There were to be fireworks that evening at the Canoe Club on the
farther side of Bar Island--magnificent fireworks, it was said, which
it would be well worth while to see. The night was calm and clear,
and the moon, being near the last quarter, would not rise until
everything was over.
"We'll go in skiffs," said Fanny. "When we're tired of each other,
we can change about, you know. Mr. Lawrence can take one of us and
Mr. Brinsley another, and the other two must take one of the men from
the landing. I ordered the boats this morning when I was out."
The three Miss Miners looked consciously at one another, mutely
wondering how they were to divide Mr. Brinsley amongst them, and
wishing that they had consulted together in private before the moment
for decision had come. But no one suggested that, as there were only
four ladies, each of the men could very easily take two in a boat.
"We might toss up to see who shall take whom," suggested Brinsley,
who had been unusually silent during the greater part of dinner.
"In how many ways can you arrange six people in couples?" asked Fanny.
Nobody succeeded in solving the question, of course. Even Elizabeth
Miner, who was considered the clever member, gave it up in despair.
"Never mind!" said Fanny. "We'll see how it turns out when we get
down to the landing-stage. These things always arrange themselves."
To the surprise of every one except Fanny herself, the arrangement
turned out to be such that she and Miss Cordelia went together in the
skiff pulled by the sailor, while Brinsley and Lawrence each took one
of the other Miss Miners.
"We'll change by and by," said Fanny, as her boat shoved off first to
show the way. "Keep close to us in the crowd when we get over."
The distance from the landing, across the harbour, through the
channel between Bar Island and Sheep Porcupine to the Canoe Club, is
little over half a mile; but at night, amidst a crowd of steamers,
large and small, row-boats, canoes, and sail-boats,--the latter all
outside the channel,--it took twenty minutes to reach the place where
the fireworks were to be.
Fanny leaned back beside her cousin, and watched the lights in
silence. Yellow, green, and red, they streamed across the brilliant
black water in every direction, the yellow rays fixed or moving but
slowly, the others gliding along swiftly above their own reflection,
as the paddle steamers thrashed their way through the still sea. To
left and right the shadowy islands loomed, darkly against the black
sky, outlined by the stars. The warm damp air lifted the coolness
from the water in little puffs, as the skiff slipped along. Now and
then, in the gloom, a boat showed dimly alongside, and the laughing
voices of girls and boys told how near it passed, a mere floating
dimness upon blackness. The stroke of light sculls swished and
tinkled with the laughter. The soft mysterious charm of the summer
dark was breathed upon land and water--the distant lights were
love-dreaming eyes, and each time, as the oars dipped, swept and
rose, the gentle sound was like a stolen kiss.
Then, suddenly, with a wild screaming rush, a rocket shot up into the
night, splitting the sky with a scar of fire. The burning point of
it lingered a moment overhead, then cracked into little stars that
shed a soft glow through the gloom, and fell in a swift shower of
sparks. Then all was hushed again, and the red and green lights
moved quickly over the water, hither and thither.
Close to the shore of the island the skiff ran round the point into
the shallow water along the beach, and all at once in the distance
the festooned lanterns of the Canoe Club came into view, so bright
that one could distinguish the branches of the spruces in the red and
yellow glare, and the moving crowd of people on the little
landing-stage and below, before the clubhouse. And some two hundred
yards out the lights began again, gleaming from hundreds of boats and
little vessels of all rigs and builds. Between these seaward lights
and those on land a deep black void stretched away up Frenchman's Bay.
Miss Cordelia started nervously at the rockets, but said nothing.
Fanny sat beside her in silence. The sailor, only visible distinctly
when the lights were behind him, pulled softly and steadily, glancing
over his shoulder every now and then to see that the way was clear.
The other skiffs kept near, both Brinsley and Lawrence being keenly
on the lookout for a change. Now and then Fanny could hear them
talking.
"I wonder why one voice should attract one and another should be
disagreeable," she said at last, in a meditative tone.
"I was thinking of the same thing," answered Cordelia, thoughtfully.
"Yes," said Fanny, absently. "Of course you were," she added, a
moment later. "I mean--" She paused. "Poor dear!" she exclaimed at
last, stroking her cousin's elderly hand in the dark. "I'm so sorry!"
"Thank you, dear," answered Miss Miner, simply and gratefully.
It was little enough, but little as it was it made them both more
silent than ever. With the boatman close before them, it was
impossible to talk of what was in their thoughts. Fanny, for her
part, was glad of it. She had understood her old-maid cousin since
the night when Cordelia had broken down and laughed and cried in the
garden, and she knew how little there could be to say. But Cordelia
did not understand Fanny in the least. It was a marvel to her that
any one should prefer Lawrence to Brinsley--almost as great a marvel
as that she herself, in her sober middle age, should have felt what
she knew was love and believed to be passion.
