THE next morning Forester was awakened, not by the rain beating mercilessly on his tent, but by a merry voice outside it.
‘Get up, you lazy beggar! What are you doing, snoring away this jolly morning?’
He jumped up, opened the tent door, and found Jack and Don outside.
‘We’re going to bathe,’ said Jack. ‘Come along; the tide is just right, and it will be glorious this morning.’
‘Hurry up,’ said Don, ‘for the tide is just on the turn.’
‘Well, give a fellow time to dress,’ said Forester, laughing. ‘Come in and sit down. I’ve only one chair, but I’ll allow the other chap to sit on the bed.’
‘Hullo! what in the world have you got here?’ said Don, as he caught sight of Jemmy’s woolly back. ‘Why, I declare it’s a lamb!
“Norman had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow.”’
‘Get up, you lamb, and give me room to stretch my legs!’
Jemmy got up and ran to the tent door, alarmed at the arrival of strangers, and in a few moments he was bounding over the moorland to find his companions.
Forester was soon ready, and with bathing towels thrown over their shoulders the three young men set off for the shore. They had not gone far when Forester stopped.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said; ‘I’ve forgotten my cans. I must leave them at the Castle, and get water and milk on my way back.’
‘Rubbish and nonsense!’ said Don; ‘you’re not going to do any such thing. Fancy climbing this hill after bathing, and before you’ve had any breakfast. Mother is expecting you at the Bank. She told us to bring you.’
Forester, as usual, protested strongly, but it was a case of two against one, and the brothers got their way at last.
When they arrived at the Castle they saw a curious looking man standing near it, and gazing at the back windows of the farmhouse. He was a tall, powerfully built man with a red face, coarse features, a heavy moustache, and a sinister and most unpleasant expression on his face. He was dressed in a flannel shirt, an old brown suit which seemed too small for him, for it was short in the sleeves and the trousers did not reach his boots, a brilliant red tie, and a Panama hat. But the most remarkable thing about this man was his hair, which was red in color, and was hanging over his neck and almost touched his shoulders. He was carrying a large flat book in one hand and a camp stool in the other.
‘Whoever in the world is that?’ said Jack, as they caught sight of him.
The man started on hearing footsteps coming along the road, and immediately walked on. But they came upon him again, staring up at the great gateway and examining the coat of arms emblazoned above it. He turned round as they came up.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Fine old castle this?’
They gave him a civil answer and passed on.
‘Depend upon it, that’s the artist!’ said Forester; ‘and he wears his hair long, to make him look professional.’
He then told his friends about the antiquarian, and how he had announced that an artist friend of his was coming to take sketches of Hildick Castle.
As they went down the hill into the village they saw three lads in front of them, evidently bent on the same errand, for they were carrying towels and bathing gear.
‘The Sinclairs, I expect,’ said Forester.
Don proposed that they should speak to them at once, as they would be always coming across them on the shore. So they hurried on, and soon overtook them. They told them that they also were going to bathe and asked them to join them. The eldest Sinclair appeared to Forester to be almost twenty; he had fair hair, blue eyes, and a pleasant open countenance; the second brother, who was about a year younger, had curly black hair and very rosy cheeks; whilst the third was a manly, square-built lad of seventeen.
The six young men became the best of friends before the bathe was over, and agreed to repeat the early morning dip every fine day when the tide was favorable. They also unanimously decided to waive all ceremony, and to call each other by their Christian names. From this time forward they all formed one party on the shore, and wherever the Mainwarings and Forester went, Val, Dick, and Billy Sinclair went with them.
After breakfast at the Bank, Forester returned with his friends to the shore, and spent the day lounging on the, sands, climbing over the rocks, exploring the many winding paths in the woods which came down to the water’s edge, and sitting, in the heat of the day, chatting with the girls, or reading aloud to them as they worked.
Then in the evening, when it was growing cooler, they had a long walk inland. They went to an old castle about two miles away, standing close to the Llantrug road, which they had passed as they came to Hildick in the coach.
