Bosom Friends: A Seaside Story

by Angela Brazil

  CHAPTER XIV.

  A WET DAY.

  "Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises; and oft it hits Where hope is coldest and despair most sits."

  The estrangement between Isobel and her friend was of very shortduration after all. That same evening they had met on the Parade, andBelle had run up with her former affectionate manner, so completelyignoring the remembrance of any differences between them that Isobelthankfully let the matter slide, only too glad to resume the friendshipon the old terms, and hoping that such an unpleasant episode might notoccur again. The two had arranged to make an expedition together to theold town on the following day, but the morning proved so very wet thatit was impossible for any one to go out of doors.

  "It's a perfect deluge of a day," said Isobel, looking hopelessly at theceaseless drip, drip which descended from the leaden skies. "It doesn'tseem as if it ever meant to clear up again. I think it must have rainedlike this on the first morning of the Flood. It couldn't have beenworse, at any rate."

  The back sitting-room of a lodging-house does not, as a rule, afford themost brilliant of views, so the scene which met Isobel's eyes was hardlycalculated to raise her spirits. The paved yard behind was swimming withwater, through which a drenched and disconsolate tabby cat, excludedfrom the paradise of the kitchen, was attempting to pick its way,shaking its paws at every step. Marine Terrace being a comparatively newrow, the back premises were still in a somewhat unfinished condition,and instead of gardens and flower-beds, your eye was greeted by heaps ofsand and mortar, bricks and rubbish, not yet carted away by thebuilders, which, added to piles of empty bottles and old hampers, gave arather forlorn appearance to the place. After watching pussy's struggleswith the elements, and seeing her finally seek refuge in the coal-house,Isobel took a turn to the front door, and stood looking over the Parade,where the rolling mist almost obscured all sight of the sea, and sky andwater were of the same dull neutral gray. The road was empty, not eventhe most venturesome visitors having braved the wind and weather thatmorning; while Biddy herself, usually as punctual as the clock, hadevidently decided it was too wet a day to vend her fish. There wasabsolutely nothing to be seen; nevertheless Isobel would have stoodthere watching the endless drops falling from the unkindly skies, hadnot Mrs. Jackson appeared from the kitchen, and declaring that the rainwas beating into the hall, firmly closed the door and shut out anyfurther prospect.

  "You'd get cold too, missy," she said, "standin' in a full draught, forPolly will leave that back door open, say what I will, and it turnschilly of a wet day. One can have too much fresh air, to my mind. Therewas a gentleman stayed here last summer, now, just crazy he was on whathe called 'hygiene;' bathed regular every morning before breakfast, nomatter how the tide might be. I warned him it was a-injuring his healthto go in the water on an empty stomach, but he didn't take no notice ofwhat I said, and lay out on damp sand, and sat under open windows, tillhe ended up with a bad bout of the brown-chitis, with the doctor comin'every day, and me turned sick nurse to poultice him--Emma Jane bein' athome then, or I couldn't have found the time to do it. I've no opinionof these modern health dodges as folks sets such store by now. In myyoung days we never so much as thought about drains, and if the pig-stywas at the back door, no one was any the worse for it! I call itright-down interferin' the way these inspectors come round sayin' youmustn't even throw a bucket of potato skins down in your own yard.Nuisance, indeed! It's them as is the nuisance. Their nastydisinfectants smell far worse, to my mind, than a few cabbage leaves. Mygrandmother lived to ninety-four, and never slept with her bedroomwindow open in her life, not even on the hottest of summer days, anddrew her drinkin' water regular from the churchyard well, which theytell you now is swarmin' with 'microbes,' or whatever they call 'em. Inever saw any, though I've let my pail down in it many a time; and itwas a deal sweeter and fresher, to my taste, than what you get laid onin lead pipes. Jackson may go in for this new-fangled 'sanitation' if helikes, votin' for all kinds of improvements by the Town Council, whichonly adds to the rates. I'm an old-fashioned woman, and stick toold-fashioned country ways, and I think draughts is draughts, and givesfolks colds and toothaches, call 'em by what high-soundin' names youwill."

  Judging the weather to be absolutely hopeless, and without the slightestintention of clearing up, Isobel went back to the sitting-room, wherePolly had just taken away the breakfast things, and looked round forsome means of amusing herself.

  "I don't believe the postman has been yet," she said. "What a terribleday for him to go round! I should think he feels as if he ought to comein a boat. Why, there's his rap-tap now. I wonder if there are anyletters for us?"

  "I don't expect there will be," said Mrs. Stewart; "my correspondence isnot generally very large."

  "I think I shall go and see, just for something to do," said Isobel; andrunning into the hall, she returned presently with a letter in her hand.

