CHAPTER VIII.
CROSS-PURPOSES.
"Though a truth to outward seeming, Yet a truth it may not prove."
Although Mrs. Stewart had now been more than ten days at Silversands shehad not yet received any reply to the letter which she had dispatchedwith so many heart-burnings on the evening of her arrival.
"Does he mean to ignore it altogether?" she asked herself. "Will henever forgive? Can he allow his grandchild, the only kith and kin thatis left to him, to be within a few miles and not wish at least to seeher? Does he still think me the scheming adventuress that he called mein the first heat of his anger, and imagine I am plotting to get hold ofhis money? I would not touch one penny of it for myself, but I think itis only right and fair that Isobel should be sent to a really goodschool. It would be such a small expense to him out of his largeincome, and it is simply impossible for me to manage it. I have done mybest for her so far, but she is so quick and bright that she will verysoon be growing beyond my teaching. He will surely realize that for thecredit of his own name something ought to be done. Perhaps he may be illor away, and has not been able to attend to my letter. I must havepatience for a little longer, and wait and see whether he will not sendme an answer."
The waiting seemed very long and tedious to poor Mrs. Stewart as she laythrough those hot summer days on the hard horsehair sofa of the smallback sitting-room at No. 4 Marine Terrace. As the lonely hours passedaway, the lines of trouble deepened in her forehead, and she stitched somany cares into the winter night-dresses she was beguiling the time bymaking that every gusset and hem seemed a reminder of some anxiousthought for the future.
In the meantime Isobel remained sublimely unconscious of her mother'shopes and fears. To her the visit to Silversands was nothing but themost glorious holiday she had spent in her life, and her jolly timeswith the Sea Urchins, and especially the delight of her friendship withBelle, made the days fly only too fast. The latter was still as clingingand affectionate as ever, and would scarcely allow Isobel out of hersight.
"I'd rather be with you, darling, than with any one else," she declaredenthusiastically. "I used to think I liked Winnie Rokeby, but she wasvery unkind once or twice, and told such nasty tales about me, actuallytrying to make out I was selfish, just because I wanted her to do one ortwo little things for me that _you_ don't mind doing in the least. Shesplashed sea-water all over my best white silk dress too, and I'm sureit was on purpose, and she said my hair looked exactly like sticks ofbarley-sugar." And Belle tossed back her curls as if indignant yet atthe remembrance.
"She really _is_ fond of me," said Isobel to her mother. "And it's sonice of her, because, you see, although she doesn't care for WinnieRokeby, she might have had Aggie Wright or Ruth Barrington for herspecial friend; she knows them both at home, and goes to all theirparties. Charlotte Wright says it's too hot to last, but that's justbecause Aggie was jealous that Belle didn't ask her to go to tea the dayI went; and Letty Rokeby says we're bound to have a quarrel sooner orlater, but I'm sure we shan't, for there never seems anything to quarrelabout, and I couldn't imagine being out of friends with Belle."
On the afternoon following Isobel's adventure in the _Stormy Petrel_,any one seated in the front windows of Marine Terrace might have beeninterested in the movements of an elderly gentleman, who for the lastten minutes had been slowly pacing up and down the broad gravel path infront. He was a very stately old gentleman, with iron-gray hair and along, drooping moustache; he held himself erect, too, as if he were atparade, and he had that air of quiet dignity and command which ishabitual to those who are accustomed to seeing their orders promptlyobeyed. Whether he was merely enjoying the fresh air and scenery, orwhether he was waiting for somebody, it was difficult to tell, since henow lighted a cigar in a leisurely fashion, and cast an anxious, quicklook towards the houses, and, frowning slightly, would walk away, thencome back again as if he were drawn by some magnet towards the spot, andmust return there even against his will.
He was just passing the garden of No. 4 when the front door opened, andBelle, who had been spending an hour with Isobel, sauntered down thepath, and closing the gate behind her, seated herself upon one of thebenches which the Town Council had put up that summer on the gravel walkin front of Marine Terrace, as a kind of earnest of the promenade whichthey hoped might follow in course of time. She spread out her prettypink muslin dress carefully upon the seat, rearranged her hat to hersatisfaction, and slowly fastened the buttons of her long kid gloves.It was too early to go home yet, she thought, for her mother was outwith friends, and their tea-time was not until five o'clock, so she satwatching the sea and the fishing-boats, and drawing elaborate circleswith her parasol in the gravel at her feet. She was quite unaware thatshe was being very keenly observed by the old gentleman, who, havingfollowed her, walked past once or twice with an undecided air, andfinally settled himself upon the opposite end of the bench where she wassitting.
"That's certainly the address she gave me," he muttered to himself, "andit might possibly be the child. She tallies a little with thedescription; she's fair, and not bad-looking, though I don't see a traceof the Stewarts in her face. As for resembling my Isobel--well, ofcourse, that was only a scheme on the mother's part to try and arouse myinterest in her. What the letter said is true enough, all the same: ifshe's my grandchild it isn't right that she should be brought up inpenury, and I suppose I must send her to school, or provide in some wayfor her. I can't say I'm much taken with her looks. She's too dressed-upfor my taste. Where did her mother find the money to buy those fal-lals?It doesn't accord with the lack of means she complained of. I wonder ifI could manage to ask her name without giving myself away."
He took a newspaper from his pocket, and spreading it out, pretendedto read, stealing occasional glances in Belle's direction, andracking his brains for a suitable method of opening a conversation.Belle, who was beginning to be rather tired of her occupation, andwas half thinking of moving farther on or going home, becamesuddenly conscious that she seemed to be arousing an unusual degreeof interest in her companion at the other end of the bench.Constantly petted and admired by her mother's friends, she wasaccustomed to receive a good deal of attention, and it struck herthat a short chat with this distinguished-looking stranger mightbeguile her monotony until tea-time. She therefore let her fluffycurls fall round her face in the way that an artist had once paintedthem, and began to cast coy looks from under her long lashes in hisdirection, hoping that he might speak to her; both of which methodsshe usually found very engaging with elderly gentlemen, whogenerally asked her whose little girl she was, and ended by sayingshe was a charming child, and they wished they owned her, or someother remark equally flattering and gratifying.
