La Mère Bricolin had a thin, brown, deeply lined face, but she herself
was stout, and did credit to M. le Curé's table. Her coarse blue serge
dress, white apron, and snowy, close-fitting cap, gave her a well-to-do
appearance. Indeed, as housekeeper to M. le Curé, she was far better off
than in the days when her husband earned a scanty livelihood as a
fisherman in one of the smaller smacks of the cod-fishing fleet. Like so
many other widows of the little village, she had lost him in one of the
great storms off the coast of Iceland, and had to go out to service in
order to support herself and her only son. The boy had grown up to
follow his father's trade, and she lived in constant dread of hearing
bad news of him. She was always one among the first to hasten to the
cliff where all the women assembled to catch the first glimpse of the
returning boats. Then there would be the rush to the tiny harbour, each
woman's heart aching with anxiety to see if her dear ones had returned
to her safe and sound. So Mère Bricolin's mind was never at peace,
though she was not dependent now on another's earnings, and had no
intention of being a drag on her son.
Her sunken black eyes had much humour and kindliness, despite the
anxiety and shrewdness which was so apparent in them. She loved a
gossip, too, with such a neighbour as Mrs. Wright; and as they both had
similar anxieties when the boats were delayed by stress of weather, or
when a flag was noticed at half-mast, it was no wonder that Mère
Bricolin did not appear to mind the steep ascent to Mrs. Wright's
dwelling. There was another reason for her activity. Was it not she who
suggested that Mrs. Wright should live in that very place? She had not
intended that the cave should be their permanent abode, and it was not
her fault that Jack and his mother continued to live there; but she had
suggested it on their arrival, and was flattered that they preferred it
to any other place in the village.
Mère Bricolin gazed in amazement at Estelle. She had been disappointed,
not to say a little hurt, in her secret heart when Mrs. Wright refused
to allow her to help in the nursing of the little waif, nor even to see
her, on the ground that the doctor had forbidden any visitors to the
sick-room. By no word had Mrs. Wright let out her suspicions as to the
rank of the little girl. Mère Bricolin expected, therefore, to see a
child much like the other children in the village. Every one in
Tout-Petit knew the story of the rescue. Every woman admired the tall,
handsome English sailor, whose determination and good nursing had saved
the little stranger's life at sea; but they would never have said so.
Was he not a foreigner? Was there not some cause, hidden, but certain as
the nose on the face, that a clever seaman like him must have something
in the background which kept him from a far better position than that of
a common sailor?
But Jack and his mother lived such simple lives, and Jack was such a
first-class 'hand,' that any prejudices which might have cropped up died
a natural death, and he never lacked employment.
'Look at our two old gossips!' he laughed, as he saw Mère Bricolin
comfortably seated on the broad settle near the fire. He often wondered
how they found so much to talk about, these two old dames.
Mère Bricolin's surprise as Estelle took off her wraps brought another
smile to his face. He felt proud of his little flotsam from the sea when
the Frenchwoman said, 'And this, M. le Marin, is the little Mademoiselle
you picked up! The sea has its pearls, my friend.'
Estelle was touched. To her own surprise, as well as that of her
friends, she understood and answered in French as well as any little
Parisian. How she learnt it she was still unable to say, but she had not
spoken French with her former nurses and governess from Paris in vain.
It was a relief to all parties that she was not shut out from the
conversation. The chief pleasure to good Mrs. Wright was, however, that
the purity of the accent and diction proved she was of gentle training,
at all events. She smiled and nodded approvingly.
'Will you tell me about the fair?' said the little girl, seating herself
on the settle by Mère Bricolin's side.
The old dame nodded, her black eyes twinkling. Estelle's blue ones grew
rounder and rounder as she heard of the wonders of the
sword-swallowers, the celebrated fleas which could drive a coach, of
elephants that fired guns, of the great circus of horses; and--dearest
of all to the peasant heart--the dancing at the Fontaine des Eaux;
dancing which was to begin on the eve of the _fête_, and to be continued
on the night itself till break of day.
