Fifty-Two Stories For Girls Part 25

"I'll come down," cries Claude, making a desperate movement to descend.

"You sha'n't stop there and drown alone! Do you think I'll be such a hound as to let you?"

But Bee with all her strength, holds him back. "Empey, _dear_ Empey,"

she moans, "stay for my sake!"

"I'll take my chance," Tim sings out cheerily. "I can swim; I mean to try for the landing-place."

"You're mad; the tide will dash you on the rocks!" groans Claude, in despair. And then, so slight is his foothold that he nearly loses his balance in looking downward; and Bee, clinging to him, screams with terror.

"I can't bear it!" he says wildly.

How fast the waters rise! Great waves are breaking against the sides of the Chair, and leaping up nearer and nearer to the ledge whereon the pair support their feet. Once more Claude calls to Tim, pa.s.sionately, almost fiercely,--

"I'll never forgive myself if you are lost! Tim, Tim, where are you?"

And the clear voice comes up, somewhat faintly, from below. "It's all right. G.o.d bless you and Bee."

A mighty billow flings its cloud of foam over the faces of Claude and the shrinking girl by his side, and blinds them with salt spray. But high as the tide is, the Chair is still above its reach, and although the wave may sprinkle them, it cannot swallow them up. Only they are deafened as well as blinded, and Bee feels that she is losing her senses. Surely her brain is wandering, else she could never hear the notes of the anthem again, and Tim's voice singing the words of the old psalm in such exulting tones,--

"The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea."

When night is closing over the little watering-place there are rejoicings and lamentations in Nelson Lodge. Aunt Hetty's heart is full of grat.i.tude; Claude and Bee brought safely home by old Drake, have fallen asleep at last in their rooms, while she steals from chamber to chamber to look first at one tired young face and then at the other. But the tears hang on Claude's lashes as he sleeps; and more than once Bee moves restlessly on her pillow and murmurs Tim's name.

The wind, that has been blowing hard all through the night, subsides soon after sunrise. Clouds clear away from the east, and the golden morning shines upon the creamy cliffs of White Cove. Just at the foot of one of the low rocks lies Tim; his brown face turned up to the sky, and his curly hair matted with sea-weed. His life-work is done.

Only Tim;--yes, Master Claude; but what would the world be without such souls as Tim's? Fine manners, fine speech, and fine clothes, of these he had none, but he had what glorifies the earth's greatest sons, he had what the angels rank highly and what G.o.d loves, a brave, true, unselfish heart.

SMITH'S SISTER.

_A STORY BY A BOY ABOUT A GIRL._

BY ROBERT OVERTON.

Before I tell you the story about Smith's sister in particular (said Stanislaus Yarrow), I wish to make a few remarks about sisters in general.

Sisters are of two kinds--your own and other fellows'. There are boys--especially older ones--who consider their own sisters worse than other fellows' sisters.

("Hear, hear," cried Martin Abbott, who was strongly suspected of having fallen in love with Dr. Audlem's maiden aunt, who was not much more than forty).

But the general opinion amongst boys is that all sisters--all girls, in fact--are m.u.f.fs and nuisances.

("So they are," agreed a number of voices cordially).

I thought so myself once. But Smith's sister taught me to take a higher view of girls. I admit that they have defects--they can't help 'em.

There are times when I doubt if even boys are perfect. I freely admit that there is a certain amount of idiocy in the ways and manners of girls in general. Far be it from me to deny that they squeak and squeal when there is no occasion for squeaking and squealing. There is no use in denying that they are afraid of mice. Even Smith's sister visibly shuddered when I offered to give her my biggest piebald rat, to be her very own for ever. But we ought to be charitable and try to overlook these things, for, as I said just now, they can't help 'em.

What I insist upon is that there's real grit in girls all the same.

This is how I work it out: Smith's sister was a brick--Smith's sister is a girl--therefore, as one girl can be a brick, so can other girls, other sisters, be bricks.

Now for my true yarn. To separate the circ.u.mstances of the story from the story itself, I will first give you the circ.u.mstances.

