Frank Fielding wondered where he was when he awoke next morning, and found the sun shining in through the window of the little cosy room in which he had slept so soundly after his adventure, the night before.
Fred's room was in a back wing of the cottage that looked right away out to sea. But Fred had not slept so well, and the reason was not far to seek. He had often before heard his Daddy Pop, as he called the old fisherman, tell snatches of his life story, but never had listened to its complete recital. And when he retired that night to his little chamber he was as full of thought as any boy of his age can be. The feeling uppermost in the lad's innocent mind was one of sorrow for Daddy Pop's sadly wasted life. The old man had made it so plain to his listeners what the cause of his failure had been. He had been a dreamer instead of a student and a worker. Would there, he thought, be any chance for a humble lad like himself doing well in the world if he worked and studied? The question kept him awake half the night, and even then he hadn't half answered it. But long before this he had made up his mind that he would work and study, and he really felt thankful he had the chance, for the parish church school he attended was excellent—in other words, it was thoroughly Scottish—it sent at least half a dozen lads every year straight from it away to the University, and more than one of these had become senior wranglers at Cambridge or double first classes at Oxford.
But what, thought Fred to himself that night, was the good of being a wrangler? whatever the somewhat pugilistic word might mean. He supposed, however, it meant that the wranglership opened the way to one through the thorny jungle of life, and softened many a difficulty.
He thought, nevertheless, he shouldn't care much to be a wrangler. One wrangler, he remembered, had come back to his own Highland parish to die. That was what wrangling had done for him.
Fred did not care a very great deal for either Latin or Greek, both of which languages he was already well versed in. But then Daddy Pop had told him—and didn't Daddy Pop know everything?—that learning and study made one active-minded, clever, and bright; that, in fact, it wasn't so much what anyone actually did learn as the actual learning of it, that did the good, and increased the size and fertility of the brain just as—and these were Daddy's own words—the ploughing and harrowing of a field fitted it to receive any sort of seed that might be sown therein. "But," Daddy Pop had added, "it is as well to learn what will be useful in after life, and the so-called dead languages would be so."
Fred perhaps ought to have gone to sleep as soon as he went to bed; but having once commenced to think he could not. He thought out all Daddy Pop's story, first lying on one side, then he rolled over on the other, and thought it all over again. Then, as it was getting late, he rolled over on his back and determined to sleep. Pah! he might as well have tried to fly.
"Well," he said to himself, "I don't see any good in lying here tumbling all the bed. It is hard work, and nothing good to show for."
So up he jumped, and drew aside his little window-blind. The window was in shadow; but he could sea that the moon was shining brightly over the sea, so he quietly dressed himself, opened wide the window, and sat down beside it.
Toddie's dachshund was out there under a bush, and coughed a low enquiring sort of a bark at him.
"Down, Tippetty, down!" said Fred.
Tippetty did lie down, but not without a little growl of displeasure.
"You ought to be in bed, you know," the little wise fellow appeared to say; "and I'm responsible for the safety of this establishment after nightfall."
Fred gave himself up to thought now, just as heartily as in bed he had tried to avoid it. Of course there was a little castle-building mixed up with these cogitations of his. And I would not care much for a boy who did not build a few castles in the air at times, and inhabit them too; for what, after all, is castle-building but a kind of budding ambition?
Now Fred Arundel's father had been drowned when the boy was far too young to know the meaning of the sacred word "parent," while his mother had been taken away quite in his babyhood. But he had come to love and respect his foster-parents very much indeed. They were all in all to him. Fred was a good-natured lad, and there was nothing he would not have done to give the kindly old couple an hour's happiness.
Well, but for them he might have been running about in rags and wretchedness a "mitherless bairn,"
"When a' other bairnies are hushed to their hame,
By auntie, or cousin, or freckled grand-dame,
Who stands lost and lonely, wi' nobody carin'?
'Tis the poor doited laddie—the mitherless bairn,
"The mitherless bairn gangs to his lone bed,
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the iron,
And litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn."
But Fred could not have been called "a mitherless bairn." And indeed if you were to have asked the lad confidentially he would have told you he was not a "bairn" in any sense of the word, but almost a man.
"Daddy Pop is old," thought Fred, "but he may live for twenty years and more yet, and so may Mammy too. Twenty years, what a long time! Why I shall be getting old myself in that time. Now although Daddy had some money in the bank before he went away on his long wanderings, and found when he came back that it had grown into a heap more; and although he had enough to build this cottage, and a fine fishing-boat also, still I know he isn't rich. His bed is not a very soft one, he doesn't live so well as I would like him to; he says he can't afford an easy chair, and that his Sunday coat is good enough. Well, if I had money, Daddy would have such a lot of comforts, and so would Mammy Mop. Why shouldn't Mammy have a silk dress as well as farmer Grigg's wife? She shall have it.
"Why shouldn't Daddy have an easy chair and a better pair of specs, and an easier seat in the cave among the rocks in which he writes his beautiful poetry? My Daddy shall be comfortable when I am older. But what shall I be? I can't be a fisher lad. Oh, no! I must travel and see the world, and—but, dear me! common sailors don't get rich, and Sandie Davis told me, after he came back from being all round and round the world, that often and often he was not allowed to put a foot on shore even in some of the prettiest places on the face of the earth. Sandie told me this because he likes me. Sandie wouldn't tell everybody, I'm sure of that. It wasn't for the half crown I lent Sandie that he likes me. Oh, no!
"But what does Sandie do? He comes home wearing his best blue clothes, and a dandy tie, and silver rings and things, and to hear him talk anybody would think he had been first officer of a ship. He smokes and takes beer—not that he pays for it, except by the stories—yarns he calls them—that he tells those who treat him. No, poor Sandie never has a penny to bless himself with after he has been two weeks at home. That isn't the kind of sailor I'm going to be, if ever I'm a sailor at all. Sandie's mother has a lot of 'curios,' as he calls them—some wonderful Japanese boxes, bottles of eau de Cologne, a funny-looking tea-caddy made out of a nut, an ostrich's egg, a savage's spear, and an old bow and arrow; but nothing she can eat or wear. She can't even eat the ostrich's egg, and funny she'd look going about with that dirty old bow and arrow.
"He's not a bad fellow, though he boasts and brags, and talks through his nose, and says words I never heard before, and don't wish to hear again, for sailors like Sandie would make me sick of the sea.
"No, I'll be something—something. I'm going to study and work to begin with, and then——"
Only the moonlight lying clear on the sea, only the lisp of the waves on the shore, only the whisper of wind in the trees, only—why, it can't surely be daylight already!
But it is though, and has been for hours, though Fred still sits there, his face and his arms, and his bare head exposed to the morning breeze.
