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Bosom Friends A Seaside Story
The namesakes (page 48).]
By ANGELA BRAZIL
Bosom Friends A Seaside Story
THOMAS NELSON AND SONS, LTD. LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN AT THE PRESS OF THE PUBLISHERS.
_CONTENTS._
I. Fellow-travellers 5
II. Mrs. Stewart's Letter 21
III. A Meeting on the Sands 33
IV. The Sea Urchins' Club 48
V. A Hot Friendship 60
VI. On the Cliffs 75
VII. The "Stormy Petrel" 87
VIII. Cross-purposes 108
IX. Silversands Tower 119
X. Wild Maidenhair 132
XI. The Island 144
XII. A First Quarrel 158
XIII. Reading the Runes 173
XIV. A Wet Day 187
XV. Tea with Mr. Binks 201
XVI. Belle's New Friend 217
XVII. The Chase 231
XVIII. Good-bye 243
BOSOM FRIENDS.
CHAPTER I.
FELLOW-TRAVELLERS.
"Say, is it fate that has flung us together, We who from life's varied pathways thus meet?"
It was a broiling day at the end of July, and the railway station atTiverton Junction was crowded with passengers. Porters wheeling greattruckfuls of luggage strove to force a way along the thronged platform,anxious mothers held restless children firmly by the hand, harassedfathers sought to pack their families into already overflowingcompartments, excited cyclists were endeavouring to disentangle theirmachines from among the piles of boxes and portmanteaus, a circus and atheatrical company were loud in their lamentations for certain reservedcorridor carriages which had not arrived, while a patient band ofSunday-school teachers was struggling to keep together a large party ofslum children bound for a sea-side camp.
The noise was almost unbearable. The ceaseless whistling of the engines,the shouts of the porters, the banging of carriage doors, the eagerinquiries of countless perplexed passengers, made a combinationcalculated to give a headache to the owner of the stoutest nerves, andto drive timid travellers to distraction. All the world seemed off forits holiday, and the bustle and confusion of its departure was nearlyenough to make some sober-minded parents wish they had stayed at home.
Leaning up against the bookstall in a corner out of reach of the streamof traffic, clutching a basket in one hand and a hold-all full of wrapsand umbrellas in the other, stood a small girl of about ten or elevenyears of age, her gaze fixed anxiously upon the great clock on theplatform opposite. She was a pretty child, with a sweet, thoughtfullittle face, clear gray eyes, and straight fair hair, which fell overher shoulders without the least attempt at wave or curl. She was verysimply and plainly dressed--her sailor suit had been many times to thelaundry, the straw hat was decidedly sunburnt, and her boots hadevidently seen good service; but there was about her an indescribableair of refinement and good breeding--that intangible something whichstamps those trained from their babyhood in gentle ways--which set herapart at once from the crowds of cheap trippers that thronged thestation. From the eager glances she cast up and down the platform sheappeared to be waiting for somebody, and she tried to beguile the timeby watching the surging mass of tourists who hurried past her in aceaseless stream. She had listened while the circus manager button-holedthe superintendent and excitedly proclaimed his woes; she had held herbreath with interest when the slum babies, with their buns andbrown-paper parcels, were successfully bundled into the compartmentsreserved for them, and had craned her neck to catch a last glimpse asthey steamed slowly out of the station, their small faces filling thewindows like groups of cherubs, and their shrill little voicesover-topping all the other noise and din as they joined lustily in thechorus of a hymn. She had witnessed the struggles of several familyparties to secure seats, the altercation between the young man with theSt. Bernard dog and the guard who refused to allow it in the carriage,the wrath of the gentleman whose fishing-rod was broken, the grief ofthe lady whose golf-clubs were missing, and the despair of the youngcouple whose baby had gone on in the train; then, growing rather wearyof the ever-moving throng, she turned her eyes to the bookstall, andtried to amuse herself with admiring the large coloured supplementswhich adorned the back, or reading the names of the rows of attractivebooks and periodicals which were spread forth in tempting array. She wasfumbling in her pocket, and wondering whether she would spend a certaincherished penny on an illustrated paper, or keep it for a more urgentoccasion, when her attention was aroused by a pair of fellow-travellerswho strolled in a leisurely fashion up to the bookstall, and, standingclose beside her, began to turn over some of the various magazines andjournals.
