Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: Margaret would steal in and sit down close
to her mother's knee . . . and listening too.]
[Sequel to "Alick's Hero"]
_Alick's Cave;_
OR,
ON THE CLIFF.
BY
CATHARINE SHAW
AUTHOR OF "ALICK'S HERO," "SOMETHING FOR SUNDAY,"
AND EDITOR OF "SUNDAY SUNSHINE."
NEW EDITION
JOHN F. SHAW & CO., LTD.
_Publishers_
3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER I._
SALOME
_CHAPTER II._
A SHADOW
_CHAPTER III._
ON THE SURFACE
_CHAPTER IV._
IN THE CAVE
_CHAPTER V._
ON THE ROCKS
_CHAPTER VI._
CLAUDE
_CHAPTER VII._
SALOME'S SLATE
_CHAPTER VIII._
MARIAN'S SUNSHINE
_CHAPTER IX._
ON THE HILLSIDE
_CHAPTER X._
MARGARET'S LEGACY
_CHAPTER XI._
AT THE TOWERS
_CHAPTER XII._
A PURSE
_CHAPTER XIII._
MARIAN'S CLASS
_CHAPTER XIV._
RECONCILED
_CHAPTER XV._
LIONEL'S DESIRE
_CHAPTER XVI._
A FAREWELL
_CHAPTER XVII._
IN LONDON
_CHAPTER XVIII._
SALOME'S TEA-PARTY
_CHAPTER XIX._
LILIAN'S PEACEMAKER
_CHAPTER XX._
"THE RECOMPENCE OF THE REWARD"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ALICK'S CAVE.
[Illustration: "Blessed are the poor in spirit:
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."]
CHAPTER I.
_SALOME._
"SALOME!"
"I'm listenin', child, my lovey."
"Salome, has mother told you about Lionel and Marian?"
"Nofing as I know on, dearie."
"Then she hasn't been up here since Aunt Ella came over?"
"Why no, Master Charlie, dear. Why should she come up?"
"Then I shall tell you the news," burst forth Charlie, colouring with
excitement. "Marian and Lionel have got to come and stay over here for
ever so long, because—because—"
Salome turned her head round, and looked in the glowing face, and put
out her dark hand.
"It's not a secret, lovey dear, is it?" she asked gently. "The dear
missis wouldn't mind you tellin' me, would she?"
"Why no, nursey dear," laughed Charlie. "She said, 'Run off and tell
Salome, if the news has not got to the nursery yet, Charlie; she will
be very sorry though.'"
"That's all right then," answered Salome, settling herself to her work
and preparing to listen. "I'm one as like news very much, lovey, if
'tis all right for me to hear it."
"Well," pursued Charlie, "you know Marian and Lionel have been staying
here since Saturday because it was Alick's birthday, and he wanted to
have them particularly?"
"Why of course I do, Master Charlie. Haven't they been running in and
out of this nursery, a kissin' of the little ones half the time?"
Charlie laughed.
"Teasing them too," he added. "But any way, Salome, when I was sitting
with mother just now (you know the others are all gone for a walk),
who should come over the grass and round the garden way but Aunt Ella.
She had thrown a cloak over her head, and her face was all white and
scared. She beckoned mother to the window, and said she would not come
in. Mother went to her, and begged her to enter, but she waved her
hand, and looked more miserable than I have ever seen her. And then she
said, bursting into tears—
"'Claude has scarlet fever; the doctor has just been, and says so.'"
"Then mother caught up a shawl that was lying there, and went out on to
the verandah, and they stood talking for ever so long. At last she came
in, saying, as she closed the door upon Aunt Ella, 'It's so hard not to
kiss you, but I suppose I must not.'
"Aunt Ella shook her head vigorously, and said, 'Then you will detain
them when they come? It is "very" good of you, Greta dear.'
"And then she hurried away, and mother sat down by the fire, as if she
were quite tired out."
Charlie paused. Salome's handsome, dark face was turned towards him
intently, and for once her work had fallen from her busy hands.
"Poor dear, poor dear!" she murmured. "What good thing de dear Lord
know all 'bout it. Poor dear, poor dear!"
"Then," pursued Charlie, "I came over to mother, and asked her why she
was sad, and she began to cry too, like Aunt Ella.
"'Is scarlet fever very bad, mother?' I said.
"'Very, very bad, dear.'
"'Is Claude very ill?'
"'They do not know yet. But it is so sad for them to be shut away from
everybody.'
"'Will they be?'
"Mother nodded. And then, wiping her eyes, and kissing me, she said
more cheerfully:
"'You will be pleased with one piece of news, Charlie. I have asked
Marian and Lionel to stay with us for a long visit. You will like that.'
