EXPERIENCES AT ENDICOTT BEACH.
TOLD BY BETTY.
NORA insisted that it was "exceedingly kind" of the Ervengs, and "a compliment" to me, and all that sort of thing, to invite me to spend a month with them at their country place. Well, perhaps she was right: Nora is always right,—in her own estimation; all the same, I didn't want to go one step, and I am afraid I was rather disagreeable about it.
You see I had been looking forward to going to the Cottage with the others; and having to start off for an entirely different place at only a few hours' notice quite upset me. At the Cottage, Nannie takes charge while Miss Marston is away for her holidays, and she lets us amuse ourselves in our own way, as long as we are punctual at meals,—papa insists on that,—and don't get into mischief. One can wear one's oldest clothes, and just live out of doors; what with driving old Pegasus, and riding G. W. L. Spry, and boating, fishing, crabbing, wading, and playing in the sand, we do have the jolliest times! Now, instead of all this fun and freedom, I was to be packed off to visit people that I didn't know very well, and didn't care a jot about. Of course I knew Hilliard pretty well,—he's been at the house often enough! I didn't mind him much, though he is provokingly slow, and so—well, queer, for I could speak my mind right out to him if I felt like it; but it seemed to me that Mr. Erveng must always remember that silly escapade of mine whenever he looked at me, and I was sure that Mrs. Erveng regarded me as a rough, overgrown tomboy. Somehow, when I am with her I feel dreadfully awkward,—all hands, and feet, and voice; though these things don't trouble me in the least with any one else. I did wish that she had invited Nora to visit her instead of me.
When I saw my old blue flannel laid with the things to go to the Cottage, and only my best gowns put into the trunk I was to take to the Ervengs', it suddenly rushed over me that I would have to be on my company manners for a whole month! and I got so mad that it would have been a relief to just roar,—the way Kathie does.
Nannie was away, and the others didn't seem to understand how I felt; in fact, Nora aggravated me by scolding, and saying I ought to feel highly delighted, when I knew that deep down in her heart she was only too thankful that she hadn't been asked. Jack was the only person that sympathised with me,—dear old Jackie-boy! I'm beginning to think that there is a good deal to Jack, for all he's so girlie.
"IN THE DRAWING-ROOM CAR."
The Ervengs called for me the morning after papa and Nannie had gone to the mountains,—right after breakfast,—and I can assure you it was dreadfully hard to keep back the tears when I was telling the family good-bye; and when I was seated in the carriage, right under Mr. and Mrs. Erveng's eyes, I got the most insane desire to scream out loud, or burst the door open and jump out: I had to sit up very straight and set my lips tight together, to keep from doing it.
That feeling wore off, though, by the time we got settled in the drawing-room car, and I was three seats from Mrs. Erveng,—I managed that,—with Mr. Erveng and Hilliard between us. It was a marvel to me the way those two waited on Mrs. Erveng; in watching them do it I forgot about myself. Her chair must be at just such an angle, her footstool in just such a position, and the cushions at her back just so many, and most carefully arranged; and if she stirred, they were all attention immediately. And they were like that the whole month that I was at Endicott Beach, though it seemed to me sometimes that she was very exacting.
Now with us, though we love one another dearly, and, as Phil says, would go through fire and water for one another if need be, particularly if any one were ill, still we're not willing to be imposed on all the time, and we do keep the different ones up to the mark, and stand up for our individual rights,—we've got to where there are so many. But the Ervengs aren't in the least like us; and I think that, in some ways, Hilliard is the very oddest boy I've ever known.
To begin with, he is so literal,—away ahead of Nora; he took so many things seriously that I said in joke that at first I didn't know what to make of him. I used to get so provoked! He doesn't understand the sort of "chaffing" that we do so much at home, and he is slow to get an idea; but once it's fixed in his mind, you needn't think he's going to change,—it's there for the rest of his natural life. He could no more change his opinion about things as I do than he could fly. Perhaps he thinks I'm frivolous and "uncouth,"—as Nora sometimes says I am. Well, let him; who cares? I think he is a regular old poke, though he is better than I thought at first; but you'll hear all about it. Of course Hilliard was polite, and all that, when he came to our house, but I didn't always see him; in fact, I used to keep out of the way on purpose, many a time: so I didn't really know what sort of a boy he was until I went to stay at the beach.
Well, as soon as Mrs. Erveng was comfortably settled, Hilliard came over to me with a big soft cushion in his hand. "May I put this at your back?" he asked. "It's a tiresome journey to Boston, and we've got quite a ride after that to reach Endicott Beach; so let me make you as comfortable as possible."
Now if he had come up and simply put the cushion on the back of my chair, the way Phil, or Felix, or Jack would have done, I wouldn't have minded at all,—I like cushions; but to stand there holding it, waiting for me to give him permission, struck me as being very silly. I knew he expected me to say yes, and instead of that I found myself saying, "No, I thank you,"—I could hear that my tone was snippy,—"I can get on very comfortably without a cushion." Our boys, or Max, or even Murray Unsworth would have said, "Oh, come now, Betty!" and just slipped the cushion behind me, and I'd have enjoyed it, and made no more fuss. But not so this individual. He looked helplessly at me for a minute, then laid the cushion down on his mother's travelling satchel; and there it reclined until we reached Boston.
