“Well, Mrs. Sandford,” he resumed, when he had courteously greeted each in turn, his eye resting for a moment, with evident admiration upon the rosy, fresh-faced Scotch lassie,—“I hope you are prepared in the goodness of your heart, to extend a little toleration to a reprobate Republican like me. I’ll try not to wound your sensibilities quite so much, this time!”
“Oh, you didn’t hurt me at all!” said that lady, good-humoredly. “I know you don’t mean any harm; it’s the way you were brought up. But you must not put traitorous ideas into these young people’s heads. There’s Kate, now——”
But here that young woman hastily interposed: “Would you mind getting us another seat, Mr. Winthrop?” said she, “Miss Macnab is quite in the sun.”
Mr. Winthrop at once performed the suggested service, and then, the previous topic having been shunted off, the whole party surrendered themselves to the dreamy charm of the afternoon—of the golden sunshine and dappling shade, that threw such a spell of beauty over the undulating shore, with its yellow harvest-fields and deep, green woods, country houses gleaming white through trees, and comfortable farmhouses nestling amid bowery orchards, beginning to be weighed down with their load of fruit.
The real width of the river, here about eight miles, is at some points narrowed down to apparently two or three miles and sometimes much less, by the large islands that divide it and extend for some twenty miles below Kingston. One of these—Howe Island, named after a British general—cuts off a very picturesque channel down which lay the course of their boat. At intervals of a few miles, the boat stopped at primitive wharves, where the country folk, who had been to market, landed with their innumerable parcels and baskets, of all shapes and sizes, farming implements, perambulators, etcetera. At one landing they put ashore a pile of dressed lumber—at another, a horse; at still another, the heterogeneous mass of luggage belonging to a family “going into villegiatura”—as Mrs. Sandford put it—including a great box containing a parlor organ. For the farmer-folk their horses and conveyances were patiently waiting, and very soon they might be seen driving slowly homewards along the country roads that followed the curve of the shore, or struck back among the fields and woods. A beautiful, new, varnished boat that had excited Hugh’s rather envious admiration from the time he came on board, was at last unshipped and rowed away by its happy owner, whose camping outfit proclaimed that he was bound on a delightful holiday. Here and there they caught glimpses of white tents and gay flags, where lived a little community of campers, who waved their handkerchiefs as the boat went by; and cheered as if a steamboat were a new and unheard-of triumph of inventive skill. At one point, the shore of the island to their right, rose picturesquely into high banks clothed with a rich growth of light, fluttering birch and sombre cedar, the contrast of which delighted the travelers. There was quite a romantic-looking landing here, beside an old ruined lime-kiln, and the road wound picturesquely up the wooded height, the two or three figures seen walking up the winding path, as the boat receded, looking—May declared—“just like people in the beginning of a story.”
“And so they are—or in the middle of it,” said Mr. Winthrop. “Each of us is living in a story of our own, after all, and I suppose each would have its own interest if it could only be read just as it is.”
“Only some stories are more interesting than others,” suggested Hugh.
“And those people evidently think theirs is particularly interesting just now,” remarked Kate, for they were just passing a little cluster of tiny cottages and tents, where a large and merry party were summering, with much display of bright bunting and many skiffs; and where young and old alike seemed to get into a state of wild excitement as the boat passed, saluting her with horns and a white flutter of handkerchiefs that might have passed for a flight of pigeons. The captain of the steamboat courteously returned the salute with his steam whistle, with the laconic remark: “Makes them feel happy,” which seemed true, for the demonstrations were renewed with fresh vigor and continued till the little encampment was out of sight.
But the dark thunder-clouds had been again stealing up behind them, and now the lights on the shore and the foliage disappeared, the cedars looking especially sombre in the growing gloom.
“There’s a squall coming down the river,” said Hugh Macnab, who had been watching from the stern the pretty grouping of the small islands that here studded the channel.