A GLOBE OF GOLD-FISH.
What, then, was the secret charm and fascination exercised over him by
this extremely independent, not to say unapproachable, fisher-maiden;
why should he be so anxious to win her approval; why should he desire to
be continually with her--even when all her attention was given to her
salmon-line, and she apparently taking no notice of him whatever? She
was handsome, no doubt, and fine-featured and pleasant to look upon; she
was good-humored, and friendly in her own way; and she had the education
and manners and tact and gentleness of one of her birth and breeding;
but there were lots of other women similarly graced and gifted who were
only too eager to welcome him and pet him and make much of him, and
towards whom he found himself absolutely indifferent. Was he falling in
love? Had he been asked the question, he would honestly have answered
that he was about the last person in the world to form a romantic
attachment. There was no kind of sentimental wistfulness in his nature;
his imagination had no poetical trick of investing the face and form of
any passably good-looking girl with a halo of rainbow-hues; even as a
lad his dreams had concerned themselves more with the possibility of his
becoming a great musician than with his sharing his fame and glory with
a radiant bride. But, above all, the rhodomontade of simulated passion
that he heard in the theatre, and the extravagance of action necessary
for stage effect, would of themselves have tended to render him
sceptical and callous. He saw too much of how it was done. Did ever any
man in his senses swear by the eternal stars in talking to a woman; and
did ever any man in his senses kneel at a woman's feet? In former times
they may have done so, when fustian and attitudinizing were not fustian
and attitudinizing, but common habit and practice; but in our own day
did the love-making of the stage, with all its frantic gestures and
wild appeals, represent anything belonging to actual life? Of course, if
the question had been pushed home, he would have had to admit that love
as a violent passion does veritably exist, or otherwise there would not
be so many young men blowing out their brains, and young women drowning
themselves, out of disappointment; but probably he would have pointed
out that in these cases the coroner's jury invariably and charitably
certify that the victim is insane.
No; romance had never been much in his way, except the sham romance
which he had assumed along with a painted face and a stage costume, and
of which he knew the just and accurate value. He had never had time to
fall seriously in love, he used to say to Maurice Mangan. And now, in
this long spell of idleness in the North, amid these gracious
surroundings, if he had had to confess that he found a singular
fascination in the society of Honnor Cunyngham, why, he would have
discovered a dozen reasons and excuses rather than admit that poetical
sentiment had anything to do with it. For one thing, she was different
from any woman he had ever met before; and that of itself piqued his
curiosity. You had to speak the downright truth to her--when she looked
at you with those clear hazel eyes; little make-believes of flattery
were of no use at all. Her very tranquillity and isolation were a sort
of challenge; her almost masculine independence was like to drive a man
to say, "I am as peremptory as she proud-minded." Nevertheless, she was
no curst Katherine; her temper was of the serenest; she was almost too
bland and placid, Lionel thought--it showed she cared too little about
you to be either exacting and petulant, or, on the other hand,
solicitous to please.
There came into these silent and reverie-haunted solitudes a letter from
the distant and turbulent world without; and of a sudden Lionel felt
himself transported back into the theatre again, in the midst of all its
struggles and hopes and anxieties, its jealousies and triumphs, its
ceaseless clamor and unrest. The letter was from Nina.
"MY DEAR FRIEND LEO,--I have waited now some time that I send you
the critiques of my new part, but the great morning newspapers have
taken no notice of poor Nina, it is only some of the weekly papers
that have observed the change in the part, and you will see that
they are very kind to me. Ah, but one--I do not send it--I could
not send it to you, Leo--it has made me cry much and much that any
one should have such malignity, such meanness, such lying. I
forget all the other ones? that one stabs my heart? but Mr. Carey
he laughs and says to me You are foolish? you do not know why that
is said of you? He is a great ally of Miss Burgoyne, he does not
like to see you take her place and be well received by the public.
