Coneycreek

Front matter

a CONEYCREEK Digby's Popular Novel Series Crcnvn Bz'o, handsome cloth, price is. td. per Vol. Each Book contains 320 pp , and is printed on superior paper from new type. THE MYSTERY OF CLEMENT DUNRAVEN. By JEAN MIDDLEMASS. Author of 'A Girl in a Thousand.' &c {Third Edition. A EIDDEN CHAIN. By DORA RUSSELL. Author of ' The Other Bond,' ' Footprints in the Snow,' &c. [Third Edition. DR JANET OF HARLEY STREET. By Dr ARABELLA KENEALY. Author of ' Some Men are such Gentlemen,' &c. [Sixth Edition -with Portrait. THE JOLLY ROGER. By HUME NISBET. Author of ' Her Loving Slave,' ' Bail Up,' Xc. With Illustrations by the Author. [Fifth Edition. .** Other Works in same Series in due course. DIGBY, LONG & CO., LONDON CONEYCREEK BY M. LAWSON LONDON DIGBY, LONG & CO., Publishers 18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C. CONTENTS Part I. — Coneycreek.

CHAP. PAGE I. Alice Dale, ...... 3 II. A Ray of Hope, ..... 11 III. Darkness, . ..... 30 IV. Alice leaves the Hospital, .... 44 V. The Old Housekeeper's Story, ... 53 VI. Going Home, ..... 66 VII. A Change in the Weather, . . 83 VIII. Sandsend, ...... 89 IX. More about Nancy Bruce, .... 103 X. The Old Waterloo Pensioner, . . .113 Part II. — The Stoem. XI. The Sunday before the Storm , . . .121 XII. The Storm, ...... 136 XIII. The Morning after the Storm, . . .153 XIV. Jerry, ...... 168 XV. Aunt Hannah's First Kiss, . . . .179 XVI. Alice writes to Dr Hallam, . . . .187 XVII. Mat meets with an Unpleasant Surprise, . . 203 XVIII A Message from the Grave, .... 215 XIX. Farewell to Coneycreek, .... CONTENTS. Part III. — The New Home. CHAP. PAGE XX. Elm Row— The New Home, ... 241 XXI. New Neighbours, . ... 256 XXII.

Jealousy, ...... 265 XXIII. Bessie's Secret, ..... 273 XXIV. The First and Last Communion, . . .280 XXV. Coals of Fire, ..... 285 XXVI. Granny conquered at Last, .... 296 XXVII. The Little Bay, ..... 302 XXVIII. Little Sam's Christening, . . . .318 PAET I.— CONEYCREEK A CONEYCREEK

Chapter I. Alice Dale

Wherefore looks thou sad, When everything doth make a gleeful boast ? The birds chaunt melody on every bush, The green leaves quiver in the cooling wind Aud make a chequered shadow on the ground Under their sweet shade. — Shakespeare. "Alice — Alice, child, come in. You'll catch your death sitting there so long, for all it's so fine, the evenings are still chilly; come in, there's a dear." The speaker, a pleasant-looking woman, stood for a few moments with her eyes fixed on the motionless figure of a little girl who, perched on a hillock of moss, sat with her back resting against a rock, and her hands lying listlessly in her lap. After watching her for some minutes, the woman sadly shook her head, and wiping a tear from her eye went back into the cottage. The child made no response to the call, did not appear even as if she had heard it.

She had a strange, dreamy look in her eyes, and an unhappy, discontented expression CONEYCREEK. 4 on her otherwise pretty face, sad to see in one so young, for she could not be much more than twelve years old. She had sat in the same position for hours, seldom mov ing, except once or twice with an impatient gesture when the loud, joyous singing of a bird attracted her attention. At length the woman again appeared at the door. " Come, Alice, do," she called. " Tea is ready, and I've made a girdle cake ; so come quick and get it while it's hot. The children are back from school, and are waiting." Alice rose slowly from her seat to obey, but there was no smile on her grave, sad face, and no hurry in the listless manner in which she followed her mother into the house. " Ally, you shall have my seat next mother," lisped Janie, a fat little girl of four, the youngest child and pet of the family.