They were a tall, fashionably-dressed lady, carrying a tiny whitelap-dog under her arm, and a little girl of about her own age, a childwho appeared so charmingly pretty to Isobel's eyes that she could nothelp gazing at her in scarcely-concealed admiration. An older and morepractised observer would have noticed that the newcomer's face lackedcharacter, and that her claims to beauty lay mostly in her daintypink-and-white colouring and her curling flaxen hair, and would havedecided, moreover, that the elaborately-made white Japanese silk dress,the pale-blue drawn chiffon hat with its garland of flowers, the tallwhite French kid boots, the tiny gold bangles and the jewelled locketseemed more suitable for a garden party or a walk on the promenade thanfor the dust and dirt of a crowded railway journey. To Isobel, however,she appeared like an enchanted princess in a fairy story, and she lookedon with thrilling interest while the attractive stranger made her choiceamong the supply of literature provided for the wants of the travellingpublic. She seemed somewhat difficult to satisfy, for she threw down onemagazine after another in a rather disdainful fashion, declaring thatnone of them looked worth reading, and, calling to the assistant, badehim show her some story-books. A goodly pile of these was handed downfor her inspection, and Isobel, who stood almost at her elbow, could seeover her shoulder as she turned the pages. So endless was the variety ofdelightful tales and illustrations, from legends of King Arthur or theRed Cross Knight to Middle Age mysteries or modern adventures and schoolscrapes, that it should not have been hard to find something to suit anytaste, and the little girl in the sailor hat looked on so fascinatedwith the snatches she was able to read that she did not notice when asweet-faced lady in black came hurrying up, until the latter touched heron the arm.
"Why, mother dear--at last!"
"Did you think I was lost, darling? I had such terrible difficulty toget a porter, and the brown box had been put in the wrong van, and hasgone on to Whitecastle. I was obliged to telegraph about it, but I hopewe may get it this evening. Come along! That's our train over there.We've only just nice time, for it will start in a few minutes now. Giveme the wraps."
She took the hold-all from the child's hand, and the two hurried acrossthe bridge on to the opposite platform.
"Here's our porter!" cried Mrs. Stewart.--"Have you put all in the van?Yes, these things in the carriage, please. Third class. It seems almostimpossible to find a seat. Is there room here? How fortunate!--Come,Isobel; get in quickly."
"Plenty o' room here, marm," shouted a stout, gray-haired, farmer-likeold man, as he reached out a strong hand to help her into the carriage,and found a pla
ce for her wraps upon the already crowded rack.
The compartment was more than half full. A party of cheap trippers witha wailing baby, and a "pierrot" with a banjo, which he occupied himselfwith tuning incessantly, did not offer much prospect of a peacefuljourney; but Mrs. Stewart knew it was impossible to choose one's companyat a holiday season, and wisely made the best of things, whiletravelling was still such a novelty to Isobel that she would haveenjoyed any experience.
"It's no easy job catchin' trains to-day, marm," said the old farmer,with the air of one who enjoys hearing himself talk. "How them portersgets all the folks sorted out fairly beats me. It's main hot, too. I'vecome all the way fra' Birmingham. Bin travellin' since eight o'clockthis mornin', and I shall be reet glad to find myself back atSilversands again. Little missy 'ud like to sit by the window here, Itake it?" good-naturedly making room for her.--"Nay, no need o' thanks!You're welcome, honey. I've a grandchild over at Skegness way as mightbe your livin' image. Bless you! I've reared seven, and I know whatbairns like. Sit you here against me, and when the train gets out of thestation you'll see the sea and all the ships sailin' on it."
Isobel settled herself in the corner with much content. She had neverexpected such luck as to secure a window-seat, and she surveyed theruddy cheeks and bushy eyebrows of her kindly fellow-traveller with abroad smile of gratitude.
"Goin' to Silversands, missy?" he inquired. "Ay, it's a grand place, andI should ought to know, for I've lived there, man and boy, for a matterof sixty year. Where might you be a-stayin', if I may make so bold? Mrs.Jackson! Why, she's an old friend o' mine, and will make youcomfortable, if any one can. You ask her if she knows Mr. Binks of theWhite Coppice. I reckon she won't deny the acquaintance."
"Tickets ready!" cried the inspector, breaking in upon the conversation."Take your seats, please! All stations to Groby, Heatherton,Silversands, and Ferndale."
