With a swelled and scratched face, a discoloured eye, a damaged nose,
and a head swathed in bandages--it is no wonder that Mrs Moss failed to
recognise in John Barret the violent young man with the talent for
assaulting ladies!
She was not admitted to his room until nearly a week after the accident,
for, although he had not been seriously injured, he had received a
rather severe shock, and it was thought advisable to keep him quiet as a
matter of precaution. When she did see him at last, lying on a sofa in
a dressing-gown, and with his head and face as we have described, his
appearance did not call to her remembrance the faintest resemblance to
the confused, wild, and altogether incomprehensible youth, who had
tumbled her over in the streets of London, and almost run her down in
the Eagle Pass.
Of course Barret feared that she would recognise him, and had been
greatly exercised as to his precise duty in the circumstances; but when
he found that she did not recognise either his face or his voice, he
felt uncertain whether it would not be, perhaps, better to say nothing
at all about the matter in the meantime. Indeed, the grateful old lady
gave him no time to make a "clean breast of it," as he had at first
intended to do.
"Oh! Mr Barret," she exclaimed, sitting down beside him, and laying
her hand lightly on his arm, while the laird sat down on another chair
and looked on benignly, "I cannot tell you how thankful I am that you
have not been killed, and how very grateful I am to you for all your
bravery in saving my darling Milly's life. Now, don't say a word about
disclaiming credit, as I know you are going to do--"
"But, dear madam," interrupted the invalid, "allow me to explain. I
cannot bear to deceive you, or to sail under false colours--"
"Sail under false colours! Explain!" repeated Mrs Moss, quickly.
"What nonsense do you talk? Has not my daughter explained, and _she_ is
not given to colouring things falsely."
"Excuse me, Mrs Moss," said Barret; "I did not mean that. I only--"
"I don't care what you mean, Mr Barret," said the positive little
woman; "it's of no use your denying that you have behaved in a noble,
courageous manner, and I won't listen to anything to the contrary; so
you need not interrupt me. Besides, I have been told not to allow you
to speak much; so, sir, if I am to remain beside you at all, I must
impose silence."
Barret sank back on his couch with a sigh, and resigned himself to his
fate.
So much for the mother. Later in the same day the daughter sat beside
his couch. The laird was not present on that occasion. They were
alone.
"Milly," said the invalid, taking her small hand in his, "have you
mentioned it yet to your mother?"
"Yes, John," replied Milly, blushing in spite of--nay, rather more in
consequence of--her efforts not to do so. "I spoke to her some days
ago. Indeed, soon after the accident, when we were sure you were going
to get well. And she did not disapprove."
"Ay, but have you spoken since she has seen me--since this morning?"
"Yes, John."
"And she is still of the same mind--not shocked or shaken by my
appearance?"
"She is still of the same mind," returned Milly; "and not shocked in the
least. My darling mother is far too wise to be shocked by trifles--I--I
mean by scratches and bruises. She judges of people by their hearts."
"I'm glad to hear that, Milly, for I have something shocking to tell her
about myself, that will surprise her, if it does nothing else."
"Indeed!" said Milly, with the slightest possible rise of her pretty
eyebrows.
"Yes. You have heard from your mother about that young rascal who ran
into her with his bicycle in London some time ago?"
"Yes; she wrote to me about it," replied Milly, with an amused smile.
"You mean, I suppose, the reckless youth who, after running her down,
had the cowardice to run away and leave her lying flat on the pavement?
Mother has more than once written about that event with indignation, and
rightly, I think. But how came you to know about it, John?"
"Milly," said Barret, holding her hand very tight, and speaking
solemnly, "_I am that cowardly man_!"
"Now, John, you are jesting."
"Indeed--indeed I am not."
"Do you really mean to say that it was _you_ who ran against my--Oh! you
_must_ be jesting!"
"Again I say I am _not_. I am the man--the coward."
"Well, dear John," said Milly, flushing considerably, "I must believe
you; but the fact does not in the least reduce my affection for you,
though it will lower my belief in your prudence, unless you can
explain."
"I will explain," said Barret; and we need scarcely add that the
explanation tended rather to increase than diminish Milly's affection
for, as well as her belief in, her lover! But when Barret went on
further to describe the meeting in the Eagle Pass, she went off into
uncontrollable laughter.
