closely and silently. Wheeling once or twice, as it rose against the
cliff, and uttering a chattering cry as if to announce its coming to its
young ones, it passed within a narrow cleft in the rock, about a third
of the way down the precipice, and disappeared. The boy was on his feet
in an instant, and, springing out of the boat, he took off his blue
jersey, and threw it to Molly to take care of; then he took a long look
at the rocks above him, and rapidly made up his mind as to the line he
would take in climbing. The first part was easy enough; but at the
height of about a hundred feet from the sea the rocks suddenly became
steeper. Still there was nothing to prevent an active lad from scaling
them, if the hold for hand and foot were only firm; but the red rock was
sometimes loose and brittle, and would need great care in handling. If
he could pass safely along the face of these higher rocks by a little
ledge which gave room for a few rock-loving plants to grow, he would
reach the cleft into which the falcon had disappeared; once there, he
must trust to luck, for he could not see further from below.
He quickly passed up the lower and more broken part of the cliff, Molly
watching the easy motion of his supple form with pride and confidence.
No shade of anxiety for him crossed her mind; she had often seen him
climb both rocks and trees before, and had even sometimes climbed with
him. She too was strong and active, and knew the delight of swinging
herself from rock to rock or from bough to bough, with the perfect
confidence that young heads place in the resources of their hands and
feet. She would have been quite willing to dare even these cliffs with
him, if he had asked her; but Harold knew very well that this would be
the roughest climb he had ever yet tried, and had all the morning spoken
as if he were going alone; so Molly quietly acquiesced, as she always
did on such occasions. She sat in the boat, her hands playing with her
blue worsted cap, but her eyes intently fixed on the climber.
When he reached the steeper rocks, he went more slowly; and she could
see him testing the firmness of his foothold by a kick, or loosening a
stone with his hand, which went leaping downwards and fell into the sea
with a splash, almost too near the boat to be pleasant. Once or twice he
picked up the egg of some Guillemot or Gull which had flown off as he
approached, and held it out for Molly to see; and once he stopped to
examine the skin of the leveret which the falcon had left behind on the
projecting bit of rock. At last he safely reached the ledge, and began
to walk carefully along it, steadying himself against the rock above him
with his right hand. Just before he reached the cleft to which the ledge
was leading him, Molly saw the falcon sail out of it again within a few
yards of him; but Harold stood perfectly motionless in the shadow of the
rock, and the magnificent bird, too busy to search for intruders, failed
to see him, and rising slowly, passed over the beetling brow of the
cliff and disappeared inland.
Then he went on again slowly, to the corner where the ledge passed into
the cleft and out of Molly’s sight: and now she first began to wonder
whether he would after all be able to reach the nest. The corner
projected sharply, and in rounding it, the ledge seemed almost to come
to an end; no grass grew on it at that point, and the rocks above and
below were cut sharply and steeply. She saw him stop for a minute or two
when he came to this corner, and put his foot forward to try the
footing; her blue cap dropped out of her hands into the boat, and she
sat up gazing with eager eyes and parted lips. Then she saw him rest his
left foot on the jutting bit of rock he had tested, kneel down on his
right knee, and slowly work himself along with the help of his hands. As
he turned the corner, he seemed to get into easier quarters, for he
rose to his feet again, and passed in a moment out of her sight into the
dark cleft.
A few minutes later she heard the cries of the young falcons, and a loud
shout from Harold told her that vengeance was being done for Snowdrop’s
death. Sticks and rubbish began to fall down the rocks; he was razing to
the ground the falcon’s rockbuilt refuge. And then he emerged again,
with a young bird in his hand, which he proceeded to tie up in his
pocket-handkerchief, and button inside the breast of his shirt. When all
was ready, he again knelt down, this time with his left knee, using his
right foot to support him below wherever it could find a firm support.
Molly watched her hero now impatiently; she wanted him to come down
quickly and show her the young falcon.
The difficult part was almost over, when some bit of stone on which he
had rested his right foot gave away, and rolled down the precipice. He
had nothing now to hold by except his left knee, and Molly, now standing
up in the boat in real anxiety, saw him keeping his balance with
difficulty by pressing his unsupported leg hard against the rocks. Then
she saw him make a spring--such a spring indeed as one can make with
nothing to spring from but one’s left knee--and try to catch at a big
red knob which lay just at the end of the perilous part of the ledge.
