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Chapter XXXII. Down the River.

Down in Pensand Combe the tide was high, and Matthew Fenner’s boat lay at the landing-place. He sat idly on a log with one or two of his friends, waiting for Mr. Northcote, who was much longer than he had led his boatman to expect. It was a good deal after five o’clock; the wind had gone down completely, and all the upper part of the sky was covered with gray clouds; under them long bright rays shot out from a wild yellow sunset. The weather-wise boatman looked at the sky and the water, felt the sudden stillness of the air, and prophesied a gale.

At last Dick Northcote came down the lane from the Castle gates, with Miss Mabel Ashley on one arm, and carrying on the other a heap of shawls and rugs. Matthew got up, and strode to his boat. He had not expected this addition to the freight; but he showed no surprise. Dick packed his companion into the stern with the greatest care, and in another minute they were gliding away down the Combe; and Mabel felt that she was free of Pensand for ever. This did not rouse in her any great joy or even cheerfulness; she looked pale and grave as she sat there, with her eyes lifted to the old trees and battlements bathed in sunset. It may have been a little regret and affection for the old General, for the rose-glades where she had walked with Anthony; and Mabel had sentiment enough in her nature to feel the solemnity of leaving a separate portion of one’s life behind. Things can never be again what they were the past is loosening its hold, and there is some anxiety, page 302 however happy the circumstances, in trusting oneself to the hands of that unknown Future stretched out to one from the dimness. But in the midst of her grave thoughts Mabel looked at Dick and smiled.

If he was the future, then there was nothing terrible in it, nothing but a strong loving faithfulness; thus, after all, looking forward was better than looking back.

The sun disappeared just as they reached the mouth of the Combe; the Penyr was a sea of dancing gold, on which the boat rocked almost alarmingly. The currents were strong that evening, for a swell had been setting in from the bay; the water was all life and movement, while not a leaf stirred in the woods, lying purple and deep along the shore, and against the gloomy sky, with its faint polish of gold, every twig and bramble upon the banks hung motionless. The yellow light faded, the dark clouds settled down, and twilight seemed to be coming on suddenly.

‘What about the weather, Fenner?’ said Dick, as they flew along through the small splashing waves, the topaz shower from the oars less dazzling every moment.

‘A gale afore morning, sir,’ said the boatman. ‘Never saw a windier sunset.’

Soon after this had been said, Mabel saw something which struck her as more strangely beautiful than anything she had ever seen before in Nature, even in that home of beauty, the West. The sun had been some minutes gone, the clouds seemed descending to shut out even the yellow brilliance that remained in the western sky, when suddenly there arose, flowing out from no one region of the sky, but from the whole horizon seemingly, a deep golden glow. It did not come in rays, there was no flash or sparkle in it, it took no path in the air. It was a flood of light, deeper in colour than the sunset yellow, warm, soft, turning all the world to the richest purple and dark burnished gold. There was something page 303 awful and mysterious in the beauty of it, flowing as it did from no visible source. One might have imagined some great new light, neither sun nor moon, kept out of human sight itself, but allowed to bathe earth in its radiance for a few minutes that autumn evening.

Yet with all its solemnity it was so lovely that those who were in it felt no fear; it was rare, but not unnatural; only one of Nature’s glories seldom shown. Mabel had seen the rivers in much wonderful colouring, from her point of vantage on Pensand lawn; she had seen them all rose from the rosy sky, and fading gradually through the tenderest opal tints into bluish silver. She used to think that was lovelier than anything; but this majesty of light, glowing as it were of itself, without the sun, went beyond anything she had ever imagined. To be on the river, too, the very place to enjoy it best, passing over it, reflected in it, bathed in it—Mabel could not speak; she could only meet Dick’s eyes with an answering smile. Anthony, too, was watching it from the churchyard at Carweston, counting the ridges of purple hill and moor that rose far away beyond the glowing Mora. And General Hawke wondered at the glory that filled his rooms; while Mrs. Lancaster and Miss Northcote looked out from their St. Denys windows: Flora’s eyes dim with foolish tears; Kate wondering how soon Dick would be home, and whether it was possible that Mabel would go out with him. Only one person spoke in Dick’s boat; that was Matthew Fenner, who repeated with emphasis his former prophecy: ‘A gale afore morning.’

