Part 3, Chapter XVII.
Smooth Waters.
”—The old June weather,
Blue above lane and wall.”
“You are quite sure of your own mind, Mysie?”
“Yes, Hugh. I am quite certain.”
“Because I ought to set before you that you might do much better for yourself. You have seen very few people, and I ought not to let you act upon impulse,” said Hugh, in the driest of voices.
Mysie had been prepared for this appeal; and, though she blushed crimson and kept her eyes on her lap, she replied, not by protestations, but by the arguments which she thought ought to prove convincing. Hugh had called her into the study, a little room looking out on the garden, and more or less appropriated to himself. There was another room which all the young men shared when at home, and where pipes, guns, dogs, and books were to be found in wild confusion; but this was Hugh’s sanctum, where he wrote letters and transacted business and possibly read the highly-respectable volumes that lined its wails. Mysie sat in a great leather chair by the window, with the flickering sun on her bright brown hair and the shadows of the roses on her gay green and white dress.
“I know,” she said modestly, but quite clearly, “that perhaps some one richer than Arthur might—might meet me by-and-by.”
“Exactly,” said Hugh.
“But then, Hugh, you cannot be sure of that, and what would it matter, when—when my mind was made up?”
“If you know your own mind, Mysie.”
“I might not know it if I had only just met him. People often make mistakes then. But—but—”
“Well,” said Hugh, kindly, as she stammered and stopped, “what is it, Mysie? Don’t be afraid. I only want to know your thoughts exactly.”
“I think,” said poor Mysie, though with much confusion, “that I ought to say them, as you seem to think it is I who have the advantage. I could never give Arthur up, and there will be plenty of time for you to see, as he says he thinks that—that—there must be a year at least. I would promise to tell you if I did change, and I should not mind not being called engaged to him, though he wishes it. I hope you believe me, because I know it depends on that.”
“Yes, Mysie,” said Hugh, “I believe you. You mean to say nothing can change your love for Arthur, no one could over-persuade you, no one could frighten you; you are so sure of it and of him that you don’t care for any outward tie to bind you?”
“Yes,” said Mysie, rather appalled at the emphasis with which this speech was uttered, but holding bravely to her colours; “that is what I mean. For you see, Hugh, we know all about each other so well.”
“Then, Mysie, I shall not consider it necessary to make any opposition.”
Mysie got up and said: “Thank you, Hugh,” and slowly moved away. She thought Hugh would have congratulated her and kissed her, as he had done all her life on set occasions; but he let her go in silence, and, left alone, stood staring into the empty grate with bitter thoughts in his heart. Here was this girl had won her way by her own fearless confidence, her absolute trust in herself and her lover. How fortune smiled on the wishes of this pair! How sure might Arthur be of his happy future! He turned restlessly round and, looking out of the window, saw Mysie run down the garden-path with flying feet, saw Arthur spring up from the grass, meet her, and draw her away into the shrubbery; heard the low murmur of their voices, and the gay, careless laughter, called forth by the reaction from Mysie’s anxiety and suspense. It was but a fortnight since he, too, had laughed idly and carelessly over Violante’s flowers; but a fortnight since he, too, had thought himself happy in his love. But he had lost his faith in the poor child who was all unknown and unvouched for, and she had had no power to stand up for herself. The difference between this perfectly simple, straightforward engagement and the foolish, impossible dream from which he told himself that it was well to wake struck him forcibly. It was the contrast between good and ill fortune, between success and failure. There were times when Hugh felt utterly miserable, and when the profound silence in which his short, wild love-story was buried was intolerable to him—thankful as he was for it in cooler moments; times when he longed so to hear Violante’s name that he felt the wildest desire to tell his foolish secret. It is needless to say that he never did tell it, not being of a confiding nature; but concealment is nearly as fatal, in many cases, to the temper as to the complexion; and poor Hugh was unaccountably and unromantically cross. Why, when Arthur was teaching his Skye terrier to jump over a stick, did Hugh feel that if that little beast jumped over at exactly the same height once more he must wring its neck? Why, when his mother complained that the rabbits had eaten her carnations, did he positively assert that no mortal rabbit could possibly have come near them. And was it not unworthy of him to feel so exceedingly irritated when Arthur produced the corpse of the offender, having shot it from his bedroom window the next morning in the act of eating the one remaining shoot? Why should he oppose the Mayor of Oxley on the subject of gas and the Rector of Redhurst about the new schools? He advocated neither physical nor mental darkness, and when he became aware that he was resting his objections on the colour of the bricks proposed to be used in the building he pulled himself up and gave in with a good grace. But, surely, anyone with ordinary self-control would not allow these trifles to irritate him. Hugh sometimes felt a dim suspicion that, though he had a very good self on the whole, controlling it was not his strong point. Moreover, Mrs Crichton had made the engagement an occasion for a great deal of country summer gaiety, and Hugh was persecuted by croquet and archery-parties, picnics and dances. He was usually very particular in what he called “doing his duty to society;” but now these things were intolerable to him; and, worst of all, perhaps, was the sunshiny, peaceful mirth of the happy love-story that was working itself out beside him. Arthur shrewdly suspected that there was something amiss with his cousin; but they were not on terms for him to invite a confidence, and he contented himself with the idea of consulting Jem, and by taking on himself, with unobtrusive good-nature, all the trouble of the many small arrangements that devolve on the young men of a country house in times of unusual gaiety, even to entertaining the visitors when Hugh might have been free from business and when a stroll with Mysie would have been far preferable to himself.
