still lost!

meanwhile, mrs sudberry was thrown into a species of frenzied horror, which no words can describe, and which was not in any degree allayed by the grave shaking of the head with which mr mcallister accompanied his vain efforts to comfort and re-assure her. this excellent man quoted several passages from the works of dugald stewart and locke, tending to show, in common parlance, that “necessity has no law,” and that the rightly constituted human mind ought to rise superior to all circumstances—quotations which had the effect of making mrs sudberry more hysterical than ever, and which induced mrs brown to call him who offered such consolation a “brute!”

but mcallister did not confine his efforts solely to the region of mind. while he was earnestly administering doses of the wisdom of stewart and locke to the agitated lady in the parlour, dan and hugh, with several others, were, by his orders, arming themselves in the kitchen for a regular search.

“she’s ready,” said dan, entering the parlour unceremoniously with a huge stable lantern.

“that’s right, dan—keep away up by the slate corrie, and come down by the red tarn. if they’ve taken the wrong turn to the right, you’re sure to fall in wi’ them thereaway. send hugh round by the burn; i’ll go straight up the hill, and come down upon loch cognahoighliey. give a shout now and then, as ye goo.”

dan was a man of action and few words: he vouchsafed no reply, but turned immediately and left the room, leaving a powerful odour of the byre behind him.

poor mrs sudberry and tilly were unspeakably comforted by the grave business-like way in which the search was gone about. they recalled to mind that a search of a somewhat similar nature, in point of manner and time, was undertaken a week before for a stray sheep, and that it had been successful; so they felt relieved, though they remained, of course, dreadfully anxious. mcallister refrained from administering any more moral philosophy. as he was not at all anxious about the lost party, and was rather fond of a sly joke, it remains to this day a matter of doubt whether he really expected that his nostrums would be of much use. in a few minutes he was breasting the hill like a true mountaineer, with a lantern in his hand, and with hobbs by his side.

“only think, ma’am,” said mrs brown, who was not usually judicious in her remarks, “only think if they’ve been an’ fell hover a precipice.”

“shocking!” exclaimed poor mrs sudberry, with a little shriek, as she clapped her hands on her eyes.

“poor jacky, ma’am, p’raps ’e’s lyin’ hall in a mangled ’eap at the foot of a—”

“leave me!” cried mrs sudberry, with an amount of sudden energy that quite amazed mrs brown, who left the room feeling that she was an injured woman.

“darling mamma, they will come back!” said tilly, throwing her arms round her mother’s neck, and bursting into tears on her bosom. “you know that the sheep—the lost sheep—was found last week, and brought home quite safe. dan is so kind, though he does not speak much, and hugh too. they will be sure to find them, darling mamma!”

the sweet voice and the hopeful heart of the child did what philosophy had failed to accomplish—mrs sudberry was comforted. thus we see, not that philosophy is a vain thing, but that philosophy and feeling are distinct, and that each is utterly powerless in the domain of the other.

when peter was left alone by his master, as recorded in a former chapter, he sat himself down in a cheerful frame of mind on the sunny side of a large rock, and gave himself up to the enjoyment of thorough repose, as well mental as physical. the poor lad was in that state of extreme lassitude which renders absolute and motionless rest delightful. extended at full length on a springy couch of heath, with his eyes peeping dreamily through the half-closed lids at the magnificent prospect of mountains and glens that lay before him, and below him too, so that he felt like a bird in mid-air, looking down upon the world, with his right arm under his meek head, and both pillowed on the plaid, with his countenance exposed to the full blaze of the sun, and with his recent lunch commencing to operate on the system, so as to render exhaustion no longer a pain, but a pleasure, peter lay on that knoll, high up the mountain-side, in close proximity to the clouds, dreaming and thinking about nothing; that is to say, about everything or anything in an imbecile sort of way: in other words, wandering in his mind disjointedly over the varied regions of memory and imagination; too tired to originate an idea; too indifferent to resist one when it arose; too weak to follow it out; and utterly indifferent as to whether his mind did follow it out, or cut it short off in the middle.

we speak of peter’s mind as a totally distinct and separate thing from himself. it had taken the bit in its teeth and run away. he cared no more for it than he did for the nose on his face, which was, at that time, as red as a carrot, by reason of the sun shining full on its tip. but why attempt to describe peter’s thoughts? here they are—such as they were—for the reader to make what he can out of them.