'And will you dance, Mademoiselle?' asked Mère Bricolin, smiling. 'There
will be plenty of people ready---- '
'Never!' exclaimed Jack, shortly. The very idea annoyed him.
'I hope to see it _all_,' said Estelle, eagerly. 'But I'm not strong
enough to dance. I would rather look on.'
'You are right, Mademoiselle. You would not care to dance either. Our
lads are good, but they are rough. But it is a pretty sight even to me,
who am old, and must be ready to leave this world whenever it shall
please Heaven. But M. le Curé says it is not wrong, M. Jack. All these
things are for our ease and pleasure, and the next day we work again.'
'I dare say you are right, Madame,' returned Jack. 'There's no doubt
that people enjoy themselves. My mother and I intend our little guest to
do the same.'
'Have you taken her to see the Treasure Caves?'
'Not yet.'
'They call M. le Marin the Giant of the Treasure Caves because he
discovered them,' smiled Mère Bricolin, rising to go.
Mrs. Wright pressed tea upon her, but she said she must be back before
M. le Curé came home from visiting the sick. He, too, was old, and never
remembered to eat when he was tired, unless she reminded him. Jack
accompanied her down the slope, while Estelle hindered rather than
helped Mrs. Wright to lay the tea. She was wild with delight at the
prospect of seeing a real _fête_. Then, suddenly remembering some such
event in a dim, uncertain way, she paused painfully, saying, 'Have I
ever seen one before, Goody? Where am I? In France? Have I been here
before? How is it I can speak French?'
'It doesn't matter whether you have been here before or not,' returned
Mrs. Wright, glancing uneasily at the flushed face. 'One fair mayn't be
like another, and all you have got to do is to enjoy it. It will not be
Jack's fault or mine if you don't.'
The sailor's return made a diversion, and as they took their places at
the table, he proposed, if little Missie were not too tired, to take her
to see the caves. Child-like, Estelle was only too delighted. Tired! She
had only been in the boat, and had been carried up the steep path on her
return. No, she was not a bit tired.
Mrs. Wright was glad she should go. It was still early in the afternoon,
and some hours of daylight remained. She thought the little expedition
would amuse the child, and occupy her mind. Jack would see that she was
none the worse for it. He was going out all night trawling, and might be
busy for some days to come. It would be a pity not to let Estelle have
this little pleasure while he was there to look after her.
(_Continued on page 230._)
[Illustration: "'Will you tell me about the fair?'"]
[Illustration: "The thing exploded in the air."]
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
V.--SAVED FROM THE MATABELES.
(_Concluded from page 206._)
Those Matabele fellows (said Vandeleur, continuing his yarn on the
following evening) did not allow the grass to grow under their feet.
That very evening as we all sat at supper, the children having gone to
bed, an assegai suddenly flew just over Mrs. Gadsby's head, and struck
quivering in the wall behind her.
Now we had only left a square foot or so of window unboarded, for
purposes of light, so that some fellow must have come very close to the
house before throwing his weapon. Yet a trustworthy Kaffir had been put
upon sentry-go outside to report any sound of approaching Matabeles.
Evidently the man cannot have heard this native approach; we supposed he
must have been at the other side of the house, but we afterwards
discovered that the poor fellow lay killed with another assegai through
him.
At sight of the spear quivering in the wooden wall, Gadsby's face went
suddenly white, either with anger, or with the shock of his wife's
narrow escape.
'They have come already--every man to his place at once--out with the
lamp, Morrison. Thompson, run up and light the flare on top of the
house: ladies into their rooms, please!'
Away went men and women to their places, the light was put out, a
shutter was placed over the unboarded portion of the window, and for a
few minutes there was silence within and without.
I went upstairs to my pre-arranged station, and stood at my loop-hole.
