THE PICNIC AT THE FALLS
The morning rose in mist; the sun moved upwards and still the mist lingered, as if anxious to drape and hide the rough edges of this oddly-arranged picnic.
Sometimes the wagonette in front was lost to sight by a rolling curtain of gauze; sometimes a wind swept the road clear and then the children waved hats and kissed hands to each other.
Dora and Beatrice were visions of beauty and fashion in smartly-cut linen gowns and the latest thing in stocks and belts and shoes and hats and gloves and parasols; not over-dressed in the least, but so correct, so up-to-date, so “well-planned,” Miss Bibby involuntarily drew a heavy sigh as she looked at them.
In their turn the two young girls pleasantly patronized Miss Bibby. It was the first time they had seen her, though they had heard of her often, and indeed were a little anxious to meet her, for Mrs. Gowan had teased Hugh [p244] before them, ever since the interview, about the “fair and mysterious Miss Bibby.” But this figure in its plain blue serge and its out-of-date, if spotless, cuffs and collar! This gentle, tired face with faint lines at the eye corners and its brown hair simply waved back from the forehead instead of bulging out on a frame as Fashion insisted!
“We need not have been afraid,” they whispered to each other.
Effie and Florence, second and third in age of the five little Gowans and mustering some fifteen years between them, sat up on the box next the driver and whispered together. All the way they hardly moved their eyes from the wagonette in front, where the faces of their loved little friends appeared and disappeared like flowers of the vapour.
The driver was an unemotional man, long used to being squeezed up on his seat by more people than that seat was ever built to accommodate; used, too, to having his ears filled with every sort and condition of conversation. City men talked to each other beside him of stocks and shares; tourists compared the views along the roads with New Zealand views, and American ones and German and Swiss: mothers babbled of their babies and their servants; girls whispered to girls of “Jack” and “Jim”—lovers—and these allowed him more seat space—of love.
[p245]
Why should he lend a more than quarter ear as usual to the chatter of two little bits of girls? How should he know the demure holland frocks beside him covered revolutionists?
Hugh started off his first party, Paul and Lynn, Muffie and Max and Miss Bibby.
The children besought him to come, too.
“It will be just a common picnic, if you don’t,” Pauline said, looking disparagingly round her family party.
Hugh promised to divide his time equally between his two sets of guests.
“Let the boys bring your basket down with the other things, Miss Bibby,” he said, seeking to relieve her of a tiny basket she carried, “then you will have your hands free when you come to the ladder.”
“Thank you, it is very light, I can manage it quite well,” said Miss Bibby, holding fast to the handle.
“It’s her lunch,” volunteered the ever ready Muffie, “she doesn’t eat things like you’ve got. But we do,—and we’re getting hungry now, aren’t we, Paul?”
“Rather!” said Paul. “Can we begin to set the tables as soon as we get down?”
Hugh looked disappointedly at the miserable little basket.
“Won’t you even make a feast and be merry to-day?” he said.
[p246]
Miss Bibby glanced away from the kindly eyes. How could they look so clear and merry when he had stolen the work of her brain?
“Thank you,” she said coldly, “I prefer my own things.” And when he turned away instantly, quite hurt at the unfriendly tone, she caught hold of Max’s hand and began the steep descent with a mist, not entirely of the mountains, blinding her eyes. For she was heartsick this morning, and it was not only the loss of the story that had occasioned the wretchedness, but her faith and admiration for this man had been torn away so roughly that certain sensations she hardly realized seemed numbed.
“Come along, dear, hold my hand,” she said to Max,—“Lynn, Muffie,—walk carefully! Hold to the rail at the steep places, Paul.”
But she always said this as a matter of duty, and equally as a matter of duty they never heeded her, for even Max knew every step of the way and had manfully climbed the ladders alone, and crept sure-footed over the great fallen trees that formed bridges, since he was three.
