V
LA MANCHE
THE bolts of the back door did not creak at all when, at twenty minutesto twelve, Edward Basingstoke let himself out. Tommy always saw to thebolts, for his own purposes, with a feather and a little salad oil.
The night was sweet and dark under the trees and in among the houses. Inthe village no lamp gleamed at any window. Beyond the village, thestarshine and dew lent a gray shimmer to field and hedge, and the roadlay before him like a pale ribbon. He crossed the meadow, climbed thewall, and dropped. The earth sounded dully under his feet, and twigscrackled as he moved. There was no other sound. She was not there. Hedared not light a match to see his watch's face by. Perhaps he wasearly. Well, he could wait. He waited. He waited and waited and waited.He listened till his ears were full of the soft rustlings and movementswhich go to make up the silence of country night. He strained his eyesto see some movement in the gray park dotted with black trees. But allwas still. It was very dark under the trees. And through all hislistening he thought, thought. Did it do to trust to impulses--toinstincts? Did it do, rather, to disregard them? A gipsy woman had saidto him once, "Your first thoughts are straight--give yourself time tothink twice and you'll think wrong." What he had felt that morning whilehe waited, vainly, for her to come had taught him that, fool as he mightbe for his pains, the feeling that possessed him was more like the lovepoets talked of than he would have believed any feeling of his could be.And, after all, love at first sight _was_ possible--was it not the themeof half the romances in the world? He felt that at this, their secondmeeting, he must know whether he meant to advance or to retreat. Alwayswhen he had trusted his impulse his choice had been a wise one. But wasa choice necessary now? His instincts told him that it was. Thismidnight meeting--planned by her and not by him--it was a meeting for"good-by." No girl would make an assignation at that hour just to tell aman that she intended to meet him again the next day. So he must knowwhether he meant to permit himself to be said good-by to. And he knewthat he did not.
The day had been long, but it seemed to him that already the night hadbeen longer than the day. Could he have mistaken the hour? No, it wascertainly twelve--or thirteen. Then his heart leaped up. If it _had_been thirteen, that meant one o'clock. Perhaps it was not one yet. Buthe felt that he knew it to be at least three. Yet if it were three therewould be the diffused faint illumination of dawn growing, growing. Andthere was no light at all but the changeless light of the stars. Againand again he thought he saw her, thought he heard her. And again andagain only silence and solitude came to meet his thoughts.
When at last she did come he saw her very far off, and heard the rustleof her dress even before he saw her.
He would not go to meet her across the starlit space; that would be verydangerous. He stood where he was till she came into the shadow. Then hewent toward her and said:
"At last!"
She drew a long breath. "Oh, I was so afraid you wouldn't come!"
"I was here at twelve," he said.
"So you got the handkerchief. I put thirteen because I thought if I putone--it was so difficult to write--and, of course, I couldn't look at itto see if it was readable. I wrote it under the driving-rug. Oh,suppose you hadn't got it!"
"I can't suppose it. What should I have done if I hadn't?"
"Oh," she said, "don't! Please don't. I thought you'd understand it wasserious. I shouldn't have asked you to come in the middle of the nightto talk nonsense as if we were at a dance."
"What's serious?" he said.
She said, "Everything," and her voice trembled.
He took her arm, and felt that she herself was trembling.
"Come and sit down," he said, comfortably, as one might speak to a childin trouble. "Come and sit down and tell me all about it."
They sat down on the log, and he pulled the dark cloak she wore moreclosely round her.
"Now," he said, "what's happened? Why didn't you come this morning?"
"I stayed too long the first time," she answered, "and met Aunt Loo as Iwent in. She asked me where I'd been. I said I'd been out to swim in thelake. That was quite true. That _was_ why I had gone out. I've oftendone it. But, of course, my hair wasn't wet. She didn't say anything.But this morning when I came down she was sitting in the hall, waitingfor me. She asked me if I was going bathing again, and I said, No, Iwas going to walk in the park. So she said, 'Charming idea. I'll come,too.'"
"And what did you say?"
"I said, 'Do,' of course. But it was awful. I was so afraid of herseeing you."
"Suppose she _had_ chosen to walk that way."
"Yes, of course I thought of that. So _I_ led the way and walkedstraight toward you. Then she thought whoever I was going to meet mustbe the other way. So she insisted on going the other way. I knew shewould."