"'I wish it were Claude though,' I said; 'for he is nearer my age.'
"And then I was sorry; for mother looked disappointed. Salome, I wish I
weren't so selfish."
"Well, lovey, tell de dear Lord so. That's de best way as I knows of to
get things right."
Charlie pondered. His Indian nurse's advice was always good. Ever
since he could remember, she had been the same. Love shone out of her
beautiful dark eyes; loving words came from her mouth. Charlie put his
hand into hers confidingly.
"Does de dear missis want me, lovey?" she asked suddenly.
"No; she's gone out in the garden to find father. Do you think it will
be nice, having them to stay, Salome?"
"If de Lord has sent dem, child, you may 'pend on it as He 'll make it
all right."
"Yes," said Charlie soberly; "only, you see, they are different from
us, and—"
"Don't you be upset, lovey; you jest know what I say is de trufe. De
ways of de Lord is de very best ways. Don't you worry yourself 'bout
'em."
Just at this moment Ruth and Sydney, who had been listening
open-mouthed to the conversation, began to grow tired of the little
sermon with which their dear nurse often ended a talk, and proceeded
to the other side of the room, to go on with their interrupted play.
Charlie sprang up, and went after them, while Salome took her work
again, and went on with it industriously.
There were three houses on the top of the downs at Leesworth, which
stood, as a little colony, all to themselves, quite apart from the
village under the cliff.
One had been there for generations, and was called The Towers. In it
lived Courtenay Malden and his young wife, both now away in India.
Belonging to this was a large garden, two or three fields, coachhouse,
and stables, with coachman's and gardener's cottages attached. It stood
on the summit of the hill, and the ground sloped away from it on either
side, a steep lane leading from it to the beach beneath, some eight
minutes' pleasant walk between red cliffs and overhanging trees.
Then there was The Cottage, as it was called, adjoining Courtenay's
garden, and belonging to him, which had been done up a year or two ago,
and turned into a gentleman's house. Though the rooms were extremely
small, the rent suited Mr. Chantry's small income, and his wife thought
that the long, low nursery, built out over extensive kitchens and
laundry, amply made up to her for the confined space of the other
chambers. Sometimes she confessed to herself that a peep of the sea
would have been very refreshing to her, but when she looked out at the
sweet country lane in front, she was so grateful for the peaceful home
which was provided her that she felt she ought not to wish for anything
else.
In the old-fashioned garden belonging to this cottage, Mr. Chantry, who
was very delicate, employed himself whenever the weather allowed. He
had been ordered to spend as much time as possible in the open air, and
now, from such time in the morning as his health permitted him to rise,
he was to be seen busily working. Sometimes Mrs. Chantry would take her
sewing out, and sit by his side; and he would look up at her from his
weeding, and say:
"Greta, this is the happiest piece of our life, after all."
They had four children—Alick, aged seventeen; Charlie, eleven; Ruth,
six; and Sydney, three years old. They had lost two little ones during
their long residence in India. Salome and a little maid completed the
family.
The third house was Sunnyside, built by Courtenay for his invalid
father's use, in the field adjoining his own garden, but a little lower
down the hill, nearer the edge of the cliff. In this lived Mr. and Mrs.
Malden, Lionel, Marian, Claude, Muriel, and Leslie, varying in ages
from sixteen to eight years old.
As Salome sat at her work on the day on which the story opens, the
occupants of the nursery heard voices approaching, and Charlie
exclaimed:
"There they are!"
"Who?" asked Ruth.
"Alick and the others."
"I hope they will not come up here bothering."
"Hush, dearie," said Salome, turning round.
"They 'do' bother," added Sydney, in his little, distinct voice; "and I
don't like botherin'."
"Of course you don't," laughed Charlie, "but the best thing you can do
is to put up with it as well as you can, Sydney. They don't mean to
tease you."
Sydney looked unconvinced, and before long the three young people about
whom they had been talking were heard running up the stairs, and came
quickly into the room.
The first to enter was a girl of about fifteen, tall and robust, with a
fresh, sweet face, which looked as if care sat but lightly on it. This
was Marian Malden.
Behind her came her brother Lionel, and following him Alick Chantry, a
head taller than his cousin, with slight, graceful figure, and earnest
face.
"Oh, Salome, have you heard?" asked Marian, coming over and kneeling
down by the nurse's side. "Is it not dreadful? What will poor mother
do?"
Salome's peaceful eyes turned towards the young, fresh face, but she
did not at once reply.
"I call it a horrid nuisance!" exclaimed Lionel. "It's just how things
happen. Here were we going to have jolly Easter holidays, and now
everything's upset."