  "It's for you, mother," she said. "The people in the drawing-room hadfive, and the family in the dining-room had seven and two parcels.Aren't they lucky? There was even one for Polly, but Mrs. Jackson toldher to put it in her pocket, and not to read it till she had got thebeds made. I'm sure she'll take a peep at it, all the same. I wish someone would write to me. I haven't had even a picture post-card since Icame."

  The appearance of the letter which had just arrived seemed to cause Mrs.Stewart an unusual amount of agitation. She turned it over in her hand,glanced at Isobel, hesitated a moment, and finally took it unopened toher bedroom, that she might read it in private.

  "It is my long-expected reply at last!" she said to herself. "I thoughthe could surely not fail to send me an answer. I wonder what he has tosay. I feel as though I scarcely dare to look."

  With trembling fingers she tore open the envelope, and unfolding thesheet of notepaper, read as follows:--

  "THE CHASE, SILVERSANDS, _August 24th._

  "DEAR MADAM,--I have delayed replying sooner to your communication, as I wished to thoroughly inform myself upon the question which you put before me. Acting on your suggestion, I have, without her knowledge, noted the general disposition, demeanour, and tastes of your daughter, and finding they are of a nature such as would not make a closer intimacy congenial to either of us, I must beg to decline your proffered meeting. As I would wish, however, that my son's child should receive a fitting education, I am about to place to her credit the sum of L200 per annum to defray her expenses at any good school that you may select from a list which will be submitted to you shortly by my solicitor. He has full instructions to conduct all further arrangements, and I should prefer any future communication from you to be only of a business character.--Believe me to remain yours truly EVERARD STEWART."

  Mrs. Stewart flung down the letter with a cry of indignation.

  Mrs. Stewart and Isobel on the moor (page 203).]

  "What does he mean?" she asked herself. "Where can he have seen Isobel?To my knowledge she has spoken to nobody except this old Colonel Smithand a few of the townspeople. How can he have 'noted her disposition,demeanour, and tastes'? And if so, what fault can he possibly find withmy darling? Is it mere prejudice, and a determination on his part toavoid any reconciliation? If I were not so wretchedly poor, I would notaccept one farthing of this money for her. But I must! I must! It is notright that my pride should stand in the way of her education, and forthis I must humble myself to take his charity. He is a stern man to havekept up the ill-feeling for so many years. Every line of his lettershows that he is opposed to me still, though he has never seen me in hislife; and instead of loving Isobel for her father's sake, he is preparedto hate her for mine. We are so friendless and alone in the world thatit seems hard the one relation who I thought might have taken aninterest in my child should cast her off thus. Well, it makes her doublymine, and if she can never know her grandfather's beautiful home, mylove must be compensation for what she has lost. My one litt
le ewe lambis everything to me; and though I would have given her up for the sakeof seeing her recognized, it would have nearly broken my heart to partwith her."

  She put the letter carefully away, and went down again to thesitting-room, where Isobel was standing by the window, gazingdisconsolately at the streaming rain, with just a suspicion of tworain-drops in her eyes, for she did not like to be left alone, and Mrs.Stewart had been long upstairs.

  "Never mind, my sweet one," said her mother, stroking the pretty, smoothhair. "It is a disappointing day, but we will manage to enjoy ourselvestogether, you and I, in spite of rain or any other troubles. Suppose wego through all your collections. You could write the names under thewild flowers you have pressed, arrange the shells in boxes, and floatsome of the sea-weeds on to pieces of writing-paper."

  Isobel cheered up at once at the idea of something definite to do, andthe table was very soon spread over with the various treasures she hadgathered upon the beach. Silversands was a good place for shells, andshe had many rare and beautiful kinds, from pearly cowries to scallopsand wentletraps. She sorted them out carefully, putting big, little, andmiddle-sized ones in separate heaps; she had great ideas of what shewould do with them when she was at home again, intending to constructshell boxes, photo frames, and various other knickknacks in imitationof the wonderful things which were sold at the toy-shop near the railwaystation.

  "If I could make a very nice frame, mother," she said, "I should like tosend it to Mrs. Jackson for a Christmas present, to put Emma Jane'sphoto in. I believe she'd be quite pleased to hang it up in the kitchenwith the funeral cards. I might manage a shell box for old Biddy, too.It would scarcely do for a handkerchief box, because I don't believe sheever uses such a thing as a pocket handkerchief, but I dare say shewould like it to put something in. Do you think the shells would stickon to tin if we made the glue strong enough? I could do a tobacco-boxthen for Mr. Cass the coastguard, one that he could keep in the parlourfor best."

  "I'm afraid you will have to collect more shells if you intend to makeso many presents," said Mrs. Stewart. "I think, however, that we mightmanufacture some pretty pin-cushions out of these large fan shells byboring holes in the ends, fastening them together with bows of ribbon,and gluing a small velvet cushion in between."