His hands caught the knob, and he turned with his face to the rock
struggling to bring his feet up once more to the level of the ledge. But
the stone was treacherous and gave way, and the boy, after another
moment’s effort to save himself, fell after it down the steeper part of
the rocks, till he was caught by another ledge below, and there lay
quite still.
Molly uttered an inarticulate sound as she saw him fall; she did not cry
or scream, but she trembled all over. A cold feeling went down her back,
and her heart beat so violently that for a moment she was obliged to sit
down panting. She looked all round to see if any boat was in sight, but
the fishermen did not often come so far at that time of the year, and
the sea was unbroken by an oar. Only far out in the offing lay the huge
form of the ironclad; and for an instant there flashed through Molly’s
mind the picture of Harold in his young strength sitting opposite her
with his oars, turning to watch the firing of the big guns, then holding
her face in his hands, and bidding her not be silly. Something told her
that now an effort was needed from her, such as she had never had to
make in her life before; and, strong and healthy as she was, she felt
her faintness passing, and her will growing strong. She was quite alone;
she must act; what should she do?
At first she thought of rowing back for help, but she knew that the tide
had not yet turned, and that she would be a much longer time getting
back than they had taken in coming. And then she would have to leave
Harold all that time, and he perhaps dying, or at least badly hurt. He
might indeed be dead; but at none of these possibilities did she quail
again, now that she had fully nerved herself for action. She must climb
and reach him; and she set about it instantly. With a woman’s instinct
she took what was left of the cold tea that they had brought with them,
tied Harold’s blue jersey round her neck by the sleeves, stepped firmly
out of the boat, and after marking the spot where he fell, began to
climb.
Once at the top of the easier rocks, she found herself not far below the
shelf upon which he must be lying, and called to him. No answer came.
Panting with effort and excitement, but with firm limbs and steady head,
she began to ascend the steeper rocks, and presently reached what seemed
to be a faint track, made perhaps by some animal, which led her easily
upwards to the shelf. When she reached it her strength failed for a
moment, and her eyes seemed dim; but mastering herself again she
advanced, and suddenly came upon Harold, lying on his back in a little
bed of rough grass and samphire. She saw in an instant that he was
alive, and spoke to him, but he did not answer. Then she knelt down
beside him, folded up the jersey and put it under his head; opened the
bottle of cold tea, and moistening her fingers with it, rubbed his
temples and wetted his nostrils. She gave his forehead one kiss; but
there was work to be done, and this was no time for kisses: she felt
half ashamed even of this one. She searched for wounds, but could find
none; only she feared that one arm on which he was lying must be badly
hurt. But she could not move him, and must wait till he came to himself;
and she went on rubbing and chafing, yet sparing the tea till he should
wake and be able to drink some. It was quite an hour before he came to
himself.
At last his eyes opened slowly, and his lips moved a little, but without
a sound. She held the bottle to them, and he swallowed a little of the
tea; then the eyes closed again, and he seemed to sleep. Presently she
saw a fisherman’s boat passing at some distance from the shore. She
stood up, waved her handkerchief and shouted; but the boat was too far
off, and she was neither heard nor seen.
Her shouting woke Harold again, and in a faint voice he said, “What’s
the matter, Molly?” and then, after a pause, “Where’s the young
falcon?”
She looked in his shirt; the handkerchief was still there, and the young
bird was in it, though dead. “Here it is, Harold,” she said; “and now
you must try and get up and come down with me to the boat, and I’ll row
you home and take care of you till you’re all right again.”
“Dear old Molly,” was all that Harold answered; but they were words that
Molly never forgot.
He tried to get up, but the pain in his arm was so great that he fainted
away again; and Molly had to sit, now silent and sad, and watch for some
boat coming round the headland, chafing his temples from time to time
with fingers as gentle as a lady’s. When he came to himself once more,
it was getting towards evening; the sea was cold and gray, and the mist
began to creep again around the cliffs. Molly had been thinking of what
was to be done; her mind seemed stronger and clearer than it had ever
been before, and she spoke to Harold firmly, like a mother talking to
her little boy.
“Harold dear, I must leave you and go and get help; you will die of cold
if we have to stay out all night. But first I must make you as
comfortable as I can. Which pocket is your knife in?”
