THE fateful day dawned. Fair were the omens of the morning; full their accomplishment as day culminated. Oh, what a parade there was! Chiefly and Chieftainly the Millard sent forth its fleet full of younkers and prodigals and “skarfed barks,” flaggy with dizzy floating of ribbons. Commodore Mrs. Wilkes headed this centre of the squadron. Commodore? I will rather say Admiral of all the grades, red, white, and blue; liberté, égalité, fraternité—these, under her admiral conduct, were to be the watchwords of the day. And now from many a cottage of gentility, from many a sham château, if possible more genteel, they were pouring and thronging in full-sailed bravery toward the rendezvous.  
They were landed in a lovely cove near the Dumplings. Mr. Dulger was ardent in his endeavours to aid the Queen of the Day, Miss Millicent, in disembarking; so ardent that Nemesis thought he needed quenching, and so quenched him a little. He slipped knee-deep into the water with a ducking splash. Dunstan handed the lady out, while Peter Skerrett picked Billy up with a mild reproof.
 
[197]The party was one of many elements; these soon grouped or paired in elemental concord, and all the slopes were gay with the sight of lolly circles, and jocund with the sound of their lively laughter. The band piped unto them and somewhat they essayed to dance upon the undulating sward. It was remarked by the Millarders that Mr. Belden and Mrs. Budlong were absent a long time, and that afterwards he was very devoted to Diana. It was also remarked that Miss Arabella was getting tired of the Frenchman. Dear me! how people do remark things.
 
Mr. Waddy did not feel out of place at the picnic, because, as a man of the universal world, he was always in place; but he was out of spirits. Tootler wrote no more. Ira was wretched with suspenses and suspicions. Poor old Budlong—here was this wife of his hardly concealing her intrigue with Belden—her second intrigue, and this time not with a blackleg, but with one whom, he feared, was a villain. Belden, too, was intimate with Diana, favoured by Clara; and Ira could not warn them. He had nothing except suspicion. His judgment, sharpened by this, saw Belden as he was—plausible, flattering, laborious to please, cautious of offence, clever, experienced, a man of that very dangerous class who see the better and follow the worse. Mr. Waddy, therefore, seeing Belden’s success, was filled with wrath. The old man Ira began to take control of his lately stoical nature.
 
[198]“I’m getting dangerous,” he felt; and not all the petting of Mrs. Aquiline, nor all the attentions of the daughtery mothers and nubile daughters, could distract him or make him distracted from this ugly presence of hateful thoughts. He observed that Belden was uneasy when he was by, and concealed his unease by a seeming cordiality. Mr. Waddy began to tingle with a nervous sensation of presentiment that there was to be a crisis, an explanation, a punishment, a vengeance—what and for what he could not yet foresee.
 
By-and-by, the happy moment arrived for which all other deeds at a picnic are only preparatory. The edible and potable picnic was announced as ready to be eaten and drunk, and a truly Apician banquet it was—thanks to Mrs. Wilkes, experienced giver of dinners and liberal feeder of mankind. Some of the banqueting was very pretty to behold. Fair ladies are not ignoble in the act of taking ladylike provender. But it must also be allowed that some of the banqueting was not so pretty.
 
“Look at Rev. Theo. Logge,” said Peter Skerrett to Ambient; “he pretends to wish that
 
“‘All the world
Should in a pet of temperance feed on pulse,
Drink the clear stream——’
“But observe, that is not pulse he eats, but pâté of Strasburg, and what he is pouring down is a[199] stream, to be sure, a large one and clear, but it comes from a very poptious bottle. I cannot think it water.”
 
“I say, Peter,” says Guy, “let’s fuddle the Rev.”
 
“Guyas Cutus,” reproved Peter gravely, “you are a pagan. I have frequently remarked that difference between Cloanthus and you. You are a pagan and swear ‘I Gaads.’ He is a monotheist and swears ‘I Gaad’. In this case you can spare yourself a sacrilege. Mr. Logge is fuddling himself. Hillo,” he added, looking up suddenly as a cork struck him hard on the ear.
 
De Châteaunéant had opened a champagne bottle carelessly and had not only bombarded Peter, but had deluged Sir Comeguys. Sir Com looked quietly at the Frenchman, waiting for an apology; none came, but the bottle-holder gave a blackguard laugh. He must have been a little elated by drinking, and reckless. Miss Arabella had been particularly cool to him all day, and it had taken much wine to counterbalance his chagrin. No one saw the little scene except Blinders and Mrs. Budlong, and the banquet went on and off brilliantly.
 
While the gentlemen were lighting cigars and separating for a few moments from the ladies, Blinders tapped De Châteaunéant on the shoulder.
 
