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CHAPTER X.
THE BASLEHURST GAZETTE

By one vote! Old Mr. Cornbury when he heard of it gasped with dismay, and in secret regretted that his son had not been beaten. What seat could be gained by one vote and not be contested, especially when the beaten candidate was a Jew clothier rolling in money? And what sums would not a petition and scrutiny cost? Butler Cornbury himself was dismayed, and could hardly participate in the exultation of his more enthusiastic wife. Mr. Hart of course declared that he would petition, and that he was as sure of the seat as though he already occupied it. But as it was known that every possible electioneering device had been put in practice on his behalf during the last two hours of the poll, the world at large in Baslehurst believed that young Cornbury's position was secure. Tappitt and some few others were of a different opinion. At the present moment Tappitt could not endure to acknowledge to himself that he had been beaten. Nothing but the prestige and inward support of immediate success could support him in that contest, so much more important to himself, in which he was now about to be engaged. That matter of the petition, however, can hardly be brought into the present story. The political world will understand that it would be carried on with great vigour.

The news of the election of Butler Cornbury reached the cottage at Bragg's End by the voice of Mr. Sturt on the same evening; and Mrs. Ray, in her quiet way, expressed much joy that Mr. Comfort's son-in-law should have been successful, and that Baslehurst should not have disgraced itself by any connexion with a Jew. To her it had appeared monstrous that such a one should have been even permitted to show himself in the town as a candidate for its representation. To such she would have denied all civil rights, and almost all social rights. For a true spirit of persecution one should always go to a woman; and the milder, the sweeter, the more loving, the more womanly the woman, the stronger will be that spirit within her. Strong love for the thing loved necessitates strong hatred for the thing hated, and thence comes the spirit of persecution. They in England who are now keenest against the Jews, who would again take from them rights that they have lately won, are certainly those who think most of the faith of a Christian. The most deadly enemies of the Roman Catholics are they who love best their religion as Protestants. When we look to individuals we always find it so, though it hardly suits us to admit as much when we discuss these subjects broadly. To Mrs. Ray it was wonderful that a Jew should have been entertained in Baslehurst as a future member for the borough, and that he should have been admitted to speak aloud within a few yards of the church tower!

On the day but one after the election Mrs. Sturt brought over to the cottage an extra sheet of the "Baslehurst Gazette," which had been published out of its course, and which was devoted to the circumstances of the election. I am not sure that Mrs. Sturt would have regarded this somewhat dull report of the election speeches as having any peculiar interest for Mrs. Ray and her daughter had it not been for one special passage. Luke Rowan's speech about Baslehurst was given at length, and in it was contained that public promise as to his matrimonial intentions. Mrs. Sturt came into the cottage parlour with the paper doubled into four, and with her finger on a particular spot. To her it had seemed that Rowan's promise must have been intended for Rachel, and it seemed also that nothing could be more manly, straightforward, or gallant than that assurance. It suited her idea of chivalry. But she was not quite sure that Rachel would enjoy the publicity of the declaration, and therefore she was prepared to point the passage out more particularly to Mrs. Ray. "I've brought 'ee the account of it all," said she, still holding the paper in her hand. "The gudeman, – he's done with t' paper, and you'll keep it for good and all. One young man that we know of has made t' finest speech of 'em all to my mind. Luik at that, Mrs. Ray." Then, with a knowing wink at the mother, and a poke at the special words with her finger, she left the sheet in Mrs. Ray's hand, and went her way.

Mrs. Ray, who had not quite understood the pantomime, and whose eye had not caught the words relating to marriage, saw however that the column indicated contained the report of a speech made by Luke Rowan, and she began it at the beginning and read it throughout. Luke had identified himself with the paper, and therefore received from it almost more than justice. His words were given at very full length, and for some ten minutes she was reading before she came to the words which Mrs. Sturt had hoped would be so delightful.

"What is it, mamma?" Rachel asked.

"A speech, my dear, made at the election."

"And who made it, mamma?"

Mrs. Ray hesitated for a moment before she answered, thereby letting Rachel know full well who made the speech before the word was spoken. But at last she did speak the word – "Mr. Rowan, my dear."

