THE CHASE.
"Tones that I once used to know
Thrill in those accents of thine,
Eyes that I loved long ago
Gaze 'neath your lashes at mine."
Except by Isobel, Belle was scarcely missed at the desert island, where
the Sea Urchins had so many interesting schemes on hand that they did
not trouble to spare a thought to one who had not taken the pains to
make herself a general favourite. For the last few days all the children
had been absorbed in the construction of another hut upon the opposite
end of the island. It was built with loose stones, after the fashion of
an Irish cabin, and they intended to roof it, when it was finished, with
planks covered with pieces of turf. This new building was to surpass
even the old one in beauty and ingenuity. It was to consist of several
rooms, and both boys and girls toiled away at it with an ardour which
would have caused the ordinary British workman to open his eyes in
amazement.
Isobel worked as hard as any one, carrying stones, and mixing a crumbly
kind of mortar made out of sand and crushed limpets, which Charlie
fondly imagined would resemble the famous cement with which mediaeval
castles were built, and would defy the combined effects of time and
weather. Since Belle's desertion she had been much with the Chesters.
Hilda, though several years younger than herself, was a dear little
companion, and Charlie was a staunch friend, standing up for her when
necessary against the Rokeby boys, whose teasing was sometimes apt to
get beyond all bounds of endurance. On the following Friday the whole
party were busy upon the shore, collecting a fresh supply of shell-fish
for their architecture, when Isobel, who had left the others that she
might carry her load of periwinkles to the already large heap under the
rocks, spied her friend the colonel in the distance, and flinging down
her basket, hurried along the beach to greet him.
"Well met, Miss Robinson Crusoe!" cried the colonel. "I was just on the
point of going up the cliff to take another look at the old stone. I'm
like a child with a new toy. I find I can't tear myself away from it,
and I want to keep going back to read the runes again, and to see that
it is safe and uninjured. Will you come with me to keep me company?"
Isobel was nothing loath--she much enjoyed a chat with the owner of the
island; and they sat for a long time on a large boulder near the cross,
while he wrote the runic alphabet for her on a leaf torn from his
pocket-book.
"Now I should at least be able to make out the words of another
inscription if I found it," she said triumphantly, "even if I didn't
know what it meant. I shall copy these, and then write my name in runes
inside all my books. I think they're ever so much prettier than modern
letters."
"With the slight disadvantage that very few people can decipher them,"
laughed the colonel. "You might as well sign your autograph in Sanscrit.
How fast the tide is rising! I think we should warn your playfellows
that they ought to be running home. I'm always afraid lest they should
be caught on these sands."
He rose as he spoke, and walked to the verge of the cliff, where he
could command a view of the shore below, just in time to see the last of
the children hustled by Charlotte Wright (whose sensible practical head
never forgot the state of the tide) up the beach at the Silversands side
of the channel, which was already beginning to fill so quickly as to
render any further crossing impossible.
"Oh, look! What shall we do?" cried Isobel, in some alarm. "We're quite
cut off. We can't possibly get through that deep water even if we try to
wade. We shall have to stay on the island all night."
"And sleep in the hut like true pioneers?" said the colonel. "It would
certainly be a new experience. No, little Miss Crusoe, I don't think we
are driven to such a desperate extremity as that yet. I left my boat at
the other side of the headland, and my man is only waiting my signal to
row round. I will take you across with me to the Chase, and land you in
safety."
Mounting to the top of the hill, he waved his handkerchief, and a small
row-boat which had been anchored in the bay put off immediately in their
direction.
"It's not nearly so romantic as if we had been obliged to spend a lonely
night shivering in the hut," said the colonel. "We've missed rather an
interesting adventure, but it's much more comfortable, after all.
By-the-bye, will your mother feel anxious if she sees the other children
return without you?"
