A PICNIC.
BERTIE felt rather queer when he got home that day. His head ached a
little, and he was not much disposed to eat his dinner. He did not care
about going out any more, and by and by he stole down-stairs to his old
haunt, the library window-seat, and established himself comfortably
there.
He had not been seen in that place so much of late as he had been at
first. Latterly his frequent visits to the next house had taken up a
great deal of his time, and he was out of doors for the greater part of
these warm summer days. Then Phil and Queenie often came to see him, and
at such times the children were not allowed to leave the nurseries
except to play in the garden. The liberty granted to Bertie himself was
not accorded to his friends.
So he had been little to the library of late, and when he found himself
there again he heaved a sigh of contentment, as if he had somehow found
a haven of refuge for himself. The Squire was not in his room when
Bertie found his way there; but he came in a little bit later, and his
grave, stern face seemed to soften as his glance rested upon the figure
of the child.
He did not speak, however, only crossed the room, and stood for a few
moments in the embrasure of the window, his hand resting kindly upon the
head of the little boy.
It was more of a caress than Bertie had ever before received from his
benefactor, and it seemed to give him courage; for when the Squire
seated himself in his chair with the newspaper, Bertie followed and took
a footstool at his feet, leaning his tired head against the Squire’s
knee; and in that position he quickly fell asleep.
When he began to awake, he found himself on somebody’s knee, a kind arm
encircling him, and his head resting comfortably upon a supporting
shoulder. Half-sleeping, half-waking, the child moved a little, and
said, dreamily,—
“Grandpapa—where’s mother?”
It was the first time the child had ever named any relative. He had
called the Squire “grandpapa” as if by instinct, and had appeared when
he first came to have some association with that name, but he had never
spoken of either father or mother, and it had sometimes seemed doubtful
whether he had ever known a parent’s love at all.
The Squire waited silently, hoping he would say more, but Bertie’s eyes
began to open then, and, after a few seconds of great bewilderment, he
appeared to recollect himself, and pressed his hand to his head, as if
to quiet the confusion of his brain.
“Does your head ache, Bertie?”
“Yes, grandpapa. I think dreaming makes it ache worse.”
“What were you dreaming about?”
But he shook his head with a look of distress.
“I can’t remember.”
“Never mind, then; dreams are silly things, not worth remembering. Go to
sleep again, and sleep the headache away.”
Bertie was very comfortable; but it dawned upon him that he had never
sat like this upon the Squire’s knee before.
“I’m afraid I’m in your way,” he said, sleepily.
“Go to sleep, child, go to sleep,” was the rejoinder; and Bertie obeyed
in such good earnest that when he next awoke it was to find himself in
his own bed, and the morning sunshine streaming in through the
uncurtained window. He had actually slept all the rest of the day and
all the night, and woke up as gay as a lark and as fresh as a kitten. So
that, when the ponies came to the door and Phil ran in with his
invitation to the picnic, Bertie was eager to join the pleasure party,
and rushed off to the library to ask leave with a face as bright as the
sunny morning.
The Squire was very kind: he gave a ready assent to the proposal, and
came himself to the front door to lift the child into the saddle and to
“pay his respects to Miss Queenie,” as he called it. When he saw how
well the boy sat, how at home he seemed on the spirited pony, and how
easily he managed his reins and whip, he nodded approvingly, and said,—
“So, so, Master Bertie, you have not forgotten your riding. We must see
about a pony for you one of these fine days.”
Bertie flushed with pleasure, and as the children rode away together
Queenie said,—
“He’s a very kind old man, isn’t he?”
“He’s very kind to me,” answered Bertie, emphatically,—“very kind
indeed!”
“Is he going to adopt you?” asked the little girl, who was not always
very quick to see when she gave pain by her words.
Bertie flushed painfully.
“I don’t know,” he answered, and the tears sparkled in his eyes.
“People say he will,” asserted Queenie, “unless anybody finds out who
you really are. Dr. Lighton isn’t half so sure about your ever
remembering for yourself as he was at first.”
“Oh, you’ll remember fast enough, never fear!” cut in Phil, whose
feelings in some things were quicker than his little sister’s. “You’ll
wake up some fine morning with it all as plain as a pikestaff, and
meantime it won’t be half bad to be adopted by the Squire.”