"Oh!" said Rachel; she longed to get hold of the newspaper, but she would utter no word expressive of such longing. Since that evening on which she had been bidden to look at the clouds she had regarded Luke as a special hero, cleverer than other men around her, as a man born to achieve things and make himself known. It was not astonishing to her that a speech of his should be reported at length in the newspaper. He was a man certain to rise, to make speeches, and to be reported. So she thought of him; and so thinking had almost wished that it were not so. Could she expect that such a one would stoop to her? or that if he did so that she could be fit for him? He had now perceived that himself, and therefore had taken her at her word, and had left her. Had he been more like other men around her; – more homely, less prone to rise, with less about him of fire and genius, she might have won him and kept him. The prize would not have been so precious; but still, she thought, it might have been sufficient for her heart. A young man who could find printers and publishers to report his words in that way, on the first moment of his coming among them, would he turn aside from his path to look after her? Would he not bring with him some grand lady down from London as his wife?

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Ray, quite startled. "Oh, dear! What do you think he says?"

"What does he say, mamma?"

"Well, I don't know. Perhaps he mayn't mean it. I don't think I ought to have spoken of it."

"If it's in the newspaper I suppose I should have heard of it, unless you sent it back without letting me see it."

"She said we were to keep it, and it's because of that, I'm sure. She was always the most good-natured woman in the world. I don't know what we should have done if we hadn't found such a neighbour as Mrs. Sturt."

"But what is it, mamma, that you are speaking of in the newspapers?"

"Mr. Rowan says – Oh, dear! I wish I'd let you come to it yourself. How very odd that he should get up and say that kind of thing in public before all the people. He says; – but any way I know he means it because he's so honest. And after all if he means it, it doesn't much matter where he says it. Handsome is that handsome does. There, my dear; I don't know how to tell it you, so you had better read it yourself."

Rachel with eager hands took the paper, and began the speech as her mother had done, and read it through. She read it through till she came to those words, and then she put the paper down beside her. "I understand what you mean, mamma, and what Mrs. Sturt meant; but Mr. Rowan did not mean that."

"What did he mean, my dear?"

"He meant them to understand that he intended to become a man of Baslehurst like one of themselves."

"But then why did he talk about finding a wife there?"

"He wouldn't have said that, mamma, if he had meant anything particular. If anything of that sort had been at all in his mind, it would have kept him from saying what he did say."

"But didn't he mean that he intended to marry a Baslehurst lady?"

"He meant it in that sort of way in which men do mean such things. It was his way to make them think well of him. But don't let us talk any more about it, mamma. It isn't nice."

"Well, I'm sure I can't understand it," said Mrs. Ray. But she became silent on the subject, and the reading of the newspaper was passed over to Rachel.

This had not been completed when a step was heard on the gravel walk outside, and Mrs. Ray, jumping up, declared it to be the step of her eldest daughter. It was so, and Mrs. Prime was very soon in the room. It was at this time about four o'clock in the afternoon, and therefore, as the hour for tea at the cottage was half-past five, it was naturally understood that Mrs. Prime had come there to join them at their evening meal. After their first greeting she had seated herself on the sofa, and there was that in her manner which showed both to her mother and sister that she was somewhat confused, – that she had something to say as to which there was some hesitation. "Do take off your bonnet, Dorothea," said her mother.

"Will you come up-stairs, Dolly," said her sister, "and put your hair straight after your walk?"

But Dolly did not care whether her hair was straight or tossed, as the Irish girls say when the smoothness of their locks has been disarranged. She took off her bonnet, however, and laid it on the sofa beside her. "Mother," she said, "I've got something particular that I want to say to you."

"I hope it's not anything serious the matter," said Mrs. Ray.

"Well, mother, it is serious. Things are serious mostly, I think, – or should be."

"Shall I go into the garden while you are speaking to mamma?" said Rachel.

"No, Rachel; not on my account. What I've got to say should be said to you as well as to mother. It's all over between me and Mr. Prong."

"No!" said Mrs. Ray.

"I thought it would be," said Rachel.

"And why did you think so?" said Mrs. Prime, turning round upon her sister, almost angrily.

"I felt that he wouldn't suit you, Dolly; that's why I thought so. If it's all over now, I suppose there's no harm in saying that I didn't like him well enough to hope he'd be my brother-in-law."

"But that couldn't make you think it. However, it's all over between us. We agreed that it should be so this morning; and I thought it right to come out and let you know at once."

"I'm glad you've told us," said Mrs. Ray.

