A WET DAY.
"Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises; and oft it hits
Where hope is coldest and despair most sits."
The estrangement between Isobel and her friend was of very short
duration after all. That same evening they had met on the Parade, and
Belle had run up with her former affectionate manner, so completely
ignoring the remembrance of any differences between them that Isobel
thankfully let the matter slide, only too glad to resume the friendship
on the old terms, and hoping that such an unpleasant episode might not
occur again. The two had arranged to make an expedition together to the
old town on the following day, but the morning proved so very wet that
it was impossible for any one to go out of doors.
"It's a perfect deluge of a day," said Isobel, looking hopelessly at the
ceaseless drip, drip which descended from the leaden skies. "It doesn't
seem as if it ever meant to clear up again. I think it must have rained
like this on the first morning of the Flood. It couldn't have been
worse, at any rate."
The back sitting-room of a lodging-house does not, as a rule, afford the
most brilliant of views, so the scene which met Isobel's eyes was hardly
calculated to raise her spirits. The paved yard behind was swimming with
water, through which a drenched and disconsolate tabby cat, excluded
from the paradise of the kitchen, was attempting to pick its way,
shaking its paws at every step. Marine Terrace being a comparatively new
row, the back premises were still in a somewhat unfinished condition,
and instead of gardens and flower-beds, your eye was greeted by heaps of
sand and mortar, bricks and rubbish, not yet carted away by the
builders, which, added to piles of empty bottles and old hampers, gave a
rather forlorn appearance to the place. After watching pussy's struggles
with the elements, and seeing her finally seek refuge in the coal-house,
Isobel took a turn to the front door, and stood looking over the Parade,
where the rolling mist almost obscured all sight of the sea, and sky and
water were of the same dull neutral gray. The road was empty, not even
the most venturesome visitors having braved the wind and weather that
morning; while Biddy herself, usually as punctual as the clock, had
evidently decided it was too wet a day to vend her fish. There was
absolutely nothing to be seen; nevertheless Isobel would have stood
there watching the endless drops falling from the unkindly skies, had
not Mrs. Jackson appeared from the kitchen, and declaring that the rain
was beating into the hall, firmly closed the door and shut out any
further prospect.
"You'd get cold too, missy," she said, "standin' in a full draught, for
Polly will leave that back door open, say what I will, and it turns
chilly of a wet day. One can have too much fresh air, to my mind. There
was a gentleman stayed here last summer, now, just crazy he was on what
he called 'hygiene;' bathed regular every morning before breakfast, no
matter how the tide might be. I warned him it was a-injuring his health
to go in the water on an empty stomach, but he didn't take no notice of
what I said, and lay out on damp sand, and sat under open windows, till
he ended up with a bad bout of the brown-chitis, with the doctor comin'
every day, and me turned sick nurse to poultice him--Emma Jane bein' at
home then, or I couldn't have found the time to do it. I've no opinion
of these modern health dodges as folks sets such store by now. In my
young days we never so much as thought about drains, and if the pig-sty
was at the back door, no one was any the worse for it! I call it
right-down interferin' the way these inspectors come round sayin' you
mustn't even throw a bucket of potato skins down in your own yard.
Nuisance, indeed! It's them as is the nuisance. Their nasty
disinfectants smell far worse, to my mind, than a few cabbage leaves. My
grandmother lived to ninety-four, and never slept with her bedroom
window open in her life, not even on the hottest of summer days, and
drew her drinkin' water regular from the churchyard well, which they
tell you now is swarmin' with 'microbes,' or whatever they call 'em. I
never saw any, though I've let my pail down in it many a time; and it
was a deal sweeter and fresher, to my taste, than what you get laid on
in lead pipes. Jackson may go in for this new-fangled 'sanitation' if he
likes, votin' for all kinds of improvements by the Town Council, which
only adds to the rates. I'm an old-fashioned woman, and stick to
old-fashioned country ways, and I think draughts is draughts, and gives
folks colds and toothaches, call 'em by what high-soundin' names you
will."
Judging the weather to be absolutely hopeless, and without the slightest
intention of clearing up, Isobel went back to the sitting-room, where
Polly had just taken away the breakfast things, and looked round for
some means of amusing herself.
"I don't believe the postman has been yet," she said. "What a terrible
day for him to go round! I should think he feels as if he ought to come
in a boat. Why, there's his rap-tap now. I wonder if there are any
letters for us?"
"I don't expect there will be," said Mrs. Stewart; "my correspondence is
not generally very large."
"I think I shall go and see, just for something to do," said Isobel; and
running into the hall, she returned presently with a letter in her hand.
"It's for you, mother," she said. "The people in the drawing-room had
five, and the family in the dining-room had seven and two parcels.