  "That would be delightful!" cried Isobel, "and something quite differentto give people. I'm afraid they're rather tired of my needle books andstamp cases. I wish we could think of anything to do with thesea-weed."

  "We're going to float them on to pieces of paper, and when they are drywe will paste them in a large scrap album, and find out their names froma book which I think I can borrow from the Free Library at home."

  "I don't quite know how to float them."

  "You must watch me do this one, and then you will be able to manage therest. First I'm going to fill this basin with clean water, and put thispretty pink piece to float in it. Now, you see, I am slipping this sheetof notepaper underneath, and drawing it very carefully and gently fromthe water, so that the sea-weed remains spreads out upon the paper. Ishall pin the sheet by its four corners on to this board, and when it isdry you'll find that the sea-weed has stuck to the paper as firmly as ifit had been glued. It's not really difficult, but it needs a littleskill to lift the sheet from the water without disarranging yoursea-weed."

  "This one's lovely," said Isobel. "I must try to do the green piecenext. How jolly they'll look when they are all nicely pasted into abook! I wonder if it will be difficult to find out the names? It'srather hard to tell our flowers, isn't it?"

  "Sometimes; but I think we are improving in our botany. How manydifferent kinds have we pressed since we came here?"

  "Forty; I counted them yesterday. And we have fifty-seven at home. Weshall soon have the drawer quite full. Do you think I might look at thescabious that I put under your big box last night?"

  "I'm afraid you will spoil it if you peep at it too soon. When I was alittle girl my brother and I used sometimes to amuse ourselves byputting specimens to press under the leaves of an old folding-table, andpledging each other not to look at them for a year. It was rather hardsometimes to keep our vows, but the flowers were most beautifully driedwhen we took them out again. Some day we will start a collection ofpressed ferns; they are really easier to do than wild flowers, becausethey keep their colour, while the pretty blue of harebells or speedwellsalways seems to fade away."

  "I've done three sea-weeds already," said Isobel, successfully arranginga delicate piece of pink coralline with the point of a hat pin. "I'mafraid this next white one will be very difficult, it's so thick."

  "You can't float that. It's a zoophyte, not a real sea-weed; and,indeed, not a vegetable at all, but the very lowest form of animal life.You must hang it up to dry, like you do the long pieces of oar-weed.We'll try to get the messy work done this morning, so that we can clearthe table for Polly to lay dinner, and in the afternoon I thought youmight finish your tea-cosy for Mr. Binks. There is not much to be doneto it now, and then I can make it up for you."

  "Oh, that would be nice! When can we go and see him?"

  "I believe my foot will be strong enough by Thursday, so you shall writea letter to him after dinner, and say so."

  "How jolly! I'm longing to see the White Coppice, and the balk, and Mrs.Binks. I hope she won't forget to bake the cranberry cake. I shall haveto write a very neat letter. I want to copy out the runic inscription,too, on to a fresh piece of paper."

  "Yes, do, dear. If my ankle bears me safely as far as the White Coppice,I shall certainly venture to the island afterwards, and take a sketch ofthe stone. It's a most interesting discovery."

  "Colonel Smith said he was going to have it raised up," said Isobel;"half of it, you see, is buried in the ground. He wasn't sure whether hewould leave it where it is, or take it to his house. He's so dreadfullyafraid, if he lets it stay on the island, that horrid cheap trippersmight come some time and carve their names on it. He says the bramblesgrowing over it have kept it safe so far. I wish you knew him, mother,he's _so_ kind. Belle says she doesn't like him at all, but I do."

  "I think it's very good of him to let you have the run of his island; ithas made a most delightful playground, and you and the Sea Urchins willhave spent an ideal holiday."

  "We have indeed. I'm so glad we came to Silversands. I wish we couldcome every year, and always have the island to play on. It would besomething to look forward to through the winter."

  "I'm afraid that isn't possible, dear," said Mrs. Stewart regretfully,thinking of what might have been if the hopes which prompted her visithad been fulfilled. "I doubt if we shall ever return here again. But wewill have other happy times together; there are many sweet spots in theworld where we shall be able to enjoy ourselves, and I have plans forthe future which I will tell you about by-and-by."

  "I've had quite a jolly day in spite of the rain," declared Isobel thatevening, when, the deluge having ceased at last, the setting sun brokethrough the thick banks of clouds, and flooding the sea with a goldenglory, brought out all the cooped-up visitors for an airing upon theParade.

  "I haven't!" said Belle. "It was perfectly detestable. I had absolutelynothing to do except throw balls for Micky, and even he got tired ofthat. Mother said we made her head ache, and she went to lie down. It'snever any fun talking to Barton, she's so stupid; so I sat and watchedthe streaming rain through the window, and wished we'd never come toSilversands. I think a wet day in lodgings is just about the horridestthing in the world, and I simply can't imagine how you can have enjoyedit."