"Was there any quarrel?" asked Rachel.

"No, Rachel, there was no quarrel; not what you call a quarrel, I suppose. We found there were subjects of disagreement between us, – matters on which we had adverse opinions; and therefore it was better that we should part."

"It was about the money, perhaps?" said Mrs. Ray.

"Well, yes; it was in part about the money. Had I known then as much as I do now about the law in such matters, I should have told Mr. Prong from the first that it could not be. He is a good man, and I hope I have not disturbed his happiness."

"I used to be afraid that he would disturb yours," said Rachel, "and therefore I cannot pretend to regret it."

"That's not charitable, Rachel. But if you please we won't say anything more about it. It's over, and that is enough. And now, mother, I want to know if you will object to my returning here and living at the cottage again."

Mrs. Ray could not bethink herself at the moment what answer she might best make, and therefore for some moments she made none. For herself she would have been delighted that her eldest daughter should return to the cottage. Under no circumstances could she refuse her own child a home under her own roof. But at the present moment she could not forget the circumstances under which Mrs. Prime had gone, and it militated sorely against Mrs. Ray's sense of justice that the return should be made to depend on other circumstances. Mrs. Prime had gone away in loud disapproval of Rachel's conduct; and now she proposed to return, on this breaking up of her own matrimonial arrangements, as though she had left the cottage because of her proposed marriage. Mrs. Prime should be welcomed back, but her return should be accompanied by a withdrawal of her accusation against Rachel. Mrs. Ray did not know how to put her demand into words, but her mind was clear on the subject.

"Well, mother," said Mrs. Prime; "is there any objection?"

"No, my dear; no objection at all: of course not. I shall be delighted to have you back, and so, I'm sure, will Rachel; but – "

"But what? Is it about money?"

"Oh, dear, no! Nothing about money at all. If you do come back, – and I'm sure I hope you will; and indeed it seems quite unnatural that you should be staying in Baslehurst, while we are living here. But I think you ought to say, my dear, that Rachel behaved just as she ought to behave in all that matter about, – about Mr. Rowan, you know."

"Don't mind me, mamma," said Rachel, – who could, however, have smothered her mother with kisses, on hearing these words.

"But I think we all ought to understand each other, Rachel. You and your sister can't go on comfortably together, if there's to be more black looks about that."

"I don't know that there have been any black looks," said Mrs. Prime, looking very black as she spoke.

"At any rate we should understand each other," continued Mrs. Ray, with admirable courage. "I've thought a great deal about it since you've been away. Indeed I haven't thought about much else. And I don't think I shall ever forgive myself for having let a hard word be said to Rachel about it."

"Oh, mamma, don't, – don't," said Rachel. But those meditated embraces were continued in her imagination.

"I don't want to say any hard words," said Mrs. Prime.

"No; I'm sure you don't; – only they were said, – weren't they, now? Didn't we blame her about being out there in the churchyard that evening?"

"Mamma!" exclaimed Rachel.

"Well, my dear, I won't say any more; – only this. Your sister went away because she thought you weren't good enough for her to live with; and if she comes back again, – which I'm sure I hope she will, – I think she ought to say that she's been mistaken."

Mrs. Prime looked very black, and no word fell from her. She sat there silent and gloomy, while Mrs. Ray looked at the fireplace, lost in wonder at her own effort. Whether she would have given way or not, had she and Mrs. Prime been alone, I cannot say. That Mrs. Prime would have uttered no outspoken recantation I feel sure. It was Rachel at last who settled the matter.

"If Dolly comes back to live here, mamma," said she, "I shall take that as an acknowledgment on her part that she thinks I am good enough to live with."

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Ray, "perhaps that'll do; only there should be an understanding, you know."

Mrs. Prime at the moment said nothing; but when next she spoke her words showed her intention of having her things brought back to the cottage on the next day. I think it must be felt that Rachel had won the victory. She felt it so herself, and was conscious that no further attempt would be made to carry her off to Dorcas meetings against her own will.

