A FIRST QUARREL.
"The little rift within the lute,
That by-and-by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all."
It had become an almost daily programme for the Sea Urchins to jump
across or even to wade through the channel the moment the tide was
sufficiently low to enable them to do so with safety, and to establish
themselves upon their desert island. The joys of pioneering seemed to
have quite put cricket in the shade; the hut had still the charm of
novelty, and to fry the flukes which they had themselves speared or to
concoct blackberry jam or toffee in an enamelled saucepan over the camp
fire was at present their keenest delight. The only regret was that they
did not possess a boat in which they could row over to their territory
whenever they wished, and the boys had tried to provide a substitute by
constructing a raft from some of the old planks left lying about from
the schooner, lashing them together with pieces of rope in the orthodox
"shipwrecked sailor" fashion, and making paddles out of broken spars. It
looked quite a respectable craft--as Charlie Chester said, "most
suitable for a desert island"--and they had anticipated having a good
deal of fun with it, and being able to take little sea excursions if
they could only manage to steer it properly; and Charlie even had ideas
of rigging up a sail, and perhaps getting across the bay as far as
Ferndale with a favourable wind. Its career, however, was short and
brilliant. It was launched with much noise and nautical language by
Charlie and the other boys, and started gaily off, greatly to the
admiration of the feminine portion of the Sea Urchins, who ran along the
shore shouting encouragement. But it had hardly gone more than a hundred
yards, and was still in shallow water, when the too enthusiastic efforts
of its amateur oarsmen caused it suddenly to turn a somersault, and
upset the crew into the briny deep; then floating swiftly away bottom
side up, it was caught by the current, much to the regret of its
disconsolate builders, who, wet through with their unexpected swim,
watched it drift in the direction of Ferndale, where the tide probably
carried it over the bar, to wash about as a derelict in the open sea
till the water had rotted the ropes that bound the planks.
After the raft proved a failure, the boys took to carving miniature
yachts out of pieces of drift-wood, and sailing them in a wide pool
which was generally left at the mouth of the creek. The girls hemmed the
sails, and provided the vessels with flags in the shape of tiny coloured
pieces of ribbon stitched on to the masts, and would stand by to cheer
the particular bark in which they were interested, as the ladies in
olden days encouraged their knights in the tourney. There was great
competition between the various boats, and it seemed a matter of the
utmost importance whether Charlie Chester's _Water Sprite_, Bertie
Rokeby's _Esmeralda_, or Arthur Wright's _Invincible_, should reach the
opposite shore in the shortest space of time. Occasionally a good ship
would get becalmed in the middle of the pool, in which case its owner
would have to wade to the rescue, probably finding it caught in a mass
of oar-weed, or even entangled in the floating tentacles of a huge
jelly-fish. The children had made a nice aquarium not far from the hut,
and in this they put specimens of every different kind of sea-weed on
the island, as well as crabs, anemones, limpets, sea cucumbers,
star-fishes, zoophytes, or any other treasures of the deep that they
might be lucky enough to collect; while the boys, I regret to say, took
a keen delight in securing a couple of hermit crabs, and setting the
pugnacious pair to fight in a small arena of sand which they prepared
specially for the purpose, somewhat in the same manner as our
unregenerate forefathers devoted certain portions of their gardens to
the formation of cock-pits.
Another favourite amusement was to divide into two regiments, each under
the leadership of suitable officers, and, armed with pea-shooters, to
conduct a series of Volunteer manoeuvres upon the shore. The defending
party would throw up ramparts of sand, and duly garrison their
stronghold, while the enemy would attack with the ferocious zeal of a
band of North American Indians or a gang of Chinese pirates, being
greeted by a volley of fire from the pea-shooters, and missiles in the
shape of whelks' eggs, the dried air-vessels of the bladder-wrack,
little rolled-up balls of slimy green sea-weed, or anything else which
could be flung as a projectile without injuring the recipients too
severely. Very exciting struggles sometimes took place for the
possession of a fortress or the securing of an outpost; and I think the
girls were really as keen as the boys in this amateur warfare, Letty and
Winnie Rokeby proving deadly shots with their pea-shooters, and Aggie
Wright becoming quite an admirable scout.
Isobel undertook the ambulance department, and made a delightful
hospital with beds dug out of sand, and a dispensary fitted with empty
bottles collected from the sand-bank. She installed herself here as a
Red Cross Sister, with Ruth Barrington for a helper, and was ready to
doctor the combatants, who were carried in suffering from various
imaginary wounds, the sole flaw in her arrangements being that the
invalids insisted upon getting well too quickly, and leaving their pills
and potions to rush back and rejoin the fray.
