Chapter III: On the Surface

THE next morning Alick rose with the sense of a clearer atmosphere around him.

He and Lionel did not exchange many words while dressing, but he saw that his cousin was still as cross as ever. This he felt hard; for had he not made a great effort last night? And ought not Lionel to have been ready to meet him half-way?

With a mental shake of himself, he threw off his thoughts, and went down to breakfast looking brighter than he had done for weeks. But he was conscious that all was not yet quite right with him, and that he was very ill-prepared for a battle, should any conflict come upon him.

His mother stood by the fire just lifting off the kettle, and as she glanced in his face, she saw something which made her heart rise in thankfulness.

He came up and kissed her, and she put her hand on his shoulder with a sweet look.

"Better to-day, my boy?" she asked lovingly.

"Rather," he answered, half smiling. "Why, mother, you see without being told."

"My eyes like sunshine," she answered quaintly; "so I am glad when it comes."

"Have you heard from Sunnyside yet, mother?"

"Not yet. Alick, cut the bread, will you? We shall be late, I fear."

"'I' am going to do that," said Marian, entering at the moment.

"You are not going to take 'my' duties, Miss Cousin," laughed Alick. "I'm quite willing that you should help mother mend the socks!"

"Oh, your lordship will condescend to allow me to use a thimble then!" she answered, watching him take the knife and begin upon the loaf.

"Yes, thimbles and looking pretty are the best use of girls."

"Then I can only have half a use," said Marian soberly. "But I consider, Alick, that you have very low ideas indeed."

"How?"

"I consider thimbles only a part of a girl's life."

"Of course. Her first finger is not her whole self."

"Her 'second' finger."

"Well, her second finger, if you like. But it is one of the chief ends of a woman to work well."

"You are speaking on the top of things?" asked Marian, looking up enquiringly.

Alick laughed a little. "I'm not going very far underneath, for certain. Like this bread, we are cutting off the outside; but crust is good."

"Well then," said Marian, who was all this time quietly setting the room in order, in a very different way from that which the little maid had considered perfect when she left it that morning, "I disagree with you entirely, Alick, about even the crust of girls."

"As how, Miss Cousin?"

"Partly about looking pretty. Of course, that must depend on how you are made."

"And on how you make yourselves."

"I don't see that."

"I do. Mother says—"

"Oh, 'I' say, do I?" laughed Mrs. Chantry. "Please, Alick, give out your own opinions in this serious conversation."

"Mother says," pursued Alick with a twinkle in his eye, "that if a girl has neat hair—"

Mrs. Chantry's glance rested for a moment on Marian's beautiful soft light braids, and she smiled.

"That is possible, at any rate," said the girl.

"And a gentle, cheerful, good face—"

"That is a thing to be earnestly desired, but, Alick, you are going below the 'crust' now—"

"And a truthful spirit that shines out of the eyes—" pursued he, not heeding.

"But all this does not make prettiness, and that is what you started with, Alick. You had better get back to the thimble; you know better what you are about there."

"Do I?" asked he, amused.

"You are quite right, Alick," interposed Mrs. Chantry; "I agree with you entirely. In my estimation, a girl who has a kind, cheerful face, neat hair, tidy, suitable dress, and a clean frill, is refreshing to look at. And whatever her face may happen to be, her friends do not think of that, but of the love that shines out through those familiar features. I have seen the homeliest face of an old woman made perfectly beautiful by the Christlike spirit that irradiated it."

"But then you get beneath the surface again," said simple Marian.

"And so we must," said Mrs. Chantry, "however our talk may begin. We cannot live 'on the top of things,' as Marian called it; at least, earnest people cannot. Alick, that pile of bread will last all day. Set the chairs, my dear, and ring the breakfast-bell."

At that sound, the rest came trooping in. Mrs. Chantry gave a tray, already prepared, into Alick's hand to take to his father, who seldom left his room so early, and then the business of breakfast began.

"I wish we could have heard," observed Mrs. Chantry, looking out of the window abstractedly.

"He'll be all right, Aunt Greta," said Lionel. "I never knew Claude turn up on the wrong side of anything; I cannot think why you are anxious. I only wish he'd have had sense not to catch it at such an inconvenient time."