'Twas the same way with getting me things to eat. With all the excitement that morning, I had very little appetite for breakfast, so by lunch time I was very hungry; and when Mrs. Erveng opened her box of sandwiches, I felt as if I could have eaten every one in it,—but of course I didn't. They were delicious; but, oh, so small and thin!
Mr. Erveng did not take any,—he never takes a mid-day meal. Mrs. Erveng ate two, trifling with the second one as if tired of it. I ate three,—when a dozen would not have been too many! Hilliard disposed of four, and then went out to get his mother a cup of tea,—I suspect he had something more to eat in the restaurant. He asked, in a tone as if he meant it, "Mayn't I bring you a cup of tea?"
But I despise tea, so I answered, "No, I thank you," for the second time. Mr. and Mrs. Erveng were talking to an acquaintance who had come up, and actually Hilliard hadn't the sense to offer me anything else, and I couldn't ask. Having sisters is certainly a great thing for a boy, as I've told Jack scores of times; why, for all that he is so shy, Jack could have taken twice as good care of a girl as Hilliard did of me, just because he has had me to train him.
Presently Mrs. Erveng passed the lunch box over to me. "Do take another sandwich, Betty," she said kindly, "and some cake."
But by this time no one else in the car was eating, and I didn't want to be the only person,—I hate to have people stare at me while I'm eating,—so I refused. The open box remained by me for some time,—'twas all I could do to keep from putting out my hand for a sandwich; then the porter came by, and Mr. Erveng handed it to him to take away.
Hilliard talked to me as we flew along, in his deliberate, grown-up way, but pleasantly; if I had not been so hungry and homesick, I might have been interested. But by and by the hunger wore off, and by the time we reached Endicott Beach I had a raving headache; but I said nothing about it until after dinner, for Mrs. Erveng was so tired out that she had to be looked after and got to bed the very first thing, and that made a little fuss, though her maid Dillon, who had come on the day before, was there to assist her.
The house is very prettily furnished and arranged,—almost as prettily but more simply than Mrs. Erveng's rooms in New York.
After dinner Hilliard showed me a little of the place, which is very pretty, and quite unlike anywhere else that I have been. There's a queer scraggly old garden at the back of the house, and in front a splendid view of the beach, with the ocean rolling up great booming waves. Before very long I got to like Endicott Beach very much; but this first afternoon, though the sunset was most gorgeous, I felt so miserable that I could take interest in nothing. Oh, how I longed for home!
Presently Hilliard said, "I'm afraid you are dreadfully tired,—you look so pale. I should have waited until to-morrow to show you the place; I have been inconsiderate—"
"I have a headache," I broke in shortly; then all at once my lips began to tremble. "I wish I were at home!" I found myself exclaiming; and then the tears came pouring down my face.
"Oh, I am so sorry! so very sorry! What can I do for you?" began Hilliard. "Oh! mayn't I—"
I was so mortified that I got very mad; I hate to cry, any way, and above all before this stiff wooden boy! I threw my hands over my face, and turning my back on him, started for the house, walking as fast as I could, stumbling sometimes on the uneven beach.
But Hilliard followed close behind me. "I'm so sorry!" he repeated. "Why didn't you let me know sooner? May I—"
I got so provoked that I wheeled round suddenly on him,—I think I startled him. "Oh, do stop asking people if you 'may' or 'mayn't do things for them,"—I'm afraid that here I mimicked his tone of voice. "Do the things first, and then ask,—if you must. I declare, you don't know the very first thing about taking care of a girl; why, our Paul could do better."
Hilliard stood stock still and stared at me; his sleepy eyes were wide open, and there was such a bewildered expression on his face that it just set me off laughing, in spite of the tears on my cheeks, and my headache.
"I am exceedingly sorry if I have neglected—" he began stiffly; but before he could say any more I turned and fled.
I fancied I heard his footsteps behind me, and I fairly flew along the beach, into the house, and up to my room, where I began undressing as quickly as I could. But before I was ready for bed, Mrs. Erveng's maid brought a message from her mistress. She was so sorry to hear that I was not well; was there nothing that she could do for me? "Please say that I am going to bed; that will cure my headache quicker than anything else," I called through the keyhole, instead of opening the door. I had a feeling that the Ervengs would think me a crank; but I had got to that pitch that afternoon where I didn't care what anybody thought of me. Then Dillon went away, and I got into bed.