In this case however, her pretty ways did not seem to have their dueeffect; either the old gentleman was really shy himself, or he found adifficulty in starting, for though he cleared his throat several times,as if he were on the very point of speaking, he seemed to change hismind, and kept silence. Somewhat disappointed, Belle nevertheless wasnot easily baffled, and after having sighed, coughed, opened and shuther parasol, taken off her gloves and put them on again, therebyexhibiting the small turquoise ring that was her greatest delight, andfinally even got up a sneeze, all without any result, she at last pulledoff her bracelet, and in refastening it managed with considerable skillto let it drop on the ground and roll almost to her companion's feet. Itwas but natural that he should pick it up and hand it to her.
"Oh, thank you so much!" exclaimed Belle, in what some one had oncecalled her "Parisian" manner. "It was so careless of me to drop it, andI wouldn't have lost it for the world. Things so easily roll away on theshore, don't they?"
"I suppose they do," replied the colonel. "It certainly isn't wise tosend your trinkets spinning about the sands."
"I value that one, too," said Belle, shaking her curls, "because, yousee, it was a present. A friend of mother's gave it to me on my lastbirthday. He was going to choose a book at first--he always
sent mebooks before, the most terrible ones: Shakespeare, and Lamb's 'Essays,'and Ruskin, and stupid things like that, which I shan't ever care toread, even when I'm grown up--so this birthday I asked him if he wouldgive me something really nice; and he laughed, and brought me this dearlittle bangle, and said he expected it would suit Miss Curly-locksbetter than solid reading."
"Ugh!" grunted her new acquaintance, with so ambiguous an expressionthat Belle could not make out whether he sympathized or not; but as heput down his paper, and seemed quite ready to listen to her, she wenton.
"It's very nice at Silversands. Mother and I have been here nearly afortnight. We think the air's bracing, and the lodgings are really notbad for a little place like this. One doesn't expect a hotel."
"Are you staying in Marine Terrace?"
"Yes; it's the nicest part, because you get the view of the sea. I don'tlike the rooms near the station at all. Mother looked at some of themfirst, but there were such dreadfully vulgar children stopping there.'This won't do, Belle,' she said. 'I couldn't have you in the same housewith people of that sort.'"
"Is your name Belle?"
"Yes, Isabelle Stuart; but it's generally shortened to Belle. Mothersays a pet name somehow seems to suit me better. Last winter I went to aparty dressed all in blue, and everybody called me 'Little Bluebell,'and asked if I came from fairyland."
She paused here, thinking the old gentleman might take the opportunityto put in a compliment; but he did not rise to the occasion, so shecontinued,--
"Other people asked if I were one of the bluebells of Scotland; butwe're not Scotch, although our name's Stuart. My father was English. Ican't remember him properly, I was so little when he died, but motheralways says I'm his very image."
"Rubbish!" growled the colonel suddenly.
"Why!" exclaimed Belle, in astonishment, "how can you tell? You didn'tknow him? He was very tall and fair, mother says, and _so_ handsome. Shecries when I talk about him, so I don't like to speak of him veryoften."
"What is she doing for you in the way of lessons? Is it all parties andtrinkets, or do you ever do anything useful?" asked her companion.
"Of course I have lessons," replied Belle with dignity, feeling ratherhurt at his tone. "I learn French, and drawing, and music, and dancing,and a great many other things."
"And which do you like best?"
"I don't know. I'm not very fond of history or geography, but motherhopes I'll get on with music. It's so useful to be able to play well,you see, when one comes out. I think I like the dancing lessons most; welearn such delightful fancy steps. Some of us did a skirt dance at thecavalry bazaar last winter, and I was the Queen of the Butterflies. Ihad a white dress lined with yellow and turquoise, and I shook it outlike this when I danced, to show the colours. People clapped ever somuch, and it was such a success we had to do it over again, in aid ofthe hospital. Our mistress wants to get up a flower dance for theexhibition _fete_ next winter, and she promised I should be the RoseQueen, but mother says perhaps I may go to school before then."
"Time you did, too--high time--and to a school where they put somethingin the girls' heads," remarked the colonel, almost as if he werethinking aloud. "It ought to be history and geography, instead ofBluebells and Rose Queens. I don't approve of capering about on a stagein fancy dress."
Belle was much offended. The conversation had not turned out nearly sointeresting as she expected. Instead of being appreciated, she had anuneasy sensation that the old gentleman was making fun of her; and asthis was not at all to her taste, she thought it time to beat a retreat;so, noticing the Wrights approaching in the distance, she rose and putup her parasol.
"I see some of my friends," she said, in what she hoped was rather achilling manner, "and I must go and speak to them."
And to show her displeasure, she marched off without deigning even tosay good-bye. Colonel Stewart sat watching her as she walked away, witha somewhat peculiar expression on his face.
"Worse than I could ever have imagined!" he groaned. "Vain, shallow, andempty-headed, caring for nothing but pleasure and showing herself off inpublic places decked out like a ballet dancer! She's pretty enough in asuperficial kind of way--the sort of beauty you get in a doll, withneither mind nor soul behind it. _She_ worthy of the name, indeed! Oh,my poor boy! Is this the child on whom you had set such high hopes? Andis this little French fashion-plate really and truly the last of theStewarts?"
Bosom Friends: A Seaside Story Page 8