Alice took the seat without reply, and ate her tea in silence. Indeed, it was a silent meal altogether, for Alice's melancholy face and moody manner cast a gloom over the whole party ; so much so, that the children scarcely seemed to enjoy even the hot buttered cake, generally thought so great a treat, and it was a relief to all when the meal was over. Alice now retired to her usual place in the chimney corner, while Ruth, the second girl, helped her mother to put away the tea-things, and little Janie indulged in a quiet play with Tib, the kitten. From her place on the rug she cast many an anxious, half frightened look at Alice, and at last going up to her said timidly, — " See, Ally, hasn't Tib grown ? She can lap all by her self now." " Don't. Co away," said Alice crossly, pushing down the kitten which her little sister had placed on her knee.

"Janie, come away," called her mother, "and don't ALICE DALE. 5 tease Alice. You can take Tib to the door and play with her there." Janie went with a look of disappointment on her rosy face, but Tib seemed to have lost half her attractions, for Janie soon left her, and coming back to her sister said, — " Guess, Alice, what Ruth and I found to-day. It was in the hedge, and Ruth lifted me up to see it. But you'll never guess. It was a blackbird's nest ; wasn't it a black bird's, Ruth 1 and it had a little cuckoo in it, with such a funny big mouth, it opened it so wide, and we are going to take crumbs every day and feed it till it flies away." " Where did you find it ? " asked Alice in an interested voice ; " but," she added bitterly, " it is no use my knowing." " I am so sorry," said Janie, her blue eyes filling with tears.

Then throwing her little fat arms round Alice's neck she whispered, — " Do let Janie love you, Ally dear, and you shall have Tib for your very own." "I don't want her," said Alice, "and I wish you would not bother so, but would let me alone." After this rebuff poor Janie slunk away quite dis couraged, and soon after, being joined by Ruth, the two children went out to feed their pet lamb, which was bleat ing for it's evening meal. Alice, too, went out, but not to join her sisters. She went to the same spot where she had spent the greater part of the day — to tbe grey rock not many yards from the cottage door. The view from there had been beautiful when her mother called her in to tea, but now it was even more beautiful, for the setting sun had given a rosy glow to the cliffs at the mouth of the creek, round which the sea-birds were whirling and screaming, their CONEYCREEK. 6 white wings flashing in the sunlight.

The deep purple shadows had made the young green of the trees look brighter and greener than before, and the blue sea had given place to one of gold and crimson. ' The western wave wa3 all aflame, The day was well nigh done, Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad, bright sun." Alice herself, too, added not a little to the beauty of the picture, as she stood with one hand shading her eyes from the setting sun, a slanting ray of which lighted up her golden hair. She stood motionless for some time, looking out to sea, with an anxious, eager expression, but the moment the sun sunk below the horizon, her whole attention seemed fixed on a tall white lighthou&e, which (built upon a reef of rock about a mile out to sea) now gave forth a bright, clear flash of light, appearing and disappearing every few seconds.

As she gazed, the anxious look on her face deepened, and at last, with a cry of despair, she exclaimed, — " Oh ! I shall never, never see it again." Then, with her hands pressed tightly over her eyes s-he returned to the cottage, and hurrying upstairs to her own little room, threw herself on the bed, stuffing the coverlet into her mouth to stifle the sobs s-he could no loneer control. There, for the present, we will leave her, while we explain the cause of her distress. Six months ago there was not in the whole parish of Oaken thorpe a happier, merrier, or better-tempered child than little Alice Dale. She was a general favourite with every- ALICE DALE. 7 one, and her schoolfellows and companions thought nothing could be done without her. No nutting or blackberry expedition could possibly be undertaken unless Alice was one of the party — no new book chosen, or toy bought, without first consulting Alice.