He told her, and she succeeded in getting it out without hurting him.
Then she took the jersey from under his head, cut off the sleeve that
belonged to the injured arm, and contrived to slip the warm garment over
his body and right arm; took off her own jersey, and laid it under his
head, gave him a kiss and stroked his fair hair, and told him to lie
still and go to sleep, and she would be back soon. And then she started
down the rocks, marking her way carefully that she might recollect it
when she returned, and stepping into the boat, pulled westwards as fast
as she could. The sun was setting when she reached the village.
Her news spread like wildfire. Her father borrowed a horse, and rode off
to the nearest town for a doctor; her mother put on her bonnet and went
to break the news to Harold’s mother. By the time Molly, still steady of
purpose though stiff and tired, had eaten such a meal as she could get
down, and put up some more provisions and some brandy for Harold, four
stalwart fishermen were ready with a big boat and lanterns, and were
waiting for her on the beach. Tired as she was, Molly would have liked
to have taken an oar, and even asked to be allowed to do so. She could
not bear to be doing nothing; she was in a state of restless activity
and energy. One of the men laughed, and bade her lie down in the boat
and go to sleep. But an older man, who saw her dark eyes sparkling in
the moonlight with a strange wildness, did Molly a good turn.
“Give her the tiller, Dick,” he said: “don’t you see the lass must be at
something? Come, Molly, lass, steer us straight, and tell us all about
you and the lad.”
So Molly took the helm, and went over the story with them again, and
kind old Martin kept asking her to describe this or that once more and
once again, and they pulled so strongly and quickly that they were at
the Red Cliffs long before she expected. Then she asked them to shout,
and held her hands to her ears in hopes of catching an answer from the
cliff, and after the second shout there came a feeble answer.
She led the way up the rocks in the moonlight. They found Harold very
cold and in pain; but the brandy soon revived him, and he even contrived
to eat a little.
“Dear old Molly,” he said once more. And Molly kissed him again, and
stepped downwards with the lantern, to show them the best places for
their feet, while they lifted the boy, groaning sadly with pain, laid
his injured arm over his chest, and began to carry him slowly down the
rocks. She guided them safely down, though the work took a long time,
and was perilous for men who could not use their hands, and terribly
painful for Harold: but it was over at last, and he was laid safely in
the bottom of the boat, and made as comfortable as possible with the
rugs and pillows which Molly’s mother had provided. Molly sat in the
stern again holding the tiller; but she soon began to droop over it now
the tension was taken off her, and in a few minutes was fast asleep.
Old Martin took the tiller from her hand, laid her down by Harold, and
covered her with his own rough pilot-coat. When they reached the
village, where the beach was crowded with eager faces, and lanterns were
moving about here and there, he took her in his arms and carried her to
her mother’s cottage.
“That’s a rare lass of yours,” he said, “and I never would have thought
it of her. They two must make up together one of these days; and a fine
pair they’ll be! Good-night, ma’am.”
Molly was put to bed, and slept an unbroken sleep till late in the
morning. When she woke she was so stiff and tired that she could hardly
turn round; but when she did so, she saw the two mothers, her own and
Harold’s, standing by the bedside. The latter kissed her many times on
the forehead, and told her how Harold had slept well and was now wide
awake, and asking for her; and how he had sent her another pigeon, even
more beautiful than the last.
“But, Molly,” she went on, “the doctor says his spine is injured as
well as his arm, and he won’t be able to go into the Navy. He’s terrible
vexed about it, poor lad.”
Molly sprang out of bed, in spite of her stiffness. She felt a real and
lively pity for Harold, and she must go to him at once. All her
childishness was gone; if she could have seen Harold that moment in his
sailor’s dress, marching off to Portsmouth, she would have jumped for
joy. There was work still left for her to do; she must comfort Harold.
* * * * *
The case was more serious than the doctor at first supposed. Harold had
before long to be taken away to a London hospital, where he could get
the benefit of constant attendance and all kinds of appliances. His
mother went with him, and took up her abode in London, in the house of
one of Harold’s uncles, who was a small dealer there, and Harold slowly
recovered his strength, was apprenticed to a carpenter, learnt his trade
with a good will, and began to make a start in life. It was full four
years before Harold and Molly met again.
