THE ISLAND.
"_Be not afraid; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not._"--THE TEMPEST.
"Well," said Tilda dolefully, "I guess that about settles us!"
The boy, his hands thrust into his breeches' pockets, stared over the
sea for a while.
"I don't see that it matters much," he answered at length, withdrawing
his gaze. "You know well enough we could never have worked her back
again."
"Oh, indeed? And 'ow are we goin' to pick up our vittles? I don't know
what _you_ feel like, but I could do with breakfast a'ready."
"Perhaps 'Dolph can catch us a rabbit," he suggested hopefully after a
pause. "I heard Roger say last night that Holmness swarmed with
rabbits."
"Rabbits?" said Tilda with scorn. "D'yer know 'ow to skin one if we
caught 'im?"
"No, I don't," he confessed.
"And when he's skinned, there's the cookin'; and we 'aven't so much as a
box of matches. . . . That's the worst of boys, they 're so
unpractical."
"Well, then, we can hunt for gulls' eggs."
"That's better; if," she added on an afterthought, "gulls 'appen to lay
eggs at this time of year--which I'll bet they don't."
"Look here," said the boy severely, "we haven't searched yet.
What's the use of giving in before we've _tried?_ Nobody starves on the
Island, I tell you; and--and I can't bear your talking in this way.
It isn't _like_ you--"
"I can't _'elp_ it," owned poor Tilda with a dry sob.
"--breaking down," he continued, "just when we've reached, and all the
rest is going to happen just as the book says."
"That's likely!"
"It's certain." He pulled out the tattered, coverless volume. "Why, I
do believe"--he said it with a kind of grave wonder--"you're hankering
after that silly cottage!"
"Of course I am," she confessed defiantly, for he exasperated her.
"We'd promised to ride over an' see Miss Sally this afternoon, an' I
wanted to spend the 'ole mornin' learnin' 'ow to be a lady. . . .
I don't get _too_ much time for these little things."
The protest was weak enough, and weakly uttered. Until the moment of
embarking on this expedition Tilda had been throughout their wanderings
always and consciously the leader--her will the stronger, her's to
initiate and to guide. But now he stuck his hands deeper into his
pockets.
"That's all very well," he replied; "but you can't get to Miss Sally's
to-day. So who's unpractical now? Let's find the cave first, and have
breakfast; and then, if you're tired of exploring, you can sit on
cushions all day, and read your book and learn how to be a princess--
which is ever so much higher than an ordinary lady."
"Cave? _Wot_ cave? _Wot_ breakfast? _Wot_ cushions? Oh, I do
believe, Arthur Miles, you've gone stark starin' mad!"
"Why," he reasoned with her, "on a seashore like this there are bound to
be caves; the only trouble will be to find the right one. And as for
breakfast, it was you that talked about it just now."
His persistence, his gentleness, the careful lucidity of his craze drove
her fairly beside herself.
"Oh," she cried again, "if you ain't mad, then I must be, or elst I'm
sickenin' for it! It don't much matter, any'ow. We got to starve 'ere
an' die, an' the sooner the better."
She walked across the beach to a smooth slab of rock and seated herself
sullenly, with her eyes on the distant mainland. They were misty with
tears of anger, of despair. But he could not see them, for she had
resolutely turned her back on him. Had she broken down--had she uttered
one sob even--the boy would have run to her side. As it was, he gazed
at her sorrowfully. . . . She had lost her temper again, and it spoiled
everything. But the spell of the Island was on him. Above, in the
sunlight, the green gully wound upward and inland, inviting him; and
here on the shingle at his feet sat 'Dolph and looked up at him, with
eyes that appealed for a ramble. The dog's teeth chattered, and small
suppressed noises worked in his throat.
"Very well," called the boy, "I am going, and you can sit there or
follow, as you like."
He swung on his heel and set forth, 'Dolph scampering ahead and barking
so wildly that the noise of it scared the birds again in flock after
flock from their ledges.
On the ridge the boy halted for a moment and looked down. But Tilda sat
stubbornly on her rock, still with her back turned.
She had pulled out her book, the _Lady's Vade-Mecum_, but only for a
pretence. She did not in the least want to read, nor could her eyes
just now have distinguished a word of the text. She was wholly
miserable; and yet, curiously enough, after the first minute her misery
did not rest on despair, or at any rate not consciously. She was
wretched because the boy had broken away and gone without her, and
'Dolph with him--'Dolph, her own dog. They were ungrateful. . . .