The only one of the Sea Urchins who did not thoroughly enjoy the charms
of the desert island was Belle. She was not suited for camp life, and
though she tolerated the tea-parties when she brought her own china cup
with her, she took no interest in the boat-sailing, and frankly disliked
the manoeuvres. She would not have come at all, only she found it so
dull to remain behind, as her mother was mostly occupied in reading,
writing letters, or entertaining friends, and not inclined to devote
much attention to her little daughter. Poor Belle was expected to find
her own amusements, and having no resources in herself, she sought the
society of the other children in preference to being alone, though she
grumbled incessantly at the boyish games, and longed for a different
sphere, where pretty frocks and trinkets would have a better chance of
due appreciation. Towards Isobel the fever-heat of her first affection
had cooled down considerably, and she had begun to treat her friend with
a rather patronizing authority, ordering her about in a way which would
have provoked any one with a less sweet temper to the verge of
rebellion. She had quarrelled more than once with the Wrights and the
Rokebys, since those outspoken families had given her their frank
opinion of her behaviour on several occasions, and as it was not a
flattering one, she had been far from pleased. So long as Belle's pretty
pleading manners secured for her the best of everything she was a
charming companion, but she could prove both pettish and peevish when
she considered herself neglected. Her light, pleasure-loving nature
depended for its happiness on continual attention and admiration, and if
she could not have these she was as miserable as a butterfly in a shower
of rain.
One afternoon the question of the possession of a certain basket,
supposed to be common property among the settlers, resulted in a war of
words between Belle and Letty and Winnie Rokeby--a quarrel which waxed
so fast and furious that Isobel, who fought her friend's battles through
thick and thin, was obliged to interfere (not without an uneasy
consciousness that the Rokebys had right on their side), persuaded Letty
to relinquish the disputed treasure, and bore Belle away up the hill to
soothe her ruffled feelings by picking blackberries. Micky, the little
pet dog, followed close at their heels. As a rule he preferred the
society of Mrs. Stuart, and rarely accompanied the children on their
rambles, but to-day they had brought him with them to the island.
"It _is_ my basket," grumbled Belle, threading her way daintily between
the brambles with a careful regard for her flowered delaine dress. "Mrs.
Barrington lent it to me first. The Rokebys are so selfish, they want to
keep everything to themselves. I don't know whether they or the Wrights
are worse. It's such a pretty one, too--quite the nicest we have at the
hut."
"Never mind," said Isobel hastily, anxious to dismiss the subject. "Let
us fill it with blackberries. There are such heaps here, and such big
ones."
It was indeed a harvest for those who liked to gather. Brambles grew
everywhere. Long clinging sprays, some still in blossom and some covered
with the ripe fruit, trailed in profusion over the rocks, their
reddening leaves giving a hint of the coming autumn, for it was late
August now, and already there was a touch of September crispness in the
air. It was delightful on the headland, with sea and sky spread all
around, the sea-gulls flapping idly below just on the verge of the
waves, and banks of fragrant wild thyme under their feet, growing in
patches between the great craggy boulders, which looked as though they
had been piled up by some giant at play. The picking went on steadily
for a while, though it was a little unequal, as Belle had a tender
consideration for her spotless fingers, and gathered about one berry to
Isobel's dozen.
"We shall soon have the basket full," said Isobel. "Hold it for a
moment, Belle, please, while I get to the other side of this rock; there
are some still finer ones over here."
"I should think we have enough now," said Belle, upon whom the
occupation began to pall. "We don't want to make any more jam; the last
we tried stuck to the pan and burnt, and wasted all the sugar I had
brought. Mother says she won't let me have any more. Come back, Isobel,
do, and take the basket. Why, what are you staring at so hard?"
"At this stone underneath the brambles," replied Isobel. "It's most
peculiar. It has marks on it like letters, only they aren't any letters
I know. Do come and look."
She pulled the long blackberry trails aside as she spoke, and disclosed
to view a large stone, something like a gate-post, lying on its side,
half sunk into the soil. It was worn, and weather-beaten, and battered
by time and storms, but on its smooth surface could still be traced the
remains of a rudely-carved cross, and the inscription,--
[Illustration]
"What does it mean?" asked Belle. "Are they really letters?"
"I can't tell," replied Isobel. "It looks like some writing we can't
read. Perhaps it's Greek, or old black letter. I wonder who could have
put it here?"
"I don't know, and I'm sure I don't care," said Belle. "What does it
matter? Let us come along."
"Oh! only it's interesting. I want to tell mother about it; she's so
fond of old crosses, and she may know what it means. I can copy it on
this scrap of paper if you'll wait a minute."
Belle sat down with a martyred air. She was not in the best of tempers,
and she did not like waiting. She put the basket of blackberries by her
side, and took Micky on her knee. Then, for want of anything better to
do, she began to tease him by pulling the silky hair that grew round his
eyes.
"Don't do that, Belle," said Isobel, looking round suddenly at the sound
of Micky's protesting yelps.
"Why not?" asked Belle, somewhat sharply.
"Because you're hurting him."
"I'm not hurting him."
"Yes, you are."
"I suppose I can do as I like with him; he's my own."
"He's not yours to tease, at any rate. Belle, do stop!"
"I'll please myself; it's nobody else's affair," said Belle, giving such
a tug as she spoke to Micky's silken top-knot that he howled with
misery.
Isobel sprang up. She could not bear to see an animal suffer, and her
anger for the moment was hot.
