THE ABIGAIL
BLANCHE’S BOUDOIR--A LADY’S LADY’S-MAID--MRS. KETTERING AT
LUNCHEON--AN HOUR’S PRACTICE--THE “MAN OF ACTION”--FOOD FOR THE
MIND--A FRIEND IN NEED--A VISIT TO DAVID JONES
Whilst Mr. Hardingstone offers an arm--and a good strong arm it is--to
each of the ladies, and assists them slowly up the toilsome shingle,
let us take advantage of Blanche’s absence to peep into her pretty
room, where, as it is occupied only by Gingham, the maid, we need not
fear the fate of Actæon as a punishment for our curiosity.
It is indeed a sweet little retreat, with its chintz hangings and
muslin curtains, its open windows looking upon the shining Channel,
and all its etceteras of girlish luxury and refinement, that to us
poor old bachelors seem the very essence of ladylike comfort. In one
corner stands the book-case, by which we may discover the pretty
proprietor’s taste, at least in literature. Divers stiffish volumes on
the sciences repose comfortably enough, as if they had not often been
disturbed, and although scrupulously dusted, were but seldom opened;
but on the sofa, near that full-length glass, a new novel lies upon
its face, with a paper-cutter inserted at that critical page where the
heroine refuses her lover (in blank verse), on the high-minded
principle that he is not sufficiently poor to test her sincerity, or
sufficiently sensible to know his own mind, or some equally valid and
uncomplimentary reason--a consideration for the male sex, we may
remark _en passant_, that is more common in works of fiction than in
real life--while on the table a drawing-room scrap-book opens of
itself at some thrilling lines addressed “To a Débutante,” and
commencing, “Fair girl, the priceless gems upon thy brow,” by an
anonymous nobleman, who betrays in the composition a wide range of
fancy and a novel application of several English words. Flowers are
disposed in one or two common glass vases, with a womanly taste that
makes the apartment in that hired house like a home; and loose music,
of the double-action pianoforte school, scatters itself about every
time the door opens, in a system of fluttering disorder, which
provokes Gingham to express audibly her abhorrence of a place that is
“all of a litter.” “She can’t a-bear it--can you, Bully?” smirks the
Abigail; and Blanche’s pet bullfinch, the darling of her very heart,
makes an enormous chest, and whistles his reply in the opening notes
of “Haste to the wedding!” breaking off abruptly in the middle of the
second bar. Gingham is very busy, for she is putting Blanche’s “things
to rights,” which means that she is looking over the young lady’s
wardrobe with a view to discovering those colours and garments most
becoming to her own rather bilious complexion, and losing no
opportunity of acquainting herself with Blanche’s likes, dislikes,
feelings, and disposition, by reading her books, opening her letters,
and peeping into her album.
Now, Gingham had been with Mrs. Kettering for many years, and was a
most trustworthy person; so her mistress affirmed and thought.
Certainly, with all her weaknesses and faults, she was devotedly
attached to Miss Blanche; and it is our firm belief that she loved her
young lady, in her heart of hearts, better than her perquisites, her
tea, or even a certain Tom Blacke, whose dashing appearance and
assured vulgarity had made no slight impression on her too susceptible
feelings. “Every Jack has his Gill,” if he and she can only find each
other out at the propitious moment; and although the Gill in question
_owned_ to two-and-thirty, was by no means transparent in complexion,
and had projecting teeth, and a saffron-coloured front, yet she was no
exception to the beautiful law of nature, which provides for every
variety of our species a mate of fitting degree.