My rifle and cartridges were all placed ready to my hand. The night was
very dark, and it was impossible to see more than a yard or two in front
of one's nose. But Gadsby had manufactured a fine oil bath, full of bits
of floating wick, and when Thomson set this alight on the roof, a
brilliant glare was shed around the house to the distance of fully fifty
yards.
The movement surprised a score or so of Matabeles, who had approached
very softly in the darkness--a kind of advance-guard, I suppose, sent to
reconnoitre and report to the main body. For the moment the sudden light
revealed their presence; they started to run like hares, hoping to reach
the safety of the darkness before our 'fire-sticks' should speak. I am
afraid very few of that advance-guard lived to reach the _impi_ which
was awaiting the information they were sent forward to gather and bring
back; for a volley from half-a-dozen loop-holes made havoc of the
runners, and doubtless those few who escaped had a terrible tale to tell
of the destruction that awaited the unwary attackers of our hornets'
nest.
This first surprise gained us several hours of respite. I suppose the
enemy had not expected that we should be so well equipped for
resistance. They had hoped to effect a surprise; to catch us
unsuspecting and unprepared; to destroy us at discretion, and then loot
and eat and drink and burn and demolish.
Gadsby was delighted with our success, 'I only wish they would come
again,' he said, 'while the flare lasts; it may just hold out till dawn.
Unfortunately there's no more oil for to-morrow night!'
'Then we must drive them away by daylight!' said Morrison, who was a
sanguine youth, and as brave as a lion.
'Ah! if only they attack by daylight!' laughed Gadsby, 'but I doubt
whether they will be such fools, now they have learnt that we can sting,
and mean to sting!'
The flare-light did not last until daylight, however; it grew fainter
and fainter, and at length burnt out between two and three o'clock.
This was a great disaster, as we were soon to find out, for it was but a
few minutes after the last flicker had died away, and left the night
looking all the blacker after the bright light to which our eyes had
become accustomed, when we all distinctly heard the approaching of many
feet. Apparently the _impi_ was about to attack us in force.
Each man was at his position in a moment; Gadsby came round inspecting.
'I don't like this much, Vandeleur,' he said to me. 'How on earth are we
going to stop their rushes in the dark? We can only shoot on the
chance.'
'I fancy they will try and burn the house,' I replied. 'You will have to
be ready with those dynamite cartridges, and drop one or two among them
if they come too close.'
The cartridges referred to were used by Gadsby and his partner for
blasting rocks upon the estate; there were signs of gold here and there
on the land, and they were in the habit of making frequent
investigations, believing that there was a fortune for them on the farm
if only they could hit upon it.
'Yes,' replied Gadsby, 'I have them already. I think we had better not
fire at them until they are within a few yards of the house; we may then
catch a glimpse of them, and a volley may turn them.'
'They are the wrong colour for seeing in the dark,' I said, with a
laugh.
There suddenly arose a fearful yell of hundreds of voices, seemingly
quite close to the house, and Gadsby rushed quickly away to his station.
I looked out of my loop-hole, but it was still too dark to see anything
further than ten yards or so from my eyes. I could hear the Matabeles
running towards us, shouting and yelling furiously; the sound did not
appear to be more than a very few yards away. Suddenly a black mass
seemed to loom almost before my eyes. At the same moment, I suppose, the
other defenders caught sight of the approaching natives, for as I pulled
my own trigger, I heard the crack of several other rifles from different
parts of the house, and with it the cry of frightened children awakened
thus rudely from their slumbers.
It was an exciting moment. The yells redoubled at the sound of our fire,
but seemed to die down a moment later, and the black mass came no
closer. We could not see the result of our shooting, but we continued to
pour into the scarcely visible masses of the enemy a fire which must
surely have had deadly effect.
Suddenly the dark mass, which we had dimly seen, vanished. I heard a
shout from Gadsby upstairs: 'We have beaten them off--good boys all!' he
cried. 'But let no man leave his post--they may be back in a minute.'
