The Eagle Cliff

“Come,” she cried, suddenly, with the eagerness of one whose cheque has just been honoured; “let’s play at Doan of Ak! You will be Doan, and I will be the naughty men. I’ll bu’n you! You mustn’t squeal, or kick up a wumpus, you know, but be dood.”

Having made this stipulation, our little heroine placed the black martyr on an old-fashioned straw-bottomed chair near the window, and getting hold of a quantity of paper and some old cotton dresses, she piled the whole round Blackie to represent faggots. This done, she stepped back and surveyed her work as an artist might study a picture.

“You’ve dot your best muslin fock on, da’ling, an it’ll be spoiled; but I don’t care for zat. Now, say your pays, Doan.”

With this admonitory remark, Flo screwed up a piece of paper, went to the fireplace, made a very long arm through the fender, and lighted it. Next moment she applied the flame to the faggots, which blazed up with surprising rapidity.

Stepping quickly back, the dear little child gazed at her work with intense delight beaming from every feature.

“Now be dood, Blackie. Don’t make a wumpus!” she said; and as she said it, the flames caught the window curtains and went up with a flare that caused Flo to shout with mingled delight and alarm.

“I wonder,” remarked Mrs Gordon, who chanced to be in the drawing-room on the windward side of the nursery, “what amuses Flo so much!”

She arose and went, leisurely, to see.

Roderick, the groom, being in the harness-room on the lee side of the nursery at the time, made a remark with the same opening words.

“I wonder,” said he, “what that wull pe!” A sniffing action of the nose told what “that” meant. “Don’t you smell a smell, Tonal’?”

Donald sniffed, and replied that he did—“what-ë-ver.”

“It wull pe somethin’ on fire, Tonal’,” said the groom, dropping the harness-brush and running out to the yard.

Donald being of the same opinion, followed him. At the same moment a piercing shriek was heard to issue from the house and wild confusion followed.

“Fire! fire!” yelled a voice in the yard outside, with that intensity of meaning which is born of thorough conviction.

Who that has never been roused by “fire!” can imagine the sensations that the cry evokes, and who that really has experienced those sensations can hope to explain them to the inexperienced? We cannot. We will not try.

But let us not plunge with undue haste into a fire!

It will be remembered that we left Jackman in Barret’s room, having just ended his elephant story, to the satisfaction of his friends, while Mrs Gordon was on her way to the nursery, bent on investigation. Well, the voice that shrieked in the nursery was that of Mrs Gordon, and that which yelled in the yard was the voice of the groom, supplemented by Donald’s treble.

Of course the gentlemen sprang to their feet, on hearing the uproar, dashed from the room in a body, and made straight for the nursery. On the way they met Mrs Gordon with Flo in her arms—all safe; not a hair of her pretty little head singed, but looking rather appalled by the consequences of what she had done.

“Safe! thank God!” exclaimed the laird, turning and descending with his wife and child, with some vague thoughts that he might be likely to find Mrs Moss in her favourite place of resort, the library.

He was right. He found her there in a dead faint on the floor. He also found his three boys there, exerting themselves desperately to haul her out of the room by a foot and an arm and the skirt of her dress.

“We knew she was here, daddy,” gasped Eddie, “and came straight to help her.”

“Out o’ the way!” cried the laird as he grasped Mrs Moss in his arms and bore her away. “Mother and Flo are safe, boys. Look out for yourselves.”

“I’ll go for the photographs! Come, help me, Ted,” cried Archie, as he ran up the now smoking stairs.

“I’ll go for Milly!” cried the heroic Junkie, as, with flashing eyes, he dashed towards her room.

But Barret had gone for Milly before him! and without success. She was not in her room. “Milly! Milly!” he shouted, in tones of undisguised anxiety, as he burst out of the nursery, after finding, with his companions, that no one was there and that suffocation was imminent. Then, as no Milly replied, he rushed up to the garret in the belief that she might have taken refuge there or on the roof in her terror.

Just after he had rushed out of the nursery, Junkie burst in. The boy was in his element now. We do not mean that he was a salamander and revelled in fire and smoke, but he had read of fires and heard of them till his own little soul was ablaze with a desire to save some one from a fire—any one—somehow, or anyhow! Finding, like the rest, that he could scarcely breathe, he made but one swift circuit of the room. In doing so he tumbled on the chair on which the cause of all the mischief still sat smoking, but undeniably “dood!”

