The Fire Trumpet Part 39

And now we shall transport the reader to a deep wooded valley, similar to many of those already described, though it would be hard to find one to equal it. It is a romantic and beautiful spot. At the upper end is a deep pool, some thirty yards across, and pear-shaped. Into this, when there is a rush of water in the stream, falls a really magnificent cascade; when there is not, well--there is the rock, perpendicular, black and s.h.i.+ning, a film of water silvering down it to plunge into the pool beneath with a pleasant, cool tinkle. As you stand facing the cascade or its lofty wall of s.h.i.+ning rock, on the left hand, starting sheer out of the depths of the pool, is a mighty cliff, rising up in rugged tiers or ledges--which afford root-hold to a profusion of mosses and trailing plants, with here and there an aloe--to a height of two hundred feet. Just below the exit of the pool these natural terraces all culminate in a jutting angle of the cliff, which protrudes, sharp and awful in its unbroken perpendicularity. On the right hand is also a cliff, but it stands back, leaving a slope of forest trees and bush between it and the water's edge. The exit from the basin discloses a lovely view--with the jutting cliff, above mentioned, as a foreground-- of the valley, whose wooded slopes, undulating in spurs, either culminate in a precipice, or cleave the blue sky with a line of feathery tree-tops.

But to-day there is not a rush of water in the stream above, though there is enough to fall into the pool with a resounding plunge, and to carry off a clear, sparkling stream at the pointed end of the pear-shape. The cascade is not in force; if it were, the merry party gathered around its base would be constrained to put up with some less inviting resting-place, for it would fill all the hollow with a cloud of showery spray--thick, penetrating as rain. The place is in an outlying corner of Jim Brathwaite's farm, and, sure enough, there sits jovial Jim himself, in a shady corner beneath the rock, his legs dangling over the water, a pipe in his mouth, and in his hand a fis.h.i.+ng-rod. Other pipes and other fis.h.i.+ng-rods surround the water-hole, "the fool at the other end" of each staring stolidly and apathetically at the water or watching his float with a despairing eagerness begotten of hope deferred, according to temperament. But the fish are either replete and satisfied, or cursed with the wiliness characteristic of their species, for not a float shows any sign of agitation. One rod, indeed, is submerged even to the second joint, while its manipulator, George Garrett--a stolid-looking youth of twenty-one--is occupied lying on his back upon a ledge of rock blowing rings of tobacco smoke skyward, and no one seems very keen on the sport. A line of blue smoke, curling beneath the cliff on the more open side of the pool, betokens "camp."

It may as well be stated that the gathering is nominally a fis.h.i.+ng picnic. I say, nominally, for no one is idiotic enough to suppose for a moment that the _fis.h.i.+ng_ part of it will turn out aught but the veriest farce, for the day is hot and cloudless, and the still depths of the water are gla.s.sy and translucent.

"I say, but this is deuced exciting work," cried Jim, who had not had a bite the whole morning, a misfortune wherein he was not alone. "Let's knock off."

"That's right, Jim, always fall back on my advice," said Ethel, who was seated near him, likewise trying to fish. "I suggested that an hour ago."

"You? I like that. Why, it was you who said we didn't deserve our dinner unless we caught it."

"Did I? Well, I very soon recanted," laughed she, throwing down her rod with a yawn. "We are getting sleepy over this, and that's the preliminary stage to getting quarrelsome, you know. So let's go and see what the others are about."

"W-wait a bit," stuttered Allen, eagerly. "I've got a bite."

He had. Suddenly, after one or two violent bobs, his float disappeared--down, down--far into the depths.

"Hallo, Allen, you've got a whale on there, at least," cried Jim. "Hold on to him and be ready to cut the line before he lugs you in."

Allen's hands trembled with excitement, and he could hardly work his tackle for fear of losing the prize, as he felt the series of jerks and tugs as if something powerful was kicking at the end. At last he succeeded in bringing it to the surface. It was a huge eel.

But the next thing was to land his capture. For Allen, with infinite difficulty, had succeeded in making his way round the rock-bound sides of the pool to a narrow ledge, whereon he now stood. There was just standing-room, but only just, and the eel, as it leaped and squirmed on the narrow ledge, soon made it evident that there was not room for itself and its captor too. Once it fell back into the water and Allen, losing his balance, nearly followed; but the tackle was good and he succeeded in landing it again. Finally he managed to get his heel upon it and end its writhings by a process of semi-decapitation, but, oh, Heavens! His jack-boots on which he had that morning bestowed an extra amount of care and blacking, were profusely defiled by contact with the slimy reptile as it twisted over them in its death-throes, leaving trails and trails of slime upon their polished surface.

"I say, Allen, you'll be wanting to catch another eel after that, I should think," cried Jim, while Ethel, whom Allen's silent expression of hopeless woe had convulsed, was nearly choking in her efforts to stifle her laughter.

It became necessary to rive a line through the eel and haul it across the water, as all its captor's efforts were needed to ensure himself a safe return along the slippery face of the cliff. But he was downcast and subdued, and the good-natured chaff that fell to his lot as the only successful angler, was bitter to him.

"Well, Jim," said his father, as the fis.h.i.+ng contingent returned to the halting-place. "Caught anything?"

"No. At least Allen has. Caught enough for the lot of us put together.

A regular young python. Look here," and he produced the eel.

"My! that is a big 'un," cried old Garrett, who was sitting in the shade with Mr Brathwaite, and talking over old times. "I say, you're a lucky feller, Allen. We ought to 'ave a drop o' grog over this."

