WORK AND PLAY.
“If all the world and love were young
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue”
The Nymph’s Reply.
EARLY summer was the time of all others for seeing Lingthurst Copse to advantage, for the soil thereabouts was dry and gravelly, and a few weeks of hot weather destroyed the freshness of the tints and made all the vegetation look thirsty. It was only a copse, and the trees which composed it were somewhat stunted and meagre, but still it was a very pretty spot in itself, and worth driving more than three miles to, for the sake of the loveliness of the view from the top of the rugged old rock, one side of which was skirted by the miniature forest. The latter part of the ascent of this rock was very steep—in places almost perpendicular, but a series of rough steps greatly facilitated matters in the hardest parts of the climb—these were the steps known as the Witch’s Ladder. Who the witch was and from what uncanny motive she had devoted herself to thus amiably preparing the way for those who were to come after her, had been matter for much grave speculation, but had never been satisfactorily explained, and remained a pleasantly tantalising mystery to the visitors of her ancient haunts. That there had never been a witch at all, and that the steps were but natural irregularities on the rock’s surface, worn, in the lapse of time, to more definite shape by the feet of many climbers, was a theory which had suggested itself to some few irreverent minds. But, as a rule, these scoffers had the grace to keep their scepticism to themselves, and the witch, young or old, fair or hideous, was allowed to retain undisputed possession of Lingthurst Copse and Rock.
Cicely’s—or rather Geneviève’s picnic—had assumed unexpected dimensions. Sir Thomas and Lady Frederica had been invited to join the expedition and had asked leave to bring with them two young ladies, no longer in the very first blush of youth, the daughters of the Haverstock rector, whom Lady Frederica had invited to spend a week with her, from a vague notion that “it would be nice for them to meet Mr. Hayle, poor girls!”—a young and unmarried clergyman being an unprecedented novelty in the neighbourhood. But though the “poor girls” were very ready to come, Lady Frederica found the entertaining of them by no means so easy a matter as she had anticipated. She asked Mr. Hayle to dinner every other day at least, and in her innocent way prepared him to be captivated by one, if not by both, of the Misses Kettering by telling him beforehand what dear good girls they were, how indefatigable in the manufacture of ecclesiastical cushions and altar cloths, how unfailing in their attendance at the daily service instituted since the opening of the new Haverstock church. And Mr. Hayle listened gravely, expressed his satisfaction at finding that the neighbourhood contained such right thinking young women, came to dinner when he was asked, disgusted the elder Miss Kettering the very first evening by remarking that he wondered she had never thought of joining a sisterhood if the secular tone of her home life was not to her mind, and still more desperately offended the younger and better-looking sister by not admiring her rendering of Liszt’s ‘Ave Maria,’ got up by her with considerable labour for the occasion. So Lady Frederica’s benevolent intentions were defeated, and her guests lay heavy on her mind, and the news of the Methvyns’ picnic was welcome indeed, not only to the young ladies themselves but to all their entertainers, including Miss Winter and Mr. Fawcett who were growing very tired indeed of the labours Lady Frederica’s good nature had imposed upon them.
Mr. Hayle, in happy unconsciousness of the offence he had given, accompanied the Lingthurst party to the rendezvous at the Copse Farm, and almost reinstated himself in Miss Kettering senior’s favour by calmly declining to agree with her, when she gushingly demanded of him if he did not think that lovely Miss Casalis the most exquisitely beautiful girl he had ever seen.”
“I don’t care about that sort of beauty,” said Mr. Hayle, and then he walked away to where Cicely and Mr. Guildford were improvising a comfortable couch for Colonel Methvyn with the cushions of the carriages, as the invalid declared himself able to join the lowly luncheon party instead of remaining in the solitary state of his Bath chair.
He really looked and felt better than he had done for years, and Mr. Guildford was not a little elated at the success of his new mode of treatment. Long, long afterwards Cicely looked back with pleasure on that bright morning in the copse, and felt warm gratitude to the man whose care and kindness had enabled her suffering father to enjoy again a breath of the out-door life he had loved so well. And to-day the sight of the invalid’s pleasure seemed to cheer every one else. To all outward appearance they were a very happy little party. Geneviève’s clear soft laugh rang as merrily as if its owner had never known a care or perplexity, and the tender brightness of Cicely’s face was sunshine in itself. Mr. Hayle looked at her and wondered. Edmond Guildford forgot all his cynical theories in the unconscious happiness of the present, forgot even to marvel at his own inconsistency—only Trevor looked moody and dissatisfied, unlike his usual equable contented self.
There were more reasons than one for his gloom. Good-natured and kindly as he was, Cicely’s extreme devotion to her parents and home interests at times tried his patience, and suggested unpleasing comparisons. And a long conversation he had had the night before with his father was also on his mind. Nor was the day to close without yet further annoyance falling to his share.
Mr. Guildford had not forgotten his intention of coming to some sort of understanding with the little lady whose eyes had so successfully appealed to his forbearance. After luncheon the able-bodied members of the party felt themselves in duty bound to scale the Witch’s Ladder; in the ascent they naturally fell apart into little groups of twos and threes, and Mr. Guildford found himself alone with Miss Casalis. He had not sought the opportunity, and she had not evaded it, but now that it occurred, both were plainly conscious that the sooner what had to be said could be got over, the more comfortable they would feel. Somewhat to Mr. Guildford’s surprise, Geneviève herself hastened to break the ice.