"Let him go, Belle!" she cried, wrenching at her friend's hands. "You've
no right to treat him so. Let him go, I tell you!"
Micky seized the golden opportunity, and escaping from his mistress's
grasp, beat a hasty retreat towards the beach, yelping with terror as he
went, and upsetting the basket of blackberries in his flight.
Belle turned on Isobel in a rage.
"Look what you've done!" she exclaimed. "I wish you would mind your own
business, and leave me to manage my own dog. All the blackberries have
rolled over the cliff where we can't get them, and it's your fault. I
hope you're sorry."
Isobel stooped to rescue the empty basket, but she did not apologize.
"I think it was as much your fault as mine," she replied. "You shouldn't
have teased him. Perhaps we can pick the blackberries up again."
"No, we can't. They've fallen among the briers, and _I_ don't mean to
scratch my fingers by trying. You can stay and fish them out if you
like. I'm going home."
"But we haven't had tea yet."
"I don't care. I don't want tea out of a tin mug. I shall have it
comfortably at the lodgings, with a nice clean tablecloth and a
serviette. I'm tired of stupid picnics." And Belle flounced away down
the hill with anything but a sweet expression or a "Parisian" manner.
Isobel did not try to stop her. As the proverbial worm will turn, so
there are limits to the endurance of even the most devoted of friends,
and I think this afternoon she felt that Belle's conduct had reached a
climax for which no excuse could be made. The latter, who considered
herself both hurt in her feelings and offended in her dignity,
scrambled down to the shore, and calling Micky to her heels, set off
promptly for home.
"Hullo, Belle!" cried Bertie Rokeby, catching at her dress as she
hurried past the hut. "Look out, can't you! Don't you see that you're
trampling all over the shells that I've just laid out to sort on the
sand? What's the row? You look like a regular tragedy queen--Lady
Macbeth in the murder scene, or Juliet about to stab herself!"
"Let me go," said Belle crossly, trying to pull herself free. "What
horrid, rough things you boys are! Why can't you leave me alone, I
should like to know?"
"Humpty-Dumpty! We _are_ in a jolly wax," said Bertie. "You're as bad as
a cat with her back up. All the same, I don't want my shells smashed, so
please to mind where you're stepping."
"Bother your shells!" said Belle. "You shouldn't leave them lying about
in people's way. There! you've torn a slit in my dress. I knew you
would! Let me go, Bertie Rokeby, you mean coward!" And jerking her skirt
with an effort from his grasp, she started at a run along the beach, and
fled as fast as she could in the direction of Silversands.
She had reached the southern point of the island, where they generally
crossed the channel, and was hurrying on, not looking particularly where
she was going, her eyes half blinded with self-pitying tears, when,
turning the headland sharply, she ran full tilt against her quondam
acquaintance of the Parade, who was walking leisurely along the sands
with a cigar in his mouth and a breechloader under his arm. The
collision was so sudden and unexpected that Belle sat down swiftly in a
pool of slimy green sea-weed, while the gun, knocked by the impact from
its owner's grasp, struck the rock violently, and discharged both
barrels into the air. The colonel, who had been almost upset with the
shock, recovered his balance as by a miracle, and hastened to ascertain
the extent of the mishap; but finding no harm done, he picked up his gun
and surveyed Belle with considerable disfavour.
"You might have caused a very nasty accident, young lady," he said.
"It's a mercy the charge didn't land in either your leg or mine. Why
don't you look where you're going?"
Belle raised herself carefully from the pool, glancing with much concern
at the large green stains which had reduced her dress to a wreck, and at
the moist condition of her silk stockings.
"How could I know any one was round the corner?" she replied, somewhat
sulkily. "I wonder what my mother would have said if you'd killed me.
I'm not sure if my leg isn't shot through, after all."
"Let me look," said the colonel quietly. "No, that's not a wound, though
you've grazed it a little, very likely in falling. There's no real
damage, and I think you're more frightened than hurt."
"My dress is spoilt," said Belle, determined to have a grievance. "These
green stains will never wash out of it. It's really too bad."
"Be thankful it's only your dress, and not your skin," said the owner of
the Chase, with scant sympathy. "What are you doing here, so far away
from the Parade? You had better go home to your mother, and tell her to
take more care of you, and not let you wander about alone to get into
mischief."
"I was going home as fast as I could," retorted Belle, not too politely,
for she disliked the old gentleman extremely, and wished he would not
interfere with her. "And I think my mother knows how to take care of me
without any one telling her, thank you."
"I have no doubt she imagines she does," replied Colonel Stewart, rather
bitterly. "I can't say I admire the result. I should certainly wish to
teach you better manners if I had any share in your bringing up."
"I'm glad you haven't," said Belle smartly; and catching Micky in her
arms, she put an abrupt end to the conversation by running away again at
the top of her speed over the shallows towards the mainland.
"He's perfectly horrid!" she said to herself. "This is the third place
I've met him, and each time he has been more disagreeable than the last.
I can't imagine why, but I somehow feel as if he had taken quite a
dislike to me."