Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication by R. M. Ballantyne (short story to read TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication by R. M. Ballantyne (short story to read TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“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 matériel 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!
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
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