A PICNIC
"NAN, who do you think I saw in Regent Street?" exclaimed my sister
Dora, more eagerly than grammatically as she came into the little back
garden—a typical London "garden"—consisting of a hawthorn, a rockery,
and a grass-plot hardly bigger than a tablecloth, where mother, Peggy,
and I were sitting to enjoy the cool of the evening. Dora had been with
a party of her school-fellows under the care of their form-mistress to
visit a certain interesting exhibition at the West End.
"I am sure I do not know, and I am not going to guess," I responded
lazily, "so you may as well tell me at once."
"Well, then, it was Cousin Agneta," Dora said.
"You don't mean it?" I said, sitting up with sudden briskness.
"But I do," said Dora. "I tell you I saw her!"
"Was she alone?" I asked.
"No, she was walking with a gentleman—and such a masher too."
"Dora," mother broke in, "I wish you would not use those horrid slang
expressions!"
"Oh, mother, what harm is there in masher? Would you rather I said
swell?"
"No, I do not like either word," mother replied. "Cannot you simply say
that he was a smart-looking man! Did you speak to your cousin?"
"No, I was going to; but she took hold of the man's arm and made him
turn sharp round with her into one of the side streets. Yet I feel sure
that she saw me," Dora said.
"Are you sure that you saw her?" Peggy asked. "I mean, did you not
mistake some one else for Cousin Agneta?"
"As if I should!" Dora said with an injured air. "Surely I may be
supposed to know my own cousin, when she was staying here only a few
weeks ago."
"How was she dressed?" I asked.
"I don't know what her dress was like," Dora replied, "but she had on a
grey hat with pink roses under the brim."
"Agneta does not possess a grey hat," I said, with a sense of relief,
"so you must have made a mistake."
"If you had said a red hat, now!" suggested Peggy.
"I don't care what you like to say," Dora protested, "I know it was
Cousin Agneta. She may have bought a new hat."
"Since yesterday?" I said.
"Why not?" demanded Dora.
"There I that will do," said mother decisively. "It is not in the least
likely that your cousin would come up to town without letting us know,
or that she would be walking in Regent Street with a gentleman."
"All the same, it was Agneta," Dora muttered perversely under her
breath.
I heard her with some uneasiness. More than once I had longed to speak
to mother about Agneta's unhappy love affair; but I had promised her
that I would say nothing about it, unless she gave me permission, and I
felt bound to keep silence.
On the following day I returned to "Gay Bowers," having much enjoyed
my brief sojourn at home. I was touched by the welcome I received
from every one. They said so much about how they had missed me that I
was in danger of fancying myself a very important person. With much
satisfaction I learned that Paulina was going on as well as possible,
and was already considered to have passed the worst stage of her
illness. Mr. Dicks appeared to have recovered his usual equanimity. The
least happy looking of the party was Agneta. It struck me that she had
a worn and restless air which marred her prettiness. When I mentioned
it to aunt, she said:
"Agneta is tired; she had a fatiguing day in town yesterday."
"In town!" I exclaimed in surprise. "We saw nothing of her."
"No, she thought she would not have time to get to Clapham," Aunt
Patty said. "She meant to come back by an early train; but she missed
it after all. I did not like her going alone after what Mrs. Redmayne
said; but she wanted to get a new hat to wear at the Canfields' garden
party, and she said she was going to meet an old school-fellow. Really,
I did not know what to do, for I could not go with her myself."
"And she got a new hat?" I said.
"Two new hats, the extravagant girl!" said aunt. "She wore one home,
leaving the old one to be sent back by post."
"Then she appeared in a grey hat with pink roses," I said.
"You are right," said aunt; "but how do you know that?"
Then I told her how Dora had declared that she had seen Agneta in
Regent Street and how we had all tried in vain to convince her that she
was mistaken; but I said not a word about the man Dora had described
to us. I was anxious to avoid the least risk of breaking my word to
Agneta, yet I wished that I had not pledged myself so impulsively,
for my discovery of the dissimulation Agneta was practising made me
profoundly uncomfortable.