When at last he came to pay a visit to the old fishing-village, he found
Molly a tall, strong and sensible-looking maiden of eighteen. It was she
who proposed a row to the Red Cliffs, to see the scene of their
adventure four years ago; and it was she who rowed this time, while he
sat in the stern and steered. But it was he who, on their homeward way,
just before they rounded the last headland into the little harbour, let
go the tiller, took her brown face between his hands, and said once
more,
“Dear old Molly!”
And they plighted their loves as the old thatched cottages came in sight
under the curving embrace of the down.
A DEBATE IN AN ORCHARD.
It was one of those midsummer evenings which to the discontented seem
almost too long. In the orchard the old birds had finished finding the
young ones their supper, and the long labours of the day were over. The
swifts were flying, and screaming with delight as they flew, round the
old church tower, and the swallows were gliding less noisily in and out
of the long shadows of the apple-trees; but most of the dwellers in the
orchard had taken a quiet perch, and were singing, or dallying in some
pleasant way with the last half-hour of daylight, until it should be
time to go to roost.
A blackbird, a robin, a sparrow, and a blue titmouse found themselves
together on a single tree. They were old acquaintances, for they had
lived together in the orchard and garden the whole winter; friends, in
the proper sense of the word, they were not, for they differed a good
deal in their opinions, and had quarrelled nearly every day in the
winter over the crumbs which had been put for them outside the farmhouse
windows. But they contrived to put up with one another, and had been so
busy with their young of late, that all ill-feeling had passed away from
their minds.
“Well,” said the sparrow, “here we are again. Upon my word I wish the
sun would set; there’s nothing more to do.”
“Why don’t you sing?” said the robin.
“That’s a stale joke,” was the answer. “And your song is getting stale
too, Mr. Robin; you’ll have to leave it off a bit soon.”
“One should not sing too much,” observed the blackbird. “I wonder you
robins don’t get tired of hearing yourselves. It’s too hot to sing this
evening: spring is the time for that. Let us do something else to amuse
ourselves.”
“Let us see who can hang from a bough best with his head downwards,”
said the blue tit; and he instantly performed the feat with great
agility. The sparrow, being in want of something to do, tried to imitate
him, but he couldn’t do it a bit, and made himself ridiculous.
“What a lubberly creature!” said a swallow, who had paused in her flight
through the orchard to rest for a moment at the end of a dead bough of
the same tree. “Are you so hard up for something to do? Why don’t you
have a debate? There was a debate going on in my barn the other evening,
and very amusing it was. Old Squire Wilmot was in the chair. He told the
men and boys that they were going to have a debate once a month to
sharpen their wits, and--”
(“That’ll take a long time,” put in the blue tit.)
“And the young squire was going to propose a motion himself that night.”
“What do you think it was about? Bird’s-nesting! He said it was cruel, I
believe; and some one else said it wasn’t; and there they were
chattering away all the evening. But I had young to attend to, and of
course I couldn’t listen, even if it had been worth while. Why don’t you
have a debate? I dare say you wouldn’t talk quite such nonsense. Good
evening.” And off she went, without waiting for an answer.
“That’s not a bad idea,” said the blue tit; “only I don’t much care to
imitate Man. What a lumbering animal it is! However, if we are to have a
debate, why not debate about _him_? We shall all have something to say
on that subject, anyhow.”
“Very well,” said the Robin, who had a way of taking things into his own
hands, “very well, we will discuss Man. But first we must elect a
president. I am willing to be president, if you like. Our family has
encouraged Man for many centuries, and we ought to know something about
him by this time!”
There was silence for a minute. The Robin was not so popular in the
orchard as to be elected at once by acclamation. At this moment the
Swallow returned to her twig, just to see how they were getting on, and
was informed of the difficulty.
“Oh, by all means elect Robin,” said she; “they always elect some
respectable person president. They like some one who looks better than
he talks. Presidents don’t make speeches as a rule; they sit and look
grand, like the beadle in the church where I nested last summer. And now
I think of it,” she added, “that beadle had a red waistcoat just like
Bobby’s; so he had.”
And off she went again.
“Bother that bird,” said the Robin; “she’s like a wild-rose bush, all
prickles and no caterpillars. I won’t be president if I am not to be
allowed to speak. Let the Blackbird preside; it would just suit his
capacity.”
“I don’t pretend to be better than I am,” said the Blackbird in his
mellowest tones; “but we had better vote at once, it will soon be dark.