Aren't they lucky? There was even one for Polly, but Mrs. Jackson told
her to put it in her pocket, and not to read it till she had got the
beds made. I'm sure she'll take a peep at it, all the same. I wish some
one would write to me. I haven't had even a picture post-card since I
came."
The appearance of the letter which had just arrived seemed to cause Mrs.
Stewart an unusual amount of agitation. She turned it over in her hand,
glanced at Isobel, hesitated a moment, and finally took it unopened to
her bedroom, that she might read it in private.
"It is my long-expected reply at last!" she said to herself. "I thought
he could surely not fail to send me an answer. I wonder what he has to
say. I feel as though I scarcely dare to look."
With trembling fingers she tore open the envelope, and unfolding the
sheet of notepaper, read as follows:--
"THE CHASE, SILVERSANDS,
_August 24th._
"DEAR MADAM,--I have delayed replying sooner to your communication,
as I wished to thoroughly inform myself upon the question which you
put before me. Acting on your suggestion, I have, without her
knowledge, noted the general disposition, demeanour, and tastes of
your daughter, and finding they are of a nature such as would not
make a closer intimacy congenial to either of us, I must beg to
decline your proffered meeting. As I would wish, however, that my
son's child should receive a fitting education, I am about to place
to her credit the sum of L200 per annum to defray her expenses at
any good school that you may select from a list which will be
submitted to you shortly by my solicitor. He has full instructions
to conduct all further arrangements, and I should prefer any future
communication from you to be only of a business character.--Believe
me to remain yours truly EVERARD STEWART."
Mrs. Stewart flung down the letter with a cry of indignation.
[Illustration: Mrs. Stewart and Isobel on the moor (page 203).]
"What does he mean?" she asked herself. "Where can he have seen Isobel?
To my knowledge she has spoken to nobody except this old Colonel Smith
and a few of the townspeople. How can he have 'noted her disposition,
demeanour, and tastes'? And if so, what fault can he possibly find with
my darling? Is it mere prejudice, and a determination on his part to
avoid any reconciliation? If I were not so wretchedly poor, I would not
accept one farthing of this money for her. But I must! I must! It is not
right that my pride should stand in the way of her education, and for
this I must humble myself to take his charity. He is a stern man to have
kept up the ill-feeling for so many years. Every line of his letter
shows that he is opposed to me still, though he has never seen me in his
life; and instead of loving Isobel for her father's sake, he is prepared
to hate her for mine. We are so friendless and alone in the world that
it seems hard the one relation who I thought might have taken an
interest in my child should cast her off thus. Well, it makes her doubly
mine, and if she can never know her grandfather's beautiful home, my
love must be compensation for what she has lost. My one little ewe lamb
is everything to me; and though I would have given her up for the sake
of seeing her recognized, it would have nearly broken my heart to part
with her."
She put the letter carefully away, and went down again to the
sitting-room, where Isobel was standing by the window, gazing
disconsolately at the streaming rain, with just a suspicion of two
rain-drops in her eyes, for she did not like to be left alone, and Mrs.
Stewart had been long upstairs.
"Never mind, my sweet one," said her mother, stroking the pretty, smooth
hair. "It is a disappointing day, but we will manage to enjoy ourselves
together, you and I, in spite of rain or any other troubles. Suppose we
go through all your collections. You could write the names under the
wild flowers you have pressed, arrange the shells in boxes, and float
some of the sea-weeds on to pieces of writing-paper."
Isobel cheered up at once at the idea of something definite to do, and
the table was very soon spread over with the various treasures she had
gathered upon the beach. Silversands was a good place for shells, and
she had many rare and beautiful kinds, from pearly cowries to scallops
and wentletraps. She sorted them out carefully, putting big, little, and
middle-sized ones in separate heaps; she had great ideas of what she
would do with them when she was at home again, intending to construct
shell boxes, photo frames, and various other knickknacks in imitation
of the wonderful things which were sold at the toy-shop near the railway
station.
"If I could make a very nice frame, mother," she said, "I should like to
send it to Mrs. Jackson for a Christmas present, to put Emma Jane's
photo in. I believe she'd be quite pleased to hang it up in the kitchen
with the funeral cards. I might manage a shell box for old Biddy, too.
It would scarcely do for a handkerchief box, because I don't believe she
ever uses such a thing as a pocket handkerchief, but I dare say she
would like it to put something in. Do you think the shells would stick
on to tin if we made the glue strong enough? I could do a tobacco-box
then for Mr. Cass the coastguard, one that he could keep in the parlour
for best."
"I'm afraid you will have to collect more shells if you intend to make
so many presents," said Mrs. Stewart. "I think, however, that we might
manufacture some pretty pin-cushions out of these large fan shells by
boring holes in the ends, fastening them together with bows of ribbon,
and gluing a small velvet cushion in between."