Certainly, at present, nothing could be stiller than the world was; there was hardly air enough to make Mabel shiver on the water. The glow faded away as suddenly as it had come, and the twilight came on rapidly. It was almost dark when they touched the quay at St. Denys, and Mabel stepped out of the boat, page 304 held by Dick’s firm hand, and obeying his caution to ‘mind the chains.’ Up the dark steep lanes they walked slowly together; the air seemed to grow warmer as they mounted the hill. Mabel never could walk fast, but still they were longer than they need have been, climbing up by tree-shaded banks and old rough stone walls, turning round to look at the distance all alive with the lights of Morebay, talking low as they passed under high rocky gardens, where other people might be walking in the still sweet evening. At last they were at the foot of Miss Northcote’s steps, under the shade of her evergreens.

‘It is just like a dream, Dick,’ whispered Mabel.

‘One you will never wake from,’ said Dick. ‘I feel just as if I had run away with you in spite of everybody. I haven’t, have I? You heard the General say it. But I always thought an elopement would be the finest fun in the world.’

‘O, I never would have done that.’

‘I think you would, if I couldn’t have got you by any other means.’

The drawing-room window was open, not far above their heads. Dick’s aunt had been listening anxiously for his footstep. She was quite thrown out, however, by hearing two people come slowly dawdling up the lane. She wished they would not stop to talk at the very foot of her steps. Then it suddenly dawned upon her that the man’s voice was no other than Dick’s, and in a state of amazed curiosity she went out to the door, opened it, and came softly to the top of the steps.

‘Good heavens, Dick!’ she said. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘I’ve only run away with her,’ said Dick. ‘She says nothing shall ever induce her to do it again. There, aunt Kate, take her. She belongs to you till we sail.’

‘What do you mean, you dreadful boy!’ said Kate.

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‘Come, dear Mabel; he has no business to keep you standing out here in the night air.’

She put her arm round Mabel, and took her into the house at once, bringing her into the lighted drawing-room, where she could see the pale excited little face. She herself was hardly less excited.

‘General Hawke will have nothing more to do with her,’ said Dick. ‘He has made me her guardian instead. You can’t say I am not a fitter one.’

Mabel smiled, turned away from the light, which dazzled her, and hid her face on Kate’s shoulder. Then Dick gave his impatient aunt a slight summary of his visit to Pensand that afternoon, and what had come of it. Kate was astonished, as she well might be, but not the less ready and happy to accept her charge; and these three sat up very late, talking over all they had to do in the next fortnight.

Mabel hardly slept at all that night, under these strange new circumstances; but then very few people in St. Denys did sleep. Soon after midnight the wind began to blow in wild howling gusts up the river, and before morning the boatman’s prophecy was fully verified; it was blowing a gale. There was nothing to be seen from the windows but flying clouds of mist, and driving lashing rain, while the wind roared as if in that stillness last night it had been gathering itself up, drawing breath, for a tremendous effort which was to sweep everything away. In the upper ground great trees which had stood many storms were uprooted by this one; chimneys and tiles and whole roofs were smashed in St. Denys, windows blown in, verandahs carried bodily away. Kate Northcote’s house was not damaged, though its inhabitants could hardly hear themselves speak all through the morning. Kate and Mabel sat by the fire and tried to talk. Dick marched restlessly about; he wanted to go to London on some of his hundred affairs, page 306 but those to whom he belonged would not hear of it while the gale was still raging. At last, in the afternoon, it was a little quieter, and Dick was to be kept in no longer. They watched him from the window, as far as they could see him, down the lane, and then they watched the wildly-blown steam of the train that carried him away. When even that was gone, Mabel asked Kate if she might write a letter.

‘Certainly, my dear,’ said Kate.

She established Mabel at her writing-table, and went on with her work, sitting by the fire. A little wonder crossed her mind as to who Mabel’s correspondent might be, especially as the letter took a long time to write; and glancing at the girl once or twice, she saw her frowning in a puzzled way, and leaning her head on her hand, as if the task was a very hard one. Presently Mabel got up and came to her, bringing the letter.

