THE DECLARATION OF WAR.
But, meanwhile, Janet Sheepshanks stands at the end of the
stepping-stones, and Janet is hardly a person to keep waiting anywhere
near the house of Windy Standard.
Over the stepping-stones came as leader Priscilla Smith, her head
thrown back, straining in every nerve with the excitement of carrying
Sir Toady Lion, whose scratched legs and shoeless feet dangled over
the stream. Immediately beneath her, and wading above the knee in the
rush of the water, there staggered through the shallows Hugh John,
supporting his sister with voice and hand--or, as he would have said,
"boosting her up" whenever she swayed riverward with her burden,
pushing her behind when she hesitated, and running before to offer
his back as an additional stepping-stone when the spaces were wide
between the boulders.
Janet Sheepshanks waited grimly for her charges on the bank, and her
eyes seemed to deceive her, words to fail her, as the children came
nearer. Never had such a sight been seen near the decent house of
Windy Standard. Miss Priscilla and her pinafore were represented by a
ragged tinkler's lass with a still more ragged frill about her neck.
Her cheeks and hands were as variously scratched as if she had fallen
into a whole thicket of brambles. Her face, too, was pale, and the
tatooed places showed bright scarlet against the whiteness of her
skin. She had lost a shoe, and her dress was ripped to the knee by a
great ragged triangular tear, which flapped wet about her ankles as
she walked.
Sir Toady Lion was somewhat less damaged, but still showed manifold
signs of rough usage. His lace collar, the pride of Janet Sheepshanks'
heart, was torn nearly off his shoulders, and now hung jagged and
unsightly down his back. Several buttons of his well-ordered tunic
were gone, and as to his person he was mud as far above the knees as
could be seen without turning him upside down.
But Hugh John--words are vain to describe the plight of Hugh John. One
eye was closed, and began to be discoloured, taking on above the
cheekbone the shot green and purple of a half-ripe plum. His lip was
cut, and a thin thread of scarlet stealing down his brow told of a
broken head. What remained of his garments presented a ruin more
complete, if less respectable, than the ancient castle of the Windy
Standard. Neither shoe nor shoe-string, neither stocking nor collar,
remained intact upon him. On his bare legs were the marks of cruel
kicks, and for ease of transport he carried the _debris_ of his jacket
under his arm. He had not the remotest idea where his cap had gone to.
[Illustration: "NO WONDER THAT JANET SHEEPSHANKS AWAITED THIS SORRY
PROCESSION WITH A GRIM TIGHTENING OF THE LIPS."]
No wonder that Janet Sheepshanks awaited this sorry procession with a
grim tightening of the lips, or that her hand quivered with the desire
of punishment, even while her kind and motherly heart yearned to be
busy repairing damages and binding up the wounded. Of this feeling,
however, it was imperative that for the present, in the interests of
discipline, she should show nothing.
It was upon Priscilla, as the eldest in years and senior responsible
officer in charge, that Janet first turned the vials of her wrath.
"Eh, Priscilla Smith, but ye are a ba-a-ad, bad lassie. Ye should ha'e
your bare back slashit wi' nettles! Where ha'e ye been, and what ha'e
ye done to these twa bairns? Ye shall be marched straight to your
father, and if he doesna gar ye loup when ye wad raither stand still,
and claw where ye are no yeuky, he will no be doing his duty to the
Almichty, and to your puir mither that's lang syne in her restin'
grave in the kirk-yaird o' Edom."
By which fervent address in her native tongue, Janet meant that Mr.
Smith would be decidedly spoiling the child if on this occasion he
spared the rod. Janet could speak good enough formal English when she
chose, for instance to her master on Sabbath, or to the minister on
visitation days; but whenever she was excited she returned to that
vigorous ancient Early English which some miscall a dialect, and of
which she had a noble and efficient command.
To Janet's attack, Priscilla answered not a word either of explanation
or apology. She recognised that the case had gone far beyond that. She
only set Sir Toady Lion on his feet, and bent down to brush the mud
from his tunic with her usual sisterly gesture. Janet Sheepshanks
thrust her aside without ceremony.
"My wee man," she said, "what have they done to you?"
Toady Lion began volubly, and in his usual shrill piping voice, to
make an accusation against certain bad boys who had "hit him," and
"hurted him," and "kicked him." And now when at last he was safely
delivered and lodged in the well-proven arms of Janet Sheepshanks his
tears flowed apace, and made clean furrows down the woebegone
grubbiness of his face.
Priscilla walked by Janet's side, white and silent, nerving herself
for the coming interview. At ordinary times Janet Sheepshanks was
terrible enough, and her word law in all the precincts of Windy
Standard. But Priscilla knew that she must now face the anger of her
father; and so, with this in prospect, the railing accusations of her
old nurse scarcely so much as reached her ears.
Hugh John, stripped of all military pomp, limped behind--a short, dry,
cheerless sob shaking him at intervals. But in reality this was more
the protest of ineffectual anger than any concession to unmanly
weakness.