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Chapter XVIII. Randal’s Boat.

Mabel thought that perhaps Randal would take her out in the boat the next day. But he did not; he went to Morebay by train in the morning, and was out again by himself all the afternoon, so that she scarcely saw him except in the evening. Then he was rather abstracted, and not by any means at his pleasantest. Mabel made every excuse for him, however; she thought he was tired, and that she must not expect too much, and she tried to spare him the trouble of entertaining them by talking with all her might to the General, who had never seen her so lively. Randal lay back in his chair and looked on, a smile presently driving away the cross lines from his mouth. When Mabel wished him good-night he squeezed her hand very tight, and whispered, ‘Good little woman! Where did you get your understanding?’ so that she went to bed quite happy in her mind.

The next day all was sunshine. Early in the afternoon they went down together into the combe, where a smartly-painted boat was already rocking on the green water. Mabel was settled comfortably on her cushions in the stern; Randal, looking wonderfully well in his flannel suit, took the sculls, and they glided away of down the creek to the broad dancing river. Under the overhanging trees, past the rough old mill with its black wheel working, out past the sandbanks into the strong fast current of the Penyr. It was anything but a still and peaceful river; there was rocking of waves in the sunlight, the water flashing with rainbow colours as the light boat danced along.

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Randal watched his companion’s face with pleased interest. Mabel was almost too happy to talk; the freedom and the glory, the fresh salt air, the white sea-birds skimming over the water, the delightful easy motion, the fact of being at last on that river that she had watched for so many days from the Castle lawn,—it seemed impossible to take it all in thoroughly. She remembered how weeks ago Dick Northcote had told her—that tiresome Dick; recollections of him would always thrust themselves in at the wrong time—about the General’s boat in the combe, and how she ought to ask him to take her out in it. Certainly he was right; nothing could be more enjoyable. Randal, understanding her, did not try to talk, but only said a word now and then about the rudder-strings, which Mabel pulled according to his orders in an absent sort of way.

He rowed down towards St. Denys and the Mora, past the red powder-boat anchored all alone in the middle of the river. It seemed like rowing into the world, as they came in sight of passing boats and steamers, of old blackened hulls resting there after a long stormy life in foreign waters. Mabel would have liked to go much farther among them all, down into the great harbour where the ironclads lay, among all the noise and life and business of sea-going Morebay; but Randal did not mean to do that. After giving her a glimpse of the Mora, he rowed back up the Penyr, and in a wonderfully short time, as it seemed to Mabel, who could not be satisfied with gazing at all the beauty around her, afloat and on shore, they were again opposite the mouth of Pensand Combe.

‘Are you tired of it?’ said Randal.

‘O no! Must we go back already?’

‘Certainly not. We will row a little farther up, and land under the rocks. There are nice places up there for sitting down.’

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Just above the combe there was a little cluster of low stone houses by the river, where the rocks were worn away at the creek’s mouth. From these a ferry-boat, rowed by one of those amphibious boys who pass their life on the water, crossed to the opposite shore and back again, about once in every hour. The passage took six minutes, but longer if the weather was rough. Mabel and Randal crossed the bows of the shabby old boat in mid-stream; there was only one passenger, a poor woman.

‘What is there on the other side?’ asked Mabel.

‘The village of Sadleigh, behind the hill, and several pretty houses, besides Lord Western’s place, which is now let to a Morebay merchant,’ said Randal. ‘Mrs. Lancaster told me one day that she has some friends living over there, and that there is quite a rivalry between the two sides of the water. She and I agree in preferring St. Denys.’

‘So should I,’ said Mabel. ‘Randal, did you notice how that boy in the ferry-boat stared and smiled at you?’

‘No. He was envying me, perhaps, and contrasting his boat and his passenger with mine.’

‘He looked more friendly than envious.’

‘Nice boy! Perhaps he was counting how many times he would have to make that trajet before he could paint his boat like mine, and wear flannels to match. I don’t object to that; I always encourage ambition.’