Charlie looked up at Lionel with astonishment. "I do not see that it was his fault, and it makes me feel horrid to hear you."

His big cousin merely glanced at him, and disdained to answer.

But Mrs. Chantry, who had hardly been attending to what had gone before, now turned round, and said gravely:

"Lionel, my dear, I would prefer that you should keep all such observations and repinings to yourself. Your little brother's life is very precious to a great many of us, and I am sure you will be glad, however this illness may end, that you had taken my advice and been silent where we all must stand in awe, and learn how helpless we are when we are under the chastening hand of God."

Lionel had flushed and then paled under his aunt's rebuke. Never till yesterday had she rebuked him. What was this she said about "however the illness ended"? How should it end? Claude was always strong. Scarlet fever was not anything so very dreadful, was it? Plenty of people got well from that. Why did his heart sink like this?

He was very silent, and but little more was said all through the meal; for Alick had his own thoughts, Marian divided hers between annoyance with her brother and sober consideration of what they had been talking about before breakfast, and Charlie was rather dismayed at the silence of the others.

The moment breakfast was over, Mrs. Chantry gathered the household together for their morning reading. It had been a sore trial to her when her husband's continued ill-health had forced her to take up this duty by herself. But meeting it bravely, in strength which she sought and received from above, she went forward in her quiet way. And now daily, what had once been a trial, became a great blessing, and there were many among that little household who valued the few moments in which they stepped aside from the whirl of life, and took a peep into the unseen and eternal.

This day as they knelt together Alick heard his mother say,—

"May we feel ourselves to be poor in spirit, that Thou mayest be able to enrich us; and may we so mourn before Thee on account of our sinfulness, that Thou mayest be able to give us Thy blessed comfort."

Alick heard, and bent his head lower, acquiescing in the prayer from his heart, feeling that it was in some way connected with his thoughts last night, but yet conscious that a proud wilfulness lurked within him, and made him still feel injured by circumstances, which had somehow combined to rob him of peace. He was not yet poor in spirit.

Still he joined in praying his mother's prayer, and rose from his knees wondering how the answer would come. That an answer would come to every true prayer, sent up from a humble heart straight to the great Giver, he did not for a moment doubt.

Just as they were all separating, Marian, Lionel, and Alick, for their hats, ready to start for lessons at The Towers, the postman came up the path through the little front garden.

Alick was the first to see him, and sprang to the door. There was but one letter, and that was for him. Yes, truly an Indian letter, in Courtenay's bold, fair writing.

"Come along!" exclaimed Lionel impatiently. "You are never going to open that now, are you, Alick? We are already behind time, and you know how it upsets Fortescue."

"I never intended to open it," answered Alick, annoyed.

"Marian," called Lionel, "do hurry yourself. What a time you girls do take!"

"I am coming in a moment," answered his sister from above; "go on without me."

She was standing by Salome at the nursery-door. "I did so want to know about Claude before I went into school," she said in a low tone, looking wistfully into the dark, sympathetic face.

"He's in de 'Lord's' hands, dear missey."

"Yes, but I shall be thinking about him all lesson-time."

"Dear missey, you just 'member this. If de dear Lord wants you to know, He 'll send you word; if He wants you to wait, can't you do as He wants?"

"I'll try," she answered humbly, running down to join Alick, who stood on the path waiting for her, Lionel having gone on.

"Have you had a letter?" she asked, as they quickly walked down the garden behind the house, to the little stile which had been made in the hedge which separated the cottage from the house.

"Yes, from Courtenay, but I have not read it, and do not intend to, till I can do so in peace."

He spoke hardly, and Marian's eyes came back from his face disappointed.

"It is so difficult to learn to wait, is it not?" she said.

"Oh, that is not much waiting!" answered Alick lightly. "I know they are on their way home from the telegram; it will only probably be things personal to myself."

"Those are such nice letters."

"Yes; I don't care for descriptions of scenery."

Marian laughed.

"But you love scenery as much as any one, Alick."

"So I do, but not when you want to hear about those you love. One assurance that they are thinking about you, is worth a hundred lines of how beautiful the mountains looked this morning."

