Love in Idleness/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI.
HERE were to be fireworks that evening at the Canoe Club on the farther side of Bar Island—magnificent fireworks, it was said, which it would be well worth while to see. The night was calm and clear, and the moon, being near the last quarter, would not rise until everything was over.
"We'll go in skiffs," said Fanny. "When we're tired of each other, we can change about, you know. Mr. Lawrence can take one of us and Mr. Brinsley another, and the other two must take one of the men from the landing. I ordered the boats this morning when I was out."
The three Miss Miners looked consciously at one another, mutely wondering how they were to divide Mr. Brinsley amongst them, and wishing that they had consulted together in private before the moment for decision had come. But no one suggested that, as there were only four ladies, each of the men could very easily take two in a boat.
"We might toss up to see who shall take whom," suggested Brinsley, who had been unusually silent during the greater part of dinner.
"In how many ways can you arrange six people in couples?" asked Fanny.
Nobody succeeded in solving the question, of course. Even Elizabeth Miner, who was considered the clever member, gave it up in despair.
"Never mind!" said Fanny. "We'll see how it turns out when we get down to the landing-stage. These things always arrange themselves."
To the surprise of every one except Fanny herself, the arrangement turned out to be such that she and Miss Cordelia went together in the skiff pulled by the sailor, while Brinsley and Lawrence each took one of the other Miss Miners.
The distance from the landing, across the harbour, through the channel between Bar Island and Sheep Porcupine to the Canoe Club, is little over half a mile; but at night, amidst a crowd of steamers, large and small, row-boats, canoes, and sail-boats,—the latter all outside the channel,—it took twenty minutes to reach the place where the fireworks were to be.
Fanny leaned back beside her cousin, and watched the lights in silence. Yellow, green, and red, they streamed across the brilliant black water in every direction, the yellow rays fixed or moving but slowly, the others gliding along swiftly above their own reflection, as the paddle steamers thrashed their way through the still sea. To left and right the shadowy islands loomed darkly against the black sky, outlined by the stars. The warm damp air lifted the coolness from the water in little puffs, as the skiff slipped along. Now and then, in the gloom, a boat showed dimly alongside, and the laughing voices of girls and boys told how near it passed, a mere floating dimness upon blackness. The stroke of light sculls swished and tinkled with the laughter. The soft mysterious charm of the summer dark was breathed upon land and water—the distant lights were love-dreaming eyes, and each time, as the oars dipped, swept and rose, the gentle sound was like a stolen kiss.
Then, suddenly, with a wild screaming rush, a rocket shot up into the night, splitting the sky with a scar of fire. The burning point of it lingered a moment overhead, then cracked into little stars that shed a soft glow through the gloom, and fell in a swift shower of sparks. Then all was hushed again, and the red and green lights moved quickly over the water, hither and thither.
Close to the shore of the island the skiff ran round the point into the shallow water along the beach, and all at once in the distance the festooned lanterns of the Canoe Club came into view, so bright that one could distinguish the branches of the spruces in the red and yellow glare, and the moving crowd of people on the 
Miss Cordelia started nervously at the rockets, but said nothing. Fanny sat beside her in silence. The sailor, only visible distinctly when the lights were behind him, pulled softly and steadily, glancing over his shoulder every now and then to see that the way was clear. The other skiffs kept near, both Brinsley and Lawrence being keenly on the lookout for a change. Now and then Fanny could hear them talking.
"I wonder why one voice should attract one and another should be disagreeable," she said at last, in a meditative tone.
"I was thinking of the same thing," answered Cordelia, thoughtfully.
"Yes," said Fanny, absently. "Of course you were," she added, a moment later. "I mean—" She paused. "Poor dear!" she exclaimed at last, stroking her cousin's elderly hand in the dark. "I'm so sorry!"
"Thank you, dear," answered Miss Miner, simply and gratefully.
It was little enough, but little as it was it made them both more silent than ever. With the boatman close before them, it was impossible to talk of what was in their thoughts. Fanny, for her part, was glad of it. She had understood her old-maid cousin since the night when Cordelia had broken down and laughed and cried in the garden, and she knew how little there could be to say. But Cordelia did not understand Fanny in the least. It was a marvel to her that any one should prefer Lawrence to Brinsley—almost as great a marvel as that she herself, in her sober middle age, should have felt what she knew was love and believed to be passion.