Now, alas ! all was changed ; and few would have recog nised in the unhappy, discontented child we have just seen, the once merry leader of all the village games and sports. The summer before our story begins, a fever broke out in the neighbourhood of Oakenthorpe. It was a bad fever, and several people died of it. At last it reached the village of Oakenthorpe itself, where it made sad ravages, the deaths there being more, in proportion to the inhabitants, than in any of the neighbour ing villages. One of the last houses in the parish attacked by the fatal disease, was the cottage of Coneycreek, the cottage in which the Dales lived. Three of the children at once sickened of it, and before many days had passed, the baby died. Dale, the father (who was the head man at the lighthouse), came home to follow his baby to the village churchyard, where the many freshly-made mounds told of the dreadful havoc the fever had made.

That same night he, too, sickened of the fever, and for many weeks both he and Alice lay between life and death. During all those sad weeks Mrs Dale saw no one except the doctor, and the old rector and his wife. The fever had caused such a panic that no one, for love or money, would go near an infected house. Not even Mrs Smith (Mrs Dale's own sister), who lived at Grattenbury. She said it would be tempting Providence to put herself in the way of infection. But she did make some camphor bags, and send CONEYCREEK. them to her sister, telling her to be sure and wear one in the bosom of her dress, as long as there was any fever in the house. This sisterly act performed, Mrs Smith left her relatives to live or die as the case might be. At last, after many weeks of suffering, Dale began to recover, but Alice still lingered on, showing little or no sign of improvement.

During the greater part of her illness she had been both blind and delirious, and the doctor much feared that even if she did recover, which was very doubt ful, she would have neither sight nor reason. However, when at length the fever did leave her, though dreadfully weak and helpless, her mind was quite clear, so the worst fear was over. " As for her sight," said Dr Brown, " I still have my fears about that, it is very bad now. It may improve as she gets stronger, but — well, she may be very thankful that she bas escaped with her life ; that is more than I expected at one time." The doctor thought Alice was asleep when he said this, but unfortunately she was not, and heaid every word he said — and bitter words they were to hear. " Blind ! she could not, would not be blind. It was cruel of the doctor to bring her back to life only to leave her blind !

Cruel of God to let her live like this ! "Why had He not let her die like baby 1 Oh, it would have been far better, a hundred times better than letting her live for this — this miserable existence." It did seem hard, and Alice rebelled against it with her whole soul, till she fretted herself into a second attack of fever. From this second attack she slowly recovered, and it left her, instead of the bright, merry little girl of six months ago, the unhappy, miserable child we have just seen AUCE DALE. 9 her. When she had sufficiently recovered from the fever to go out of doors, she began an old custom she had of watching at sunset for her father's light, the bright clear flash from the lighthouse, so easy to see from the cottage door. At first she could see the light, though dimly, and it had become less and less distinct till, upon the evening on which our story begins, she could not see it at all, though she strained her eyes till they ached ; then she knew for certain that her sight was well nigh gone.

No wonder the poor child hid herself away, and cried as if her heart would break. Mrs Dale heard her come in and go upstairs ; sbe partly guessed the cause, but Alice had been so cross of late, aud hated so having any notice taken of her, that she did not venture at first to follow her, but waited till she had called the other children in and sent them to bed. Then she went softly into Alice's room. There she found the poor child lying on the bed and shaking with the sobs she vainly tried to stifle. " My poor, poor child," said Mrs Dale, tenderly, as she sat down on the bed and smoothed her tumbled hair. " I can't bear it, mother. Oh ! I can't bear it," sobbed Alice. "Why did God let me live? Do pray to Him, mother, to let me die and not to make me live like this. Oh ! mother, mother, do help me," she cried, raising herself up and throwing her arms round her mother's neck.