Mr Brathwaite's eye twinkled as he heard this characteristic remark, and he turned to say something to Jim as a pretext for not hearing it.

He shrewdly suspected that his old friend and companion-in-arms would have quite as much grog on board as he could carry before the day was out, and he didn't want him to get "c.u.mbersome" too early. He had had more than one "tot" already.

A dozen yards off, on the other side of the glade, talking to Mrs Brathwaite, sat Lilian Strange; and the rich, sweet tones were well in keeping with the languorous beauty of the spot as she now and then raised her head from some crewel-work she had brought with her, to tell some little joke to the old lady. She was in cool white and looking lovelier than ever, for the fresh, healthy air had acted with tonic result, and she hardly knew herself, so thoroughly bracing had been its effect upon her. And she had been happy here, too--yes, happy; putting both past and future resolutely away from her--and happiness and contentment is a better restorative than all the tonics or bracing climes in the world.

Claverton was away with the rest of the party, roaming about the kloof.

She had asked him, as a special favour, to go with them, not feeling equal to a walk herself in the morning, as it was rather hot. And she must not monopolise him, she said, with a witching little smile. He must do his duty, and then, perhaps--no one knew what might happen in the afternoon. He had complied, as he took occasion to tell her, as he would have complied with any wish of hers however difficult, and irrespective of that veiled half-promise; to which latter, however, he intended holding her, and lived in antic.i.p.ation on the thought. But it must be admitted that his presence among the exploring party did not, on the whole, const.i.tute an adjunct of cheerfulness, though now and again, by an effort, he would make them laugh. And he persisted in piloting them to places involving a toilsome climb, ostensibly to descant on the view; but in his heart of hearts, hoping that the point of vantage would command the camp--where haply his eye might catch the gleam of a white dress against the foliage. Whereby it is manifest that, other points in his favour notwithstanding, Claverton was, after all, a consummate a.s.s.

"Well, Miss Strange," cried Jim, "how do you like this sort of thing?

Has mother been taking care of you, or have you been taking care of her?

Why, you look as cool as if we were not in a sort of natural oven."

"I don't know about the oven," replied Lilian. "I know that this is a delightful place, and falling water always makes a current of air. But I do feel somewhat guilty, sitting lazily here while every one else is on the move."

"_We've_ been taking it rather easy, too. Fis.h.i.+ng, you know, is proverbially a lazy amus.e.m.e.nt."

"Is it? Anyhow, I have been pitying all of you poor creatures broiling in the sun, looking at the water."

"Ho, ho! Broiling in the sun?" laughed Jim. "Why, you should just have seen that fellow George, for instance, lying on his back in the shadiest corner of the place, blowing clouds, and his rod nearly at the bottom of the water?"

The youth named grinned shyly and looked sheepish.

"How about going to look after the others?" suggested Jim, ever energetic and anxious to be moving. "Do you feel inclined to venture, Miss Strange, or would you rather stay here?"

Now the fact was, Lilian had become a little tired of sitting still, and the proposal was rather a welcome one. She would fain have strolled away under the cool shade of the trees, but she had resisted her lover's longing entreaty to make one of the former party, on the ground of wis.h.i.+ng to rest, and now he would come back and find her away with Jim and the others, and perhaps be hurt. No; he should not. If she could not give him all he asked--namely, herself--at any rate she would show an unselfish regard for his feelings in everything else. It was a poor consolation, but this she could do, no matter what it cost herself; and this was only one out of a hundred little instances of the kind, all of which Claverton had seen, and, seeing, could have wors.h.i.+pped her. And yet, would it not make their parting a hundredfold more bitter when it came?

So unhesitatingly she answered: "I think I'll stop here just at present."

"That's right, Lilian," said Mrs Brathwaite. "I'm sure you oughtn't to go scrambling about all day. It'll be much better for you to wait till this afternoon, dear, when it's a little cooler."

"Well, I shall go," cried Jim. "Come along, you fellows. Ethel, you'll come?"

"No, I won't."

"What? Well, I didn't think you'd be so lazy!"

"Thank you, Mr Brathwaite," said Lilian, with a quiet little laugh.

"That's one at me."

"Oh, no; really not. It's different with you, you see, and--and--Hang it! I'd better clear out of this; it's getting too warm for me," cried Jim, in mock helplessness.

"Well, I think you had," laughed his mother. And he and young Garrett wandered off.

Soon the ramblers began to drop in, hot and tired, but in high spirits.

Luncheon was ready laid out.

"Oh, Ethel, you ought to have come with us! It's lovely down there!"

cried Gertie Wray, who, with Armitage, was the first to arrive.

"Yes? What _have_ you been doing to yourself?"

Following the direction of her glance, Gertie put both hands to her hat.

Her mischief-loving cavalier had amused himself by sticking the ends of several pieces of long gra.s.s into it, and these were standing out a yard above her head, nodding like plumes. There was a laugh at her expense.

"Oh, you horrid tease!" she cried, crus.h.i.+ng them up and throwing them at him.

"What? Why, 'pon my word it wasn't me! I didn't do it; it was Claverton."

"Was it?" repeated she, indignantly. "It was you. Mr Claverton never plays practical jokes, and you--"

"Oh!--h'm!--ah! I say--awfully sorry! Didn't know, really--have put my foot in it--must be more careful," cried the mischievous dog, in tones of mock consternation.

"You're a perfect horror!" cried Gertie, laughing, and blus.h.i.+ng furiously. "I declare I'll never speak to you again?"