Perhaps it is true; but, Leo, you do not like to be told that you
make the part stupid, that there is no life in it, that you are a
_machine_, that you sing out of tune. I have asked Mr. Lehmann, I
have asked Mr. Carey, and said to them If it is true, let me go? I
will not make ridicule of your theatre. But they are so kind to me;
and Mrs. Grey also; she says that I have not as much _cheek_ as
Miss Burgoyne, but that Grace Mainwaring should remember that she
is a gentlewoman, and it is not necessary to make her a laughing
waitress, although she is in comedy-opera. I cannot please every
one, Leo; but if you were here I should not care so much for the
_briccone_ who _lies_, who _lies_, who hides in the dark, like a
thief. You know whether I sing out of tune, Leo. You know whether I
am so stupid, so very stupid. Yes, I may not have _cheek_; I wish
not to have _cheek_; even to commend myself to a critic. Ah, well,
it is no use to be angry; every night I have a reception that you
would like to hear, Leo, for _you_ have no jealousy; and my heart
says _those_ people are not under bad influence; they are honest in
saying they are pleased; to _them_ I sing not out of tune, and am
not so very stupid. If I lie awake at night, and cry much, it is
then I say to myself that I am stupid; and the next morning I
laugh, when Mrs. Grey says some kind thing to me.
"Will you be surprised, most excellent Signor, if you have a visit
from Miss Burgoyne? Yes, it is possible. The doctor says she has
strained her voice by too long work--but it was a little _reedy_ of
its own nature, do you not think, Leo?--and says she must have
entire rest, and that she must go to the Isle of White; but she
said every one was going to Scotland, and why not she, and her two
friends, her travelling companions. Then she comes to me and ask
your address. I answer--Why to me? There is Mr. Lehmann; and at the
stage-door they will know his address, for letters to go. So, you
see, you will not be alone in the high-lands, when you have such a
_charming visitor_ with you, and she will talk to you, not from
behind a fan, as on the stage, but all the day, and you will have
great comfort and satisfaction. Yes, I see her arrive at the
castle. She rings at the gate; your noble friends come out, and ask
who she is; they discover, and drive away such a person as a poor
cantatrice. But you hear, you come flying out, you rescue her from
scorn--ah, it is pitiable, they all weep, they say to you that you
are honorable and just, that they did wrong to despise your
charming friend. Perhaps they ask her to dine; and she sings to
them after; and Leo says to himself, Poor thing; no; her voice is
not so reedy. The _dénouement_?--but I am not come to it yet; I
have not arranged what will arrive then.
"What is the time of your return, Leo? And you know what will be
then? You will find on the stage another Grace Mainwaring, who will
sing always out of tune, and be so stupid that you will have fury
and will complain to the Manager. Ah, there is now no one to speak
with you from behind a fan--only a dull heavy stupid. Misera me!
What shall I do? All the poetry departed from Harry Thornhill's
singing--there is no more fascination for him--he looks up to the
window--he sings 'The starry night brings me no rest'--and he says
'Bother to that stupid Italian girl!--why am I to sing to her?'
Poor Leo, he will be disconsolate; but not for long. No; Miss
Burgoyne will be coming back; and then he will have some one for to
talk with from behind the fan.
"Now, Leo, if you can read any more, I must attend to what you call
_beesness_. When Miss Burgoyne returns, I do not go back to be
under-study to Miss Girond--no--Mr. Lehmann has said he is pleased
with me, and I am to take the part of Miss Considine, who goes into
the provincial company. You know it is almost the same consequence
as Grace Mainwaring towards the public, and I am, oh, very proud of
such an advancement; and I have written to Pandiani, and to Carmela
and Andrea, and Mrs. Grey is kinder than ever, and I take lessons
always and always, when she has a half-hour from the
house-governing. I am _letter perfect_--is it what they say?--in
this part as in the other; my bad English does not appear on the
stage; I practise and practise always. I am to share in Miss
Girond's room, and that will be good, for she is friendly to me,
though sometimes a little saucy in her amusement. Already I hear
that the theatre-attendant people are coming back--and you--when is
your return? You had benevolence to the poor chorus-singer, Signor
Leo; and now she is prima-donna do you think she will forget you?