They were back in a minute or two, but did not stay long within sight.
Again we peppered them, and forced them back into the darkness which lay
beyond our vision.
And a third time the plucky fellows charged, only to be stopped once
more--half-a-dozen repeating rifles, fired as quickly as the trigger can
be pulled, are capable of great things in an emergency. After this third
attempt the Matabeles did not appear for half-an-hour. Had they finally
retired? It seemed to be almost too good to be true!
Gadsby came round. 'Don't leave your station, Vandeleur,' he said. 'We
have done wonders, but we must not be too confident or run any risks. We
must watch the night out and see broad daylight in before we can
consider ourselves at all safe.'
As though to belie any idea of safety, a voice suddenly came from
Thomson upstairs: 'Gadsby,' he shouted, 'come up! I think I see a group
of fellows coming along.'
Upstairs ran Gadsby like a streak of lightning. No one, however, could
see anything, and it was decided that Thomson must have been mistaken.
But suddenly there was a tremendous scare. Morrison, at the back of the
house, gave a shout and fired his rifle twice. At the same moment a
glare of light shot up into the air. A Matabele fellow had crept right
up to the house in the darkness and was endeavouring to set fire to the
place with a bundle of dry grass. He was so close under the house that
Morrison, from his loophole, could not get at him.
'Bring a dynamite cartridge,' shouted Morrison.
Gadsby brought a cartridge and lighted the fuse; then he dropped it out
of the window, which he opened for a second in order to do so. It fell,
presumably, close to the Matabele, who was busy over his fire; he would
find it difficult, we know, to get the house to burn, for it had been
well soaked with water. We ran more risk from the cartridge than from
his efforts, for in exploding it might easily damage the wooden wall of
the house. Then a startling and unexpected thing happened. I can only
suppose that the Matabele fellow had seen dynamite cartridges in use at
some mine in the district, and was acquainted with their properties, for
the rascal suddenly seized our bomb and threw it up at the window. He
was just in time, for the thing exploded in the air a few inches from
the side of the house, making a large hole.
With wonderful speed and activity two Matabeles swarmed up to the
breach, their assegais in their mouths, and their savage faces appeared
almost as quickly as it was realised that a hole had been made. They
were quickly shot, and the hole was instantly boarded over, but the
incident was alarming, because it showed that the enemy were capable of
effecting surprises upon us which might prove dangerous as time went on.
No more attacks were made before morning, and we were all at breakfast,
well pleased with ourselves for having got through the night in safety,
when some one came and told me that a 'funny-looking chap was asking for
me outside.'
He was Umkopo, of course. Of course, too, his errand was striking and
unusual.
'Tell Mr. Gadsby,' said he,'that the Matabeles are poisoning his water
supply--with my eyes I saw it. You must leave the farm and go to
Bulawayo--the farmhouse will be looted and burned, but you shall reach
Bulawayo in safety; I say it.'
Well, Umkopo was first laughed at; then his story was partly believed;
lastly he was fully believed, and the plan suggested by him was adopted,
which was to march to Bulawayo, armed and ready, under his protection.
And under his protection the whole party actually walked and rode past
the entire _impi._ within one hundred yards of the grim, scowling
fellows, and not an assegai was thrown, not a word uttered.
What was more, we all reached Bulawayo in perfect safety, passing
through throngs of the enemy under Umkopo's guardianship: through
thousands of terrible fellows who would have cut us to pieces, without
doubt, but for the haughty announcement by the White Witch, that we were
'his friends!'
I shall have more to tell you about Umkopo one day, if you like to hear
it, Vandeleur ended. 'Meanwhile, good-night all, for if you are half as
sleepy as I am, you must be glad that I have done for to-day.'
THERE ALL THE TIME.
It is told of Dr. Thorold that he was once asked to give away the prizes
at a school belonging to the London School Board.
In the course of his opening address, he gravely asked the children,
'Which was the largest island in the world, before Australia was
discovered?'
