"I don’t contend, Captain Whiteoak, that anything disgraceful took place at this picnic. What I do say is that so much licence is not good. In time it will lead to disgraceful things. If you drink wine and dance about a fire like pagans, what will your grandchildren do when they set out to have a good time? They’ll probably get drunk on gin and dance naked. Manners and morals are never at a standstill. Either they rise or they decline. Like Empires".
"Then your ambition is", said Philip, smiling, "to have your grandchildren enjoy a picnic thus. The young ladies, after dipping a lily-white toe in the lake, will sit in a circle with their knitting while the most devil-may-care of the young men will read aloud from the works of Mr. Longfellow".
Dr. Ramsay had overheard. He sprang up. "Yes", he said, striking an angular attitude:
So declaiming he planted a naked foot firmly on the moist sand. He then lifted it and carefully examined the imprint. "Picture the joy of the wanderer, ninety years hence, when he comes upon this! He’ll immediately set about making his life sublime also". He stamped on the footprint. "Bah", he exclaimed, "I wouldn’t give one line of old Bobbie’s for everything Mr. Longfellow has written or ever will write!"
Elihu Busby turned to Philip.
"Is Dr. Ramsay drunk?" he asked.
"No, no, not in the least".
"He waved that bottle about as though he were".
"That bottle, Mr. Busby, contained nothing but mineral water".
"All that is the matter with me", said the doctor, "is that I am relaxing. I work too hard. There should be three doctors in this neighbourhood instead of one. Yet can you say, Elihu Busby, that I ever have neglected a patient?"
"Indeed I cannot", said Busby heartily. "More than a few of us would be dead if it weren’t for your devotion".
"Thank you", said the doctor, only a little mollified.
The three sisters now appeared from the cedar thicket, fully dressed and carrying their bathing-costumes in a basket. Kate had recovered her spirits and walked with the assurance of a married woman to her husband’s side. He greeted her with a sly wink. Lydia, too, was now composed but her colour was high and her eyes downcast till she passed Dr. Ramsay. Then she raised them and a look was exchanged, so warm, so full of tenderness that each was surprised and bewildered. The youngest sister, Abigail, was still weeping. But she was only sixteen. Their brothers joined them, and their father, with a commanding gesture, marched them away. Exhortations to the horses came out of the darkness beyond the willows. Then came the sound of wheels. Six of the party had departed. Nero, who had been exploring farther along the shore, had not become aware of Elihu Busby’s presence till he was leaving. To make up for this laxness he followed his buggy for some distance, uttering loud threatening barks. After this demonstration of his watchfulness he padded back across the beach and asked Adeline for something to eat. She went to where the hampers stood and proceeded to pile high a plate for him.
Sholto raised his young voice loudly. "Who was the old gaffer?" he asked.
"The Busby girls’ father, you ass", returned his brother.
"We should have ducked him in the lake for a spoil-sport".
"Hold your tongue", said Philip laconically, "or I shall duck you".
"I wish you would duck me, Philip", cried Mary. "I’m longing for another dip".
The words had scarcely been spoken when Conway and Sholto seized her and carried her into the lake. With their pale hair flying in the moonlight the three resembled a mermaid captured by two mermen, and being carried off by them to their ocean cave. So thought Wilmott and he said so to Dr. Ramsay. They had separated themselves from the others in a new-found congeniality and were strolling along the beach.
"The lady whose appearance most struck me", said the doctor, "was Lydia Busby. To tell you the truth, I am pretty badly smitten. And this with a girl whom I have known for years and scarcely noticed, except for her healthy good looks. It is quite extraordinary what propinquity and a moonlit night will suddenly discover".
"Yes, yes", agreed Wilmott absently, his eyes on their two shadows on the beach. "Miss Lydia is a lovely girl".
"I admire her more than I admire Mrs. Whiteoak", went on Dr. Ramsay. "Certainly Mrs. Whiteoak has a very arresting face-" he fell silent a moment in thought, then continued, after a deep breath-"but she isn’t the sort of woman I should care to marry-even if I had the chance". He laughed.
"Of course not. You would require quite a different sort of companion… Do you know, I was surprised to hear you quote poetry this evening. I had not guessed that you have literary tastes".
The doctor laughed again. "Oh, I don’t show my real self on all occasions. I am a reserved man. But I read a good deal when I can find the time".
"You have an excellent memory".
"It’s a pernicious memory. I never forget anything".
"I, on the contrary, find great pleasure in forgetting. I’m piling up new experience. And-at the same time-" he looked out across the still lake and spoke softly-"at the same time, I’m writing a book".
Dr. Ramsay looked impressed. "Now that is just what I should expect of you!" he exclaimed.
Wilmott was pleased. "Is it?"
"Yes. And I make a guess that it is a work of the imagination".
"You are right".
"Are you getting on well with it?"
"I have the first five chapters written".
"Can you tell me something about it?"
Wilmott launched forth. They strode on. A lovely freshness was rising from the lake. Dew was falling on the shore. Whip-poor-wills called and called again from the nearby woods. A loon uttered its wild laugh.
Robert Vaughan felt himself to be unwanted by Daisy and Philip, who talked in a low tone. He was angry at Daisy, ashamed of what he considered her shameless overtures to Philip. Himself she ignored. He would have liked to order her home but instead sprang up and left them. Adeline was still among the willows with Nero. Robert felt alone, unwanted by anyone-not by the three disporting themselves in the lake, not by the two striding in the opposite direction, not by Philip and Daisy, in the intimacy of the firelight, not by Adeline, feeding her dog among the willows.
There was just moonlight enough for her to see what was in the hamper. She heaped a dish with slices of ham and pieces of bread but, instead of setting this before Nero, she fed him from her fingers. This suited him well because he already had had a good deal to eat and food tasted better when Adeline fed him. He loved her with a deep, warm, dark devotion. She was barely conscious that his lips touched her fingers. Her eyes were fixed on Daisy with an expression so cold, so hard, so almost blank that an observer might well have wondered if they could be the luminous and changeful eyes with which she generally looked out on the world.
Philip sat in the glow of the fire, motionless, but with an enigmatic smile. His shirt, open at the neck, revealed his white chest, his up-rolled sleeves his rounded yet muscular arms. Daisy sat close to him, almost leaning against him. She thought Adeline had gone along the beach with Wilmott and the doctor. Daisy, with her narrow slant eyes, her short face, her turned-up nose, had a kind of savage primitive beauty. Her mouth was upthrust toward Philip as though in preparation for a kiss.
"Is the girl mad or just a fool?" thought Adeline. "She might be sure someone would see her. Why doesn’t that brute Philip push her away? By heaven, if he kisses her I will kill him!"
Suddenly, as though in uncontrolled passion, Daisy threw herself across Philip’s thighs and, twining her arms about him, drew his head down to hers. Adeline could hear her speaking but not what she said.