"That was subtle of you."
"No; it's only that she's stupid. It wouldn't have taken any one elsein."
"So she was baffled."
"Yes, but she has instincts, though she's so stupid. She knew there wassomething up. And then when we met you--oh, I _am_ so glad the dog's allright--when we met you I knew she thought you'd something to do with mybeing out so early in the morning, and then you blushed."
"If I did," he said, "I wasn't the only one."
"Oh, I know," she said, "but I don't suppose I should have if youhadn't. Though unjust suspicions like that are enough to make anybodyblush. Yes, they were unjust because you had nothing to do with my goingout the first time--why, I didn't even know there _was_ a you. And nowall the fat's in the fire, and she's taking me to Ireland or Scotlandto-morrow--she won't say which. And I couldn't bear to go and have youthink I'd made an appointment and not kept it. It's so unbusiness-liketo break appointments," she said.
"Does she suppose, then, that we--that I am--that you have--that Ishould--?"
"I don't know what she supposes. At least I do. But it's too silly. NowI've explained everything. Good-by. I'm glad you found thehandkerchief--and I'm _awfully_ glad about Charles."
"I didn't know you knew his name."
"The stableman said it when the dog ran between his knees and nearlyknocked him down. It's a darling dog--but isn't it strong! Good-by!" Sheheld out her hand. "Good-by," she said, again.
"No," said he, and held the hand.
There was a little pause.
"Say good-by," she said. "Indeed I must go."
"Why?" he asked, releasing the hand.
"I've said everything there was to say--I mean, what I came to say."
"There's a very great deal that you haven't told me. I don't understand.Who does your aunt think I am?"
"I would rather not tell you; you'd only laugh."
"But please tell me. I shouldn't."
A troubled silence answered him.
"Look here," he said, "I know there's a lot you haven't told me. Do tellme, and let me help you, if I can. You're worried and unhappy. I canhear it in your voice. Tell me. Things look different when you've putthem into words. First of all, tell me who your aunt thought I was."
She sat down again with the air of definite decision. "Very well," shesaid, "if you will have it, she thought you were the piano-tuner. Whydon't you laugh?"
"I'm not amused yet," he said. "What piano-tuner? And why should he--whyshould you--"
"The piano-tuner is a fence," she said, "and she thinks you're it."
"I don't understand a word you're saying."
"I don't care," she said, desperately. "I'll tell you the whole sillystory and you can laugh, if you like. I shan't be offended. Last autumnfather brought a man to lunch, quite a nice man--sensible, middle-aged,very well off--and next day he told me the man had proposed for me, andI'd better take him. He'd accepted for me."
"Good heavens!" said Edward, "I thought it was only in the _FamilyHerald_ that such fathers existed."
"Laugh as much as you like," said she; "it's true, for all that. Yousee, I'd refused several before that. It's rather important for me tomarry well--my father's n
ot rich, and--"
"I see. Well?"
"Well, I wasn't going to. And when it came to this luncheon man I toldyou about there was a scene, and my father said was there any one else,and I said no; but he went on so frightfully and wouldn't believe me. Soat last I told him."
"Told him what?"
"That there was some one."
"Yes?" His voice was only more gentle for the sudden sharp stab ofdisappointment which told him what hope it was that he had nursed.
"And then, of course, I wouldn't say who it was. And he sent for myaunts. Aunt Enid's worse than Aunt Loo. And they bothered and bothered.And at last I said it was the piano-tuner. I don't know how I couldhave. Father turned him off, of course, poor wretch, and they brought medown here to come to my senses. Aunt Loo never saw the miserablepiano-tuner, and she thinks you're him. So now you know. And that's whythey're taking me away from here. They think the piano-tuner is pursuingme. I believe Aunt Loo thinks you trained the dog to bark at horses soas to get a chance to speak to me."
"Do you care much for your father?" he asked, "or for any of them?"
"It's a horrid thing to say," she answered, "but I don't. The only one Icare for's Aunt Alice--she's an invalid and a darling. Father thinksabout nothing but bridge and races, and Aunt Loo's all golf and horses,and Aunt Enid's a social reformer. I hate them all. And I've never beenanywhere or seen anything. I'm not allowed to write to any one. And theydon't have any one here at all, and I'm not to see a single soul tillI've come to my senses, as they call it. And that's why I was so glad totalk to you yesterday."