"But we shall have some nice times here," put in Alick. "We often do;
and when once we know that Claude is going on well—"
"Oh, of course he will! That's not it a bit," said Lionel. "But here
are we, shut off from all our games and books, and even clothes, and
obliged to be mewed up in this little cottage, with nothing on earth to
do."
Marian looked distressed. Her hand, which was resting on the nurse's
knee, fidgeted nervously with the strings of the pinafore which Salome
was mending, and her face turned red and uncomfortable.
"It is dreadfully unfortunate," Lionel went on, "that we were out for
this walk, instead of having gone home first. Then mother would have
had no excuse for exiling us; as it is, as we have not been home for
three days, it would be daft, I suppose, to go. But, all the same, it
is a great bore."
"But—" said Marian, anxious to stop her brother.
"I suppose we shall have to make the best of it," pursued Lionel
loftily; "and so we'll say no more about it. But things always seem to
happen 'contrairy.' If I particularly want to do anything, sure enough
something prevents."
Salome smiled silently over her work, and Marian's eyes, which were
fixed on her face, looked enquiringly.
Alick had turned on his heel after a glance at his cousin, and had
walked out of the room, with an annoyed shrug of his shoulders.
"What did you so particularly want to do?" asked Charlie, breaking a
rather awkward pause.
"I wanted to enjoy my Easter holidays. I had planned to have a lot of
boating, and father had promised to get me a bicycle."
"You will be able to have the boating all the same," said Charlie.
"Yes, but not half such fun as if there were our own house to run in
and out of. One thing I know, when Claude gets out of this horrid
fever—"
Salome raised her face, and put out her hand gently.
"Dear young master," she said gravely, "I don't think as de dear Lord
would like you to say 'dat. We've got to submit to Him. Them as will be
led, He leads as tender as tender, but them as want to be drove—"
"Do you mean that I want driving?" asked Lionel, turning red.
"Don't you think as you're anxious to go this way and that way, as
pleases you best, Master Lionel?"
"I certainly do," he answered, trying to laugh off his displeasure.
"Don't you think that the pleasantest?"
Marian listened intently for the answer. She so often thought her own
way was best, and found out afterwards that she was wrong.
"I have learnt not," answered Salome humbly. "It can't be learnt all at
once, but if we're 'willing,' de dear Lord takes us in hand, and then
it's all right wid us."
Lionel picked up his cap, and walked over to disturb the little ones at
their play.
Marian got up, and bent her head to kiss the smooth, dark cheek.
"Oh, Salome," she said, "what a way on the road you've got!"
"Me, dearie?"
"Yes; it looks very, very far off to be able to be sure the Lord's way
is best. I wish I could jump right over to it."
"Well, dearie, we can't 'jump' to nothin'. It's just a step at a
time—followin' on. If you take what He sends to-day, you'll find as
you'll be a step nearer home to-morrow."
Marian's face gave a little flash through one or two tears, and she
went to seek her aunt with a very tender hope of doing to-day what came
next.
"Aunt Greta," she said, when she found her aunt, sitting somewhat
dejectedly by the fire in the dining-room, "do you want a new daughter
for a little while?"
Mrs. Chantry looked up, brightening in spite of herself at the bright
tone.
"Because I mean to try to be one, if you will have me. I cannot think
what dear mother will do without me, but since she has decided it so, I
mean to make the best of it. It would be poor gratitude to you for your
kindness in having us, to keep on lamenting that we are not at home."
"Dear child, you know how glad I am to be able—"
"Yes, auntie. So now that's all settled, what are you going to set your
new daughter to do?"
Marian's homely face was quite brilliant for a moment.
Mrs. Chantry looked round the room with a sigh; it was disordered
enough to make any one sigh.
Marian hastened to pull the tablecloth straight, and began to pack
Sydney's bricks into their box.
"Aunt Greta," she said, as she passed the back of her aunt's chair,
bending down, and speaking shyly, "will you not go up and see Salome?"
"Why, darling?"
"She would give you some medicine."
"Medicine?" echoed Mrs. Chantry, wondering.
"Don't you know the sort of medicine she always carries about with her?"
Mrs. Chantry smiled and roused herself.
"We all might," she said, as she went to the door.
And then Marian was left alone to her untidy room.
Meanwhile, Alick, disgusted with his cousin's selfishness, had gone to
his own chamber, and shut himself in.
Like Charlie, he felt this illness at Sunnyside a great blow to him.
Setting aside the risk and sorrow to all there, the actual thwarting of
his plans, and having to make room for Lionel in their narrow abode,
meant a great deal of annoyance to orderly Alick. As to Marian, he did
not at the moment give her a thought.
