AN APRIL FOLLY.
By Gilbert H. Page.
April 1, 1890. 58A, Lincoln's Inn Fields.—I execrate my fellow men—and women! To-day I was over at Catherine's. Not an unusual occurrence with me, but on a more than usually important mission. I needn't note down how I achieved it. Am I likely to forget my impotent speeches? Still, she had given me plenty of excuse for supposing she liked me, and I said so. And then Catherine laughed her exasperating little laugh that always dries up all sentiment on the spot, and makes my blood boil with anger. "I like you?" she repeated mockingly; "not at all! not in the least! What can you be dreaming of?"
I did for a moment dream of rolling her elaborately curled head in the dust of the drawing-room carpet; but I restricted myself to saying a few true and exceedingly bitter things, and departed without giving her time to reply; and herewith I register a vow on the tablets of my heart: "If ever again I make a single friendly overture to that young woman, may I cut off the hand that so betrays me!"
By-the-bye, it is April Fools' Day, an appropriate date by which to remember my folly.
April 2.—My feelings are still exceedingly sore. Oh for a cottage in some wilderness—some vast contiguity of shade—whither I might retire, like a stricken hart from the herd, and sulk majestically! The very thing! There rises before me an opportune vision of a certain lonely farm-house I wot of down by a lonely sea. I discovered it last summer while staying at Shoreford. I had ridden westward across the marsh lands of Windle, over the cliffs that form the coastline between this and Rexingham; and being thirsty, had followed some cows through a rick-yard, in the hopes of obtaining a glass of milk.
There, behind the hayricks, I had come upon my first view of Down End Farm; and the picture of its grey stone, lichened walls, red roof, cosy kitchen and comely mistress, had remained painted on my brain. So, too, I retained a scrap of my conversation with Mrs. Anderson, and her casual mention of the London family then occupying her best rooms. "We don't have many folk at Down End, it being so out of the way, sir; but the gentleman here now says he do like it, just on account of the solitude and quiet."
There was no particular reason at the time why these words should have so impressed me. Solitude was the last thing I desired then, having gone down to Shoreford for my holiday, merely because Catherine was spending the summer there too. But now that everything is over between us, the solitary farm comes as balm to my wounded spirit. Let me see; to-day is Tuesday the 2nd. Good Friday is the day after to-morrow; I could get away to-morrow evening. All right! I'll go out and telegraph to Mrs. Anderson, and pay for her reply.
April 4. Down End Farm.—I reached this last night. At seven o'clock I found myself driving up from Rexingham station, with the crimson flaming brands of the sunset behind me, and the soft mysterious twilight closing in on all sides. It was almost dark when we got to the top of Beacon Point Hill, and quite dark for a time as we began to descend the other side, for the road here is cut down between steep red gravel banks, crowned with sombre fir trees. When these were passed and we reached the remembered stack-yard gate, there was clear heaven again above my head, its exquisite ever-darkening blue already gemmed with the more brilliant stars. The Plough faintly outlined above, and beautiful spica hanging low over Windle Flats. A cheerful glow-worm of red earth-light gleamed from the farm-house windows as we drove round to the inner gate, while at the sound of the wheels the kitchen door opened, and my hostess came down the flagged pathway between the sleepy flowers to bid me welcome.