No, no! To-day I was going up Regent Street, and in a window
behold! a portrait of Mr. Lionel Moore and a portrait of Miss
Antonia Ross side by side! I laughed--I said, Leo did not look to
this a short time ago. It is the same fotografer; I have had
several requests; but only to that one I went, for it is the best
one of you he has taken that is seen anywhere. Of course I have to
dress as like Miss Burgoyne as possible, which is a pity to me, for
it is not too graceful, as I think I could do; but I complain
nothing, since Mr. Lehmann gave me the great advancement; and if
you will look at the critiques you will see they say I have not a
bad appearance in the part. As for the _briccone_--pah!--when I
talk like this to you, Leo, I despise him--he is nothing to me--I
would not pay twopence that he should praise me.
"Will you write to me, Leo, and say when you return? Have you so
much _beesness_ that you have only sent me one letter? Adieu!
"Your true friend, NINA."
Well, this prattling letter from Nina caused him some reflection and
some uneasy qualms. He did not so much mind the prospect of having, on
his return, to transform his old friend and comrade into his
stage-sweetheart, and to make passionate love to her every evening
before an audience. That might be a little embarrassing at first; but
the feeling would soon wear off; such circumstances were common and well
understood in the theatre, where stage-lovers cease their cooing the
moment they withdraw into the wings. But this other possibility of
finding Miss Burgoyne and her friends in the immediate neighborhood of
Strathaivron Lodge? Of course there was no reason why she shouldn't
travel through Ross-shire just as well as any one else. She knew his
address. If she came anywhere round this way--say to Kilfearn--he must
needs go to call on her. Then both Lady Adela Cunyngham and Lord
Rockminster had been introduced to Miss Burgoyne in the New Theatre; if
he told them, as he ought, on whom he was going to call, might they not
want to accompany him and renew the acquaintance? Lady Adela and her
sisters considered themselves the naturally appointed patrons of all
professional folk whose names figured in the papers; was it not highly
probable that Miss Burgoyne and her friends, whosoever these might be,
would receive an invitation to Strathaivron Lodge? And then?--why, then
might there not be rather too close a resemblance to a band of poor
players being entertained by the great people at what Nina imagined to
be a castle? A solitary guest was all very well; had Miss Burgoyne
preceded or succeeded him, he could not have objected; but a group of
strolling players, as it were?--might it not look as if they had been
summoned to amuse the noble company? And fancy Miss Burgoyne coming in
as a spy upon his mute, and at present quite indefinite, relations with
Miss Honnor Cunyngham!--Miss Burgoyne, who was a remarkably sharp-eyed
young woman, and had a clever and merry tongue withal, when she was
disposed to be humorous.
Then he bethought him of what Honnor Cunyngham, with her firm
independence of character, her proud self-reliance, would have said to
all these timorous fancies. He knew perfectly well what she would say.
She would say, "Well, but even if Miss Burgoyne were to appear at
Strathaivron Lodge, how could that affect you? You are yourself; you are
apart from her; her visit will be Lady Adela's doing, not yours. And if
people choose to regard you as one of a band of strolling players, how
can that harm you? Why should you care? The opinion that is of value to
you is your own opinion; be right with yourself; and leave others to
think what they please. Whoever could so entirely misjudge your position
must be a fool; why should you pause for a moment to consider the
opinion of a fool or any number of fools? 'To thine own self be true;'
and let that suffice."
For he had come to know pretty accurately, during these frequent if
intermittent talks and chats along the Aivron banks, how Miss Honnor
would regard most things. The wild weather had been succeeded by a
period of calm; the river had dwindled and dwindled, until it seemed
merely to creep along its channel; where a rushing brown current had
come down there now appeared long banks of stones, lilac and silver-gray
and purple, basking in the sun; while half-way across the stream in many
places the yellow sand and shingle shone through the lazily rippling
shallows. Consequently there was little fishing to be done. Honnor
Cunyngham went out all the same, for she loved the river-side in all
weathers; and as often as he discreetly might, Lionel accompanied her;
but as they had frequently to wait for half-hours together until a cloud
should come over, he had ample opportunity of learning her views and
opinions on a great variety of subjects. For she spoke freely and
frankly and simply in this enforced idleness; and, from just a little
touch here and there, Lionel began to think that she must have a good
deal more of womanly tenderness and sympathy than he had given her
credit for. Certainly she was always most considerate towards himself;
she seemed to understand that he was a little sensitive on the score of
his out-of-door performances; and while she made light of his occasional
blunders, she would quietly hint to him that he in turn ought to
exercise a generous judgment when those people at the Lodge ventured to
enter a province in which he was a past master.