"Oh, you naughty Fred!" cried Toddie, discovering her foster-brother, and pulling his hair to wake him. "Oo has never been to bed. I declare oo'll bleak my heart; and Flank and I has been all wound the beach and at the atwalium (aquarium) too. Flank's a dear, dood boy. Tome to bleakfast at once, I tell oo."
Fred looked up, smiling sleepily, then he gave himself a shake, as a dog would, jumped right through the window, and patted Toddie's head.
"I'll be back in ten minutes, Toddie, old woman," he said.
Then straight for the rocks he ran, and divesting himself of his clothes in a little recess, sprang in, had a good swim, and returned home singing, and quite as happy as the skylark that was lilting high above the woods.
Frank came out of the cottage to meet him, and the two lads shook hands heartily.
"You're none the worse for your ducking," said Fred.
"No, all the better. Ha! ha! I wonder what mother will say? But tell me, are you always so late of coming down to breakfast?"
Fred laughed.
"It isn't coming down," he said, "because, you know, we haven't any up. Yours is a big fine house, I suppose?"
"It's a fair size. Two story, you know, and all among woods and gardens. Oh, I'm sure you'll like it!"
It was time for Fred to laugh again.
"Very likely I shall see it," he said somewhat ironically; "but come in till I sup my porridge."
"I've had mine long ago, and so has Toddie, and we've had such a game of romps. But of course you'll come often to Benshee House. I have a Shetland pony and a little trap, and can come over to you."
"Oh! but, Frank Fielding," Fred said solemnly, as he dipped his spoon in a basin of creamy milk, "don't forget I'm only a poor working lad, and you are a young gentleman."
The tears sprang to poor Frank's eyes in a moment but he manfully kept even a single one from falling. He stretched out his hand and grasped that of Fred, even though he had the spoon in it.
"There," said Frank, "I've made you spill the milk. But never mind. Now, Fred, just listen. Don't be a fool. I'm not a cad, mind. My father is a Scotchman, though my mother is English. My father made his money in stocks, and might lose it to-morrow."
"Avertit omen," murmured Fred.
"I don't know Chinese, Fred; but I do know this, you and I are going to be fast friends, and bother the rank and riches. My father makes me learn Burns's poems. My mother thinks they are not bon ton."
"Bong tong," said Fred. "Well, I don't know Japanese."
"Never mind. Just listen to this. I'm going to recite. Father makes me do it. Now here is the scene. You are a baronet and I am Bobbie Burns. I have been visiting you, you know, staying a few days at your mansion, when a nobleman—a downright cad—comes also to visit you, and you ask him if he would object to the ploughman poet dining with him.
"'What!' cries this ignoble nobleman, 'a ploughman singing fellow dining with you and me! How very absurd to be sure!'
"Then you, Sir Fred, are awfully put about, and you come to me sheepishly, and explain matters, and I bite my tongue and don't say anything.
"Well, after dinner his lordship says, 'Now, pon honour, I'd like to hear your singing fellow just for five minutes, don't-cher-know?'
"And so I—Robert Burns—am asked in.
"Of course I'm in a boiling rage at being treated thus. So I strut in and bow to you and his lordship, that is Toddie yonder.
"'Singing fellow,' says the lord, 'give us a specimen of your poetic powahs.'
"And this is the specimen I give:
"'Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that,
The rank is but a guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd* for a' that.
"'Ye see yon Birkie,† ca'ed a lord,
(Frank points at Toddie.)
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof‡ for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
His riband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.
"'A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he canna fa'§ that!
For a' that, and a' that,
It's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
* Gold.
† Proud, silly fellow.
‡ Blockhead.
§ Manage.
"Oh!" cried little Toddie, clapping her pink hands, "oo is a pletty boy when oo speaks like that."
"Now," said Frank, laughing, "I think like Burns, Fred, and if you don't come and see me and be friendly it will be all your own fault."
"I'll come," said Fred, laughing, "and if I happen to be carrying a creel of lobsters, I suppose you won't set your dogs at me?"
"Oh, no, because father talks about the dignity of labour, and that would be the dignity of labour. And you know—'a man's a man for a' that.'"
"Bravo! Frank Fielding," cried the old fisherman, entering the room, "How I love your sentiments, my boy. Why they are noble—noble. Shake the old bard's hand."
"Now," said Toddie, "evelybody must hold his tongue, I'se goin' to 'cite a piece."
And this little waif and stray that the Atlantic waves had tossed up on the beach as if she had been seaweed, stepped boldly into the arena, that is, into the middle of the sanded floor.
She was a beautiful child, this Toddie, with large eyes, delicate features, and such a wealth of glossy hair that one could not but wonder how it could have grown on a head so young.
She held one wee arm aloft, and in slow and measured tones, with many a brief but impressive pause, spoke as follows:
"There once was a leetle, leetle dirl,
Who—lived—in a shoe,
And she had so many tsilden,
She—didn't—know—what to do.
But the Dood Lord sent a wild, wild stolm,
An' the waves wose—mountains high.
An lightenin's dleamed acloss the hills,
An' sunders shook the sky.
An' a dleat big whale dot vely sick,
Wi' the wobblin' o' the sea,
An' so he tumbled on the beach,
As dead as dead tould be.
But Bunko took the dleat whale's bones,
As none but Bunko tould,
And set them up adainst the rocks,
And lined them all with wood.
And when the whale was all tomplete,
We named it the Ig-loo,*
And there the little dirl lives,
And all her tsilden too."
* The hut in which Eskimos live.
Frank looked much amused, but quite puzzled; the old bard patted his foster-daughter, and smiled not a little proudly; while Fred roared with laughter because Frank looked so enquiringly droll.
"Is there any meaning in all that?"
"Yes," cried Fred, "and it's all true; at least the last of it. Toddie and I, and Toddie's children, that is her pets and things, do really live in a whale."
"Oh, shouldn't I like to see it!" said Frank. "Hullo!" he added, as the rattling of wheels ceased at the cottage door, "here is mother in the pony chaise, and—why look, there is Bunko himself driving my pony carriage with the Shetland in it! I wonder how the pony allowed him."
"Why not?"
"Oh, because if anybody but myself drives him he nearly always lies down to roll."
Frank ran to meet his mother, who lovingly embraced him. She was a very handsome lady and Toddie really stood in awe of her at first.
"Oh," Toddie said to Fred in a kind of stage whisper, "Oh, Fred, I don't like her much, I weally must suck my fumb."
And so she did.
"And where," said Mrs. Fielding, "are the dear brave children who saved my darling's life?"
"Here is Fred, mamma, and yonder is Toddie, hiding behind her daddy's legs."
