IX
THE MEDWAY
"IF you had a map and I could put my finger on any place I chose, Ishould open my eyes the least bit in the world and put my finger on theThames," she said at the breakfast-table, where she had for the firsttime sat opposite to him and poured his coffee, looking as demurelydomestic as any haberdasher's wife of them all.
"The Thames?" he said. "I know a river worth two of that. . . ."
"A river that's worth two of the Thames must be the river of Paradise."
"So it is," he assured her, "and probably the Thames is infested by yourrelations. For a serious and secret conference such as we propose toourselves there is no place like the Medway."
She had thought the Medway to be nothing but mud and barges, and saidso.
"Ah, that's below Maidstone. Above-- But you'll see. Wear a shady hatand bring that conspirator-looking cloak you wore last night--the fineweather can't possibly last forever. Twenty minutes for breakfast, halfan hour for a complete river toilette, and we catch the ten-seventeenfrom Cannon Street, easily."
"I haven't a complete river toilette. And you? I thought you left allyour possessions at the Five Bells--"
"I am not the homeless orphan you deem me," he said, accepting kidneysand bacon from a sleepy waiter. "I have a home, though a humble one,and, what's more, it's just around the corner--Montague Street, to beexact. Next door to the British Museum. So central, is it not? Someinward monitor whispered to me, 'She will want to go on the river,' andI laid out the complete boating-man's costume, down to white shoes withnew laces."
"Did you really think I should think of the river? How clever of you."
"I am clever," he said, modestly, "and good. It is better to be goodthan clever. That is why I cannot conceal from you that I never thoughtof the river till you spoke about it. But I really have some flannels,little as you may think it, and we'll stop and get some boating-shoesfor you, if you want them. Only you'll have to buy them with lightningspeed and change them at Yalding."
"Is that the name of the place? How lovely! If I had a title I shouldlike it to be Lady Yalding--or the Duchess of Yalding. Her Grace theDuchess of Yalding will give you some more coffee, if you like."
"Why come down in the world? You were a princess last night."
"Princess of where?" she asked.
"We will give a morning to a proper definition of the boundaries of yourterritory one of these days. Meantime, are you aware that I don't evenknow the name by which the common world knows you?"
"I know you don't," she said, "and I'd much rather you didn't. If I'm tobe a princess I'll be the Princess of Yalding, and if she has to haveanother name we'll choose a new one. I should like everything to be newfor our new adventure."
They got the shoes and they caught the train, and, now the little grittywalk from Yalding station was over, they stood on the landing-stage ofthe Anchor, looking down on a sort of Sargasso Sea of small craft thatstretched along below the edge of the Anchor garden.
"The canoe would be nice," she said.
"It would not be nice with Charles," he said, firmly. "Charles's firstconscious act after we became each other's was to upset me out of acanoe, to the heartless delight of three picnic parties, four pairs ofsweethearts, two dons, and a personal friend."
"If Charles is to come _in_ the boat," she said, "perhaps thatfishing-punt. . . ."
"Water within, water without," he said, spurning the water-logged punt."This little sculling-boat will do. No--no outriggers for us, thankyou," he said to the Anchor's gloomy boatman, who came toward them likea sort of fresh-water Neptune with a boat-hook for trident.
"He might, at least, have smiled," she said, as the sour-faced Neptuneman turned toward the boat-house. "I hope he'll give us red cushions anda nice, 'arty sort of carpet."
"You get no carpets here," he assured her. "Lucky if we have so much asa strip of cocoanut matting. This is not the languid, luxurious Thames.On the Medway life is real, life is earnest. You mostly pull a hundredyards, anchor and fish; or if you do go farther from harbor you openyour own locks, with your own crowbar. The best people are always a bitshabby. You and I, no doubt, are the cynosure of every eye. Yes, that'lldo; we'll put the basket in the stern, then the ginger-beer here. We'llput the cloak over it to keep it cool. All right, thank you. Crowbar in?Right. Throw in the painter. Right."
Neptune pushed them with his trident and the boat swung out intomidstream. A few strokes took them out of sight of the Anchor, itshomely, flowered garden, its thatched house, its hornbeam arbor; theypassed, too, the ugly, bare house that some utilitarian misdemeanant hasbuilt next to it, then nothing but depths of willow copse, green andgray, and the grassy curves of the towing-path where the loosestrifegrows, and the willow herb, the yellow yarrow, and the delicate plumesof the meadow-sweet.
"'Blond loosestrife and red meadow-sweet among, We tracked the shy Thames shore.'"
he quoted.
"It's like a passport," she said--"or finding that you haven't lost yourticket, after all--when people have read the same things and rememberedthem. But don't you love the bit that begins about 'the tempestuous moonin early June,' and ends up with the 'uncrumpling fern and scent of haynew-mown'? I wonder why it is that when people quote poetry in books youfeel that they're Laura-Matilda-ish, and when they do it really youquite like it. Do you write poetry?"