Had not everything gone right so long as they had obeyed her? While
now--They would find out, of course. Even Arthur Miles would begin to
feel hungry after a while, and then--'Dolph might keep going for a time
on rabbits, though as a circus-dog he was not clever at sport.
Yes, she had a right to be indignant. She had lost command for a
moment, and Arthur Miles had straightway led her into this trap. . . .
This was all very well, but deep down beneath the swellings of
indignation there lurked a thought that gradually surmounted them,
working upwards until it sat whispering in her ear. . . . They were in a
tight place, no doubt, . . . but was she behaving well? Now that the
mess was made and could not be unmade, where was the pluck--where was
even the sense--of sitting here and sulking? Had she stuck it out, why
then at the end she could have forgiven him, and they would have died
together. . . . She stared forlornly at the book, and a ridiculous
mocking sentence stared back at her: "It is often surprising into what
tasty breakfast dishes the cunning housewife will convert the least
promising materials." In a gust of temper she caught up the book and
hurled it from her.
And yet . . . with all these birds about, there must surely be eggs.
She had not a notion how gulls' eggs tasted. Raw eggs! they would
certainly be nasty; but raw eggs, after all, will support life.
Moreover, deliverance might come, and before long. The Tossells, when
they found the boat missing, would start a search, and on the Island
there might be some means of signalling. How could she be forgiven, or
forgive herself, if the rescuers arrived to find Arthur Miles dead and
herself alive?
With that a dreadful apprehension seized her, and she stood erect,
listening. . . . She had let him go alone, into Heaven knew what perils.
He was searching along the cliffs, searching for a cave, and very likely
for gulls' eggs on the way. . . . What easier than to slip and break his
neck? She listened--listened. But the sound of 'Dolph's barking had
long ago died away. . . . Oh, if he were dead, and she must search the
Island alone for him!
Poor child! for the moment her nerve deserted her. With a strangling
sob she ran towards the beach-head, and began to clamber up the low
cliff leading to the gully.
"Til-da! Hi! Til-da!"
From the ledge of the cliff she stared up, and with another sob.
High on the ridge that closed the gully stood Arthur Miles, safe and
sound. He was waving both arms.
"I've found it!" he called.
"Found w'ot?"
"The House." He came running down to meet her as she scrambled her way
up the gully. "It's not a Cave, but a House." They met, both panting.
"You were right, after all," he announced, and in a voice that shook
with excitement. He had forgotten their quarrel; he had no room for
remembrance of it; sheer joy filled him so full. "It's not a Cave, but
a House; and with _such_ things to eat!"
"Things to eat?" she echoed dully, and for an instant her heart sank
again at the suspicion that after all he was mad, and here was another
proof of it. But her eyes were fixed on something he held out in his
hand. "What's that you've got?"
"Marmalade--real marmalade! And a spoon too--there are heaps of spoons
and cups and glasses, and a fire ready laid. And--see here--biscuits!"
He produced a handful from his pocket. "I brought these things along
because you said you were hungry."
Still incredulous, distrusting her eyes, Tilda watched him dip out a
small spoonful of marmalade and spread it on the biscuit. She took it
and ate, closing her eyes. The taste was heavenly.
"Oh, Arthur Miles, where are we?"
"Why, on the Island. Didn't I tell you it was going to be all right?"
He said it in mere elation, without a hint of reproach.
"I'm so sorry."
"Sorry? What is there to be sorry about? Come along."
They climbed the turfy slope in silence, Tilda too deep in amaze for
speech. By and by she asked irrelevantly--
"Where is 'Dolph?"
"Eh? 'Dolph? He was with me five minutes ago. Off chasing rabbits, I
expect. He has missed catching about two dozen already."
"Isn't that his bark? Listen . . . away to the right."
They stood still for a while.
"Sounds like it," said the boy; "and yet not exactly like."
"It's 'Dolph, and he's in some sort of trouble. That's not 'is usual
bark."
"We'd best see what it is, I suppose, and fetch him along."
Arthur Miles struck aside from the line they had been following, and
moved after the sound, not without reluctance. "It may be only a
vision," he said gravely. "Remember the hounds that ran after Caliban
and the others?"
