These were indeed golden and enchanted hours. For all her slowness of speech and action the Goose Girl had a certain animation and inward fire when in her true Slocum Magna form. Little of it had been seen in Hill Street, for amid that rather dismal splendor she was a bird in a cage. But now with the freedom of the mountains conferred upon her, with Jim upon one hand and Muffin upon the other, existence was a carol. The old glories of the Red House at Widdiford were revived.
These joys continued during a number of glorious and golden days. Cheriton, secure in his prize, was in no hurry to impale his butterfly. She was a charming picture, and he would claim her at his leisure. In the meantime let her garner up a store of health and vigor upon the mountains in the society of her peers. For, truth to tell, the bridegroom-elect was apt to get fatigued rather easily, and it was really more satisfying to share a red umbrella with an intellectual equal and to discuss the French writers beside the lake.
Therefore, with that humane wisdom which distinguished him above other men, Cheriton was content that each of them should continue in their paradise as long as it could possibly endure. Things were going very well as they were. Why disturb them? The prize was secure. Caroline Crewkerne had given her sanction and had written to her lawyer upon the subject. There was really no more to be said. Why imperil the perfect harmony of the passing hour? All in good season; when there were no mountains, no lakes, no cloudless August skies, no red umbrellas, no green frocks, no singularly companionable, cultivated, and agreeable students of the best French literature, would be the time to speak of love.
Yes, Cheriton was a cool hand. Indeed, so much so that Caroline Crewkerne was a little inclined to doubt his bona fides.
“I have not seen the creature in tears yet,” said she three days after that memorable night in which the compact was made.
“Do not let us commit the indiscretion, my dear Caroline,” said the happy wooer, in his most musical manner, “of acting prematurely. I have always been a believer in laissez faire. If things are going obviously right, why disturb them? The creature rejoices like a lark in her youth, her companions, and her mountains. I am too old for mountains myself. But do not let us curtail her happiness by a single hour. And, upon my word, she seems to grow more glorious every time I look at her.”
“Humph!” said Caroline Crewkerne.
She was too wise to say anything else.
“Let us do nothing, my dear Caroline,” said the happy wooer, “to impede the spontaneous acquisition of health, vigor, gayety, and flowerlike simplicity. Upon my word, the bracing climate of the Welsh mountains has given her a fire and a gladness and natural spontaneity which I do not think even Borrow himself could wholly account for. It does one good to sit apart and see it grow.”
“Cheriton,” said Caroline Crewkerne, “if I had not the best of reasons to know the contrary I should think you were a fool.”