BRENDA’S
SUMMER AT ROCKLEY
I
ON THE SANDS
“Brenda, Brenda,” called a clear voice, “where are you, Brenda?”
“Coming, coming,” answered Brenda, from a corner of the piazza. Yet though she had answered cheerfully, she made no effort to rise from her chair. Evidently her book was too absorbing.
“Well, we can’t wait for you, you ’ll have to walk.”
“No, no. I ’ll come,” cried Brenda rising, and throwing down her book on the chair from which she had risen. “I ’ll be down as quick as a wink. My things are upstairs.”
Running into the house, Brenda for a moment was lost to sight, but only for a moment. For, quicker than “a wink,” she had returned to the piazza, and leaping down the side steps, had joined her cousin Julia waiting a little impatiently at the entrance to the driveway.
“I would just as soon walk,” said Brenda. “It is n’t very hot, and it’s only a little way to the beach.”
“I know it; I think myself that it would be rather pleasant to walk. But Aunt Anna wants us to call for her at the village. She went down there after breakfast, and as the horse was harnessed she thought that we might as well drive.”
“Oh,” said Brenda, “I did not even notice that she had gone out. I have been reading ever since breakfast. Where have you been?”
“I ’ve been pottering around in the garden. I filled the vases for the dining-room, and I 've just enjoyed every minute. This seems like summer at last. It’s the first really warm day that we ’ve had.”
“Well, Julia, you are a funny girl,” and Brenda laughed brightly. “Just wait until it is a little warmer, and you won’t speak of enjoying a warm day. We can have it warm enough even here by the sea, I can assure you, sometimes.”
“Yes, but I don’t believe that it can ever be unbearable, so near the sea. Why I have always heard that the North Shore is cool!”
“Oh, perhaps it is compared with some places. I dare say that to-day it is much cooler here than in the city. We ’ll ask papa when he comes down. At any rate I am glad that it is warm enough now to bathe.”
The girls took their places in the carriage, and in a few minutes they reached a group of houses and shops, called by the summer residents “the village,” although it had no streets but the main road, no church or public building, and consisted of hardly more than a dozen houses,—the blacksmith’s shop, the post-office in a small grocery shop, and a few dwellings occupied chiefly by people who worked for the summer residents.
Mrs. Barlow came out of one of these houses, looking a little disturbed.
“Good-morning, girls,” she said, “I expected you a quarter of an hour ago, although it has n’t made much difference—my waiting for you. These laundresses are very trying. Mrs. Slattery is one of the best we have had, but now she thinks that she won’t do any more work this summer, because her son is home from Texas on a visit.”
“Why, mamma, of course you would n’t expect her to work. She ’ll want to go about on pleasure trips with him; just think how it will be when Agnes comes home, or Caroline. I’m sure that you could n’t half attend to them, if you had to do a week’s washing at the same time.”
Mrs. Barlow and Julia both laughed at Brenda’s way of putting things.
“Still it does n’t alter the present case,” said Mrs. Barlow, “and if Mrs. Slattery is firm in her determination, I shall have to send you girls out into the highways and byways to find a laundress. There are some little cottages up on the back road, and perhaps some one up there might condescend to take in washing.”
At this moment a curve in the road brought them in full sight of the beach, which up to this minute had shown itself only occasionally behind houses and trees.
“How beautiful!” cried Julia. “This is a new point of view to me; how beautiful is the blue of the ocean on a day like this!”
Nor could any one who stood in Julia’s place call her over-enthusiastic. The cloudless June sky gave the water the color of the deepest sapphire. Here and there the tip of a billow flashed in the sunlight like the facet of a cut gem. Far at the edge of the horizon two or three small sails sped along as with birds’ wings. The lighthouse in the distance, the little island with the fisherman’s hut, the small boats anchored off the point, all combined to make the scene a very beautiful one.
“Let me carry it,” cried Brenda, as the driver lifted a camp-chair from the carriage.