As they came back they made their way through the sandhills to the shore, and walked home across the firm, hard sand. The tide was just going out, and the shore was strewn with fairy-like sea-urchins. Some of the white shells were empty and tenantless, and they picked them up and threw them into the waves, and watched them float away with the tide.
Mab and Dolly were the life of the party, and as they walked along, started the idea that some night they should light a fire on the shore, cook their own supper there, and eat it by the light of the flames. The Sinclairs fell in with the plan at once, and they settled to have this al fresco picnic some night in the following week.
Doris was more quiet than her cousins, although she enjoyed a joke quite as much as they did. But they were just at the age when girls are simply brimming over with animal spirits. Every hill they saw they wanted to climb, every stream that ran down to the sea they must jump; there seemed to be no end to their energy or to their strength.
Doris was older, and she had known trouble. Life is never quite the same after a very heavy sorrow; the loving, merciful hand of Time is laid on the wound which we thought would never be healed, and the sore gradually closes. But the scar left by that wound is still there, and will remain as long as life itself.
Doris’ mother had died two years before, and ever since then, though she was once more merry and bright, yet still she was amongst the number of those who bear the marks of sorrow, and who therefore are full of sympathy with others.
Ever since she had travelled with him on the coach Doris had felt sure, by a kind of Freemasonry which those who suffer have with one another, that Forester, as well as herself, had seen the shadow as well as the sunshine of life.
All through the day he had been as full of fun and jokes as his companions, but now, when the younger ones had run to climb the fourth sandhill that they had come upon, she and Forester fell behind on the shore, and agreed that they were tired, and would sit down until the others came back.
Then it was that Doris noticed the melancholy expression returning to his face, which seemed to say that life had little brightness in store for him. She glanced at him once or twice as he picked up a pebble and threw it carelessly into the water, but she did not like to be the first to break the silence. Of what was he thinking, as he gazed across the sea, with that moody expression upon his face? His first words gave her no clue to his thoughts.
‘Where’s Jack?’ he asked. ‘He hasn’t come with us this evening.’
‘No, he’s looking at his sermon. You know he is to preach here tomorrow.’
The merry smile broke out again on Forester’s face as he answered her.
‘Fancy Jack a parson!’ he said. ‘Here he is in flannels and tennis shirt, looking exactly as he did when we all worshipped him on the cricket ground. And now I am to believe that he is a full-fledged parson, and is going to get up in a pulpit tomorrow to talk to us about our sins.’
‘Have you ever heard Jack preach?’ asked Doris.
‘No, never; what sort of preacher is he?’
Doris did not answer this question at once. Then she said, ‘I think when you do hear him, you will forget all about Jack, and only think about his message.’
‘His message?’
‘Yes, from God,’ she said reverently.
Then she changed the subject, and said, ‘You look better already for coming to Hildick, Dr. Forester; isn’t it a glorious little place?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is indeed! But’ (with a laugh)— ‘I’m not leading the kind of life I meant to live here.’
‘What sort of life was that?’
‘Why, I brought my tent, and I was going to camp out far away from everybody, and I did not mean to speak to a soul all the time I was here.’
‘Why?—Oh, don’t tell me, if you had rather not,’ as Forester colored at the question.
‘But I will tell you,’ he said— ‘because I had been a fool; not a very nice admission for a man to have to make, is it? I was utterly disgusted with the world and with everybody in it, and I meant to have done with it all, at least for a time.’
‘Wasn’t that rather a sweeping condemnation?’ said Doris.
‘Well, perhaps it was; but when you’ve trusted anybody, and that person deceives you, and you find out you’ve made a big mistake, what then? Why, then it’s best to run away from everybody, that’s what I think. What’s the good of making other people miserable by your company?’
Forester thought he would never forget, to his dying day, the look of sympathy in the clear, honest eyes that were turned to him for a moment. But just then the others were seen coming back, and she said nothing but, ‘Thank you.’
Forester wondered what she meant by that. What had he done for her, or given to her, that she should thank him? He had given her a tiny bit of his confidence, that was all Could it be that, for which she was grateful?
Rupert was standing at the door of the Castle when Forester went into the courtyard that night to get his can. He had picnicked alone on the shore at midday, the Mainwarings had brought tea down to the rocks, and now he was going to get supper in his tent.