"Don't let me be blind, mother, for I can't bear it, indeed, I can't bear it." Mrs Dale could only murmur (as she rocked her in her arms while the tears streamed down her face), — "My poor child, may the Lord have mercy upon you and comfort you." CONEYCREEK. 10 " God does not care for me," wailed Alice, " or He would never make me blind." " Hush, darling, you mustn't. It's wrong to speak so." " Wrong ! " Alice almost shrieked, loosening her hold round her mother's neck, and throwing herself down on the bed again. " But you don't know what it is to be blind, or you would not talk so." Mrs Dale said no more — what could she say, poor woman ? and at last the very excess of Alice's grief exhausted her, and she lay still, her sobs becoming fewer and less violent. Then her mother undressed her and put her to bed, soon after creeping in beside her.

After lying awake for a long time, Mrs Dale felt a little hand steal softly into hers, and heard a tearful voice whisper, — " Mother 1 " "Yes, love?" she answered, " Mother, dear, I'm sorry I spoke so just now, and I'm sorry I was so cross to little Janie to-night ; please tell her so, mother. And now, kiss me." A long kiss and a warm embrace was the only answer, and before long Mrs Dale was thankful to find, by the soft, regular breathing only broken now and again by a half sob, that her poor little Alice had at last forgotten all her troubles in sleep.

Chapter II

A RAY OF HOPE. How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu' o' care. — Burns. " Oh, Dicky ! do be quiet," and a handkerchief thrown against his cage, cut poor Dicky short in one of his loudest and shrillest songs. " Can't you cover him up, mother 1 It makes me feel so bad when I hear him sing like that, while I'm so miserable. I know I'm cross, mother, but indeed I can't help it," Alice continued, in a choking voice, as she turned her face away from the bright sunshine which was streaming in through the open door. " There, Alice, dear, he'll be quiet enough now," said Mrs Dale, as she threw her apron over Dicky's cage. "Thank you, mother," said Alice drearily, and her hands dropped in a listless manner on her knee, while her face settled down into its usual hopeless, melancholy expression.

Mrs Dale, as she returned to her ironing board, stopped to wipe the tears from her eyes, for the sight of her little girl's sad, unhappy face was even worse to bear, than the sight of the empty cradle, or of the little worn shoes (baby's first shoes) which adorned the high mantelshelfi u CONEYCREEK. 12 " Mother, mother, there's Mrs Bernard's carriage on the road, and I do believe she's coming here, for it's stopped at the gate," cried Buth and Janie, rushing into the cottage, and throwing down their books and slates they rushed out again to make quite sure whether the visit was intended for them or not. Mrs Dale in the meantime hastened to put on a clean apron, and to wipe imaginary dust from one of her brightly polished chairs. " Welcome home, ma'am, and I'm right glad to see you, I am," she exclaimed, as Mrs Bernard appeared in the door way.

" The children told me as how you'd got back, but I never looked for to see you so soon, ma'am ; " and again wiping a chair, she handed it to her visitor. " I was anxious to see how you all were, and how the little invalid we left is now. Not very blooming yet, I fear, eh ! Alice ? I should like to have seen a few more roses here, my child," and Mrs Bernard tapped .Alice on the cheek. "And how is your husband, Mrs Dale?" she con tinued, seeing that Alice looked shy and nervous. " Got the rheumatism again, has be ? Then he'd better have another bottle of lotion. Ruth can call for it to-morrow when she leaves school — or stay, why should not Alice come home with me now for it. A drive will do you good, child ; you shall stop and get your tea with Mrs Morrison, and then I'll promise to send you safe home again."