"Toddie," said Fred, "take your thumb out of your mouth."
"Come to me both of you. Dear, dear, it was quite an adventure I'm sure. What dear children! I'm sure they ought both to have the Society's medal. Very poor, aren't they? I must do something for them."
These last words, though addressed quietly to Frank, were loud enough for all to hear.
"Oh, ma!" he said.
But the lady heeded not.
"And you are the fisherman poet, are you not, sir?" she said, turning to the bard.
The old man was standing as erect as a statue, his bonnet in his hand, his hair streaming over his neck, and his face somewhat set and stern. He really looked noble. Mrs. Fielding must have felt he did, or she would never have added that little word "sir" in addressing him.
"I've heard of you so often, in really good society too. You write those beautiful verses in a cave, do you not? Why they are in every good magazine. Do you know I should like to see your cave. So romantic! Might I, Mr.——A——."
"Arundel. My cave is a very humble place, Mrs. Fielding; but if you will come with me you shall see it. The road is rough though."
"Oh, I'm very strong!"
Away along by the top of the cliffs he led her for quite a quarter of a mile. Here some bushes grew, and among them was a half-hidden staircase leading downwards into the very bosom of the rocks. The steps had been cut a hundred years ago perhaps by smugglers. No one ever yet found out the mystery of Talbot's cave.
The lady condescended to take the bard's hand, and he led her down. It was almost dark at the bottom, but once in the strange cave it was light enough. Here were two windows, or rather ports, and one of these the bard threw open. Right down beneath was the deep sea, with clear water over shining yellow sand, so clear you could see the beautiful medusæ or jelly fish floating about like splendidly-jewelled parasols. Between the ports was the poet's rough deal table. Here was a bench of deal, and a tall-backed deal chair. The floor was laid with wood, and a great ship-lamp swung from the roof.
The irregular walls were the rough rocks, but much to Mrs. Fielding's amazement, these walls were adorned with water-colour and oil-colour paintings, that to her seemed priceless.
I had almost forgotten to say that there was a fireplace in this cave, and evidence enough too that Eean often had tea here.
But it was the pictures that most attracted the lady's notice.
"These," she said, "are not mere copies?"
"Yes, madam," said the bard, smiling somewhat sadly, "every one of them, but copies from Nature. Mostly things I daubed when travelling abroad, they serve just to remind me of scenes I have passed through during a somewhat chequered career.
"I don't know," said Mrs. Fielding with innocent candour, "which to admire the most, yourself or your surroundings."
"Round every one of these picture things, madam, I have to weave a tale for my foster-children, who come here in the summer and even winter evenings.
"How enchanting. Might my dear boy come sometimes too?"
Eean stretched out his hand as if by sudden impulse, and Mrs. Fielding clasped it cordially.
"Now you do delight me, madam. I love children and your boy is a gentleman."
"I'm so pleased."
Then turning to the windows.
"You will observe," he said, "that the glass in these ports is of very great thickness. Green seas have often dashed over them, yet we have never been flooded. Only on stormy nights I lower great wooden ports."
He untied a chain as he spoke, and down with a thud came a shutter of wood and iron.
"Safe you see against the mightiest gale that ever blew."
"How interesting. The sea too looks charming to-day from your windows. Was it out yonder my poor darling was nearly drowned?"
"Yes, madam."
There was a moment's surcease of talking, during which nothing could be heard but the gentle lap-lapping of the waves on the black rocks beneath.
"Are you fond of animal life, madam?
"Will you be startled if I introduce to you one or two of my pets?"
"But they won't hurt?"
"No, they are good-mannered crabs."
As he spoke the bard took from his pocket a piece of string to which was attached a morsel of fish. This he lowered into the sea through the open port, then slowly drew it up again.
A moment afterwards there came crawling up two immense crabs, and they positively appeared to enter arm in arm, side by side certainly. They paused for a moment on the outside rocky ledge, and gazed at the lady with their stalky eyes.
Seeming perfectly satisfied, they then advanced, and Mrs. Fielding noticed that each had a red cross painted across his dark shell.
The bard quietly spread before them their dinner, and they ate it greedily, rolling their eyes about as they did so with an appearance of great satisfaction.
"Shall I make them dance?" said the poet.
"Oh, do, sir!"
The poet held a morsel of white meat of some kind above them, and in a moment they were standing on one end, hand in hand, or rather claw in claw, dancing round and round and all about in the most comical manner.
The lady laughed till the cave roof rang again.
"Of all things I have ever seen," she said, "that is the most ridiculous."
Then one more morsel was given to each, a red handkerchief was waved, and away the strange performers shuffled, and slowly disappeared over the ledge.
"Now, Mrs. Fielding, what do you think of my red cross knights?"
"Delightful! oh, delightful! But pray, Mr. Arundel, what are the red crosses for?"
"Oh! so that they shall be known by fishermen. They have often been captured in the lobster creels, but no one would think of killing them."
"I have to thank you for such a pleasant hour," said Mrs. Fielding, as they once more emerged upon the cliff top. "Oh, look! Yonder comes my boy with your dear mite on the Shetland pony."
Toddie waved her hand to Daddy Pop.
"Daddy! Daddy!" she shouted as soon as near enough to be heard, "I'se a weal lady now. All I wants is a widing-habit."
"My dear," said Mrs. Fielding, "a riding-habit would hide the beauty of those shapely legs and feet."
Toddie looked at her, and at once commenced to suck her thumb.
"Why do you suck your thumb, dear?"
"Oh, I always suck my fumb when I'se finking!"
"And what are you thinking about, child? What makes you look at me so?"
"Is oo Flank's mammy?"
"Yes, pet."
"Oh-h! Well, I likes Flank mostest. Flank," she added, with the air of a young princess, "we will wide back adain, please."
And away they went at a mad trot, Frank shouting and Toddie screaming.
"Mamma," said Frank when they met at the cottage, "this is a school holiday with Fred. Please may I stay till evening?"
"Did ever I deny you anything, child? But be sure you're home in time. Good-bye, Mr. Arundel. Good-bye, dear children. Drive on, John."
"Dood-bye," shouted Toddie, so gleefully that it must have been evident even to Mrs. Fielding herself that Toddie was glad to be rid of her.
"Now," cried the little madcap, "I feels full of joy up to my mouf. Tippetty and I is off for a wun on the beach. When Tippetty and I has our wun we'll come back for you boys, and to-night we'll have tea in the whale. Tippetty! Tippetty! oh, here tomes Tip!"
And off bounded Toddy and Tip, and no one seeing the two scampering across the level sands would have cared to say which was the wilder or which the defter.