And now, Brinsley was going, and it was over. He would never come
back, and she should never see him again--she was sure of that. She
was only an old maid; a middle-aged gentlewoman who had never
possessed any great attraction for anybody; who had always been more
or less poor and unhappy, though of the best and living amongst the
best; whose few pleasures had come to her unexpectedly, like rare
gleams of pale sunshine on a very long rainy day; who had looked for
little and had got next to nothing out of life, save the crumbs of
enjoyment from the feast of rich relations, like the Trehearnes--a
woman who had known something more grievous than sorrow and worse
than violent grief, trudging through life in the leaden cowl of many
limitations--the leaden cowl of that most innocent of all hypocrites,
of her, or of him, who knows the daily burden of keeping up
appearances on next to nothing, and of doctoring poor little
illusions through a feeble existence, worth having because they
represent all that there is to have.
She had been wounded by one of those arrows shot in the dark which
hit hearts unawares and unaimed; and now that the shaft was suddenly
drawn out, the heart's blood followed it and the nerves quivered
where it had been. It was only one of the little tragedies which no
one sees, few guess at, and nothing can hinder. But Fanny Trehearne
felt that it was beside her, there in the little boat, while she
watched the pretty fireworks, and she was sorry and did what she
could to soothe the pain.
"Let's change, now," she said at last, just as the glow of a
multitude of coloured fires died away on the water. "You take Mr.
Brinsley, and I'll take Mr. Lawrence."
As she spoke, she gave her cousin's hand a little squeeze of
sympathy, and heard the small sigh of satisfaction that answered the
proposal. The rearrangement was effected in a few moments, the men
holding the boats together by the gunwales while the ladies stepped
from one into the other.
"Pull away," said Fanny, authoritatively, as soon as Lawrence had
shoved off. "Let's get out of this! I'll steer, so you needn't
bother about running into things."
Fairly seated in a boat, with the sculls shipped, and some one at the
tiller lines, Lawrence could get along tolerably well, for he knew
just enough not to catch a crab in smooth water, so long as he was
not obliged to turn his head. But if he had to look over his
shoulder, something was certain to happen, which was natural,
considering that when he attempted to feather at all, he did it the
wrong way.
"You're stronger than anybody would think," observed Fanny, as she
saw how quickly the skiff moved. "You might do things quite
decently, if you'd only take the trouble to learn."
"Oh no! I'm a born duffer," laughed Lawrence. "Besides, I couldn't
row long like this. I couldn't keep it up."
They were just in front of the clubhouse now; and a score of rockets
went up together, with a rushing and a crackling and a gleaming, as
they soared and burst, and at last fell sputtering in the water all
around the skiff. Lawrence had rested on his sculls to watch the
sight.
"Pull away!" said Fanny. "We'll get under the foot-bridge by the
landing. There's water enough there, and we can see everything."
Lawrence obeyed, and pulled as hard as he could.
"So your friend Mr. Brinsley is going away," observed the young girl,
suddenly.
"My friend! I like that! As though I had brought him in my pocket."
"I'm very glad that he's going, at all events," said Fanny, without
heeding his remark. "I'm not fond of him any more."
"I hope you never were--fond of him."
"Oh yes, I was--but I'm thankful to say that it's over. Of all the
ineffable cads! I could have killed him to-day!"
"By the bye," said Lawrence, "when he was mounting you--didn't you do
that on purpose?"
"Of course. And then I called him awkward. It was so nice! It did
me good."
"Pure spite, I suppose. You couldn't have had any particular reason
for doing it, could you?"
"Oh dear, no! What reason could I have? It wasn't his fault that
the mare ran away, though I told him it was."
"That's interesting," observed Lawrence. "Do you often do things out
of pure spite?"
"Constantly--without any reason at all!" Fanny laughed.
"Perhaps you'll marry out of spite, some day," said Lawrence, calmly.
"Women often do, they say, though I never could understand why."
"I daresay I shall. I'm quite capable of it. And shouldn't I be
just horrid afterwards!"
"I like you when you're horrid, as you call it. I didn't at first.
You've given my sense of humour a chance to grow since I've been
here. I say, Miss Trehearne--" He stopped.
"What do you say? It isn't particularly polite to begin in that way,
is it? I suppose it's English."
"Oh, bother the English! And I apologize for being slangy. It's so
dark that I can't see you frown. I meant to say, if you ever marry
out of spite, and want to be particularly horrid afterwards, it
wouldn't be a bad idea to marry me, for I don't mind that sort of
thing a bit, you know."
"That's a singular offer!" laughed Fanny, leaning far back, and
playing with the tiller lines in the glow of the Bengal lights.
"It's genuine of its kind," answered the young man. "Of course it
isn't a sure thing, exactly," he added reflectively, "because it
depends on your happening to be in the spiteful humour. But, as you
say that often happens--"
"Well, go on!"
"I thought you might feel spiteful enough to accept this evening,"
concluded Lawrence.