But I couldn't sleep for ever so long: you see the sun had not yet set, and I'm not used to going to sleep in broad daylight; besides, I was very unhappy. As I lay there looking at the brilliant colours of the sky, I thought over what I had said to Hilliard, and the oftener I went over it, the more uncomfortable I got; for I began to see that I'd been very rude—to insult the people I was visiting! I wondered if Hilliard had told his mother what I said; and what she thought of me? Would she send me home? I had declared to Nora that I would behave so badly as to be sent home before the visit was over, but I had not really meant it. I got all worked up over the horrid affair, and if I had had then enough money to pay my expenses to New York, I really think I should have been tempted to climb out of the window, or make my escape in some way or other,—I dreaded so having to face the Ervengs in the morning.
After a long while I fell asleep, and dreamed that Mr. and Mrs. Erveng were holding me fast, while Hilliard stuffed sandwiches down my throat.
But by the next morning my headache was gone, and the sunshine and beautiful view from my window made me feel a new person, though I still dreaded meeting the Ervengs. Usually I dress quickly, but this morning I just dawdled, to put off the evil moment as long as possible. It seemed so strange not to have Nannie, or Miss Marston, or Nora, or any one to tell me what to say or do; I really felt lost without dear old Nannie. I would have been delighted to see her that morning,—we have such nice talks at home while we are dressing!
Before I left home, Nora said particularly, "Now, Betty, do remember that your ginghams are for the mornings and your thinner gowns for the afternoons. Don't put on the first frock that comes to your hand, regardless of whether it is flannel, gingham, or organdi. You know you haven't a great many clothes, so please, I beg of you, for the reputation of the family, take care of them, or you will not have a decent thing to wear two weeks after you get to the Ervengs'."
I was provoked at her for saying this, but I could not resent it very much, for—though I love pretty things as well as anybody does—somehow accidents are always happening to my clothes. Nurse says it's because I am too heedless to think about what I have on, and perhaps it is: yet, when I remember, and try to be careful, I'm simply miserable; and it does seem too silly to make one's self uncomfortable for clothes,—so I generally forget.
But this morning I looked carefully over the ginghams that Dillon had unpacked and hung in the closet in my room, and finally, taking down the one I considered the prettiest, I put it on; I wished afterward that I had chosen the plainest and ugliest.
As I said, I was taking as much time as possible over my dressing, when I happened to think that breakfast might be ready, and the Ervengs waiting for me,—papa says "to be late at meals, particularly when visiting, is extremely ill-bred;" then I rushed through the rest of my toilet, and raced down the stairs, not thinking of Mrs. Erveng's headache until I reached the foot of the steps.
I was relieved to find no one in the parlour, or in the room across the hall, where the table was set for breakfast. But as I stepped out on the broad front piazza, Hilliard rose from the hammock in which he had been lying, and came forward with such a pleasant "Good-morning!" that I felt surprised and ashamed.
"How is your head?" he asked, adding, "It must be better, I fancy,—you look so much brighter than you did yesterday."
I could feel my face getting warm; I hate to apologise to people, but I knew that I ought to do it here. "That headache made me cross, and I was homesick," I answered, speaking as fast as I could to get it all over with quickly. "I am sorry I spoke so rudely—"
But Hilliard broke in quickly,—for him. "Don't say that; please don't ever speak of it again," he said earnestly. "It's for me to apologise; I must have deserved what you said, or I know you would not have said it."
"BETTY."
Well, I was taken aback! that was a new view of the case. At first I thought he might be in sarcasm; but no, he was in earnest, saying the words in his slow, deliberate way, with his eyes half shut. I couldn't help wishing that the family had been there to hear; but I decided that I would certainly tell them of it,—you see I don't often get such a compliment.
I would like to have made a polite speech to him, but what was there to say?—it still remained that he hadn't taken good care of me. And while this thought was going through my brain, I heard myself say, "Did you tell your mother what I said to you?"
Now I had no more idea of asking Hilliard that—though I did want to know—than I had of flying; my mouth opened, and the words just came out without the least volition on my part,—in fact, I was perfectly astonished to hear them. More than once this has happened at home; Phil teases me about it, and Fee calls me Mrs. Malaprop, because—that's the trouble—these speeches are almost always just the things I shouldn't have said. I'm sure I don't know what I am to do to prevent it.
My face actually burnt,—it must have been as red as a beet. "I didn't mean to ask you that," I blurted out. While I was speaking, Hilliard was saying, "Why, certainly not; I simply mentioned that you had a headache," in such a surprised voice that I felt more uncomfortable than ever: but wasn't it nice of him not to tell?
I just rushed into talk about the scenery as fast as I could go. From where we stood we could see the wild, rugged coast for miles,—the huge, bare brown rocks standing like so many grim sentinels guarding the spaces of shining white sand, which here and there sloped gently to the water's edge; the sea gulls resting, tiny white specks, against the dark rocks, or circling in flocks above them; the dark blue ocean, dotted with steamers and sailing-vessels and sparkling and dancing in the morning light, rolling up great white-crested waves that dashed on the rocks and threw up a cloud of foaming spray, and broke on the beach with a dull booming noise; and over all was the warm, glorious summer sunshine. As I looked and looked, all the disagreeableness slipped away, and it was splendid just to be alive. I thought of Felix, and how much he would enjoy all this beauty. We all think so much of the scenery at the Cottage, and really it is nothing compared with this. There the beach is smooth and nice, but it hasn't a rock on it; and the water—it's the Sound, you know—just creeps up on it with a soft lapping sound very different to the roar and magnificence of the ocean.
