Reine had the strings of the rudder in her hands, and could have driven him back, I think, had she liked, but she did not. She let herself and the boat float down the pleasanter way. “I don’t mind,” she said softly; “for a long time I have had no talk with you—since we came home.”
“And whose fault is that, I should like to know?” cried Everard, with a few long swift strokes, carrying the boat almost out of sight of the larger one, which had not yet started. “How cruel you are, Reine! You say that as if I was to blame; when you know all the time if you had but held up a little finger—”
“Why should I hold up a little finger?” said Reine, softly, leaning back in her seat. But there was a smile on her face. It was true, she acknowledged to herself. She had known it all the time. A little finger, a look, a word would have done it, though she had made believe to be lonely and dreary and half-forsaken and angry even. At which, as the boat glided down the river in the soft shadows after sunset, in the cool grayness of the twilight, she smiled again.
But before they reached the Water Beeches, these cool soft shades had given way to a sudden cold mist, what country people call a “blight.” It was only then, I think, that these two recollected themselves. They had sped down the shining stream, with a little triumph in outstripping the other and larger boat, though it had four rowers, and Everard was but one. They had gone through the locks by themselves, leaving saucy messages for their companions, and it was only when they got safely within sight of Everard’s house, and felt the coldness of the “blight” stealing through them, that they recollected to wonder what had kept the others so long. Then Reine grew frightened, unreasonably, as she felt; fantastically, for was not Herbert quite well? but yet beyond her own power of control.
“Turn back, and let us meet them,” she begged; and Everard, though unwilling, could not refuse to do it. They went back through the growing darkness, looking out eagerly for the party.
“That cannot be them,” said Everard, as the long sweep of oars became audible. “It must be a racing boat, for I hear no voices.”
They lay close by the bank and watched, Reine in an agony of anxiety, for which she could give no reason. But sure enough it was the rest of the party, rowing quickly down, very still and frightened. Herbert had insisted upon rowing, in spite of all remonstrances, and just a few minutes before had been found half fainting over his oar, shivering and breathless.
“It is nothing—it is nothing,” he gasped, when he saw Reine, “and we are close at home.” But his heart panted so, that this was all he could say.
CHAPTER XLIV.
What a dismal conclusion it was of so merry a day! Herbert walked into the house, leaning upon Everard’s arm, and when some wine had been administered to him, declared himself better, and endeavored to prove that he was quite able to join them at supper, and that it was nothing. But his pale face and panting breast belied his words, and after awhile he acknowledged that perhaps it would be best to remain on the sofa in the drawing-room, while the others had their meal. Reine took her place by him at once, though indeed Sophy, who was kind enough, was ready and even anxious to do it. But in such a case the bond of kin is always paramount. The doctor was sent for at once, and Everard went and came from his guests at the dinner-table, to his much-more-thought-of guests in the cool, silent drawing-room, where Reine sat on a low chair by the sofa, holding her brother’s hand, and fanning him to give him air.