IX
THE ETHICS OF ANGLING
I don't quite know how Mrs. Loring came to pick the Gibsons up. Theywere not what Carrie termed "quite nice people"; in what respect it waseasy to see and difficult to say. Their jewellery was unexceptionable,and barely ostentatious; their manners passed the presentation standard,if falling a little short in the nicer requirements of the_tete-a-tete_. They did not offend in the matter of "Mr." and "Esq.,"but sniffed somewhat of "R. S. V. P." Mrs. Gibson, too, insisted on theforms of chaperonage in a way that was rather more than a passing bow tocustom, and which suggested the possibility of her having learned thenecessity in a different school from that of Mrs. Loring Chatterton.They had money.
"What do you think of the Gibsons, Rol?" Carrie had said to me; "_I_don't like them."
"I would rather introduce them to my relatives than to my friends," Ireplied.
It was pretty evident to me after a short acquaintance with the Gibsonsthat they were disposed to make much of me. Carrie noticed the samething, and spoke her mind on the subject with the freedom of engagedyouth.
"Mrs. Gibson's a horrid woman, Rol, and it's my opinion she wants you tomarry Miss Gibson."
"Caroline," I replied, "I applaud your concern, yet cannot blame Mrs.Gibson. She can see virtue where others see but corpulence. Besides, Iconsider Miss Gibson rather pretty."
"I'm sure she's not pretty," retorted Caroline, and proceeded toenlighten me on matters interesting and feminine.
Mamma played the only game she knew very skilfully. Her only mistake wasin the inapplicability of the means, which was not her fault. Indeed, Ifeel almost apologetically responsible myself, seeing the line worked sothoroughly, and mused instructively on the devotion of a mother to herchild's prospects.
Miss Gibson was accomplished, and expensively finished. As I hadremarked to Carrie, she was decidedly pretty, and would talk Ibsen toyou with her face in profile. She displayed an obtrusive girlhood thatwas not always as modest as its intention, and this pose of maidenhoodin bud was apparently the one designed to net me.
Mrs. Gibson gave a _musicale_, to which I persuaded Carrie withdifficulty. She had evidently talked things over with Mrs. Loring, forthat lady appeared also, and I was greatly gratified at the concern withwhich they watched me. I decided to give them all the entertainment theydesired. They talked with an obvious intention of interesting me andkeeping me apart from Miss Gibson. I was surprised to see so littlestrategy in a married woman.
Miss Gibson was running a risk of palsying her hand in a vibrantmandolin solo, and producing music suggestive of the dotted line of awheel-pen. I heard Carrie whisper to Mrs. Loring something about "St.Vitus's Waltz," for which I reproved her, considering whose house shewas in. I then addressed Mrs. Loring.
"Somehow, Mrs. Loring," I said, "one thinks more of English maidenhoodas one advances in life. There is something in the unsophisticatedrosebud----"
Mrs. Loring nodded significantly, implying there was a good deal in theunsophisticated rosebud, but I waited my time; I had a bolt in store forher.
Miss Gibson had finished the solo in a tinsel diminuendo, the intent ofwhich was to enchain the soul a while longer in the regions to which ithad been raised. I rose and crossed over to her. She was untanglingherself from a mesh of coloured mandolin ribbons that _would_ catch inthe ruching of her corsage.
"They're _such_ a nuisance, Mr. Butterfield; I shall cut them off, Ithink."
I smiled at the unintentional suggestion, and assisted her in theextrication, glancing across at Mrs. Loring's disapproving face. MissGibson sat down and made room for me beside her. She twined the mandolinribbons among her fingers, and Mrs. Gibson moved further away.
"Are you leaving town soon, Mr. Butterfield?" inquired theunsophisticated rosebud engagingly.
It was a better opening than I had looked for; I took advantage of it.
"I had meditated going down into the country for a little fishingshortly," I replied; "probably in a week or two."
"You are fond of fishing, are you not, Mr. Butterfield?" she inquired,tying a knot in a red ribbon.
"It's a pleasure," I answered, "as much of the mind as of the body. Iknow of nothing more exciting than the suspense of the first nibble. Theangler, male or female, has peculiar joys and fears of which the laymanknows nothing."
"Oh, I should _so_ love it!" replied Miss Gibson, glancing down at asmall shoe that protruded from the lacy hem of her skirts. I followedher glance, and knew in my soul that Mrs. Loring and Carrie werewatching me.
"The first nibble taken," I continued, warming to my work, "all the_finesse_ of playing your victim commences. There is a wide differencebetween hooking your fish and landing him. He must be humoured andcoaxed, or you lose him, bait and all."
I took one of the ribbons in my hand.
"It must be most annoying to have all your trouble for nothing, is itnot, Mr. Butterfield?"
"You follow me perfectly," I replied, "especially when you have madesure of your fish. Often enough you have chosen the wrong fly, or yourline has been seen by the fish; and he is a shy thing, a very timidcreature."
She laid groundbait for me by dropping her fan. I nibbled again, andreturned it to her.