"And you are sure that mother has no idea that you are the man?" she
asked.
"Not the remotest."
"Well, now, John, you must not let her know for some time yet. You must
gain her affections, sir, before you venture to reveal your true
character."
Of course Barret agreed to this. He would have agreed to anything that
Milly proposed, except, perhaps, the giving up of his claim to her own
hand. Deception, however, invariably surrounds the deceiver with more
or less of difficulty. That same evening, while Milly was sitting alone
with her mother, the conversation took a perplexing turn.
There had been a pretty long pause, after a rather favourable commentary
on the character of Barret, when the thin little old lady had wound up
with the observation that the subject of their criticism was a
remarkably agreeable man, with a playfully humorous and a delightfully
serious turn of mind--"and _so_ modest" withal!
Apparently the last words had turned her mind into the new channel, for
she resumed--
"Talking of insolence, my dear--"
"_Were_ we talking of insolence, mother?" said Milly, with a surprised
smile.
"Well, my love, I was thinking of the opposite of modesty, which is the
same thing. Do you know, I had a meeting on the day of my arrival here
which surprised me very much? To say truth, I did not mention it
sooner, because I wished to give you a little surprise. Why do you
change your seat, my love? Did you feel a draught where you were?"
"No--no. I--I only want to get the light a little more at my back--to
keep it off my face. But go on, mother. What was the surprise about?
I'm anxious to know."
If Milly did not absolutely know, she had at least a pretty good idea of
what was coming!
"Well, of course you remember about that young man--that--that
_cowardly_ young man who--"
"Who ran you down in London? Yes, yes, _I_ know," interrupted the
daughter, endeavouring to suppress a laugh, and putting her handkerchief
suddenly to her face. "I remember well. The monster! What about him?"
"You may well call him a monster! Can you believe it? I have met him
here--in this very island, where he must be living somewhere, of course;
and he actually ran me down again--all _but_." She added the last two
words in order to save her veracity.
"You don't really mean it?" exclaimed Milly, giving way a little in
spite of herself. "With a bicycle?"
It was the mother's turn to laugh now.
"No, you foolish thing; even _I_ have capacity to understand that it
would be impossible to use those hideous--frightful instruments, on the
bad hill-roads of this island. No; but it seems to be the nature of
this dis-disagreeable--I had almost said detestable--youth, to move only
under violent impulse, for he came round a corner of the Eagle Cliff at
such a pace that, as I have said, he _all but_ ran into my arms and
knocked me down."
"Dreadful!" exclaimed Milly, turning her back still more to the light
and working mysteriously with her kerchief.
"Yes, dreadful indeed! And when I naturally taxed him with his
cowardice and meanness, he did not seem at all penitent, but went on
like a lunatic; and although what he said was civil enough, his way of
saying it was very impolite and strange; and after we had parted, I
heard him give way to fiendish laughter. I could not be mistaken, for
the cliffs echoed it in all directions like a hundred hyenas!"
As this savoured somewhat of a joke, Milly availed herself of it, set
free the safety-valve, and, so to speak, saved the boiler!
"Why do you laugh so much, child?" asked the old lady, when her daughter
had transgressed reasonable limits.
"Well, you know, mother, if you _will_ compare a man's laugh to a
hundred hyenas--"
"I didn't compare the man's voice," interrupted Mrs Moss; "I said that
the cliffs--"
"That's worse and worse! Now, mother, don't get into one of your
hypercritical moods, and insist on reasons for everything; but tell me
about this wicked--this dreadful young man. What was he like?"
"Like an ordinary sportsman, dear, with one of those hateful guns in his
hand, and a botanical box on his back. I could not see his face very
well, for he wore one of those ugly pot-caps, with a peak before and
behind; though what the behind one is for I cannot imagine, as men have
no eyes in the back of their heads to keep the sun out of. No doubt
some men would make us believe they have! but it was pulled down on the
bridge of his nose. What I did see of his face seemed to be handsome
enough, and his figure was tall and well made, unquestionably, but his
behaviour--nothing can excuse that! If he had only said he was sorry,
one might have forgiven him."
"Did he _not_ say he was sorry?" asked Milly in some surprise.