"She's gone to Ferndale this afternoon to buy some more paints and
drawing paper," replied Isobel. "You can't get sketching materials in
Silversands. She won't be home until seven o'clock, because there isn't
a train earlier. I shall have to take tea alone."
"Better have it with me," suggested her friend. "I feel I owe some
return for the hospitality you exercised in the hut. I haven't forgotten
the nice cup of tea you made. You must see my flowers, and I can send
you home afterwards in the dog-cart."
"That _would_ be nice!" cried Isobel, her joy at the prospect showing
itself in her beaming face. "We saw your garden from the top of the Scar
that day we went into your grounds, and I thought it looked _lovely_."
"Well, I believe I have as good a show as most people in the
neighbourhood," admitted the colonel; "but you shall judge for yourself.
Here we are at the landing-place. Take care! Give me your hand, and I
will help you out."
The Chase appeared to have a private wooden jetty of its own, which led
on to a strip of shingly beach, at the other side of which an iron gate
admitted them into a small plantation of fir trees, and through a
shrubbery into the garden. Isobel could not restrain a cry of pleasure
at the sight of the flowers, which were now in the prime of their early
autumn glory, and she did not know whether to admire more the little
beds, gay with bright blossoms, which dotted the smoothly mown lawns, or
the splendid herbaceous borders behind, full of dahlias, sunflowers,
gladioli, hollyhocks, torch lilies, tall bell-flowers, and other
beautiful plants.
"I must show you all my treasures," said the colonel, pleased with her
appreciation, as he took her to the pond where the pink water-lilies
grew, and the bamboo and eucalyptus were flourishing in the open air.
"You don't often find subtropical plants so far north," he explained,
with a touch of pride as he pointed them out; "but this is a very
sheltered situation, and we protect them with matting during the winter.
You should see the irises in the spring and early summer; they are a
mass of delicate colour, and thrive so well down by the water's edge."
The rock garden, with its pretty Alpine blossoms; the rosery, where the
queen of flowers seemed represented by every variety, from the delicate
yellow of the tea to the rich red of the damask; the fountain, where the
water flowed from the pouting lips of a chubby cherub, astride on a
dolphin, into a basin filled with gold and silver fish; the terraced
walk, covered by a fine magnolia; and the summer-house on the wall,
containing a fixed telescope through which you could look out over the
sea--all were an equal delight to Isobel's wondering eyes, for she had
never before been in such beautiful grounds. Nor was the kitchen-garden
less of a surprise, with its peaches and apricots hanging on the red
brick walls, carefully netted to preserve them from the birds; its beds
of tall, feathery asparagus, and its ripe greengages and early apples.
The trim neatness of the vegetable borders was enlivened by edgings of
hardy annuals, and here and there a mass of sweet peas filled the air
with a delicious fragrance, while in a corner stood a row of bee-hives,
the buzzing occupants of which seemed busily at work among the scarlet
runners. Isobel thought no enchanted palace could rival the greenhouses,
gay with geraniums and fuchsias and rare plants, the names of which she
did not know, or the vinery with its countless bunches of black grapes
hanging from the roof. It was so particularly nice to be taken round by
the owner, who could pluck the flowers and fruit as he wished, and so
different from the park at home, which was her usual playground, where
you might not walk on the grass, and hardly dared to admire the flowers,
for fear the policeman should suspect you of wanting to touch them.
"You will be quite tired now, and hungry too, I expect," said her host,
as he led the way on to a long glass-roofed veranda in front of the
house, where two chairs and a round table spread for tea were awaiting
them. "I must show you my horses and dogs afterwards. I have five little
collie pups, which I am sure you will like to see, and a brown foal,
only a fortnight old. My coachman has some fan-tail pigeons, too, and a
hutch of rabbits."
It seemed very strange to Isobel to find herself sitting in the
comfortable basket-chair, talking to the colonel while he poured the tea
from the silver teapot into the pretty painted cups. She could scarcely
believe that only three weeks ago she had trespassed in his grounds, and
had almost expected him to send her to prison for the offence, while now
she was chatting to him as freely as if she had known him all her life.
