The environs of Brompton-on-Sea were rich in spots adapted to
picnics, and the Gawkins Drums had chosen the very prettiest of these
eligible spots. Rocky Drumble, a green glen of the floweriest, but
with fragments of rock showing here and there, possessed an echo
point and a dripping well: it was, moreover, accredited by popular
tradition with a love-legend, and, on the same authority, with a
ghost for moonlight nights. Rocky Drumble was threaded from end to
end by a stream which nourished watercresses; at one season its banks
produced wild strawberries, at another nuts, sometimes mushrooms. All
the year round the glen was frequented by song-birds; not seldom a
squirrel would scamper up a tree, or a rabbit sit upright on the
turf, winking his nose. Rocky Drumble on a sunny summer-day was a
bower of cool shade, and of a silence heightened, not broken, by
sounds of birds and of water, the stream at hand, the sea not far
off; a bower of sun-chequered shade, breaths of wind every moment
shifting the shadows, and the sun making its way in, now here, now
there, with an endless, monotonous changeableness.
On such a day the Charlmonts drove to their rendezvous in Rocky
Drumble. The carriage held four inside; Miss Drum and Catherine
sitting forward, with Lucy and Jane opposite. On the box beside the
driver perched little Frank Ballantyne, very chatty and merry at
first; but to be taken inside and let fall asleep when, as was
foreseen, he should grow tired. The child had set his heart on going
to the picnic, and good Miss Drum had promised to take care of
him—Miss Drum nominally, Lucy by secret understanding, for the relief
of her old friend.
Miss Drum wore a drawn silk bonnet, which had much in common with the
awning of a bathing-machine. Catherine surmounted her inevitable cap
by a broad-brimmed brown straw hat. Lucy wore a similar hat without
any cap under it, but looked, in fact, the elder of the two. Jane,
who never sacrificed complexion to fashion, also appeared in a shady
hat, dovecoloured, trimmed with green leaves, under which she
produced a sort of apple-blossom effect, in a cloud of pink muslin
over white, and white appliquée again over the pink. Catherine had
wished her to dress soberly, but Jane had no notion of obscuring her
beauties. She had bargained with Mr. Durham that he was not to come
down to Brompton-on-Sea till the afternoon before the wedding; and
when he looked hurt at her urgency, had assumed an air at once
affectionate and reserved, assuring him that this course seemed to
her due to the delicacy of their mutual relations. Five days were
still wanting to the wedding-day, George was not yet inalienably at
her elbow, and no moment could appear more favourable for enjoyment.
Surely if a skeleton promised to preside at the next banquet, this
present feast was all the more to be relished: for though, according
to Jane’s definition, ion, George was Orpingham Place, she would
certainly have entered upon Orpingham Place with added zest had it
not entailed George.
Miss Charlmont had delayed starting till the very last moment, not
wishing to make more of the picnic than could be helped; and when she
with her party reached the Drumble, they found their friends already
on the spot. The last-comers were welcomed with a good deal of
friendly bustle, and half-a-dozen gentlemen, in scarcely more than as
many minutes, were presented to Jane by genial little Mrs. Drum, who
had never seen her before, and was charmed at first sight. Jane,
happily for Catherine’s peace of mind, assumed an air of dignity in
unison with her distinguished prospects: she was gracious rather than
coquettish—gracious to all, but flattering to none; a change from
former days, when her manner used to savour of coaxing. Edith Sims
had ridden over on Brunette, and Jane, keeping her word as to sitting
next her, produced the desired effect.
The Charlmonts coming late, every one was ready for luncheon on their
arrival, and no strolling was permitted before the meal. As to the
luncheon, it included everything usual and nothing unusual, and most
of the company consuming it displayed fine, healthy appetites. Great
attention was paid to Jane, who was beyond all comparison the
best-looking woman present; whilst two or three individuals made
mistakes between Catherine and Lucy, as to which was Miss Charlmont.
Poor Lucy! she had seldom felt more heavyhearted than now, as she sat
talking and laughing. She felt herself getting more and more
worn-looking as she talked and laughed on, getting visibly older and
more faded. How she wished that Frank, who had fallen asleep on a
plaid after stuffing unknown sweets into his system—how she wished
that Frank would wake and become troublesome, to give her some
occupation less intolerable than ‘grinning and bearing!’