“Blackie!” he gasped, and seized hold of her denuded but still unconsumed wooden body.

A few moments later he sprang through the entrance door and tumbled out on the lawn, where most of the females of the establishment were standing.

“Saved!” he cried, in a voice of choking triumph, as he rose and held up the rescued and smoking doll.

“Doan! my da’ling Doan!” cried Flo, extending her arms eagerly to receive the martyr.

By that time the house was fairly alight in its upper storey, despite the utmost efforts of all the men to extinguish the fire with buckets of water.

“No use, no use to waste time trying,” said the laird, as he ran out among the females on the lawn. “Is everybody safe? eh? Milly—where’s Milly?”

“Milly! where’s Milly?” echoed a stentorian voice, as Barret bounded out of the smoking house with singed hair and blackened face.

“There—there she is!” cried several of the party, as they pointed towards the avenue leading to the house.

All eyes were eagerly turned in that direction, and a general exclamation of thankfulness escaped, as Milly was seen running towards the scene of action. She had been down seeing old Mrs Donaldson, and knew nothing of what had occurred, till she came in sight of the conflagration.

Chapter Sixteen

Two Fires Subdued

Barret, half ashamed of the wild anxiety he displayed, turned at once, sprang back into the burning house, and began to expend his energies in helping his companions and the men of the establishment to save as much as possible of the laird’s property.

While this was being done and the attention of every one was directed exclusively to the work of salvage—in which work Pat Quin shone conspicuous for daring as well as for all but miraculous power to endure heat and swallow smoke, Roderick, the groom, retired to the lawn for a few moments’ respite. He was accompanied by Donald, his faithful assistant, who was almost exhausted by his labours.

“Tonal’, poy, what iss it that Muster Archie wull pe doin’?”

“I think he wull pe takin’ the hoose!”

They had not time to make further inquiry, for just then the wind changed and blew the flames towards the part of the mansion that had been already burned, giving some hope that the other parts might yet be saved, and calling for the redoubled efforts of all hands.

Donald was right in his conjecture. Archie was indeed “takin’” the house! He and Eddie—having succeeded in rescuing the photographic apparatus, and, finding that no lives were in danger, and that enough people were already endeavouring to save the property—had calmly devoted themselves to taking photographs of the blazing scene from several points of view—a feat that was still possible, as daylight had not yet been diminished in power.

The change of wind, however, brought their operations to an abrupt close, for no idlers were tolerated. Even the women were summoned to stand in a row, and pass buckets from a neighbouring pond to the burning house.

The proceedings now had been reduced to some degree of order by Giles Jackman, whose experience abroad had tended to develop his powers of organisation.

The buckets were passed in uninterrupted succession from the pond to the house, where Mabberly received them at the front door, that being deemed the point where danger and the need for unusual energy began. He passed them in through the smoke of the hall to MacRummle, who handed them to Roderick and the butler. These last stood in the dense smoke of the staircase, at the head of which the tall gamekeeper, Jackman and Barret, were engaged in close and deadly conflict with the flames, intense heat, falling débris, and partial suffocation. The rest of the people, headed by the laird, who seemed to have renewed his youth and become ubiquitous, continued the work of salvage.

By that time the party of warriors who fought the flames was increased by the shepherds and a few small farmers who dwelt in the neighbourhood. These being stalwart and willing men, were a valuable accession to the force, and did good service not only in saving property, but in extinguishing the fire. So that, before night closed in, the flames were finally subdued, after about one-half of the mansion had been consumed.

That half, however, was still a source of great danger, the walls being intensely hot and the fallen beams a mass of glowing charcoal, which the least breath of wind blew into a flame. A few of the shepherds were therefore stationed to watch these, and pour water on them continually. But the need for urgent haste was past, and most of the people had assembled on the lawn among the furniture when the stars began to glimmer in the darkening sky.

“My dear,” said the laird, on finding his wife in the group, “it is all safe now, so you had better get off to rest, and take all the women with ye. Come, girls, be off to your beds,” he added, turning with kindly smile to the domestics, and with the energetic manner that was habitual to him. “You’ve done good service, and stand much in need of rest, all of you. The men will keep a sharp look out on what’s left o’ the fire, so you have nothing to fear. Off with you, an’ get to sleep!”