He looked round on his dear little domain.
It had been all very well for Lionel to share it for two days, which
had been specially set apart as a special holiday, but how to put up
with his cousin for two months (had not Salome said something about two
months?) he could not conceive, and paced up and down his room in sore
vexation.
Alick's life flowed on in an even, uneventful way just now, and the boy
confessed to himself, or hardly knew that he confessed it, that it was
rather tame and dull.
More than two years ago his beloved step-cousin, Courtenay Malden,
had been married, and had brought his young wife to the large house
which overshadowed Alick's little home. And since that time, his whole
interest had been centred in the doings and sayings at "The Towers," as
it had been called for longer than any one could remember.
After a year of cloudless happiness to the young pair, as well as the
little circle to which they belonged, and on whom they lavished all the
love of which they were so full, a little cloud had fallen upon them
all.
A tiny baby came to grace the happy home, but soon it was found that
she had not the health of ordinary babies. And when her parents were
suddenly called to take a journey to India, on the death of Margaret's
father, the little frail girl was taken with them. She had hardly been
kept alive where she could have every care at home. And when she became
exposed to the changes incident to a journey, she quietly sank. They
were but a week from port when her little body was laid beneath the
waves of the Indian Ocean.
News of this had but lately reached the homes at Leesworth, and even
the prospect of Courtenay's speedy return could hardly cheer Alick from
the sorrow he felt on the behalf of those whom he loved so well.
His mother, tender as was her love for her boy, sometimes felt with a
pang that his deepest interest and affection were centred outside his
home.
"It will all come right," his father would say consolingly; "it is not
as if Alick loved any one unworthy of him."
Mrs. Chantry tried to be satisfied, but confessed to herself a sense of
relief when Margaret and Courtenay had really started for India.
Now they were on their homeward journey, bringing with them Margaret's
widowed mother, whose health of body and mind had been shattered by the
blow of her husband's death, and leaving behind them in that sea the
tiny form on which for nearly a year all hearts had been set.
In all his life Alick had never spent such a sorrowful, unhappy three
months. The empty house at the end of their garden was but typical of
the emptiness of his life without Courtenay.
It was true he went often to read to Courtenay's invalid father at
Sunnyside, and found some satisfaction in fulfilling one of his
step-cousin's last requests; it was true that he walked frequently down
into the fishing village beneath the cliff to call upon Courtenay's old
men and women, but all seemed flat and dull. And he wondered at himself
for being out of sorts, and was angry at himself, but could not guess
why it was; nor did it occur to him to speak to any one of it.
His mother looked on and prayed. She knew not what else to do.
Salome looked on and prayed. She knew it was the best to do.
So Alick stood this bright day in March, and looked round on his
invaded room.
"I teazed mother, I do believe, to have Lionel here, when she was
hardly up to it, and this is what I've got for it," he said to himself.
"Here he is, to be my constant companion night and day for two months.
Well, I deserve it."
He sat down by his window, and pushed open the little old-fashioned
lattice. The sunshine came streaming in with the wind fresh from the
North Sea. He leaned his head on his hand, deep in thought.
"I wonder why all this has happened?" he asked himself. Then, pausing
even in his thoughts, he waited for a moment.
"It cannot have happened by chance; why, of course it cannot.
Courtenay's going away, their poor little baby, this illness of
Claude's, my unutterable loneliness—"
He turned from the window, and opened his little well-worn Bible.
He might have found out the reason there. He probably would, but at
this moment a step was heard outside, and Lionel entered abruptly.
"Aren't you coming down? I say, Alick, it's all very kind of Aunt
Greta to have us, but where on earth are we to fix ourselves? You have
only those two little bits of sitting-rooms downstairs, and these poky
bedrooms up here. Wherever shall we be all day?"
"There's the large nursery."
"Yes, but who would like to settle down with the babies?"
"We often sit there. The little ones play by one window, and we have
the other."
"Salome is always near that one."
"Well?"
"We can't talk, or anything."
Alick frowned. Unhappy, unrefreshed, because he had not drunk fresh
supplies at the Fountain of Life, he had no strength or spirit to
withstand to-day's annoyances.
"Don't you think so?" went on Lionel.
"I think we had better put up with it, and not be disagreeable."
Lionel whistled.
"I thought you'd have given a fellow a little better welcome than this,
Alick."
Alick got up and turned away.
Oh, for Courtenay to set him right, to talk it all out to; to be able
to explain his worries, and have the kind, generous sympathy in return!
The boy could have wept in his loneliness and despair. He had
"forgotten his resting-place." If he could only have found out how poor
he was, he might have asked to be enriched with the great riches. For
"blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are the poor in spirit:
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."]