‘Do you mind reading this, aunt Kate?’ she said gravely, with a little pink in her cheeks. ‘Tell me if you think Dick would not like it—but I want to send it very much.’

Kate was certainly startled by the beginning, ‘Dear Randal;’ for Dick had confided to her General Hawke’s true reason for wishing his ward to leave Pensand at once.

‘Is there any real necessity for writing to him, Mabel?’ she said, looking up.

‘Not necessity exactly,’ said Mabel. ‘But he has been much nicer lately—and he almost begged my pardon for all that bother. I fancy he suspected something, for he asked me why I was changed, and I said I would tell him some day. And I think he won’t be so vexed to find that I have come away, if I write and tell him myself. It seems almost as if I had run away from him; and there could be no reason for that, now that we understand each other.’

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‘O, you understand each other! But General Hawke sent you away. It was no doing of yours.’

‘Randal will be less vexed, less angry with every-body, if I write and tell him,’ Mabel persisted.

‘Well, dear, I should have thought it a pity to begin a correspondence; but perhaps you know best,’ said Kate, and then she glanced through the letter.

‘Dear Randal,—I have some news to tell you about myself, which I would rather you did not hear from any one else first. You thought me changed when I came back from Carweston. I was then engaged to Dick Northcote, and it was settled yesterday that we should be married and go out to New Zealand in a fortnight. Dick saw your father yesterday, and he gave his consent, because he understood that this was the only thing to make me really happy. I am come to stay with Miss Northcote, and am not going back to Pensand, because there is so much to be done before we sail. I hope I shall see you again, and then we shall part friends. I think Dick would say so too. I can never be thankful enough to your father for his kindness to me, and I must say that I am very sorry to leave him.—Yours truly,

‘Mabel Ashley.’

Kate could make no objection to this letter, so simply written from Mabel’s true unconventional self. She watched the girl’s quiet face with both admiration and interest, as she folded her letter with fingers that trembled a little, and addressed it to Eandal at his club.

There was no time for dreaming over any past adventures, however interesting, in the next fortnight that flew over their heads. As for Dick, crowded with business as he was, Mabel saw very little of him. He had to make all the arrangements for their marriage, page 308 which was to be very quiet, on the morning of the day they were to sail. He had to have interviews with Mabel’s lawyers, Messrs. Atkins & Jones, who disapproved very strongly, like sensible men, of her marrying under age and going out to New Zealand. In fact, they would hardly believe that General Hawke was in his right mind when he consented. Dick had also to take his own and his wife’s passage on board the Empress, a fine ship of which he knew the captain; to buy every conceivable thing for his new home, in London or More-bay; and to do hundreds of commissions for Mr. and Mrs. Herbert, who had flattered themselves that they were inviting back the same careless, jolly, unattached Dick, who for so long had been the life of their station.

It seemed likely that Mr. and Mrs. Northcote’s baggage would be cargo enough in itself for a moderate-sized steamer. All this time Kate and Mabel were equally busy, with Mrs. Strange’s help and advice, in providing Mabel with clothes and everything else they could think of. Miss Wrench, having returned to London, did commissions for them there, and sent down several large boxes by the Great Western Railway. Mrs. Strange hunted up a charming lady’s-maid, a native of Carweston, whose one wish was to go to New Zealand. Her father had been a sailor, and she was never so happy as at sea.

So those last days rushed on, through more or less stormy weather, which made Kate Northcote shiver a little when she thought of her children at sea. One arrangement after another was finished, and the time drew very near.

Then there came a friendly note of congratulation from Randal, who had come back to Pensand, but had not shown himself at St. Denys. He enclosed a few lines from his father, begging Mabel to spend her last afternoon with him at the Castle. The General also said— page 309 at which Dick made a long face—that as he could not himself be at the wedding, he hoped the bride would allow his son Randal to take his place, and to give her away.

‘He will do you no harm, Dick,’ said Mabel. ‘And we can’t possibly say no.’

‘Ah, you always had a weakness for him. Well, I don’t suppose I shall see him or anybody else who likes to invite himself. Let the poor beggar come. At any rate it will convince Atkins & Jones that your guardian meant it. By the bye, though, he’ll meet Flora Lancaster.’

‘I must tell her he is coming,’ said Mabel, ‘and then she can please herself.’