CHAPTER VII
'NO,' SAID MAMMA, 'THAT ISN'T ALL'
Then we all sat down at the end of the terrace; Mrs. and Miss Trevor hadalready found out exactly the nicest place, one of our own favouriteplaces, sheltered but not too shut in, with a view of the pine woodsclose by, at one side, and a peep of the farther off sea, through anopening that had been made on purpose, at the other.
'I love that glimpse of the sea,' said Miss Trevor, who naturally beganto talk to me, as her mother and mamma were entertaining each other.
'Yes,' I said, 'this corner is a very nice one. But you should see theview from where we are now--down at the Hut, I mean.'
'It must be charming,' she replied, 'so open and wide. I am veryanxious, indeed,' she went on smiling, 'to see the Hut. It must beso--picturesque.'
'No, it isn't exactly that,' I said. 'It's _queer_, andout-of-the-common, of course, but the charm of the place _is_ theplace,' and I laughed at my own way of expressing myself. 'It seems soentirely away from everything, except the sea and the trees and the wildcreatures, though it isn't _really_ lonely.'
Then mamma turned to Miss Trevor with some little explanation aboutsomething or other in the house which Mrs. Trevor said her daughter tookcharge of, and the old lady--I hope it isn't rude to call her that? shedid seem old to me--began talking to me. I liked her very much. She was_so_ fond of her three doggies, and she was so sympathising about one ofours that had died a few months before, and whom we had loved so dearly,that it was not till a good while afterwards that we could bear to haveanother.
The one we did have in the end was a present from Mrs. Trevor, a pugpuppy, and we have him still, and I named him 'Woolly,' which everybodythinks a most unsuitable name for a pug, as they do not understand thereason for it. I daresay _you_ will guess that it was because the sightof a pug always reminds me of Mrs. Trevor's unwound balls, and the woolall twined round her.
Soon after, mamma said we must be going, and we bade Mrs. Trevorgood-bye, but Miss Trevor said she would go a little bit of the way withus.
She seemed to have something she wanted to say, and as if she did notquite know how to begin, till at last, just as we were close to the turnin the drive that led to the stables and coach-houses, she stood stillfor a moment. From where we were there was again a peep of the sea, allglistening and sparkling, though calm.
'This is another pretty peep,' said mamma.
'Yes,' Miss Trevor agreed, 'and the advantage up here is that we canhave these open views and yet be in shade. As the season gets on, I amafraid you will find it rather too unsheltered from the sun to sit outon the sea-side of the Hut.'
'We shall have to rig up shady arrangements,' said mamma laughingly.
'That reminds me,' said Miss Trevor, which was not quite true, as shehad been thinking of it all this time, I am sure, and wondering how shewas to offer it without seeming officious, or anything of thatsort,--'that reminds me'--then she broke off--'would you mind justlooking in here a moment?'
'In here' was one of the coach-houses. Miss Trevor led the way towardsit, and pushed open the door. Inside stood a sort of Bath-chair, oflighter build, even though larger, than such things generally are. Itwas of wickerwork, covered with pretty stuff like what tents and awningsare made of--as we saw when she threw off the sheet that was over it.
'We call this my brother's boudoir,' she said. 'It is quite acuriosity,' and she began drawing out and showing us all manner ofcontrivances--a table which hooked on to one side, another whichfastened itself to the front, a large basket for the other side, astool, quite strong enough for a second person to sit on comfortably totalk or read to whomever was in the chair; and besides all these,wonderful awnings that pulled out and could be turned and twisted likebig umbrellas, and stretches of wickerwork to make the chair into acouch--and all this on wheels!
'It is not meant to be used as a Bath-chair,' went on Miss Trevor; 'thewheels are just to move it easily for short distances. It is really astationary affair. My brother invented a good deal of it himself two orthree years ago when he was very ill--much more of an invalid than now,I mean.'
'It is a beautiful thing,' said mamma, in which I quite agreed with her,though we both wondered a little why she was exhibiting it at all to usso minutely.