When a lady confines herself studiously to the house, avoids active
exercise, and partakes heartily of five meals a day, not to mention
strong tea and hot buttered toast at odd times, the presumption is,
that her health will suffer from the effects of such combined
hardships. With patients of Gingham’s class, the attack generally
flies to the nerves, and the system becomes wrought up to such a pitch
that nothing appears to afford the sufferer relief, except piercing
screams and violent demonstrations of alarm upon slight and often
imaginary occasions. Gingham would shriek as loudly to encounter a
live mouse as Mrs. Kettering would have done to face a raging lion;
and an unexpected meeting with any individual, even residing in the
same house, was apt to produce a flutter of spirits and prostration of
intellect, truly surprising to those who are unacquainted with the
delicate organisation of a real lady’s-maid _not_ on board wages. In
this critical condition, Mrs. Gingham, on the first evening of her
arrival at St. Swithin’s, “got a start,” as she expressed it, which
influenced the whole destiny of her after life. Coming down from
dressing her lady, she wended her way, as usual, to “the room,” that
sanctum in which the etiquette of society is far more rigidly enforced
than up-stairs, and to which “plush and powder” would find it far more
difficult to obtain the entrée than into master’s study or “missus’s”
boudoir. Expecting to see nothing more formidable than the butler,
Gingham’s alarm can be more easily imagined than described, when on
entering this privileged apartment, she found its only occupant a
goodish-looking, flashily-dressed young man, “taking a glass of sherry
and a biscuit,” and making himself very much at home.
A suppressed scream and sudden accession of faintness made it
imperative on the new arrival to exert himself, and by the time they
had got to “Goodness! how you frightened me, sir,” and “Dear _Miss_, I
beg a thousand pardings!” they became very good friends, and the timid
fair one was prevailed on to sit down and partake of the refreshments
hospitably provided by the butler at his mistress’s expense.
Tom Blacke very soon informed the lady that “he was assistant to a
professional gentleman” (in plain English an attorney’s clerk), and
had merely looked in to see if the house was let, to inform his
employer. “I am very unhappy, miss, to have been the cause of alarming
of you so, and I trust you will look over it, and may feel no ill
effects from the haccident.” To which Gingham, who was a lady of
elaborate politeness, as became her station, and, moreover, much
mollified by the constant use of the juvenile title “Miss,”
courteously replied that, “Indeed, it had given her _quite a turn_,
but she could not regret a meeting that had introduced her to such a
polite acquaintance.” So they parted with many “good evenings,” and an
openly expressed hope that they should meet again.
Tom Blacke was a scamp of the first water, but not deficient in
shrewdness, to which his professional pursuits added a certain amount
of acquired cunning. He naturally reflected that the sensitive,
middle-aged dame whom he had thus alarmed and soothed was probably an
old and esteemed servant of the family at No. 9. The whole
arrangements looked like being “well-to-do.” The butler poured out
sherry as if it was small beer, and probably in such an establishment
the confidential maid might have saved a pretty bit of money, to
which, even encumbered with the lady in question, Tom Blacke would
have had no earthly objection. He was, as he said himself, “open to a
match,” and being a rosy, dark-whiskered fellow, with good teeth and
consummate assurance, though he never looked at _you_ till you had
done looking at _him_, he resolved to lay siege forthwith to the heart
of Mrs. Gingham. A nervous temperament is usually susceptible; and
though her fingers are occupied in folding Blanche’s handkerchiefs,
and “putting away” her gloves, shoes, and etceteras, the Abigail’s
thoughts are even now far away round the corner, up two pair of
stairs, in the office with Tom Blacke.
“Goodness gracious! Missus’s bell!” exclaims Gingham, with a start, as
if she had _not_ expected that summons at its usual time--viz. when
Mrs. Kettering came in to shake her feathers before luncheon--and she
runs down, palpitating as if the house were on fire. Though we must
not stay to see Blanche take her bonnet off and smooth those sunny
ringlets, we may go and wait for her in the luncheon-room, to which
she is soon heard tripping merrily down, with even brighter eyes than
usual, perhaps from the excitement of meeting Cousin Charles’s friend,
Mr. Hardingstone, whom sly Blanche knows but very little, and with
whom she is consequently extremely diffident, notwithstanding the
deference of his manner, and the respectful, almost admiring tone in
which he always addresses the young girl.
“Blanche, have you fed Bully? and practised your music? and read your
history? Women should never neglect history. And looked for the name
of that weed, whilst we think of it? and shall I give you some
chicken?” said Mrs. Kettering, without waiting for an answer, as she
sat down to a very comfortable repast about three o’clock in the
afternoon, which she called luncheon, but which was by no means a bad
imitation of a good dinner.
“No, dear mamma,” said Blanche; “besides, it’s too hot for lessons;
but tell me, mamma, what did Mr. Hardingstone mean about a mermaid,
when he whispered to ‘Cousin Charlie,’ and Charlie laughed?”
