Fifty-Two Stories For Girls Part 23

"Yes, miss."

"And has your mother got an immense lobster, and a big crab, and heaps of prawns?"

"Yes, miss; whoppers, all of 'em."

"That's right; the sea does give us such appet.i.tes, doesn't it, Empey? I hope the others will be here soon."

"If they don't make haste they'll find only the sh.e.l.l of the lobster,"

he answers, joining her on the sh.o.r.e. "I shall never be able to control myself if I take one look at him!"

"Then don't look at him, greedy!" she cries, clapping her hands, and dancing round and round him, while the fisherman's children stare at her wonderful golden locks. "I didn't forget your weakness for lobster; Aunt Hetty said I might arrange it all; and we shall have a splendid tea!"

He looks at her with his quiet smile, half amused, wholly loving.

"Don't be whirling like a Dervish, and making yourself too hot to eat anything," he says, putting a stop to her evolutions. "Let's saunter along the beach, and sit down a bit, my Queen Bee."

It is a bright, glistening beach, strewn with many-coloured pebbles and stones, brown, yellow, purple, crimson, and snow-white; there are empty sh.e.l.ls in abundance, out of which charming pincus.h.i.+ons can be constructed by skilful fingers; and, best of all, there are little heaps of delicate sea-weed, capable of being pressed out into tiny tree-like forms of coral-pink. Altogether, this strip of sh.o.r.e is a very treasury for children, and Bee can never come here without wanting to load her own pockets and everybody else's with heavy spoils.

Claude, who has already been presented with seven sh.e.l.l pincus.h.i.+ons, a polished pebble, and three copy-books filled with gummed sea-weed, does not care to add to this valuable collection of marine treasures. He arrests the little hand that is making a grasp at a clam, and says persuasively, "Stop till we come here again, Bee; don't pick up things this afternoon. It's so jolly to loaf about and do nothing, you know."

She obeys, after casting one regretful glance at that fascinating scalloped sh.e.l.l; and they stroll on in placid contentment. From this part of the coast they get a wide ocean outlook, and can gaze far away to the faint sea-line dissolving into the sky.

How calm it is! Beautiful, infinite sea, suggesting thoughts of voyages into unknown climes; of delightful secrets, yet unfathomed; of that enchanting "by-and-by" which is the children's Promised Land! The boy and girl are quiet for a time, dreaming their tranquil little dreams in the silence of utter satisfaction, while the waves wash the beach with the old lulling sound, and the rock-shadows are slowly lengthening on the sand.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Drake, the fisherman's wife, is busy with her preparations indoors. The cottage stands in a sheltered nook, a wooden dwelling, coated with tar, with nets hanging outside its walls, and a doorstep as white as snow. A few hardy geraniums in pots brighten the windows, but garden there is and can be none; the pebbly sh.o.r.e must serve the children as a playground. Rosy cheeks and sound lungs give proof that the little Drakes are thriving in their seaside home; and the youngest, a baby of two, lies placidly sucking its thumb on the sunny beach.

The boat containing Aunt Hetty and her party nears the landing, and just for one second Claude's brow darkens again. A st.u.r.dy lad is pulling strong strokes, with arms that seem almost as strong as Drake's; and the lad has a merry brown face and black curly hair, and wears a scarlet cap set jauntily on his head. It is Tim Crooke, looking provokingly at his ease among his aristocratic friends, and quite prepared to enjoy himself.

Aunt Hetty, gentlest and kindest of elderly ladies, is a.s.sisted to land by the clergyman; while Tim takes up Dolly in his strong arms and places her safely on the sh.o.r.e. And then they all make for the cottage, Bee lingering in the rear with Claude, and winning him back to good-humour with a pleading look from the sunny blue eyes.

Surely this tea in the fisherman's kitchen is a banquet fit for the G.o.ds! It is a happy, hungry group that gathers round the deal table; Bee, doing the honours, pours out tea, and has a great deal of business on her hands; Aunt Hetty, at the other end of the board, keeps anxious watch over Dolly, who consumes prawns with frightful rapidity; Tim Crooke beams on everybody and ministers to the wants of everybody, like the good-natured fellow that he is. And Claude, true to his unuttered promise, is kind to Tim in a pleasant, natural way.

At length the meal comes to an end; lobster, prawns, and crab are all demolished! and the last drop is drained out of the teapot. The party stroll out of doors, and revel in the cool of the evening air.

How is it that they begin to talk about heroes and heroism? n.o.body can remember afterwards who started the subject; but certain it is that all, save Dolly, become interested in the conversation, and each has a word to say. Mr. Carey, the clergyman, is the leading talker; and he talks well, not priggishly, nor prosily, but speaks the right words in the right way, and wins the attention of his companions.

"Charles Kingsley has told us," he says, "'that true heroism must involve self-sacrifice;' it is the highest form of moral beauty. And it's a good thing when girls and boys fall to thinking about heroes and heroines; the thinking begets longing to do likewise. What was it that you were saying last night about your favourite hero, Tim?"

Tim lifts his head, and a rush of colour comes suddenly into his brown face.