"Take care--I might, you know--you're in danger!" She was still
laughing.
"Don't mind me, you know! I could stand it, I believe."
"You're awfully amusing--sometimes, Mr. Lawrence."
"Meaning now?" enquired the artist, resting on his sculls, for they
were under the shadow of the bridge.
"I can't see your face distinctly," answered Fanny. "So much depends
on the expression. But I think--"
"What do you think? That it's awfully amusing of me to offer to be
married as a sacrifice to your spite?"
"It's amusing anyway."
"A formal proposal would be, you mean?" asked Lawrence. Then he
laughed oddly.
"I hate formality," answered Fanny. "That is, in earnest, you know.
It's so disgusting when a man comes with his gloves buttoned and sits
on the edge of a chair and says--"
"And says what?"
"Oh--you know the sort of thing. You must have done it scores of
times."
"What? Proposed and been refused? You're complimentary, at all
events. I've a great mind to let you be the first, just--well--how
shall I say? Just to associate you with a novel sensation."
"I might disappoint you," said Fanny, demurely. "I told you so
before. Just think, if I were to say 'yes,' you'd be most dreadfully
caught. You'd have to eat humble pie and beg off, and say that you
hadn't meant it."
"Oh no!" laughed the young man. "You'd break it off in a week, and
then it would be all right."
"Are you going to be rude? Or are you, already? I'm not quite sure."
"Neither. Of course you'd break it off, if we had an agreement to
that effect."
"You don't make any allowance for my spitefulness. It would be just
like me to hold you to your engagement. Of course you wouldn't live
long. We should be sure to fight."
"Oh--sure," assented Lawrence. "That is, if you call this fighting."
"It would be worse than this. But why don't you try? I'm dying to
refuse you. I'm just in the humour."
"Why! I thought you said there was danger! If I'd known there
wasn't--by the bye, this counts in the game, doesn't it?"
"There isn't anything to count, yet," said Fanny. "Look at those
fiery fish--aren't they pretty? See how they squirm about, and
fizzle, and behave like mad things! Oh, I never saw anything so
pretty as that!"
"Yes. If one must have an interruption, they do as well as anything."
"You weren't talking very coherently, I believe," said the young
girl, turning her head to watch the fireworks. "And you've made me
miss lots of pretty things, I'm sure. Oh--they've gone out already!
How dark it seems, all at once! What were you asking? Whether this
counted in the game? Of course it counts. Everything does. But I
don't exactly see how--"
She stopped and looked towards him in the dim gloom of the shadow
under the bridge. But Lawrence did not speak. He looked over the
side of the boat, softly slapping the black water with the blade of
his scull.
"Why don't you go on?" asked Fanny, tapping the boards under her foot
to attract his attention.
"I was thinking over the proper words," answered Lawrence. "How does
one make a formal proposal of marriage? I never did such a thing in
my life."
"An informal one would do for fun."
"I never did that, either."
"Never?"
"Never."
"Really? Swear it, as they say on the stage." Fanny laughed softly.
"Oh, by Jove, yes!" answered Lawrence, promptly. "I'll swear to that
by anything you please."
"Well--you'll have to do it some day, so you'd better practise at
once," suggested Fanny.
Lawrence did not notice that there was a sort of little relief in her
tone.
"I suppose one says, 'My angel, will you be mine?'" he said. "That
sounds like some book or other."
"It might do," answered Fanny, meditatively. "You ought to throw a
little more expression into the tone. Besides, I'm not an angel,
whatever the girl in the book may have been. On the whole--no--it's
a little too effusive. Angel--you know. It's such nonsense! Try
something else; but put lots of expression into it."
"Does one get down on one's knees?" enquired Lawrence.
"Oh no; I don't believe it's necessary. Besides, you'd upset the
boat."
"All right--here goes! My dear Miss Trehearne, will you--
"Yes. That's it. Go on. The quaver in the voice is rather well
done. 'Will you--' What?"
"Will you marry me?"
"Yes, Mr. Lawrence, I will."
There was a short pause, during which a number of fiery fish were
sent off again, and squirmed and wriggled and fizzled their burning
little lives away in the water. But neither of the young people
looked at them.
"You rather took my breath away," said Lawrence, with a change of
tone. "Did I do it all right?"
"Oh--quite right," answered Fanny, thoughtfully.
Immediately after the words Lawrence heard a little sigh. Then Fanny
heard one, too.
"You didn't happen to be in earnest, did you?" she asked suddenly, in
a low, soft voice.
"Well--I didn't mean--that I meant--you know we agreed to play a
game--"
"I know we did--but--were you in earnest."
"Yes--but, of course-- Oh, this isn't fair, Miss Trehearne!"
"Yes, it is. I said 'yes,' didn't I?"
"Certainly, but--"
"There's no 'but.' I happened to be in earnest, too--that's all.
I've lost the game."