“A mermaid, Blanche? pooh! nonsense; there’s no such animal. But that
reminds me--don’t forget to look over that beautiful thing of
Tennyson’s; girls should always be ‘up’ in modern literature. Do you
know, Blanche, I don’t quite like Mr. Hardingstone.”
“O mamma,” said Blanche, “such a friend of Charlie’s--I’m sure we
ought to like him; and I’m sure he likes _us_; what a way he came down
through that horrid shingle to help you out of the boat; and did you
see, mamma, what nice thin boots he had on? I think I should like him
very much if we knew him better. Not so much as ‘Cousin Charlie,’”
added the young girl, reflectively, “or dear darling Hairblower. How
shocking it was when his partner went down, mamma. Did you hear that
story? But I am sure Mr. Hardingstone is very good-natured.”
“That reminds me, my dear,” said Mrs. Kettering, who was getting
rather flushed towards the end of the chicken; “I do hope that boy has
not gone to bathe: I am always afraid about water. Blanche, hand me
the sherry; and, my dear, I must order some bottled porter for
_you_--you are very pale in this hot weather; but I am always fidgety
about Charlie when he is bathing.”
From the conversation recorded above, we may gather that Mrs.
Kettering, who, as we have said, was inclined to be nervous, was
rapidly becoming so upon one or two important points. In the first
place, with all a mother’s pride in her daughter’s beauty, she could
not be blind to the general admiration excited thereby, nor could she
divest herself of certain misgivings that Blanche would not long
remain to be the solace of her widowhood, but that, to use her own
expression, she was “sure to be _snapped up_ before she was old enough
to know her own mind.” The consequence was, that Mrs. Kettering
much mistrusted all her male acquaintance under the age of
old-fellow-hood--a period of life which, in these days of “wonderfully
young-looking men,” seems indefinitely postponed; and regarded every
well-dressed, well-whiskered biped as a possible subverter of her
schemes, and a probable rival to “Cousin Charlie”; she kept him at
bay, accordingly, with a coldness and reserve quite foreign to her own
cordial and demonstrative nature. Frank Hardingstone she could not
dislike, do what she would. And we are bound to confess that she was
less guarded in her encouragement of that gentleman than of any other
male visitor who appeared in the afternoons at No. 9, to leave a small
bit of glazed paste-board, with an inward thanksgiving for his escape
from a morning visit, or to utter incontrovertible platitudes while he
smoothed his hat on his coat-sleeve, and glanced ever and anon at the
clock on the chimney-piece, for the earliest moment at which, with
common decency, he might take his departure.
Then the safety and soundness of Blanche’s heart was scarcely more a
matter of anxiety than that of Charlie’s body; and the boy seemed to
take a ghastly delight in placing himself constantly in situations of
imminent bodily peril. Active and high-spirited, he was perpetually
climbing inaccessible places, shooting with dangerous guns, riding
wild hacks, overheating himself in matches against time, and, greatest
anxiety of all, performing aquatic feats--the principal result of his
Eton education--_out of his depth_, as his aunt observed with
emphasis, which were totally inexcusable as manifest temptations of
fate.
He was now gone off on an expedition with his friend and senior,
Hardingstone; but well did Mrs. Kettering know that yonder blue,
cool-looking sea would be an irresistible temptation, and that her
nephew would “bundle in,” as he called it, to a moral certainty, the
instant he got away from the prying gaze of the town.
“In the meantime,” thought she, “it’s a comfort to have Blanche safe
at her studies; there is nothing like occupation for the mind to keep
foolish fancies out of a young girl’s head; so bring your books down
here, my love,” she added, aloud, “and after we have read the last act
of ‘Don Carlos,’ you can practise your music, while I rest myself a
little on the sofa.”
With all its beauties, “Don Carlos” is a work of which a few pages go
a long way, when translated into their own vernacular by two ladies
who have but a slight acquaintance with the German language; and
Blanche soon tired of the princely step-son’s more than filial
affection, and the guttural warmth with which it is expressed; so she
drew mamma’s sofa to the open window, shut the door to keep her out of
the draught, and sat down to her pianoforte with an arch “Good-night,
mammy; you won’t hear any of my mistakes, so I shall play my lesson
over as fast as ever I can.”
