'NO,' SAID MAMMA, 'THAT ISN'T ALL'
Then we all sat down at the end of the terrace; Mrs. and Miss Trevor had
already found out exactly the nicest place, one of our own favourite
places, sheltered but not too shut in, with a view of the pine woods
close by, at one side, and a peep of the farther off sea, through an
opening that had been made on purpose, at the other.
'I love that glimpse of the sea,' said Miss Trevor, who naturally began
to 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 the
view from where we are now--down at the Hut, I mean.'
'It must be charming,' she replied, 'so open and wide. I am very
anxious, indeed,' she went on smiling, 'to see the Hut. It must be
so--picturesque.'
'No, it isn't exactly that,' I said. 'It's _queer_, and
out-of-the-common, of course, but the charm of the place _is_ the
place,' and I laughed at my own way of expressing myself. 'It seems so
entirely away from everything, except the sea and the trees and the wild
creatures, though it isn't _really_ lonely.'
Then mamma turned to Miss Trevor with some little explanation about
something or other in the house which Mrs. Trevor said her daughter took
charge of, and the old lady--I hope it isn't rude to call her that? she
did 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 of
ours 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 have
another.
The one we did have in the end was a present from Mrs. Trevor, a pug
puppy, and we have him still, and I named him 'Woolly,' which everybody
thinks a most unsuitable name for a pug, as they do not understand the
reason for it. I daresay _you_ will guess that it was because the sight
of a pug always reminds me of Mrs. Trevor's unwound balls, and the wool
all twined round her.
Soon after, mamma said we must be going, and we bade Mrs. Trevor
good-bye, but Miss Trevor said she would go a little bit of the way with
us.
She seemed to have something she wanted to say, and as if she did not
quite know how to begin, till at last, just as we were close to the turn
in the drive that led to the stables and coach-houses, she stood still
for a moment. From where we were there was again a peep of the sea, all
glistening and sparkling, though calm.
'This is another pretty peep,' said mamma.
'Yes,' Miss Trevor agreed, 'and the advantage up here is that we can
have these open views and yet be in shade. As the season gets on, I am
afraid you will find it rather too unsheltered from the sun to sit out
on 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 she
had been thinking of it all this time, I am sure, and wondering how she
was to offer it without seeming officious, or anything of that
sort,--'that reminds me'--then she broke off--'would you mind just
looking in here a moment?'
'In here' was one of the coach-houses. Miss Trevor led the way towards
it, and pushed open the door. Inside stood a sort of Bath-chair, of
lighter build, even though larger, than such things generally are. It
was of wickerwork, covered with pretty stuff like what tents and awnings
are 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 a
curiosity,' and she began drawing out and showing us all manner of
contrivances--a table which hooked on to one side, another which
fastened itself to the front, a large basket for the other side, a
stool, quite strong enough for a second person to sit on comfortably to
talk or read to whomever was in the chair; and besides all these,
wonderful awnings that pulled out and could be turned and twisted like
big umbrellas, and stretches of wickerwork to make the chair into a
couch--and all this on wheels!
'It is not meant to be used as a Bath-chair,' went on Miss Trevor; 'the
wheels are just to move it easily for short distances. It is really a
stationary affair. My brother invented a good deal of it himself two or
three 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 us
so minutely.
'But Will isn't at all pleased with us for bringing it here,' Miss
Trevor continued. 'He says he never wants to see it again; it reminds
him of his worst time, and he says I must get rid of it. He prefers
sitting out among the pines in a quite well sort of way. So--it just
struck 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 us
half timidly.
'Oh!' I exclaimed, before mamma had time to speak, 'it would be
splendid--just in front of the little porch. We could really make a sort
of tiny room with it, and you could be _so_ comfortable, mamma, on sunny
days. 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--I
scarcely know what to call it. It is most kind of you to have thought of
it for us, Miss Trevor, and if you are so good as to lend it to us, you
may be sure we shall take the greatest care of it. And, of course, if
Mr. William Trevor ever wants to have it while you are here, you must
not for an instant hesitate to tell us and we should send it back at
once.'
Miss Trevor got rather red.