Toddie's little arms and legs were bare, she had pulled off her red fisherman's cap to wave it above her head, and as she dashed on to meet the roaring sea her hair floated straight behind her in the breeze. And Tippetty, the dachshund, barking with all his might, came just a little in advance.
This spoke volumes for the strength of Tip's lungs. Though lovely and hound-like in head, like all dachshunds, he was bandy in legs, very low to the ground, and of tremendous length. So long and low indeed was he, that when at the gallop his black body wriggled like an eel. So long was he that he could not jump on a chair. He could put his two paws and head up, but if asked to spring, he looked about him wisely at his tail end, as much as to say,
"I would jump up willingly with my front part, don't you know? but then the other end of the procession wouldn't come along."
Tippetty was one of the wisest and kindest-hearted wee dogs that ever lapped milk.
He was the pet of the village, and no wonder, for Tippetty dug bait for everybody.
"Is Tip at home?" a fisherman would say to Eppie as he passed seawards.
"Tip, Tip," Eppie would cry, "you're wanted." And off he would go. He knew the worms' holes in the sand, and none could go too deep for Tip. With his little mole's feet and his wee bandy legs he would throw the sand up behind him as if he were a living mitrailleuse, and soon expose the coveted bait.
The first visit of the children to-day was to the aquarium, and Frank listened with delight to the terrible story of Tom, the naughty dolly-fish.
"But what a good thing," said Frank seriously, "that you were there putting back the dolly-fish. Else I should have been drowned."
"Oh," said Toddie, nodding her demure morsel of a head, "that was Plovidence, Flank. Oh, yes I 'ssure oo, Flank, it was Plovidence, 'cause Daddy Pop told me. Now then."
After they had seen all the queer creatures in the aquarium, and every creature's life history had been told to Frank by Toddie, they went off to the woods. "Dood-bye, dear, dear blennies," said Toddie, stroking these marvellous wee fishes with a morsel of seaweed, "be dood tsilden and oo mammy won't be long away."
Three of these were lying on the centre island of the aquarium, like so many miniature walruses, and so tame were they that they never moved when Toddie stroked them.
This children's aquarium had been got up by Daddy Pop, and he explained the nature of every new pot that was put into it. But he had never seen the dogfish Tom.
Daddy Pop believed, and rightly too, that letting children have a hobby keeps them out of many a danger, and when that hobby was the keeping of living pets in a condition of nature, it became in itself an education, and brought the bairnies into direct communication with the Creator, who loves all things He has made.
What fun they had in the woods, but they went to show Frank the terrible cliff over which Daddy Pop had fallen when a young man.
The tree beneath was marked by a cross deeply cut in the bark.
By the time they got back, Daddy was ready to accompany them all to have tea in Toddie's whale.
There were two persons who on this particular afternoon considered themselves of the very greatest importance. One was Bunko, the other Tippetty. And the most perfect understanding existed betwixt the two. Next to his little mistress, I feel certain that Tip loved Bunko above all people, and Bunko loved Tip, and admired him too. Like many peasants of his class, Bunko was fond of adorning his conversation with Biblical phraseology, always, however, with the greatest reverence and veneration. Half-daft Bunko might have been, but the Scriptures were indeed to him the Book of books, and the beautiful and simple stories of the New Testament were not beyond his childlike comprehension.
Therefore Bunko was really paying Tip a compliment when he told that doggie he was more "subtle than any other beast of the field," and like the serpent in the book of Genesis.
Nevertheless, although Bunko made a companion of "Tippie," as he called him, whenever he could get him to make a companion of, he would not have permitted anyone to say the dog had reason.
"I have na muckle reason mysel'," he told the old fisherman one day, "but poor Tippie's only a breet" [brute].
Then he scratched his head as he looked at his four-footed friend. "Ma! conscience though," he added, "just look at they bewitchin' brown een [eyes] o' his. What a lot o' wisdom the Good Lord has lent him!"
The fisherman thought this was certainly a new light in which to view the controversy of Reason versus Instinct.
Well, both the friends went to the igloo, as Fred called the whale-house, early that afternoon, for Bunko had caught Tippitty and carried him off in triumph. It was no easy matter either, to carry Tip; for if Tip chose to wriggle you couldn't hold him in one arm as you might a terrier, you required both, and even then if the doggie made up his mind to wallop but once, he was out of your grasp and off like an eel.
"You're no goin' to the woods the day, I can tell you, Tippie," Bunko had told him. "We have gentry folks comin' to tea, so you maun come and help me."
Bunko was dressed in his best, in his Sunday clothes in fact, and a fearful and wonderful rig it was—a Scotch bonnet as broad as a griddle with an immense red top on it, a soldier's scarlet coat, and a pair of tartan trowsers rather frayed at the bottom.
If you had told Bunko that the bonnet was too big for him he would probably have replied: "If ye dinna like it, ye can look the ither road. Anything sets [becomes] a weel-faured face, if it were only the dish-clout."
In that great rugged wall of rocks that went stretching away out into the western sea there was just one break, and this occurred a little beyond the poet's cave. A kind of glen or small ravine it formed. At low-water you could approach it from the sea between two tall frowning rocks, but if the tide were up you must descend into it by a perilous little pathway leading from the cliff above. Only once, in the memory of the villagers then living, had this glen been invaded by a high-tide. This had occurred some years before the date of the commencement of our story, and, strange to say, when the sea receded it left behind it a stranded whale.
This whale was a Godsend to the poor fisher folks. One way or another, what with its whalebone, its oil, and its great jaws, it had been sold piecemeal. But there still remained leaning against the cliff the huge ribs of the leviathan, and here the children used to play till one day it occurred to Bunko to make these ribs the framework of a good house.
Eean, the bard, took up the idea at once, and what with the help of an idle hand or two, always easily to be had in a village, the ribs were roofed and covered in all round, and when a floor and door had been put in, not to mention a fire-place and a little window, why surely never on earth was there a better or more romantic children's play-house.
The bottom of the glen or gap in this wall of rocks was grass, so Bunko's "mother-wit" came in handy once again.
"What for no' have a bit garden round the house?" Bunko had said.
"Certainly," said Eean; "but the soil isn't deep."
"Bide a wee, sir."
And, spade in hand, up he clambered to the cliff top. It was well for the old fisherman that he had divined Bunko's intentions and stood clear from under, for presently the earth began to descend in avalanches. Bunko in his excitement had evidently quite forgotten that anyone stood beneath. In less than a quarter of an hour a heap of mould big enough for the purpose lay alongside the igloo.
Meanwhile Eean had wandered round the corner, deeply absorbed in the beauties of Ossian. When he returned, much to his astonishment he found that poor Bunko had descended, and was digging into that heap of earth with his coat off as if his future life depended on it. Eean walked quietly up behind him, for Bunko was talking aloud, a word or two to each spadeful that he threw aside.