There was a last stampede for places among excited passengers, a lastrush of porters with rugs and hat boxes; the guard had already unfurledhis green flag, and was in the act of putting the whistle to his lips,when two late-comers appeared, racing in frantic haste down theplatform.
"O mother!" cried Isobel, "that lady and the little girl are going to beleft behind! It's the little girl in the blue hat, too! They were buyingpapers at the bookstall. Just look how they're running! Oh, the guard'sstopping the train for them! I think they'll catch it, after all. Why,they're coming in here!"
"Put us in anywhere--anywhere!" cried the lady in desperate tones, asthe inspector flung open the carriage door.
"Here you are, m'm!" cried the porter, seizing the little girl withscant ceremony, and jumping her into the compartment.--"Luggage in thefront van, and the light hampers in No. 43. Thank you, m'm.--Stand backthere!"
He pocketed his tip, banged the door violently, nearly catching Isobel'sfingers thereby, the whistle sounded, and the train started off with ajerk that almost threw the newcomers on to the lap of old Mr. Binks, whohad watched their sudden arrival with open-mouthed interest. The ladyapologized prettily, and finding room between the pierrot and amarket-woman with several large baskets, she sank down on the seat witha sigh of relief, and taking a smelling-bottle and a large black fanfrom her dressing-bag, leaned back with an air of utter exhaustion.
"Mother! mother!" cried the little girl. "Do you see they've put usinto a third-class carriage?"
"Never mind, dear," replied the lady. "I was only too thankful to catchthe train at all. We can change at the next station if we wish, but itseems scarcely worth while for so short a journey. The carriages are socrowded that the firsts are as bad as the thirds."
"That porter's dirty hands have made black marks on my dress," said thelittle girl disconsolately. "Why couldn't the train wait for us? Theyneedn't have been in such a hurry when they saw we were coming."
"Trains don't wait for any one, dear. It was your own fault, for youwouldn't come away from the bookstall. I told you to be quick aboutchoosing."
"I didn't see anything I wanted. Books are all just the same. I don'tthink I shall like this one, now I have it. Give me Micky, please,"taking the pet dog on to her knee. "Shall we have to stay very long inthis carriage? I'm so terribly hot."
"Get the scent out of my bag, dearest, and the vinaigrette. You'll soonfeel better, now this nice breeze is coming in through the window. Ifthe train's fairly punctual, we shall be there in half an hour."
"It's past three o'clock already!" consulting a pretty enamelled watchwhich was pinned on to her dress. "Oh dear! I'm so tired! I hatetravelling. Why can't we have a carriage to ourselves? This basket'sknocking my hat off. _Do_ let us change at the next station. How thebaby cries! It's making my head ache."
"Young lady don't fancy her company," said the market-woman, moving herbasket as she spoke. "I've paid for my ticket same as other folks 'as,and my money's as good as any one else's, so far as I can see."
"Some people had better order a train to themselves if they're too fineto travel with the likes of us," observed one of the trippers withsarcasm.
"I'm sure I'm sorry as he cries so," apologized the weary mother of thewailing baby. "The heat's turned the milk sour, and I durstn't give himhis bottle. He won't go to sleep without it, neither, so I can't donothing with him. Husht! husht! lovey, wilt 'a?"
"Bairns will be bairns," remarked old Mr. Binks sententiously. "I oughtto know, for I've reared seven. Live and let live's my motto, and a goodun to get along the world with. I'll wager as young missy there meant nooffence."
"Indeed she did not wish to hurt anybody's feelings," said the ladyhastily, adding in a low tone to the little girl, "Be quiet, dear. Takeoff your hat, and perhaps you'll be cooler."