Agneta had welcomed me with professions of delight which I afterwards
judged to be insincere, since she seemed desirous to avoid being alone
with me. She gave me no opportunity of having a quiet word with her
till we went upstairs for the night, and then she hurried into bed,
declaring that she was very sleepy. But I made her listen to me before
she slept. She could not deny that Dora had seen her in Regent Street.
"Don't be hard on me, Nan," she said. "When Ralph wrote that he would
be in London on Tuesday, and asked me to meet him, I felt that I must
go. I had not seen him for so long, and you know all things are fair in
love."
"I don't know it," I said. "It seems to me that all things should be
beautiful and honourable that have to do with love. If this man truly
loved you, he would not tempt you to act in a way that is beneath your
dignity. He must know that your parents have forbidden you to meet him,
or even write to him."
"Why, of course he knows," Agneta said impatiently.
"Surely you would not have me submit to such tyranny!"
"I think your parents have a right to some consideration, Agneta," I
replied. "You are their child; you owe everything to them. I know it is
very trying for you, but if you will only wait—"
"Wait, wait! I hate that word!" broke in Agneta, angrily. "I will not
wait, so there!"
"But what can you do?" I asked.
"Do?" said Agneta, with a toss of the head. "Oh, we know what to do!
Mother will find that I have a will of my own, and am not the weak
creature she imagines."
"Oh, Agneta!" I exclaimed, startled by her words. "You would not think
of getting married without your parents' consent?"
Her face flushed.
"Oh, no, of course not," she said hurriedly. "I did not mean that."
But her manner did not convince me of the truth of her words. I knew
instinctively that some such idea was in her mind.
"It would be a most foolish act, and would bring certain misery," I
said. "Don't listen to him, Agneta, if he tries to persuade you to do
anything so wrong."
"Of course I shall not," she returned. "But, oh, how you talk, Nan! It
is clear that you know nothing whatever about love."
I was silent, but I said to myself that I could never have loved Ralph
Marshman, or any man who tried to lead me into crooked ways. The man
must be nobler and wiser and better than myself into whose keeping I
gave my life.
I began to talk to Agneta about Olive and her great happiness, but she
showed little interest in the subject. Thoroughly absorbed in herself,
she had no sympathy to spare for another's joy. Paulina would have
listened to the story with lively interest, and Miss Cottrell would
have been ready to discuss it from every possible point of view; but
Agneta heard me with a bored air which quickly reduced me to silence.
The next morning dawned beautifully bright, and when I came downstairs
the hall door was wide open, and Alan Faulkner stood sunning himself on
the step with Sweep beside him.
"Good-morning, Miss Nan," he said cheerily. "Is not this ever so much
better than Clapham Common?"
I could not but admit that it was, for the garden was now in the
perfection of its beauty. The breeze, which ruffled my hair as I
advanced to the door, was sweet with the breath of flowers. The
rose-tree trained against the wall of the house was full of blossoms,
and bees were buzzing noisily as they flitted from rose to rose. A
fine hydrangea growing by the door was a marvel of changeful colour,
and close by a cluster of tall, graceful Madonna lilies, of purest
whiteness, attracted the bees by their heavy perfume. It was a morning
to make one sing for joy. I was feeling happy enough at that moment,
and I was therefore astonished when Mr. Faulkner said, after observing
me for a moment:
"What is the trouble, Miss Nan?"
"The trouble!" I repeated. "What do you mean?"
"There was a shadow on your face last evening, and I fancy that I can
still detect its influence," he said. "You found nothing wrong at home,
I trust?"
"Oh, no! They were all well, and things were going happily," I replied.
"There was nothing there to worry me."
"But something did worry you," he said. "Can't you tell me what it is?
I might be able to set it right."