Snore away, honest Mrs. Kettering, in the happy conviction that you
have given your daughter ample occupation of mind, to say nothing of
fingers, in the execution of those black-looking pages, so trying to
the temper and confusing to the ear. Snore away, and believe that her
thoughts and affections are as much under your control as her little
body used to be, when you put her to bed with your own hands, and she
said her innocent prayers on your knee. So you all think of your
children; so you all deceive yourselves, and are actually surprised
when symptoms of wilfulness or insubordination appear in your own
families, though you have long warned your neighbours that “boys will
be boys,” or “girls are always thoughtless,” when they have complained
to you of their parental disappointments and disgusts. You think you
know your children--you, who can scarce be said to know _yourself_.
The bright boy at your side, who calls you by the endearing
appellation of “the governor,” you fondly imagine he is drinking in
those words of wisdom in which you are laying down rules for his
future life of frugality, usefulness, and content. Not a bit of it. He
is thinking of his pony and his tick at the pie-shop, which will make
a sad hole in the sovereign you will probably present to him on his
return to Mr. Birch’s.
You describe in well-chosen language the miseries of a
“bread-and-cheese” marriage to your eldest daughter, a graceful girl,
whose fair, open brow you think would well become a coronet, and she
seems to listen with all attention to your maxims, and to agree
cordially with “dear papa,” in worldly prudence, and an abhorrence of
what you call “bad style of men.” When her mother, with flushed
countenance and angry tones, despatches you to look for her to-night
between the quadrilles, ten to one but you find her in the tea-room
with Captain Clank, “that odious man without a sixpence,” as your
energetic spouse charitably denominates him. And yet, as child after
child spreads its late-fledged wings, and forsakes the shelter of the
parental nest, you go on hoping that the next, and still the next,
will make amends to you for all the shortcomings of its seniors, till
the youngest--the Benjamin--the darling of your old age--the treasure
that was, indeed, to be your “second self”--takes flight after the
rest, and you feel a dreary void at your heart, and a solemn, sad
conviction that the best and holiest affections of an earthly nature
are insufficient for its happiness--that there must be something
better to come when everything here turns to heart-ache and
disappointment.
But Blanche will not think so for many a long day yet. Though the
minims and crotchets and flats and sharps were mixed up in sadly
puzzling confusion, not a frown of impatience crossed that pure, open
brow. Blanche’s own thoughts were a panacea for all the provocations
that the stiffest piece of musico-mechanism, or mechanical music,
could inflict. It is a task beyond our powers to detail the vague
ideas and shadowy dreams that chased each other through that glossy
little head; nor have we any business to try. A young girl’s brain is
a page of poetry, without rhyme certainly, probably without much
reason, but poetry notwithstanding. Before the world has lost its
gloss of novelty, that gloss which is like the charm that dazzled the
eyes of their mortal visitors, and made the fairies’ straws and
withered leaves and cobwebs look like purple hangings, and tapestry,
and ivory, and gold--before life has borne away much to regret, and
sin brought much to repent of--before the fruit has been plucked which
still hangs from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, there is a
positive pleasure in the mere act of thinking; and that intellectual
luxury Blanche enjoyed to the utmost, whilst her fingers were tripping
over the pianoforte keys, and Mrs. Kettering was snoring comfortably
on the sofa.
Now, Frank Hardingstone was prime favourite and _beau idéal_ with
“Cousin Charlie,” who, like all boys, had selected an idol a few years
older than himself, and clothed him with those imaginary attributes
which youth considers essential to constitute a hero. Frank was a
country gentleman, in possession of his property at the early age of
five-and-twenty, and, truth to tell, somewhat bored with his position.