'But Will isn't at all pleased with us for bringing it here,' MissTrevor continued. 'He says he never wants to see it again; it remindshim of his worst time, and he says I must get rid of it. He preferssitting out among the pines in a quite well sort of way. So--it juststruck mother and me, that _perhaps_ it might be some little use to you,down so near the sea where there is no shade,' and she glanced at ushalf timidly.
'Oh!' I exclaimed, before mamma had time to speak, 'it would besplendid--just in front of the little porch. We could really make a sortof tiny room with it, and you could be _so_ comfortable, mamma, on sunnydays. Oh, do say we may have it!'
Miss Trevor seemed delighted, and mamma smiled at my enthusiasm.
'It is a charming chair,' she said, 'far more than a chair indeed--Iscarcely know what to call it. It is most kind of you to have thought ofit for us, Miss Trevor, and if you are so good as to lend it to us, youmay be sure we shall take the greatest care of it. And, of course, ifMr. William Trevor ever wants to have it while you are here, you mustnot for an instant hesitate to tell us and we should send it back atonce.'
Miss Trevor got rather red.
'Oh, but,' she said, 'you don't quite understand, Mrs. Lanark. We wantyou to have it for good--to keep, I mean, if you care for it. I amperfectly certain that Will won't want it. In fact, he says he hates thesight of it. And down at the Hut, it might be of use, even after youhave moved up here again. I will have it wheeled down to you to-morrowmorning; it may need a little cleaning up first. The wheels are quitestrong enough for a short journey, especially with no one inside. I onlymeant that it is not built in the peculiarly strong way a regularBath-chair needs to be.'
I did feel so pleased to know it was to be our very own, and so, Ithink, did mamma. For when things are lent, there is always a ratherfidgety feeling, for fear they should get spoilt in any way. And MissTrevor had said it so nicely--as if our taking it would really be doingthem a favour. For, of course, from almost complete strangers it is alittle difficult to accept presents, though mamma has often told us thatto receive a kindness graciously is quite as much a duty as to offerone.
And then too she had spoken as if our return to our proper home wasquite a certainty, and our absence from it only a question of a littletime, though afterwards we heard that there had been a good deal ofgossip in the neighbourhood about our being completely 'ruined,' andthat Eastercove was sure to have to be sold. I suppose a great deal ofgossip is not meant to be unkind, but still it does seem sometimes as ifpeople were more ready to exaggerate and talk about other people's_troubles_ than about their good fortune.
We said good-bye to Miss Trevor soon after that--she, turning to go backto the house, and we, after mamma had asked her very heartily to comesoon to see us in our 'gypsy encampment,' as mamma called it (I wishedit had been a good deal more gypsy than it was!), which she seemed veryeager to do, walking slowly towards the Hut. More slowly than I feltinclined for--I was in a fever to tell Geordie about the wonderfulchair--but mamma was still feeling a little tired after all the bustleand busy-ness and sad feelings of the last few weeks, and so I tried tokeep down my impatience.
When we came quite out of the wood into the clear, open view of the sea,mamma stood still again and gazed down at it without speaking for amoment or two.
'Are you thinking of papa?' I said softly, giving her arm, through whichI had slipped my hand, a little squeeze.
'Yes, dear,' she said, turning her face towards me, and I was pleased tosee that she was smiling. 'He must be nearing the end of his longjourney by now. But it was not only because of his voyage that I wasthinking of him. The sea is always associated with him in my mind; itwas the occasion of our first getting to know each other.'
I felt
greatly interested.
'Did you meet on board ship, do you mean?' I asked. 'Did you make avoyage together?'
'No, no,' said mamma, smiling again; 'I have never been a long voyage inmy life. And the time I was thinking of--ever so long ago--had nothingto do with a voyage. I will tell you the story of it if you like. Shallwe sit down here a little? It is perfectly dry.'
My hurry to get home to tell Geordie about Miss Trevor's present hadsoftened down in the interest of what mamma was speaking of; besides,when I came to think of it, I remembered that he could not yet be backfrom Mr. Lloyd's. So I was very pleased to do as mamma proposed.