"The fish, too, becomes cunning with age; and you must not play amiddle-aged trout as a boy does a minnow. Believe me, Miss Gibson, he isnot easily caught, if he is worth the landing."
Mrs. Gibson passed with a smile, but did not disturb the situation. Irose to get Miss Gibson an ice, and resumed my seat near her. She placedthe mandolin on the other side, adjusted her gown, and diminished thedistance between us by an inch. Again her fan dropped, and as we bothstooped to pick it up our hands touched.
Honestly, I acquit Miss Gibson of intention.
"Yet another method of landing your trout," I continued, "is by what iscalled 'tickling'; but then your fish must be asleep, and it cannotfairly be classed as sport."
"But surely, Mr. Butterfield," said Miss Gibson, playing me with hereyes, "fishing must be very cruel? Fancy the poor thing with thehook!--doesn't it hurt?"
"I believe," I returned, "they rather enjoy it, Miss Gibson;particularly what is called the softer-mouthed kind of fish."
"How very curious!" said the credulous rosebud, somewhat absently. Sheevidently took my remarks on the subject as so much natural history, andwas interested in them only as such. She glanced at the mandolinribbons, and I saw her revolving means of supplementing the line by thenet. She made a fresh cast.
"And how long do you expect to be away, Mr. Butterfield?"
Mrs. Loring and Carrie were approaching; but Mrs. Gibson, who had notapparently been watching, intercepted them, and dammed the streamadroitly. Carrie was placed at the piano, and the preserve maintainedinviolate. Mrs. Loring talked sweetly to her hostess, with one eye onme.
"I could not say," I replied. "Until my friends yearn for me back again,I suppose."
She made the response elementary, and shortened her line.
"But your friends will be sorry to lose you at all," she replied, with asoft sparkle under her lashes. "I'm sure mother will."
"Indeed?" I answered. "My friends conceal their desire for my presencewith most generous consideration. I am allowed great liberty."
"Oh, Mr. Butterfield, how can you say so?"
I ought not to have done it. I reproach myself for it. But thetemptation! Miss Gibson was really nice, if not "quite nice." It wasunfair; but I am of no stronger fibre than my fellow-men. As I leanedforward, I knew that the landing-net was ready, and the gaff poised. Isought her eyes, and spoke low.
"Shall _you_ be sorry to lose me, Miss Gibson?"
The colour rose faintly on her cheek. She hesitated, her eyes cast down.She had not fallen in love with me. It was the mother's doing.
Help came from outside. Mrs. Gibson blinked her vigilance for one shortmoment. Carrie crowded the last few bars of music into an accelerandothat would have harrowed the s
oul of the composer, and she and Mrs.Loring were upon us.
"Oh, Miss Gibson," said Carrie, with a sweetness of expression thatastonished me, considering the real state of her feelings, "do pleaseplay again. Rollo and I must go very shortly, and we should so love tohear you. Won't you, dear?"
"We cannot possibly leave without," implored Mrs. Chatterton.
Nothing was possible but compliance, and Miss Gibson took her seat nearthe piano.
Mrs. Loring and Caroline mounted determined guard over me, one on eachside, but didn't speak. It was not until we were on the way home thatthe storm broke.
"Rollo Butterfield," said Mrs. Loring icily, "I'm deeply surprised atyou."
"And why, my dear Mrs. Loring?" I asked blandly.
"Did you propose to that--that Gibson girl?"
"Proposal, Mrs. Loring," I replied, "is an excitement that would be ofmore general indulgence but for the risk of acceptance. It is a valuablesensation, and I greatly regret its attendant danger."
"You have no more perception than a child. Don't you know that thosepeople are doing all they can to catch you? I never saw anything soshameless."
She had asked for it, and she should have it.
"Mrs. Loring," I replied slowly and distinctly, "your ingenuousnesscharms me. You call Mrs. Gibson's conduct shameless: yet you yourselfwould empty half the bachelors' clubs in London. I forget precisely thenumber of years it is since you first endeavored to curtail my owncelibate freedom, but I believe you have devoted no small part of yourattention to my poor case."
"Millie Dixon is different," she retorted.
Of course Millicent was different, but I held her to the logic.
"We are not discussing Millicent, but the ethics of angling. I amsurprised that you should not recognise your own position in the matter.You do not want me to be more precise?"
"I don't want you to be anything but moderately sane," she returned. "Ifyou can't see the difference between the Gibsons and MillicentDixon----"
She left me to conclude the sentence for myself. Mrs. Loring Chattertonwas in a bad temper, and evaded the argument pettishly. I turned toCaroline.
"Has my little sister anything to say?" I asked, in a "come one comeall" tone.
She hadn't. She cuddled her face against my shoulder, and pullednervously at her glove fingers.
"But, Rol, dear," she said anxiously, "what _were_ you and Miss Gibsontalking about?"
I took her hand.
"Nothing, Caroline," I replied, "but a few observations on the trout,his habits, and the method of his capture."
"Exemplifying the fact," Mrs. Loring struck in crossly, "that he is acold-blooded creature."
Mrs. Loring scored a bye.