"We are all amateurs in something or another, Mr. Moore," she would say.
"And the professionals should not treat us with scorn."
"I wonder in what you show yourself an amateur," said he, bethinking
himself how she seemed to keep aloof from the music, art, and literature
of her accomplished sisters-in-law. "Everything you do you do thoroughly
well."
She laughed.
"You have never seen me try to do anything but cast a line," said she,
"and if I can manage that, the credit rests with old Robert."
But the consideration that she invariably extended to her brother's
guest was about to show itself in a very marked manner; and the incident
arose in this wise. One morning, the weather being much too bright and
clear for the shallower pools of the Aivron, they thought they would
take luncheon with them, and stroll up to the Geinig, where, in the
afternoon, the deeper pools might give them a chance, especially if a
few clouds were to come over. Accordingly the three of them went away
along the valley, passed over the Bad Step, meandered through the long
birch wood, and finally arrived at the little dell above the Geinig
Pool, which was Miss Honnor's favorite retreat. They had left somewhat
late; the sun was shining from a cloudless sky; luncheon would pass the
useless time; so Robert got the small parcels and the drinking-cups out
of the bag, and arranged them on the warm turf. It was a modest little
banquet, but in the happiest circumstances; for the birch branches above
them afforded them a picturesque shelter; and the burn at their feet,
attenuated as it was, and merely threading its way down through the
stones, flashed diamonds here and there in the light. And then she was
so kind as to thank him again for singing "The Bonnie Earl o'
Moray"--which had considerably astounded the people assembled at the
opening of the Kilfearn Public Hall, or, at least, such of them as did
not know that a great singer was among the guests at Strathaivron Lodge.
"I was rather sorry for them who had to follow you," she said; "they
must have felt it was hardly fair. It was like Donald Dinnie at the
Highland Games: when he has thrown the hammer or tossed the caber, the
spectator hardly takes notice of the next competitor. By the way, I
suppose you will be going to the Northern meeting at the end of this
month?"
"I am sorry I cannot stay so long, though Lady Adela was good enough to
ask me," he made answer. "I must go south very soon now."
"Oh, indeed?" she said. "That is a pity. It is worth while being in
Inverness then; you see all the different families and their guests; and
the balls are picturesque--with the kilt and tartan. It is really the
wind-up of the season; the parties break up after that. We come back
here and remain until about the middle of October; then we go on to the
Braes--worse luck for me. I like the rough-and-tumble of this place; the
absence of ceremony; the freedom and the solitude. It will be very
different at the Braes."
"Why shouldn't you stop on here, then?" he naturally asked.
[Illustration: "_Robert got the small parcels and the drinking-cups out
of the bag, and arranged them on the warm turf._"]
"All by myself?" she said. "Well, I shouldn't mind the loneliness--you
see, old Robert is left here, and Roderick, too, and one or two of
the girls to keep fires on; but I should have nothing to do but read;
the fishing is useless long before that time. And so you are going away
quite soon?"
"Yes," said he, and he paused for a second--for there was some wild wish
in his heart that she would have just one word of regret. "I must go,"
he continued, seeing that she did not speak. "I am wanted. And I have
had a long holiday--a long and delightful holiday; and I'm sure, when I
look back over it, I can't thank you sufficiently for all your kindness
to me."
"Thank me, Mr. Moore?" she said, with obvious surprise.
"Oh, yes, indeed," he said, warmly. "If it was only a word now and
again, it was always encouragement. I should never have ventured out
after the deer if it had not been for you; probably I should never have
taken up a gun at all. Then all those delightful days by the river;
haven't I to thank you for them? It seems rather hard that I should be
so much indebted to you--"
"I am sure you are not at all," she said.
