Seated on a chintz-covered chair with a glass of sherry cobbler in her hand, and a bowl of lavender close to her nose, Julia could not help looking at Mrs. Augustus Perry and wondering a little if she liked being the wife of anyone so popular, so sought after as Gus Perry, who played the guitar, too. She was hoping so much that she herself would not be in a boat with Roger—he was such a tease, especially if their dear host were in the same boat. And she hoped he was noticing how brightly she was talking with Major Small; and indeed it was an honour to be talking to him, for after all it was he who had the stiff leg, and was the hero; but all the time she contrived to watch their dear host and to note that he looked a little anxious. Then they all went down across the lawn to the two boats, so graceful, with striped cushions and brown varnish. It WAS a moment, not knowing in which boat she was to be, with Augustus Perry cracking so many jokes. But her arm was taken gently, firmly, above the elbow by Mr. Septimus, and she was stepping into a boat, and sitting down quite quickly beside her sister-inlaw on the stern seat.
“My dear,” she said, “I hope I am not required to steer. It’s such a responsibility.”
“Oh! I will steer, dear Juley,” replied her sister-inlaw.
Crinoline by crinoline they sat, and—so gratifying—who should step into the boat but dear Mr. Septimus himself, and Augustus Perry. She could not help smiling when that droll Gus said:
“I shall take my coat off, Sep.”
And Mr. Septimus, always courtly, asked:
“Do you mind, ladies?” Indeed, they didn’t!
So both took their coats off, and placed the oars in the rowlocks. And then the boat glided out. It WAS delightful! Julia felt, somehow, that not only herself, but dear little Mary beside her, who was looking so pretty, was glad that dear Roger (even though he was her husband) was not in their boat. How beautifully they rowed, almost together; Augustus Perry—his face was so round, without whiskers or anything—kept popping it out from behind Mr. Septimus’s back, to make such amusing remarks. And then he ‘caught a crab’ on purpose! How they did laugh; he looked so droll! So first they went up the stream, and then they came down the stream, with the water all green and the swans all white—and landed on the little island opposite Parson’s Villa, where they found the picnic baskets—fancy! It WAS all beautifully planned, and so romantic under the willow trees, with rugs for them to sit on, and Augustus Perry’s guitar, quite like a picture by Watteau.
The lunch was exquisite: lobster salad, pigeon pie, tipsy cake, raspberries, and champagne: with plates and spoons, forks and napkins, and a dear little water rat looking on. She had never enjoyed anything so much, and she was really quite relieved when Major Small flirted outrageously with Hatty Chessman, and gave them no more anxiety. To be waited on by their dear host was such a privilege, and Roger and Gus Perry were so droll; altogether it was enchanting. When they had all finished lunch and the gentlemen were smoking their cigars, they sang some delightful ‘rounds’: ‘A boat, a boat,’ ‘Three blind mice,’ ‘White sand and grey sand.’ Mr. Septimus’s voice was so manly—deep and hollow, almost like an organ. Then they played hide-and-seek. Each in turn was allowed five minutes to hide from the others—such a clever idea, so thoughtful. She herself hid among some willow bushes, and who do you think found her? Mr. Septimus: he was so surprised! When they had all hidden it was time for tea, and such a to-do boiling the kettle. Roger, indeed—it was just like him—suggested that they should leave the kettle and go over and have tea in the house; but that would have destroyed all the romance. And when at last the kettle did boil, it would have been a delicious cup, only the water was smoky. But nobody minded, because, of course, it was a picnic. Then came the moment when the other six got into one boat and rowed away. It seemed quite providential. So she and their dear host helped the servants to pack everything in the other boat to take over to the house. While they were doing that, she noticed that he coughed three times.
“I am sure,” she said, “dear Mr. Septimus, it’s too damp for you on the river so late. It is past six.” How good he was about it!
“Let us sit on the lawn, then, Miss Julia,” he said, “and wait for the others to come back.”
So they sat under the cedar tree where it was beautifully cool, and quite private, for the branches came down very low. She had quite a fluttery feeling, sitting there all alone with him for the first time. But he was so considerate, talking about Southey. Did she like his poetry? He himself preferred Milton.
“I must confess, Mr. Septimus,” she said, “that I have not read ‘Paradise Regained,’ but Milton is certainly a very beautiful poet—so sonorous.”
“And what do you think of Wordsworth, Miss Julia?”
“Oh! I love Mr. Wordsworth! I always feel he must have had such a beautiful character.”
As she said this she could not help wondering if he would ask her whether she read Byron. If he did, she should be daring and say: ‘Yes, indeed!’ She did not want to have secrets from him, and she had been so impressed by ‘Childe Harold,’ and ‘The Giaour.’ Of course Lord Byron had NOT had good principles, but she was sure dear Mr. Septimus would never suspect her of reading anything that was not nice. There was ‘Don Juan’ in Timothy’s study—several volumes. Hester had read them and been horrified. And when he did not ask her she felt quite disappointed; it would have drawn them closer together, she was sure. But she could feel that he was shy about it; because he asked her instead whether she liked the novels of Charles Dickens.
“Of course,” she said, “he is very clever, but I do think he writes about such very peculiar, such very common characters; and there is so much about drinking in ‘The Pickwick Papers,’ though most people, I know, like them very much. Do you admire ‘The Pickwick Papers,’ Mr. Septimus?”
“No, Miss Julia; it seems to me a very extravagant book.”
Time went so quickly under the cedar, and it would have been quite perfect if the midges had not bitten her dreadfully through her stockings; for, of course, she could not scratch, or even say “La!” She did so wonder whether they were biting him, too. The longer they sat there the more she felt that he did not take enough care of himself, with no scarf on, in the evening air; he did so need someone to look after him. And so the midges bit, and she smiled, and the boat came back, with Augustus Perry singing to his guitar. What an agreeable rattle he was, was he not? And how romantic always—music on the water!
Then it all came to an end, and she drove home alone with dear little Mary in the Victoria, Roger refusing to sit back to the horses on ‘that knife-board’ any more, and going off with Hatty Chessman in her brougham. Such a relief! It had been such a—such a holy afternoon, and she did so want not to be teased about it…
On the Bayswater Road that night she sat a long time at her window thinking of Septimus’s beard, and whether she would dare to come to calling him ‘Sep,’ and whether he would ever ask her to let him go and see her eldest brother, dear Jolyon—now that their father was dead…
And then came their correspondence; that WAS a delightful experience. His letters sometimes contained a sprig of lavender—his favourite scent; they were beautifully written, because of course he was an architect, and full of high principle, so refined. Now and then, indeed, she would feel as if he might be too refined, because she had often read the Marriage Service and—thought about what it meant, as who indeed would not? In her own letters she tried hard not to be just gossipy, but like Maria Edgeworth. All that time she was knitting him a scarf. It had to be quite a secret, and done in her bedroom, because if Timothy saw it he would be sure to say: “Is that for me?” And perhaps would add: “I don’t want a great thing like that.” And if she said: “No, it’s not for you,” he would be quite upset and want to know whom it was for; which would never do.
In August they went (Ann and Hester, herself and Timothy) to Brighton for the sea air, and in a letter she happened to mention it to Septimus—always Septimus in her thoughts. Imagine her surprise, then, when on the third day she saw him sitting on the pier. It gave her such a colour. Timothy stopped short at once.