Valentine and Geoffrey were there, helping to pull the boughs within reach for her. Without a thought of evil, the very brightness, the carelessness of her enjoyment, raised to a bitter height the smouldering jealousy between them. The smile upon her face when turned towards Geoffrey had the inspiration of love behind it, which he in his rising anger could not see. Towards Valentine it was a smile only, though seemingly as bright; yet he, eager for a sign, interpreted it as something more. She knew that they had been the dearest friends, and in her innocence never dreamed that a smile or a glance could play such havoc with that friendship. Her heart she knew was Geoffrey’s—it was the very knowledge of his love that made her so happy that day. But under the nut-tree, and the laugh, and the sunshine, fierce passions were stirring in their hearts. Both were watching eagerly for a chance of speaking to her privately; Valentine, to say words that had long been as it were upon his lips, to ask her to accept him; Geoffrey, full of reproaches, and yet with a guilty sense of lacking trust. When the great bush was stripped to the uttermost as it seemed, Margaret stood back a little distance to view it the better, and see that not one nut had escaped.
“Ah,” she cried, pointing to the topmost bough, “I can see a splendid cluster. Look, Valentine, there must be five or six nuts in one bunch.” There was a fine and tempting cluster where she pointed, the sunlight shining on it, and one side of the nuts rosy, as if ripened more towards the beams. Geoffrey ran to the bush and seized the strong hazel high up with his willow crook. It was an exceptionally large nut-tree stick, stiff and tall, and scarcely yielded to his first attempt.
“Pull gently,” said Margaret, all intent, “or you will shake them out, and perhaps lose them.”
“Can you reach them now?” he asked; for as the bough came down he could not see well, being under it.
“Yes; I’ve got them. O!” For, as the tips of her fingers touched the nuts, there was the sound of splitting wood, and the cluster flew up to its original height. Geoffrey’s willow crook had broken, as she had said it would.
“Here are some,” said Valentine, just behind; secretly glad at Geoffrey’s failure. He had gone to an adjacent bush and crooked a laden bough down with his tough ash stick. Margaret turned to go there. Instantly Geoffrey, angry and jealous, sprang at the hazel pole that had baffled him, seized it as far up as possible, and hung with all his weight. It bent; he put his foot against the stole, and with all his great strength wrenched the bough from its juncture. With a loud crack it parted and fell at her feet.
“Now take them,” he said savagely. But the force of the fall had shaken the nuts out and scattered them afar, lost among the grass and leaves.
“What a pity! The bough is spoilt too,” said Margaret. “Why don’t you cut a crook like Valentine’s?” She went towards Valentine’s bush, somewhat surprised at the vehemence of Geoffrey’s manner.
Geoffrey took his knife and ran into the bushes to cut another crook. Hardly had he disappeared in the thickets when he called to her.
“Margaret, Margaret! I have found your glove—you dropped it.”