Indeed, Mrs Bernard had come \rith the full intention of carrying Alice oft' with her, for a friend of her husband's, Dr Hallam, a clever London doctor, was staying at the Rectory, and she was anxious that he should see Alice ■ but she did not wis,h to mention this to Mrs Dale, for fear of raising hopes, only to meet with disappointment. A RA Y OF HOPE. ■I Alice would have refused the drive had she dared, for though she knew Mrs Bernard well, she felt shy at the thoughts of driving with her; besides which, her blind state, made her feel helpless and awkward. " That's right, put her on a large hood, for the sun is very bright; and now your jacket, child, and then we'll be off, for I don't know what Wilson will say, if we keep the horses waiting." "There, Alice dearie," said her mother as she tied the strings of her hood, and gave her an encouraging kiss.

" This is a treat ! I don't know what father will say when he hears of it." "Now, Alice," said Mrs Bernard, seeing the uncertain, shuffling steps of her little companion, " give me your arm, for remember I'm getting an old woman, and am not so active as I used to be, and I find your steep path rather difficult to scramble up." The steep and rugged ascent accomplished, and the road reached, Alice was helped into the carriage, and then they rolled quickly away. Poor Alice felt dreadfully shy at first, and could only answer "yes" and "no" to all Mrs Bernard's remarks ; but presently she became quite in terested in Mrs Bernard's account of Italy, where she and Mr Bernard had spent the winter, he having been ordered abroad for his health, which had suffered from his exertions during the fever. Once, even, Alice so far forgot herself as quite to laugh out, at the description Mrs Bernard gave of some little Roman beggars, and though she turned very red, and felt dreadfully ashamed of it, still the laugh (the first she had had for many months) did her good, and when she arrived at the Rectory, she did not feel quite so miserable a little girl as she had done for some time past.

CONEYCREEK. 14 " Now, Alice," said Mrs Bernard, " you must have your tea first, and then come into tbe drawing-room to speak to the Rector," and she took Alice into the housekeeper's room. Mrs Morrison (for this was the name of the house keeper) had been many years at the Rectory, and was much respected in the village. She received Alice very kindly, placed her in her own armchair, and gave her an excellent tea, with plenty of jam and cakes ; then, when she could eat no more, she took her to the drawing-room door, and there left her. " Well, Alice, have you had a good tea ? " said Mrs Bernard as she came to meet her, and led her into the room, and up to a tall old gentleman standing by the fire. " Here, George," she continued, " I've brought little Alice Dale to see you. You scarcely expected to see her again when we left home last year, did you?"

" No, indeed, I did not at one time. How are you, Alice 1 Going on well now ? but not very strong yet, I am afraid ? " Alice dropped a low curtsey, but did not speak, so Mr Bernard went on, — " And now I've got a little business to transact with you. I want you to knit me a pair of stockings by next Christmas. Mrs Bernard says you used to be a first-rate knitter when you were at school. What do you say ? Do you think you could do them ? " " You forget, sir, I can't," said Alice in a low voice. " Ah ! poor child, I know what you mean, but you'll soon learn, and it will help to pass the time, which I daresay often seems very long. So you'll try ? That's right ; and I'll engage for you to find half-a-crown in each toe when they are finished. There now, it is a bargain, so shake hands over it."

A RAY OF HOPE. 15 Alice smiled and held out her hand, while she again dropped a low curtsey. " Now, little woman, haven't you a word for me 1 " said a kind, grave voice beside her. " Here take off your hood and turn round to the light. I've heard so often from Mrs Bernard of the Oakenthorpe children, that I am quite curious to see one." Alice turned round and looked up. Sbe could not see the start that Dr Hallam gave when he saw her face, but she almost felt the deep, searching eyes that were fixed on hers. Suddenly an idea flashed into her mind, which brought the colour rushing to her pale cheeks, and made her breath come quick and short, while she gasped out with clasped hands and quivering voice, — '• Oh ! sir, can you make me see ? " " Why, child, what do you take me for ? " I thought perhaps you were a doctor, and would help me," faltered Alice ; and the change that came over her face showed how eagerly she had caught at the slightest ray of hope, and how bitter was the disappointment as she saw it fading from her grasp.

