CROSS-PURPOSES.
"Though a truth to outward seeming,
Yet a truth it may not prove."
Although Mrs. Stewart had now been more than ten days at Silversands she
had not yet received any reply to the letter which she had dispatched
with so many heart-burnings on the evening of her arrival.
"Does he mean to ignore it altogether?" she asked herself. "Will he
never forgive? Can he allow his grandchild, the only kith and kin that
is left to him, to be within a few miles and not wish at least to see
her? Does he still think me the scheming adventuress that he called me
in the first heat of his anger, and imagine I am plotting to get hold of
his money? I would not touch one penny of it for myself, but I think it
is only right and fair that Isobel should be sent to a really good
school. It would be such a small expense to him out of his large
income, and it is simply impossible for me to manage it. I have done my
best for her so far, but she is so quick and bright that she will very
soon be growing beyond my teaching. He will surely realize that for the
credit of his own name something ought to be done. Perhaps he may be ill
or away, and has not been able to attend to my letter. I must have
patience for a little longer, and wait and see whether he will not send
me an answer."
The waiting seemed very long and tedious to poor Mrs. Stewart as she lay
through those hot summer days on the hard horsehair sofa of the small
back sitting-room at No. 4 Marine Terrace. As the lonely hours passed
away, the lines of trouble deepened in her forehead, and she stitched so
many cares into the winter night-dresses she was beguiling the time by
making that every gusset and hem seemed a reminder of some anxious
thought for the future.
In the meantime Isobel remained sublimely unconscious of her mother's
hopes and fears. To her the visit to Silversands was nothing but the
most glorious holiday she had spent in her life, and her jolly times
with the Sea Urchins, and especially the delight of her friendship with
Belle, made the days fly only too fast. The latter was still as clinging
and affectionate as ever, and would scarcely allow Isobel out of her
sight.
"I'd rather be with you, darling, than with any one else," she declared
enthusiastically. "I used to think I liked Winnie Rokeby, but she was
very unkind once or twice, and told such nasty tales about me, actually
trying to make out I was selfish, just because I wanted her to do one or
two little things for me that _you_ don't mind doing in the least. She
splashed sea-water all over my best white silk dress too, and I'm sure
it was on purpose, and she said my hair looked exactly like sticks of
barley-sugar." And Belle tossed back her curls as if indignant yet at
the remembrance.
"She really _is_ fond of me," said Isobel to her mother. "And it's so
nice of her, because, you see, although she doesn't care for Winnie
Rokeby, she might have had Aggie Wright or Ruth Barrington for her
special friend; she knows them both at home, and goes to all their
parties. Charlotte Wright says it's too hot to last, but that's just
because Aggie was jealous that Belle didn't ask her to go to tea the day
I went; and Letty Rokeby says we're bound to have a quarrel sooner or
later, but I'm sure we shan't, for there never seems anything to quarrel
about, and I couldn't imagine being out of friends with Belle."
On the afternoon following Isobel's adventure in the _Stormy Petrel_,
any one seated in the front windows of Marine Terrace might have been
interested in the movements of an elderly gentleman, who for the last
ten minutes had been slowly pacing up and down the broad gravel path in
front. He was a very stately old gentleman, with iron-gray hair and a
long, drooping moustache; he held himself erect, too, as if he were at
parade, and he had that air of quiet dignity and command which is
habitual to those who are accustomed to seeing their orders promptly
obeyed. Whether he was merely enjoying the fresh air and scenery, or
whether he was waiting for somebody, it was difficult to tell, since he
now lighted a cigar in a leisurely fashion, and cast an anxious, quick
look towards the houses, and, frowning slightly, would walk away, then
come back again as if he were drawn by some magnet towards the spot, and
must return there even against his will.
He was just passing the garden of No. 4 when the front door opened, and
Belle, who had been spending an hour with Isobel, sauntered down the
path, and closing the gate behind her, seated herself upon one of the
benches which the Town Council had put up that summer on the gravel walk
in front of Marine Terrace, as a kind of earnest of the promenade which
they hoped might follow in course of time. She spread out her pretty
pink muslin dress carefully upon the seat, rearranged her hat to her
satisfaction, and slowly fastened the buttons of her long kid gloves.
It was too early to go home yet, she thought, for her mother was out
with friends, and their tea-time was not until five o'clock, so she sat
watching the sea and the fishing-boats, and drawing elaborate circles
with her parasol in the gravel at her feet. She was quite unaware that
she was being very keenly observed by the old gentleman, who, having
followed her, walked past once or twice with an undecided air, and
finally settled himself upon the opposite end of the bench where she was
sitting.
"That's certainly the address she gave me," he muttered to himself, "and
it might possibly be the child. She tallies a little with the
description; she's fair, and not bad-looking, though I don't see a trace
of the Stewarts in her face. As for resembling my Isobel--well, of
course, that was only a scheme on the mother's part to try and arouse my
interest in her. What the letter said is true enough, all the same: if
she's my grandchild it isn't right that she should be brought up in
penury, and I suppose I must send her to school, or provide in some way
for her. I can't say I'm much taken with her looks. She's too dressed-up
for my taste. Where did her mother find the money to buy those fal-lals?
It doesn't accord with the lack of means she complained of. I wonder if
I could manage to ask her name without giving myself away."
He took a newspaper from his pocket, and spreading it out, pretended
to read, stealing occasional glances in Belle's direction, and
racking his brains for a suitable method of opening a conversation.
Belle, who was beginning to be rather tired of her occupation, and
was half thinking of moving farther on or going home, became
suddenly conscious that she seemed to be arousing an unusual degree
of interest in her companion at the other end of the bench.