"--without a chance of ever being able to show my gratitude; repayment,
of course, is out of the question, for we could never meet again in
similar circumstances--in reversed circumstances, rather--I mean, you
have had it all your own way in your--your toleration, shall I say?--or
your commiseration, of a hopeless duffer. Oh, I know what I'm talking
about. Most people in your position would have said, 'Well, let him go
and make a fool of himself!' and most people in my position would have
said, 'No, I'm not going to make a fool of myself.'"
"I don't quite understand," she said, simply, "why you should care so
much for the opinion of other people."
"I suppose there is no chance of my ever seeing you in London, Miss
Honnor," he continued, rather breathlessly. "If--if I might presume on
the acquaintanceship formed up here, I should like--well, I should like
to show you I had not forgotten your kindness. Do you ever come to
London?--I think Miss Lestrange said you sometimes did."
"Why, I am in London a great part of every year!" she said. "And this
winter I shall be next door to it; for my mother goes to Brighton in
November; and she will want me to be with her."
"To Brighton!" he said, quickly and eagerly. "Then, of course, you
would be in London sometimes. Would you--would you care to come behind
the scenes of a theatre?--or be present at a dress rehearsal, or
something of that kind? No, I'm afraid not--I'm afraid that wouldn't
interest you--"
"Oh, but it would," she said, pleasantly enough. "It would interest me
very much."
And perhaps he would have gone on to assure her how delighted he would
be to have the opportunity of showing her, in the great capital, that he
had not forgotten her kindness and help in these Northern wilds, but
that Miss Honnor, seeing that their frugal meal was over, called for
Robert. The handsome old fisherman appeared at once; but she instantly
perceived by his face that something was wrong.
"This is ferry strange, Miss Honnor," said he, "that the fly-book is not
in the bag. And I could not have dropped it out. I was not thinking of
looking for it when we started, for I knew I had put it there--"
"Oh, I know, Robert," she said at once. "Mr. Lestrange asked me this
morning for some small Durham Rangers; and I told him to go and take
them out of the book. So he has taken the book out of the bag and
stupidly forgot to put it back."
"Then I will go aweh down to the Lodge and get it," Robert suggested.
"Is it worth while?" she said. "There is a fly on the casting-line; and
there won't be much fishing this afternoon."
"I am not so sure," old Robert made answer. "There might be some clouds;
and it is safer to hef the book whatever."
"Very well," said she. "And in that case I will take Mr. Moore over to
the other side of the Geinig Pool, and ask him to creep out on the
middle rock, and perhaps he will see something. Will there be any
gold-fish in the globe, Robert?"
Old Robert grinned.
"Oh, yes, Miss Honnor, the fish will be there, but there is little
chance of your getting one out."
"At any rate, Mr. Moore will be pleased to see a globe of gold-fish in
the middle of a Highland moor," she said; and, when Robert had picked up
the luncheon things, they all set off down the Geinig valley together.
But when they reached a certain wooden foot-bridge across the stream,
Robert held on his way, making for the Lodge, while Lionel, well
content and asking no questions, followed the young lady. She led the
way across the bridge and along the opposite bank until they reached the
Geinig Pool, where they scrambled down to the side of the river just
above the falls. Here she showed him how to step from one boulder to
another, until he found himself on a huge gray rock right in the middle;
and forthwith she directed him to crawl out to the edge of the rock, and
just put his head over, and see what he could see. As for crawling, he
considered himself quite an adept at that now; in an instant he was down
on hands and knees, making his way out to the end of the rock. And
certainly what he beheld when he cautiously peered over the edge was
worth all the trouble. Here, in an almost circular pool, apparently of
great depth, the surface of the water was as smooth as glass; for the
bulk of the stream tumbled in and tumbled out again along the southern
side, leaving this dark hole in an eddy; and the sunlight, striking down
into the translucent depths, revealed to him certain slowly moving forms
which he recognized at once as salmon. They were not like salmon in
color, to be sure; through the dun water their purplish-blue backs
showed a dull olive-green; but salmon they undoubtedly were, and of a
good size, too. Of course he was immensely excited by such a novel
sight. With intensest curiosity he watched them making their slow
circles of the pool, exactly like gold-fish in a globe. They seemed to
be about four or five feet under the surface. Was it not possible to
snatch at one of them with a long gaff? Or was it not possible, on the
other hand, to tempt one of them with a fly!