If we were to describe him, we should say he was “a man of action”
rather than “a man of feeling,” or “a man of business,” or “a man of
refinement,” or “a man of pleasure,” or a man of anything else. He
looked energetic too, and vigorous, with his brown healthy complexion,
his open forehead, clear penetrating eye, and short clustering hair
and whiskers. Had he been the least thing of a coxcomb in dress or
manner, the ladies would have voted him very handsome; but he was
plain to simplicity in his attire, and rather abrupt in his address,
so they abused him amongst themselves, but were very civil to him
notwithstanding. The men, particularly the sporting ones, who are
always ready with their judgments and opinions, pronounced that he
“looked a good one all over,” alluding, as we understand the phrase,
not so much to his virtue as his corporeal powers, and capability of
resisting fatigue. We are not so far removed from a state of barbarism
in the present day as we are prone to flatter ourselves. When young
King James called the grim old Douglas “his Graysteil,” that royal
heart was attached to Earl Angus for his magnificent frame, skill in
feats of arms and efforts of strength, not for the giant’s wisdom,
which was doubtful, or his honesty, which was entirely negative; and
so amongst any assemblage of young gentlemen now in the nineteenth
century, the quality which excites most admiration seems to be a
certain combination of activity and recklessness, which they call
_hardness_. “Was Rakes in time for parade?”--“Oh yes, he drank four
bottles of claret, and never went to bed--he’s a deuced _hard_ fellow,
Rakes” (applause). “Was Captain Cropper hurt when he tumbled over
that gate and broke his horse’s neck?”--“Hurt? not he; you won’t often
see _him_ hurt--there are not many fellows so _hard_ as Cropper”
(great applause); and thus it seems that the brain is chiefly honoured
according to its capacity, not of reasoning, but of cellarage--and the
head only becomes the noblest portion of the human frame when it may
be fallen on with impunity. Tell these “physical force” gentlemen of a
“clever horse,” and every ear is erect in motionless attention--talk
to them of a clever man, their shoulders are elevated in pity--of a
clever woman, their mouths are drawn down in disgust. But Frank
Hardingstone was, to use their favourite word, “a great card” amongst
all the associates of his age and standing. Square and muscular, with
temper, courage, and address, he could walk, run, leap, ride, fence,
play cricket, box, and swim with the best of them, and they never
suspected that this powerful frame contained a mind capable and
energetic as the casket in which it was concealed.
Frank was a well-informed, well-judging man--loved mathematics, logic,
and such strong intellectual food--enjoyed working out a sum or
problem, or otherwise exercising his powerful mind, and would go to an
iron foundry, or to see a ship built, or even to the Polytechnic, for
sheer amusement. Had he been born to work for his livelihood, he would
have made a capital engineer; as it was, he ought to have been in the
navy, or the artillery, or anything but an idle man, living at his own
place in the country. He had no relations, consequently nothing to
keep him at home; people said that when alone he had no established
dinner-hour--a grievous sin in our gastronomic age: he was too
energetic to care very much for farming, although he did _occupy_
certain acres of his own land; and too practical to be enthusiastic
about field-sports, though he was a good shot, and rode right well to
hounds. Altogether, Frank was out of his place in the world; and, not
having arrived at that age when, if a man don’t fit his destiny, he
makes his destiny fit _him_, was in danger of becoming bored and
careless, and a useless member of society. Luckily, Cousin Charlie’s
private tutor, Mr. Nobottle, held his cure close to Hardingstone
Hall, and leave to course over certain grounds thereunto belonging
being applied for and granted, an introduction took place between the
squire and the clergyman’s volatile pupil, which struck up an
immediate alliance of obliger and obliged.