Constantly petted and admired by her mother's friends, she was
accustomed to receive a good deal of attention, and it struck her
that a short chat with this distinguished-looking stranger might
beguile her monotony until tea-time. She therefore let her fluffy
curls fall round her face in the way that an artist had once painted
them, and began to cast coy looks from under her long lashes in his
direction, hoping that he might speak to her; both of which methods
she usually found very engaging with elderly gentlemen, who
generally asked her whose little girl she was, and ended by saying
she was a charming child, and they wished they owned her, or some
other remark equally flattering and gratifying.
In this case however, her pretty ways did not seem to have their due
effect; either the old gentleman was really shy himself, or he found a
difficulty in starting, for though he cleared his throat several times,
as if he were on the very point of speaking, he seemed to change his
mind, and kept silence. Somewhat disappointed, Belle nevertheless was
not easily baffled, and after having sighed, coughed, opened and shut
her parasol, taken off her gloves and put them on again, thereby
exhibiting the small turquoise ring that was her greatest delight, and
finally even got up a sneeze, all without any result, she at last pulled
off her bracelet, and in refastening it managed with considerable skill
to let it drop on the ground and roll almost to her companion's feet. It
was but natural that he should pick it up and hand it to her.
"Oh, thank you so much!" exclaimed Belle, in what some one had once
called her "Parisian" manner. "It was so careless of me to drop it, and
I wouldn't have lost it for the world. Things so easily roll away on the
shore, don't they?"
"I suppose they do," replied the colonel. "It certainly isn't wise to
send your trinkets spinning about the sands."
"I value that one, too," said Belle, shaking her curls, "because, you
see, it was a present. A friend of mother's gave it to me on my last
birthday. He was going to choose a book at first--he always sent me
books before, the most terrible ones: Shakespeare, and Lamb's 'Essays,'
and Ruskin, and stupid things like that, which I shan't ever care to
read, even when I'm grown up--so this birthday I asked him if he would
give me something really nice; and he laughed, and brought me this dear
little bangle, and said he expected it would suit Miss Curly-locks
better than solid reading."
"Ugh!" grunted her new acquaintance, with so ambiguous an expression
that Belle could not make out whether he sympathized or not; but as he
put down his paper, and seemed quite ready to listen to her, she went
on.
"It's very nice at Silversands. Mother and I have been here nearly a
fortnight. We think the air's bracing, and the lodgings are really not
bad for a little place like this. One doesn't expect a hotel."
"Are you staying in Marine Terrace?"
"Yes; it's the nicest part, because you get the view of the sea. I don't
like the rooms near the station at all. Mother looked at some of them
first, but there were such dreadfully vulgar children stopping there.
'This won't do, Belle,' she said. 'I couldn't have you in the same house
with people of that sort.'"
"Is your name Belle?"
"Yes, Isabelle Stuart; but it's generally shortened to Belle. Mother
says a pet name somehow seems to suit me better. Last winter I went to a
party dressed all in blue, and everybody called me 'Little Bluebell,'
and asked if I came from fairyland."
She paused here, thinking the old gentleman might take the opportunity
to put in a compliment; but he did not rise to the occasion, so she
continued,--
"Other people asked if I were one of the bluebells of Scotland; but
we're not Scotch, although our name's Stuart. My father was English. I
can't remember him properly, I was so little when he died, but mother
always says I'm his very image."
"Rubbish!" growled the colonel suddenly.
"Why!" exclaimed Belle, in astonishment, "how can you tell? You didn't
know him? He was very tall and fair, mother says, and _so_ handsome. She
cries when I talk about him, so I don't like to speak of him very
often."
"What is she doing for you in the way of lessons? Is it all parties and
trinkets, or do you ever do anything useful?" asked her companion.
"Of course I have lessons," replied Belle with dignity, feeling rather
hurt at his tone. "I learn French, and drawing, and music, and dancing,
and a great many other things."
"And which do you like best?"
"I don't know. I'm not very fond of history or geography, but mother
hopes I'll get on with music. It's so useful to be able to play well,
you see, when one comes out. I think I like the dancing lessons most; we
learn such delightful fancy steps. Some of us did a skirt dance at the
cavalry bazaar last winter, and I was the Queen of the Butterflies. I
had a white dress lined with yellow and turquoise, and I shook it out
like this when I danced, to show the colours. People clapped ever so
much, and it was such a success we had to do it over again, in aid of
the hospital. Our mistress wants to get up a flower dance for the
exhibition _fete_ next winter, and she promised I should be the Rose
Queen, but mother says perhaps I may go to school before then."
"Time you did, too--high time--and to a school where they put something
in the girls' heads," remarked the colonel, almost as if he were
thinking aloud. "It ought to be history and geography, instead of
Bluebells and Rose Queens. I don't approve of capering about on a stage
in fancy dress."
Belle was much offended. The conversation had not turned out nearly so
interesting as she expected. Instead of being appreciated, she had an
uneasy sensation that the old gentleman was making fun of her; and as
this was not at all to her taste, she thought it time to beat a retreat;
so, noticing the Wrights approaching in the distance, she rose and put
up her parasol.
"I see some of my friends," she said, in what she hoped was rather a
chilling manner, "and I must go and speak to them."
And to show her displeasure, she marched off without deigning even to
say good-bye. Colonel Stewart sat watching her as she walked away, with
a somewhat peculiar expression on his face.
"Worse than I could ever have imagined!" he groaned. "Vain, shallow, and
empty-headed, caring for nothing but pleasure and showing herself off in
public places decked out like a ballet dancer! She's pretty enough in a
superficial kind of way--the sort of beauty you get in a doll, with
neither mind nor soul behind it. _She_ worthy of the name, indeed! Oh,
my poor boy! Is this the child on whom you had set such high hopes? And
is this little French fashion-plate really and truly the last of the
Stewarts?"