“If you wish,” said M. Rivals, one evening, “we will go to-morrow to the vintage at Coudray; the farmer will send his wagon; you two can go in that in the morning, and I will join you at dinner.”
They accepted the proposition with delight. They started on a bright morning at the end of October. A soft haze hung over the landscape, retreating before them, as it seemed; upon the mown fields and on the bundles of golden grain, upon the slender plants, the last remains of the summer’s brightness, long silken threads floated like particles of gray fog. The river ran on one side of the highway, bordered by huge trees. The freshness of the air heightened the spirits of the two young travellers, who sat on the rough seat with their feet in the straw, and holding on with both hands to the side of the wagon. One of the farmer’s daughters drove a young ass, who, harassed by the wasps, which are very numerous at the time when the air is full of the aroma of ripening fruits, impatiently shook his long ears.
They went on and on until they reached a hill-side, where they saw a crowd at work. Jack and Cécile each snatched a wicker basket and joined the others. What a pretty sight it was! The rustic landscape seen between the vine-draped arches, the narrow stream, winding and picturesque, full of green islands, a little cascade and its white foam, and above all, the fog showing through a golden mist, and a fresh breeze that suggested long evenings and bright fires.
This charming day was very short, at least so Jack found it. He did not leave Cécile’s side for a minute. She wore a broad-brimmed hat and a skirt of flowered cambric. He filled her basket with the finest of the grapes, exquisite in their purple bloom, delicate as the dust on the wings of a butterfly. They examined the fruit together; and when Jack raised his eyes, he admired on the cheeks of the young girl the same faint, powdery bloom. Her hair, blown in the wind in a soft halo above her brow, added to this effect. He had never seen a face so changed and brightened as hers. Exercise and the excitement of her pretty toil, the gayety of the vineyard, the laughs and shouts of the laborers, had absolutely transformed M. Rivals’ quiet housekeeper. She became a child once more, ran down the slopes, lifted her basket on her shoulder, watched her burden carefully, and walked with that rhythmical step which Jack remembered to have seen in the Breton women as they bore on their heads their full water-jugs. There came a time in the day when these two young persons, overwhelmed by fatigue, took their seats at the entrance of a little grove where the dry leaves rustled under their feet.
And then? Ah, well, they said nothing. They let the night descend softly on the most beautiful dream of their lives; and when the swift autumnal twilight brought out in the darkness the bright windows of the simple homes scattered about, the wind freshened, and Cécile insisted on fastening around Jack’s throat the scarf she had brought, the warmth and softness of the fabric, the consciousness of being cared for, was like a caress to the lover.
He took her hand, and her fingers lingered in his for a moment; that was all. When they returned to the farm the doctor had just arrived; they heard his cheery voice in the courtyard. The chill of the early autumnal evenings has a charm that both Cécile and Jack felt as they entered the large room filled with the light from the fire. At supper innumerable dusty bottles were produced, but Jack manifested profound indifference to their charms. The doctor, on the contrary, fully appreciated them, so fully that his granddaughter quietly left her seat, ordered the carriage to be harnessed, and wrapped herself in her cloak. Dr. Rivals seeing her in readiness, rose without remonstrance, leaving on the table his half-filled glass.
The three drove home, as in the olden days, through the quiet country roads; the cabriolet, which had increased in size as had its occupants, groaned a little on its well-used springs. This noise took nothing from the charm of the drive, which the stars, so numberless in autumn, seemed to follow with a golden shower.
“Are you cold, Jack?” said the doctor, suddenly.
How could he be cold? The fringe of Cécile’s great shawl just touched him.
Alas! why must there be a to-morrow to such delicious days? Jack knew now that he loved Cécile, but he realized also that this love would be to him only an additional cause of sorrow. She was too far above him, and although he had changed much since he had been so near her, although he had thrown aside much of the roughness of his habits and appearance, he still felt himself unworthy of the lovely fairy who had transformed him.