Down, down they went through the exquisite gorge; greener and still more green grew the way as the path wound farther and farther away from the sunburnt lands overhead. Giant tree ferns grouped themselves [p247] together in one place and in another guarded the path in sentinel-like rows. You looked up and sheer walls of rock towered thousands of feet above your head—brown, naked, rugged walls here—and there, where the waterfalls dripped, clothed in a marvellous mantle of young ferns. Here a huge, jagged promontory stretched across your way, and the diplomatic path, unable to force a way through, simply ceased in its downward bent, and with handrails and steps led you up again.
As a reward for expended breath, a rail at the top encircled a stone peninsula and gave you a resting-place and an outlook—an outlook startlingly beautiful by reason of its unexpectedness. For the promontory had hidden the valley’s loveliness, and here you found a sudden glorious peep at it. And then your eyes looking down, down below the rail, saw that cascades had met and the water was plunging in a wide glistening sheet down the dizzy height.
The path led downwards again; the heart of the traveller has seen the falling of the water and cannot have its desire until it stands somewhere where the same down-dropping stream forms a deep pool and ceases.
Down, down they went, Miss Bibby, Muffie and Max leading and, far behind, Pauline and Lynn, lingering as was their wont (they had a passion for pretending they were wandering [p248] quite alone in the gully)—but occasionally sending downwards a cooee to assure Miss Bibby of their safety.
They were dangling their legs on a seat in “The Lovers’ Cave,” two little figures in blue zephyr, when Paul gave a sudden exclamation of dismay.
“Quick, quick,” she said, “we’re going too slowly. Here come the others.”
She seized Lynn’s hand and the two began to hurry along the path again, for at a bend just above them were the holland frocks and mushroom hats of Florence and Effie.
Down, down, a hundred steps here, round a bend there, down a damp ladder, hard as they could go, and yet the holland frocks gained on the blue every moment. Lynn was panting, Pauline’s face streamed with perspiration, and still they sought to increase the distance; they could not have run more conscientiously from their little friends if they had been lepers.
But on, on, resistlessly came the holland frocks. Driven to bay Paul wheeled round—“We can’t go any faster,” she shouted desperately, “you’ll just have to sit down and wait.”
“Driven to bay Paul wheeled round.”
On, on came Florence and Effie while Lynn who had pulled up, too, regarded them in horror. When they were within a distance of ten feet she caught at Pauline’s hand and [p249] began to run again. But the newcomers who had dropped into a comfortable walk began to run even faster.
Paul and Lynn dodged into “Lurline’s Bower” that came along opportunely.
“We’ll wait here while you go past as you’re in such a hurry,” Paul shouted.
But the holland frocks came on steadily, steadily till they stood in the opening of the bower, till they crushed themselves on the very seat with the amazed blue ones.
“You’ll catch our whooping,” began Paul.
“We want to,” said Effie and Florence succinctly.
“But—but—” said Paul and Lynn agitatedly.
“It’s all right,” said Florence, “we ’cided all about it coming along, didn’t we, Eff? It’s we’s who haves to cough, not mother, an’ we don’t mind, do we, Eff?”
“Not a bit,” said Effie stoutly.
“But,” said Paul, looking at the opening of the bower as if she would dash out, “we promised your mother.”
Effie and Florence cut off any possible escape by jumping up and standing with their backs to the opening. “It’s too late, we’ve caught it by now,—haven’t we, Eff?” said Florence.
“Of course we have,” said Effie, “we’ve [p250] got it as much as you have now. Oh we are glad. Aren’t we, Florence?”
“Rather,” said Florence.
“Won’t your Aunt Kate be coming after you?” asked Paul, looking fearfully along the side of the gorge for the sight of a stout figure of vengeance crushing downwards to separate them.
“She thinks we’re only a little way in front,” chuckled the naughty children.
“But who’s taking care of you?” persisted Paul.
“Oh, Miss Dora and Miss Bee said they would, but they always let us do anything,” said Effie easily, “it was such a lovely chance.”
“Well, I think you are big sillies,” said Pauline virtuously, but she began untwisting Effie’s tight brown curls and twisting them together again in the way she had ever loved to do.
While as to Lynn and Florence, they were almost rubbing noses in the joy of the reunion.
“It’s just too dreadful at the hotel,” said Effie, “we’d rather be at school. There’s nothing to do all day.”
