The old campaigner's pic-nic had been decided upon by her, not only as a
merrymaking festival, but as a regular strategical _coup_.
She wanted to roll many issues into one, and like a prudent general, she
conned her forces, surveyed their position, and considered her war
_materiel_; all being in train, she determined that as she wanted to
create an impression in the neighbourhood, and bring sundry persons
together without being compelled to go to any great expense, the best
and most efficacious mode she could adopt for carrying out her plans
would be to give a pic-nic.
In the first place she could ask all those people of the vicinity whom
she did not care to specially invite to her own house; in the second, as
everyone would to some extent purvey their own refreshments, no great
outlay would be required on her part; and in the third place this sort
of rustic excursion offers greater advantages and inducements for
judicious love-making, and brings many bashful wooers, such as young
Clericus, to the scratch.
It was under these circumstances and acting with these motives, that
Lady Inskip had made preparations and issued invitations for a grand
pic-nic to come off at Dingle Dell, which was a nice drive from Bigton,
a few weeks after she came down to reside at that festive haunt.
She had by this time thoroughly explored all the capabilities of the
place, and knew just whom to ask and whom to avoid. The old Indian
officer, Captain Curry Cucumber, had of course an invitation, and so had
Doctor Jolly and his sister, but Deborah said that she never went out to
any such "gallivantings," and declined; the doctor, however, promised to
pick them up in the course of the day after he had made some necessary
calls on his patients.
The people were all to meet together at Laburnum Cottage, and drive from
thence _en cortege_ to the Dingle, so an early hour was fixed for the
rendezvous in order to have a good long day of it.
Soon after eleven, the time appointed, there was quite a goodly muster
of vehicles in front of Lady Inskip's residence. Tom Hartshorne drove
down in a bright new dog-cart, and being immediately pounced upon by the
campaigner, was made or inveigled into taking Carry with him. Not that
Tom objected personally to that young lady, who was very agreeable and
naturally glib of tongue, but he sorely wished and had indeed planned
that our little friend Lizzie should be his companion.
In order to prevent this the campaigner had specially called at the
parsonage and taken Miss Lizzie in her own pony chaise with her: the
Reverend Herbert and the languid Laura completed the quartette. Tom
sadly deplored the absence of Markworth, for he was so well used to the
campaigner, and had such nerve and _sang froid_ that he was capable of
even turning her out of her own carriage. Lieutenant Harrowby and
Captain Miles, too, of Tom's regiment, who had come over from Brighton
that morning for the _fete_, and who hoped to have complete possession
of the Inskip "girls," as military men usually dub the young ladies of
families, did not seem satisfied with the arrangements for the
procession; and as for Captain Curry Cucumber--who had arrived on the
scene of action dressed in a new pair of nankeen trowsers and a solar
hat, not to mention a blue coat with brass buttons and other portions of
a perfectly gorgeous toilet--he was simply enraged at the want of
deference paid him by Lady Inskip, and had serious thoughts of turning
back at first, although he afterwards suffered himself to be soothed
over by Miss Blandish (spinster, _aetat_ 45-60), and promised to remain
with the company until at least "tiffin" should be over.
At last, however, all things were settled, and "barring" a few
_contretemps_ and heartburnings the whole party started off in great
spirit to drive towards Dingle Dell.
The road was a very pretty one, all through the romantic scenery to be
found in the valley of the swift-running and widening river Biggle, at
the mouth of which, as has been described in its proper place, the
watering place of Bigton, formerly called Biggleton (_vide_ County
Archaeology), was situated.
The day was fine--as fine as a bright August day can be in the country.
_Ergo_ all went merry as the proverbial marriage bell. The only trouble
Lady Inskip had was with her darling pride--that horrible boy, the young
Sir Mortimer. He would insist on carrying a wretched old single-barrel
gun with him for the purpose of shooting small birds when they got to
the wood, and of course, as he always managed, he had his own way.
"Such a darling boy," as he was, "but _so_ rash!" Mortimer persisted in
practising along the road as they drove on, frightening the horses every
now and then, and making everybody feel in terror for their lives.
It was no use that Lady Inskip called out in a half-entreating,
half-commanding voice at intervals, "Oh! Morti-mer! Mortimer!" the
young imp would continue his detonating sport, and everyone was heartily
glad when after passing the steep incline which led down from the old
castle of archaeological renown, they crossed the pretty rustic bridge
over the Biggle, and arrived at length at Dingle Dell.
Considering that it was a good two hours' drive or more from Bigton, and
that it was "getting on" in the afternoon, no one was averse to
preparations being at once made for the substantial and real part of the
pic-nic. All helped with good will to lay the cloth on the smooth green
turf, and unpack the hampers. Even a smile irradiated the choleric and
saffronised face of the Indian warrior, who was much disgusted when they
sat down to the _al fresco_ banquet that no one had remembered to bring
mango, chutney, or Cayenne pepper, without which he assured Lady Inskip
that even "the best victuals" were not worth the salt that accompanied
them.
The old campaigner very judiciously arranged the various members of her
company around the tablecloth--one cannot exactly say table. She placed
Tom by the side of Carry, at the extreme opposite end of the "board,"
away from Lizzie, whom she quartered with the gallant lieutenant,
Harrowby, by herself. Pringle, of course, was placed next Laura; and
although Lady Inskip had been obliged to invite the Rev. Jabez
Heavieman, of Bigton, for appearance's sake, she took very good care
that he should not run foul of our Ritualistic young incumbent, whom he
regarded in much the same light as the devil is supposed to look upon
holy water.