There was no hesitation in obeying the laird’s commands. The female domestics went off at once to their dormitories, and these were fortunately in that part of the mansion which had escaped. Some of the younger girls, however, made no effort to conceal a giggle as they glanced at their master who, with coat off, shirt torn, face blackened, hair dishevelled, and person dripping, presented rather an undignified appearance. But as worthy Allan Gordon had never set up a claim to dignity, the giggles only amused him.

“Duncan! Duncan, man, where are ye?” he called out, when the ladies and female domestics had gone. “Oh! there ye are—an’ not much more respectable than myself!” he added, as the butler answered to his summons. “Go and fetch the whisky bottle. We’ll all be the better of a dram after such a fight. What say you, gentlemen? Do you not relax your teetotal principles a little on an occasion like this?”

“We never relax our total abstinence principles,” returned Jackman, with a smile, as he wrung some of the water out of his garments. “I think I may speak for my companions as well as myself. Friendship has been a sufficient stimulant while we were engaged in the work, and gratitude for success will suffice now that the work is done.”

“Run, Donald, boy, an’ tell them to get some hot coffee ready at once! It’s all very well, gentlemen,” said the laird, turning again to his friends, “to talk of subsisting on friendship and gratitude; but although very good in their way, they won’t do for present necessities. At least it would ill become me to express my gratitude to such good friends without offering something more. For myself,” he added, filling and tossing off a glass of whisky, “I’m an old man, and not used to this kind of work, so I’ll be the better of a dram. Besides, the Gordons—my branch of them, at least—have always taken kindly to mountain dew, in moderation, of course, in strict moderation!”

There was a quiet laugh at this among some of the men who stood near, for it was well-known that not a few of the laird’s ancestors had taken kindly to mountain dew without the hampering influence of moderation, though the good man himself had never been known to “exceed”—in the Celtic acceptation of that term.

“Are ye laughing, you rascals?” he cried, turning to the group with a beaming, though blackened countenance. “Come here an’ have your share—as a penalty!”

Nothing loath, the men came forward, and with a quiet word of thanks each poured the undiluted fiery liquid down his throat, with what the boy Donald styled a “pech” of satisfaction.

Ivor Donaldson chanced to be one of the group, but he did not come forward with the rest.

“Come, Ivor, man, and have a dram,” said the laird, pouring out a glass.

But the keeper did not move. He stood with his arms crossed firmly on his broad chest, and a stern dogged expression on his handsome face.

“Ivor, hi!” exclaimed the old gentleman, in a louder voice, supposing that the man had not heard. “After work like this a dram will do you good.”

“Oo, ay!” remarked one of the shepherds, who had probably began to feel the “good” by that time; “a tram of whusky iss a fery coot thing at all times—specially when it is coot whusky!”

At this profound witticism there was a general laugh among the men, in the midst of which the laird repeated his invitation to Ivor, saying that he seemed knocked up after his exertions (which was partially true), and adding that surely he was man enough to take a little for his good at such a time, without giving way to it.

The laird did not mean this as a taunt, but it was taken as such by the keeper, who came forward quickly, seized the glass, and drained it. Having done so he stood for a moment like one awaking from a dream. Then, without a word of thanks, he dropped the glass, sprang into the shrubbery, and disappeared.

The laird was surprised, and his conscience smote him, but he turned the incident off with a laugh.

“Now, lads,” he said, “go to work again. It will take all your energies to keep the fire down, if it comes on to blow; and your comrades must be tired by this time.”

Fortunately it did not come on to blow. The night was profoundly calm, so that a steady though small supply of water sufficed to quench incipient flames.

Meanwhile Giles Jackman had left the group on the lawn almost at the same moment with the gamekeeper; for, having been accustomed to deal with men in similar circumstances, he had a suspicion of what might follow. The poor man, having broken the resolve so recently and so seriously formed, had probably, he thought, become desperate.