But as they trended towards the edge of the cliffs the barking grew
louder, and was recognisably 'Dolph's; and so they came to a wide
shelving amphitheatre of turf overgrown with furze and blackthorn.
It curved almost as smoothly as the slope of a crater, and shelved to a
small semi-circular bay. There, on the edge of the tide, danced 'Dolph
yelping; and there, knee-deep in water, facing him with lowered head,
stood a magnificent stag--yes, the stag of yesterday! When Arthur Miles
caught at Tilda's arm and proclaimed this, at first she doubted. But he
pointed to the antlers, glinting bright in the sunshine. He did not
know the names for them, but whereas the left antler bore brow, bay,
tray, and three on top, the top of the right antler, by some
malformation, was not divided at all, and even a child could see this
and guess it to be unusual. He was a noble stag nevertheless. The sun
shone down on his russet-gold flanks as he stood there fronting the dog
with his deadly brow-points. And 'Dolph kept to the edge of the water,
leaping forward a little and anon leaping back, and at each leap
emitting a futile yelp.
The children stared, wondering how he could have driven so noble a
quarry; until, as Arthur Miles called down, he lifted his head and gazed
up at them for a moment. Then he turned slowly, as it were
disdainfully, and they divined the truth--that the long swim of
yesterday had broken his gallant strength, and he had come down to the
beach to die. He turned and lurched heavily down into deep water, laid
himself gently afloat, and struck out as if heading for the main.
But the main and his own heathery moors lay far distant, a blue-grey
line in the haze to the southward. Perhaps his spirit regained them as
his body slowly sank. The children watched it sink until only the
antlers showed above water like a forked bough adrift on the tideway.
They drifted so for a few seconds; then dipped out of sight, and were
gone.
The children stood for a full minute gazing at the water where he had
disappeared. Then Arthur Miles whistled to 'Dolph, who came bounding up
the slope, and together all three struck inland again, but in silence.
They were awed by the Island and its wonders.
The Island, as they climbed to its grassy chine, gradually revealed
itself as a hill of two peaks, united by a long saddle-back. The most
of this upland consisted of short turf, with here and there a patch of
stones. In all the prospect was no single tree, scarcely a furze-bush
even--the furze grew only on the southern slopes, low down; and Tilda
strained her eyes vainly for sight of the House.
But in the very dip of the saddle was a gully, much like the one by
which they had ascended, but steeper and dipping to the north. Before
they reached it, before she could detect it even, Arthur Miles pointed
to where it lay; and they had scarcely turned aside to follow it before
a chimney--a genuine red-brick chimney--rose into sight above the dying
bracken.
A minute later, and she was looking down on a broad slated roof, on a
building of one story, stuck here in a notch of the gully, and in the
lee of almost every wind that could blow. Its front faced her as she
descended. It had a deep, red-tiled verandah, and under the verandah a
line of windows, close-shuttered all but one. This one stood next to
the front door, on the right.
The boy, still leading, ran down the sloping path to the door, and
lifted the latch. Tilda halted just within the threshold, and looked
about her.
The kitchen, on which the door opened, was well furnished, with an open
hearth, and a fire laid ready there, and even a row of saucepans
twinkling above the mantel-shelf.
Arthur Miles waved a hand around, and pointed to another door at the end
of the kitchen.
"There's a heap of rooms in there. I didn't stay to search. But look
at this!"
He unhitched a card which hung above the mantel-shelf. On it was
written:--
"The provisions here are left for any mariners who may
find themselves shipwrecked on this Island. All such
are welcome to make use of what accommodation they find
here. Casual visitors will kindly respect the intention
with which this house is kept open, and will leave the
place strictly as they find it."
"(Signed) MILES CHANDON, Bart."
From the next room came the sound of a window opened and a shutter
thrown wide, and Tilda's voice announced--
"Well, I never! Beds!"
"Beds?"
"Beds--_and_ sheets--_and_ blankets." Tilda reappeared in the doorway.
"A 'ole reel 'ouse! But why?--and 'ow in the world?"
Arthur Miles held out the card.
"It's for sailors shipwrecked here."
Tilda studied the notice.
"And we 're shipwrecked! Well, if this ain't the loveliest. A reel
'ouse, with reel beds an' sorsepans!"
Her jaw dropped.
"An' I flung that blessed book away just as it was tellin' about
breakfast dishes!"