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. The Eagle Cliff by R. M. Ballantyne (good books to read for women .TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Eagle Cliff by R. M. Ballantyne (good books to read for women .TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
Placing the umbrella in such a position that it came between himself and the bull, he laid himself flat down in the drain. The opening was far too narrow to admit his broad shoulders, except when turned sidewise. The same treatment was not applicable to other parts of his person, but, by dint of squeezing and collapsing, he got down, nestled under the bank, and lay still.
On came the bull till it reached the basket, which, with a deft toss, it hurled into the air and sent the silvery treasure flying. A moment more and it went head foremost into the umbrella. Whether it was surprised at finding its enemy so light and unsubstantial, or at the slipping of one of its feet into the drain, we cannot tell, but the result was that it came down and turned a complete somersault over the drain, carrying the umbrella along with it in its mad career!
When the bull scrambled to its feet again, and looked round in some surprise, it found that one of its legs and both its horns were through and entangled with the wrecked article.
It was a fine sight to witness the furious battle that immediately ensued between the black bull and that cotton umbrella! Rage at the man was evidently transmuted into horror at the article. The bull pranced and shook its head and pawed about in vain efforts to get rid of its tormenter. Shreds of the wreck flapped wildly in its eyes. Spider-like ribs clung to its massive limbs and poked its reeking sides, while the swaying handle kept tapping its cheeks and ears and nose, as if taunting the creature with being held and badgered by a thing so flimsy and insignificant!
Happily this stirring incident was not altogether unwitnessed. Far up the valley it was observed by four living creatures, three of whom immediately came tearing down the road at racing speed. Gradually their different powers separated them from each other. Archie came first, Eddie next, and Junkie brought up the rear. On nearing the field the first wrenched a stake out of a fence; the second caught up a rake, that had been left by the haymakers; and the last, unscrewing the butt of his rod, broke the line, and flourished the weapon as a cudgel. They all three leaped into the field one after another, and bore courageously down on the bull, being well accustomed to deal with animals of the sort.
Separating as they drew near, they attacked him on three sides at once. Short work would he have made with any of them singly; together they were more than his match. When he charged Junkie, Archie ran in and brought the stake down on his skull. When he turned on his assailant, Eddie combed his sides with the rake. Dashing at the new foe he was caught by the tail by Junkie, who applied the butt of his rod vigorously, the reel adding considerable weight to his blows. At last the bull was cowed—if we may venture to say so—and driven ignominiously into a corner of the field, where he vented his rage on the remnants of the umbrella, while the victors returned to the field of battle.
“But what’s come of MacRummle?” said the panting Junkie as they gathered up the fish and replaced them in the basket. “I never saw him get over the wall. Did you?”
“No,” replied Archie, looking round in surprise.
“I dare say he ran off while we were thumpin’ the bull,” suggested Eddie.
“I’m here, boys! I’m here, Junkie,” cried a strange sepulchral voice, as if from the bowels of the earth.
“Where?” asked the boys gazing down at their feet with expressions of awe.
“He’s i’ the drain!” cried Junkie with an expanding mouth.
“Ay—that’s it! I’m in the drain! Lend a hand, boys; I can hardly move.”
They ran to him instantly, but it required the united powers of all three to get him out, and when they succeeded he was found to be coated all over one side with thick mud.
“What a muddle you’ve made of yourself, to be sure!” exclaimed Junkie. “Let me scrape you.”
But MacRummle refused to be scraped until they had placed the five-foot wall between himself and the black bull. Then he submitted with a profound sigh.
One beautiful Sunday morning while the party assembled in Kinlossie House was at breakfast, a message was brought to the laird that he “wass wantit to speak wi’ the poy Tonal’.”
“Well, Donald, my lad, what want ye with me this fine morning?” asked the laird, on going out to the hall.
“I wass telt to tell ye the’ll be no kirk the day, for the minister’s got to preach at Drumquaich.”
“Very well, Donald. Have you had breakfast?”
“Oo, ay.”
“Go into the kitchen, then, and they will give you some more.”
“Thenkee, sir.”
“I find,” said the laird on returning to his friends, “that we are to have no service to-day in our little church, as our minister has to take the duty at Drumquaich, on the other side of the loch. So those of you who are bent on going to church must make up your minds to cross the loch in the boat.”
“Is Drumquaich the little village close under the pine wood, that we see on doubling Eagle Point?” asked Mabberly.
“The same. The little church there, like our own, is not supplied regularly. Sometimes a Divinity student is sent down to them. Occasionally they have a great gun from Edinburgh.”
“I think some of the students are better than the great guns,” remarked Mrs Gordon quietly.
“True, my dear, and that is most natural, for it stands to reason that some at least of the students must be the great guns of the future in embryo; and they have the freshness of youth to set against the weight of erudition.”