“heigh ho! comfortable now—jolly—what a place! how i hate mountains—climbing them—dreadful!—like ’em to lie on, though—sun, i like your jolly red-hot face—sunday! wonder if’s got to do with sun—p’raps—twinkle, twinkle, little sun, how i wonder—oh, what fun!—won’t i have sich wonderful tales—tales—tails—stories are tails—stick ’em on the end of puppy-dogs, and see how they’d look—two or three two-legged puppies in the office—what a difference now!—no ink-bottles, no smashings, no quills, plenty of geese, though, and grouse and hares—what was i thinking about? oh, yes—the office—no scribbles—no stools, no desks, no-vember—dear me, that’s funny! no-vember—what’s a vember? cut him in two can’t join him again—no—no—snore!”

at this point peter’s thoughts went out altogether in sleep, leaving the happy youth in peaceful oblivion. he started suddenly after an hour’s nap, under the impression that he was tumbling over a precipice.

to give a little scream and clutch wildly at the heather was natural. he looked round. the sun was still hot and high. scratching his head, as if to recall his faculties, peter stared vacantly at the sandwiches which lay beside him on a piece of old newspaper. gradually his hand wandered towards them, and a gleam of intelligence, accompanied by a smile, overspread his countenance as he conveyed one to his lips. eating seemed fatiguing, however. he soon laid the remnant down, drew the plaid over him, nestled among the heather, and dropped into a heavy sleep with a sigh of ineffable comfort.

when peter again woke up, the sun was down, and just enough of light remained to show that it was going to be an intensely dark night. can anyone describe, can anyone imagine, the state of peter’s feelings? certainly not! peter, besides being youthful, was, as we have said, an extremely timid boy. he was constitutionally afraid of the dark, even when surrounded by friends. what, then, were his sensations when he found himself on the mountain alone—lost! the thought was horror! peter gasped; he leaped up with a wild shout, gazed madly round, and sank down with a deep groan. up he sprang again, and ran forward a few paces. precipices occurred to him—he turned and ran as many paces backward. bogs occurred to him—he came to a full stop, fell on his knees, and howled. up he leaped again, clapped both hands to his mouth, and shouted until his eyes threatened to come out, and his face became purple, “master! master! george! hi! hallo–o! jacky! ho–o–o!” the “o!” was prolonged into a wild roar, and down he went again quite flat. up he jumped once more; the darkness was deepening. he rushed to the right—left—all round—tore his hair, and gazed into the black depths below—yelled and glared into the dark vault above!

poor peter! thus violently did his gentle spirit seek relief during the first few minutes of its overwhelming consternation.

but he calmed down in the course of time into a species of mild despair. a bursting sob broke from him occasionally, as with his face buried in his hands, his head deep in the heather, and his eyes tight shut, he strove in vain to blind himself to the true nature of his dreadful position. at last he became recklessly desperate, and, rising hastily, he fled. he sought, poor lad, to fly from himself. of course the effort was fruitless. instead of distancing himself—an impossibility at all times—doubly so in a rugged country—he tumbled himself over a cliff, (fortunately not a high one), and found himself in a peat-bog, (fortunately not a deep one). this cooled and somewhat improved his understanding, so that he returned to the knoll a wiser, a wetter, and a sadder boy. who shall describe the agonies, the hopes, the fears, the wanderings, the faggings, and the final despair of the succeeding hours? it is impossible to say who will describe all this, for we have not the slightest intention of attempting it.

towards midnight dan reached a very dark and lonely part of the mountains, and was suddenly arrested by a low wail. the sturdy celt raised his lantern on high. just at that moment peter’s despair happened to culminate, and he lifted his head out of the heather to give free vent to the hideous groan with which he meant, if possible, to terminate his existence. the groan became a shriek, first of terror, then of hope, after that of anxiety, as dan came dancing towards him like a jack-o’-lantern.

“fat is she shriekin’ at?” said dan.

“oh! i’m so glad—i’m so–o–ow–hoo!”

poor peter seized dan round the legs, for, being on his knees, he could not reach higher, and embraced him.

“fat’s got the maister?”

peter could not tell.

“can she waalk?”

peter couldn’t walk—his limbs refused their office.

“here, speel up on her back.”

peter could do that. he did it, and hugged dan round the neck with the tenacity of a shipwrecked mariner clinging to his last plank. the sturdy celt went down the mountain as lightly as if peter were a fly, and as if the vice-like grip of his arms round his throat were the embrace of a worsted comforter.

“here they are, ma’am!” screamed mrs brown.

she was wrong. mrs brown was usually wrong. peter alone was deposited before the eager gaze of mrs sudberry, who fainted away with disappointment. mrs brown said “be off” to peter, and applied scent-bottles to her mistress. the poor boy’s grateful heart wanted to embrace somebody; so he went slowly and sadly upstairs, where he found the cat, and embraced it. hours passed away, and the sudberry family still wandered lost, and almost hopeless, among the mountains.