"I see," he said, very kindly. "Now what can I do for you? Where's theother man? Can't I post a letter to him or something? Why doesn't hecome and rescue you?"
"What other man?" she asked.
"The man you're fond of. The man whose name you wouldn't tell them."
"Oh," she said, lightly, and just as though it didn't matter. "Thereisn't any other man."
"There isn't?" he echoed, joyously.
"No, of course not. I just made him up--and then I called him thepiano-tuner."
"Then," he said, "forgive me for asking, but I must be quite sure--youdon't care for any man at all?"
"Of course I don't," she answered, resentfully, "I shouldn't go aboutcaring about any one who didn't care for me--and if any one cared for meand I cared for him, of course we should run away with each other atonce."
"I see," said Mr. Basingstoke, slowly and distinctly. "Then if thereisn't any one else I suggest that you run away with me."
It was fully half a minute before she spoke. Then she said: "I don'tblame you. I deserve it for asking you to meet me and coming out likethis. But I thought you were different."
"Deserve what?"
"To be insulted and humiliated. To be made a jest of."
"It seems to me that my offer is no more insulting or humiliating thanany of your other offers. I like you very much. I think you like me. AndI believe we should suit each other very well. Don't be angry. I'mperfectly serious. Don't speak for a minute. Listen. I've just come intosome money, and I'm going about the country, seeing places and people.I'm just a tramp, as I told you. Come and be a tramp, too. We'll goanywhere you like. We'll take the map and you shall put your finger onany place you think you'd like to see, and we'll go straight off to it,by rail or motor, or in a cart, or a caravan, if you'd like it.Caravans must be charming. To go wherever you like, stop when youlike--go on when you like. Come with me. I don't believe you'd everregret it. And I know I never should."
"I believe you're serious," she said, half incredulously.
"Of course I am. It's a way out of all your troubles."
"I couldn't," she said, earnestly, "marry any one I wasn't very fond of.And one can't be fond of a person one's only seen twice."
"Can't you?" he said, a little sadly.
"No," she answered. "I think it's very fine of you to offer methis--just to get me out of a bother. And I'm sorry I thought you werebeing horrid. I'll tell you something. I've always thought that even ifI cared very much for some one I should be almost afraid to marry himunless I knew him very, very well. Girls do make such frightfulmistakes. You ought to see a man every day for a year, and then,perhaps, you'd know if you could really bear to live with him all yourlife."
Instead of answering her directly, he said: "You would love the life inthe caravan. Think of the camp--making a fire of sticks and cooking yoursupper under the stars, and the great moonlit nights, and sleeping inpine woods and waking in the dawn and curling yourself up in yourblanket and going to sleep again till I shouted out that the fire wasalight and breakfast nearly ready."
"I wish I could come with you without having to be married."
"Come, then," he said. "Come on any terms. I'll take you as a sister ifI'm not to take you as a wife."
"Do you mean it? Really?" she said. "Oh, why shouldn't I? I believe youwould take me--and I should be perfectly free then. I've got a littlemoney of my own that my godmother left me. I was twenty-one the otherday. I don't get it, of course. My father says it costs that to keep me.But if I were to run away he would have to give it to me, wouldn't he?And then I could pay you back what you spent on me. Oh, I wish I could.Will you really take me?"
But he had had time to think. "No," he said, "on reflection, I don'tthink I will."
But she did not hear him, for as he spoke she spoke, too. "Hush!" shesaid. "Look -- look there."
Across the park, near the house, lights were moving.
"They're looking for me," she gasped. "They've found out that I'm away.Oh, what shall I do? Aunt Loo will never be decent to me again. What_shall_ I do?"
"Come with me," he said, strongly. "I'll take care of you. Come."
He took her hand. "I swear by God," he said, "that everything shall beas you choose. Only come now--come away from these people. You'retwenty-one. You're your own mistress. Let me help you to get free fromall this stuffy, stupid tyranny."
"You won't make me marry you?" she asked.
"I can't make you do anything," he said. "But if you're coming, it mustbe now."
"Come, then," she said, making for the ladder.