A PICNIC.
In spite of Melville's hope that rain might come to prevent the
proposed excursion up the river, the following day dawned bright and
sunny, and as he stood by the front door waiting for Mrs. Sinclair,
who was to call for him on her way to Waterloo, he was conscious of
the joy of mere existence that comes to men sometimes.
Punctual to the minute Mrs. Sinclair arrived, and before long the
pair were at the boathouse by St. Martin's Lock. The boatman was
apologetic; there was a regatta six miles up stream at Longbridge,
and he could only offer Melville the choice between a Canadian canoe
and a rather heavy boat; all his other boats were engaged for the
whole day.
Mrs. Sinclair laughed.
"You'll have to work for once," she said. "I'm so sorry, but I
cannot row at all, and I'm not going to trust myself, and my frock,
and my luncheon to that canoe. We'll have the boat, please."
"Can you steer?" Melville asked.
"Not a little bit," she answered cheerfully; "it doesn't matter, does
it?"
"There'll be a rare pack higher up," the boatman said to Melville,
"but perhaps you'll not be going so far as Longbridge? If you do,
and get into the crush, unship your rudder altogether. That'll be
better than running any risks of being run into by any launches."
So the luncheon basket was transferred to the boat, and with easy
strokes Melville sculled slowly up the stream.
"Better not try to steer at all," he remarked, as they zigzagged from
one bank to the other. "Keep the lines by you in case I want your
help, but while we have the river to ourselves I can manage better
alone. Just tell me if there's anything coming down. So:" he
fastened the rudder lines loosely on to the arms of Mrs. Sinclair's
seat, and she, with a sigh of satisfaction, opened her parasol and
resigned herself to the delicious spirit of idleness which makes a
day up the river so enjoyable.
Nor could Melville fail to be glad that they had come; he possessed
the faculty of getting the last ounce of pleasure out of whatever he
had in hand, and a _tête-à-tête_ with a charming and sympathetic
woman in a boat on a summer's day was peculiarly to his taste. He
resolutely put out of his mind all idea of possible complications if
she should chance to be seen by Sir Geoffrey, and determined only to
enjoy himself.
So he pulled indolently along, keeping under the shady bank, and
lingering sometimes to pull a few wild flowers or to let his
companion snatch at the round heads of the yellow lilies that seemed
to evade her grasp with such intelligent skill; she insisted upon
exploring every creek, however narrow, and the morning passed in
laughing idleness.
In one of these little creeks, about a mile below Fairbridge, they
found an ideal spot for luncheon, and, making the boat secure to the
gnarled roots of a willow, Melville unstrapped the basket and carried
it ashore. Mrs. Sinclair laid the cloth upon a level space of turf,
while Melville spread the cushions from the boat to form easy couches
for them. He surveyed the preparations with much satisfaction.
"You are a perfect hostess, Lavender. Chicken, and rolls, and, as I
live, a salad! How has that lettuce kept so cool, I wonder?"
"As I have, by the simple process of doing nothing," she replied.
"Stand that Moselle in the water, Melville, unless your thirst won't
allow you to wait."
"I don't wonder the basket was so heavy," he remarked, as he obeyed
her. "You've brought a full-blown luncheon--and trimmings. Silver
spoons, by gad!"
"Well, you don't want to use tin ones just because you're eating out
of doors, do you?"
"There are other things," he argued; "white metal, for instance.
What is white metal?"
"I haven't the least idea," she said. "Mix the salad, and don't ask
Mangnall's questions. The oil and vinegar are in those little
screw-stoppered bottles."
"If you're ever hard up you can start a business to cater for picnic
parties," Melville suggested; "_Lavinie et Cie._," or something of
that sort; "salads a _specialite_;" and you can patent a luncheon
basket full of cunning little dodges like a dressing-case. Are you
sure the salt isn't in your tooth-powder bottle now?"
"Quite sure," Lavender answered. "Fall to, good sir, fall to."
The _al-fresco_ luncheon was a great success, and was supplemented by
an early cup of tea, and afterwards Melville lay upon his back
smoking cigarettes, while Lavender threw crumbs of bread to the fish
that swarmed by the boat, and fought and leaped over each other in
greedy haste to make the most of their unexpected treat.
It was very quiet in this creek, which was separated from the main
stream by a tongue of land covered with trees and dense undergrowth.
