From Squire to Squatter Part 12

And now they came in sight of the cottage, and Bob rubbed his eyes and looked again and again, for no smoke came from the chimney, no signs of life was about.

The icicles hung long and strong from the eaves; one side of the hut was entirely overblown with drift, and the door in the other looked more like the entrance to some cave in Greenland north. Bad enough this was; but ah, in the inside of the poor little house the driven snow met them as they pushed open the door! It had blown down the wide chimney, covered the hearth, formed a wreath like a sea-wave on the floor, and even o'er-canopied the bed itself. And the widow, the mother, lay underneath. No, not dead; she breathed, at least.

When the room had been cleared and swept of snow; when a roaring fire had been built on the hearth, and a little warm tea poured gently down her throat, she came gradually back again to life, and in a short time was able to be lifted into a sitting position, and then she recognised her son and Archie.

"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Bob, the tears streaming over his sun-browned face, "the Maker'll never forgive me for all the ill I've done ye."

"Hush! Bobbie, hush! What, lad, the Maker no' forgive ye! Eh, ye little know the grip o' His goodness! But you're here, you're innocent.

Thank Him for that."

"Ye'll soon get better, mother, and I'll be so good. The Squire is to give me work too."

"It's o'er late for me," she said. "I'd like to live to see it, but His will be done."

Archie rode home the giant hunter, but in two hours he was once more mounted on Scallowa, and feathering back through the snow towards the little cottage. The moon had risen now, and the night was starry and fine.

He tied Scallowa up in the peat shed, and went in unannounced.

He found Bob Cooper sitting before the dying embers of the fire, with his face buried in his hands, and rocking himself to and fro.

"She--just blessed me and wore away."

That was all he said or could say. And what words of comfort could Archie speak? None. He sat silently beside him all that livelong night, only getting up now and then to replenish the fire. But the poacher scarcely ever changed his position, only now and then he stretched out one of his great hands and patted Archie's knee as one would pet a dog.

A week pa.s.sed away, and the widow was laid to rest beneath the frozen ground in the little churchyard by the banks of the river. Archie went slowly back with Bob towards the cottage. On their way thither, the poacher--poacher now no more though--entered a plantation, and with his hunting-knife cut and fashioned a rough ash stick.

"We'll say good-bye here, Master Archie."

"What! You are not going back with me to Burley Old Farm?"

Bob took a small parcel from his pocket, and opening it exposed the contents.

"Do you know them, Master Archie?"

"Yes, your poor mother's gla.s.ses."

"Ay, lad, and as long as I live I'll keep them. And till my dying day, Archie, I'll think on you, and your kindness to poor poacher Bob. No, I'm not goin' back to Burley, and I'm not going to the cottage again.

I'm going away. Where? I couldn't say. Here, quick, shake hands, friend. Let it be over. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

And away went Bob. He stopped when a little way off, and turned as if he had forgotten something.

"Archie!" he cried.

"Yes, Bob."

"Take care of my mother's cat."

Next minute he leapt a fence, and disappeared in the pine wood.

CHAPTER NINE.

THE WHOLE YARD WAS ABLAZE AND BURNING FIERCELY.

One year is but a brief span in the history of a family, yet it may bring many changes. It did to Burley Old Farm, and some of them were sad enough, though some were glad. A glad change took place for instance in the early spring, after Bob's departure; for Rupert appeared to wax stronger and stronger with the lengthening days; and when Uncle Ramsay, in a letter received one morning, announced his intention of coming from London, and making quite a long stay at Burley, Rupert declared his intention of mounting Scallowa, and riding over to the station to meet him. And the boy was as good as his word. In order that they might be both cavaliers together, Uncle Ramsay hired a horse at D--, and the two rode joyfully home side by side.

His mother did not like to see that carmine flush on Rupert's cheeks, however, nor the extra dark sparkle in his eyes when he entered the parlour to announce his uncle's arrival, but she said nothing.

Uncle Ramsay Broadbent was a brother of the Squire, and, though considerably older, a good deal like him in all his ways. There was the same dash and go in him, and the same smiling front, unlikely to be dismayed by any amount of misfortune.

"There are a deal of ups and downs in the ocean of life," Archie heard him say one day; "we're on the top of a big wave one hour, and in the trough of the sea next, so we must take things as they come."

Yes, this uncle was a seafarer; the skipper of a st.u.r.dy merchantman that he had sailed in for ten long years. He did not care to be called captain by anyone. He was a master mariner, and had an opinion, which he often expressed, that plain "Mr" was a gentleman's prefix.

"I shan't go back to sea again," he said next morning at breakfast.

"Fact is, brother, my owners think I'm getting too old. And maybe they're right. I've had a fair innings, and it is only fair to give the young ones a chance."

Uncle Ramsay seemed to give new life and soul to the old place. He settled completely down to the Burley style of life long before the summer was half over. He joined the servants in the fields, and worked with them as did the Squire, Walton, and Archie. And though more merriment went on in consequence, there was nevertheless more work done.

He took an interest in all the boys' "fads," spent hours with them in their workshop, and made one in every game that was played on the gra.s.s.

He was dreadfully awkward at cricket and tennis however; for such games as these are but little practised by sailors. Only he was right willing to learn.

There was a youthfulness and breeziness about Uncle Ramsay's every action, that few save seafarers possess when hair is turning white. Of course, the skipper spent many a jolly hour up in the room of the Castle Tower, and he did not object either to the presence of old Kate in the chair. He listened like a boy when she told her weird stories; and he listened more like a baby than anything else when Branson played his fiddle.

Then he himself would spin them a yarn, and hold them all enthralled, especially big-eyed Elsie, with the sterling reality and graphicness of the narrative.

When Uncle Ramsay spoke you could see the waves in motion, hear the scream of the birds around the stern, or the wind roaring through the rigging. He spoke as he thought; he painted from life.

Well, the arrival of Uncle Ramsay and Rupert's getting strong were two of the pleasant changes that took place at Burley in this eventful year.

Alas! I have to chronicle the sad ones also. Yet why sigh? To use Uncle Ramsay's own words, "You never know what a ship is made of until stormy seas are around you."

First then came a bad harvest--a terribly bad harvest. It was not that the crops themselves were so very light, but the weather was cold and wet; the grain took long to ripen. The task of cutting it down was unfortunately an easy one, but the getting it stored was almost an impossibility. At the very time when it was ripe, and after a single fiercely hot day, a thunder-storm came on, and with it such hail as the oldest inhabitant in the parish could not remember having seen equalled.

This resulted in the total loss of far more of the precious seed, than would have sown all the land of Burley twice over.

The wet continued. It rained and rained every day, and when it rained it poured.

The Squire had heard of a Yankee invention for drying wheat under cover, and rashly set about a rude but most expensive imitation thereof. He first mentioned the matter to Uncle Ramsay at the breakfast-table. The Squire seemed in excellent spirits that morning. He was walking briskly up and down the room rubbing his hands, as if in deep but pleasant thought, when his brother came quietly in.

"Hullo! you lazy old sea-dog. Why you'd lie in your bed till the sun burned a hole in the blanket. Now just look at me."

"I'm just looking at you."

"Well, I've been up for hours. I'm as hungry as a Caithness Highlander.

And I've got an idea."

"I thought there was something in the wind."