“A forfeit—a pun from Margaret. Five cents—ten cents; a forfeit!”
“Oh!” cried Rose.—“the dear mama! She said—she said a man who could fascinate and not hold on to one. Oh, mama, how could you?”
“But I didn’t. I never meant such a thing.”
“Yes! yes!” they cried; and, laughing, got up from table amidst continued protests from the innocent punster.
Rose followed her father on to the porch.
“Mrs. Maybrook will be over at ten. She wants to see you. I told her you would not fish to-day.”
“I do not know. Something serious, I fancy.”
“No new trouble for her, I hope. By the way, old Polycarp’s bowman is sick to-day and cannot go with you. Anne, for a wonder, wishes to go on the water. Ned shall take Pierre. Not to disappoint you, I sent Polycarp early up to the clearings to get a bowman. He will be back shortly. Good luck to you!” And he went in to his letters, while Rose arranged her fishing-basket, put in it a couple of books, and sat down to look over the bright assortment of feathered lures in her father’s fly-book. Now and then she glanced up the river, but no boat appeared.
Meanwhile Mrs. Maybrook came, and went. Rose heard her father say to her, as she went out:
“No; it must not be left in doubt.” He was of opinion that it might mean little; but it might, on the other hand, mean much. Many are tempted, and few fall. The idea of crime on this quiet river seemed almost absurd to him. He added, “I shall mention it, you may feel sure of that, Mrs. Maybrook. A Lady Macbeth in business up here is queer enough.”
“I certainly do think he ought to be told,” said Dorothy.
These bits of talk much puzzled Rose. As to Dorothy, she lingered a while to chat with Anne, who sat with her hands in her lap in that entire idleness which more than any other thing on earth exasperated Margaret Lyndsay. Below, on the beach, Ned was preparing, a little troubled because the other boys were not to go with him, while they, quite reconciled to the decree of parental fate, were gaily launching their canoe, and singing, as they poled up-stream:
“I would not gi’e my bonny Rose, My bonny Rose-a-Lyndsaye, For all the wealth the ocean knows, Or the wale of the lands of Lyndsaye.”
Then Rose waved her handkerchief, and, much disappointed, again took her field-glass and still saw no canoe. At last Mrs. Lyndsay came out, and they sat in the pleasant sunshine, the mother sewing with even constancy, which as seriously annoyed Anne as her own absence of all manual employ did the little mother.