It is said listeners never hear any good of themselves. This case, however was an exception.
"O, poor Eean—O, poor dear old man—the best—and the wisest—and the bonniest—auld man—'tween here and Perth—and I've—buried him alive."
Eean had to laugh aloud now, and the look of astonishment blended with joy on the half-witted lad's face, as he looked about, was comical in the extreme.
Down went the spade, and Bunko seized Eean's hand and burst into tears. Poor fellow, never a word could he think of to utter at that moment except his grace after meals:
"For these and a' Thy other mercies, Good Father, make us truly thankfu'."
Having so far relieved his feelings, he picked up his broad bonnet and threw it in the air, and as soon as it descended he leapt nimbly on top of it, and cracking his thumbs danced the tenth step of the Lonach Hielan' fling without ever getting off.
"D'ye feel better now?" said Eean, much amused.
"That I do; but, O, sir, if I'd killed ye, I'd——"
"What, Bunko?"
"Flung my body o'er the cliff for the partans [crabs] to pick."
But the garden was laid out with a rustic railing round it, and all the summer through lovely flowers always bloomed therein, with roses and honeysuckle, and wild convolvulus trailing over the fence.
On this autumn afternoon, the bright crimson Scotch tropæolum, that refuses to grow out well of its native land, encircled the igloo doorway with its masses of flame-like flowers.
"Tippie, Tippie, here's the gentry. Run and meet them, Tip."
Yes, there they come—Fred and Frank and Toddie, and the sturdy old weird-looking bard himself.
Bunko stood by the garden gate, pole in hand, as the party approached. "Shoulder arms," he shouted. "Present arms."
And in due military style he stood there at the present till they all filed past.
"Fancy taking tea in a whale!" cried Frank delightedly. "And such a tea! Crisp oat-cakes, scones, butter, and honey. Dear me, how mother would enjoy this!"
Eean took off his bonnet, and holding it before his face asked a humble blessing, and then the meal proceeded right merrily, Bunko waiting as sedately as a butler, and Tippetty sitting on a stool with a bib on him—Toddie's doings—as solemn as a judge.
Conversation never slackened all the time.
"What made you call it an igloo?" said Frank.
"Well, you know," Fred replied, "I wasn't sure what to call it at first. A wigwam puts you in mind of Red Indians, and there's no wild Indians here except Toddie there. A toldo is the tent that the Patagonian tribes dwell in."
"Big men the Patadonians," Toddie told Frank confidentially, "all diants, you know."
"Hush, Todd. Well, I didn't like kraal because ito puts you in mind of Hottentots, and Daddy Pop there said an igloo was the house the Eskimos lived in, and as this whale must have come from there I thought I——"
"Oh, I see now!" Frank interrupted. "Good idea too."
Toddie was looking very much absorbed. At last she turned to Eean.
"Daddy," she said, "oo don't think, does oo, that the whale will ever tome alive adain?"
Then her bright eyes sparkled with merriment as she clapped her wee pink hands.
"Oh, what fun," she cried, "if the whale would tome alive adain dust now, and do [go] away to sea wi' us all sittin' here!"
Frank laughed and Fred too. The idea was even too much for Bunko's gravity, so he gave vent to a loud guffaw; and Tip took the opportunity of barking for another piece of buttered scone, and got it too.
Then, tea being over, they all sat round the fire, and the bard took out his pipe.
"I'se dust wonderin'," said Toddie, looking wisely at the blazing peats, "wherever this poor whale tame from. Plaps," she added sadly, "he had no mammy Mop to look after him."
"Oh, yes!" said Daddy, "he had a mother, Toddie."
"Tell us; oh, tell us," cried Frank, "another story!"
"No, no, master Frank; I'll only just talk a bit."
"You've been to Greenland, sir?"
"Oh, yes, Frank! I've been blown about all over the world, and got stranded on the beach here at last, just like the whale in which we're now sitting so cosily."
"Yes," Eean continued, "with all due respect for Toddie's wisdom, I must differ from her; the probability is, that this whale had a mother.
"You know, children, that whales are not fish, but great beasts. They couldn't live long beneath the water without being drowned; half an hour at most. When they are chased by boats and harpooned they go through the water at a terrible speed, so quickly indeed that the sea rises up from each of the boats' bows like two sheets of green glass. But the whale soon gets so breathless that he can't go under water at all.
"The male or he-whale is called a bull, the she one a cow, and the young one a calf, and it takes milk from its mother just as any other calf does from its mother.
"Now the bulls are very kind to the cows. They are good-natured, kind husbands. So we may suppose that after this whale that we are now sitting in was born, and was strong enough to swim funnily round and round his big mammy, and knew enough to creep under her flipper if he saw a ship coming, the bull said to the cow——"
"O Daddie," cried Toddie, "whales tan't talk."
"Yes, Toddie, they talk with their eyes, and their tails."
"Of tourse, of tourse," said Toddie, "dust like Tippetty does. Do [go] on, Daddy Pop."
"Says the bull to his wife—
"'What would you think of a little run to the south, my dear? You've been looking rather pale about the nose of late, and it would do you good, and little Johnnie too.'
"'Little Johnnie was the calf, you know.'
"'But I don't really care to leave you,' says the cow.
"'O, nonsense, dear, go by all means. Mind you, Johnnie isn't a strong child, I don't believe he weighs more than ten tons now, and he hasn't cut his whale-bone teeth quite yet.'
"'Well, my dear,' says the cow, 'I'll just go to please you.'
"So straight away down south comes the cow and her calf. It was a long, long journey for them. Sometimes Johnnie, her big baby, would fall sound asleep, and then his mother would spread one great loving flipper over him, and paddle along with the other so quietlike as if afraid of waking her darling.
"Then by-and-bye Johnnie would awake, and, like any other calf, begin sucking at once, and nudging his mother all the time with his bottle of a nose, raising her a little above the clear blue waves at every nudge. Yes, boys, I've often seen what I'm trying to describe to you.
"South and south went the mother and her calf, and aye and aye the weather and the water grew warmer. What gladsome times the two had together in these sunlit seas! but Johnnie always kept close beside his mother when sharks appeared, because the sharks would have killed and eaten Johnnie. But one stroke of the whale cow's tail would kill five of the biggest sharks that ever swam, and the sharks knew that and kept well away.
"When the holiday was over, back the two went to their own cold home in the north. The cow swam homewards as straight as an arrow. She had no compass to steer by, and the stars, if she went by those, were often obscured; but the wonderful instinct implanted in her by God, who makes and rules all creatures and things, never deserted her, but guided her on and on and on, till the tall icebergs once more loomed out of the dark sea, with stars and aurora shining and dancing above.