"Oh, well, I suppose he did; and begged pardon after a fashion. But
what truth could there be in his protestations when he went away and
laughed like a hyena."
"You said a hundred hyenas, mother."
"No, Milly, I said the cliffs laughed; but don't interrupt me, you
naughty child! Well, I was going to tell you that my heart softened a
little towards the young man, for, as you know, I am not naturally
unforgiving."
"I know it well, dear mother!"
"So, before we parted, I told him that if he had any explanations or
apologies to make, I should be glad to see him at Kinlossie House. Then
I made up my mind to forgive him, and introduce him to you as the man
that ran me down in London! This was the little surprise I had in store
for you, but the ungrateful creature has never come."
"No, and he never will come!" said Milly, with a hearty laugh.
"How do you know that, puss?" asked Mrs Moss, in surprise.
Fortunately the dinner-bell rang at that moment, justifying Milly in
jumping up. Giving her mother a rather violent hug, she rushed from the
room.
"Strange girl!" muttered Mrs Moss as she turned, and occupied herself
with some mysterious--we might almost say captious--operations before
the looking-glass. "The mountain air seems to have increased her
spirits wonderfully. Perhaps love has something to do with it! It may
be both!"
She was still engaged with a subtle analysis of this question--in front
of the glass, which gave her the advantage of supposing that she talked
with an opponent--when sudden and uproarious laughter was heard in the
adjoining room. It was Barret's sitting-room, in which his friends were
wont to visit him. She could distinguish that the laughter proceeded
from himself, Milly, and Giles Jackman, though the walls were too thick
to permit of either words or ordinary tones being heard.
"Milly," said Mrs Moss, severely, when they met a few minutes later in
the drawing-room, "what were you two and Mr Jackman laughing at so
loudly? Surely you did not tell them what we had been speaking about?"
"Of course I did, mother. I did not know you intended to keep the
matter secret. And it did so tickle them! But no one else knows it, so
I will run back to John and pledge him to secrecy. You can caution Mr
Jackman, who will be down directly, no doubt."
As Barret had not at that time recovered sufficiently to admit of his
going downstairs, his friends were wont to spend much of their time in
the snug sitting-room which had been apportioned to him. He usually
held his levees costumed in a huge flowered dressing-gown, belonging to
the laird, so that, although he began to look more like his former self,
as he recovered from his injuries, he was still sufficiently disguised
to prevent recognition on the part of Mrs Moss.
Nevertheless, the old lady felt strangely perplexed about him.
One day the greater part of the household was assembled in his room when
Mrs Moss remarked on this curious feeling.
"I cannot tell what it is, Mr Barret, that makes the sound of your
voice seem familiar to me," she said; "yet not exactly familiar, but a
sort of far-away echo, you know, such as one might have heard in a
dream; though, after all, I don't think I ever did hear a voice in a
dream."
Jackman and Milly glanced at each other, and the latter put the
safety-valve to her mouth while Barret replied--
"I don't know," he said, with a very grave appearance of profound
thought, "that I ever myself dreamt a voice, or, indeed, a sound of any
kind. As to what you say about some voices appearing to be familiar,
don't you think that has something to do with classes of men? No man, I
think, is a solitary unit in creation. Every man is, as it were, the
type of a class to which he belongs--each member possessing more or less
the complexion, tendencies, characteristics, tones, etcetera, of his
particular class. You are familiar, it may be, with the tones of the
class to which I belong, and hence the idea that you have heard my voice
before."
"Philosophically put, Barret," said Mabberly; "I had no idea you thought
so profoundly."
"H'm! I'm not so sure of the profundity," said the little old lady,
pursing her lips; "no doubt you may be right as regards class; but then,
young man, I have been familiar with all classes of men, and therefore,
according to your principle, I should have some strange memories
connected with Mr Jackman's voice, and Mr Mabberly's, and the laird's,
and everybody's."
"Well said, sister; you have him there!" cried the laird with a guffaw;
"but don't lug me into your classes, for I claim to be an exception to
all mankind, inasmuch as I have a sister who belongs to no class, and is
ready to tackle any man on any subject whatever, between metaphysics and
baby linen. Come now, Barret, do you think yourself strong enough to go
out with us in the boat to-morrow?"