When the youngsters gave it up, he told them, in the same grave way,
which made them laugh all the more, 'Why, Australia, of course; it was
there all the time!'
STOP THIEF!
[Illustration: "Stop thief!"]
But yesterday he came, a small
And lively pup--his cheerful face
So innocent, that one and all
Believed him best of all his race.
He crept beneath a chair--'to sleep,'
I thought; 'poor tired little love,'
Quoth I, and quickly stooped to peep--
And caught him chewing up my glove!
Since then he's worried all our mats,
Upset the milk and smashed a cup;
He's chased for miles one neighbour's cats,
And nearly killed another's pup.
Three stockings and a pair of mits
He dragged through all the muddy street;
Besides a muff that lies in bits--
Except the parts I saw him eat.
And now the butcher has been down
To say our puppy is a thief,
Who visited his shop in town,
And ran off with a joint of beef.
Yet here he sits and wags his tail,
With goodness written on his face--
A little dog that could not fail
To be the best of all his race.
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
VIII.--BAGPIPES OF MANY COUNTRIES.
[Illustration]
I wonder if it has ever occurred to any of the readers of _Chatterbox_
that the bagpipes of the Highland glen, and the mighty organ which peals
through a Cathedral aisle, are one and the same instrument? When they
are reduced to their simplest elements of wind-chest, pipes and reeds,
there is practically no difference between the two.
The Bagpipe in its varying forms may be described as a portable organ,
whether blown by the mouth of the performer or by a pair of bellows. The
instrument is very ancient.
A curious old gem has been preserved, bearing the device of Apollo
carrying a lyre in his arms and a bagpipe slung across his back, which
takes that instrument right back to the days of ancient Greece.
Powerful bagpipes are used amongst the mountain tribes of Hindustan, and
travellers meet with them both in China and Persia. The ancient Romans
patronised this instrument largely, and the Emperor Nero was a skilled
performer.
A celebrated Italian story-teller of the thirteenth century mentions
that in his time the bagpipe was quite a fashionable instrument. Chaucer
and Spenser both allude to it, and the former says, in _Henry IV._, that
Falstaff was 'as melancholy as a lover's lute, or drone of a bagpipe.'
[Illustration: Old Ornamental Bagpipe.]
It is usually supposed that the bagpipe was brought from the East by the
Crusaders; it was reckoned as a court instrument in the time of Edward
the Second. In France, it was popular in polite society, up to the end
of the thirteenth century, when it was gradually banished to the lower
classes, and chiefly played by blind beggars. Two curious old pictures
exist of that date, representing bagpipe-players, one on stilts, the
other playing for a girl who is dancing on his shoulders.
In the seventeenth century, Louis the Fourteenth of France, casting
about for new amusements for his favourites, rescued the bagpipe, or, as
the French called it, the 'cornemeuse,' from its low surroundings, and
introduced it into his Arcadian festivities. We may picture a dignified
Marquis and Marquise, as Watteau has painted them, in the fantastic garb
of shepherds and shepherdesses, frolicking to the music of the bagpipes,
in the forest glades of Versailles or Fontainebleau.
The great bagpipe of the Highlands is inspiriting in war, and was first
used in battle in the early part of the fifteenth century. Up to that
date, warriors depended for inspiration on the war-songs of the Bards,
but doubtless the piercing tones of the bagpipes carried further, and
were more thrilling.
One of the amusements of a Scotch tour nowadays is to watch the pipers
playing and dancing on the quays where the steamers touch. Their gay
tartan attire and quaint instruments, with their gaudy bags and fringes,
make a bright note of colour, and, judging by the money collected,
bagpiping must be a fairly profitable employment.
[Illustration: Old Irish Bagpipe.]