Everything passed off well, and Lady Inskip was in ecstasies; Carry was
apparently having it all her own way with Tom Hartshorne, and Pringle
was most devoted to Laura. As for Lizzie, she was hopelessly put on one
side, and the campaigner considered "that artful little minx" as done
for and out of her way: nothing could be better.
The banquet was at length finished.
Young Sir Mortimer, having gorged himself sufficiently with cold chicken
and greengage tart, so that his face shone again, went off with his gun
to shoot in the woods, much against the entreaties of his mother, who
fervently implored him "take care, Mortimer, my darling boy, take great
care!"
The others disposed themselves around; some lolling on the grass, others
making a pretence of fishing in the adjacent river: Tom had wandered off
somewhere--Lizzie had disappeared; and our cheery Doctor Jolly, who had
just arrived in time for the feast--"Bless my soul! madam," as he said,
in explanation, "never miss the grub, my lady--never miss my grub,"--was
enjoying a cigar along with the "military swells," as he called them.
When suddenly Lady Inskip's pride and hope, the boy Mortimer, dashed in
amongst them with a scared face, yelling out at the top of his voice--
"Oh! ma, ma! I've shot and killed somebody!"
The consternation his advent created can be imagined.
"Oh! dear, Morti-mer,--Morti-mer! I told you so: I told you so!" said
Lady Inskip, bursting into tears.
Carry went into hysterics, entreating everybody to "hold me down! hold
me down!" Laura fell fainting in the arms of the Reverend Pringle, who
looked hopelessly bewildered. Miss Blandish, making an ineffectual and
similar attempt to repose on the white waistcoat and nankeen trowsers of
Captain Curry Cucumber, was precipitated by a dexterous and skilful
manoeuvre on the part of that gallant officer, into the salad-bowl, the
Captain muttering horrible imprecations in Hindostanee, such as heaping
curses on the beard of her departed father, and devoutly hoping that
jackasses might sit on her grandmother's grave.
Doctor Jolly alone retained his composure, and darted off, as quickly as
his size and gout would permit him, in the direction from which the
young imp, Mortimer, had come.
What had happened?
Lizzie, after enduring the platitudes of Lieutenant Harrowby until she
was sick of them--the burden of that officer's conversation being
limited apparently to the observations of "Haw! be-y Je-ove!" and
"Doo-ced fine!" to anything and everything around him, including scenery
and lobster salad, managed at last to get away from the company.
She wandered along listlessly amongst the thickly crowded elms and firs
of the forest that crowned the slopes of the dell, musing on her own sad
thoughts, for her heart felt very weary. Everything had gone wrong with
her that day; Tom had not spoken two words to her, and she did not know
whether he wanted to speak to her at all. He was very unkind; he might,
at least, have said something after what had passed between them the
other day! Then, too, the whole thing had bored her, and she wished she
had never come! Lady Inskip also had been very snappish with her--even
rude, she thought, and though Lizzie, with all her gentleness, was not
"one to be put upon with impunity," and could have held her own against
the campaigner at any other time: still to-day she had quite lost her
natural spirit, and did not try to turn aside a single shaft of the many
hurled by her implacable foe.
Lizzie was sadly out of heart. Rambling along, she at length came to a
little open glade at some distance from where the picnickers were making
merry.
Here, as she turned round the trunk of a gnarled old elm, all covered
with ivy, which had previously obscured this open glade from her view,
whom should she see, standing there in gloomy solitude, and looking up
at the fleecy white clouds sailing over head, but the very person who
filled her thoughts--Tom Hartshorne himself, and no other.
Now was the time, one would think, for an explanation between the pair;
but the Fates willed it otherwise.
"That young imp," when he left the picnickers, sallied off like a
gallant young sportsman, as he fancied himself, with his "gun upon his
shoulder," and a brandy flask, which he used for a shot pouch, instead
of a "bayonet by his side," in the words of the affecting ballad of
"Jeanette and Jeanot."
He penetrated into the depths of the wood, firing at everything that
happened to be a trifle larger than a butterfly or humble bee; but
although Mortimer thought he took steady aim at the several little
feathered songsters against whom he had murder in his heart, the gun,
which was something like the Irishman's that could "shoot round a
corner," never brought down anything.
At length he came to a dense thicket, just on the borders of the little
open glade where Tom and Lizzie were about to meet.
A particularly fine fat thrush hopped on a twig in the midst of the
thicket; and, as it was only about a yard from the muzzle of his gun,
the young imp was more successful this time. He fired and brought down
his bird; but he also brought down something else which he had not
bargained for.
Tom was just advancing with outstretched hand towards Lizzie, glad of
the opportunity for which he had been longing all day.
Whiz! bang! more than half the charge of the young imp's shot struck him
in the side, and Tom fell nearly senseless at Lizzie's feet.
She, forgetting all her reserve, bent over him in an agony of terror.
"Oh! Tom, Tom!" she cried, as she knelt down by his side, their faces
nearly touching, and her hair sweeping across his cheek. "They have
killed you! They have killed you!"
And the sun still shone down, and the fleecy clouds still sailed
overhead, and the summer breeze rippled through the trees.
"Lizzie, my darling! I'm so happy: I wish I could die now," murmured
Tom, in disconnected fragments, and he fainted away outright.
"Oh! he's dead! He's dead!" cried Lizzie, out aloud, wringing her
hands, bursting into an agony of tears--tears, idle tears!
"Bless my soul!" said the doctor, bursting through the bushes, as he
arrived very opportunely on the scene of action, out of breath with the
haste he had made. "Bless my soul! Who's dead, what's dead? It's all
confounded nonsense," he continued, excitedly, bending down over Tom,
and tearing open his coat and shirt, and feeling his heart. "Bless my
soul! He's no more dead than you are, my dear! The man's only
fainted."
Volume 1, Chapter XV.