He slowly withdrew his head.
"That is most extraordinary," he called to his companion, who was
standing a few yards farther back. "Miss Honnor, won't you put a fly
over them?"
"What is the use," said she. "They will look at it, but they won't take
it; and I don't think it is well they should know too much about the
patterns that Mr. Watson dresses. They know quite enough already. Some
of the old hands, I do believe, are familiar with every fly made in
Inverness."
"Won't you try?" he pleaded.
"Well, if you would like to see them look at a fly, I'll put it over
them," she said, good-naturedly, "but, you know, it is most
demoralizing."
So she, also, had to creep out to the edge of the rock; and then she
cautiously put out the rod and the short line she had previously
prepared. She threw the fly to the opposite side of the pool, let it
sink an inch or two, and then quietly jerked it across until it came in
the way of the slow-circling salmon. To her it was merely an amusement,
but to Lionel it was a breathless excitement, to watch one after another
of those big fish, in passing, come up to look at this beautiful,
gleaming, shrimp-like object and then sink down again and go on its
round. They would not come within two feet of this tempting lure. She
tried them in all parts of the pool, sinking the fly well into the
plunging fall, and letting it be carried right to the other side before
she dragged it across the clear open.
"Won't one of you take it?" she said. "It's as pretty a fly as ever was
dressed, though they do call it the Dirty Yellow."
But all of a sudden the circumstances were changed in a most startling
manner. A swift, half-seen creature came darting up from out of the
plunging torrent, shot into the clear water, snatched at the small
object that was floating there, and down went fly and rod until the top
was almost touching the surface. The reel had caught in her dress,
somehow. But in another second all that was altered--she had got the
reel free--she was up on her feet--the line was singing out--the rod
raised, with the pliant top yielding to every movement of the fish--and
Lionel, quite bewildered by the rapidity of the whole occurrence,
wondering what he could do to assist her. Miss Honnor, however, was
quite competent to look after herself.
"Who could have expected that?" she said, as the salmon went away down
into the deep pool, and deliberately sulked there. "I wasn't fishing, I
was only playing; and he very nearly broke me at the first plunge.
Really, it all happened so quickly that I could not see what size he
was; could you, Mr. Moore?"
"Not I!" he answered. "The creature came out of the rough water like a
flash of lightning--I only saw the splash his tail made as he went down
again. But what are you going to do, Miss Honnor? Shall I run down the
strath and tell old Robert to hurry back?"
"Not at all!--we'll manage him by ourselves," she replied, confidently.
"Here, you take him, and I'll gaff him for you."
"I will do nothing of the kind," said he, distinctly. "You have given
me too many of your fish. You have been far too generous all the way
through. No? I will gaff him for you--but you must tell me how--for I
never tried before."
"Oh, it is simple enough," she said. "You've seen old Robert gaff plenty
of fish. Only mind you don't strike across the casting-line. Get behind
the casting-line--about half-way down the fish--get well over him--and
then a sharp, bold stroke will fetch him out."
Accordingly, armed with the gaff, Lionel made his way down to the lowest
ridge of the rock, so that he found himself just over the black-brown
pool. And, indeed, his services were called upon much sooner than he had
expected; for the salmon, grown tired of sulking, now began to swim
slowly round and round, sometimes coming up so that they could just
catch a glimmer of him, and again disappearing. But the fortunate thing
for them was that there were no shallows to frighten the fish; he knew
nothing of his danger as he happened to come sailing round Lionel's way;
and he was gradually coming nearer and nearer to the surface, until they
could watch his every motion as he made his slow rounds. Once or twice
Lionel tried to get the gaff over him, and had to withdraw it; but at
last Miss Honnor called out,
"This next time, Mr. Moore, as he comes round to you, I will lift him a
bit; be ready!"