“Sir Com Ambient would like to say a word to you behind the hill yonder,” he said with a meaning look. “I’ll see fair play for you.”
 
[200]Auguste Henri, who had continued his draughts intemperately, first turned pale and then blustered and vinously vapoured that he would not go at any man’s dictation—he didn’t owe any apology to “ce niais.”
 
“You’ve got to go,” said Blinders calmly, but with conviction. “You needn’t make any apology for insulting him as you did. But you must stand up to the rack, or you can’t stay here.”
 
So Blinders quietly led off his man, cursing in French like the rattling of a locomotive. They found Peter Skerrett and Sir Com waiting behind the hill. The latter had his coat off, and was tramping this way and that, like a polar bear in a cage.
 
“Your name is Pierre Le Valet,” said Ambient. “You needn’t lie about it. Skewwett, show Blinders the handkerchief. I’ve been sure for some time you were one of those damn thieves that gouged me in Pawis. Now I know it by your looks and by that name. You’ve behaved like a blackguard to-day, and I’m going to lick you, if I can, on the spot. You know, Blinders, what the fellow has been doing here—cheating evewybody.”
 
“Take off your coat, Mr. Le Valet,” said Blinders, “and thank your stars you’ve one gentleman to thrash you and another to stand by and see you’re not killed.”
 
The detected blackleg made a treacherous rush at Ambient, furious and intending to try some shabby[201] trick of a savate, but a solid one, two smote his countenance and floored, or rather, turfed him. As he did not come up to time, Ambient took from Blinders a light Malacca joint and wallopped the skulking wretch until he began to scream for mercy. By this time, the facial one, two had developed into two ugly black eyes. “Hot nubbless” was unpresentable, and Peter and Blinders led him off to a boat and sent him away, swearing vengeance spitefully.
 
“What can he do, Peter?” asked Blinders.
 
“Harm, I’m afraid, to someone,” replied Peter, thinking how he had come into possession of the handkerchief and doubting much whether he had done right to show it. “What shall we say of his absence—that perfidious Albion and proud Gallia had a contest as to who was victor at Waterloo?”
 
“What have you done with Monsieur De Châteaunéant?” asked Mrs. Budlong, looking sharply at the two, as they walked back.
 
“He had a bad head,” replied Peter innocently, “and thought he would be better at home. We have charged ourselves with his excuses.”
 
After the banquet, Clara and Diana, with the two other members of their quartette, had retired apart from the crowd. It was almost sunset. They had chosen a vantage point of vision just at the summit of a soft slope, commanding the old fort and the bay.[202] The boats lay picturesquely grouped in front. The wash of waves sent up a pleasant, calming music. They were alone, except when some promenading couple passed at the distance. Paulding was lying half-hid by the short sweet-fern bushes, smoking lazily. Clara was near him. Diana and Dunstan were at a little distance, so that a slight modulation of the voice made conversation joint or separate. Diana had been the gay one thus far; but now the pensiveness of evening seemed to quiet her.
 
“The sky and water and those mossy rocks remind me of Mr. Kensett’s pictures,” Clara said. “He seems to have been created to paint Newport delightfully.”
 
“Rather Newport for him to paint,” corrected Diana, “as the world was made for man, the immortal. Besides, Mr. Kensett is not narrowed to Newport for his subjects. I notice that so many of you who know him speak of him by his prenom. Only very genial men are so fortunate as to be treated with this familiarity, even by their friends.”
 
“He is indeed genial—one of the men whose personal, apart from his artistic life, is for the sunny happiness of those who know him. Apropos of prenoms, Miss Clara,” continued Dunstan, “pray what melodious, terminal syllables belong to your father’s initial, W.? G. W.—his G. is George, I know. His W. is what?”
 
“It is an old family name,” replied Clara;[203] “Whitegift. My father is fond of genealogy and traces the name to a relative, a Bishop Whitegift.”
 
“An odd name,” said Dunstan. “I seem to have heard it before. Ah, now I recollect having read in some old family manuscript that my ancestor, Miles Standish, had some feud with a Pilgrim of that name.”
 
Clara laughed. “You must talk with Mr. Ira Waddy. He has a legend that the first Waddy, Whitegift by name, was cook of the Mayflower, and that there grew a feud between him and Miles Standish. The cook put too little pepper in the hero’s porridge. Hence an abiding curse, which Mr. Waddy says depressed his branch of the family until his time. He represents the democratic side of our history. My father rather scoffs at the legend. I must tell him the odd confirmation of it from you. It will shock his aristocratic feelings terribly.”
 