They were well past the houses now. Behind some projecting rocks, on a beach of small pebbles, with low dry platforms of rock here and there, Randal ran his boat in, and Mabel found herself in a lovely lonely place, quite different from anything she had ever seen before. The wall of dark red rocks was pierced by caves, and over their dark mouths hung festoons of ivy and green creepers, with ferns and lichen and wild rock-flowers for page 164 tapestry all round. The green trailing things hung over from the top of the rocks, and seemed to grow and thrive well in the salt air. Lower down on the beach itself there were cushions of soft fine grass, a pale dead green, with tufts of small purple flowers in every little niche. From this corner, with its cliff-wall behind, its floor of sea-washed pebbles and flowers and grass, its broad foreground of ever-moving water, there was no house or living thing to be seen, except the land-birds that fluttered down the face of the rock, or their sisters of the sea that, with white wings outspread, flashed in the sun away upon the river.

Mabel wandered up and down for a few minutes, delighted with all this, and then came and sat down by Randal on one of those green cushions spread on purpose for them on a low flat rock. He looked rather grave and rather thoughtful she fancied. Certainly, the thought came next, there was something about his face neither strong nor happy; so pale, even on this hot day, and so self-contained, too, as if he could never give any one his perfect confidence. Perhaps it is not quite prudent for a girl to let herself moralise too much on the expression of a young man’s face. Such studies are apt to end in a little confusion, as Mabel’s did, when she suddenly became aware that Randal was looking at her.

‘What are you thinking of, Mabel?’ he said.

‘I was wondering if you were tired,’ said Mabel. ‘Rowing must be very hard work.’

‘Thank you. No, I am not tired. It all depends on knowing how to reserve one’s strength. If you know how much will be wanted, and for how long, you can always make it enough. Supposing that you have a fair allowance, of course. But did all the thought in your face mean nothing but that?’

‘O, I don’t know,’ said Mabel, colouring a little. ‘I think such silly things sometimes. It was not exactly page 165 altogether about you, perhaps; but I was thinking how little people really know of each other.’

‘Not exactly altogether about me, perhaps? Partly about me, then, so I may answer it. Did it ever strike you what a good thing that is?’

The words sounded rather unkind and mocking, but they were not either of these, as Randal said them in his gentle indifferent voice.

‘No,’ said Mabel. ‘I don’t think it is a good thing. I should like to know all about my friends, all their thoughts.’

‘Would you like to know all my thoughts?’

‘Yes,’ said Mabel, smiling, though she thought it a little tiresome of him to insist on giving their talk this personal turn.

‘Does it make you angry to be told you are a child?’ Mabel shook her head, smiling still. ‘Because words fail to tell you the childishness of such a wish as that. Wise people say that if we knew the thoughts of our dearest friend, we should hate and despise him. Under those circumstances no friendship would be possible, and the world would be a howling wilderness.’

‘But I don’t believe it,’ said Mabel. ‘At any rate, we should be as bad ourselves.’

Randal laughed, the thing he did most seldom.

‘Horrid wicked people of course have thoughts that would make us hate them,’ Mabel went on, in a decided manner. ‘But not our friends, not the people we care about. I am sure you might know all mine—at least—’

‘I am sure I might, too, though there seems to be an “at least” even there,’ said Randal. ‘Not that I have any right to expect such confidence from you. But now tell me, Mabel. If you liked any one, supposing him to be a good sort of fellow, would you withdraw your liking if he turned out to be not so good—to have his full share or more of human failings?’

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‘I am not sure,’ said Mabel thoughtfully. ‘It would depend on what sort of failings they were.’

‘Ah, yes; no doubt,’ said Randal.

He was going to say a good deal more; but checked himself suddenly, being aware that they were no longer alone. A woman was standing at the corner of their rocky screen, looking at them. Mabel saw her first, and the look of startled pleasure in her face made Randal turn his eyes that way. He frowned and bit his lips; but these angry signs were not noticed apparently, either by Mabel or the intruder, who came forward smiling, with a bright colour in her face. It was Mrs. Lancaster.