“But I wouldn’t say them if it wasn’t for Milly,” returned the urchin. “I do it to please her. An’ I wash an’ brush myself, an’ all that, just ’cause she likes me to do it. I’d neither wash, nor pray, nor brush, nor anything, if it wasn’t to please Milly—and mother,” he added, after a moment’s reflection. “I like them, an’ I don’t care a button for anybody else.”
“What! for nobody else at all?”
“Well, yes, I forgot—I like Ivor, too.”
“Is that the sick gamekeeper, Junkie?”
“Sick! no; he’s the drunken keeper. Drunken Ivor, we call him—not to his face, you know. Wouldn’t we catch it if we did that! But I’m fond of drunken Ivor, an’ he’s fond of me. He takes me out sometimes when he goes to shoot rabbits and fish. Sometimes he’s awful fierce, but he’s never fierce to his old mother that lives in the hut close behind his—’cept when he’s drunk. D’ee know”—the boy lowered his voice at this point and looked solemn—“he very nearly killed his mother once, when he was drunk, you know, an’ when he came sober he cried—oh, just as our Flo cries when she’s bin whipped.”
At this point the breakfast-bell pealed forth with, so to speak, a species of clamorous enthusiasm by no means unusual in Scottish country mansions, as if it knew that there was spread out a breakfast worth ringing for. At the first sound of it, Junkie burst from the room, left the door wide open, clattered along the passage, singing, yelling vociferously as he went—and trundled downstairs like a retiring thunderstorm.
The arrangements for the day at Kinlossie were usually fixed at the breakfast hour, if they had not been settled the night before. There was, therefore, a good deal to consult about during the progress of the meal.
“You see, gentlemen,” said the host, when the demands of nature were partially satisfied, “friends who come to stay with me are expected to select their occupations or amusements for the day as fancy or taste may lead them. My house is ‘liberty hall.’ Sometimes we go together on the hills after grouse, at other times after red-deer. When the rivers are in order, we take our rods and break up into parties. When weather and wind are suitable, some go boating and sea-fishing. Others go sketching or botanising. If the weather should become wet, you will find a library next to this room, a billiard-table in the west wing, and a smoking-room—which is also a rod and gun-room—in the back premises. We cannot take the men from their work to-day, so that a deer-drive is not possible, but that can be done any day. So, gentlemen, think over it, and make your choice.”
“How is Milly this morning?” asked MacRummle, who came down late to breakfast, as he always did, and consequently missed morning prayers.
“Better, much better than we could have expected. Of course the arm is inflamed and very painful, but not broken, which is almost a miracle, considering the height from which she fell. But for you, Mr Barret, she might have lain there for hours before we found her, and the consequences might have been very serious. As it is, the doctor says she will probably be able to leave her room in a few days.”