I was so surprised and delighted that first morning that I spoke out warmly. "Oh!" I cried, "isn't it beautiful! oh, it is grand! fascinating!—I could watch those waves all day!"
Hilliard's face lighted up. "I thought you would like it," he said. "You should see it in a storm,—it is magnificent! but it is terrible, too,"—he gave a little shudder. "I love the ocean, but I am afraid of it; it is treacherous."
"Afraid!" I looked at him in surprise,—the idea of a big strong boy as he is being afraid of the water! I opened my mouth to exclaim, "Well, I'm not afraid!" then remembered my unlucky remark of a few minutes before and said instead, and in a much milder tone, "After breakfast I'm going to explore those rocks, and get as near to the ocean as I can—"
"Don't attempt to do any climbing alone," broke in Hilliard, more positively than he usually speaks; "the rocks are very slippery, and you know nothing about the tides. People have been caught on those rocks and cut off—drowned—by the incoming tide, before they could reach the shore, or be rescued. I shall be very glad to go with you whenever—"
"Good-morning!" Mr. Erveng said, appearing in the doorway behind us; "will you young people come in and have some breakfast?"
Breakfast was served in a room that looked out on the garden; and everything was very nice, though quite different from our breakfasts at home. Mrs. Erveng was not down,—I found afterward that she always took her breakfast in her own room,—and Hilliard sat in his mother's place and poured the tea. I was thankful that Mr. Erveng hadn't asked me to do it; but it did look so queer to see a boy doing such a thing,—so like a "Miss Nancy," as Phil would say. Mr. Erveng and Hilliard talked a good deal about things that were going on in the world, and about books, and places they had been to. I was perfectly surprised at the way Mr. Erveng asked Hilliard's opinion, and listened to his remarks,—I couldn't imagine papa's doing such a thing with any of us, not even with Felix; and when I said anything, they both acted as if it were really worth listening to,—which is another thing that never happens in our family! And yet, on the other hand, Mr. Erveng goes off to Boston in the mornings without even saying good-bye to Mrs. Erveng or Hilliard,—they never know by what train he is coming home; and in the whole month I visited them I never once saw Hilliard and his mother kiss each other.
Now at home papa always tells some one of us when he is going out, and about when he will return; and if we children go anywhere, the whole family is sure to know of it; and quite often we kiss one another good-bye, and always at night. Nora often tells us that it isn't "good form" to do this; and sometimes, when she's in an airish mood, she calls us "a pack of kissers,"—as if that were something dreadful. Still, all the same, I'm glad that we're that sort of a family; and I am more than ever glad since I've been staying with the Ervengs.
Hilliard and I were just starting for the beach that morning, when Dillon came out on the piazza with a message. "Mr. Hilliard," she said, "your mother would like to speak to you." So off he went with, "Excuse me; I'll be back in a few minutes," to me.
But instead, presently back came Dillon with another message: "Mrs. Erveng asks, Will you please to excuse Mr. Hilliard; she would like him to do something for her for a while."
So off I went for my walk, alone. I strolled down to the beach and sat in the shade of a big rock and looked at the waves,—watching them coming in and going out, and making up all sorts of thoughts about them. But after a while I got tired of that, and began wondering what they were all doing at home without Nannie, or Miss Marston, or papa; and then I felt so lonely and homesick that I just had to get up and walk about. And then I got into trouble,—I don't know another girl that gets into scrapes as I do!
There were lots of little coves about the beach,—the water in them was just as clear as crystal; and as I stepped from rock to rock, bending down to look into the depths, what should I do but slip,—the rocks are slippery,—and land in the middle of a cove, up to my waist in water!
There was nothing to do but to scramble out,—the rocks ran too far out into the ocean to think of walking round them,—and I can assure you it was no easy thing to accomplish with my wet skirts clinging to me. I scratched my hands, and scraped my shoes, and got my sleeves and the whole front of my nice gingham stained with the green slimy moss that covered the rocks.
But at last I got out; then came the walk up the beach to the house,—there was no other way of getting there,—and you may imagine my feelings when, half-way up, I discovered that Mrs. Erveng was seated on the piazza in her invalid's chair. I saw her put her lorgnette to her eyes; I imagined I heard her say to Hilliard, who was arranging a cushion back of her head, "Who is that extraordinary looking creature coming up the beach?" and I longed to just burrow in the sand and get out of her sight.
Hilliard came running to meet me. "You've fallen into the water—you are wet! I hope you're not hurt?" he exclaimed, as he reached me.