No two people could well be more different in disposition and
appearance than were Frank and Charlie. The man--strong, sedate,
practical, acute, and penetrating; the boy--light, active, hot-headed,
and romantic, jumping to conclusions, averse to reasoning and
reflection, acting on the impulse of the moment, and continually
getting into scrapes, which his friend as continually had to get him
out of. Yet after they had known each other a few months they became
inseparable. Charlie went regularly, after his studies at the rectory,
to pass the rest of the day at the hall; and Frank found a renewed
pleasure in boating, cricket, hunting, shooting, and even fishing,
from the keen enjoyment with which the “young one” entered upon these
diversions. As for the “young one” himself, he thought there was
nothing in the world equal to Hardingstone--so strong, so plucky, so
well-read, so sagacious, with such faultless coats, and such a good
seat upon a horse, he was the boy’s hero (we have all had such in our
day), and he worshipped him accordingly. So ill could he bear to lose
sight of his Mentor, even during the sunshiny hours of the vacation,
that he had begged Hardingstone to come over to St. Swithin’s, no very
great distance from his own place, and had promised to introduce him
to the “Aunt Kettering,” and “Blanche,” of whom he had heard so much
in the intervals of their amusements “by thicket and by stream.” The
promise was made and kept--and Frank was living at the Royal Hotel,
disgusting the landlord by the simplicity of his habits, and the
waiter by his carelessness as regarded dinner, whilst he was growing
day by day in the good graces even of Mrs. Kettering, and finding, as
he himself thought with great penetration, a vast deal of sound merit
in the fresh, inexperienced mind of Blanche. “Your cousin looks all
the better for sea-bathing, Charlie,” said Hardingstone to his young
companion, as they toiled slowly along the broiling parade, where
every sunbeam was refracted with tenfold power from glaring houses
and a scorching pavement. “It braces the system just as good head-work
braces the intellect. People don’t train half enough, I think--even
women ought to have sound minds in sound bodies; and look what
indolent, unmeaning, insipid wretches half of them are--not like your
aunt. Now that’s what I call a vigorous woman, Charlie; she’d do in
the colonies or anywhere--she’s fit to be a queen, my boy, because
she’s got some energy about her. As for you, young gentleman, you work
hard enough out-of-doors, but you neglect your brains altogether--I
don’t believe now that you have opened a book since you left
Nobottle’s.”
“Wrong again, Frank, as usual,” replied Charlie; “I read for an hour
this very morning, whilst I was dressing; I am very fond of reading
when it’s not _dry_.”
“And may I ask what your early studies were, my industrious young
philosopher?”
“‘Parisina’ and ‘The Bride of Abydos’--by Jove, old fellow, it’s
beautiful.”
Frank made a face as if he had swallowed a pill. “‘Parisina’ and ‘The
Bride of Abydos,’” he repeated, with intense disgust; “a boy of
sixteen--I beg your pardon--a young _man_ of your age reading Byron;
why, you’ll arrive at a state of mental delirium tremens before you
are twenty, particularly if you smoke much at the same time. I daresay
you are ‘up’ in ‘Don Juan’ as well--not that I think _he_ is half so
bad for you; but no man should read sentiment in such an alluring garb
as Byron dressed it, till his heart is hardened and his whiskers
grown. All poetry, to my mind, has a tendency to make you more or less
imbecile. You should read Bacon, my boy, and Locke, and good sound
reasoning Butler; but if you must have works of imagination, take to
Milton.”
“Hate blank verse,” remarked Charlie, who opined--in which prejudice
we cannot help coinciding a little--that poetry is nothing without
jingle; “I can’t read three pages of ‘Paradise Lost.’”
“Because your brain is softening for want of proper training,”
interrupted Hardingstone; “if you go on like this you’ll very soon be
fit for Jean Jacques Rousseau, and I shall give you up altogether. No,
when you go back to Nobottle’s, I shall give him a hint to put you
into a stiffish course of mathematics, with a few logarithms for
plums, and when you are man enough to grapple with a real intellectual
difficulty you will read Milton for pleasure, and like him more and
more every day, for you will find----”
“Oh! bother Milton,” interrupted Charlie; “Frank, I’ll bet you
half-a-crown you don’t jump that gate without touching;” and he
pointed to a high white gate leading off the dusty road into the fresh
green meadows, for they were now clear of the town.
Frank was over it like a bird, ere the words were out of his admiring
disciple’s mouth, and their conversation, as they walked on, turned
upon feats of strength and agility, and those actions of enterprise
and adventure which are ever most captivating to the fancy of the
young.
Charles Kettering, we need scarcely say, entertained an extraordinary
fondness for all bodily exercises. Intended for the army, and “waiting
for his commission,” as he expressed it, he looked forward to his
future profession as a career of unalloyed happiness, in which he
should win fame and distinction without the slightest mental
exertion--an effort to which, in truth, Charlie was always rather
averse. Like most young aspirants to military honours, he had yet to
learn that study, reflection, memory, and, above all, common sense,
are as indispensable to the soldier’s success as to that of any other
professional man; and that, although physical courage and light
spirits are very useful accessories in a campaign, a good deal more is
required to constitute an officer, since, even in a subordinate grade,
the lives of his comrades and the safety of his division may depend on
his unassisted judgment alone. Charlie had good abilities, but it was
a difficult matter to get him to apply them with anything like
diligence; and his friend Hardingstone, whose appreciation of a
favourite’s good qualities never made him blind to his faults, saw
this defect, and did all in his power to remedy it, both by precept
and example.