Smith and I lived next door to each other, and were close chums, especially at intervals. He was a very generous chap--he'd give a friend anything he'd got. When he was laid low with illness last summer, I slipped into his bedroom by way of the verandah, to have a look at him, and he gave me the scarlet fever. He was such a very generous chap that he never wanted to keep anything all to himself. The fever stayed with both of us as long as it could, and left us a good deal weaker than it found us. Finding us both in need of a long and thorough change, Smith's father and mine put their heads together, and finally decided to send us to North Wales for the rest of the summer and the autumn. The idea was promptly carried out.

They didn't, strictly speaking, "send" us, for they came with us. In fact, it was quite a carriage-ful of us that steamed away north-west from Paddington--namely, Smith, myself, Smith's father and mother, my father and mother, a number of boxes, portmanteaux, and parcels, and Smith's sister. I put her last because at the time she was last in my estimation.

We had a lovely journey, to a lovely little out-of-the-way and out-of-the-world station, which was spelt with all consonants, and p.r.o.nounced with three sneezes, a cough and two gasps. From the station we had a long drive to the remote farmhouse in which our fathers had taken apartments.

In this delicious old farmhouse we soon made ourselves--Smith and I--quite at home. It was in a beautiful valley. Tremendous hills rose all round it. On the very tops of some of the mountains there was snow almost all the year round. Glens, and brooks, and streams, and waterfalls simply abounded.

After a fortnight our two fathers had to return to London, leaving behind them our mothers, us, and Smith's sister.

Oh, what a time we had then! Smith shot me by accident in the leg with the farmer's gun--Smith himself got almost drowned in two different streams, and was once carried over a waterfall, and dashed against the stones. On all three occasions he was getting black in the face when pulled out. I fell down a precipice in the mountains, and was rescued with the greatest difficulty. On another occasion a neighbouring farmer caught us trespa.s.sing, and thrashed us with a stick till he was too tired to hold it any longer. Smith got bitten by a dog supposed to be mad, and a horse kicked me in the stomach.

All was gaiety and excitement. Ah! when shall we have such times again?

We made inquiries as to whether we were likely to catch scarlet fever a second time.

Now Smith's sister screamed at our accidents; she was afraid to join us in any of our adventures. She was as old as myself, and only a year younger than Smith, but as timid as a chicken--or so we thought her, for so she seemed. We tried at first to encourage her, to bring her out a little; but it was no good--we just had to leave her to herself.

"She hasn't pluck enough to come with us," Smith used to say as we set off on our rambles--"let her stop at home and play with the fowls."

You must understand that we didn't dislike her--we simply despised her.

I think contempt is worse than dislike--at all events, it is harder to bear. Week after week pa.s.sed away, till at length the end of September approached. In a few days we were to go home again.

Now high as all the hills were, there was one that towered above the others. From the very first, Smith and I had been warned not to attempt to scale this monarch of the mountains, whose crown was sometimes visible, sometimes hidden in the clouds. Being warned not to do it, we naturally wanted to do it. We had made, in fact, several tries, but had always been frustrated. Once or twice Mr. Griffiths--the farmer at whose house we were staying--caught us starting, and turned us back.

"Up towards the top of that mountain," he said, on the last occasion, "is a place so difficult of access, except by one way, that it is called the 'Eagles' Home.' Lives have been lost there. The hill is dangerous--the clefts are steep and deep. Leave it alone. There are plenty of other hills to climb that are not so dangerous."

That reference to the Eagles' Home was more than we could stand. We could make out the very spot he meant. Fancy being up there with the eagles near the sky--fancy birds-nesting in the clouds!

"Yarrow," said Smith firmly, "we must do it."

"Or perish in the attempt," I agreed recklessly, quoting from a book I'd read.

What we meant was, of course, that before our visit ended we must climb that hill, at all events as high as the Eagles' Home.

Our approaching return to London left us with no time to lose. We had only four clear days before us.

"We'll make the ascent immediately after dinner to-morrow," said Smith.

"Right you are," replied I.

The next day arrived. Dinner was always over soon after one at the farmhouse, and by two o'clock, having slipped quietly and secretly off, we were beginning our climb up the hillside. For more than an hour we made slow but easy progress, taking a rest every now and then for a minute or two. We must have got up a considerable distance, but neither the mountain-top nor the Eagles' Home seemed much nearer. On and up we trudged, walking faster and determined to take no more rests. We noticed how much colder it was, and cast uneasy glances at the dipping sun.