“Hugh doesn’t like it,” he would say; “and I think he’s rather out of sorts; so we mustn’t bother him.”
Hugh rewarded him by wondering how he could care for such trifles, and by somewhat despising the comfortable, unsentimental terms of the two lovers, even while he envied them only too bitterly.
Doubtless they were enviable; for in between-times many a sweet morsel fell to their lot, and one shining hour rested in Arthur’s memory in the days to come as the typical instance of the warm home-like sunshine, the everyday happiness, of the summer when he was engaged to Mysie.
Once upon a time—there seems no fitter beginning—on a still, hot summer afternoon, Arthur and Mysie went down the new-mown meadows to the water-side. They were going in a boat down the canal to where it joined the river at a place called Fordham Beeches, where Frederica and Flossy Venning were to meet them, having walked through the woods.
Oxley canal was but a canal. Its waters sparkled over no pebbles, revealed no pellucid depths; but to-day its dull and sluggish face reflected the “blue, unclouded weather,” and the slow oars splashed up living light. The speedwells were hardly faded, the pink bindweed blossomed all over its grassy edges. The flat meadows were green as emerald. Pollard willows hung over one side, and brightly-painted barges were tugged along by the towing-path on the other.
Arthur rowed slowly, and Mysie sat, in her big straw hat, facing him; and they talked of the time when they should live together in the old red-brick Bank House, in Oxley, unless Hugh married; and then there were the pretty little villas on the Redhurst road. They talked of ways and means, pounds, shillings, and pence; and laid their plans, and settled what they would and what they would not do; and how, in a year’s time, Hugh would be satisfied of Arthur’s capacity and steadiness, and would admit him to that share in the Bank proposed for him by his father. And, as they talked, they passed along the back of Redhurst village and past the turnip-fields, where the little partridges were beginning to run and flutter, and Hugh’s bit of copse, where little brown rabbits were already taking their evening airing.
“Too many by half,” said Arthur, and Mysie declared that he was cruel, as their course was stopped by Redhurst lock, rendered necessary by the more broken ground.
The lock-keeper’s little cottage, in a bower of vines, stood on one side; and Mysie blushed as she sat in the boat, for the men smiled as they greeted Arthur and responded to his remark on the rabbits; and the lock-keeper’s daughter—a tall girl, with fair hair flying in the sun—laughed as she curtseyed and called her little sister to “look at Miss Mysie.”
“Alice Wood sees us,” whispered Mysie.
“We can see Alice Wood,” said Arthur, as the nursery-gardener’s smart seedsman strolled by with a parcel, and whispered to the girl, who turned off giggling, shy of the young lady, who gave her a half-sympathetic smile as the boat slowly sank down—down into the cool, damp shadow—down below the steep, dank sides, below the sparkling water—till the great doors groaned back and they shot out into light and sunshine and life, again.
Mysie drew a long breath.
“I am glad to get out,” she said. “It seems like the bottom of the sea.”
Arthur laughed.
“I am afraid we shouldn’t make many scientific discoveries here. It would be hardly like dredging the deep sea-water.”
“Do you know,” said Mysie, “I always think of the bottom of the sea as if it was like Andersen’s Little Mermaid, with beautiful shells and strange creatures and coloured sea-weeds covering the poor drowned people like the leaves did the children in the wood?”
”‘Should toss with tangle and with shells,’” quoted Arthur. “I don’t think one associates the idea of rest with drowning.”
“Oh,” said Mysie, “I did, after I read that story. It was my great favourite.”
“You must show it to me. But I say, my darling, look out! That old swan wants your blue ribbons.”
The great majestic swan, with white ruffled plumes and fierce writhes of his long neck, bore down fiercely on them.
“Now, he has come down the river from Redhurst,” said Mysie. “Row faster, Arthur; he is horribly fierce, and, besides, the others will be tired of waiting.”
“Never mind them,” said Arthur, “we shall be in the river in a moment, and then we’re close on Fordham Beeches.”
So they sped on their way to where the canal joined the bed of the river, and here the banks were broken and picturesque; great yellow flags, and white star-like lilies grew in the shallow water; and now the great grey boles of Fordham Beeches appeared rising from their carpet of bright brown leaves.
“There are the girls,” said Mysie, waving her hand.
Arthur rested on his oars and tilted his hat back, with a sudden twinkle of consternation in his merry grey eyes:
“I say, Mysie, we’ve forgotten the basket!”