It was on the tip of my tongue to answer sharply, "I have fallen into the water; did you expect me to be dry?" It was such a silly speech of his! But I was afraid of Mrs. Erveng, so I just said carelessly,—as if I were in the habit of tumbling into the ocean with all my clothes on every day in the week,—"Oh, I just slipped off one of the rocks; I got my feet wet." And there I was, mind you, wet almost to my waist, and such a figure!
Any one of our boys—even Jack, and he is pretty dense sometimes—would have seen the joke, and we'd have had a hearty laugh, anyway, out of the situation; but not a smile appeared on Hilliard's face. Either he didn't see the fun at all, or else he was too deadly polite to laugh. If he had even said roughly, "Didn't I tell you not to go there!" I wouldn't have minded it as much as his "How unfortunate!" and his helpless look. I was afraid to say anything for fear I'd be rude again, so we walked up to the piazza in solemn silence.
"Good morning!" Mrs. Erveng said pleasantly, as I laboured up the steps. "An accident? I am so glad you are not hurt! Hilliard should have warned you about those slippery rocks—oh, he did—I see. Dillon will help you change your things; ring for her, Hilliard. Too bad, Betty, to spoil that pretty frock."
Well, I changed my wet clothes, and for the rest of that day I was as meek as a lamb. I sat down, and got up, and answered, and talked to the Ervengs as nearly in Nora's manner as I could imitate. Perhaps they liked it, but I didn't; I was having the pokiest kind of a time, and I was so homesick that I cried myself to sleep again that night.
Mind you, I wouldn't have our boys and Nora know this for a kingdom!
The next few days were more agreeable; the people from the other cottages on the beach came to call on Mrs. Erveng, and while she was entertaining them, Hilliard and I went for walks or sat on the sands. As I've told you before, he isn't at all a wonderful sort of boy,—except for queerness,—and he always will be a poke; but sometimes he's rather nice, and he is certainly polite. He knows the beach well,—he ought to, he's been here nearly every summer of his life, and he is eighteen years old,—and he showed me everything there was to see. There were no more accidents under his guidance; and no wonder,—he is caution itself.
There was only one part of the beach that he did not take me, and that was where a tall pointed rock stood, that was separated from the others by a rather wide strip of sand. I thought it looked interesting; I could see what looked in the distance like the arched entrance to a cave in the side of the rock. I would like to have gone to look at it, but every time I proposed it, Hilliard turned the conversation. "Some day we'll investigate it," he said at last; "but don't ever go over there alone,—it is a dangerous place." According to him, the whole beach was dangerous; so I made up my mind that I would "investigate" for myself at the first opportunity that offered.
While we rested on the sands, Hilliard would read aloud to me,—he likes to read aloud. Neither Phil nor I care as much for books as do the others in the family; but to be polite, I did not tell Hilliard that I am not fond of being read to; to me it always seems so slow. At first I used to look at the ocean and make up thoughts about it, so that I hardly heard any of what he was reading; but after a while I began to listen, and then, really, I got quite interested.
We were sitting in the shade of the rocks one very warm afternoon,—Hilliard was reading aloud,—when there came a sudden peal of thunder, and presently a flash of lightning. "Oh, we're going to have a storm!" I exclaimed. "I am so glad! now I can see the ocean in a storm,—you said it was magnificent then. Why, what are you doing?"
"We must get in the house as quickly as possible." Hilliard rose to his feet as he spoke, and began hastily gathering up the books and cushions, and the big sun umbrella.
"But the rain hasn't come yet, and I do want to watch the water,—see, it's beginning to get white-caps," I said. "We can reach the house in a few minutes."
As I spoke there was another flash of lightning and a long roll of thunder, but neither was severe. To my great astonishment Hilliard shrank back against the rock, and shielded his face with the cushion he held in his hand; I could see that he was very pale. "Oh, come, come!" he begged; "oh, let us get to the house at once!"
"What!" I flashed out scornfully, "are you afraid of a thunder storm?"
He didn't answer; he just stood there flattening himself against the rock, his face deadly white, his eyes almost closed, and his lips set tight together.
I got so angry! I despise a coward! Had Jack done that, I thought to myself, I'd have been tempted to thrash him to put some spirit and pluck into him; and here was this great big overgrown boy—! "Why don't you run away to the house?" I broke out sharply. "I can take care of myself; I'm not afraid of a little thunder."
He put up his hand in a deprecating way, as if asking me to hush. Then, as a nearer peal reverberated among the rocks, and another flash lighted up the now leaden-coloured sky, he sprang forward and caught hold of my arm, with a sharp cry of "Come! come!" Wheeling me round suddenly, he ran toward the house, carrying me along with him with such force and swiftness—though I resisted—that in a few minutes we were on the piazza, and then in the hall, with the heavy outer door swung shut. We were barely under cover when the rain pelted down, and the thunder and lightning grew more loud and vivid.
Hilliard leaned breathlessly against the hat-rack table,—I could see that he was trembling. I stood and looked at him,—I suppose it was rude, but I couldn't help it; you see I had never met such a kind of boy before.