‘My father does want you to come in, sir,’ said Rupert; ‘he has been asking all day why you never come near us, and supper is just ready. You enjoy Mary’s rabbit stew.’
Forester did not like to refuse, nor indeed could he withstand the attraction of the savory smell that greeted him in the doorway. Tinned meat is all very well when you can get nothing else, but it will not bear comparison with rabbit stew, especially when made by such a clever cook as Mrs. Norris had proved herself to be.
The old man gave him a warm welcome. He was sitting in the same place on the settle, and beside him was a little girl eight years old, dressed in a scarlet cap and jersey and a navy skirt, and with a mass of beautiful curly brown hair hanging down her back.
‘This is little Miss Sinclair,’ said the old man; ‘she has been about the farm all day. They are carrying the hay, and she has been riding in the wagons, and driving them too; haven’t you, missy?’
‘Yes,’ said the little girl; ‘and gathering the eggs, and feeding the chickens, and helping Mrs. Norris to milk.’
‘She loves animals,’ said the old man; ‘she has a sort of power over every creature, her father says, and she’s afraid of nothing. You see, there are only the three brothers and this little girl, nine years younger than any of them. She goes everywhere she can with them, plays their games, climbs trees, jumps her own height nearly, and is a regular little tomboy. Aren’t you, Miss Joyce?’
‘Everyone always tells me I’m a tomboy,’ said the child; ‘but I don’t know what they mean. I’d like to be a boy, though!’
‘Why didn’t you come on the shore with us?’ asked Forester.
‘I did go,’ said the child; ‘I went with Bruce and Victor.’
‘Who are Bruce and Victor?’ said the doctor.
‘Our dogs;—haven’t you seen them? I’ll bring them in. They’re darlings!’
She ran out of the kitchen, and soon returned with two great collie dogs,—beautiful creatures with soft auburn hair, long drooping tails, bright brown eyes, and faces full of intelligence. They were evidently devoted to the child; they watched her every movement, and obeyed her every word. Then she took them for a race round the courtyard before going to bed; the supper was put on the table, and Forester sat down with his friends.
‘Have you had the artist here?’ he asked.
‘Yes, and he’s a queer customer,’ said the old man. ‘I don’t believe he’s an artist at all.’
‘My father’s a very suspicious man,’ said Rupert; ‘it’s a wonder he let you sleep here that night I brought you up to the Castle. I had my doubts whether he would, and I saw him look very hard at your card when you handed it to him.’
The old man laughed. ‘Well, I don’t think I’m wrong this time,’ he said. ‘I think he is a very queer customer.’
‘I don’t like him,’ answered Forester.
‘You have seen him, then; have you, doctor?’
‘Yes, staring up at the Castle, this morning, when I was going down to bathe.’
‘Well, you and I are agreed,’ said the old man; ‘for I don’t like him either.’
‘What has he been drawing?’
‘Can’t make up his mind,’ said old Mr. Norris. ‘He has been wandering about all day, upstairs and downstairs, peering in this turret and that turret, looking here and looking there, and he hasn’t settled on a place yet.’
‘Has the antiquarian been here too?’
‘What, Clegg! No, I haven’t seen any sign of him—that’s one blessing!’
‘Have you found the loft key, Rupert?’ Forester asked.
‘Not yet, sir. I haven’t had much time to look. We’re getting the last of the hay in.’
As they sat over the fire after supper, Forester once more returned to the subject of the artist, and asked what his name was, and where he came from.
‘His name is De Jersey,’ so he says. ‘It may be, or it may not be. He is descended from the Huguenots, and is living now in Leamington. Again, I say, he may be, or he may not be.’
‘Now, didn’t I tell you father was a suspicious man?’ said Rupert.
When, some time after this, Forester said goodnight and went to his tent, he thought, as he looked back at the Castle, that he saw a light in one of the narrow windows in the untenanted part of it. Could the strange artist, De Jersey, be still at work?
But, even as he wondered, the light went out, and the Castle was left in darkness.