"Oh, no!" I answered, colouring hotly in my confusion and surprise.
"You could not help, and I could not tell you indeed."
His eyes studied me for a moment with a questioning air; then he said
quietly:
"Excuse me, Miss Nan, I must seem to you a curious, meddlesome fellow."
"Not at all," I faltered. "It was kind of you to ask; but I cannot tell
you about it."
A moment's silence followed; then he said:
"Do you know that Miss Cottrell was working in this garden at seven
o'clock?"
"Was she really?" I said. "I cannot see her part of the garden from my
window. How very energetic of her!"
"Was it not? But, of course, she needs fresh air and exercise. I
suppose she does not have to do a great deal of nursing."
"Why, no! There is a trained nurse who takes charge of Paulina at
night, and who is available also for part of the day," I explained. "I
was thinking that Miss Cottrell would feel anxious about her flowers.
You did not speak to her, I suppose?"
"No; I only saw her from my window," he replied. "She was applying the
hoe with much vigour. She is one to do very thoroughly whatever she
undertakes."
"That is true," I said. "It is splendid the way she has devoted herself
to Paulina. Mr. Dicks has good cause to feel grateful to her."
The breakfast gong sounded, and we obeyed its summons. Mr. Dicks had
already taken his place at the table, and was talking eagerly to Aunt
Patty when we entered the room.
"Come, Miss Nan," he cried as he saw me, "what do you say to our
celebrating your return, by having a picnic?"
"A splendid idea!" I cried. "By all means let us have it."
"And so say I," said Mr. Faulkner.
"Can you spare the time?" I asked.
"I will spare the time," was his reply.
"We should not go till after luncheon," said my aunt. "Mr. Dicks
proposes taking us all to have tea at the Warren—in proper gipsy
fashion, of course. We will take a kettle and all the necessary
paraphernalia, and make a fire on the common to boil the kettle. We can
get milk and water at the farm."
It sounded charming to me. The Warren was a beautiful, high common,
about seven miles away, the haunt of innumerable rabbits, and yielding
a rich harvest of blackberries in their season. Olive and I had loved
going there as children, for its wild, broken ground and clumps of
Scotch firs had made a delightful playground. A full, deep stream ran
on one side of it, and, descending to the valley below, turned the
wheel of a picturesque mill which stood there, and was the delight of
artists.
Colonel Hyde had expressed his willingness to join the excursion, and
Alan Faulkner and I had just decided that we would go on our bicycles,
when Agneta entered the room. She apologised for her lateness as she
listlessly took her seat. Mr. Dicks made haste to tell her of his grand
project, but her face evinced no pleasure as she heard of it.
"I will ask you to excuse me," she said, "I am not fond of picnics."
"Oh, but you must go," said Mr. Dicks. "We cannot leave you at home by
yourself. You shall have Paulina's bicycle if you would like to ride."
"Thank you, but I would rather not," she said. "I do not feel at all
inclined to ride in this heat."
"Then you can drive with us elderly people in the sociable—there will
be plenty of room," he said.
"You are very kind," she said coldly; "but I would rather stay at home."
"You shall not go unless you like, Agneta," Aunt Patty said kindly. "If
you stay at home, I will stay too. It will be better for me—I hardly
know how to spare the time."
But Mr. Dicks, the Colonel, and Alan Faulkner protested against this.
They knew that Aunt Patty seldom allowed herself any recreation, and
they had set their hearts on having her company to-day.
Agneta's face flushed as she heard them, and she said in an injured
tone:
"There is not the least need for you to remain at home because I do,
Mrs. Lucas. I am not a baby; I think you may trust me to take care of
myself."
"Of course you can, dear—I do not doubt it for a moment," aunt said
soothingly. "Still, I should not like to leave you quite alone."