'Oh, but,' she said, 'you don't quite understand, Mrs. Lanark. We want
you to have it for good--to keep, I mean, if you care for it. I am
perfectly certain that Will won't want it. In fact, he says he hates the
sight of it. And down at the Hut, it might be of use, even after you
have moved up here again. I will have it wheeled down to you to-morrow
morning; it may need a little cleaning up first. The wheels are quite
strong enough for a short journey, especially with no one inside. I only
meant that it is not built in the peculiarly strong way a regular
Bath-chair needs to be.'
I did feel so pleased to know it was to be our very own, and so, I
think, did mamma. For when things are lent, there is always a rather
fidgety feeling, for fear they should get spoilt in any way. And Miss
Trevor had said it so nicely--as if our taking it would really be doing
them a favour. For, of course, from almost complete strangers it is a
little difficult to accept presents, though mamma has often told us that
to receive a kindness graciously is quite as much a duty as to offer
one.
And then too she had spoken as if our return to our proper home was
quite a certainty, and our absence from it only a question of a little
time, though afterwards we heard that there had been a good deal of
gossip in the neighbourhood about our being completely 'ruined,' and
that Eastercove was sure to have to be sold. I suppose a great deal of
gossip is not meant to be unkind, but still it does seem sometimes as if
people 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 back
to the house, and we, after mamma had asked her very heartily to come
soon to see us in our 'gypsy encampment,' as mamma called it (I wished
it had been a good deal more gypsy than it was!), which she seemed very
eager to do, walking slowly towards the Hut. More slowly than I felt
inclined for--I was in a fever to tell Geordie about the wonderful
chair--but mamma was still feeling a little tired after all the bustle
and busy-ness and sad feelings of the last few weeks, and so I tried to
keep 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 a
moment or two.
'Are you thinking of papa?' I said softly, giving her arm, through which
I had slipped my hand, a little squeeze.
'Yes, dear,' she said, turning her face towards me, and I was pleased to
see that she was smiling. 'He must be nearing the end of his long
journey by now. But it was not only because of his voyage that I was
thinking of him. The sea is always associated with him in my mind; it
was 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 a
voyage together?'
'No, no,' said mamma, smiling again; 'I have never been a long voyage in
my life. And the time I was thinking of--ever so long ago--had nothing
to do with a voyage. I will tell you the story of it if you like. Shall
we sit down here a little? It is perfectly dry.'
My hurry to get home to tell Geordie about Miss Trevor's present had
softened 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 back
from 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, when
we had settled ourselves on a little bank made by some old roots which
had spread out beyond the actual pine wood, 'which was rather a
favourite in that part of the world a good many years ago, though now, I
fancy, it is quite out of fashion. It was considered a very safe place
for children, as there are great stretches of sands, and the bathing is
very good, except that the tide at one part goes out with great
swiftness and force, owing to a current of some kind just there. There
is a garrison town--a small one--two miles or so from the bathing
village--a station for cavalry--and the sands used to be, and I daresay
still are, a favourite exercising ground for the horses. Well, one
morning, ever so long ago, as I said----'
'Do you mean fifty years ago, or a hundred perhaps?' I interrupted
thoughtlessly, forgetting that the story had some connection with mamma
herself.
'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-five
years ago, we will say. Well, one fine summer morning an officer, a
very young one, of only eighteen or nineteen, was galloping with his
men--a small party--up and down these sands, when he heard and saw
something which made him suddenly pull up and gaze down towards the sea,
which had turned and was rapidly going out. It was just above the
bathing-place--a perfectly safe place if the vans were drawn out when
the tide turned, and not allowed to get into the sort of current I told
you of. But by some mischance one of the vans had been allowed to stay
in the water too long--the old bathing man was getting rather stupid, I
fancy, 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 handkerchief
that was frantically waved from its landward side.
The young man had keen eyes and ears; he saw that there was not a moment
to be lost--and he quickly took in what had happened and what must be
done. The van was _almost_ off its wheels, swaying about with every
little wave that ran in, as the water rose and rose. And just outside
the door, on the ledge at the top of the steps, stood a forlorn little
figure waving a handkerchief, or perhaps it was a towel, and crying at
the top of her small voice--
"Help, help; oh, _please_, help!"
'I don't know what the officer did about his men, who were already some
little way off--I suppose he signed to them to wait for him,--but I know
what he did himself, and that was to gallop as fast as his horse would
go, down to the sea, shouting as he went to the bathing-man, who was
quick enough to see what was wrong, as soon as his attention was called
to it.
