On they went, and finally the bushes along the winding lane became trees and the sky above their heads was obscured by patches of foliage. They were in an expanse of woods which, in spite of the proximity of civilization, still smacked of luxuriant and elfish nature. The road, though yet wide enough for a vehicle, wound gracefully between oaks and pines stately with age. Some reverent hand had protected them. Their trunks were scarred with weird growths, and on the carpet of the soil big fungi flourished unmolested. It was a wild region to the imaginative and uninitiated, yet there were evidences now and again of the nearness of man and his devices, such as an occasional sign-post or rustic seat. After half a mile of travel over a soft brown carpet sprinkled with fragrant pine needles they brought up at their destination, a sort of sylvan camp—a picnic-ground in reality, a favorite resort of the masses in midsummer. Now it was deserted for the season.
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang,
though the simile was applicable to the dismantled wooden buildings rather than to the face of nature. The band-stand and eating pavilion stood like starving ghosts amid the forest mysteries. But there was a hitching-post at hand. Lydia knew her locality, and after the willing cob had been secured and blanketed, she led the way down a short vista to an arbor or summer house, to which clustering vines still imparted some semblance of vernal cosiness. The view from it commanded through a narrow clearing a picturesque outlook on the glistening waters of Duck Pond, while the crackling underbrush furnished a cordon of alert sentinels. On the rustic bench, where many inelegant predecessors had carved their initials, there was ample room for two. Nor was it the first time this pair had made use of it. Settling herself in her corner with folded arms so as to face her companion, Lydia broke the silence.
"Herbert says we cannot go on as we are."
"He has intimated as much several times before."
"But this time he is in earnest. He has put down his foot. He introduced the subject yesterday after you had gone. I told him again the truth—the truth he already knew—that I love you, and not him, and that I can never love him." She paused. Was it to pique his curiosity, or was she feeling her way while she revelled for the moment in her declaration?
He accepted her avowal complacently as a twice-told tale, but he was interested obviously in what was to follow.
"Well?"
"He declines absolutely to be accommodating and resign himself to the situation. The customary foreign point of view in such a case does not appeal to him. When it came to the point I never supposed it would."