“Bah! for the legend,” said Dunstan. “Your ancestors, fair lady, were gods and goddesses of other realms than those dusky and too savoury ones where cooks do reign supreme. But I cannot permit my ancestor’s curse to rest longer upon you. In my capacity as his representative, in eldest line, I wave my hand. The curse is revoked, nay, changed to a blessing. The old feud is at an end. It will never be revived between us. We shall never quarrel.”
 
“I hope not,” said Clara, and turning away abruptly,[204] she renewed her conversation with Paulding apart.
 
“You accent the ‘we,’” said Diana, “as if you could imagine yourself quarrelling with other women.”
 
“Yes,” said he; “why not? But women have always the advantage of us in a quarrel. We can compel a man traitor or wrong-doer to pistol or rifle practice. If he shirks, he becomes a colonist of Coventry. But a woman shelters herself behind her sex and dodges the duello. There ought to be a code of honour for them also.”
 
“There is—in the hearts of the honourable,” said she.
 
“Ah, yes! but who are they? How are we to know them, except by those very tests that we cannot apply until falseness and dishonour on the woman’s part will be to us the cause of bitter wrong, such as a man should pay us with his life?”
 
“So you would challenge the gay deceiver to mortal combat? Weapons, a fan against a pocket-comb, across a skein of sewing-silk. Hail! O Attila! scourge of Flirtationdom! Newport will be depopulated when your plan prevails.”
 
“Depopulated of gay deceivers and their victims. You and I, Miss Clara and Paulding, would be left to weep over the slain and strew their graves with old bouquet leaves. But pity the sorrows of the young heroes, murdered now and unavenged, while[205] their murderesses sing their siren song to annual freshmen.”
 
“But why do your freshmen listen to siren songs?”
 
“Freshmen love music and are unfamiliar with sirens. And even men no longer so fresh, who have been forced to hear sorrowful songs, may mistake siren song for angel song. Harmony is so rare and so heavenly. We hear it one day, and land. We meet no chilling reception; the siren sings on sweetly. The dewy violet and the thornless rose are still worn and the young heart or the weary heart has but one word more of passion to say. The third and last degree of lovers’ lessons waits to be taken, lip to lip. But—Halte là! ‘Will you walk out of my parlour?’ says the spider to the fly. ‘Certainly, fair tarantula, since you insist upon it.’ Another freshman is on the threshold, or another not-so-very-fresh may be wooed into the web. Continue, pretty dear, your wanton wiles. Sing away, Siren, seeming angel. We are out. Adieu!” and Dunstan, whose cigar was smoked to the thick, drew an immense puff and breathing out a perfect ring, deposited it upon his engagement finger. He held up his hand, while the smoke slowly drifted away in the still, warm air.
 
Diana laughed. “Very well done, the ring and the description. But the termination was rather too contemptuous for the poetry of the beginning.”
 
“Was it?” said he. “Contempt is not a pleasant[206] feeling. I supposed myself too old to express, if not to have it.”
 
“Did you mean your history,” asked Diana, “for the epitaph of a dead love?”
 
“A dead love? No! Diana, no! It was the hic jacet on the cenotaph of a hundred buried flirtations—my own and other men’s. Not all of them can chisel the inscription as coolly as I do, nor be as indulgent as I am to the memory of the names inscribed. But love! Love is undying!”
 
As he said this, they heard a little rustle and a sigh near them. They turned. It was Miss Milly Center. She had heard, perhaps, all the conversation. She rose and seemed about to speak, but her effort ended in something like a sob, and two rather well-made tears started and overran her cheeks.
 
Just then a cheerful voice came over the hill: “‘Oh, Susannah! don’t you cry for me——’” and a very shiny glazed hat with a black ribbon, such as is some men’s ideal of “the thing” for a head-piece at a water-party, appeared. This hat was on the top of Billy Dulger.
 
“I was looking for you, Miss Milly,” he cried, “and wondering where you had wandered to.”
 
“I’m very glad you have found me,” said she. “I don’t care to be third in either of these duos.”
 
She had whisked away her tears before she turned to answer Billy Dulger’s hail, and now with a smile[207] she took his arm and walked away. But it was not a very happy smile.
 
Clara and Paulding had not perceived her presence until Dulger appeared; they were too distant to hear the conversation just interrupted, or to observe her confusion.
 
“Perhaps Miss Center recognised herself in the heroine of your tale,” said Diana. “Do you know the hero? It must have happened long ago. I think you have made Mr. Dulger’s fortune. He has been a faithful swain, I hear. So you think that, though flirtations may, love cannot die?”
 
“Diana,” he began, and it was the second time he had addressed her thus. He paused; the sun had just set. A flash and burst of white smoke shot from the ramparts of Fort Adams, across the strait. It was the sunset gun. A great, massive, booming crash came over the water, and then, eagerly, tumultuously chasing it, a throng of echoes followed.
 
“O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul............