The fishing was progressing but slowly. Perhaps there was thunder in the air; or possibly the angler’s mind was abstracted, and he was thinking of matters of weightier import, than the capture of a few silvery trout. After missing excellent ‘offers’ on two or three occasions, his companion burst into a merry laugh, and asked him if his wits had gone a wool-gathering, ‘I am afraid,’ she continued, gravely shaking her head, ‘that you are still in love with that wicked Mademoiselle Sylvestre.’
Now, the lady referred to was an aged ex-prima donna of the English opera, and a warm friend of his. It pleased Nan, however, to make-believe that their relationship to each other was of a strongly amorous nature, and she missed no opportunity of teasing him about her. Now was a chance to broach the matter he had at heart. For, strange to say, this experienced man of literature and society, this ornament of London drawing-rooms, felt oddly embarrassed in his new relationship of suitor to a simple country girl. True it was, she had no idea of the terrible designs he had on her heart and liberty; but that seemed only to make the matter worse in his eyes. There was not an atom of self-consciousness about her. Her clear gray eyes were crystalline; he fancied he could read every thought of her soul in their transparent depths. No thoughts of love there evidently. It looked almost brutal to disturb their sweet maidenly repose—almost like shooting a trusting, tame rabbit. If there had been but the least spice of coquetry about her, it would have been so much easier for him to have unburdened himself of his heart’s secret—at least so he thought. He never felt so morally limp in all his life, and it was with the courage of despair that he wound up his reel and determined to know his fate then and there. A few intermittent drops of rain began to fall, and seating himself beside her on the thwarts, he shared his waterproof with her. He never yet had spoken, save in the language of raillery; how on earth was he now to address her in accents of love and sentiment? However, it must be done; and he took ‘a header.’
‘My dear Nan,’ he began, ‘it is really too bad of you to mention that estimable old lady. I like her very much, as I am sure would you if you knew her. But she might easily be my mother! Ah, Nan,’ he continued, slipping his arm round her waist underneath the waterproof—‘ah, Nan, there is only one girl in all the world I care a pin for, and it is your own sweet self! Nan—will you be my wife?’
As he spoke the last few words, Nan’s face grew deadly pale; then the truant blood rushed back to her cheeks tumultuously, flushing them carmine.
‘Oh, no, no!’ she piteously cried as she shrunk from him, and gently disengaged his arm from round her waist; ‘oh, no! Mr Hannay, that can never, never be! O how stupid and foolish I’ve been. Forgive me, forgive me, my dearest of friends! But—but—indeed I never looked on you in any way like that. I have been very imprudent—I have been far too free with you—but it was all thoughtlessness. Tell me you don’t for a moment believe I was so wicked as to have done it purposely.’
She put her hands over her face, and sobbed aloud. Here was a nice position for a lover to be in, who an hour ago was confidently dreaming of years of sweet companionship with her who now told him in language not to be misunderstood that such could never, never be. These were not the simulated tears and sobs of a heartless coquette; the honest simple girl had evidently never dreamed of the possibility of him being a wooer. He was too old—that was it. And what a fool he had made of himself! Well, he would just require to swallow it all, and comfort himself with the reflection that no one knew of his folly, for he knew she would never tell. His heart went out in pity to her. He told her never to mind. He even went the length of pretending that he was almost glad she had refused him, for he was so wedded to city life, with its clubs, greenrooms, and what not, that he was certain he would have been a very careless, inattentive husband, and she a neglected, heart-broken wife. In such wise did he comfort the girl, who dried her eyes and tried to look quite gay and cheerful. There was no more fishing; they rowed slowly back to the hotel. Nan insisted on taking the oars; her rejected lover sat musing at the stern. Suddenly he raised his head, and said with a sedate smile: ‘Some one else, eh, Nan?’
His question was not very intelligibly put; but she understood well enough what he meant. Drooping eyelids, a face slightly averted, and a faint blush for answer. After a pause, ‘Papa does not know—at least not yet,’ she timidly said; ‘you’ll not tell him?’
‘Oh, of course not!’ he answered, and biting the end of a fresh cigar, began smoking vigorously. A few minutes, and they were at the Inn jetty, and to old Mr Porteous’ extreme astonishment, without a fin to show for their three hours’ work.
Dinner past, father and daughter and guest adjourned to the private parlour. Anne retired early under the plea of headache. Host and guest continued to enjoy a cheerful glass and gossip all to themselves.
‘By-the-bye, Mr Porteous,’ said the latter as he was lighting his candle preparatory to going up-stairs to bed, ‘I forgot to say my stay this time will be but a brief one. I am expecting every day to have a letter from a friend at Lucerne who wants me to join him in the fishing there. He says the sport is excellent, and I promised to go if he found such to be the case. Good-night!’