They had reached the steps of Courtenay's house—those wide, pleasant steps on which his grandmother used to stand in her white cap and black satin dress, the picture of a lovely old lady.

Alick saw it all now, as if it were yesterday; and he remembered in the same moment all that had come and gone when Courtenay had been his hero, and had stood out bravely for the right within these very walls.

The thought calmed him; and as he passed through the wide hall, he could greet Mr. Fortescue with his usual pleasant smile.

"No news yet from Sunnyside?" had been the tutor's first question. "So Lionel tells me."

And on the negative answer, the three settled down without another word to the business of the day.

Marian, by her steady perseverance, had kept up with her brother. But Alick, a year older still, had got far ahead, and now studied by himself, Mr. Fortescue finding no pressing needful, and only having to direct his thirst for knowledge.

They plodded on silently for an hour or two, and then a note was brought in to the tutor, which he immediately opened.

"From your mother," he said to Alick, as he took in the sense of the few lines. "She says she has seen Mrs. Malden in the garden, and Claude has passed a restless night, but there is no particularly bad symptom."

Marian gave a deep sigh, while Lionel exclaimed, with a sound of relief in his tone:

"That's all right then; I thought my aunt made it out too bad—"

Then, meeting Alick's eyes, he checked himself suddenly, and turned to his writing again.

Mr. Fortescue was a very quiet man, and made no remark on the letter, so again they went on with their tasks.

At one o'clock they put up, and prepared to go home.

Mr. Fortescue took leave, and the rest gathered near the window, looking over the broad green garden to the raised walk at the end under the elms, between which could be seen peeps of the sea, and the pretty roof and chimneys of Sunnyside.

"I was born to be a gentleman," said Lionel, with a sounding sort of sigh.

"I 'was' born one; not 'to be' one," said Alick, speaking in spite of himself; but his cousin's pompousness was too aggravating.

"Why?" asked Marian. "I do not see what made you give us the benefit of that sage remark, Lionel."

"Because I find this handsome house suits me a great deal better than Alick's house."

"My 'father's' house, you mean," answered Alick.

"Suiting you well depends on the end to be attained," said Marian.

"What end?"

"Just having what is best for us."

"That's what I say. I find this decidedly best for me. I have felt in a better temper ever since I entered it."

"That shows it is 'not' good for you," said Marian.

"You girls have no reasoning powers," said Lionel. "It's just the other way."

Marian only smiled.

"We must not keep auntie waiting for dinner. What a lovely day it is, Alick; just like Spring, isn't it?"

"Yes; shall we go for a walk on the shore this afternoon, when we have done our lessons?"

"'I' can't. I must stay and see if Aunt Greta wants me. Besides, I shall have to practise."

"I'll come!" volunteered Lionel. "It will be a change from that poky—"

Marian looked up anxiously.

"From being poked up so, I mean," stammered Lionel.

"I don't think I shall go," said Alick, hesitating.

"Why you proposed to a minute ago!" said Lionel.

Marian perfectly understood, and they walked in silence through the garden, Lionel again hurrying on before.

"We have only an hour," observed Alick, "to get back again. Mr. Fortescue is coming at two instead of half-past to-day."

"I wonder why that is?"

"He is going into Norwich. I fancy he has volunteered to get some things for your mother, Marian."

"I cannot help wishing I were at home helping her, Alick."

"I am sure you must. But it is so nice that you do not fuss about it, Marian."

"Fussing does no good."

"But that does not hinder people from doing it."

"No; I want to feel quite sure I am doing right in being here, and then I should be satisfied."

Alick paused an instant, looking into her gentle, fresh face consideringly.

"You feel it's right to do as your mother wishes, Marian?"

"Of course I do; but then suppose she wants me at this moment?"

The blue eyes filled slowly, and Alick's turned away.

"She did wish you to stay here, dear," he said very kindly; "she came over on purpose to ask it. I'm sure mother said so. It would have been an added care to have had you to think of."

"But there are the children and my father; she cannot be with them both."

"The little ones have Martha, have they not?"

"Yes—"

"And Aunt Ella goes in and out with Claude, and waits on Uncle Malden too. Because, don't you remember, she told mother it could not be helped, and there was not much risk to uncle?"