Mrs. Erveng had spent part of the day on the beach, and had come to the house about an hour before to take her afternoon nap. Now we heard her voice from the floor above us. "Hilliard! Hilliard, my son!" she called; there was something in her voice—a sort of tenderness—that I had never noticed before. "Come here to me; come!"
And he went, without a glance at me, lifting his feet heavily from step to step, with drooping head and a shamed, miserable expression on his pale face.
In about an hour's time the storm was all over, and that afternoon we had a gorgeous sunset; but Mr. Erveng and I were the only ones who sat on the piazza to enjoy it. Neither Mrs. Erveng nor Hilliard appeared again that day. Mr. Erveng took me for a walk along the beach, and did his best to entertain me: but I had a feeling that I was in the way—that he would rather have been upstairs with his wife and son, or that perhaps if I had not been there they would have come down.
I thought of them all at home,—Phil and Fee with their fun and merry speeches, and Jack, and the little ones, and Nora; there is always something or other going on, and I would have given almost anything to be back once more among them. I was so unhappy this afternoon that I actually deliberated whether I had the courage to do something desperate,—make faces at Mr. Erveng, or race upstairs and interview Mrs. Erveng, or call Hilliard names out loud,—anything, so that they would send me home.
But after a while I concluded I wouldn't try any of these desperate remedies; not that I minded what they'd say at home (teasing, I mean), but papa would want to know the whole affair,—he has got to think a good deal of Mr. Erveng,—and besides, somehow, though she's so gentle and refined, Mrs. Erveng isn't at all the sort of person that one could do those things to. So I said nothing, though I thought a great deal; and I went to bed before nine o'clock thoroughly disgusted with the Ervengs.
Hilliard was at breakfast the next morning, just as stiff and prim and proper as ever,—it almost seemed as if what had happened in the storm must be a dream. But later on, when we were on the piazza, he spoke of it to me.
"I feel that I should explain to you that I have a nervous dread of a thunder storm," he said, in that proper, grown-up way in which he speaks, but getting very red. "It completely upsets me at the time; I am afraid you think me a coward—" He broke off abruptly.
"If it is nervousness, why don't you do something for it?—go to a physician and get cured?" I answered shortly; it seemed to me so silly—"so girlie," as Jack says—to try to turn his behaviour off on nervousness.
"I am under a physician's care," he said eagerly; "and he says if I could only once—"
But just then the carriage that had taken Mr. Erveng to the train drove up to the door, and with an exclamation of pleasure Hilliard started forward to meet the lady and young girl who were getting out of it.
They were Mrs. Endicott and her daughter Alice, relatives of the Ervengs, and they had come to stay with them while some repairs were being made to their own house, which was farther along the beach.
It was such a relief to see a girl again; and she turned out to be just as nice as she could be. She and Hilliard are cousins, but she isn't at all like him in any way. In the first place, she is splendid looking,—tall and strong, and the picture of health, with the most beautiful colour in her cheeks; and she is so jolly and full of fun that we got on famously together.
Alice is a little over sixteen,—just one year older than I am,—and she has travelled almost everywhere with her parents (she's the only child, you see), all over America and in Europe. But she doesn't put on any airs about it; in fact, instead of talking of her travels, as I would ask her to do, she'd beg, actually coax me to tell her about my brothers and sisters, and the times we have at home,—it seems Hilliard has written her about us. She said she had never known such a large family, and she wanted me to describe each one, from Phil down to Alan.
On warm mornings we would sit on the beach in the shade of the rocks, and when Hilliard wasn't reading to us, somehow the conversation always got round to the family. Hilliard thinks a good deal of our boys, and he talked to Alice about them; he told her of our entertainment on Nora's birthday, and our "performances," and she seemed to enjoy hearing of it all. She asked questions, too, and said she felt as if she really knew us all.
Mrs. Endicott was almost as nice as Alice, and so kind! Why, almost every day she got up some amusement for us,—driving, or walking, or a picnic, or something. I really began to enjoy myself very much,—only that I didn't hear often enough from home. Nora's notes were very short,—just scraps; she said she was too busy to write more; and Jack never has shone as a letter writer. He'd say, "Nora had a circus with the 'kids' to-day,—will tell you about it when you come home;" or, "Something splendid has happened for Fee,—you shall have full particulars when you get back," and other things like that. Provoking boy! when I was longing to hear everything.
After the Endicotts came, I enjoyed myself so well that the time flew by, and almost before I knew it the last day but one of my visit at the beach had come. That afternoon, instead of going with Mrs. Endicott, Alice, and Hilliard, to see how the repairs were getting on at their cottage, I decided to remain at home. Thinking it over afterward, I could not have explained why I did not care to go; I didn't even remember the excuse I made. It could not have been the heat,—though it was extremely warm,—for a little while after they had gone I dressed for dinner, and started for a stroll along the beach.
"ON WARM MORNINGS WE WOULD SIT ON THE BEACH."