And now, Brinsley was going, and it was over. He would never come back, and she should never see him again—she was sure of that, she was only an old maid; a middle-aged gentlewoman who had never possessed any great attraction for anybody; who had always been more or less poor and unhappy, though of the best and living amongst the best; whose few pleasures had come to her unexpectedly, like rare gleams of pale sunshine on a very long rainy day; who had looked for little and had got next to nothing out of life, save the crumbs of enjoyment from the feast of rich relations, like the Trehearnes—a woman who had known something more grievous than sorrow and worse than violent grief, trudging through life in the leaden cowl of many limitations—the leaden cowl of that most innocent of all hypocrites, of her, or of him, who knows the daily burden of keeping up appearances on next to nothing, and of doctoring poor little illusions through a feeble existence, worth having because they represent all that there is to have.
She had been wounded by one of those arrows shot in the dark which hit hearts unawares and unaimed; and now that the shaft was suddenly drawn out, the heart's blood followed it and the nerves quivered where it had been. It was only one of the little tragedies which no one sees, few guess at, and nothing can hinder. But Fanny Trehearne felt that it was beside her, there in the little boat, while she watched the pretty fireworks, and she was sorry and did what she could to soothe the pain.
"Let's change, now," she said at last, just as the glow of a multitude of coloured fires died away on the water. "You take Mr. Brinsley, and I'll take Mr. Lawrence."
As she spoke, she gave her cousin's hand a little squeeze of sympathy, and heard the small sigh of satisfaction that answered the proposal. The rearrangement was effected in a few moments, the men holding the boats together by the gunwales while the ladies stepped from one into the other.
"Pull away," said Fanny, authoritatively, as soon as Lawrence had shoved off. "Let's get out of this! I'll steer, so you needn't bother about running into things."
Fairly seated in a boat, with the sculls shipped, and some one at the tiller lines, Lawrence could get along tolerably well, for he knew just enough not to catch a crab in smooth water, so long as he was not obliged to turn his head. But if he had to look over his shoulder, something was certain to happen, which was natural, considering that when he attempted to feather at all, he did it the wrong way.
"You' re stronger than anybody would think," observed Fanny, as she saw how quickly the skiff moved. "You might do things quite decently, if you'd only take the trouble to learn."
"Oh no! I'm a born duffer," laughed Lawrence. "Besides, I couldn't row long like this. I couldn't keep it up."
They were just in front of the club-house now; and a score of rockets went up together, with a rushing and a crackling and a gleaming, as they soared and burst, and at last fell sputtering in the water all around the skiff. Lawrence had rested on his sculls to watch the sight.
"Pull away! "said Fanny. "We'll get under the foot-bridge by the landing. There's water enough there, and we can see everything."
Lawrence obeyed, and pulled as hard as he could.
"So your friend Mr. Brinsley is going away," observed the young girl, suddenly.
"My friend! I like that! As though I had brought him in my pocket."
"I'm very glad that he's going, at all events," said Fanny, without heeding his remark. "I'm not fond of him any more."
"I hope you never were—fond of him."
"Oh yes, I was—but I'm thankful to say that it's over. Of all the ineffable cads! I could have killed him to-day!"
"By the bye," said Lawrence, "when he was mounting you—didn't you do that on purpose?"
"Of course. And then I called him awkward. It was so nice! It did me good."
"Pure spite, I suppose. You couldn't have had any particular reason for doing it, could you?"
"Oh dear, no! What reason could I have? It wasn't his fault that the mare ran away, though I told him it was."
"That's interesting," observed Lawrence. "Do you often do things out of pure spite?"
"Constantly—without any reason at all!" Fanny laughed.
"Perhaps you'll marry out of spite, some day," said Lawrence, calmly. "Women often do, they say, though I never could understand why."
"I daresay I shall. I'm quite capable of it. And shouldn't I be just horrid afterwards!"
"I like you when you're horrid, as you call it. I didn't at first. You've given my sense of humour a chance to grow since I've been here. I say, Miss Trehearne—" He stopped.
"What do you say? It isn't particularly polite to begin in that way, is it? I suppose it's English."
"Oh, bother the English! And I apologize for being slangy. It's so dark that I can't see you frown. I meant to say, if you ever marry out of spite, and want to be particularly horrid afterwards, it wouldn't be a bad idea to marry me, for I don't mind that sort of thing a bit, you know."
"That's a singular offer!" laughed Fanny, leaning far back, and playing with the tiller lines in the glow of the Bengal lights.
"It's genuine of its kind," answered the young man. "Of course it isn't a sure thing, exactly," he added reflectively, "because it depends on your happening to be in the spiteful humour. But, as you say that often happens—"
"Well, go on!"
"I thought you might feel spiteful enough to accept this evening," concluded Lawrence.
"Take care—I might, you know—you're in danger!" She was still laughing.
