King of the Castle. Fenn George Manville

his stick and swear.

      Volume One – Chapter Three.

      Lesson the First

      Things that seem far-fetched are sometimes simple matters of fact. Just as Claude was glancing back, and feeling as if she would give anything to be back home, a dove among the trees in the fern-clad glen began to coo, and Mary laughed.

      “There,” she said, “only listen. You can’t go back now. It would be absurd.”

      “But you are so imprudent,” whispered Claude, whose cheeks were growing hotter. “How could you?”

      “I wanted to see you happy, my darling coz,” was whispered back. “I saw him coming here with his fishing-rod, and – ”

      “But, Mary, what will Chris Lisle think?”

      “Think he’s in luck, and bless poor little humpy, fairy godmother me, and – no, no, too late to retreat. We have been seen.”

      For as they had passed out into an open part of the glen where the river widened into a pool, there, only a short distance from them, and with his bright, sun-browned face directed toward the river, was a sturdy, well-built young fellow, dressed in a dark tweed Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, busily throwing a fly across the pool till, as if intuitively becoming aware that he was watched, he looked sharply round.

      The next moment there was again the peculiar buzzing sound made by a rapidly-wound-up multiplying winch, the rod was thrown over the young man’s shoulder, and he turned to meet them.

      “Ah, little Mary!” he cried merrily; and then, with a voice full of tender reverence, he turned, straw hat in hand, to Claude.

      “I did not expect to see you here.”

      “And I am as much surprised,” she said hastily. “Mary and I were having a walk.”

      “And now we are here, Mr Lisle, you may as well show us all your salmon,” said Mary seriously.

      “My salmon! I haven’t had a rise.”

      “And we have interrupted you, perhaps, just as the fish are biting. Come, Mary. Good-morning, Mr Lisle.”

      “Oh!”

      Only a little interjection, but so full of reproach that Claude coloured here deeply, and more deeply still as, upon looking round for her companion, she found her comfortably seated upon a mossy stone, and with her head turned away to hide the mischievous delight which flashed from her eyes.

      “I’m beginning to be afraid that I have offended you, Miss Gartram – Claude.”

      “Oh, no; what nonsense. Come, Mary.”

      The stone upon which she sat was not more deaf.

      “Don’t hurry away. I thought I was some day to give you a lesson in salmon fishing.”

      “I should never learn, Mr Lisle; and, besides, it is not a very ladylike accomplishment.”

      “Anything you did, Claude, would be ladylike. Come, I know there are two or three salmon in this pool. They will not rise for me; they might for you.”

      “I should scare them away.”

      “No,” said the young man meaningly; “you would attract anything to stay.”

      “Mr Lisle!”

      “Well, what have I said? There, forgive me, and take the rod. You promised I should show you how to throw a fly.”

      “Yes, yes; but some other time – perhaps to-morrow.”

      “To-morrow comes never,” said the young man laughingly. “No; I have my chance now. Miss Dillon, did not your cousin promise to let me show her how to catch a salmon?”

      “Yes; and I am so tired. I’ll wait till you have caught one, Claude.”

      “There,” cried the young man hurriedly; and the stronger will prevailing over the weaker, Claude allowed her instructor to thrust the lithe rod he held into her hands, and, trembling and blushing, she suffered herself to be led to the side of the pool.

      “I shall never learn,” she said.

      “Not learn! I shall be able to come up to the Fort carrying your first salmon, and to say to Mr Gartram: ‘there, sir; salmon fishing taught in one lesson,’ What do you say to that?”

      “How can she be so foolish? – Of what am I talking? – Mr Lisle, pray let me go.”

      All silent sentences, but as the last was thought Claude raised her eyes to her companion, to meet his fixed upon hers, so full of tender, reverent love that she dropped her own, and fell a-trembling with a joy she tried vainly to crush down, while her heart beat heavily the old, old theme, —

      “He loves me well – he loves me well.”

      They had known each other since they were boy and girl, and the affection had slowly and steadily grown stronger and stronger, but Chris Lisle had said to himself time after time that it was too soon to tell her his love, and ask for the guardianship of her heart; and he had waited, feeling satisfied that some day Claude Gartram would be his.

      “There,” he said playfully, “now for lesson the first. Let me draw out some more line. That’s the way. Now, you know as well as I do how to throw. Try to let your fly fall amongst that foam below where the water rushes into the pool. That’s the way. Bravo!”

      “There, Mr Lisle,” cried Claude, after making a very fair cast, “now take the rod, for I must go. Mary, dear, come along.”

      “Sha’n’t,” said Mary to herself, as she grew more deaf than ever. “Gather your rosebuds while you may, dear. He’s a nice, good fellow. Ah! how I could have loved a man like that.”

      “Mary Dillon is too much interested in her book,” said Chris. “There, that’s plenty of line for a good cast. You must go on now. It isn’t so very wicked, Claude.”

      “There, then, this one throw and I must go,” said the girl, her cheeks burning, and her head seeming to swim, for she was conscious of nothing – running river, the foam and swirl, the glorious landscape of rugged glen side, and the bright sun gilding the heathery earth upon which she stood – conscious of nothing save the fact that Chris Lisle was by her, and that his words seemed to thrill her to the heart, while in spite of herself he seemed to have acquired a mastery over her which it was sweet to obey.

      “Well back,” he cried; “now then, a good one.”

      It was not a good cast, being a very clumsy one, for the fly fell with a splash right out in a smooth, oily looking patch of water behind some stones. But, as is often the case, the tyro is more successful than the tried fisherman. The fly had no sooner touched the water than there was a rise, a singing whirr from the winch, and Chris shouted aloud with joy.

      “There!” he cried. “You have him. First lesson.”

      “Have I caught it?”

      “Yes, yes; hold up the point of your rod.”

      Claude immediately held it down, and the line went singing out, till Chris darted close behind his pupil and seized the rod, just over her hands, raising the top till it bent nearly double.

      “A beauty!” he cried excitedly. “You lucky girl!”

      “Thank you. That’s right. Now, take the rod and pull it out.”

      “No, no,” he said, with his lips close to her ear, and she trembled more and more as she felt his crisp beard tickle the back of her neck, and his strong arms tightly press hers to her sides; “you must land him now.”

      Away darted the salmon wildly about the pool, but Claude could not tell whether it was the excitement caused by the electric messages sent through the line, or by the pressure of Chris Lisle’s hands as he held hers to the rod.

      “Mary, come and see Mr Lisle catch this salmon,” she cried huskily; but Mary only turned over a leaf, and seemed more deaf than ever, while the fish tugged and strained.

      “Mr