'He rushed for his old horse, and was wonderfully soon at the water's
edge and in it, looking horribly frightened, but quick as he was, the
young man was there at least a minute or two before him. And after one
glance at the state of things, the first comer did not hesitate. For he
saw that the van was growing less and less steady; it was _almost_
lifted off the ground by this time, though it kept recovering itself a
little. And the small figure on the steps was calling more and more
wildly and shaking her white signal more desperately, while she clung on
with 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 was
already and how unsteady the thing was. He was too angry with the
careless owner of it to care whether the van itself swam out to sea or
not, and too anxious, to risk wasting a moment. And the sight of the
little white face and tear-swollen eyes lifted up to him doubled both
these feelings.
'"Don't be frightened, you will be all right now," he called out to the
child, who by this time scarcely knew what she was saying. He thinks she
changed her piteous "Help, help, do come!" to "Oh, save me, please, save
me!" And when he and his horse got quite close he had no need to
encourage her to come to him--she almost sprang into his arms, so
quickly that he was afraid she would fall into the water. But it was
managed somehow, so that in another moment he found himself riding back
to the shore again, with the little girl perched on the front of his
saddle, clinging to him and tucked up so as to keep even her feet from
getting wet.
'She was actually quite dry when they got back to the sands and he
lifted her down--getting off himself to get a good shake, for _he_ was
by no means quite dry, nor was the horse, who had behaved so well and
pluckily, as if understanding there was something the matter, and now
stood snorting with pleasure and satisfaction.
'And the little girl was sensible too. She had quite left off crying and
held out her hand to her preserver.
'"Oh, thank you, thank you so velly much," she said, "for saving me. I
was velly neely drowned, wasn't I? Please go home and get dry quick, or
else you'll catch cold."
'But before he had time to reply, a figure came rushing up to them in
great excitement. It was the little girl's nurse, dreadfully frightened
and ashamed, especially when the boy officer turned upon her very
sharply and asked her what on earth she had been thinking of to leave
her charge in such danger.
'She had a long story to tell, which he had not patience to listen
to--how she had almost finished dressing the young lady when she found
she had left her parasol on the sands, and had climbed over into the
next van where a friend was, just as it was being drawn out, as she was
so afraid of the parasol being stolen, thinking no harm could come to
the 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, and
how--and then came the bathing-man lumbering up with _his_ story--or
how 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, the
young lady would have been half killed with fright and soaked through,
and perhaps fallen into the water bodily. The bathing-man deserved to be
reported, 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 him
for a moment.
'"Oh, please, Mr. Soldier," she said, "will you tell me your name, so
that mamma can write to thank you?"
'He laughed, but he was already in the saddle, and all she heard was the
one word, "Jack."'
Mamma stopped when she got to this. I waited an instant to see if she
was going on again. I felt a little puzzled, though I thought the story
so interesting.
'That isn't all, is it, mamma?' I said. 'I do so like it, but--didn't
you 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 or
ten or so years later, that the story goes on again. The boy officer had
been out in India and seen fighting and many other things that come into
soldiers' lives. But now that was over for him. Other duties had come
into his life and changed it. Well--he was staying near the sea, with
his mother and sisters, and one day, after a boating expedition,--it was
a picnic to a picturesque island not far off,--he was introduced to a
girl who had come with some other acquaintances. And they walked up and
down the sands for a little. He kept looking at her in rather a curious
way, and she wondered why, till at last he said--
'"I have the strangest feeling that I have seen you before, but I cannot
tell 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 sudden
rush 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 the
sea 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 little
girl, 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?' said
mamma. '_He_ always says so. But Ida, dearest, look how low the sun is
getting. We must hurry home, or Geordie and the others will be getting
tired of waiting for tea,' and she got up from her root-seat as she
spoke, and we walked on quickly.
I kept on thinking of the story all the way. It was so pretty and yet so
queer to think of my own papa and mamma as if they were people in a
book, and to picture to myself that once upon a time, or _ever_, they
were strangers to each other.
'Mamma must have been a dear little girl,' I thought to myself, as I
glanced up at her; 'she is still so pretty and sweet;' and I felt that
to me she _always_ would seem so, even when her golden hair had grown
silver, and her bright eyes dimmer, and her rounded cheeks thin and
worn.
'She will always be my dear pretty mamma,' I thought.