"Quite. Indeed, I would have begged leave to go out some days ago, but
Doctor Jackman there, who is a very stern practitioner, forbids me.
However, I have my revenge, for I compel him to sit with me a great
deal, and entertain me with Indian stories."
"Oh!" exclaimed Junkie, who happened to be in the room, "he hasn't told
you yet about the elephant hunt, has he?"
"No, not yet, Junkie," returned Barret; "he has been faithful to his
promise not to go on with that story till you and your brothers are
present."
"Well, but tell it now, Mr Jackman, and I'll go an call Eddie and
Archie," pleaded the boy.
"You will call in vain, then," said his father, "for they have both gone
up the burn, one to photograph and the other to paint. I never saw such
a boy as Archie is to photograph. I believe he has got every scene in
the island worth having on his plates now, and he has taken to the
cattle of late--What think ye was the last thing he tried? I found him
in the yard yesterday trying to photograph himself!"
"That must indeed have puzzled him; how did he manage?" asked MacRummle.
"Well, it was ingenious. He tried to get Pat Quin to manipulate the
instrument while he sat; but Quin is clumsy with his fingers, at least
for such delicate work, and, the last time, he became nervous in his
anxiety to do the thing rightly; so, when Archie cried `Now,' for him to
cover the glass with its little cap, he put it on with a bang that
knocked over and nearly smashed the whole concern. So what does the boy
do but sets up a chair in the right focus and arranges the instrument
with a string tied to the little cap. Then he sits down on the chair,
puts on a heavenly smile, and pulls the string. Off comes the cap! He
counts one, two--I don't know how many--and then makes a sudden dash at
the camera an' shuts it up! What the result may be remains to be seen."
"Oh, it'll be the same as usual," remarked Junkie in a tone of contempt.
"There's always something goes wrong in the middle of it. He tried to
take Boxer the other day, and _he_ wagged his tail in the middle of it.
Then he tried the cat, and she yawned in the middle. Then Flo, and she
laughed in the middle. Then me, an' I forgot, and made a face at Flo in
the middle. It's a pity it has got a middle at all; two ends would be
better, I think. But won't you tell about the elephants to _us_, Mr
Jackman? There's plenty of us here--please!"
"Nay, Junkie; you would not have me break my word, surely. When we are
all assembled together you shall have it--some wet day, perhaps."
"Then there'll be no more wet days _this_ year, if I've to wait for
that," returned the urchin half sulkily.
That same day, Milly, Barret, and Jackman arranged that the mystery of
the cowardly young man must be cleared up.
"Perhaps it would be best for Miss Moss to explain to her mother," said
Giles.
"That will not I," said Milly with a laugh.
"I have decided what to do," said Barret. "I was invited by her to call
and explain anything I had to say, and apologise. By looks, if not by
words, I accepted that invitation, and I shall keep it. If you could
only manage somehow, Milly, to get everybody out of the way, so that I
might find your mother alone in--"
"She's alone _now_," said Milly. "I left her just a minute ago, and she
is not likely to be interrupted, I know."
"Stay, then; I will return in a few minutes."
Barret retired to his room, whence he quickly returned with shooting
coat, knickerbockers, pot-cap and boots, all complete.
"`Richard's himself again!' Allow me to congratulate you," cried
Jackman, shaking his friend by the hand. "But, I say, don't you think
it may give the old lady rather a shock as well as a surprise?"
Barret looked at Milly.
"I think not," said Milly. "As uncle often says of dear mother, `she is
tough.'"
"Well, I'll go," said Barret.
In a few minutes he walked into the middle of the drawing-room and stood
before Mrs Moss, who was reading a book at the time. She laid down the
book, removed her glasses, and looked up.
"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed, with the utmost elevation of her
eyebrows and distension of her eyes; "there you are at last! And you
have not even the politeness to take your hat off, or have yourself
announced. You are the most singularly ill-bred young man, for your
looks, that I ever met with."
"I thought, madam," said Barret in a low voice, "that you would know me
better with my cap on--"
He stopped, for the old lady had risen at the first sound of his voice,
and gazed at him in a species of incredulous alarm.
