Loveday looked, and saw a dear little winding path going up and up, with here and there a flight of little steps where the cliff was particularly steep, and all the way there was a strong hand-rail to prevent one’s falling over.
“Does your husband take charge of the boats for the gentleman now?” asked Mrs. Carlyon.
“Oh no, ma’am,” said Bessie, shaking her head and looking very grave. “He doesn’t keep one now, poor gentleman! His only son was drowned one day out there, right in front of his windows, and Mr. Winter—he—he saw it, and—and it pretty nearly drove him out of his mind. The next day he sent down to Button—Button was his man—and ordered every boat to be broke up, and he got rid of Button—not ’cause ’twas his fault, but ’cause he couldn’t abide the sight of anything that had to do with that dreadful day. He was going to have this little place pulled down too, but my husband begged and prayed him not to, houses here being so scarce there’s no getting one. And Mr. Winter, he gave in. You see, ma’am, he’d had the little place built low like this, and right back under the cliff, so’s it shouldn’t be seen from the house, so he was never worried by the sight of it, and after the accident he wouldn’t be likely to, for he had the blinds on that side of the house that faced the sea drawn down, and he dared anybody ever to raise them again in his lifetime.”
Loveday was very much impressed by this sad story. She seemed to see the poor father sitting lonely and sad in his dark house, while his only son lay for ever at the bottom of the cruel sea, which stretched before his very eyes. There were tears in Mrs. Carlyon’s eyes as she listened, and quite a sadness lay for the moment over the whole scene as they followed Bessie into the bungalow. It was quite a large bungalow, and so well built and nicely finished inside. On one side of the little entrance was a cosy, spotlessly clean kitchen-parlour, with scullery behind it, and beyond that was Bessie’s bedroom; both had windows looking out to sea, and Bessie’s room had a little door at the end, by which she could get in and out without having to go through the kitchen. On the other side of the entrance was a nice little room, which had been built, said Bessie, for the young gentleman and his friends to have a meal in, or sit in, and behind it were two little rooms which had been built for dressing-rooms or bedrooms, for him to change in if he came home wet, or to sleep in if he was going to start very early on a fishing expedition, or come home late.
The front room, which looked out to sea, Bessie had made her parlour, while the others were two dear little bedrooms, one of which was now Aaron’s, while the other was to be Loveday’s.
Loveday’s eyes sparkled when she saw hers. It had a wooden bed in it—such a curious-looking one, for it had been a four-poster, but, as it wouldn’t go into any room in the bungalow, they had had to cut the top off, so that now it seemed to have two sets of legs, the four it stood on and four that stood up in the air. The window was hung with curtains of blossom-white muslin, and the looking-glass and dressing-table and bed were all hung with the same. So snowy and soft and billowy it looked, the little room might almost have been filled with white clouds or foam. The woodwork was painted white, and the walls were white too, but for a frieze around the top, whereon white-sailed ships scudded along over a glorious blue-green sea, while gulls hovered and swooped, or stood stiffly on the bright green grass on the cliff-top.
Loveday was enchanted. “Oh, I wish Prissy could see it too!” she cried, and that was the only flaw in her great delight.