He looked at her guiltily. "Look out to the left," he said; "there's anabsolutely perfect thatched barn, and four oast-houses--you know, wherethey dry the hops, with little fires of oak chips. Have you ever been inan oast-house? We will some day--"
She was silent as the boat slipped past the old farm buildings, the oldtrees, the long perfection of the barn, and the deep red and green ofthe mossy oast-house wall going down sheer to the smooth, brown water,and hung at crevice and cranny with little ferns and littleflowers--herb-robert and stonecrop. The reflection, till his oarsshattered it, was as perfect as the building itself, and she drew a deepbreath and turned to look back as the boat slid past.
"You were right," she said, "it is a darling little river. And you _do_write poetry, don't you?"
"Is this the confessional or the Medway?" he asked.
"I know you do," she said. "Of course you do--everybody does, as well asthey can, I suppose; I can't, but I do," she added, encouragingly. "Wewill write poems for each other, on wet nights in the caravan, aboutNature and Fate and Destiny, and things like that--won't we?"
The quiet river, wandering by wood and meadow, bordered by its fringe ofblossoms and flowering grasses, the smooth backwaters where leaningtrees touched hands across the glassy mirror, and water-lilies gleamedwhite and starry, the dappled shadows, the arch of blue sky, the gaysunshine, and the peace of the summer noon all wrought in one fine spellto banish from their thoughts all fear and dismay, all doubts andhesitations. Here they were, two human beings--young, healthy,happy--with all fair things before them and all sad things behind. Itseemed to them both, at that moment, that they need ask nothing more oflife than a long chain of days like this. They were silent, and eachfelt in the other's silence no embarrassment or weariness, but only aserene content. Even Charles, overcome by the spirit of the hour, wassilent, slumbering on the matting between them, in heavy abandonment.
The perfection of their surroundings left them free to catch thedelicate flavor of the wonderful adventure--a flavor which the dust andhurry of yesterday had disguised and distorted a little.
He looked at her and thought, "It is worth while--it is indeed worthwhile"--and knew that if only the princess were for his winning themoment of rashness which only yesterday he had almost regretted would bein its result the most fortunate moment of his life.
She looked at him, and a little fear lifted its head and stung her likea snake. What if he were to regret the adventure? What if he were tolike her less and less--she put it to herself like that--while she grewto like him more and more? She looked at his eyes and his hands, and theway the hair grew on brow and nape,
and it seemed to her that thus andnot otherwise should a man's hair and eyes and hands be.
But they did not look at each other so that their eyes met till the boatrounded the corner to the weir-pool below Stoneham Lock. Then their eyesmet, and they smiled, and she said:
"I am very glad to be here."
It seemed to her that she owed him the admission. He took it as shewould have wished him to take it.
"I am glad you like my river," he said.
She was very much interested in the opening of the lock gates anddeplored the necessity which kept her in the boat, hanging on to theedge of the lock with a boat-hook while he wielded the crowbar. Thelocks on the Medway are primitive in their construction and heavy towork. There are no winches or wheels or artful mechanical contrivancesof weights and levers and cables. There are sluices, and from thesluice-gates posts rise, little iron-bound holes in them, holes in whichthe urgent nose of the crowbar exactly fits. The boatman leansindolently against the tarred, unshaped tree trunk whose ax-wrought endis the top of the lock gate; the tree trunk swings back above the closesweet-clover mat that edges the lock; the lock gates close--slow,leisurely, and dignified. Then the boatman stands on the narrow plankhung by chains to each lock gate, and with his crowbar chunks up thesluice, with a pleasant ringing sound of iron on iron, securing theraised sluice with a shining iron pin that hangs by a little chain ofits own against the front of the lock gate, like an ornament for agentleman's fob. If you get your hand under the pin and the sluicehappens to sink, you hurt your hand.
Slowly the lock fills with gentle swirls of foam-white water, slowly thewater rises, and the boat with it, the long gates unclose to let youout--slow, leisurely, dignified--and your boat sweeps out along theupper tide, smoothly gliding like a boat in a dream.
Thus the two passed through Stoneham Lock and the next and the next, andthen came to the Round Lock, which is like a round pond whose watercreeps in among the roots of grass and forget-me-not and spearmint andwild strawberry. And so at last to Oak Weir Lock, where the turtledovescall from the willow wood on the island where the big trees are, and thewide, sunny meadows where the sheep browse all day till the shepherdcalls them home in the evening--the shepherd with his dog at his heelsand his iron crook, polished with long use and stately as a crozier in abishop's hand.
They met no one--or almost no one. At East Peckham a single rusticlooked at them over the middle arch of the seven-arched bridge built offine, strong stone in the days of the Fourth Edward, and at Lady WhiteWeir a tramp gave them good day and said it was a good bit yet toMaidstone. He spat in the water, not in insolence, but contemplatively,and Edward gave him a silver token of good will and a generous pinch ofdark tobacco, with a friendly, "Here's for luck."
"You're a gentleman," the tramp retorted, grudgingly, and spat again,and slouched off along the green path. These two were all. Not anotherhuman face did they see for all the length of their little voyage.
All the long and lovely way it was just these two and the river and thefields and the flowers and the blue sky and youth and summer and thesun.