"Of course the husband was glad to see her.
"'How well you look, dear!' he said, as they rubbed noses.
"'Yes,' she answered; 'and hasn't Johnnie grown wonderfully!'
"'I hardly knew him, indeed,' said the bull.
"Well, now, when Johnnie was about a year old, a whales' ball took place in Baffin's Bay.
"Yes, Frank. Mind, this is not a fairy tale. I'm speaking from the great book of Nature.
"Well, it isn't a real ball, you know, Toddie, only Greenland sailors call it so because the young whales all meet and dance about, and leap and jump, and whack the water with their awful tails, till the whole sea around is like a whirlpool, and covered with froth and foam. It is an interesting and a terrible sight. Ships may view it from afar off, but they know better than to go too close with boats, else these boats would be smashed into match-wood in less than a minute.
"Well, I suppose Johnnie danced too much at this ball, or ate too many gallons of the little shrimp things that whales feed on. Anyhow, next day he didn't feel at all well.
"'I tell you what it is, Johnnie,' said Johnnie's mother, 'you must take a run south, it will quite brace you up again.'
"'What, all by myself?' cried Johnnie, wagging his tail. 'Oh, that will be fun!'
"Johnnie's mother was very sorry to part with him, but she thought it would be all for the best. Ah! little did she think she would never see her boy any more.
"Johnnie started off in great glee at first; but when he was fairly clear of the ice, and the last white berg had disappeared behind the horizon; when as he rose on the great tumbling billows he could see nothing around him but an illimitable expanse of ocean, without a vestige of life in or over it, then he began to feel very lonely indeed, and half repented having come away at all. There was Providence, however, to guide and to guard him too, so he went steadily on and on, south, south, south, by night and by day. It was dreariest at night, when the stars were all shimmering above, and not a sound to be heard save now and then a sullen boom or plash, that told Johnnie plainly enough there were his enemies the sharks plunging about in the darkling sea not far off. Sometimes he slept and dreamt ugly dreams, and awoke with a start, to find terrible-looking ocean monsters with awful eyes staring up at him from the dark depths. He could see them because they were all covered over with a silvery, ghost-like light called phosphorescence, which is very common up in these wild northern latitudes. By day sharks often met him—the huge hammer-headed sort—and pretended to be friendly, and tried to lure him away into shallow water, where they could easily have devoured him.
"But Johnnie thanked them, and said, 'No.' He knew his way, and would stick to it.
"Johnnie had many other enemies to encounter, such as the sea unicorn, with its long spiral ivory horn—a bold beast that will scarcely go out of its way even for a ship. He tried to stab Johnnie to the heart, and if he had done so the sharks would have come to the banquet, and eaten the pair of them. But Johnnie avoided the deadly thrust, and with one blow of his tail pitched the unicorn nearly up to the moon. At least so the beast himself told the other unicorns he met soon after.
"But Johnnie escaped all his enemies, and arrived at last within sight of the Faröe Islands, where the water was delightfully mild and the sun very bright.
"Now, had Johnnie done what his mother told him, and not gone a mile further, all would have been well. But these sunny summer seas were so blue and pleasant that Johnnie went on and on. His life passed like a happy dream, the Shetland Islands hove in sight, bold black rocky isles crowned with green fields, with millions of sea birds all around them, then the lonesome Orkney, and then Scotland itself. There were strange birds in the air that cried to Johnnie, 'Go away, go away, away, away, away!' but Johnnie would not be warned and wouldn't obey his mother, and so——"
Eean was not allowed to complete his story.
"Oh!" cried Toddie gleefully, "I know what is toming, Daddy Pop."
"Well, then," said Frank, "can you complete the story?"
"I don't know, you know," said Toddie, "if I tan 'plete the stoly, but I tan feenis' it. The Dood God rosed a dleat stolm, and poor Johnnie was dliven on shore, and touldn't get back again to see his mammy."
"That's it, Toddie," said Eean.
And with that up jumped Frank.
"It is getting near gloaming," he said. "I'm sorry I must go; but, Toddie, I must do as my mother told me."
"Of tourse oo must, or plaps oo be deaded too, like the poor Johnnie whale."
Half an hour afterwards Frank Fielding had said adieu to his kindly though humble fisher friends, and was rattling along through the moonlit woods towards his home at Benshee.
The bay of Methlin was a very beautiful one, wildly so in fact, although that black beetling wall of rocks that went darkly stretching seaward had at times a weird and uncanny look about it, especially when half buried in mist, with the mournful boom of the seas under it, and far away, coming landwards from the grey gloom, the plaintive but eerie cry of sea-birds.
In summer days, when the sun shone clearly over the water, it was cheerful indeed to stroll along that cliff top. Whichever way one looked there was something to cheer the sight—the far-off ships on the ocean horizon, or a little island here and there that appeared to float in the drowsy haze; the deep, deep green waves below the rocks, rising and swelling as they rushed inland, as if measuring their height against the slippery blackness, the glorious hills themselves, changing ever in beauty of shade as cloud-shadows raced across their majestic brows; and the wee white-housed village itself asleep in a wildery of trees.
Even when storms lashed over the rocks and rose in snowy fountains to the green turf above, when the hills were half-hidden in mixing masses of inky clouds, and the sea's horizon lowered close in shore, there was a beauty about both seascape and landscape that probably only such a mind as that of Eean's could fully appreciate. His had a melancholy tinge imparted to it from the bitter memories of a life that had been nearly all disappointment. His too was the soul of the bard of Ossian or Homeric type, only deeply imbued with religion. No dark mythology was called upon to account for the fierce war of storms that often raged o'er sky and sea and land on this wild coast. No; there was method even in the madness of the tempest, there was golden light and beauty behind the blackness; no thunder could roll, no lightning's flash could rend the mountain rocks, no waves could swell and break without the will of his Father—and his Father was mercy and goodness personified—despite the fact that He
"——moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform,
And plants His footsteps on the sea,
And rides upon the storm."
Far away then, on that wild cliff top, the tall figure of the bard, with his broad bonnet and his wind-tossed plaid, might have been seen at gloaming-tide of the stormiest days. His face at such times had a sterner, more thoughtful aspect; his usually mild blue eyes seemed to retreat beneath his lowering eye-brows; yet ever and anon that face would soften, and a smile irradiate its every feature, as some happy thought crossed his mind. Such flashes were like the blinks of sunshine that sometimes fall from rifts of blue in winter storms.