Wedged between fat old Mr. Binks and the window, Isobel had sat watchingthe whole scene. She was terribly hot, but the crowded carriage and itsmiscellaneous occupants only amused her, and she divided her attentionbetween the quickly passing landscape and her various travellingcompanions, stealing frequent glances at the pretty stranger opposite,who had closed her eyes in languid resignation, having drawn her whitesilk skirts as far as possible away from the market-woman, and placedher pale-blue hat in safety upon her mother's knee. The baby was asleepat last, worn out with crying, and the trippers were handing roundrefreshments--large wedges of pork pie, sticky buns, and cold tea, whichthey drank in turns out of a bottle. They pressed these daintiescordially upon everybody in the carriage, but the only one who consentedto share their hospitality was the market-woman, who remarked audiblythat "_she_ was not proud, however much some folks might sticktheirselves up." In return she produced a couple of apples from herbasket, which she presented to the two little tripper boys, who promptlyquarrelled which should have the bigger, and kicked each other lustilyon the shins, till their father boxed their ears and threatened to sendthem home by the next returning train. The pierrot created a diversionat this point by playing a few selections upon the banjo and singing acomic song, handing round his tall white hat afterwards for pennies, andinforming the company that they could have the pleasure of hearing himagain any day upon the pier at Ferndale at 11.30 and 3 o'clock prompt.
"I'm glad we're not staying at Ferndale," thought Isobel, "if all thesepeople are going there! I'm sure Silversands will be ever so muchnicer." And she turned with relief to look out through the open window.
After running for a long distance between high embankments, the trainhad at last reached the coast, and Isobel watched with rapture thesparkling blue sea, the long line of yellow heather-topped cliffs, andthe red sails of the fishing-boats which could be seen on the distanthorizon. On the shore she could catch glimpses of delightful littlepools among the rocks left by the retreating tide, and Mr. Binks, whoseemed to enjoy acting as guide, drew her notice continually to rows ofbathing-vans, children riding donkeys or digging sand-castles on thebeach, or fishwives gathering cockles at the water's edge, pointing outthe various objects of interest with a fat brown finger. The fewstations which they passed were crowded with tourists, o
ne or two ofwhom opened the door of the compartment in the hope of finding room,but slammed it again quickly when they saw the number of its occupants.
"They did ought to put on more carriages, so nigh to August BankHoliday," said Mr. Binks. "We're close on Silversands now--you can seeit there, over at t'other side of the bay--so you won't be long waitin'of your tea. You'll be rare and glad to get some, I take it, if you feellike me."
Isobel thought it was the longest and hottest journey she everremembered; but, like most things, it at length came to a close, andafter several halts and tiresome waitings on the line the heavy traincrawled into Silversands. It was a little wayside station, with a gaygarden running alongside the platform, and the name "Silversands"elaborately done out in white stones upon a green bank. A group ofScotch firs gave a pleasant shade and a suggestion of country woods; thesea and the sands were just visible over a tall hedge of floweringtamarisk, the meadows were full of buttercups, while cornfields,beginning already to yellow with ripening crops, and gay with scarletpoppies, made a refreshing sight to dusty travellers.
"Here we are, mother!" cried Isobel, with delight. "This is reallySilversands at last! Oh, look at the poppies among the corn! Aren't theylovely!"
"Ay, it's Silversands, sure enough," said Mr. Binks, opening thecarriage door and descending with the caution his bulk demanded. "Mainglad I am to see it again, too. Take care, honey! Let me help you down,and your ma too. You're welcome, marm, I'm sure, to anything as I mayhave done for you; and if you and missy here is takin' a walk some daytowards 'the balk,' just ask for Binks of the White Coppice, and mymissus 'ull make you a cup of tea any time as you likes to call.Good-day to you!" And he moved away down the platform with the satisfiedair of one who again finds his foot on his native heath.
Silversands seemed also to be the destination of the two travellers inwhom Isobel had taken such an interest, as they got out of the trainwith much apparent relief, and were greeted by quite a number ofenthusiastic and smartly-dressed friends who had come to the station tomeet them.
"We've had the most _terrible_ journey!" Isobel overheard the littlegirl saying. "We were obliged to go in a third-class carriage with therudest and dirtiest people! I'm sure I'm black all over. Oh, I'm _so_glad to have got here at last!"
She retailed her experiences to a sympathetic audience, while hermother, who, it appeared, had lost a handbag, insisted upon calling thestation-master and giving a full description of both its labels andcontents; and until their numerous boxes and portmanteaus had beencollected and disposed on a carriage, and they and their friends hadfinally passed through the gate at the bottom of the platform, it wasquite impossible for Mrs. Stewart to secure the services of the solitaryporter. She managed at last, however, to gather together her modestluggage, and leaving it to follow upon a hand-cart, set out with Isobelto walk to the lodgings which she had engaged.
Bosom Friends: A Seaside Story Page 1