“I feel like the ‘linen-draper bold,’ in the ballad,” said Mr. Boniface, with his hearty laugh. “But I have taken precautions, you see, against a similar catastrophe. We have had more than the ‘twice ten tedious years’ together, have we not, Loveday?”
“Yes,” she said, with her sweet, expressive smile, “we are just beginning the twenty-seventh, Robin, and have had many holidays, unlike Mr. and Mrs. Gilpin.”
They were still like lovers, this husband and wife of twenty-six years’ standing; and it was with a sort of consciousness that they would be happier if left to themselves, that Frithiof, who sat between Mrs. Boniface and Cecil, turned toward the latter, and began to talk to her.
Cecil was looking her very best that day. The sun lighted up her fair hair, the fresh wind brought a glow of healthy color to her cheeks, her honest gray eyes had lost the grave look which they usually wore, and were bright and happy-looking; for she was not at all the sort of girl, who, because she could not get her own wish, refused to enjoy life. She took all that came to her brightly enough, and, with a presentiment that such a treat as this drive with Frithiof would not often fall to her lot, she gave herself up to present happiness, and put far from her all anxieties and fears for the future. From the back seat, peals of laughter from Lance, and Gwen, and Swanhild reached them. In front, by the side of the driver, they could see Roy and Sigrid absorbed in their own talk; and with such surroundings it would have been hard indeed if these two, the Norwegian, with his sad story, and Cecil, with her life overshadowed by his trouble, had not been able for a time to throw off everything that weighed them down, and enjoy themselves like the rest.
“This is a thousand times better than a cariole or a stolkjaerre,” said Frithiof. “What a splendid pace we are going at, and how well you see the country! It is the perfection of traveling.”
“So I think,” said Cecil. “At any rate, on such a day as this. In rain, or snow, or burning heat, it might be rather trying. And then, of course, in the old days we should not have had it all snugly to ourselves like this; which makes such a difference.”
He thought over those last words for a minute, and reflected how among “ourselves” Cecil included the little children of a criminal, and the foreigners who had scarcely been known to them for two years. Her warm, generous heart had for him a very genuine attraction. Possibly, if it had not been for that chance meeting with Blanche, which had caused an old wound to break out anew, some thought of love might have stirred in his breast. As it was, he was merely grateful to her for chasing away the gloom that for the last few days had hung about him like a fog. She was to him a cheering ray of sunshine; a healthy breeze that dispersed the mist; a friend—but nothing more.
On they drove, free of houses at last, or passing only isolated farms, little villages, and sleepy country towns. The trees were in all the exquisite beauty of early June, and the Norwegians, accustomed to less varied foliage, were enthusiastic in their admiration. They had never known before what it was to drive along a road bordered by picturesque hedges, with stately elms here and there, and with oaks and beeches, sycamores and birches, poplars and chestnuts scattered in such lavish profusion throughout the landscape.
“If we can beat you in mountains, you can certainly beat us in trees!” cried Sigrid, her blue eyes bright with happiness.
She was enjoying it all as only those who have been toiling in a great town can enjoy the sights and sounds of the country. The most humdrum things had an attraction for her, and when they stopped by and by for tea, at a little roadside inn, she almost wished their drive at an end, such a longing came over her to run out into the fields and just gather flowers to her heart’s content.