Each of you imitate the voice of the bird you wish to elect. All the
birds in the orchard shall be welcome and eligible: Starling, Nuthatch,
Creeper, Wren, Flycatcher, Chaffinch. Now then, one, two, three----”
A variety of strange sounds were heard, so strange and discordant that
the farmer’s wife looked out at her back-door to see what could be going
forward. But while it was still going on, there was heard at the top of
all the din the clear shrill song of a Wren from a heap of old sticks by
the wall.
“The very bird for you,” said the Swallow, alighting once more on her
twig. “He’ll only have to turn on his loudest song to stop the speakers
if they get tiresome or lose their tempers. He’ll be like the organ in
that church I was telling you of; it was put there to prevent the
singers being heard, and it did its business very well. Yes, yes, elect
the Wren; he’s small, but he’s afraid of no one. And in some countries
they call him king.”
She flew to the heap of sticks, and returned with the Wren, who took his
station on a prominent bough, cocked his tail very high, and sang his
very loudest.
“That will do capitally,” said the Swallow. “Turn on that whenever they
make fools of themselves, and you’ll have the debate to yourself after
all.”
And she was gone again, leaving them another pleasant little keepsake.
But they were too eager for the debate to begin, to mind much what she
said, and they all consented to accept the Wren as president.
“I appoint the Blackbird to open the debate,” said the Wren, who had
been duly instructed in his duties by the Swallow. “Let the Blackbird
state what motion he will propose.”
“I will propose,” replied the Blackbird, “that too close an association
with Man is degrading to the race of birds.”
“I won’t speak on that motion,” said the Robin, “I consider it
personal.”
“So do I,” said the Sparrow; “grossly personal and insulting.”
“What’s insulting?” said the Swallow, who was back again for the fourth
time. “Oh, most insulting to birds who use men’s buildings for their
nests! Look at me and the Sparrows, see how refined and elevated we have
become through ages of association with man! One doesn’t like to talk
of one’s self, but I put it to you whether the Sparrow’s charming,
fairy-like grace, dainty appetite, and chastely brilliant colouring, can
well be ascribed to any other cause? But dear me, I never meant to make
a speech. Good-bye; don’t quarrel, and, above all, don’t be sarcastic;
it’s a habit I abhor.” And she glided away once more.
“That’s one for you, Philip,” said the mischievous Blue-Tit to the
Sparrow. “Let her have it back again next time, my dear boy; have a
repartee ready. Make haste, you have no time to lose.”
“All right,” said the Sparrow. “Don’t fidget so. I’ll think of my
repartee during the Blackbird’s speech.”
“Silence!” called the president. “Trrrrrr-lira-lira-lira-la-trrr! I must
call on the Blackbird to put his motion in another form, as it is
considered personal.”
“Well,” said the Blackbird, “I move that Man is an animal as useless as
he is pernicious. That’ll suit everybody, I hope.”
“Won’t do,” said the President. “You must
[Illustration: And the Blackbird began his oration.--P. 117.]
have three adjectives, and they must all begin with the same letter. It
always is so, I assure you; the Swallow told me so just now, and she
heard it all going on in the barn. The young squire proposed that
bird-nesting was mean, mischievous, and malevolent; and a very sensible
motion too.”
“Very well,” said the Blackbird, “then I move that man is a mean,
mischievous, and malevolent animal. Will that do for you?”
“Excellent!” said every one. “Go on, and be quick.”
“Be as quick as you can,” said the Robin, “or there won’t be time for my
speech.”
“Silence!” cried the president. “I call on the Blackbird.” And the
Blackbird began his oration.
“Man,” he said, “is in the first place _mean_. This may be thought
perhaps too obvious a proposition to need proof. I need but ask you to
look over the orchard wall into the kitchen-garden yonder. What do we
see there? Gooseberry-bushes, currant-bushes, covered with delicious
fruit; I know it, for did I not try the flavour of every one of them
daily till yesterday? And now, now, just as their juices are mellowing,
each of those trees has been covered over with a most vile and
treacherous netting! If time were not pressing I could easily produce
statistics to show----”
“What are statistics?” asked a Flycatcher deferentially.
“A new kind of earwigs,” said the Blue-Tit promptly. “Don’t interrupt.
What a flow of eloquence!”