The Irish bagpipe is a much more complete instrument than the Scotch,
although it is steadily dying out. In the latter, only one of the pipes
has notes. This one is termed the 'Chanter,' the other pipes (known as
'Drones') having only one fixed sound, and causing the curious droning
sound which accompanies the melody, whether lament or merry dance,
played on the 'chanter.' In the Irish form, the drone-pipes also have
notes, ensuring much more variety; indeed, this instrument is capable,
in good hands, of great sweetness and delicacy of tone. It is blown by
bellows instead of the mouth, which probably prevents jerkiness and
makes the sound steadier.
A peculiar bagpipe is used in Sardinia, called the 'Lanedda,' in which
the unfortunate player is obliged to make use of three mouthpieces at
the same time. It is not surprising to hear that the performance is
exhausting, and that the players often die early deaths.
The 'Musette' was a softer form of bagpipes, and many of the great
musicians have included in their 'Suites,' or collections of dances,
special music for the instrument bearing this name. Such music had a
lulling, dreamy tone, and greatly depended for effect on a clever use of
the drone-pipes. Musettes were often of most elaborate construction, the
covers of the windbags being of plush or velvet, richly embroidered in
needlework, whilst the pipes and mouthpieces are inlaid with ivory,
ebony, and silver.
HELENA HEATH.
OLD OXFORD CASTLE.
Old books describe clearly where Oxford Castle stood. It was close to
St. George's Church, and not far from a water-mill; the stream that
turned this mill flowed past the town, supplying water to the big moat
which surrounded the castle, and which was crossed by a strong bridge.
The most ancient form of the crest or coat-of-arms of Oxford shows a
castle, a winding stream, and a bridge. There is a curious drawing of
the castle, made by Ralph Agas, in 1538, during the reign of Henry
VIII., though some people think he has put the round tower, or keep, in
the wrong place. This keep is the last part of Oxford Castle to be left
standing; the rest has gone.
It is difficult to find out when Oxford Castle was first built. It is
certain that it dates from the time of the Saxons. There is a tradition
that King Offa built the original castle, which would mean some date in
the eighth century, and the great King Alfred was probably often at
Oxford, staying at the castle. In the collections of Saxon coins, round
in Oxford, there are some coins of his time. Then the son of Canute was
crowned at Oxford, and lived for a while at the castle, but he reigned
only four years. About 1791, the remains of old walls were found,
immensely thick, with some remarkable wells. These walls were thought to
be Saxon. Thus we pass on till the Normans conquered England, when there
is proof that this castle was rebuilt by one Robert d'Oiley. The
Conqueror divided the possessions of the Saxons freely among those who
came over with him, and this man had Oxford Castle given to him. He
rebuilt it in 1071, keeping, perhaps, some of the old fabric. In the
year 1141, the Empress Maud, who had escaped from Devizes on a funeral
bier, covered up as if dead, reached Oxford, and there she was again
besieged. It seemed likely the castle would be taken, and she would be
seized by her enemies, but we are told that she managed to escape again.
Accompanied by three knights, she got out of Oxford to a place of
safety.
At some date in the reign of Henry III., Oxford Castle had its walls
strengthened, and the round tower was rebuilt. It was then, probably,
that the towers were made along the embattled walls, and especially one
of those peculiar towers called a barbican, contrived so as to give an
outlook on approaching foes. These barbicans had a device by which hot
water or stones could be flung down upon any enemy who succeeded in
passing the bridge. King Charles I. was often a visitor to Oxford
Castle, and after the wars between Parliament and King were over, some
other changes were made in the defences of the castle. After the
Revolution, it was allowed to decay gradually.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 223._)
As soon as tea was over, they started for the Treasure Caves, Estelle
dancing along in front of the tall sailor, eager for the mysteries she
was about to see in those gloomy-looking caves she had so often passed
on her way to the boat. But Jack told her those she had seen were mere
shallow affairs, not worth looking at. The Treasure Caves were at some
little distance beyond the cliff which jutted out into the sea, but they
could reach them at low water through an archway made by the waves in
the rocks.
