Rachel Ray

before lunch had passed away in idle chat before the party bethought itself of what it should do for the day. At last it was agreed that they would all stroll out through the woods up to a special reach of the river which there ran through a ravine of rock, called Cornbury Cleeves. Many in those parts declared that Cornbury Cleeves was the prettiest spot in England. I am not prepared to bear my testimony to the truth of that very wide assertion. I can only say that I know no prettier spot. The river here was rapid and sparkling; not rapid because driven into small compass, for its breadth was greater and more regular in its passage through the Cleeves than it was either above or below, but rapid from the declivity of its course. On one side the rocks came sheer down to the water, but on the other there was a strip of meadow, or rather a grassy amphitheatre, for the wall of rocks at the back of it was semicircular, so as to enclose the field on every side. There might be four or five acres of green meadow here; but the whole was so interspersed with old stunted oak trees and thorns standing alone that the space looked larger than it was. The rocks on each side were covered here and there with the richest foliage; and the spot might be taken to be a valley from which, as from that of Rasselas, there was no escape. Down close upon the margin of the water a bathing-house had been built, from which a plunge could be taken into six or seven feet of the coolest, darkest, cleanest water that a bather could desire in his heart.

“I suppose you never were here before,” said Mrs. Cornbury to Rowan.

“Indeed I have,” said he. “I always think it such a grand thing that you landed magnates can’t keep all your delights to yourself. I dare say I’ve been here oftener than you have during the last three months.”

“That’s very likely, seeing that it’s my first visit this summer.”

“And I’ve been here a dozen times. I suppose you’ll think I’m a villainous trespasser when I tell you that I’ve bathed in that very house more than once.”

“Then you’ve done more than I ever did; and yet we had it made thinking it would do for ladies. But the water looks so black.”

“Ah! I like that, as long as it’s a clear black.”

“I like bathing where I can see the bright stones like jewels at the bottom. You can never do that in fresh water. It’s only in some nook of the sea, where there is no sand, when the wind outside has died away, and when the tide is quiet and at its full. Then one can drop gently in and almost fancy that one belongs to the sea as the mermaids do. I wonder how the idea of mermaids first came?”

“Someone saw a crowd of young women bathing.”

“But then how came they to have looking-glasses and fishes’ tails?”

“The fishes’ tails were taken as granted because they were in the sea, and the looking-glasses because they were women,” said Rowan.

“And the one with as much reason as the other. By the by, Mr. Rowan, talking of women, and fishes’ tails, and looking-glasses, and all other feminine attractions, when did you see Miss Ray last?”

Rowan paused before he answered her, and looking round perceived that he had strayed with Mrs. Cornbury to the furthest end of the meadow, away from their companions. It immediately came across his mind that this was the matter on which Mrs. Cornbury wished to speak to him, and by some combative process he almost resolved that he would not be spoken to on that matter.

“When did I see Miss Ray?” said he, repeating her question. “Two or three days after Mrs. Tappitt’s party. I have not seen her since that.”

“And why don’t you go and see her?” said Mrs. Cornbury.

Now this was asked him in a tone which made it necessary that he should either answer her question or tell her simply that he would not answer it. The questioner’s manner was so firm, so eager, so incisive, that the question could not be turned away.

“I am not sure that I am prepared to tell you,” said he.

“Ah! but I want you to be prepared,” said she; “or rather, perhaps, to tell the truth, I want to drive you to an answer without preparation. Is it not true that you made her an offer, and that she accepted it?”

Rowan thought a moment, and then he answered her, “It is true.”

“I should not have asked the question if I had not positively known that such was the case. I have never spoken a word to her about it, and yet I knew it. Her mother told my father.”

“Well?”

“And as that is so, why do you not go and see her? I am sure you are not one of those who would play such a trick as that upon such a girl with the mere purpose of amusing yourself.”

“Upon no girl would I do so, Mrs. Cornbury.”

“I feel sure of it. Therefore why do you not go to her?” They walked along together for a few minutes under the rocks in silence, and then Mrs. Cornbury again repeated her question, “Why do you not go to her?”

“Mrs. Cornbury,” he said, “you must not be angry with me if I say that that is a matter which at the present moment I am not willing to discuss.”

“Nor must you be angry with me if, as Rachel’s friend, I say something further about it. As you do not wish to answer me, I will ask no other question; but at any rate you will be willing to listen to me. Rachel has never spoken to me on this subject⁠—not a word; but I know from others who see her daily that she is very unhappy.”

“I am grieved that