“Why, thank you, I suppose that I could let Thomas take it to the bath-house, but it is better for him not to leave the horses. If I had n’t worn a long skirt, I’d carry it myself.”
“Oh, it’s nothing to carry!” replied Brenda, and she trudged along, picking her way through the sand, with the chair under one arm, and a large silk handkerchief containing her bathing suit slung over the other.
“We ’ll not be the only bathers on the beach,” and Julia pointed to a group already floundering in the water.
“Oh, no, but there won’t be quarter as many as there will be in a fortnight. It will be a great deal more exciting then.”
“Exciting,” for the time being, was Brenda’s favorite word for describing anything that she considered very amusing, and she used the word on all possible occasions.
“I ’ll sit here for a little while,” said Mrs. Barlow, pointing to the neighborhood of some rocks which cast just enough shadow to make the spot a desirable one for a seat. Here Brenda opened the little folding seat, and then went on with Julia toward the bath-house.
“Have you the key?” asked Julia, as she pulled at the padlock which fastened the door.
“Why, no, I thought that you would bring it.”
“How could you? I did n’t know where it was. Besides, Aunt Anna said that you would bring it, that she had spoken to you about it after breakfast.”
“Then I must have entirely forgotten it; truly I have never once thought of it to-day, until I saw you trying that lock. What shall I do? It will be awfully disappointing not to go in bathing, and we certainly can’t dress here on the beach. I wish that we had n’t sent Thomas home. I feel ready to cry.”
“Oh, don’t cry. You are too old for that. Perhaps we could borrow a bath-house from one of those bathers, or—”
“No, I ’m afraid that there is n’t any chance. Do you know, Julia, I believe that I shall have to give up novel-reading. I was reading when mamma said something to me this morning. I suppose that it must have been something about the key. I said, ‘yes,’ but really I did not hear a word that she said. I was thinking entirely about the book. It’s the most interesting thing I ever read.”
“So was the one you read the day before yesterday. At least you told us so. I have noticed that you have been in a brown study ever since this literary fit seized you. But that won’t help us about the key.”
“There is mamma waving her sunshade toward us. I suppose she sees what has happened. She always says that I am not to be trusted with keys. I wish you’d go to her, Julia. I hate to have to explain.”
Julia ran along the hot strip of sand that lay between her and Mrs. Barlow. In a few minutes she returned holding one hand above her head rather triumphantly.
“There, Brenda, it’s all right. Aunt Anna found that she had the duplicate key in her chatelain bag. She called me to see if we needed it. She suspected that something was wrong when she saw us fumbling with the lock.”
“Good enough,” cried Brenda, “I should have been terribly cross if we had had to turn back without our bath. Keys are a nuisance. Any way there are two separate rooms inside the bath-house, and we can both dress at the same time. I hate those little bath-houses where you have to stand about waiting your turn.”
In a short time Julia and Brenda were ready for the plunge. Their dark-blue bathing suits were made alike, high-necked, with long-sleeved blouses, and skirts reaching below the knee, trimmed with rows and rows of fine white braid.
Brenda dashed into the water without a second of hesitation, and almost immediately she began to swim. Julia looked at her in astonishment. She herself had been in the water only two or three times in her life. She not only had not learned to swim, but she was almost afraid to dip her head.
“Why, you are a perfect fish, Brenda, or a mermaid,” she cried, as he cousin swam past her, though considerably farther out at sea. “Are n’t you afraid?”
“Of course not.” Brenda flung a handful of water at Julia as she waded past. “Just try it yourself, and you ’ll see how easy it is.”
“Oh, I should n’t dare to,” said Julia.
“Well, you ought to dip your head and shoulders, and come out as far as you can. I can see that you ’re shivering a little, but you won’t after you have once been in all over.”