The cliffs near their home were not too steep to be covered by short
grass, dotted with sea-pinks and stocks, with a shrub, here and there,
of sea-holly. A solitary pine-tree now and again, and the little cluster
at the end of the path, proved that this part of the bay was far above
high-water mark. But the headland reached a greater height, and rose
from the sea. Estelle found, on passing through the archway, that the
coast-line beyond swept round in a grand curve, and the yellow sands
stretched for miles.
The village was on the other side of the little bay. Where she now stood
there was no sign of any habitation. The high, steep cliffs of the
headland sloped gradually away in the distance, till the country could
be seen green and fertile in the sunshine.
The opening to the caves lay in a narrow ravine. A great pool of water
stretched from wall to wall, but Jack took Estelle in his arms, and made
his way to the cave on upstanding bits of rock. Estelle thought it very
dangerous, but it was very charming.
They found themselves in a vast vaulted place, from the roof of which
there was a continual dripping sound. Dark as the rock was, bright
patches of colour shone out here and there, almost like splashes of
gaudy paint. Lighting a bit of candle he had in his pocket, Jack showed
Estelle that they were not little dried cherries and green olives, as
one might suppose, but sea-anemones.
Sea-anemones? Where had she heard of them before? Somebody wanted her to
have some? But who?
'Come this way, Missie,' said Jack, interrupting her confused thoughts.
'Take care how you tread. It's slippery, I can tell you.'
Indeed it was, and very careful steering was necessary. The little girl
clung nervously to her companion's hand, as they made their way through
wet sand, over rocks covered with green seaweed and slime, and gravel
lying under a thin stream of water. Jack appeared to be quite
indifferent to all these inconveniences. Careful to lift Estelle over
the worst places, he was utterly regardless of his own dripping
condition.
At the further end they entered a smaller cave, quite dry, except for a
little rivulet gurgling through it. So clean and white was the sand, so
sweet and fresh the air from the great hole in the roof, whence the
light came streaming in, that Estelle danced about in the merry fashion
of her days at the Moat House. Jack watched her, smiling, and when she
sat down quite tired, he dropped on the sand beside her, and told her of
the great storms that drove the mighty waves into these caverns, and of
the strange things they carried in with them--how ships were wrecked on
the cruel rocks, and how he had once sheltered ten or twelve persons in
this very cave, and others in the Hospice de la Providence, till the
storm went down.
'Are these caves called----?' asked Estelle.
'The Treasure Caves. They are almost forgotten now, because the sea is
so rough in these parts that folk seldom venture here. The tide, too,
comes up quickly, and might cut them off, particularly if they don't
know their way about. At full tide you could not see the entrance to
that outer cave--the one we came into first--for it is below water.'
Estelle looked up in an alarmed manner, but he told her he was well
acquainted with rocks and tides and currents, and would not be the one
to run her into any risks.
'But, Jack,' said Estelle, gazing wonderingly at him, 'don't these great
dark rocks and caves make you feel frightened and lonely sometimes, and
perhaps unhappy too?'
'Why should they, Missie? I am used to the sea, and so is Mother. I
don't think we could bear to be out of the sound of it.'
'Are you sorry you are not at sea now? Is it that which makes you look
so unhappy sometimes?'
'It is, and it isn't; if you can understand what I mean.'
'No, I can't. You have such a dear mother, and such a nice home; why do
you want to leave them?'
'I don't want to leave them, even if I could,' said Jack, sadly. 'But
there are other things one can't tell little ladies about.'
Such a look of pain and sorrow crossed his face as he spoke, that
Estelle instinctively turned away her eyes. She began taking up handfuls
of sand to let it run through her fingers.
'Jack,' she remarked, presently, 'I think yours must be a very sad
secret, for do you remember how I heard dear Goody crying as she was
kneeling? She said, "Jack, my poor boy! Lord, have mercy upon him!"
Then, sometimes at night, when she thinks I am asleep, she sighs _so_
heavily, especially when she is saying her prayers.'
