The world had become just one year older from the day that Belle Mainwaring “refused” the young son of General Harding. The crake had returned to the cornfield, the cuckoo to the grove, and the nightingale once more filled the dells with its sweet nocturnal music.
As a tourist straying among the Chiltern Hills—with me almost an annual habit—I could perceive no change in their aspect. Nor did I find that much change had taken place in the “society” introduced in the early chapters of our story.
I met Miss Mainwaring at a private ball, that concluded an out-door archery meeting. She was still the reigning belle of the neighbourhood, though there were two or three young sprouts that promised soon to dispossess her. There was less talk of her becoming a bride than had been twelve months before; though she was followed by a train of admirers that appeared to have suffered but slight diminution—Henry Harding being the only one missing from the muster. I heard that his place had been supplied by his brother Nigel; though this was only whispered to me in conjecture by one that was present at the gathering, where was also Nigel Harding himself. Knowing somewhat of the nature of this young gentleman, I did not believe it true, but, strange enough, before leaving the ground I had convincing evidence that it was so.
These summer fêtes, when extended into the night, afford wonderful opportunities for flirtation—far more than the winter ball-room. The promenade which occurs during the intervals of the dance may be extended out of doors, along the gravelled walks, or over the soft grassy turf of the shrubbery. It is pleasant thus to escape from the heated air of the drawing-room—improvised for the night into a ball-room—especially pleasant when you take along with you your partner of the dance.
Strolling thus with one of the aforementioned maidens, I had halted by the side of a grand Deodara, whose drooping branches, palmately spread, swept the grass at our feet, forming around the trunk of the tree a tentlike canopy by day, by night a shadow of amorphous darkness. All at once a thought seemed to strike my companion.
“By the way,” said she, “I was wondering what I had done with my sunshade. Now I remember having left it under this very tree. You stay here,” she continued, disengaging herself from my arm, “while I go under and see if I can find it.”
“No,” said I, “permit me to go for it.”
“Nonsense,” replied my agile partner—she had proved herself such in the galop just ended—“I shall go myself. I know the exact spot where I laid it—on one of the great roots. Never mind; you stand here.”
Saying this, she disappeared under the shadow of the Deodara.
I could not think of such a young creature venturing all alone into such a dismal-looking place; and, not heeding her remonstrance, I bent under the branches, and followed her in.