“Oh, my dear Arthur, what shall we do? You called me to look at that horrid little tom-tit just as I was going to give it to you. The strawberries and everything! And they have walked all these miles in the heat!”
“I know,” cried Arthur. “Don’t you say a word. I’ll settle it.”
And as they pulled into the landing and Flossy and Frederica ran down to meet them he called out:
“I say, Flossy, get into the boat. I’ve got such a splendid idea. We’ll go and eat strawberries at ‘The Pot of Lilies.’”
”‘The Pot of Lilies!’ But you’ve brought some strawberries, haven’t you?”
“Oh, never mind! It’s such a jolly place. You can get a capital glass of beer there, and it’s only fifty yards further on. Jump in, Freddie.”
“But, Arthur, are you quite sure it’s proper?” said Mysie.
“Proper? oh, dear, yes! No one there on a week-day.”
“Now, if you will humbly confess that you and Mysie forgot all about the provisions, and that you never thought of ‘The Pot of Lilies’ till this moment, we’ll come,” said Flossy.
“Flossy! I’ll confess I never heard of ‘The Pot of Lilies’ till Mysie mentioned that you and she rowed up here now and then of an evening! Come along. I’ll take care of you, and neither Hugh nor Miss Venning will come and proctorise us.”
“The Pot of Lilies” was a tiny public-house, so called from the lilies of the valley which were supposed to grow wild in Fordham Woods. It stood close by the water’s edge, with a little landing-place of its own, and a quaint, small-paned bow-window hanging over the river. Bright flowers grew on every window-sill and the Lily sign-board swung overhead. On one side was a garden, where arches and arbours, twined with creepers, shaded one or two little tables; for here, on fine Sunday evenings, Oxley and Redhurst sometimes came to tea.
Arthur sprang out of the boat and went in alone; but, soon reappearing, said:
“Come along; it’s all right,” and a very smiling hostess escorted the girls into the bow-windowed sitting-room while Arthur went to make his further arrangements.
There were china shepherds and great shells on the mantelpiece, queer coloured prints of the Queen and the Duke of Wellington on the wails, which were broken up by endless beams and cupboards.
“What a dear little room!” said Mysie; and, though the floor was sanded and there was a faint odour suggestive of beer and pipes, perhaps this only gave a slight flavour of novelty to the situation.
“I’m sure, Miss,” said the landlady, addressing Flossy, who looked the most responsible of the party, “I only wish the gentleman had sent his orders beforehand, for in the middle of the week, you see, Miss, we don’t have so much company. If you’ll excuse me, Miss—” and she vanished in search of various necessaries.
Arthur soon returned, saying:
“We’re going to have tea in an arbour. It’s a lovely spot!”
The three girls followed him down the little gravel path, bordered by box edgings, to an erection which was termed by the proprietress “the harbour,” and which was built of wood and partly shaded by an apple-tree. Monthly roses climbed up its trellis-work front; and stones, shells, and broken bottles were picturesquely disposed in heaps at its two sides. It contained some chairs and a round table, on which preparations for their meal were begun, and at present consisted of a cloth and large mustard-pot. This was, however, followed by slices of ham, bread and butter, and water-cresses, and by some tea, which—as neither young lady would take on herself to pour it out—Arthur superintended, and which proved so atrocious that he substituted ginger-beer for the girls and some bottled beer for himself. They might have drunk the tea, however, rejoicing; for they hardly knew whether the setting sun on the river or the steel forks and the great tall tumblers were the most delightful, so full of merriment were they at this unusual and amusing festivity, and they afforded quite as much amusement as they received; for hearty landlady and pretty barmaid knew well enough who these blushing, smiling, well-dressed young ladies were, and that Mr Arthur Spencer, of Redhurst, was engaged to one of them.
Presently strawberries and raspberries and currants, red, black, and white, appeared on the table.
“Mysie,” whispered Arthur, as he helped her to the fruit, “the Oxley folk always come out here for their wedding trip. If they’re very swell they stay a week. Shall we follow their example?”
Mysie, of course, blushed and bridled, and Arthur said aloud:
“I propose we come and have tea here every summer. This is the 15th of July; let us remember it next year.”
“Perhaps it will rain next year,” said Frederica.
“Then we will have tea inside the bow-window. What, Mysie! you’re not looking at your watch? It’s not time to go home.”
It proved, however, time to think of it; and after a little more lingering and a few more raspberries the four took boat again. Flossy and Frederica rowed home through the soft summer twilight, while Arthur and Mysie sat side by side in the stern. Mysie sang a melancholy little song about “days of old,” and how
“The sky was blue in the days of old,
But now it is always grey;”
and then they all laughed at the way they would describe what Arthur called “their little summer outing” to the home party, for the sentiment of Mysie’s song found no echo in the heart of any one of them.
But the moon rose, and the boat came to land at last; they came home through the meadows; and the tea-drinking at “The Pot of Lilies” was over.