Marian nodded. Her tears were falling down, one after the other, as fast as they could.

"She could send for you if she needed you very much," suggested Alick again.

But this made Marian cry more than ever.

They had come to the cottage door, and poor Marian brushed away her tears and ran up to her room.

Alick stood at the bottom of the stairs looking after her, feeling he had been but a poor comforter.

She came down in a moment; and as he took hold of the dining-room door to open it for her, he whispered, "Marian, we must ask God about it. He will make it right for you, if you ought to go; there's nothing too hard for Him."

"Thank you," she murmured, nearly overcome again.

They were all seated at the early dinner—Mr. Chantry, and even the little ones. It was quite a tight fit to sit to the table, but Lionel had had enough of making disagreeables, and held his tongue.

"Did I hear you say you had a letter from Courtenay, Alick?" asked his mother.

"Yes, mother; one came this morning."

"What does he say? How is poor little Margaret? And is Mrs. Bruce any better?"

"I have not even had time to open it yet."

Mrs. Chantry looked a little surprised, but made no remark. When Alick's voice took that tone, she knew all was not quite well with him.

"It was too precious for our eyes to even rest on," said Lionel.

"I never thought of your wanting to hear the contents, mother, or I would have tried to make time to read it. Of course you would like to know about them; I forgot that."

"Not till you are ready to tell me, dear; I am in no hurry."

"Mother is never in a hurry," said Charlie.

The moment dinner was swallowed, the three were off again to their tutor.

And not a word was exchanged between them, except with reference to lessons, till the clock struck four.

Then Mr. Fortescue hurried off for his train, and Marian returned to see what she could do for her aunt.

Alick put on his hat and walked to the stile with her. Then, after he had helped her over, he turned back, saying with a smile:

"Now for my letter and a ramble on the shore, Marian. Tell mother, if I am not home to tea, she will know where I am; I won't be very late. Ask her, like a dear mother, to keep my tea under the cosy till I come."

Marian nodded, and he ran off down the road.

He was rejoicing inwardly at having escaped without Lionel, when, at a turn in the steep lane, he found him resting against a post waiting for him.

"I thought you had gone home," he said somewhat ungraciously.

"Why, you promised to come down with me to the beach. What a changeable fellow you are!"

"I never promised at all. However, we can go together, and when I come to my cave, you must continue your walk without me; for I want to have a little quiet."

"With your beloved letter?"

"With my beloved letter."

"Courtenay's only your cousin, and he's my brother; and yet I don't make a quarter the fuss over him you do."

"Perhaps not."

"Why do you?"

"Simply because he and I have been thrown together by circumstances, and suit each other."

"I should hope you did, but for my own part, I'd ten times sooner Courtenay had never been my brother; he was always getting in the way."

"Lionel!"

"I don't mean anything dreadful. Simply that if he were just a friend living in The Towers, instead of a brother, it would be nicer."

Alick was silent, too angry to be ready to bear with his cousin and explain the matter to him, which would have done the younger boy good.

"I suppose we shall squabble along like this for the rest of the two months," remarked Lionel comfortably, when their feet first crunched the shingle of the beach.

Alick roused himself. "Courtenay will be home in a fortnight—I hope we shall not indeed, Lionel; I cannot think what has come to us."

"It's you who are so disagreeable; I never saw you so obstinate before. Mother used always to hold you up as a perfect paragon."

"I'm not a paragon now," said Alick with an inward groan, "whatever I may have been then."

But he acknowledged to himself as he said the words that he had in those days considered himself somewhat of a paragon; one of those who knew his duty and did it.

"Is the tide going out or coming in?" asked Lionel. "You always know the tides."

"I forget," answered Alick, with a weary sound in his voice; "any way, it's a good way out, and we must be back in two hours or thereabouts. It will be dark soon after six."

He was walking rapidly towards his favourite cave.

"You'll let me come too?" asked Lionel. "I won't speak a word while you read your letter. Seriously, Alick, I won't quarrel, or anything; I will sit still and go to sleep, if you like. It is so dreary all alone, especially now Claude is ill. Do let me come."

"Oh, no," said Alick hastily; "I told you I wanted to be quiet. Good-bye; we shall meet at tea."