Upon the bank where Lavender and Melville reclined, ground ivy and
white nettle grew in profusion, while willow-wort and meadow-sweet
overhung the stream, and marsh marigolds flung back the sunlight from
their glorious blooms; behind them flowering grasses and tufted
rushes waved in luxuriance, and behind again there rose a screen of
willows, flanked by silver birch and tapering poplars.
The place and the hour alike seemed to be pointed out for the
exchange of tender confidences and happy day-dreams, but for the man,
at any rate, the soft emotions had no charm. In the temple where
money is enshrined as a god there is no welcome, and, indeed, no
room, for love, and Melville Ashley's heart was such a temple. His
interview with his uncle was impending, and the best use to which he
could put this peaceful interval was to ascertain how Lavender
Sinclair's own affairs were progressing.
He broke the silence which had fallen upon them.
"What is happening about Sir Ross Buchanan?"
Mrs. Sinclair threw the last handful of crumbs to the ravenous fish
and leaned back with a weary sigh.
"Can't we forget everything horrid today?" she entreated.
"I can't," Melville answered; "besides, the real object of this trip
is my visit to Sir Geoffrey, and--well, one thought leads to another,
you know. Have you heard from Sir Ross?"
"I told you yesterday I hadn't," she replied; "but didn't we settle
all this the other day? It was arranged that I should tell you
anything he said when he said it, and in the meantime do nothing at
all."
"I know," Melville said; "but a lot can happen in a few days. One
thinks, for instance."
"Oh, yes! one thinks!" Mrs. Sinclair assented.
She seemed reluctant to pursue the subject, and Melville thought it
might be well to give her a lead. As a general rule he refrained
from making direct statements or asking direct questions, for
anything straight-forward was foreign to his nature, but in the
present instance the objection was lessened by his knowledge of his
companion's story.
"Well, I've been thinking," he said, "and, among other things,
thinking that perhaps you ought to meet Sir Ross half way."
"What do you mean?"
"Half way about me," Melville answered, avoiding her direct look.
"If he objects so violently to my coming to your house I can be less
constant in my attendance, and you won't be any worse off than you
were before you wrote to me. I shall be, of course," he added
politely, "but that is my misfortune. You needn't tell Sir Ross in
so many words that you have ordered me off your premises, but he will
think you have done so, and everything will be--as you were, don't
you know."
He rolled a cigarette delicately between his long fingers, focussing
all his attention upon the operation.
"That is impossible," she said coldly. "Sir Ross only presumed to
dictate because he understood that I was engaged to him."
"Quite so," said Melville.
"Of course it's impossible that I should marry him now."
"Why?" Melville enquired calmly.
"Why?" she echoed in astonishment. "You told me yourself that my
marriage with Mr. Sinclair was invalid because Sir Geoffrey was
alive, and yet you ask me why I can't marry Sir Ross! I wronged one
man--in ignorance--but I have no intention of wronging another
deliberately. I may as well say, once and for all, that if Sir Ross
applies to me again I shall tell him that our engagement is finally
broken off."
"Why be so heroic?" Melville said. "Millionaire baronets don't grow
on blackberry bushes."
"If they did I wouldn't pick them off, now that you have enlightened
me," Mrs. Sinclair answered. "I'm not that sort."
"Sir Ross is an enormously rich man," Melville protested, "and is
worth keeping; and, in addition, Sir Geoffrey is a very old man,
which is another argument in favour of a less drastic policy than the
one that you suggest."
"You seem very keen on my becoming Lady Buchanan."
"I am," said Melville. "Candidly, I think you will make a frightful
mistake if you break off the engagement, when a little temporising
would save the situation."
"Temporising won't go down with Sir Ross," Mrs. Sinclair said
shortly; "I know him too well to try that on. It must be 'yes' or
'no' with him. It can't be 'yes,' and as he will want all sorts of
explanations if it's 'no,' I shall get out of the difficulty by not
being at home to him. If he writes, I will consult you."
Melville was annoyed, for with his aunt feloniously intermarried with
Sir Ross Buchanan, her former husband being still alive, he would
have been sure of a substantial revenue; he wished he had been a
little less emphatic in his explanation of the law of bigamy, and he
was vexed with himself for having made any mistake in his game.
"You're not such a clever woman as I take you for," he said, "if you
can't manage Sir Ross better than that. Take my advice, and go slow.
That's good advice ninety-nine times out of a hundred, and better
advice the hundredth."
Mrs. Sinclair shook her head.
