What was he up to now? With snaky neck pressed down between outward-curving wings held taut for flight, he was forcing his way upstream with powerful thrusts, using his feet for oars, as the Greek poet said. Behind him at a discreet distance came his mate, paddling feverishly, but with neck erect, not battened down as his was. Had they seen another swan perhaps, an interloper? For this was their reach of the river, as it had been mine, before they came, and they would not tolerate another swan on it.
They passed on, out of sight, but his baleful, malignant presence lingered with me; I have never seen, in any creature, such devilish intent as flashed from that wicked eye. Swollen with anger, he looked twice the size of other swans. Had it become a struggle for mastery between us? Did he embody some spirit of opposition to me, that the place had? I loved it, but since I bought it, eleven years ago, so many vexatious and frustrating things had happened. . . .
Now all was peace. The river had regained its glassy surface and restored the sense of quietude which the contemplation of still water nearly always gives me. Just as the sudden cessation of a noise—a dog barking or someone hammering—induces sleep, so did the let-up in my swan-resentment prepare my mind for more congenial guests. Now for some real work.
Or so I promised myself, and rested my elbows on the iron table, painted green to match the garden. But my musings were once more interrupted before they became fertile. Another ripple spread across the river, and before I had time to wonder if it heralded another swan, I heard the sound of voices, a man’s voice and a woman’s. This didn’t surprise me. Boats, other than mine, were infrequent on the river, because of the weir, half a mile below, that protected it from the populous reach used by the townspeople. But hardier spirits sometimes lifted their boats round the weir and went on upstream into the unspoilt countryside.
Instead of carrying on past me, as I thought they would, the voices seemed to become stationary, and changed their tone. From being desultory they became animated; from being animated, argumentative. Which of the two prevailed I still don’t know, but it was the man who called out to me.
‘Sir!’
I was only a stone’s throw from them, and not many feet above them, but as I am a little deaf I got up from my table, rather unwillingly, and went down the steps through the rockery and across the lawn in the direction the sounds came from. Leaning over the wall I saw them, in a smart, light new canoe, the man, who sat behind, holding on to the big flagstone that served as my diving-board.
I suppose they hadn’t seen or heard me coming, for they looked up as if I was an apparition. They were both very fair, in their late twenties, I should guess, and both very good-looking—she especially. She had a longish face, deep blue eyes, and corn-gold hair piled high on her head. They were both wearing white.
He was the first to speak.
‘Sir,’ he said again (perhaps it was a tribute to my age), ‘you must excuse us, but we wondered if you would let us use your landing-stage to change places in the boat? You see we are not skilled canoeists, and my wife is rather tired of paddling always on one side. We mustn’t change places in mid-stream, I’m told. If you would allow us to land for a moment——’
His pleasant voice, her questioning, self-deprecatory smile, and their unassuming air (boating brings out rowdyism in so many people) made me take to them.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But aren’t you tired, having come all the way from Warmwell? Why not stop and have a drink, one for the river, before you go on?’
They exchanged a doubtful look. Does the prospect bore them? I thought, instantly suspicious. But the woman said:
‘You’re very kind. We’d like to.’
‘Let me give you a hand,’ I said. ‘You mustn’t rock the boat too much’—a timely warning, as it turned out, for they made a very awkward landing. ‘I told you we were amateurs,’ the man said. ‘In fact we only bought this canoe yesterday. We’re on our honeymoon; it’s almost the first thing we’ve bought since we were married! We’re staying in Warmwell to house-hunt,’ he went on, ‘and the river looked so inviting with the swans by Paulet Bridge, and all—we thought it would be fun to have our own boat, and go prospecting. That’s what brought us here! But it’s an awkward piece of luggage to travel with. Perhaps we shall give it away. But I hope——’
By this time we were half-way across the lawn. They fitted their long strides to mine; their graceful, white-clad figures were so tall I wondered how they tucked themselves into the boat.
We had drinks in my study, a darkish room in spite of its three windows. The creepers I once planted had rampaged. The jessamine looked in at one window, too intrusively, and the other two were darkened by the clematis which dripped from the veranda in untidy loops and streamers. But my visitors were enchanted.
‘So this is where you work?’ the woman asked.
‘Yes, but how did you know?’
She looked towards my disorderly writing-desk, and smiling, shook her head.
‘I recognize the signs . . . Besides——’ she caught her husband’s eye and stopped.
While I was pouring out the drinks a sort of telepathic communication stirred in me.
‘Did you come out looking for a house?’ I ventured.
Again they exchanged glances.
‘In a way,’ the man said. ‘The agent told us——’
‘Yes?’
‘That there was a house on the river that might be for sale. We wondered if we could spot it.’
‘Was that why you stopped and hailed me?’
They both coloured.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We genuinely wanted to change places, for Sylvia was getting tired. My name is Harry,’ he said hastily. ‘Harry Marchmont. We’re not the impostors that perhaps we look! But we did just think——’
‘That this house was for sale?’
He nodded.
‘Well, I’m the owner of it,’ I said, ‘and I can assure you that it isn’t.’
I spoke more stiffly than I meant to, but one or two other people had been sent by agents to make the same inquiry. Why had it got about that I meant to sell the house? They blushed again, more deeply than before.
‘Oh, we are so sorry,’ Mrs. Marchmont said, while her husband made inarticulate noises of apology. ‘Of course there are several other houses by the river——’
‘But not owned by a writer,’ said I, giving their embarrassment no time to wear off, ‘and not quite on the river. They are cut off from it by a tow-path.’
‘I’m sure they’re not half so nice as this one,’ Mrs. Marchmont said. She drained her glass. ‘Now, Harry, we must be getting on our way, and not waste any more of Mr. . . . Mr. Minchin’s time.’
So they knew my name, too.
We were all on our feet, the smiles of good-bye stiffening our faces, when to my great surprise I heard myself saying:
‘But as you’re here, won’t you look over the house?’