Luncheon over, the party broke up, splitting into twos and threes,
and scattering themselves here and there through the Drumble. Miss
Charlmont attaching herself doggedly to Jane, found herself
clambering up and down banks and stony excrescences in company with a
very young Viscount and his tutor: as she clambered exasperation
waxed within her at the futility of the young men’s conversation and
the complacency of Jane’s rejoinders; certainly, had any one been
studying Catherine’s face (which nobody was), he would have beheld an
unwonted aspect at a picnic.
Miss Drum, ostentatiously aged because in company with her brother
and his bride, had chosen before luncheon was well over to wrap
herself up very warmly, and ensconce herself for an avowed nap inside
one of the flys. ‘You can call me for tea,’ she observed to Lucy;
‘and when Frank tires you, you can leave him in the carriage with
me.’ But Frank was Lucy’s one resource: minding him served as an
excuse for not joining Mr. Drum, who joked, or Mr. Ballantyne, who
covertly stared at her, or Edith Sims, who lingering near Mr.
Ballantyne talked of horses, or any other person whose conversation
was more tedious than silence.
When Frank woke, he recollected that nurse had told him strawberries
grew in the Drumble; a fact grasped by him without the drawback of
any particular season. Off he started in quest of strawberries, and
Lucy zealously started in his wake, not deeming it necessary to
undeceive him. The little fellow wandered and peered about diligently
awhile after imaginary strawberries; failing these, he suddenly
clamoured for a game at hide-and-seek: he would hide, and Lucy must
not look.
They were now among the main fragments of rock found in the Drumble,
out of sight of their companions. Lucy had scarcely shut her eyes as
desired, when a shout of delight made her open them still more
quickly, in time to see Frank scampering, as fast as his short legs
would carry him, after a scampering rabbit. He was running—she
recollected it in an instant—headlong towards the stream, and was
already some yards from her. She called after him, but he did not
turn, only cried out some unintelligible answer in his babyish
treble. Fear lent her speed; she bounded after him, clearing huge
stones and brushwood with instinctive accuracy. She caught at his
frock—missed it—caught at it again—barely grasped it—and fell,
throwing him also down in her fall. She fell on stones and brambles,
bruising and scratching herself severely: but the child was safe, and
she knew it, before she fainted away, whilst even in fainting her
hand remained tightly clenched on his frock.
Frank’s frightened cries soon brought friends to their assistance.
Lucy, still insensible, was lifted on to smooth turf, and then
sprinkled with water till she came to herself. In few words, for she
felt giddy and hysterical but was resolute not to give way, she
accounted for the accident, blaming herself for having carelessly let
the child run into danger. It was impossible for any carriage to
drive so far along the Drumble, so she had to take some one’s arm to
steady her in walking to meet the fly. Mr. Ballantyne, as pale as a
sheet, offered his arm; but she preferred Mr. Drum’s, and leaned
heavily on it for support.
Lucy was soon safe in the fly by Miss Drum’s side, whose nap was
brought to a sudden end, and who, waking scared and fidgety, was
disposed to lay blame on every one impartially, beginning with
herself, and ending, in a tempered form, with Lucy. The sufferer thus
disposed of, and packed for transmission home, the remaining
picnickers, influenced by Mrs. Drum’s obvious bias, declined to
linger for rustic tea or other pleasures, and elected then and there
to return to their several destinations. The party mustered round the
carriages ready to take their seats: but where were Catherine and
Jane, Viscount and tutor? Shouting was tried, whistling was tried,
‘Cooee’ was tried by amateur Australians for the nonce: all in vain.
At last Dr. Sims stepped into the fly with Lucy, promising to see her
safe home; Miss Drum, smelling-bottle in hand, sat sternly beside
her; Frank, after undergoing a paternal box on the ear, was degraded
from the coachman’s box to the back seat, opposite the old lady, who
turned towards him the aspect as of an ogress: and thus the first
carriage started, with Edith reining in Brunette beside it. The
others followed without much delay, one carriage being left for the
truants; and its driver charged to explain, if possible without
alarming the sisters, what had happened to cut short the picnic.