'There is a little bathing-place far up in the North,' she began, whenwe had settled ourselves on a little bank made by some old roots whichhad spread out beyond the actual pine wood, 'which was rather afavourite in that part of the world a good many years ago, though now, Ifancy, it is quite out of fashion. It was considered a very safe placefor children, as there are great stretches of sands, and the bathing isvery good, except that the tide at one part goes out with greatswiftness and force, owing to a current of some kind just there. Thereis a garrison town--a small one--two miles or so from the bathingvillage--a station for cavalry--and the sands used to be, and I daresaystill are, a favourite exercising ground for the horses. Well, onemorning, ever so long ago, as I said----'
'Do you mean fifty years ago, or a hundred perhaps?' I interruptedthoughtlessly, forgetting that the story had some connection with mammaherself.
'No, no,' she said laughing, 'not quite as "ever so long ago" as that.Let me see--I need not be quite exact--about twenty-four or twenty-fiveyears ago, we will say. Well, one fine summer morning an officer, avery young one, of only eighteen or nineteen, was galloping with hismen--a small party--up and down these sands, when he heard and sawsomething which made him suddenly pull up and gaze down towards the sea,which had turned and was rapidly going out. It was just above thebathing-place--a perfectly safe place if the vans were drawn out whenthe tide turned, and not allowed to get into the sort of current I toldyou of. But by some mischance one of the vans had been allowed to stayin the water too long--the old bathing man was getting rather stupid, Ifancy, and was busy drying things higher up, with his back to the sea,and did not hear the cry from the van, or see the white handkerchiefthat was frantically waved from its landward side.
The young man had keen eyes and ears; he saw that there was not a momentto be lost--and he quickly took in what had happened and what must bedone. The van was _almost_ off its wheels, swaying about with everylittle wave that ran in, as the water rose and rose. And just outsidethe door, on the ledge at the top of the steps, stood a forlorn littlefigure waving a handkerchief, or perhaps it was a towel, and crying atthe top of her small voice--
"Help, help; oh, _please_, help!"
'I don't know what the officer did about his men, who were already somelittle way off--I suppose he signed to them to wait for him,--but I knowwhat he did himself, and that was to gallop as fast as his horse wouldgo, down to the sea, shouting as he went to the bathing-man, who wasquick enough to see what was wrong, as soon as his attention was calledto it.
'He rushed for his old horse, and was wonderfully soon at the water'sedge and in it, looking horribly frightened, but quick as he was, theyoung man was there at least a minute or two before him. And after oneglance at the state of things, the first comer did not hesitate. For hesaw that the van was growing less and less steady; it was _almost_lifted off the ground by this time, though it kept recovering itself alittle. And the small figure on the steps was calling more and morewildly and shaking her white signal more desperately, while she clung onwith the other hand to the side of the lurching and swaying van.
'His--the young officer's, I mean--first idea was to harness his horse_somehow_ to the van, and draw it out bodily--riding like a postilion.But he gave this up at once when he found how deep the water wasalready and how unsteady the thing was. He was too angry with thecareless owner of it to care whether the van itself swam out to sea ornot, and too anxious, to risk wasting a moment. And the sight of thelittle white face and tear-swollen eyes lifted up to him doubled boththese feelings.
'"Don't be frightened, you will be all right now," he called out to thechild, who by this time scarcely knew what she was saying. He thinks shechanged her piteous "Help, help, do come!" to "Oh, save me, please, saveme!" And when he and his horse got quite close he had no need toencourage her to come to him--she almost sprang into his arms, soquickly that he was afraid she would fall into the water. But it wasmanaged somehow, so that in another moment he found himself riding backto the shore again, with the little girl perched on the front of hissaddle, clinging to him and tucked up so as to keep even her feet fromgetting wet.
'She was actually quite dry when they got back to the sands and helifted her down--getting off himself to get a good shake, for _he_ wasby no means quite dry, nor was the horse, who had behaved so well andpluckily, as if understanding there was something the matter, and nowstood snorting with pleasure and satisfaction.