"Don't mind me, you know! I could stand it, I believe."
"You're awfully amusing—sometimes, Mr. Lawrence."
"Meaning now? enquired the artist, resting on his sculls, for they were under the shadow of the bridge.
"I can't see your face distinctly," answered Fanny. "So much depends on the expression. But I think—"
"What do you think? That it's awfully amusing of me to offer to be married as a sacrifice, to your spite?"
"It's amusing anyway."
"A formal proposal would be, you mean?" asked Lawrence. Then he laughed oddly.
"I hate formality," answered Fanny. "That is, in earnest, you know. It's so disgusting when a man comes with his gloves buttoned and sits on the edge of a chair and says—"
"And say what?"
"Oh—you know the sort of thing.You must have done it scores of times."
"What? Proposed and been refused? You're complimentary, at all events. I've a great mind to let you be the first, just—well—how shall I say? Just to associate you with a novel sensation."
"I might disappoint you," said Fanny, demurely. "I told you so before. Just think, if I were to say 'yes,' you'd be most dreadfully caught. You'd have to eat humble pie and beg off, and say that you hadn't meant it."
"Oh no!" laughed the young man. "You'd break it off in a week, and then it would be all right."
"Are you going to be rude? Or are you, already? I'm not quite sure."
"Neither. Of course you'd break it off, if we had an agreement to that effect."
"You don't make any allowance for my spitefulness. It would be just like me to hold you to your engagement. Of course you wouldn't live long. We should be sure to fight."
"Oh—sure," assented Lawrence. "That is, if you call this fighting."
"It would be worse than this. But why don't you try? I'm dying to refuse you. I'm just in the humour."
"Why! I thought you said there was danger! 
"There isn't anything to count, yet," said Fanny. "Look at those fiery fish—aren't they pretty? See how they squirm about, and fizzle, and behave like mad things! Oh, I never saw anything so pretty as that!"
"Yes. If one must have an interruption, they do as well as anything."
"You weren't talking very coherently, I believe," said the young girl, turning her head to watch the fireworks. "And you've made me miss lots of pretty things, I'm sure. Oh—they've gone out already! How dark it seems, all at once! What were you asking? Whether this counted in the game? Of course it counts. Everything does. But I don't exactly see how—"
She stopped and looked towards him in the dim gloom of the shadow under the bridge. But Lawrence did not speak. He looked over the side of the boat, softly slapping the black water with the blade of his scull.
"Why don't you go on?" asked Fanny, tapping the boards under her foot to attract his attention.
"I was thinking over the proper words," answered Lawrence. "How does one make a formal proposal of marriage? I never did such a thing in my life."
"An informal one would do for fun."
"I never did that, either."
"Never?"
"Never."
"Really? Swear it, as they say on the stage." Fanny laughed softly.
"Oh, by Jove, yes!" answered Lawrence, promptly. "I'll swear to that by anything you please."
"Well—you'll have to do it some day, so you'd better practise at once," suggested Fanny. Lawrence did not notice that there was a sort of little relief in her tone.
"I suppose one says, 'My angel, will you be mine?'" he said. "That sounds like some book or other."
"It might do," answered Fanny, meditatively. "You ought to throw a little more expression into the tone. Besides, I'm not an angel, whatever the girl in the book may have been. On the whole—no—it's a little too effusive. Angel—you know. It's such nonsense! Try something else; but put lots of expression into it."
"Does one get down on one's knees?" enquired Lawrence.
"Oh no; I don't believe it's necessary. Besides, you'd upset the boat."
"All right—here goes! My dear Miss Trehearne, will you—"
"Yes. That's it. Go on. The quaver in the voice is rather well done. 'Will you—' What?"
"Will you marry me?"
"Yes, Mr. Lawrence, I will."
There was a short pause, during which a number of fiery fish were sent off again, and squirmed and wriggled and fizzled their burning little lives away in the water. But neither of the young people looked at them.
"You rather took my breath away," said Lawrence, with a change of tone. "Did I do it all right?"
"Oh—quite right," answered Fanny, thoughtfully.
Immediately after the words Lawrence heard a little sigh. Then Fanny heard one, too.
"You didn't happen to be in earnest, did you?" she asked suddenly, in a low, soft voice.
"Well—I didn't mean—that I meant—you know we agreed to play a game—"
"I know we did—but—were you in earnest?"
"Yes—but, of course— Oh, this isn't fair, Miss Trehearne!"
"Yes, it is. I said 'yes,' didn't I?"
"Certainly, but—"
"There's no 'but.' I happened to be in earnest, too—that's all. I've lost the game."