I walked slowly on and on, enjoying the beauty of the scenery, until I suddenly discovered that I was directly opposite the large rock which Hilliard and I were to have "investigated" some day, but to which he had never taken me. I knew we could not do it the next day, for Mr. Endicott had invited us to spend it on his steam yacht, and the day after that I was to leave for home; so I made up my mind that that afternoon was my opportunity.
Carefully gathering up my skirts,—I had on my best white gown,—I picked my way over the rocks and stepped down on the wide strip of sand which divided this rock from the others. I noticed that the beach sloped downward to the rock; but in my heedlessness I did not notice that the sand was slightly damp.
On reaching the rock, I found that what had looked at a distance like an arched entrance to a cave was really some irregular steps cut out of its surface, and which led to a narrow shelf, or ledge, a little more than half-way up the tall, solid-looking mass of stone. I knew that the view from that height must be fine, and I love to climb; so I determined to get up to that ledge.
It was not very easy,—the steps were slippery and rather far apart, and then, too, my dress bothered me, I was so afraid I would soil or tear it,—so I was a little tired and warm by the time I reached the top. But the view from there was beautiful! One had a clear sweep of the beach, except that smaller portion which lay behind the big rock. The shelf on which I sat, with my feet resting on the step below, was a little rounded, something of a horseshoe shape, and with the rock to lean back against I was quite comfortable. I wondered again and again why Hilliard had avoided showing me this place, and enjoyed every detail of the view to my heart's content,—the grand, rugged outline of the beach, the exquisite colours of the sky and water, and the crafts that went sailing and purring past. I wondered where they were all going, and made up destinations for them. Then I began counting them, so as to tell Alice at dinner; I got up to twenty-eight, and then—I must have fallen asleep.
How long I slept I don't know, but I woke with a great start, conscious of some loud, unusual noise, and that something cool had fallen on my face; and for a moment what I saw turned my heart sick with terror.
Everything was changed since last I had looked at it. The sky, so blue and clear then, was now covered with heavy black clouds, across which shot vivid flashes of lightning, and there were deep, fierce growls of thunder. The shining sands that I had crossed so easily but a while before had disappeared; the ocean, which had then been so far away, now covered them, and was on a level with the step on which my feet rested. The blueness of the water had gone,—it was lead-coloured, to match the sky,—and great angry, white-crested, curling waves came rolling in, tumbling over and over each other in a mad race to dash themselves against the rock on which I sat, throwing up each time a heavy shower of white, foamy spray. It was the touch of this spray on my face that had wakened me; and to my horror, the water was dancing and gurgling at my very feet!
In a flash I realised that I was in great danger,—entirely cut off from the land, and on a rock that was under water at high tide!
"Oh, it can't be! it can't be!" I cried aloud, standing up and looking wildly around; and as I did so, a big wave broke over my feet.
With a scream I scrambled back on the ledge, and stood there, clinging to the jagged points of the rock, while I called for help at the top of my voice. I shouted, and shrieked, and yelled, until I was hoarse, and the cries were driven back into my throat by the wind; but all that answered me was the roar of the storm and the screams of the sea gulls as they flew by.
As the wind lulled for a minute or two, I managed to drag off the skirt of my gown and wave it, hoping to attract the attention of some passing vessel,—a long range of rocks cut off any view of the cottages on the beach,—but the next wild gust tore it out of my grasp.
The water kept rising,—it was bubbling and foaming over my ankles; the waves were lashing themselves higher and higher, the rain coming down in sheets, the wind howling and raging,—I was afraid it would blow me off the ledge! and never in all my life have I heard or seen such thunder and lightning!
At first I was all confused,—I was so startled that I could think of nothing but that I was going to be drowned; but after a while I quieted down, and then I remembered that I could swim. Many a swimming match had Jack and I had at the Cottage,—I should have said that I was a very good swimmer; but that was in still water, not in this terrible, cruel ocean. I made up my mind to throw myself off the ledge and strike out for the shore,—three times I thought I would, and each time shrank back and clung the closer to the rock. At last I had to admit to myself that I was afraid! I, Betty Rose, who had always boasted that I was not afraid of anything, had to own to myself that I had not the courage to even attempt to struggle with those waves! My courage seemed all gone. I was afraid—deadly afraid—of the waves; I screamed as each one struck me higher and higher, and I hid my face from the lightning. Oh, it was awful! awful!
By and by I began to think; I still felt the rain and waves, and shrunk from the lightning, but not as I had at first, for I was thinking thoughts that had never come to me before in all my life. I could see right before me the faces of papa, and my dear brothers and sisters,—oh, how I loved them! and I should never be with them again! How they would miss me! and yet how many, many times had I been disagreeable, and commanding, and unkind! I loved them, but I had spoken sharply, and teased, and grumbled when I had had little services to do for them; now there would be no more opportunities. I wished that I had done differently!