But what was this amazing thing that happened all in one wild second?
Lionel struck at the fish, pinned him securely, dragged him out of the
water, and then, to his horror, found that the unexpected weight of this
fighting and struggling creature was proving too much for him--he was
overbalanced--he could not recover himself--down they all went
together--himself, the gaff, and the salmon--into the still, deep pool!
As for him, that was nothing; he could swim a little; a few strokes took
him to the other side, where he clambered on to the rocks; he managed to
recover his cap; and then, with the deepest mortification in his soul,
he made his way back to rejoin his companion. What apology could he
offer for his unheard-of bungling and stupidity? Would she not look on
him as an unendurable ass? Why had he chosen so insecure a foothold and
made such a furious plunge at the fish? Over-eagerness, no doubt--
And then the next moment he noticed that her rod was still curved!
"We'll get him yet, Mr. Moore!" she called to him, in the most
good-humored fashion. "Come out on to the rock, and you'll see the
strangest-looking salmon you ever saw in your life."
And, indeed, that was an odd sight--the big fish slowly sailing round
and round the pool, with the gaff still attached and the handle floating
parallel with its side.
"It will take some time, though," said she. "I think you'd better go
away home and get dry clothes on. I'll manage him by myself."
"I dare say you would manage him better by yourself than with any help
of mine," he said, in his bitter chagrin and self-contempt. "I made sure
I had lost you the salmon."
"And what then?" she said, with some surprise. "I assure you it wasn't
the salmon I was thinking of when I saw you in the water--but the moment
you struck out I knew you were safe."
He did not speak any more; he was too humiliated and vexed. It is true
that when, at length, the salmon, entirely dead beat, suffered himself
to be led in to the side of the rock, Lionel managed to seize the handle
of the gaff, and this time, making sure of his foothold, got the fish on
land; but this final success in no way atoned for his having so
desperately made a fool of himself. In silence he affixed the bit of
string she gave him to the head and tail of this very pretty
twelve-pounder; and in silence they set out, he carrying the salmon and
she the rod over her shoulder.
"It will be a surprise for old Robert when we meet him," she said,
cheerfully. "But he will wonder how you came to be so drenched."
"Yes," said he, "it will be a pretty story of tomfoolery for them all to
hear. I should like to make a comic drawing of it, if I could. It would
have done capitally for John Leech, among the exploits of Mr. Briggs."
She glanced at him curiously. She knew what he was thinking of--of the
tale that would be told among the keepers and the gillies of his having
soused himself into the Geinig Pool in trying to gaff a fish. And might
not the story find its way from the kennels into the gun-room, and
thence into the drawing-room?
There was no doubt he was thoroughly ashamed and crestfallen, and angry
with himself; and though she talked and chatted just as usual, he was
quite taciturn all the way down the side of the Geinig. They reached the
Junction Pool.
"Come now, Mr. Moore," she said, with the utmost good-nature, "you make
too much of that little mistake. You are far too afraid of ridicule. But
I am going to put it all right for you."
What was his astonishment and consternation to see her, after she had
laid her rod on the shingle, deliberately walk a yard or two into the
shallow water, and then throw herself down into it for a second, while
she held out her hand to him.
"Pull me out, Mr. Moore!" she said.
"Good heavens, Miss Honnor!" he exclaimed--but instantly he caught her
hand, and she rose to her feet and began to shake the water from her as
best she might. "What do you mean?"
"You've pulled me out of the river," said she, laughing, as she shook
her dripping sleeves and kicked her skirts; and then she went on,
coolly, to explain, "I know you are rather sensitive to ridicule, and
you don't like to think of those people telling the story against you as
to how you fell into the Geinig Pool. Very well; there needn't be any
such story. If any one asks you how you came to be so wet, you can say I
got into the water, and you pulled me out. It will sound quite heroic."
"So I am to have the credit of having saved your life?" he said.
"You needn't put it that way," she answered, as she took up the
fishing-rod and resumed her homeward walk. "All kinds of accidents are
continually happening to people who go salmon-fishing, and no one takes
any notice of them. My maid is quite used to getting my things
dried--whether they're soaked through with rain or with river-water
doesn't much matter to her. And old Robert can take your clothes to the
fire in the gun-room long before the gentlemen come back from the hill.