Bertie said nothing. He always felt sad when his forgotten past was
brought up and discussed; but he knew that Phil meant kindly, and was
much obliged by his friendly words.
As they rode on over the level roads through the bright sunshine, and
with the fresh breeze whistling in their ears, they all grew merry and
cheerful. Bertie was delighted with his pony, Phil was as full of fun
and chatter as a monkey, and Queenie, though rather inclined to be “on
her high horse,” was too pleased at the prospect of the picnic to be
cross to Bertie.
He felt sure she was not quite friendly towards him by the way she
laughed at any blunders he might make and teased him whenever she had
the chance; but he always considered it Queenie’s privilege to plague
him, and submitted to it with great humility.
At length they reached their destination, and Bertie was very much
impressed by the change in the character of the coast as they
approached. The level sands with which he was so well acquainted had
been gradually merged in tracts of rocky coast of a wild and strange
formation; and as they proceeded onwards the rocks grew higher and
higher, until they became great frowning cliffs, sometimes jutting far
out into the sea, in other places sweeping inwards and forming great
coves or bays, many of which were floored by the loveliest white sand or
by pebbles of every color of the rainbow.
Bertie thought he had never before seen anything so beautiful, and he
rode along for the last few miles in a sort of dream of wonder and
delight, feeling quite lifted out of himself by the beauty of all he
saw.
At last they reached the bay that was to be their goal, and reined up
their ponies at the top of the cliff. Far away in the distance they saw
a boat slowly rowing through the blue waves. It was plain it could not
reach the bay for at least half an hour.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Phil, triumphantly. “I told those other fellows that
we should be here the first. Now, get off, you two, and I’ll take the
ponies to a farmhouse I know close by, and then we’ll find the path and
climb down it, so as to be waiting for them when they come.”
Phil led off the three ponies, and Queenie and Bertie were left standing
on the cliffs together. The little girl began fastening up her long
riding-skirt by means of cleverly-arranged loops and buttons devised by
nurse to keep it out of her way whilst she was climbing about the rocks,
and Bertie went down on his knees to help her, and as she condescended
to permit his attentions he asked, timidly,—
“Are you cross with me, Queenie?”
Queenie made a little disdainful gesture.
“Cross? What a question! Do you think I should ask you to come with us
if I were?”
“I thought you seemed rather vexed,” explained Bertie, with gravity.
“Well, it would serve you right, I think, if I were,” she answered,
judicially. “You know you were horribly stupid yesterday.”
“I’m afraid I was,” he answered, meekly; “only I _can’t help_ being so
frightened on the water; I do try not to mind,—I do indeed,—but trying
doesn’t seem any good.”
Queenie smiled rather severely.
“Well, if you can’t help it, you can’t, I suppose. But you can help
being a hypocrite, I hope.”
Bertie looked much astonished.
“A hypocrite!”
“Yes; you know what that is, don’t you?”
“Yes—but—I didn’t know I was one. I don’t understand you, Queenie.”
“Don’t you? Well, I can soon explain. Do you remember when Phil ran away
from school and was going to hide and have a lot of fun, what a fuss you
made about being brave and not afraid of things, and how you spoilt
everything by making him tell papa straight out? Well, after all that
lecturing, of course, I expected you to be as brave as a lion yourself,
instead of which you turn out a horrid little coward, and nearly get the
boys into a great big row because you are such a coward. That’s the sort
of thing I hate!” and the little lady stamped her foot imperiously,
having talked herself into a good deal of excitement. “I like people to
_be_ brave, not to talk brave, and then turn awful cowards when the time
comes to try.”
Bertie stood humbly before the angry little girl, feeling very much
subdued by her vehemence, and not at all inclined to defend himself. He
felt that there was a certain amount of injustice in the charge brought
against him. He knew in his heart that he was not such a dreadful coward
as she thought him, although he could not control his terror in a boat.
But her argument was put in a fashion that made it difficult to answer;
and it was only after a very long pause that he said, slowly,—
“I don’t think I should be a coward about other things. Can’t you give
me something else to do that isn’t going in a boat?”