"It's no good, Melville," she said gently. "I've done harm enough as
it is--wilfully, if you like, as a child, ignorantly as a woman. But
I've got a conscience left, and I'm not going to do any more harm
deliberately; and I don't intend to play fast and loose with one man
on the chance of another man dying. I mean what I say. Now that you
have explained what my engagement to Sir Ross Buchanan amounts to, it
is 'o double f'; and now, don't let us talk about it any more."
She got up and began to pack up the luncheon basket. Melville got
up, too, and busied himself about the boat, rearranging the cushions
and getting things ready for their further journey up to Fairbridge.
In reality, he was not a little disconcerted by the way his plans
with regard to Mrs. Sinclair threatened to be upset, and he was
piqued to think that he had not read her character correctly.
Conscience was the last complication he had expected to run up
against, but he was forced to recognise its existence in this most
unlikely quarter. Well! it rendered his visit to Sir Geoffrey all
the more necessary; if supplies were not to be forthcoming from the
one quarter, they must be doubled from the other.
He stowed the hamper in the boat, and helped Mrs. Sinclair back into
her seat.
"I'm quite sorry to leave this shady nook, for it's getting hotter
every minute, but I must get on to Fairbridge now. Are you ready to
go?"
"Quite," she answered, and Melville proceeded to back the boat down
the creek, pulling it along with the boat-hook and by the help of the
overhanging branches of the trees. In the main stream he got out the
sculls and paused a minute before setting to work again.
"I shouldn't be surprised if there were a storm," he remarked; "have
you any cloak or mackintosh with you?"
"No," said Lavender anxiously, "and my frock's a fair weather one.
Oh! don't say it's going to rain."
"I won't, if you think that will make any difference," said Melville
with a smile, and he began to row again.
There was no doubt, however, that a storm was brewing, although it
was possible that it might break elsewhere; low down on the horizon
the sky was inky black, merging through indescribable gradations of
shade into a lurid coppery glare overhead; the breathless heat was
oppressive, and Melville was bathed in perspiration before they had
travelled a hundred yards.
"The sky is sitting on the top of my head," Mrs. Sinclair complained.
"Isn't there any inn or cottage where we can put up, and where I can
wait while you are with Sir Geoffrey?"
"I'm afraid there isn't," Melville answered, "but perhaps the storm
will pass us by. That often happens on the river."
"Fancy having the river so entirely to ourselves," she said
presently. "I don't think a single boat has passed us since we
started, and I know we haven't met any."
"That is because of the regatta at Longbridge," Melville explained.
"If I had known about it we might have gone there to-day and I could
have seen Sir Geoffrey to-morrow; but, personally, I've enjoyed what
we have done immensely."
As a matter of fact, he had heard of the Longbridge regatta with
considerable relief, for it removed most of the probability of his
being seen with Mrs. Sinclair by either Ralph or Gwendolen. Sir
Geoffrey, too, was still fond of boating, and might quite possibly
have seen them, which would have been nothing short of a disaster.
As it was, both Ralph and Gwendolen would certainly be present at the
regatta, perhaps competing in some of the events, and Sir Geoffrey,
if he were upon the water at all, would be there as well. Nothing
was happening to shake Melville's faith in his star.
The intense atmospheric oppression was beginning to tell upon Mrs.
Sinclair, who relapsed into complete silence. Varying emotions were
conflicting in her mind as she drew near the Manor House, of which
she might have been the mistress, but which she dared not enter now.
After the lapse of so many years she felt some remorse at the thought
of how she had spoiled Sir Geoffrey's life, and she would have liked
to be able to convey some message to him telling him she was sorry.
But fear stood between her and confession, as it so often stands, and
sealed her lips until it was too late.
Presently Melville drew the boat into the bank.
"There is the Manor House garden, behind those trees," he said,
pointing to a row of splendid elms some hundred, yards ahead. "If
you don't mind, I'll leave you here under this great willow. I'll
fasten the boat so that it can't drift away, and you won't get wet,
even if it does come on to rain."
He tied the boat up, bow and stern, with the painter and
rudder-lines, and gave her the boathook to grapple to the twisted
roots of the willow if she felt uneasy. She thanked him with a smile.
"Don't be longer than you can help, will you?"
"Not a minute longer," he replied, and turned to leave her. As he
stepped ashore he felt for the first time that day a pang of anxiety
at the risk he was running in bringing her so close to the husband
whom they had both wronged so much. He hesitated, and looked at her
searchingly.
"You will wait for me here, Lavender, won't you? You won't----"
"I will wait here all right," she answered, and Melville forced his
way through the bushes that screened the meadows from the stream, and
was lost to view.