Ivor was too active for him, however. He disappeared before Jackman had followed more than a few yards. After a few moments of uncertainty, the latter made straight for old Molly Donaldson’s cottage, thinking it possible that her unhappy son might go there. On the way he had to pass the keeper’s own cottage, and was surprised to see a light in it and the door wide open. As he approached, the sound of the keeper’s voice was heard speaking violently, mingled with blows, as if delivered with some heavy instrument against timber. A loud crash of breaking wood met Jackman’s ear as he sprang in. Ivor was in the act of rending the remains of a door from a corner cupboard, while an axe, which he had just dropped, lay at his feet on the earthen floor. A black quart bottle, visible through the opening which had been made, showed the reason of his assault on the cupboard. If there had been any uncertainty on the point, it would have been dispelled by the wild laugh or yell of fierce exultation with which he seized the bottle, drew the cork, and raised it to his dry lips.

Before it reached them, however, Jackman’s strong hand seized the keeper’s arm. A gasp from the roused giant, and the deadly pallor of his countenance, as he glanced round, showed that superstition had suddenly seized on his troubled soul; but no sooner did he see who it was that had checked him, than the hot blood rebounded to his face, and a fierce glare shot from his eyes.

“Thank God!—not too late!” exclaimed Jackman, fervently.

The thanksgiving was addressed to God, of course without reference to its influence on Ivor; but no words, apparently, could have been used with better effect upon the keeper’s spirit. His eyes lost their ferocity, and he stood irresolute.

“Break it, like a good fellow,” said Jackman, in a soft, kindly voice, as he pointed to the bottle.

“I broke one before, sir,” said Ivor, in a despairing tone; “and you see how useless that was.”

“Give it to me, then.”

As he spoke, he took the bottle from the man’s grasp, and cast it through the open doorway, where it was shivered to atoms on the stones outside.

Striding towards a pitcher of water which stood in a corner of the room, the keeper seized it, put it to his lips, and almost drained it.

“There!” he exclaimed; “that will drown the devil for a time!”

“No, Ivor, it won’t; but it will help to drown it,” said Jackman, in the same kindly, almost cheerful, voice. “Neither cold water nor hottest fire can slay the evils that are around and within us. There is only one Saviour from sin—Jesus, ‘who died for the sins of the whole world.’ He makes use of means, however, and these means help towards the great end. But it was not the Saviour who told you to lock that bottle in that cupboard—was it?”

An expression of perplexity came over the keeper’s face.

“You are right, sir; it was not. But, to my thinkin’ it was not the devil either!”

“Very likely not. I think sometimes we are inclined to put many things on the devil’s shoulders which ought to rest on our own. You know what the Bible says about the deceitfulness of our hearts.”

“I do, sir, an’ yet I don’t quite see that it was that either. I did not put that bottle there to have it handy when I wanted it. I put it there when I made up my mind to fight this battle in Christ’s name, so as I might see if He gave me strength to resist the temptation, when it was always before me.”

“Just so, Ivor, my friend. That ‘if’ shows that you doubted Him! Moreover, He has put into our mouths that prayer, ‘lead us not into temptation,’ and you proposed to keep temptation always before your eyes.”

“No, sir, no, not quite so bad as that,” cried the keeper, growing excited. “I shut the door an’ locked the accursed thing out of my sight, and when I found I could not resist the temptation, I took the key out and flung it into the sea.”

“Would it not have been better to have flung the evil thing itself into the sea? You soon found another key!” said his friend, pointing to the axe.

“You say truth, sir; but oh, you hev no notion o’ the fight I hev had wi’ that drink. The days an’ nights of torment! The horrors! Ay, if men could only taste the horrors before they tasted the drink, I do believe there would be no drunkards at all! I hev lain on that bed, sir,” he pointed to it as he spoke, while large drops stood on his pale brow at the very recollection, “and I hev seen devils and toads and serpents crawlin’ round me and over me—great spiders, and hairy shapeless things, wi’ slimy legs goin’ over my face, and into my mouth, though I gnashed my teeth together—and glaring into my tight shut eyes, an’ strangling me. Oh! sir, I know not what hell may be, but I think that it begins on earth wi’ some men!”

