandy?”

“Rather! You shoult shust haf heart me, whateffer! It wass ferry funny!”

Jill laughed. “I’m sure it was.”

“She thinks Lios is very pretty.”

“Of course she does. Weren’t you shy? I should have been. I don’t like speaking to strangers.”

“A bit,” Jack admitted. “She’d got a cat.”

“How—horrid! I don’t like cats, do you, Cigarette? Witches always have black cats.”

“This one was white, as white all over as the white bits of Cigarette.”

“All the same, cats are horrid, and if the Girl has a cat she must be horrid too. What would Peggy say if she knew, Jack?”

“Peggy? She’d send for Malcolm at once. If you ever dare to tell her, Grizel Colquhoun——”

“Tell her! Issn’t it likely?” said Jill, with such scorn that Jack said no more.

I was delighted with Strongarra. Never yet had we found ourselves in a house that pleased me so well. Everything was very clean and neat, and nothing that could increase our comfort was wanting. Every window was draped with dainty white curtains, the beds had fresh pretty coverings, the linen cupboard held a plentiful supply of necessaries, whose whiteness delighted me and sent Katie into ecstasies. I had thought the things I had brought with me were clean, and so they were—as clean as London laundries could make them. But beside those at Strongarra they looked gray and grimy, and I decided to have a washerwoman up from Lios immediately, and to coax from her, if I could, the secret of that snowy whiteness.

I wondered what kind of mistress Strongarra had. Every room showed traces of her handiwork, dainty, finishing touches spoke of her everywhere. She was young, I was sure, and loved pretty things; probably she was pretty herself. I wished I could have met her, but she was sure to be away spending the summer elsewhere, though why any one should want to leave Loch Avie in summer was more than I could imagine. I knew we had taken the house from Mr. Colquhoun, but that told very little. Half the people in Lios were named Colquhoun, as I soon discovered. Probably it was to Mrs. Colquhoun that we owed the freshness and prettiness of her house. Then she could only be a young wife, I decided. No old lady was the mistress of Strongarra.

I chose for myself a bedroom with windows looking up the loch, and was never tired of the view. The loneliness of it all surprised me. The great stretch of water, the desolate mountains, and the quiet islands, looked so utterly deserted. Only in the corner where Lios village crouched among its trees, or only when the steamer came creeping up or down the loch, was there any sign of life. It seemed impossible that such loneliness could lie within a couple of hours’ journey of all the noise and bustle of a great city. I felt as if we must be a hundred miles from the nearest town.

I had not quite forgotten Sandy, and next morning I sent for him. But the Sandy who came was not the Sandy who had driven me the evening before, as I saw in a moment.

This Sandy was smaller, and had a shock of dark hair. He was even shyer than my Sandy, and I could hardly get a word from him. He said it was he who had driven the trap, then admitted that it was not. He said he did not know who it could have been, then stammered and hesitated, and finally took refuge in, “I ton’t know, and t’at iss all apout it, whateffer!”

I gave it up in despair, and as every one else seemed equally ignorant, I could only hope that chance would bring the mysterious boy in my way again. In so small a place as Lios I was sure to meet him before very long. He must have wished to trick me for some reason. There had been a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he told me that nonsense about the witch, Peggy Colquhoun.

I had no doubt that the real Sandy knew all about it, but I could not make him speak. So I waited and wondered, and decided to explore the island, Innis Beg, as soon as I could find some one to row me over, for we had no boat at Strongarra. And two days later father and Marjory arrived.