Queenie quite approved of being appealed to in this way. She liked to
feel her power over Bertie, and her face relaxed its severity. After a
little pause she approached a few paces nearer to the little boy, and
asked, in a low and mysterious tone,—
“Should you be afraid to climb about the cliffs to look for sea-gulls’
eggs or young birds?”
Bertie looked both eager and astonished.
“No, I don’t think so,” he answered, glancing down the rugged face of
the cliff, which showed numbers of rough ledges and natural rocky steps,
very tempting to boys with steady heads and a natural aptitude for
climbing. “Do you mean now—to-day?”
“No,” answered Queenie, laying her finger on her lips and looking
cautiously round her. “It’s a great secret, and you mustn’t say a word
to anybody. But when the spring comes Phil and I are going to come here
and try and get some young sea-gulls,—David will tell us the best
places,—and if you can promise to be brave, perhaps you may come too.”
Bertie looked eager and excited. He had a good deal of innate daring and
love of adventure, little though some of his companions guessed it, and
a hunt about those grim, rocky cliffs seemed to him the most attractive
of schemes.
“Oh, shouldn’t I like that!” he cried. “I’ll practise climbing every day
till the spring comes. I’d like to catch a pair of gulls for the Squire
too. I heard him say once that he wanted some, to eat the snails in the
kitchen garden. Can’t we find some, to-day, Queenie? Why must we wait
till the spring?”
“Phil says there are no young birds now; they’ve all got big and flown
away. We must wait till some more are hatched—that will be in the
spring. I’m glad you’re not afraid, Bertie. You shall come with us, and
perhaps David too; but you mustn’t say anything to the rest. We want it
to be a secret, and if they know they’ll tell everybody, or let it out
by accident, and then”—she stopped suddenly and added, with a little
laugh, “then it would all be spoiled, and they would get all the fun;
but it’s Phil’s secret and mine, and you must promise not to tell
anybody.”
“Of course not,” answered Bertie, promptly; “I won’t say a word to
anybody.”
And then Phil came back, and led the way down to the sandy bay beneath
by means of a steep narrow path not known to many save the fisher-people
of that coast.
The boat came in a little while after they had reached the shore, and
the hampers of good things were landed; and a capital picnic they all
had sitting on the smooth white sand beneath the shadow of the jagged
cliffs.
Uncle Fred was a capital companion for children, and was coaxed into
telling stories of his adventures by land and sea, to which they all
listened with undivided attention, although many of them had heard the
best stories again and again. Time sped away “twice too fast,” as Phil
declared, and it was time to go long before anybody wanted to move.
Phil, however, had made good use of his time, and had found out from
David a good deal about sea-gulls and their habits. The fisherman’s boy
knew a great deal about the ways of the wild creatures of the coast, and
could answer all Phil’s questions in a very satisfactory way.
When the boat had started off, Phil turned to Queenie and said,—
“We needn’t go for half an hour yet. I want to try my hand at climbing.”
“So do I!” cried Bertie, eagerly; and Queenie told how Bertie had been
let into the plan and had promised to keep the secret.
“All right!” cried Phil; “I think Bertie’s safe enough. Now for a little
practice.”
The boys threw off their jackets and began climbing the craggy face of
the cliff. It was hard work, and it cut their hands a little; but they
found it quite possible, with pains and caution, to mount from one ledge
to another, and also to descend again, though this was by no means so
easy. Queenie watched them eagerly and approvingly, and was obliged to
admit that Bertie was not at all nervous or timid in climbing, and was
quite as clever and agile as Phil.
They had not time to do much climbing to-day, however, but they
satisfied themselves that the face of the cliff did not present any very
terrible difficulties, and they determined to ride over by themselves
soon and have another preparatory scramble.
“The worst thing is, though,” said Phil, when at last they had turned
their backs on the coast and were trotting quietly along in the
direction of home, “that David says the birds always choose the most
difficult places possible for their nests. Most of them build in places
we couldn’t get at anyhow without ropes and all kinds of things; but
some aren’t so bad, and there always are young birds hatched among those
ledges every year, only the old birds are very fierce, and it isn’t
always easy to rob them.”
Nevertheless, and in spite of all difficulties, the three children were
quite determined that, when the right season came on, they would visit
together one of those craggy coves, and not return without a prize of
eggs and young birds from the nests of the sea-gulls.
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