"Jim Bludso is the fellow I like," he says, speaking quickly. "Wasn't it grand of him to hold the bow of the _Prairie Belle_ against the bank, while she was burning? The pa.s.sengers all got off, you know, before the smoke-stacks fell; only Bludso's life was lost. He let himself be burnt to save the rest."

"It _was_ grand!" murmurs Bee, drawing a long breath.

"Yes," says Claude, bringing out his words slowly; "but I like Bert Harte's 'Flynn of Virginia' better still. You see, it was Jim Bludso's own fault that the steamer caught fire. Nothing would stop him from running a race with the _Movestar_; and so the _Prairie Belle_ came tearing along the Mississippi--

"'With a n.i.g.g.e.r squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine!'

Jolly fun it must have been, but anybody could have foretold the end. As to Flynn, he was working on the Central Pacific Railway with his mate, a married man, when they found the whole concern giving way. And Flynn set his back against the wall in the dark drift, and held the timbers that were ready to fall, and sang out to Jake to run for his wife's sake."

"Oh, that was beautiful!" Bee sighs, with her blue eyes full of tears.

"Flynn was only Flynn, wasn't he? But Jake had got somebody who couldn't live without him."

"That was just what Flynn felt, he was only Flynn," Claude replies, pleased that his hero is appreciated. "There was something splendidly deliberate in his self-sacrifice, don't you think so, sir?" he adds, turning to Mr. Carey.

"You are quite right," Mr. Carey answers thoughtfully.

Dolly comes running up to the group with shrill cries showing a little live crab in her small palm. A faint breeze is blowing off the sea, the west grows golden, and Aunt Hetty rises from her seat on the beach.

"We must be going home now," she says. "Claude, dear boy, will you look for my shawl?"

Claude obediently goes into the cottage to bring out the wraps; Mr.

Carey hastens off to summon Drake; and Tim finds himself, for a few seconds, by Bee's side.

"Hasn't it been a lovely afternoon?" she says. "I've been so happy, haven't you? Oh, Tim, Claude has told me something!"

"Is it a secret?" Tim asks.

"No, he didn't say so. He says it was arranged years ago that he is to take me out to India, by-and-by. I'm so glad, Tim; I'd go anywhere with Claude."

The golden glow that s.h.i.+nes on Tim's face seems to dazzle him, and he turns his head away from the speaker.

"I'm glad that you are glad, Bee," he says quietly. And that is all.

CHAPTER III.

Sunday morning dawns, hot and still, but clearer than the day before.

Aunt Hetty and her nieces are sitting in the bay-windowed room, which has the usual furniture of seaside lodgings. They have just gone through their morning readings, and are ready to begin breakfast when Claude comes downstairs.

"How is the wrist, dear boy?" Aunt Hetty asks tenderly.

In jumping out of the boat last night he has managed to get a sprain, but is disposed to treat the matter lightly.

"Oh, it will soon be well, thanks," he says, taking his place, and giving a smile to Bee.

A little later they all set out for church, and Bee and Claude attract many an admiring glance as they walk together along the terraces. She wears her new frock, of some soft creamy stuff, and a quaint "granny"

bonnet of ivory satin lined with pale blue; her short skirts display silk stockings and dainty little shoes of patent leather. Aunt Hetty, her tall thin figure draped with black lace, follows with Dolly, that little witch of eight years old, who is the pet and plague of the good lady's life. Other seaside visitors look after the party from Nelson Lodge, and discuss them freely among themselves; but they do not speak from personal knowledge of Lady Henrietta Jocelyn and her charges. All they know is that Lady Henrietta is the maiden aunt of the two girls, and that they were committed to her care by her brother who died in India.

The church is large, recently built, and smells strongly of mortar and varnish. In winter Mr. Carey has to preach to a scanty congregation; but in summer, when the lodging-houses are full, there is always a goodly number of wors.h.i.+ppers.

The Jocelyns, whose home is in town, are accustomed to attend St.

George's, Hanover Square, and never feel perfectly comfortable in this seaside church, which is, as Bee says, "so dreadfully new, and so unfurnished." She wishes they could all wors.h.i.+p out of doors, among the rocks, with the blue sea murmuring near them; and yet she likes to hear Tim's voice, as he stands among the other surpliced boys and leads the singing.

Not that Tim is by any means an ideal chorister. His surplice makes his brown skin look browner, and his curly head blacker than ever; and there is not a heavenly expression in his quick dark eyes. He is not in the least like one of those saintly boys we read of sometimes, who sing and lift their glances upward, and pa.s.s gently and speedily away from this wicked world. Judging from Tim's robust appearance he has many a year of earthly life before him, and many a hot battle to fight with the flesh and the devil.

But it is a marvellous voice that comes from the lad's ma.s.sive throat; a voice that goes up like a lark's song, carrying heavy hearts to higher regions with its notes. In future days there are some who will remember that morning's anthem, which Tim sings with all his triumphant power and thrilling sweetness. A few fishermen, standing just within the doors, listen entranced, and one rugged old fellow puts up a hard hand to hide his eyes.