"That would be delightful!" cried Isobel, "and something quite different
to give people. I'm afraid they're rather tired of my needle books and
stamp cases. I wish we could think of anything to do with the
sea-weed."
"We're going to float them on to pieces of paper, and when they are dry
we will paste them in a large scrap album, and find out their names from
a book which I think I can borrow from the Free Library at home."
"I don't quite know how to float them."
"You must watch me do this one, and then you will be able to manage the
rest. First I'm going to fill this basin with clean water, and put this
pretty pink piece to float in it. Now, you see, I am slipping this sheet
of notepaper underneath, and drawing it very carefully and gently from
the water, so that the sea-weed remains spreads out upon the paper. I
shall pin the sheet by its four corners on to this board, and when it is
dry you'll find that the sea-weed has stuck to the paper as firmly as if
it had been glued. It's not really difficult, but it needs a little
skill to lift the sheet from the water without disarranging your
sea-weed."
"This one's lovely," said Isobel. "I must try to do the green piece
next. How jolly they'll look when they are all nicely pasted into a
book! I wonder if it will be difficult to find out the names? It's
rather hard to tell our flowers, isn't it?"
"Sometimes; but I think we are improving in our botany. How many
different kinds have we pressed since we came here?"
"Forty; I counted them yesterday. And we have fifty-seven at home. We
shall soon have the drawer quite full. Do you think I might look at the
scabious that I put under your big box last night?"
"I'm afraid you will spoil it if you peep at it too soon. When I was a
little girl my brother and I used sometimes to amuse ourselves by
putting specimens to press under the leaves of an old folding-table, and
pledging each other not to look at them for a year. It was rather hard
sometimes to keep our vows, but the flowers were most beautifully dried
when we took them out again. Some day we will start a collection of
pressed ferns; they are really easier to do than wild flowers, because
they keep their colour, while the pretty blue of harebells or speedwells
always seems to fade away."
"I've done three sea-weeds already," said Isobel, successfully arranging
a delicate piece of pink coralline with the point of a hat pin. "I'm
afraid this next white one will be very difficult, it's so thick."
"You can't float that. It's a zoophyte, not a real sea-weed; and,
indeed, not a vegetable at all, but the very lowest form of animal life.
You must hang it up to dry, like you do the long pieces of oar-weed.
We'll try to get the messy work done this morning, so that we can clear
the table for Polly to lay dinner, and in the afternoon I thought you
might finish your tea-cosy for Mr. Binks. There is not much to be done
to it now, and then I can make it up for you."
"Oh, that would be nice! When can we go and see him?"
"I believe my foot will be strong enough by Thursday, so you shall write
a letter to him after dinner, and say so."
"How jolly! I'm longing to see the White Coppice, and the balk, and Mrs.
Binks. I hope she won't forget to bake the cranberry cake. I shall have
to write a very neat letter. I want to copy out the runic inscription,
too, on to a fresh piece of paper."
"Yes, do, dear. If my ankle bears me safely as far as the White Coppice,
I shall certainly venture to the island afterwards, and take a sketch of
the stone. It's a most interesting discovery."
"Colonel Smith said he was going to have it raised up," said Isobel;
"half of it, you see, is buried in the ground. He wasn't sure whether he
would leave it where it is, or take it to his house. He's so dreadfully
afraid, if he lets it stay on the island, that horrid cheap trippers
might come some time and carve their names on it. He says the brambles
growing over it have kept it safe so far. I wish you knew him, mother,
he's _so_ kind. Belle says she doesn't like him at all, but I do."
"I think it's very good of him to let you have the run of his island; it
has made a most delightful playground, and you and the Sea Urchins will
have spent an ideal holiday."
"We have indeed. I'm so glad we came to Silversands. I wish we could
come every year, and always have the island to play on. It would be
something to look forward to through the winter."
"I'm afraid that isn't possible, dear," said Mrs. Stewart regretfully,
thinking of what might have been if the hopes which prompted her visit
had been fulfilled. "I doubt if we shall ever return here again. But we
will have other happy times together; there are many sweet spots in the
world where we shall be able to enjoy ourselves, and I have plans for
the future which I will tell you about by-and-by."
"I've had quite a jolly day in spite of the rain," declared Isobel that
evening, when, the deluge having ceased at last, the setting sun broke
through the thick banks of clouds, and flooding the sea with a golden
glory, brought out all the cooped-up visitors for an airing upon the
Parade.
"I haven't!" said Belle. "It was perfectly detestable. I had absolutely
nothing to do except throw balls for Micky, and even he got tired of
that. Mother said we made her head ache, and she went to lie down. It's
never any fun talking to Barton, she's so stupid; so I sat and watched
the streaming rain through the window, and wished we'd never come to
Silversands. I think a wet day in lodgings is just about the horridest
thing in the world, and I simply can't imagine how you can have enjoyed
it."