So Julia at last made the plunge, and, dipping head and shoulders, really did feel more comfortable than when she had stood a few minutes before shivering in the sun. But she could not persuade herself to lie flat on her back, letting Brenda support her with one hand held under her chin. She felt a curious faintness when she even thought of doing this, and although Brenda assured her that she would not let her sink, that, even if she should let go, Julia could immediately put her feet to the bottom, the older girl showed a timidity surprising to Brenda, the younger. But they jested, and threw water at one another, until Mrs. Barlow called from the shore, telling them that they had already been in too long. Then Brenda, with a plea for one more swim, splashed about for a few minutes longer, while Julia sat down on the sand to wait for her in the sun.
“Well, Julia,” cried Brenda, as they left the bath-house a little later, “I never expected to feel myself as superior to you as I did to-day. Why you really screamed with fright when I threatened you with a ducking!” There was good-humor in Brenda’s tone, in spite of her jeering, and Julia understood her.
“Well, I suppose I have never told you of my fear of water. You see I know so little about it. When Aunt Anna told me that she was having a bathing-suit made for me, I felt like asking, ‘What for?’ I thought then that I should be unlikely to use it. But I decided to- day not to let you know how I felt, but to go in as bravely as possible.”
“Yes,” replied Brenda, “and in the course of a week or two, you will float and swim, and—”
“Become a duck, just like you. No, I think not,” replied Julia. “By the end of the summer I may float, but I am willing to have you know that I am not a bit courageous. Ah! here’s Thomas,” she added, as a carriage met them in the rather narrow road.
“Well, I’m glad that mamma will not have to wait any longer. Of course we could ride home, too. But I thought it would be a good time to show you this road. There are such quantities of wild flowers.”
“Yes,” said Julia, “to me it seems very surprising to see so many flowers close to the sea. Just look at those roses,” and she pointed to a stone wall, in front of which, and in the marshy field beyond, were quantities of wild roses.
“I remember once learning a poem called ‘Wild Roses of Cape Ann,’” said Julia, “and I suppose that we are not so far away from Cape Ann, but that we could apply it here. I think that I can recall a few lines;—
“‘Their paling glories light Cape Ann’s waste shore,
Bringing the presage of soft-lulling peace
For summer’s orient days, and brief surcease
Of wave and granite warring evermore.’”
Then, picking a bunch, she added,—
“‘Rose, thou are the sweetest flower
That ever drank the amber shower.’
“Moore, who wrote the last, means any roses,” she concluded, “although he had no thought of Cape Ann.”
“I never have such fine quotations to fit things,” said Brenda; “but I do love these wild roses. By and by, when they are gone, other flowers will come. The butter-and-eggs are beautiful, and there is a field over there that will soon be blue with purple irises, and then, of course, the goldenrod comes in the autumn. I have more love for wild flowers than you would expect in one of my frivolous disposition,” and she danced a few steps ahead of Julia.
“There’s a better road than this. In fact I don’t see why Thomas drove down here. This is too sandy for a carriage or bicycle. After this, we ’ll go to the beach on our wheels. There—I believe I ’ll take a ride this afternoon.
“It’s a pity that your wheel has n’t come down yet, or you could ride with me, Julia,” and Brenda rattled on, evidently in the best of humor, as the result of her swim.
“I can’t say that I exactly crave a bicycle ride on a day like this,” answered Julia.
“Oh, by afternoon it will be cool. There is almost always a breeze, and I shall only go for a short ride about five o’clock. It has n’t been a very long walk, has it?”
For they were now at the stone pillars that marked the front entrance to the grounds, and a minute or two later they were seated in wicker chairs fanning themselves, and resting after their exertions. The house was at the top of a hill which, if not really very high, made a rather sharp ascent from the surrounding country.
“It’s a lovely view, even though we do have to work a little to get here,” said Julia. “If there were nothing but the view, I should be perfectly happy. But from what every one says, I know that I am going to enjoy Rockley immensely.”