Or, tired of his walk, he would seek the entrance of his cave, disappearing suddenly as if it were off the face of the earth—as he really did, but a stranger noticing that tall figure one moment by the cliff's side, and missing it the very next, would have made sure the old man had been blown over the rocks.
It was one evening, about a fortnight after Frank Fielding had gone home to Benshee, that Eean had retired from the green cliff above to his cave below. Though quite light above, the cave was every now and then plunged in total darkness by the dashing waves.
The bard stirred up his fire till the red light gleamed fitfully on the rugged grey walls, then he sat down in his chair leaning his chin on his hand to think.
He had a habit of talking aloud, a habit that is very easily acquired by those who delight in being much by themselves in very lonely places.
"Yes," he was saying, "just this very night five years ago that my wee pet came on shore."
Pit—pit—pit—pit. It was the sound of softly-padded feet coming trotting towards him, and next minute Tippetty with immense effort had sprang on his knees.
"Why Tip," said Eean, "what are you doing here? and gasping too, with a quarter of a yard at least of a pink ribbon of a tongue hanging out over your snow-white teeth?"
Tip looked up with those speaking brown eyes of his.
"Oh! Daddy Pop," he seemed to say, "it blows so high on the cliff top, and I've been running hard."
"Where is your mistress, you scamp? You didn't come all by yourself."
Tip's ears went away back on his neck in quite an apologetic sort of way, and he glanced uneasily towards the door.
"Dad—dee!" It was Toddie's voice on the stone stair staircase.
Tip sprang down to meet her, and next moment she came in with a rush, her hair all a-toozle, her bare, naked feet and baton legs as red as red could be, for never would Toddie wear shoe or stocking except on high days and holidays.
Next moment she was seated on one of Eean's knees, and Tip on the other.
Toddie put one arm round Eean's neck, and entwined her fingers in his hair, then looking up—
"Isn't oo dlad I'se tomed?" she said.
"Very glad you've got here safe, dear."
"Well, tiss me. Now, this is nice. Nice file bulning there, and all. Plaps I'll make oo sing to me bye'm-bye."
Toddie was a very despotic little queen in her own wee way. Queen she was of that old man's heart, and she seemed to know it.
He was looking at her very fondly just then with a curious kind of smile on his face.
"Wouldn't you rather I'd tell you a story, Toddie?"
Toddie put her thumb in her mouth and gazed into the fire.
"I fink," she said, "Plank likes stolies best."
"My own little Treasure-trove," said the bard.
"Daddy, don't oo make up such silly words."
"You are my Treasure-trove. Do you know where you came from, darling?"
"The Dood God sent me, of tourse."
"Yes, pet, the Good God sent you to cheer this old man's heart, and brighten his life. But do you know you came from the sea? That, years and years ago, five this very night, you were stranded on the beach down here?"
"Stlanded! What does that mean, daddy?"
"Thrown up by the waves, my wee one."
Toddie was looking at him now with eyes that were very wide indeed.
"What, daddy, dust the same as the Johnnie whale, daddy?"
"Just the same as the Johnnie whale, dear."
"Oh!"
She nestled towards him now, and gazed thoughtfully at the fire, and the old bard talked to her and to the fire at the same time apparently.
"Yes, Toddie, it was a fearful night that. There was a moon, but she hadn't a chance of shining; for the grey-black clouds dashed over her like the race of a mill-stream. Early in the afternoon a brig had been seen trying to round the point. But the wind blew high, and, alas! she tried in vain. We had all been on the beach for hours and hours watching her. Oh, what an evening it was! There had been sea-gulls in our garden that day, darling, as tame as chickens."
"Oh!"
"And we knew, Toddie, something terrible would soon happen. Mammy had hot water and blankets ready ever so long. Then the brig struck. Long before then Bunko had been sent off on horseback to warn a lifeboat. But the lifeboat never came. And small matter that she didn't. Hours after a spar floated up. We saw something white lashed to it, and all rushed to pick it up. I was first, and found you, Toddie."
"Oh!" thoughtfully.
"Mammy Mop took hours to bring you back to life. We have the old spar yet in the sail-house; it was loaded with iron—old axe heads—to make a keel; so, Toddie, you floated face upwards. That is the way you came, Toddie."
"Oh!"
"Dear little Treasure-trove. I hope you will not be taken from me."
He gathered her closer up to him.
"Sing now," she murmured, "sing soft and low, like mammy does."
He sat rocking her there, and singing low, sweet Scotch hits, till her regular breathing and closed eyes told him she was fast asleep.
Then he gently laid her on the bench, while he put on his plaid.
Every moment now the waves dashed high over the ports of the cave, and the wind shrieked like the voices of creatures in pain or despair.
Quietly he takes the sleeping Toddie up, and wraps her in the plaid folds close to his breast. "Come, Tip," he says, and crook in hand goes up the steps and struggles out into the storm and darkness.
On nights like this Eppie always had a light burning in her gable window to guide belated boats, and this was the star old Eean steered by.
"Praise be to Providence you've come," said Eppie. "D'ye mind what nicht this is?"
"Right well I do," said Eean. "Look at the innocent lamb. Take her gently, Eppie. Take her gently."
* * * * * *
When Fred went in with a rush next morning to the room where Toddie slept in a tiny cot, wondering why she had not come down to breakfast, he found the little maiden standing half-dressed before her little mirror, with a thumb in her mouth.
I dare say she had little womanly ways about her, else she would not have been in front of that morsel of mirror. But the thumb in the mouth showed how deep in thought she was.
"Thinking again, Toddie."
"Yes, I'se finking, Fred. Cause, you know, last night I was in Daddy's cave, or was I dleaming?"
"You must have been dreaming, Todd."
"Yes, I must have been dleaming, Fred. And I dleamt that Daddy told me a stoly, that Daddy said I came ashole on the beach, dust the same as the Johnnie whale."
Winter had come and gone again, and a very hard one it had been. Of the ten boats that belonged to the bay, and were laid up when not in use in a rock-girt harbour, about half a mile from the village, few had gone out very often. But seldom a day passed that Eean's boat, the Treasure-trove was not seen scudding about somewhere, if wind and weather permitted; and always when Daddy went to sea—and this was no means seldom—the two children went with him, so that Fred had generally one complete holiday every week.
It must not be supposed that Eean was careless with regard to the boy's education on this account. No, indeed. Fred's day at sea was one of real utility, and, young though he was, he knew already how to handle the great boat, and how to steer as well. Toddie too was a capital young sailor lass. She was warmly clad; but though her brave little face might be red, or even almost blue, she never feared to look a storm in the teeth.
Frank had gone away south with his mother to attend a purely English school, for sake of bon ton and the pure English accent. But the children corresponded regularly.