Every atom of colour fled from her face, and she trembled so much that Dr Hallam hastened to place her on the sofa and to call for a glass of water. " There, drink that," he said, holding the glass to her lips ; and when the colour gradually returned to her cheeks he added, " you were quite right in taking me for a doctor, and thinking I would help you if I could." He then went on to ask Alice several questions about her eyes and her general health, and at last he said, — "If anything can be done, it will only be by a painful CONEYCREEK. 16 operation, and as the success of it is very doubtful, I scarcely like to recommend it." " Ob, sir ! " said Alice, starting to her feet, " I can bear anything, any pain, if only I could see again. Do try me and I won't make a sound." " Well it would not be just yet, you are not strong enough yet for an operation, but I will send you something to strengthen you ; and if I think we can do you any good, I will get you into a London Hospital, where I shall have you under my own eye."

" God bless you, Alice," said Mr Bernard as he wished her good-bye, " and may it please Him to restore your sight. I hope and trust He will, but don't be too sure of it ; and if not, you must ask Him to give you help to bear it." Alice was now sent home in the carriage, with Mrs Morrison to take care of her ; but she was in such a hurry and excitement to tell her mother the good news, that she could scarcely keep quiet, or sit still, till the carriage arrived at Coneycreek. There was her mother waiting at the gate for her, for the children had been climbing to the top of the hill and back for the last hour, that they might catch the first sight of the carriage as it emerged from the Croft Wood, fully a mile from their cottage. " Oh ! mother," exclaimed Alice, almost strangling her mother with the hugs she gave her, " he says he'll make ine see ! — at least, he says, perhaps, he can, but I know he can, for he lives in London, and he is ever so clever.

Mrs Morrison says he is cleverer than a Parliament man ; she says he can take people's eyes out and give them new ones as good as ever — and oh ! I don't care how much it hurts. And I shall see you agaiD, mother, and the sea and the A RA Y OF HOPE. 17 flowers — and — oh ! I am so happy ; " and by way of showing how happy, Alice burst into tears, the excitement being almost too much for her. She soon, however, recovered herself, and was laughing her old merry laugh, which had not been heard in the cottage since her illness. Mrs Dale had got a famous supper ready for her after her drive, to which even little Janie was allowed to sit up. " I wish father was here," said Alice, who kept up a constant chatter all supper-time. " I want so to tell him, for he will be pleased, dear father, and you, mother," she said, jumping up and putting her arms round her mother's neck.

" I am so sorry I've been so cross ; it was so bad of me when you've been so kind and so good to me. Forgive me, mother, and ask God to forgive me too." " Bless, you my darling, I've nothing to forgive ; you've always been a good child to me, and if you have been a bit cross at times, it's not to be wondered at, but I am glad to see my own little bright Alice again. But now, children, it's high time you were all in bed. Why, there is Janie can scarcely keep her eyes open, so, Ruth, you put her to bed while I help Alice." That night 'when Mrs Dale went to bed herself, and saw the flushed cheeks of her little girl, and the happy smile that still lingered about her mouth, she dreaded to think how bitter would be the disappointment, if after all, her hopes had been raised in vain. For some time after her interview with Dr Hallam, Alice was a totally different child ; all her old good-temper and cheerfulness had come back to her, now that the crushing prospect of a blind and miserable life had been removed.

She no longer spent whole days out of doors brooding over B CONEYCREEK. 18 her misery, but she set to work at once on Mr Bernard's stockings, and though at first, she found it slow, groping work, she persevered, and amused herself, while knitting, with all sorts of plans for spending the two half-crowns she was to receive when they were finished. Before long, the strengthening medicine arrived from Dr Hallam, and that, and the bright hope within her, soon made Alice look very unlike the pale, unhappy child we first saw her. What a change it all made in the cottage, too, for a complete gloom had been thrown over it while she was cross and melancholy ; but now she was bright and happy again the other children were so too, and brought all their little tales of joy and sorrow to her, as formerly, being sure of a ready and sympathising ear.