April was drawing to an end, and the oaks on the Kite’s fortress were
growing ever ruddier; on the steep mossy slopes among the rocks the
ferns were really beginning to uncurl. All was very quiet and peaceful;
over the opposite hill a pair of Buzzards soared about unmolested; the
Woodwrens had arrived, to spend the summer among the oaks; the
Sandpipers were whistling along the river below, and the trout were
lazily rising in the pools among the rocks.
The Baroness was happy and cheerful; the Baron, looking back on the
experience of half a century, knew well that a tranquil April does not
always lead to a happy May; but he said nothing of his doubts, and
encouraged his wife. She had presented him, one after another, with
three beautiful eggs; they lay in the nest, which had been built of
sticks, and ornamented, according to the ancestral custom of the race,
with such pleasing odds and ends as could be found at hand, to occupy
her attention during the weary days of her sitting. A long shred of
sheep’s wool: a fragment of an old bonnet that had been a scarecrow,
blown by winter winds from a cottage garden: a damp piece of the _Times_
newspaper, in which a fisherman’s lunch had been wrapped, containing an
account of Lord Roberts’ entry into Bloemfontein; such were the innocent
spoils collected to amuse the Baroness. She had been greatly tempted by
some small linen put out to dry at the farmhouse; but the Baron kept her
away from these treasures, as a needy Peer might keep his Peeress from
the jewellers’ shops. Such objects, he told her, were dangerous, and
might betray them.
So she sat on her beautiful eggs, greenish white with dark red blotches,
and contented herself with the _Times_ and the scrap of old bonnet,
while the Baron sailed slowly round the hill looking out for enemies, or
made longer excursions, if all seemed safe, in search of food for his
wife. And so far he had seen nothing to alarm him. A fisherman would
come up the river now and again, and look up at him with interest as he
rested to eat his lunch; but the Baron knew well that fishermen are too
busy to be dangerous. Nor was there any other human being to be seen but
a farmer on his rough-coated pony, or the parson striding over the hills
to visit a distant parishioner.
But one morning in May—a lovely morning, too fresh and clear to last—as
the Baron was gliding round and round far above the hill, his keen eye
caught a slight movement among the rocky ridges on its summit. Poised on
even wings, his tail deftly balancing him against the breeze, he
watched: and soon he knew that he was being watched himself. For a human
figure was there, lying on its back in a cleft of the grey rock, and
looking up at him with a field-glass. For a long time they watched each
other, motionless and in silence; but at last the human creature seemed
to weary of it, and rose. A cry escaped the Baron—he could not help it;
and from over the craggy side of the fortress came the answering cry of
the Baroness as she sat on her treasures.
“Fool that I am,” thought the Baron, “I have betrayed her, and she has
betrayed the nest.” One hope remained; the nest was in a stronger
position than last year. On the top of the cliff towards the river no
trees could grow; but some fifty feet below there was a mossy ledge on
which three oaks had rooted themselves. Then came another ledge with
more trees: then a steep space covered with large boulders: and then
another cliff falling sheer into a deep pool of the river. In the middle
oak on the highest ledge the nest had been placed; once on the ledge, a
clever climber might mount the tree, but to get there was no easy
matter, and a fall from the tree or ledge would be almost certain death.
The human creature began to move along the top of the fortress towards
its rocky face above the river; he had heard the Baroness’s answering
cry, and had attained his object. He knew now where the nest must be;
and peeping over the edge, he soon made it out in the still almost
leafless oak. He surveyed his ground carefully and then vanished for an
hour or two; and the Baron, who had not yet told his wife, felt a faint
gleam of hope, which increased as the rain began to sweep down the
lonely valley, hiding the fortress in swirls of mist, while now and then
a cold blast rushed up from below, shaking the oak to its very roots.
But late in the afternoon, wrapped in a macintosh, and carrying a bag,
the minister of evil again appeared upon the hill-top; and now the Baron
gave full vent to his anger and distress, calling loudly to his wife.
She left the nest and joined him, wailing bitterly as she saw that
ominous black figure standing but fifty feet above her treasures. Round
and round they flew, anger and despair in their hearts.
Tom Lee had not been overtaken by his father’s telegram; it was he who
stood there, half sorry for the Kites, but with a youngster’s love of
climbing, and a keen desire to see the eggs. Now he fixed a short iron
bar into the ground at the top of the cliff, and to this he fastened a
stout rope. There would be just light enough to do the deed that day,
and to-morrow he would travel home with the rent of one house and the
spoil of another in his bag. Taking off his waterproof, and slinging on
his shoulder a small basket full of cotton-wool, he seized the rope and
let himself down it. As he hung in mid-air he thought he heard a call on
the hill, and arriving safely on the ledge, he stood for a moment and
listened. There it was again, not the Baron’s angry cry, nor yet the
Baroness’s wail. But there was no time to lose, and with firm grasp of
hand and foot he began to climb the oak. The boughs were sound and
strong; all that was needed was a nimble frame and a steady head, and of
both these Tom had been possessed from his earliest boyhood. In three
minutes the eggs were within his reach, and in another they were within
the basket, safely covered up in the cotton-wool. At this moment the
call caught his ear again, and ere he descended he paused to listen once
more, and began to fear that some other human being was on that lonely
hill. The Baron and the Baroness, who had been flying about him, though
not daring to attack so formidable a foe, flew further and further away
with heart-piercing cries as Tom descended the tree safely, gripped his
rope again, and swarmed up it to the cliff-top.
No sooner was he safe and sound on terra firma, than a figure emerged
from the drizzling mist and advanced towards him. Tom’s heart quaked
within him; was it the angry spirit of the mountains, or a constable
come to carry out a new County Council order? But in another moment he
saw that it was his father, wet through and with an excited glow in his
eyes.
“Why, dad,” he said, “I thought you were the Old Man of the Mountain.
Was it you that called? Well, I’m blest,—you’ll catch your death of
cold!”
“I’ve been calling ever so long,” said his father, out of breath. “I
couldn’t have found you but for the Kites. Didn’t you get my telegram?”
“Not I,” answered Tom; “we don’t get telegrams up to time in these
parts. But here’s the rent all safe, dad.” And he opened the basket.
The father looked with eager eyes at those beautiful eggs, and handled
one gently with the deepest professional admiration.
“Well,” he said, quietly, “now you’ve been down there once, you may as
well go again. You just go and put ’em straight back, my lad.”
Tom stared at his father, and thought the old man had gone clean daft.
At that moment the Kites returned, and came wheeling overhead with loud
melancholy cries.
“I’ve no time to explain, Tom; it’s getting dark, and there’s not a
moment to be lost. You do as I tell you, and put ’em straight back, all
of them, as they were. We’ve got the rent.”
At these last words, Tom seized the rope again, and in a minute was once
more on the ledge below. His father watched him from the top, pretty
confident in his son’s powers of climbing. There was no need for
anxiety: the good deed was done even quicker than the bad one; and Tom,
puzzled but obedient, stood safe and sound once more by his father’s
side.
As they went back to the little inn down the valley in the drizzling
rain, the story of the cheque was told; and nothing remained but to make
sure that the Kites returned to their nest. Armed with a field-glass
they climbed next day another hill, and lying there on the top, they
watched the fortress long and anxiously. When they left the inn that
afternoon on their homeward journey, the old dealer’s heart was light.
The Baron and the Baroness had not forsaken their treasures; and it may
be that after all they will not be the last of their race.
Late that evening there arrived in London this telegram for the
expectant collector from Stephen Lee:
“Your great kindness has saved two broods, mine and the Kites’.”