CHAPTER XI.
CORNBURY GRANGE

Luke Rowan had been told that Mrs. Butler Cornbury wished to see him when the election should be over; and on the evening of the election the victorious candidate, before he returned home, asked Luke to come to the Grange on the following Monday and stay till the next Wednesday. Now it must be understood that Rowan during this period of the election had become, in a public way, very intimate with Cornbury. They were both young men, the new Member of Parliament not being over thirty, and for the time they were together employed on the same matter. Luke Rowan was one with whom such a man as Mr. Cornbury could not zealously co-operate without reaching a considerable extent of personal intimacy. He was pleasant-mannered, free in speech, with a bold eye, assuming though not asserting his equality with the best of those with whom he might be brought in contact. Had Cornbury chosen to consider himself by reason of his social station too high for Rowan's fellowship, he might of course have avoided him; but he could not have put himself into close contact with the man, without submitting himself to that temporary equality which Rowan assumed, and to that temporary familiarity which sprung from it. Butler Cornbury had thought little about it. He had found Rowan to be a pleasant associate and an able assistant, and had fallen into that mode of fellowship which the other man's ways and words had made natural to him. When his wife begged him to ask Rowan up to the Grange, he had been startled for a moment, but had at once assented.

"Well," said he; "he's an uncommon pleasant fellow. I don't see why he shouldn't come."

"I've a particular reason," said Mrs. Butler.

"All right," said the husband. "Do you explain it to my father." And so the invitation had been given.

But Rowan was a man more thoughtful than Cornbury, and was specially thoughtful as to his own position. He was a radical at heart if ever there was a radical. But in saying this I must beg my reader to understand that a radical is not necessarily a revolutionist or even a republican. He does not, by reason of his social or political radicalism, desire the ruin of thrones, the degradation of nobles, the spoliation of the rich, or even the downfall of the bench of bishops. Many a young man is frightened away from the just conclusions of his mind and the strong convictions of his heart by dread of being classed with those who are jealous of the favoured ones of fortune. A radical may be as ready as any aristocrat to support the crown with his blood, and the church with his faith. It is in this that he is a radical; that he desires, expects, works for, and believes in, the gradual progress of the people. No doctrine of equality is his. Liberty he must have, and such position, high or low, for himself and others, as each man's individual merits will achieve for him. The doctrine of outward equality he eschews as a barrier to all ambition, and to all improvement. The idea is as mean as the thing is impracticable. But within, – is it in his soul or in his heart? – within his breast there is a manhood that will own no inferiority to the manhood of another. He retires to a corner that an earl with his suite may pass proudly through the doorway, and he grudges the earl nothing of his pride. It is the earl's right. But he also has his right; and neither queen, nor earl, nor people shall invade it. That is the creed of a radical.

Rowan, as I have said, was a man thoughtful as to his own position. He had understood well the nature of the league between himself and Butler Cornbury. It was his intention to become a brewer in Baslehurst; and a brewer in Baslehurst would by no means be as the mighty brewers of great name, who marry lord's daughters, and give their daughters in marriage to mighty lords. He would simply be a tradesman in the town. It might well be that he should not find the society of the Tappitts and the Griggses much to his taste, but such as it was he would make the best of it. At any rate he would make no attempt to force his way into other society. If others came to him let that be their look out. Now, when Cornbury asked him thus to come to Cornbury Grange, as though they two were men living in the same class of life, – as though they were men who might be bound together socially in their homes as well as politically on the hustings, the red colour came to his face and he hesitated for a moment in his answer.

"You are very kind," said he.

"Oh! you must come," said Cornbury. "My wife particularly desires it."

"She is very kind," said he. "But if you ask all your supporters over to the Grange you'll get rather a mixed lot."

"I suppose I should; but I don't mean to do that. I shall be very glad, however, to see you; – very glad."

"And I shall be very happy to come," said Rowan, having again hesitated as he gave his answer.