Mrs. Kettering’s misgivings as regarded her nephew’s duck-like
propensities were founded on a thorough knowledge of his taste and
habits. Another mile of walking brought the pair once more to the
beach, where it curved away completely out of sight of St Swithin’s.
The heat was intense; Charlie took his coat off, sat down upon a
stone, and gazed wistfully at the sea.
“Don’t it look cool?” said he; “and don’t I wish, on a day like this,
that I was a ‘merman bold’? I say, Frank, I must have a dip--I shall
bundle in.”
“In with you,” was the reply; “I haven’t had a swim since I breasted
the Mediterranean last year; only we won’t stay in too long, for I
promised your cousin to bring her some of that seaweed she spoke
about;” and in another minute, in place of two well-dressed gentlemen
standing on the beach, a couple of hats and a heap of clothes occupied
the shore, whilst two white forms might be seen, ever and anon,
gleaming through the blue waves as their owners dived, floated, turned
upon their sides, kicked up their feet, and performed all those antics
with which masterly swimmers signalise their enjoyment of their
favourite element. We often hear people wishing they could fly. Now,
we always think it must be exactly the same sensation as swimming; you
are borne up with scarcely an effort--you seem to glide with the
rapidity of a bird--you feel a consciousness of daring, and a proud
superiority over nature, in thus mastering the instinctive fear man
doubtless entertains of water, and bidding ocean bear you like a steed
that knows its rider. The horizon appears so near that your ideas of
distance become entirely confused, and the “few yards of uneven” water
seem to your exulting senses like as many leagues. You dash your head
beneath the green transparent wave, and shaking the salt drops from
your brow, gallantly breast roller after roller as they come surging
in, and with a wild, glad sense of freedom and adventure, you strike
boldly out to sea. All this our two gentlemen bathers felt and
enjoyed, but Frank, who had not followed this favourite diversion for
a length of time, was even more delighted than his young companion
with his aquatic amusements; and when the breeze freshened and the
dark blue waters began to show a curl of white, he dashed away with
long, vigorous strokes to such a distance from the shore as even
Charlie, albeit of anything but nervous mood, thought over-venturous
and enterprising. The latter was emerging from the water, when, on
looking for his companion, it struck him that Frank, in the offing,
was making signals of distress. Once he saw a tremendous splash, and
he almost thought he heard a cry through the roar of the tide against
the shingle. “By all that’s fearful, he’s in grief,” was Charlie’s
mental exclamation; and whilst he thought it the gallant boy was
striking out for life and death to reach his friend. What a distance
it seemed! and how his knees and thighs ached with the long,
convulsive springs that shot him forward! Charlie never knew before
what hard work swimming might be; and now he has reached the spot he
aimed at--he raises himself in the water--what is this? Merciful
Heaven! Hardingstone is down! but there is a swirling circle of green
and white not ten yards before him, and the lad dives deep below the
surface and comes up holding his friend’s motionless body by the hair;
and now they are both down again, for Charlie is blown, and has not
before practised the difficult feat of rescuing a man from drowning.
But he comes up once more, and shakes his head, and coughs and
clutches tightly to the twining hair, that even in the water has a
death-like clamminess in his fingers. He is frightfully blown now, and
a wave takes him sideways and turns him over--he is under
Hardingstone, and this time he only comes up for an instant to go
under again, with a suffocating feeling at his chest, and a painful
pressure on his ears. Now he gulps at the salt water that appears to
fill body, and lungs, and head; and now he seems to be whirling round
and round; everything is green and giddy--there is something crooked
before his face--and a feeling of pleasing languor forbids him to
grasp it. The Great Uncertainty is very near--a glare of white light
dazzles his eyes, and the waters settle over him, as he holds on to
Hardingstone’s hair with the clutch of a drowning man.