“From all this Jesus came to save us, Ivor,” said Jackman, endeavouring to turn the poor man’s mind from the terrible thoughts that seemed about to overwhelm him; “but God will have us to consent to be saved in His own way. When you put the temptation in the cupboard, you disobeyed Him, and therefore were trying to be saved in your own way. Disobedience and salvation cannot go together, because salvation means deliverance from disobedience. You and I will pray, Ivor, that God would give us his holy Spirit, and then we shall fight our battles in future with more success.”

Thereupon, standing as they were, but with bowed spirits and heads, they laid the matter in the hands of God in a brief but earnest prayer.

While these two were thus engaged, the scene at the house had entered upon another phase. The weather, which all that day had been extremely changeable, suddenly assumed its gloomiest aspect, and rain began to fall heavily. Gradually the fall increased in volume, and at last descended in an absolute deluge, rendering the use of water-buckets quite unnecessary, and accomplishing in a very few minutes what all the men at the place could not have done in as many hours. But that which prevented effectually the extension of the fire, caused, almost as effectually, the destruction of much of the property exposed on the lawn. The men were therefore set to work with all their energies to replace in the unburnt part of the mansion all that they had so recently carried out of it.

In this work Ivor Donaldson found a sufficient outlet for the fierce unnatural energies which had been aroused within him. He went about heaving and hauling, and staggering under weights that in an ordinary state of body and mind he could scarcely have moved. Little notice was taken of him, however, for every one else was, if not doing the same thing, at least working up to the utmost extent of his ability.

Before midnight all was over. The fire was what the cook termed black out. The furniture, more than half destroyed, was re-housed. The danger of a revival of the flames was past, and the warriors in the great battle felt themselves free to put off their armour and seek refreshment.

This they did—the males at least—in the gun-room, which, being farthest from the fire, and, therefore, left untouched, had not been damaged either by fire or water. Here the thoughtful laird had given orders to have a cold collation spread, and here, with his guests, men-servants, boys, and neighbouring farmers around him, he sat down to supper.

Chapter Seventeen

Conclusion

“We are a queer lot, what-ë-ver!” remarked one of the farmers, with a deep sigh and a candid smile, as he looked round the company.

The observation was incontrovertible, if charcoaled faces, lank hair, torn and dripping garments, and a general appearance of drowned-ratiness may be regarded as “queer.”

“My friends,” said the laird, digging the carving fork into a cold turkey, “we are also a hungry lot, if I may judge of others by myself, so let me advise you to fall to. We can’t afford to sit long over our supper in present circumstances. Help yourselves, and make the most of your opportunities.”

“Thank God,” said Giles Jackman, “that we have the opportunity to sit down to sup under a roof at all.”

“Amen to that,” returned the laird; “and thanks to you all, my friends, for the help you have rendered. But for you, this house and all in it would have been burnt to ashes. I never before felt so strongly how true it is that we ‘know not what a day may bring forth.’”

“What you say, sir, is fery true,” remarked a neighbouring small farmer, who had a sycophantish tendency to echo or approve whatever fell from the laird’s lips.

“It is indeed true,” returned his host, wiping the charcoal from his face with a moist handkerchief; “but it is the Word that says it, not I. And is it not strange,” he added, turning with a humorous look to Barret, “that after all these years the influence of Joan of Arc should be still so powerful in the Western Isles? To think that she should set my house on fire in this nineteenth century!”

“I am very glad she did!” suddenly exclaimed Junkie, who, having been pretty well ignored or forgotten by everybody, was plying his knife and fork among the other heroes of the fight in a state of inexpressible felicity.

“You rascal!” exclaimed his father; “you should have been in bed long ago! But why are you so glad that Joan set the house on fire?”

“Because she gave me the chance to save Blackie’s life!” replied Junkie, with supreme contentment.

The company laughed, and continued their meal, but some of them recalled the proverb which states that “the boy is father to the man,” and secretly prophesied a heroic career for Junkie.

Ten months passed away, during which period Allan Gordon retired to his residence in Argyllshire while his mansion in the Western Island was being restored. During the same period Archie produced innumerable hazy photographs of Kinlossie House in a state of conflagration; Eddie painted several good copies of the bad painting into which Milly Moss had introduced a megatherium cow and other specimens of violent perspective; and Junkie underwent a few terrible paroxysms of intense hatred of learning in all its aspects, in which paroxysms he was much consoled by the approval and sympathy of dear little Flo.