"I wish I hadn't promised that I'd go there," he said to himself afterwards. This was on the Sunday, after evening church, – an hour or more after the people had all gone home, and he was sitting on that stile, looking to the west, and thinking, as he looked, of that sunset which he and another had seen as they stood there together. He did wish that he had not undertaken to go to Mr. Cornbury's house. What to him would be the society of such people as he should find there, – to him who had laid out for himself a career that would necessarily place his life among other associates? "I'll send and excuse myself," he said. "I'll be called away to Exeter. I have things to do there. I shall only get into a mess by knowing people who will drop me when this ferment of the election is over." And yet the idea of an intimacy at such a house as Cornbury Grange, – with such people as Mrs. Butler Cornbury, was very sweet to him; only this, that if he associated with them or such as them it must be on equal terms. He could acknowledge them to be people apart from him, as ice creams and sponge cakes are things apart from the shillingless schoolboy. But as the schoolboy, if brought within the range of cakes and creams, must devour them with unchecked relish, as though his pocket were lined with coin; so must he, Rowan, carry himself with these curled darlings of society if he found himself placed among them. He liked cakes and creams, but had made up his mind that other viands were as wholesome and more comfortably within his reach. Was it worth his while to go to this banquet which would unsettle his taste, and at which perhaps if he sat there at his ease, he might not be wholly welcome? All his thoughts were not noble. He had declared to himself that a certain thing could not be his except at a cost which he would not pay, and yet he hankered for that thing. He had declared to himself that no social position in which he might ever find himself should make a change in him, on his inner self or on his outward manner; and now he feared to go among these people, lest he should find himself an inferior among superiors. It was not all noble; but there was beneath it a basis of nobility. "I will go," he said at last, fearing that if he did not, there would have been some grain of cowardice in the motives of his action. "If they don't like me it's their fault for asking me."

Of course as he sat there he was thinking of Rachel. Of course he had thought of Rachel daily, almost hourly, since he had been with her at the cottage, when she had bent her head over his shoulder, and submitted to have his arm round her waist. But his thoughts of her were not as hers of him. Nor is it often that a man's love is like a woman's, – restless, fearful, uncomfortable, sleepless, timid, and all-pervading. Not the less may it be passionate, constant, and faithful. He had been angered by Rachel's letter to him, – greatly angered. Of a truth when Mrs. Ray met him in Exeter he had no message to send back to Cawston. He had done his part, and had been rejected; – had been rejected too clearly because on the summing up of his merits and demerits at the cottage, his demerits had been found to be the heavier. He did not suspect that the calculation had been made by Rachel herself; and therefore he had never said to himself that all should be over between them. He had never determined that there should be a quarrel between them. But he was angered, and he would stand aloof from her. He would stand aloof from her, and would no longer acknowledge that he was in any way bound by the words he had spoken. All such bonds she had broken. Nevertheless I think he loved her with a surer love after receiving that letter than he had ever felt before.

He had been here, at this spot, every evening since his return to Baslehurst; and here had thought much of his future life, and something, too, of the days that were past. Looking to the left he could see the trees that stood in front of the old brewery, hiding the building from his eyes. That was the house in which old Bungall had lived, and there Tappitt had lived for the last twenty years. "I suppose," said he, speaking to himself, "it will be my destiny to live there too, with the vats and beer barrels under my nose. But what farmer ever throve who disliked the muck of his own farm-yard?" Then he had thought of Tappitt and of the coming battle, and had laughed as he remembered the scene with the poker. At that moment his eye caught the bright colours of women's bonnets coming into the field beneath him, and he knew that the Tappitt girls were returning home from their walk. He had retired quickly round the chancel of the church, and had watched, thinking that Rachel would be with them. But Rachel, of course, was not there. He said to himself that they had thrown her off; and said also that the time should come when they should be glad to win from her a kind word and an encouraging smile. His love for Rachel was as true and more strong than ever; but it was of that nature that he was able to tell himself that it had for the present moment been set aside by her act, and that it became him to leave it for a while in abeyance.

"What on earth shall I do with myself all Tuesday?" he said again as he walked away from the churchyard on the Sunday evening. "I don't know what these people do with themselves when there's no hunting and shooting. It seems unnatural to me that a man shouldn't have his bread to earn, – or a woman either in some form." After that he went back to his inn.

On the Monday he went out to Cornbury Grange late in the afternoon. Butler Cornbury drove into Baslehurst with a pair of horses, and took him back in his phaeton.

"Give my fellow your portmanteau. That's all right. You never were at the Grange, were you? It's the prettiest five miles of a drive in Devonshire; but the walk along the river is the prettiest walk in England, – which is saying a great deal more."

"I know the walk well," said Rowan, "though I never was inside the park."

"It isn't much of a park. Indeed there isn't a semblance of a park about it. Grange is just the name for it, as it's an upper-class sort of homestead for a gentleman farmer. We've lived there since long before Adam, but we've never made much of a house of it."

"That's just the sort of place that I should like to have myself."