On hearing this, Jack suddenly threw himself at full length on the sand,
burying his face on his arms. Much startled, Estelle gazed at him in
wonder and sympathy. What had upset him so greatly? Why did Goody sigh
over him? It was a bewildering puzzle to her, who knew Jack to be the
kindest fellow in the world. She could not bear to see him so grieved.
It was her fault. Why had she said a word which could hurt him?
'Oh, Jack!' she cried, putting her hand on his shoulder, her voice full
of self-reproach, 'I ought not to have told you. I am so sorry! Do
forgive me, dear, kind Jack. I wish I could do something for you,
Jack--I do wish I could. But for Goody's nursing and care and all your
kindness, I should have died.'
'So you would, Missie,' he said, sitting up and drawing the back of his
hand across his eyes. He sat for some moments in silence, his eyes on
the sands, then rising to his feet, he murmured:' After all, it is a
life for a life.'
'What did you say?' asked Estelle, mystified.
He made no answer. He could not tell her that if one person had already
lost his life through his means he had saved another's life, which, but
for him, must have perished. He was not at all clear himself on the
merits of the case; neither was it one to discuss with a child.
'Come and see the last of these caves,' he said, rousing himself. 'It is
called the Mermaid's Cave, perhaps because it is the prettiest of them
all. It has an echo you may like to hear.'
A very narrow passage connected the Cave of the Silver Sand with the
Mermaid's Cave, and a pool of water filled it which reached to Jack's
knees. Before entering it, Jack lighted a candle-end he had brought in
his pocket, and put it into Estelle's hand.
'Hold it up high as we go along,' he said. 'I shall have to carry you;
the water is too deep for you to wade through, but the cave is worth
seeing as we step into it.'
And so it was. Estelle uttered a cry of delight as its beauties broke
upon her. The roof was white with stalactites of the strangest and
weirdest shapes, which reflected the light of the candle from their wet
surfaces. A stream of water was flowing silently down one side of the
sandy floor and into the pool they had crossed, which Jack told her was
called the 'Rift.'
'I'll show you one of the wonders of this cave,' he said, as he drew her
to one side. 'Now listen.'
In a clear, rich voice he sang a few notes, and in a moment a burst of
harmony broke out, full and grand as the organ in a cathedral. The sweet
tones echoed among the stalactites, lingering as if loth to die.
Estelle gasped. She had never heard anything like it. 'Again, again!'
she whispered.
Once more the sailor's rich voice rang through the silent caves, and
once more the echoes took up the chord in a flood of melody which,
surged over their heads as the little girl and the sailor stood
motionless, listening till the last tones trembled into silence. Even
then they did not speak for some moments.
'I could listen to it for ever,' said Estelle, drawing a deep breath.
'We must not stay for any more now,' replied Jack. 'The tide will soon
be on the turn, so we must move to the tune of homeward bound. _We_ may
be late--the tide will _not_ be.'
'Will you sing to me some day?' begged the little girl, as she was
carried through the Rift into the Cave of the Silver Sand. 'You have
such a good voice.'
'That's as may be, Missie. I haven't much heart for singing now, though
I used to be a grand one at it before---- '
He stopped, and they went on in silence.
'Dear Jack,' said Estelle, earnestly, as they came out of the gorge on
to the beach, 'when I am quite big and old, you will let me help you to
be happy again, won't you? Perhaps I shall be able to put all your
unhappiness away then, and Goody's too.
Jack shook his head with a sigh.
'There are some things which can never be done away with,' he said,
sadly. 'We cannot undo them, and their consequences will last as long as
we live. Happy for us if they don't drag us down for ever. But thank you
all the same, little Missie, for it's your kind heart that makes you
wish it.'
(_Continued on page 234._)
[Illustration: "Jack took Estelle in his arms and made his way to the
cave."]
[Illustration: "'Don't go--don't go!'"]
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 231._)