“’Cept walk along the road with nurse, and mind you don’t get your good school frock spoiled”—Effie’s was the complaint. “Can’t have fun in the hotel garden or you spoil their silly old beds.”
[p251]
“Can’t shout in the house or a lot of old ladies put their fingers up at you.”
“Can’t make a mud pie like at your house, ’cause you’ve got to be clean all the time.”
The angry duet went on and on till the spirits of the little holland frocks were somewhat relieved, after the restrictions imposed upon them by the residence of their parents for a “holiday” in a fashionable hotel.
“We just long and long for ‘Greenways’.”
“We talk in bed about the fun we used to have in the orchard till we nearly cry. Don’t we, Eff?”
“Rather,” said Effie, mournfully, “but now we’ll be able to come, ’cause we’ll all have whooping cough, too. Frank and Ted and Nellie all say they’d rather have it than stop away from ‘Greenways’ any longer.”
Up through the ferns came the thin note of Miss Bibby’s cooee.
“Coo-ee-ee,” shouted Pauline instantly in return. Then looked a little troubled, for cooee was to be interpreted that all was well.
“At all events it’s not our fault,” she said resignedly.
A stout figure of vengeance was indeed coming along the path in the shape of Uncle Hugh.
Tiny Nellie Gowan who could never keep a secret ten minutes had suddenly revealed the horrifying fact that “Effie and Florence were [p252] going to run and run till they catched the whooping cough and all could go to Muffie’s house again.”
So Hugh had followed in their wake promptly enough, but then he was stout, while they were slim, and the race was consequently not to him.
He drove Paul and Lynn downwards with threats of dry bread and spring water for lunch. And he bore his nieces, who cheerfully exculpated their friends from blame, back to the tables at the foot of the first Fall, where Kate and the others were beginning to spread the lunch.
And here nothing in the shape of wrath and reproaches and argument could shake them from the position behind which they had entrenched themselves, namely that since the coughing would have to be done by themselves it mattered nothing to anybody if the affliction came upon them.
Kate unpacked the baskets with a melancholy air. It was useless, of course, to preserve an appearance of anger towards the offenders, but a bad quarter of an hour was undoubtedly in store for her with their mother.
Hugh was optimistic. He declared that the whooping cough microbe meeting the fresh air microbe on such a fighting ground as a mountain gully would be “laid out in one act.”
[p253]
He stretched himself along a seat and indulged in a smoke after his exertions, while Kate and Florence and Effie made all ready for lunch.
Dora and Beatrice had gone to sit in the “Lovers’ Nook” and try to feel romantic. Kate had rejected their offers of assistance in her work.
“Why did you send away my little girls?” said Hugh lazily,—“I don’t mean bad little girls like those,” he looked at the shamelessly cheerful Florence and Effie, who were gathering ferns for the tables, “but my good little girls.”
“Silly little things,” said Kate, “they get on my nerves frightfully. I wanted to keep my faculties clear for my work.”
“Ah,” said Hugh, looking at his pipe, “they strike you that way, do they, K? They seem rather charming to me to-day. Perhaps apart—one cannot have both unfortunately—perhaps one at a time, K, they might seem to have more—er sense, eh?”
His hat was over his eyes, Kate could only see his mouth.
“Oh, my little me,” said the woman’s heart, “the boy is serious!”
She cut up a lettuce before she could trust herself to speak and even ate a few shreds in her agitation.
When she did speak her tone was motherly.
[p254]
“Hughie,” she said, “they are charming little girls,—for a summer day on the mountain. But we’re in our autumn now, you and I, and for daily companionship I assure you you would get more satisfaction from Lynn or Muffie.”
The hat was pushed an inch or two lower still.
“K—you’re a good sort, of course, but—I get lonely sometimes, girl.”
“Yes, yes, boy. God knows it’s natural. But—not a pretty butterfly, Hugh. A woman nearer your own age, dear boy, some one to be a restful companion for you, able to appreciate your work, and fit in with your angles instead of your having to attempt to unmake yourself at your age and fit into hers.”