"If you had it you wouldn't be content. You'd want to pull down the house and build a bigger one. It's what I shall do some day, I suppose. But if I do it will never be so pretty again. I suppose that fellow will petition; won't he?"

"I should say he would; – though he won't get anything by it."

"He knows his purse is longer than ours, and he'll think to frighten us; – and, by George, he will frighten us too! My father is not a rich man by any means."

"You should stand to your guns now."

"I mean to do so, if I can. My wife's father is made of money."

"What! Mr. Comfort?"

"Yes. He's been blessed with the most surprising number of unmarried uncles and aunts that ever a man had. He's rather fond of me, and likes the idea of my being in Parliament. I think I shall hint to him that he must pay for the idea. Here we are. Will you come and take a turn round the place before dinner?"

Rowan was then taken into the house and introduced to the old squire, who received him with the stiff urbanity of former days.

"You are welcome to the Grange, Mr. Rowan. You'll find us very quiet here; which is more, I believe, than can have been said of Baslehurst these last two or three days. My daughter-in-law is somewhere with the children. She'll be here before dinner. Butler, has that tailor fellow gone back to London yet?"

Butler told his father that the tailor had at least gone away from Baslehurst; and then the two younger men went out and walked about the grounds till dinner time.

It was Mrs. Butler Cornbury who gave soul and spirit to daily life at Cornbury Grange, – who found the salt with which the bread was quickened, and the wine with which the heart was made glad. Marvellous is the power which can be exercised, almost unconsciously, over a company, or an individual, or even upon a crowd by one person gifted with good temper, good digestion, good intellects, and good looks. A woman so endowed charms not only by the exercise of her own gifts, but she endows those who are near her with a sudden conviction that it is they whose temper, health, talents, and appearance is doing so much for society. Mrs. Butler Cornbury was such a woman as this. The Grange was a popular house. The old squire was not found to be very dull. The young squire was thought to be rather clever. The air of the house was lively and bracing. Men and women did not find the days there to be over long. And Mrs. Butler Cornbury did it all.

Rowan did not see her till he met her in the drawing-room, just before dinner, when he found that two or three other ladies were also staying there. She came up to him when he entered the room, and greeted him as though he were an old friend. All conversation at that moment of course had reference to the election. Thanks were given and congratulations received; and when old Mr. Cornbury shook his head, his daughter-in-law assured him that there would be nothing to fear.

"I don't know what you call nothing to fear, my dear. I call two thousand pounds a great deal to fear."

"I shouldn't wonder if we don't hear another word about him," said she.

The old man uttered a long sigh. "It seems to me," said he, "that no gentleman ought to stand for a seat in Parliament since these people have been allowed to come up. Purity of election, indeed! It makes me sick. Come along, my dear." Then he gave his arm to one of the young ladies, and toddled into the dining-room.

Mrs. Butler Cornbury said nothing special to Luke Rowan on that evening, but she made the hours very pleasant to him. All those half-morbid ideas as to social difference between himself and his host's family soon vanished. The house was very comfortable, the girls were very pretty, Mrs. Cornbury was very kind, and everything went very well. On the following morning it was nearly ten when they sat down to breakfast, and half the morning before lunch had passed away in idle chat before the party bethought itself of what it should do for the day. At last it was agreed that they would all stroll out through the woods up to a special reach of the river which there ran through a ravine of rock, called Cornbury Cleeves. Many in those parts declared that Cornbury Cleeves was the prettiest spot in England. I am not prepared to bear my testimony to the truth of that very wide assertion. I can only say that I know no prettier spot. The river here was rapid and sparkling; not rapid because driven into small compass, for its breadth was greater and more regular in its passage through the Cleeves than it was either above or below, but rapid from the declivity of its course. On one side the rocks came sheer down to the water, but on the other there was a strip of meadow, or rather a grassy amphitheatre, for the wall of rocks at the back of it was semi-circular, so as to enclose the field on every side. There might be four or five acres of green meadow here; but the whole was so interspersed with old stunted oak trees and thorns standing alone that the space looked larger than it was. The rocks on each side were covered here and there with the richest foliage; and the spot might be taken to be a valley from which, as from that of Rasselas, there was no escape. Down close upon the margin of the water a bathing-house had been built, from which a plunge could be taken into six or seven feet of the coolest, darkest, cleanest water that a bather could desire in his heart.