The accent on the last word sounded a little more like Brenda than Julia, and it was a rather curious fact that the two cousins who in the first six months of their acquaintance had seemed so unlike had begun to modify each other a little. Julia’s speech had become slightly more frivolous, and Brenda had acquired what she had previously lacked, a more serious way of looking at things. By serious I do not mean solemn, and perhaps I ought rather to say she had begun to acquire the ability to look on both sides of a question. It is true that she did not view all matters in this all-round fashion; she often preferred to be a little perverse and contrary. But in her secret heart she was less proud than formerly, both of perverseness and obstinacy.
Brenda was very fond of the sea-shore, where, as long as she could remember, she had been in the habit of spending at least five months of the year. But this was only her second season on the North Shore. Now if I should tell you the exact location of Rockley, you might respond that you know other places just as pretty,—at Beverly, at Manchester, at—but here I might interrupt you to say that just as patriotism obliges us to prefer our own country to every other, so custom leads us to prefer some one place to any other. Some people, to be sure, enjoy rambling from country to country, and others like to have glimpses of various summer resorts; but in the end each one thinks his own country the very best, and in her secret heart every girl believes some one spot—it may be seashore, it may be mountains—far lovelier than any other. Brenda, at first, had objected to leaving Cohasset; but one season at Rockley had reconciled her to the change. Now she had gone to the other extreme, in regarding Rockley—as her father’s house was called—as the prettiest place on the coast. It is true that she always enjoyed visiting Edith Blair at Manchester, or Frances Pounder at Nahant, or some of her other friends who had homes at Beverly and Pride’s Crossing, and the other lovely spots along the North Shore. She had been interested in what Nora had told her of various mountain resorts, for Nora’s parents chose different places from season to season, and usually preferred the mountains to the seashore. But Brenda loved Rockley, for its nearness to the sea, for its sandy beach, for the great cliffs at the end of the beach, for the wild flowers that grew in such profusion along the roads.
She was glad that her cousin had immediately expressed her admiration for Rockley, and already in anticipation she saw before her a very pleasant summer.
“Edith can come up whenever we want her, that is, whenever her mother will let her, and Nora is to spend at least a fortnight with us. Really we shall have great fun. We’d better have her over the Fourth for the races.”
“The races?” Julia’s expression was one of inquiry.
“Yes, the yacht races. Not very large ones, you know; but Philip’s boat will be entered, and sometimes it’s awfully close. I just love to see the boats going out of the harbor, and you will, too, I know. We must go over to Marblehead soon. Cousin Edward has a skipper on his boat all the time, and he said that I might go aboard whenever I wanted to.”
“But you know,” said Julia, with a smile, “that I shan’t have time for anything until the end of the month.”
“Oh, yes, your old examinations. What a bother it must be, to spend time studying after school is over! That’s one thing that would keep me from going to college, if there were no other reason.”
“I do begrudge the time a little myself, just now, in this perfect weather. But in hardly more than two weeks it will all be over, and then I shall enjoy my holiday all the better.”
“Yes, but next year you will have to go through it all again. No! college would n’t do for me,” cried Brenda, “I never want to think about a book after the first of June.”
“Except a novel or two,” interposed Julia, mischievously.
“Oh, well, of course, on hot days when you ’re resting, you have to read something entertaining, at least I do,” and, suiting the acting to the word, Brenda flung herself down in the easy-chair, and, picking up the paper-covered book, resumed her reading.
“Let me know when the luncheon-bell rings, I may not hear it,” she called to Julia as the latter passed through the screen door into the house.
But although Julia did call her quarter of an hour later, Mrs. Barlow and she had been at the table for some time before Brenda came, summoned at last by a special message.
“Really, mamma, I forgot. At least I was so interested in my book that I could n’t leave it. I had to wait until I came to a stopping-place.”
“I’m afraid that I shall have to make a stopping-place for your reading, Brenda, if it is to interfere so with your duties. I must look at your book, and see what makes it so absorbing.”
“Oh, mamma, I don’t believe that you would care for it.”
“I dare say that I should find it a little less absorbing than you do, but still I shall look it over.”
“Oh, of course, if you want to,” said Brenda, and there was a trace of sulkiness in her tone.