“All right, don’t disturb me, I’m going to sleep,” said Hugh sulkily. What was the use of asking a woman’s advice on any subject under the sun?
The escaped caddies brought down more hampers. In the strap of one of them were the morning letters, forgotten till now.
Hugh opened them irritably, while Kate meekly went on with her task of making a salad.
She was engaged in the critical operation of squeezing the juice from her sliced cucumber, by pressing the top plate heavily down on the bottom one, when the author gave so sudden [p255] and strong an exclamation that she dropped the whole concern.
“What Tommy rot is this?” he demanded of her angrily. “What lunatic trick have you played me now, Kate? Where’s the last number of the Melbourne Review?”
She took the letter from his hand and read it. It was from the editor of the Review, a one time “chief” of Hugh’s.
“I enclose you cheque for ten guineas as arranged,” it said, “and, of course, now you’re a celebrity, old man, I’ve had to print it and be thankful. But you wouldn’t have had the cheek to send me a rotter of a story like that six years ago, and you know it. You want a change, that’s what it is, old man, you’re attempting too much. Take a run over to New Zealand, or go home. And if you’ve been turning out any more stories like this choice Hypocrites, take my advice and burn ’em before you blast your brand-new reputation.”
“Where’s the last Melbourne Review, I ask you?” roared Hugh. As if it were part of Kate’s duty to bring files of the latest magazines with her to picnics!
She delved instantly into her memory to try to help him; another woman might have chosen the moment to sulk, offended at his tone.
“It came on Thursday,” she said, “I [p256] remember tearing a page out to make a boat for Muffie—I meant to have torn an advertisement page, but found later it had part of a story of yours on it.”
“What was the tale called?”
“The Hypocrites.”
“And my signature to it?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Great heavens, girl, don’t you see what your carelessness has done? You’ve sent that confounded woman’s tale to the editor as my work!”
Kate was forced gently to remind him that he had enclosed the MS himself in an envelope and addressed it to a typist with instructions to forward to the Review.
Hugh sat down chapfallen. “What a fool I am!” he groaned. “The tale was unspeakable. It is enough to ruin any reputation. And Wilkie’s not the man to retract either; he’ll tell me the mistake’s my own and I’ll have to grin and bear the ignominy.”
“And that poor girl,” said Kate—“her story lost to her! No wonder I couldn’t find her MS. I meant to have made you hunt for it to-day, but this picnic put it out of my head.”
And now Hugh gave a sudden roar of laughter.
“By George, K,” he said, “don’t you see the shrieking humour of the situation? The [p257] woman thinks I’ve boned her precious story. That’s why she has been treating me with such cold dignity. Oh, hold me up, hold me up, I feel ill!”
But soon his hilarity sobered. The situation also had a pathetic side. He remembered the quiet shining of the authoress’s eyes when she gave him the unfortunate roll of MS. What must she be thinking of him?
“K,” he said, “I’m going down at once to explain to Miss Bibby.”
“But what will Dora and Beatrice say?” said Kate doubtfully.
“Oh, hang Dora and Beatrice,” said their gallant host, “you’ll have to make an excuse for me. Besides, Agnes Bibby is as much my guest as they are. I’ll eat my chicken down there and my strawberries up here. You’ve sent everything down for them, haven’t you.”
“Everything,” said K.
“Champagne?”
“Oh no—Miss Bibby does not touch such things, I know.”
“Give me a bottle of champagne?”
Kate handed him one and he tucked it under his arm.
“Forgive my spleen, old girl,” he said, his hand held out. “I fear there’s a good deal of the unvarnished brute in me.”
“Yes, you want a tamer, my boy,” said Kate, squeezing his hand.
[p258]
“Well,” said Hugh, “I’ll go and make my expiation. Again. I seem to be always doing it. I tell you what it is, K, if I injure that girl again I’ll have to marry her.”
He went swinging off at a comfortable jog-trot down the path, his bottle sticking out from beneath one arm.
A look of thoughtful surprise dawned in Kate’s eyes.
“And upon my soul you might do worse,” she said—“you might do worse.”
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