'And the little girl was sensible too. She had quite left off crying andheld out her hand to her preserver.
'"Oh, thank you, thank you so velly much," she said, "for saving me. Iwas velly neely drowned, wasn't I? Please go home and get dry quick, orelse you'll catch cold."
'But before he had time to reply, a figure came rushing up to them ingreat excitement. It was the little girl's nurse, dreadfully frightenedand ashamed, especially when the boy officer turned upon her verysharply and asked her what on earth she had been thinking of to leaveher charge in such danger.
'She had a long story to tell, which he had not patience to listento--how she had almost finished dressing the young lady when she foundshe had left her parasol on the sands, and had climbed over into thenext van where a friend was, just as it was being drawn out, as she wasso afraid of the parasol being stolen, thinking no harm could come tothe child in that minute or two till the bathing-man came back again,and how her friend had seen the parasol higher up on the stones, andhow--and then came the bathing-man lumbering up with _his_ story--orhow he had thought there was no one in the van, and he was just a-goin'to fetch it out--not that it would have gone far----
'"But it _would_," said the soldier; "and even if it had stuck, theyoung lady would have been half killed with fright and soaked through,and perhaps fallen into the water bodily. The bathing-man deserved to bereported, and----"
'There came a shout for the young officer just then. Some one, thinking_he_ had got drowned or something of the kind, had hurried back to see.So he rode off though just as he was going, the little girl stopped himfor a moment.
'"Oh, please, Mr. Soldier," she said, "will you tell me your name, sothat mamma can write to thank you?"
'He laughed, but he was already in the saddle, and all she heard was theone word, "Jack."'
Mamma stopped when she got to this. I waited an instant to see if shewas going on again. I felt a little puzzled, though I thought the storyso interesting.
'That isn't all, is it, mamma?' I said. 'I do so like it, but--didn'tyou say--something about papa--and you and the sea, being mixed up?'
Mamma smiled; her pretty blue eyes were fixed on the water below us;they and it seemed almost the same colour this afternoon.
'No,' she said, 'that isn't all. It was many, at least several--nine orten or so years later, that the story goes on again. The boy officer hadbeen out in India and seen fighting and many other things that come intosoldiers' lives. But now that was over for him. Other duties had comeinto his life and changed it. Well--he was staying near the sea, withhis mother and sisters, and one day, after a boating expedition,--it wasa picnic to a picturesque island not far off,--he was introduced to agirl who had come with some other acquaintances. And they walked up anddown the sands for a little. He kept looking at her in rather a curiousway, and she wondered why, till at last he said--
'"I have the strangest feeling that I have seen you before, but I ca
nnottell where or when. And your name does not help me to remember."
'Then the girl looked at him in her turn very carefully. And a suddenrush of remembrance came over her.
'"Is your name," she said quite eagerly,--"is your name--your first name'Jack'?"
'"Yes," he said, more and more puzzled.
'She smiled, and then she laughed, and then she told him.
'"I believe I can solve the riddle," she said. "I once rode through thesea on your horse--in front of you.'"
'And then Jack remembered.'
And _I_ understood!
'Oh, mamma!' I exclaimed, 'what a dear story. And _you_ are the littlegirl, and dear papa is "Jack," and--and--it ended in your being married!How clever it was of him to remember your face again!'
'Don't you think it was still cleverer of me to remember his name?' saidmamma. '_He_ always says so. But Ida, dearest, look how low the sun isgetting. We must hurry home, or Geordie and the others will be gettingtired of waiting for tea,' and she got up from her root-seat as shespoke, and we walked on quickly.
I kept on thinking of the story all the way. It was so pretty and yet soqueer to think of my own papa and mamma as if they were people in abook, and to picture to myself that once upon a time, or _ever_, theywere strangers to each other.
'Mamma must have been a dear little girl,' I thought to myself, as Iglanced up at her; 'she is still so pretty and sweet;' and I felt thatto me she _always_ would seem so, even when her golden hair had grownsilver, and her bright eyes dimmer, and her rounded cheeks thin andworn.
'She will always be my dear pretty mamma,' I thought.