Chapter XII: 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.