Toddie's letters to Frank were marvels in their way. She could not write very distinctly, so every alphabetical letter was pen-printed.
Frank had not much to tell. His life he was sorry to say was a very humdrum one. He was at a very humdrum school, where the pupils, all "sons of gentlemen," were allowed to do pretty much as they pleased. When they fell behind or lazed it was put down to delicate health. The bold forcing system of the Scottish Church parish schools was unknown at the so-called college at which Frank was engaged in his so-called studies.
His dear mamma spent the winter in the south, that she might be near to her dear boy and only son. She even told the head-teacher, or rather proprietor, of the school that her boy was not in robust health, and that he must on no account be thwarted. The fact is, Frank was as hardy and manly a lad as there was at the college.
He went home to his mother's house every Friday evening, and Fred's letter came punctually every Saturday afternoon, with wee Toddie's printed scrawl enclosed. Toddie's scrawls were really love letters of a sort, and not badly put together on the whole, as regards composition. Daddy spelt every word for her, which she herself could not manage. Here is a brief extract, which shows really that she could write better than she could speak:
"I thinks lots about you, Flank, in my bed and on the beach. I dont love the winter, I loves the summer, cause there is plenty flowers and no chilblains. I loves Daddy and Mammy Mop best, then Fred then Tippetty, then my dolly fishes, and then Flank last, but O Flank the last is a big big much.
"Your 'ffection' friend,
"Toddie Treasure-Trove."
Mrs. Fielding really was a good-hearted lady in the main, but purse-proud, and not over deep in mind.
She always spoke of Frank's little friends as "those poor children." This used to make Frank angry, though he loved his mother too much to show it. Well, Mrs. Fielding was also generous. She had proposed sending "those poor children" some clothes.
"Oh, mother, don't!" Frank had gasped, getting dreadfully red in the face.
Frank's father was reading the newspaper. He held it down for a minute to smile and say:
"Frank's right, mamma. It would be taken as a terrible insult. You forget that Eean Arundel is a gentleman though poor. My countrymen," he added, laughing, "are all gentlemen."
"Well," Mrs Fielding had replied, "I don't care much for pride in people who have nothing to keep it up with."
Young Frank was thoroughly roused now. He had to keep striding up and down across the floor to restrain his feelings.
"Mother," he said at last, "they have honesty."
"A king can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
An honest man's above his might."
Frank went and kissed his mother, and then ran straight out of the room.
Now Fred and Toddie, arrayed in their best, had several times visited at the house of Benshee. Frank had driven them over, and Fred at Frank's request had always brought his flute. For a boy of his years he was a charming performer. Frank played a little trick upon his lady mother. He went into her studio, which abutted on to the lawn, leaving Fred behind a bush near to the open window.
When Frank was fairly seated beside his mother, Fred began to play one of those sweet, sad Scottish melodies, that can draw tears to the eyes of even an English audience. Frank kept talking to his mother; but he was soon silenced.
"Hush! hush, boy!" she cried. "Have you no ear for the beautiful?"
She sighed when the air died in cadence away.
"Some poor tramp," said the lady. "Run, Frank, and give him sixpence."
But Fred now appeared at the window, laughing and holding out his hat.
"Oh, you dear lad," cried Mrs. Fielding, "come and kiss me!"
Fred did as told; but not quite so gracefully as an English boy would have done. Only this episode supplied Mrs. Fielding with an idea for being generous without offering insult.
One day, therefore, while Eppie was preparing a nice creel of fresh lobsters to be taken by Bunko to a neighbouring village, she was greatly surprised to find the carrier's cart from T—— draw up at her door. The cart contained a large and wonderful-looking box. If it had not been addressed in a clear hand to "Master Fred Arundel," Eppie would have thought there must be some mistake.
She did not dare to look into it until Fred came from school, and Daddy from his cave; and then, I do believe, half the village came to see the opening of that box.
It contained, to the amazement of all, a charming little piano. Toddie's face was a study at this disclosure; and Frank's was a picture of mingled pride and joy. As there was but little room in the house, the piano was taken to the cave; a damp-proof covering being made for it, lest it should be injured by the air of the sea.
All through the winter after school-hours, and after lessons at home, Fred had studied systematically on his new instrument. Playing was one of Eean's accomplishments, and Fred proved so apt a pupil that it was soon evident he possessed the gift of music.
And now spring had come. The larch trees were already green, and tasselled over with crimson; primroses and violets peeped out in sheltered places, larks sang their glad lilts high in air; the pigeons croodled low in the spruce thickets; but the mavis seemed to have gone out of his mind, so madly and merrily did he sing. The sea was often calm now, and the sky very blue, though the heaving swell of the great Atlantic broke in thunders on the beach.
And one day Fred came rushing in from meeting the post-runner, waving a letter over his head, and Tip barking at his heels.
"Hurrah!" he cried; "Frank's coming."
There was real joy now in the fisherman's cottage.
But that night, after the children had gone to bed, Eean and Eppie sat beside the fire to consider solemnly a letter of another kind.
It was from Mrs. Fielding. It was like Mrs. Fielding. It was written in all sincerity; but was a very thunderbolt to poor Eean.
She had proposed to adopt Fred as a companion to her boy, and bring him up as her own son, giving him a good start in life.
They talked the matter out from every point of view. The Fieldings were rich. They could give the lad a good start in life. Though it would break their hearts to lose him, and Toddie's heart too, was it right of them to be selfish? Would it not be best for the boy if they accepted?
Perhaps; but then perhaps not. Riches do not always bring success in life, and mixing in society that he was but little used to might alter all the lad's character, and spoil him for life.
For two long hours they talked and talked. Then Eean rose.
"Let us simply pray for God's guidance, Eppie."
And side by side they knelt, while Eean lifted up his open eyes and prayed.
Next morning Eean seemed to receive an inspiration; all that was doubtful the evening before seemed clear as day now.
"We'll leave it to the boy," he said.
"You like Frank very much, don't you?" Eean said to Fred after breakfast.
"Oh, very much!"
"He is very happy, isn't he?"
"Happy, daddy? I don't know. O yes, I suppose so."
"Wouldn't you like to be rich just as he is?"
"I'm so very happy you know, daddy, and I've so much to do, I never thought of that. And I have so much to learn too.
"O daddy," continued the boy after a pause, "poor Frank's letters almost make me cry sometimes."
"Now you surprise me. But I'm going to the cave, so come along and tell me all about it."
When seated by the open port—"You see, daddy," said Fred, "Frank really wants to learn things all the time; and at the school he is at there are so many holidays, and they get so much of their own way, and so much time is spent at football and cricket, that they have no leisure to learn much. But, you see, he won't require to be well educated, because he is rich. Will he, daddy?"