Then my thoughts flew off to Mrs. Erveng,—how surly and disagreeable I had behaved to her! Not once had I offered her the slightest attention; instead, I had got out of her way at every chance. I had called this being very sincere, honest, above deceit; but it did not seem like that to me now. And there was Hilliard,—I had laughed at him, been rude to him, despised him for being a coward, I was so sure of my own courage; and what was I now? I was ashamed—ashamed! Oh, how my heart ached!
Then I began saying my prayers. The water was up to my waist now; it came with such force that it swayed me from side to side, and beat me against the rock to which I still clung. My fingers were cramped by my tight grip; the next wave, or perhaps the next to that, would sweep me off—away—to death!
I prayed from my very heart, with all my strength and soul, and it seemed as if the other things—the waves, the storm, the terrible death—grew fainter; a feeling came to me that I was speaking right into God's ear—that He was very near to me.
Somewhere out of the roar and awfulness of the storm came a human voice,—a cry: "Betty! Betty! hold on! hold on! I can save you—only hold on!" And when I opened my eyes, there was a boat coming nearer and nearer, dancing on the top of the waves like a cockle shell, and in it was Hilliard!
"I can't—come—too—close," he shouted. "Jump—with—the—next—wave."
I understood; and with the next receding wave I leaped into the water,—a wild plunge, scarcely seeing where I was going.
But Hilliard's hands caught me and hauled me into the boat, where I sank down, and lay huddled up, confused, and trembling so that I couldn't speak. Hilliard threw something over me,—the rain was coming down in torrents,—and then he pulled with all his might for the shore.
Presently my senses began to come back; I knew what a terrible strain it must be to row in such a storm,—though fortunately the tide was with us,—and he had come out in it for me. I felt I ought to take my share of the work. "I—can—row. Let—me—take—an—oar," I said slowly, sitting up.
"Not an oar,—I need both," Hilliard answered decidedly; then he added persuasively, "Be a good girl, Betty, and just keep in the bottom of the boat."
I saw that he was rowing in his shirt sleeves,—his coat was over me,—and his hat was gone; the rain was pouring down on his bare head. His face was very pale and set,—stern looking,—and the veins in his forehead were standing out like cords as he strained every nerve at the oars.
"I'm going for one of the coves," he shouted to me presently, "where I can run her aground."
Again and again we were tossed back by the receding waves; but at last we shot into the cove, and I heard the keel grating on the rocky beach. In an instant Hilliard was overboard, and had pulled the boat up on the sand, out of reach of the highest wave. As he helped me on to the beach, I looked up in his white face, and such a sense of what he had endured for me rushed over me that I couldn't get the words out fast enough.
I threw my hands out and caught hold of his shoulders: "Oh, Hilliard Erveng, you are a brave boy!" I cried out, choking up. "You are no coward; you are brave—brave! and I have been a mean, contemptible, conceited, stuck-up girl." I think I shook him a little; I was in such earnest that I hardly knew what I was doing.
The rain had plastered Hilliard's hair flat to his head, and washed it into funny little points on his forehead, and there were raindrops pouring down his face; but his mouth was smiling, and his eyes were wide open and shining. He laid his hands over mine as they rested on his shoulders. "Thank God for to-day, Betty, thank God!" he said, in a glad, excited way. "He has saved your life, and I am no longer a coward; I am no longer afraid—see!" As the lightning flashed over us he lifted his head and faced it, with lips that quivered a little, but also with unflinching eyes. "Doctor Emmons always said that I would be cured of my dread could I but face one thunder storm throughout," he added, still with that joyous ring in his voice. "And now I've done it! I've done it; I am free!"
"Oh! I am so glad! so very thankful!" I began, and then broke down and burst into a violent fit of crying.
I couldn't stop crying, though I did try hard to control my tears; and my knees shook so that I could hardly walk. Hilliard almost carried me along until we met Jim the coachman and Mr. Erveng on the beach. Mr. Erveng had just got home, and heard that Hilliard and I were out in the storm. Then between them they got me to the house, where Mrs. Erveng and Alice and her mother were anxiously waiting for us.
How glad they were to see us! and how they all kissed and hugged me! Mrs. Erveng took me right into her arms.
Everybody began talking at once. I heard Alice say, "As soon as we missed you, and Dillon said she had seen you walking toward that part of the beach, Hilliard declared you were on the rock,—he seemed to guess it. And he was off for the boat like a flash,—he wouldn't even wait for Jim; he said every minute was precious—"
I lost the rest; a horrid rushing noise came in my ears, everything got black before me, and I fainted, for the very first time in my life.
It is now nearly a week since all this happened, and to-morrow I am going home—to the Cottage. I was so stiff and tired from the beating of the waves that Mrs. Erveng kept me in bed for several days, and telegraphed the family not to expect me until Thursday; otherwise neither Hilliard nor I have suffered from our drenching in that awful storm. Mrs. Endicott and Alice are going as far as New York with me, and there Phil will meet me and take me home.
I shall be very glad to be with my own dear ones again,—it seems an age since I saw them; and I long to talk to Nannie, and tell her everything. Still, now, I'm not sorry that I came here. I think that I shall never forget my visit to Endicott Beach.