“The student who preached to us here last Sunday,” observed Barret, “must surely be an embryo great gun, for he treated his subject in a learned and masterly way that amazed me. From the look of him I would not have expected even an average discourse.”
“That was partly owing to his modest air and reticence,” returned the laird. “If you heard him converse on what he would call metapheesical subjects, you would perhaps have been still more surprised.”
“Well, I hope he will preach to-day,” said Barret.
“From which I conclude that you will be one of the boat party. My wife and Milly make three, myself four; who else?”
“No—don’t count me” interrupted the hostess; “I must stay with Flo; besides, I must visit poor Mrs Donaldson, who is again laid up. But I’ll be glad if you will take Aggy Anderson. Ever since the poor girl came here for a little change of air she has been longing to go out in the boat. I really believe it is a natural craving for the free, fresh breezes of the sea. May she go?”
“By all means; as many as the boat will hold,” returned the laird.
It was finally arranged that, besides those already mentioned, Mabberly, Jackman, MacRummle, Quin, the three boys, Roderick the groom, and Ian Anderson, as boatman in charge, should cross over to the little church at Drumquaich, about eight miles distant by water.
While they were getting ready, Mrs Gordon and Flo, with the beloved black dolly, paid a visit to old Molly, the keeper’s mother. They found her in her arm-chair, sitting by the large, open chimney, on the hearth of which a very small fire was burning—not for the sake of warmth, but for the boiling of an iron pot which hung over it.
The old woman was enveloped in a large, warm shawl—a gift from the “Hoose.” She also wore a close-fitting white cap, or “mutch,” which was secured to her head by a broad, black ribbon. The rims of her spectacles were of tortoiseshell, and she had a huge family Bible on her knee, while her feet rested upon a three-legged stool. She looked up inquiringly as her visitors entered.
“Why, Molly, I thought you were in bed. They told me you were ill.”
“Na, mem, I’m weel eneuch in body; it’s the speerit that’s ill. And ye ken why.”
She spoke in a faint, quavering voice, for her old heart had been crushed by her wayward, self-indulgent son, and a few tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks; but she was too old and feeble to give way to demonstrative grief. Little Flo, whose heart was easily touched, went close to the poor old woman, and looked up anxiously in her face.
“My bonny doo! It’s a pleasure to look at ye,” said the old woman, laying her hand on the child’s head.
Mrs Gordon drew in a chair and sat down by her side.
“Tell me about it,” she said confidentially; “has he given way again, after all his promises to Mr Jackman?”
“Oo, ay; Maister Jackman’s a fine man, but he canna change the hert o’ my son—though it is kind o’ him to try. No, the only consolation I hev is here.”
She laid her hand on the open Bible.
“Where is he just now?” asked the lady.
As she spoke, a fierce yell was heard issuing from the keeper’s cottage, which, as we have said, stood close to his mother’s abode.
“Ye hear till ’im,” said the old woman with a sorrowful shake of the head. “He iss fery pad the day. Whiles he thinks that horrible craters are crawlin’ ower him, an’ whiles that fearful bogles are glowerin’ at him. Sometimes he fancies that the foul fiend himsel’ has gotten haud o’ him, an’ then he screeches as ye hear.”
“Would it do any good, Molly, if I were to go and speak to him, think you?”
“Na, ye’d better let him lie. He’s no’ hissel’ the now, and there’s no sayin’ what he might do. Oh! drink! drink!” cried the old creature, clasping her hands; “ye took my man awa’, an’ now ye’re ruinin’ my son! But,” she added with sudden animation, “we can pray for him; though it iss not possible for you or Maister Jackman to change my bairn’s hert, the Lord can do it, for wi’ Him ‘a’ things are possible.’”
To this Mrs Gordon gave a hearty assent. Sitting still as she was, with hand resting on the old woman’s arm, she shut her eyes and prayed fervently for the salvation of the enslaved man.
She was still engaged in this act of worship when another shriek was heard. At the same time the door of the keeper’s cottage was heard to open, and Ivor’s feet were heard staggering towards his mother’s cottage. Poor Flo took refuge in great alarm behind Mrs Donaldson, while her mother, rising quickly, drew back a few paces.
Next moment the small door was burst open, and the keeper plunged, almost fell, into the room with something like a savage cheer. He was a terrible sight. With wildly dishevelled hair, bloodshot eyes, and distorted features, he stood for a few seconds glaring at his mother; his tall figure swaying to and fro, while he held a quart bottle aloft in his right hand. He did not appear to observe the visitors, but continued to stare at his mother with an expression that perplexed her, accustomed though she was to his various moods.
“See, mother,” he shouted fiercely, “I have done wi’ the accursed thing at last!”
He dashed the bottle on the hearth with tremendous violence as he spoke, so that it vanished into minute fragments, while its contents spurted about in all directions. Happily very little of it went into the fire, else the cottage would have been set ablaze.
With another wild laugh the man wheeled
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