"Forgive me," cried Barret, pulling off his cap; but again he stopped
abruptly, and, before he could spring forward to prevent it, the little
old lady had fallen flat upon the hearth-rug.
"Quick! hallo! Milly--Giles! Ass that I am! I've knocked her down
_again_!" he shouted, as those whom he summoned burst into the room.
They had not been far off. In a few more minutes Mrs Moss was reviving
on the sofa, and alone with her daughter.
"Milly, dear, this has been a great surprise; indeed, I might almost
call it a shock," she said, in a faint voice.
"Indeed it has been, darling mother," returned Milly in sympathetic
tones, as she smoothed her mother's hair; "and it was all my fault. But
are you quite sure you are not hurt?"
"I don't _feel_ hurt, dear," returned the old lady, with a slight dash
of her argumentative tone; "and don't you think that if I _were_ hurt I
should _feel_ it?"
"Perhaps, mother; but sometimes, you know, people are so _much_ hurt
that they _can't_ feel it."
"True, child, but in these circumstances they are usually unable to
express their views about feeling altogether, which I am not, you see--
no thanks to that--th-to John Barret."
"Oh! mother, I cannot bear to think of it--"
"No wonder," interrupted the old lady. "To think of my being violently
knocked down _twice--almost_ three times--by a big young man like that,
and the first time with a horrid bicycle on the top of us--I might
almost say mixed up with us."
"But, mother, he _never_ meant it, you know--"
"I should _think_ not!" interjected Mrs Moss with a short sarcastic
laugh.
"No, indeed," continued Milly, with some warmth; "and if you only knew
what he has suffered on your account--"
"Milly," cried Mrs Moss quickly, "is all that _I_ have suffered on
_his_ account to count for nothing?"
"Of course not, _dear_ mother. I don't mean that; you don't understand
me. I mean the reproaches that his own conscience has heaped upon his
head for what he has inadvertently done."
"Recklessly, child, not inadvertently. Besides, you know, his
conscience is not _himself_. People cannot avoid what conscience says
to them. Its remarks are no sign of humility or self-condemnation, one
proof of which is that wicked people would gladly get away from
conscience if they could, instead of agreeing with it, as they should,
and shaking hands with it, and saying, `we are all that you call us, and
more.'"
"Well, that is exactly what John has done," said Milly, with increasing,
warmth. "He has said all that, and more to me--"
"To _you_?" interrupted Mrs Moss; "yes, but you are not his conscience,
child!"
"Yes, I am, mother; at least, if I'm not, I am next thing to it, for he
says _everything_ to me!" returned Milly, with a laugh and a blush.
"And you have no idea how sorry, how ashamed, how self-condemned, how
overwhelmed he has been by all that has happened."
"Humph! I have been a good deal more overwhelmed than he has been,"
returned Mrs Moss. "However, make your mind easy, child, for during
the last week or two, in learning to love and esteem John Barret, I have
unwittingly been preparing the way to forgive and forget the cowardly
youth who ran me down in London. Now go and send Mr Jackman to me; I
have a great opinion of that young man's knowledge of medicine and
surgery, though he _is_ only an amateur. He will soon tell me whether I
have received any hurt that has rendered me incapable of feeling. And
at the same time you may convey to that coward, John, my entire
forgiveness."
Milly kissed her mother, of course, and hastened away to deliver her
double message.
After careful examination and much questioning, "Dr" Jackman pronounced
the little old lady to be entirely free from injury of any kind, save
the smashing of a comb in her back-hair, and gave it as his opinion that
she was as sound in wind and limb as before the accident, though there
had unquestionably been a considerable shock to the feelings, which,
however, seemed to have had the effect of improving rather than
deranging her intellectual powers. The jury which afterwards sat upon
her returned their verdict in accordance with that opinion.
It was impossible, of course, to prevent some of all this leaking into
the kitchen, the nursery, and the stable. In the first-mentioned spot,
Quin remarked to the housemaid,--"Sure, it's a quare evint entirely,"
with which sentiment the housemaid agreed.
"Aunt Moss is a buster," was Junkie's ambiguous opinion, in which Flo
and the black doll coincided.
"Tonal'," said Roderick, as he groomed the bay horse, "the old wumman
iss a fery tough person."