At Oak Weir they put the boat through the lock, and under the gianttrees they unpacked the luncheon-basket they had brought from theMidlothian--how far away and how incredibly out of the picture such aplace now seemed!--and sat among the twisted tree roots, and ate anddrank and were merry like children on a holiday. It was late when theyreached the weir, and by the time the necessity of the return journeyurged itself upon them the shadows were growing longer and blacker tillthey stretched almost across the great meadow. The shepherd had takenthe sheep away, passing the two with a nod reserved, but not in itsessence unfriendly. Edward had smoked a good many cigarettes, and theyhad talked a good deal. It was as he had said at their first meeting,they were like two travelers who, meeting, hasten to spread, each beforethe other, the relics and spoils of many a long and lonely journey.
"I wish we could have stayed here," she said at last. "If we had onlyhad the sense to fold our tents, like the Arabs, and bring them with us,I suppose we could have camped here."
"It isn't only tents," he said; "it's all the elegancies of thetoilette--brushes and combs and slippers. You must return to the_Caravansary_ that guards these treasures. The nine-fifty-five will dous. But we haven't much more than time. There's the boat to pay for andthe basket to get to the station. Come, Princess, if we could stay hereforever we would, but since we can't we won't stay another minute."
Once in the boat, and in the lock, she leaned back, holding the edge ofthe lock with the boat-hook, and with the other hand detaining Charles.She looked back dreamily on the day which had been, and she did notpretend that it had not been, the happiest day in her life. To be withone who pleased--he certainly did please--and to whom one's every wordand look was so obviously pleasing! It is idle to deny that she feltsmoothed, stroked the right way, like a cat who is fortunate in itsfriends. And now all days were to be like this. The crowbar began itschinking--once, twice--then a jarring sound, and a low but quitedistinct "Damn!"
She started out of her dream.
"I beg your pardon," he was saying, "but I've caught my finger, like afool. I can't do anything. Can you come here?"
"Of course." She stepped out of the boat. The water in the lock hadhardly begun to subside. She took the painter and, holding it, went tohim, Charles following with cheerful bounds. The sluice had slipped alittle and its iron pin held his finger firmly clipped against thetarred wood below.
She did not cry out nor tremble nor do any of the things a silly womanmight have done. "Tell me what to do," was all she said.
He told her how to hold the crowbar, how to raise the sluice so that thefinger might be released. She did it all exactly and carefully. Whenthe finger was released he wrapped his handkerchief around it.
"Does it hurt?" she said.
And he said, "Yes."
"You must put it in the water," she said. "You can't reach it here. Comeinto the boat."
He obeyed her. She came and sat by him in the stern--sat there quitesilently. No "I'm so sorry!" or "Can't I do anything?" Her hand was onCharles's collar. His eyes were closed. His finger was badly crushed;the blood stained the water, and presently she saw it. She kept her eyesfixed on the spreading splash of red.
"You haven't fainted, have you?" she said at last. "It's getting verydark."
"No," he said, and opened his eyes. She raised hers, and both perceivedone reason for the darkness--the boat had sunk nine feet or so. Thedark, dripping walls of the lock towered above them. While he had foughthis pain and she her sympathy the lock had been slowly emptying itself.They were at the bottom, or almost, and up those smooth walls there wasno climbing out.
"Push the boat against the lower gate," he said; and as she obeyed headded, "I must try to climb up somehow. I'll pitch the crowbar up onshore first. Where is it?"
"I left it on the lock gate," she said. "Wasn't that right?"
"It doesn't matter," he told her; but even as he spoke the sluice, whichthe weight of the water had held in place after the pin had beenremoved, now, as the waters above and below it grew level with eachother, fell into its place with a splash and an echoing boom, and withthe shock the crowbar fell from its resting-place on the tarred ledgeand disappeared in the water below.
"Lucky it didn't fall on us," he said, and laughed. "It's no use myclimbing out now, Princess. I couldn't open the gate, anyhow. We'recaught like two poor little rabbits in a trap--or three, if you countCharles--and here we must stay till some one comes along with a crowbar.I dare say there'll be a barge by and by. D'you mind very much?"
"Not a bit," she assured him, cheerfully. "It's all my fault, anyhow,and, besides, I enjoy it. Let me tie your hand up, and then you mustsmoke till rescue comes."
"Aren't you cold?" he asked, for indeed the air was chill in that wateryinclosure.
"Not a bit. I have my cloak," she said, and snuggled into it. "Butyou'll be cold. Have half--it's a student's cloak, eight yards around."
/> He accepted the offer, and they sat with the cloak wrapped around themboth, with Charles snuggling under the lower folds of it.
"If you hear a footstep or a whistle or anything, shout," he said. "I dowish I hadn't let you in for this. I hate a fool."
"I don't mind a bit, except about your finger. The bone isn't broken, isit?"
"No," he said; "I've just made a fuss about nothing. I hate a fool, as Isaid before."
She thought of the wet patch on the tarred wood and the red patch in thewater, and he felt her shiver.
"It's very decent of you," said she, "not to scold me about leaving thecrowbar there."
"A good Medway boatman should never be separated from his crowbar," hesaid, monitorily.
"I know that now," she said. "I ought to have known before. I hate afool, too."