That her holland frock was not improved by an afternoon's play on the
island, that her sand shoes were the worse for wear and her sailor hat
was her oldest, and that the wind had blown her long hair into elf
locks, did not distress her in the least, though I fear Mrs. Stewart
would hardly have considered her in visiting order. Certainly the
colonel did not seem to mind, and whatever he may have thought of the
appearance of his young guest, her good manners and refined accent had
shown him from the first that she was the child of cultured people.
"Mother means to sketch the runic cross on Monday," volunteered Isobel,
as the talk turned on the subject of the island. "She went to Ferndale
to-day on purpose to buy a new block; her old one was too small, and not
the right shape."
"I shall hope to see her picture," replied the colonel. "I must show you
the photos of the stone, which arrived this morning. They are in my
study; so, if you really won't have any more tea, we will come indoors
and look at them now."
He led the way through an open French window into a large and pleasant
drawing-room, which appeared so filled with beautiful cabinets of
curiosities, old china, rare pictures and books, that Isobel would have
liked to linger and look at them if she had dared to ask; but the
colonel strode on into the panelled hall, and passing the wide staircase
with its carved balustrade and its statue of Hebe, holding a lamp, at
the foot, took her into a long low library at the farther side of the
house. It was a cosy room. Its four windows overlooked the rose garden,
and had a peep of the cliffs and the sea; a large writing-table strewn
with papers stood in a recess; and various padded morocco easy-chairs
seemed to invite one to sit down and read the books which almost covered
the walls from floor to ceiling. Over the fine stone chimney-piece hung
two portraits, the only pictures to be seen--one an enlarged photograph
of a handsome young officer in a Guards uniform; the other a small oil
painting of a little girl with gray eyes and straight fair hair, parted
smoothly in the middle of her forehead, and tied by a ribbon under her
ears.
"I only received the prints this morning," said the colonel, taking an
envelope from his desk. "There are four views altogether, as you will
see; but I think you will like this the best, for it shows the runes so
plainly."
He held out the photo of the ancient cross, but Isobel did not notice
it. She was standing with parted lips, her eyes fixed in amazement upon
the two portraits over the fireplace.
"Why," she cried, in an eager voice, "that's father--my father!"
"Your father, my dear?" said the colonel, astonished in his turn.
"Impossible! This is a portrait of my son."
"But it _is_ father!" returned Isobel. "It's the same photo which we
have at home, only larger. That's the V.C. he won in India, and his
Guards uniform. And the other picture is little Aunt Isobel!"
"What do you mean?" asked the colonel hastily. "How could it be your
Aunt Isobel?"
"I don't know, but it _is_!" replied Isobel. "I have a tiny painting
exactly like it, done on ivory, inside a morocco case. It belonged to
father, and he left it to me. She was his only sister, and she died when
she was eleven years old--just the same age as I am."
For answer the colonel took Isobel by the shoulders, and holding her
beneath the portrait, looked narrowly at her face. The evening sunshine,
flooding through the window, fell on the fair hair, and lighted it up
with the same golden gleam as that of the child in the picture above;
the gray eyes of both seemed to meet him with the same half-wistful,
half-trustful gaze.
"The likeness is extraordinary," he murmured. "I wonder I have never
noticed it before. Is it possible I could have made so great a mistake?
In what regiment was your father?"
"He was in the Fifth Dragoon Guards."
"You have told me he is dead?"
"Yes; he was killed in the Boer war."
"How long ago?"
"Six years on my birthday."
"Was it near Bloemfontein?"
"Yes, in a night skirmish. He is buried there, just where he fell."
"Had he any other relations besides yourself and your mother?"
"Only my grandfather, whom I have never seen."
"And your name?--your name?" cried the colonel, white to the lips with
an emotion he could not control.
"Isobel Stewart."