So, you see, there will probably be no questions asked; but, if there
should be, you have what is quite enough of an explanation."
"Well, Miss Honnor," said he, "I never heard of such a friendly act in
all my life--such a gratuitous sacrifice; here you have risked getting
your death of cold in order to save my childish vanity from being
wounded. Really, I don't know how to thank you--though I wish all the
same you had not put me under such a tremendous obligation. But don't
imagine that I am going to claim--that I am going to steal--the credit
of having saved your life--I am not quite so mean--no, if I am asked, I
will tell the whole truth--"
"And make two people ridiculous, instead of one?" she said, with a
smile. "No, you can't do that."
However, as it turned out, this Quixotic act of consideration was
allowed to remain a dark secret between these two. With the brisk
walking and the warm, sunlit air around them, their clothes were already
drying; and when old Robert met them, in the dusky chasm at the foot of
the Bad Step, he was far too much engaged with the fish to notice their
limp and damp garments; while again, as they resumed their march, he,
carrying the fish, lagged in the rear, and thus they escaped his keen
eyes. Indeed, by the time they reached the Lodge, and as Miss Honnor was
about to enter, Lionel said to her that he felt quite warm and
comfortable, and proposed to go for a further walk down the strath
before dinner; but she peremptorily forbade this and ordered him off to
his own room to get a change of clothes.
It is not to be imagined that an incident of this kind could do aught
but sink deep into the mind of any young man, and especially into the
mind of a young man who had particular reasons for wanting to know how
this young lady was affected towards him. She herself had made light of
the matter; it had been merely a sudden impulse, born of her own
abundant good-nature; probably she would have done as much for Percy
Lestrange. But _would_ she have done as much for Percy Lestrange? Lionel
kept asking himself. He was vain enough to think she would not. Who had
been her _protégé_ all this time? To whom had she given unobtrusive
little hints when she thought these might be useful? In whose exploits
and triumphs and failures had she shown an exceptional interest and
sympathy? Whom had she permitted to go fishing with her on those long
days when the world seemed to belong to the two of them? Whom had she
admitted into the little dell above the Geinig Pool which was her chosen
and solitary retreat? And he could not but reflect that while there were
plenty of women who were eager to present him with silver
cigarette-cases, blue and white flower-jars, and things of that kind,
there was not one of them, as he believed, who would dip her little
finger in a bottle of ink for his sake. More than that, which of them
would herself have dared ridicule in order to save him from ridicule?
And in what light should he regard this suddenly prompted action on her
part, which seemed to him so bewildering at the time, but which she
appeared to look on as only a sort of half-humorous freak of friendship?
These speculations only came back to the original question, or series of
questions, that had already puzzled him. Why should he set such store by
her opinion?--why be so anxious to please her?--why be so proud to think
that he had won some small share of favorable regard? It was not his
ordinary attitude towards women, who troubled him rather, and interfered
with his many interests and the calls of his professional duties.
Falling in love?--that could hardly be it; he felt no desire whatever to
go down on his knees before her and swear by the eternal stars. Besides,
she was so far away from him--living in such a different sphere--among
occupations and surroundings and traditions entirely apart from his.
Falling in love?--with the isolated, the unapproachable fisher-maiden,
the glance of whose calm hazel eyes would be death to any kind of
theatrical sentiment? It was all a confusion and a perplexity to him;
but at least he was glad to know that he would sit at the same table
with her that night at dinner, and, thereafter, perchance, have some
opportunity of talking to her in the drawing-room, where a certain
incident, known to themselves alone, would serve as a sort of secret
tie. And he was cheered to remember that, although he was leaving this
still and beautiful neighborhood (where so many strange dreams and
fancies and new and welcome experiences had befallen him), he was not
bidding good-bye to all of these friends forever. Miss Honnor Cunyngham
would be in Brighton in November; and Brighton was not so far away from
the great city and the dull, continuous, thunderous roar that would then
be all around him.