In the end Agneta consented to accompany us, but she did it with a bad
grace, and rather spoiled the enjoyment of some of us by her obstinate
determination not to appear to be enjoying herself. She was cross with
me because, by simple accident, I appeared in a frock remarkably like
her own. My suit of shepherd's plaid had seen two summers' wear, and
I wore it simply because it was light and cool, and so short in the
skirt as to be suitable for cycling and rambling over the common. Hers
was a smart, tailor-made costume, which I should have considered too
good for such a day's outing. The material showed a rather larger check
than mine, but they were sufficiently alike to appear similar at a
little distance. If either of us had cause to feel annoyance it was I,
since her dress made mine look poor. I was considerably annoyed by the
disagreeable remarks she choose to make about the resemblance.
Still, I must confess that I enjoyed that picnic very much, though
it was marked by no adventures, nor any particular excitement. Alan
Faulkner and I on our bicycles reached the Warren long before the party
who came in the wagonette. Resting on the slope of a knoll planted with
firs, we awaited the arrival of the others without impatience. I found
myself telling him about my sister Olive's engagement. He listened
with interest, and I learned that he knew the part of India in which
Percival Smythe was stationed, and could tell me much that I wanted to
hear.
When the others arrived I was astonished to see that Miss Cottrell was
one of the party. It was Mr. Dicks's kind thought that the fresh air
on the common would be very good for her. He had consulted the doctor,
who had assured him that if Miss Cottrell observed certain precautions
there would not be the least fear of her conveying infection to any of
us. She seemed delighted to be with us once more, and talked more than
ever.
When the time came for us to return home, Alan Faulkner and I soon
distanced aunt's sober horse. It was growing late as we approached "Gay
Bowers." We were spinning down the road at the back of the house, when
a man suddenly dropped from the boundary wall of the kitchen garden
into the lane just in front of my machine, and startled me so that I
almost fell off. Trees overhung the road at that point, and the light
was so dim that I could perceive only that the man wore a white straw
hat ere he disappeared, running rapidly beneath the trees.
"Whoever is he?" I asked, turning to Mr. Faulkner. "What can it mean?"
"That I will soon find out," he said. "You will not mind my leaving
you, Miss Nan, as we are just at home."
And, scarce waiting for my permission, he was off at such speed that
there was little doubt of his overtaking the stranger, however fast he
might run.
When the wagonette party drove up they found me standing alone within
the garden.
"Only think, auntie," I said. "We saw a man jump down from your garden
wall, and run off in the most suspicious way. Mr. Faulkner is chasing
him under the idea that he was there for no lawful purpose. Do you
think he can be a burglar?"
"A burglar in this peaceful countryside! Impossible, Miss Nan!"
exclaimed the Colonel; "but I hope Mr. Faulkner will catch him, for,
depend on it, he was up to no good."
"Most likely he was after my fruit," said aunt.
As she spoke my eyes fell on Agneta, and I was startled to see how pale
and fearful she looked. Aunt's eyes had followed the direction of mine,
and she was equally struck by Agneta's look.
"Don't talk so lightly of burglars, Nan," she said. "You have quite
frightened your cousin. Do not be alarmed, dear; you need fear no such
visitation at 'Gay Bowers.'"
"I am not in the least afraid of burglars," she said almost pettishly,
but I could see that her hands were trembling as they toyed with her
parasol. I knew that she spoke the truth, for instinctively I guessed
who the man was.
"Here comes Mr. Faulkner!" cried Miss Cottrell eagerly. "Now we shall
hear all about it."
But Alan Faulkner's brief statement hardly sufficed to satisfy her
curiosity.
"Oh, no, he is not a burglar," he said. "I believe he considers himself
a gentleman, but he certainly took a most unwarrantable liberty."
I had never heard Alan Faulkner speak in such an angry, scornful tone,
nor seen such a fire in his eyes. What did it all mean? I felt sick of
these mysterious, underhand ways, and quite angry with my cousin, who
disappeared as soon as she had heard what Alan had to say.