by Edith Nesbit
“For you?”
“Yes, for me. Come on.”
He followed her along the wall under the chestnuts. There was no more spoken words till they came to the ladder.
Then, “Right,” he said. “Thank you. Good-by.” And set the ladder against the wall.
“Good-by,” said she. “I’ll hand the aeroplane up to you?”
“Stand clear,” he said, half-way up the ladder. “I’ll give it a sideways tip from the top — it’ll fall into its place. It’s too heavy for you to lift. Good-by.”
He had reached the top of the wall. She stood below, looking up at him.
“There won’t be any row now?”
“No. It’s quite safe.”
“Then have you nothing to say?”
“Nothing. Yes, I have. I will come to-morrow. You’ll misunderstand everything if I don’t.”
“Thank you,” he said.
She came up the ladder, two steps, then handed him his toy. Then the ladder fell with a soft thud among the moss and earth and dead leaves; his head showed a moment above the wall, then vanished.
He went thoughtfully through the dewy grass, along the road, and back to his inn.
Tommy met him by the horse-trough. “You been flying it?” he asked, breathlessly.
“Yes. She went like a bird.”
“How far did she go?” Tommy asked.
“I don’t quite know,” said Edward, quite truly, “how far she went. I shall know better to-morrow.”
IV. THE SOUTH DOWNS
THE day was long. Though the aeroplane flew to admiration, though Tommy adored him and all his works, though the skylarks sang, and the downs were drenched in sunshine, Edward Basingstoke admitted to himself, before half its length was known to him, that the day was long.
He climbed the cliff above Cuckmere and sat in the sunshine there, where the gulls flashed white wings and screamed like babies; he watched the tide, milk-white with the fallen chalk of England’s edge, come sousing in over the brown, seaweed-covered rocks; he felt the crisp warmth of the dry turf under his hand, and smelt the sweet smell of the thyme and the furze and the sea, and it was all good. But it was long. And, for the first time in his life, being alone was lonely.
And for the second time since the day when Charles, bounding at him from among the clean straw of an Oxford stable, had bounded into his affections, he had left that strenuous dog behind.
He got out his road map and spread it in the sun — with stones at the corners to cheat the wind that, on those Downs, never sleeps — and tried to believe that he was planning his itinerary, and even to pretend to himself that he should start to-morrow and walk to Lewes. But instead his eyes followed the map’s indication of the road to that meadow where the red wall was, and presently he found that he was no longer looking at the map, but at the book of memory, and most at the pictures painted there only that morning. Already it seemed a very long time ago.
“I am afraid,” said Mr. Basingstoke, alone at the cliff’s edge, “that this time it really is it. It’s different from what I thought. It’s confoundedly unsettling.”
Like all healthy young men, he had always desired and intended to fall in love; he had even courted the experience, and honestly tried to lose his heart, but with a singular lack of success. In the girls he had met he had found gaiety, good looks, and a certain vague and general attractiveness — the common attribute of youth and girlhood — but nothing that even began to transfigure the world as his poets taught him that love should transfigure it. The little, trivial emotions which he had found in pressing hands and gazing into eyes had never lured him further than the gaze and the hand-clasp. Yet he had thought himself to be in love more than once.
“Or perhaps this isn’t the real thing, either,” he tried to reassure himself. “How could it be?”
Then he explained to himself, as he had often explained to Vernon, that love at first sight was impossible. Love, he had held and proclaimed, was not the result of the mere attraction exercised by beauty — it was the response of mind to mind, the admiration of character and qualities — the satisfaction of one’s nature by the mental and moral attributes of the beloved. That was not exactly how he had put it, but that was what he had meant. And now — he had seen a girl once, for ten minutes, and already he could think of nothing else. Even if he thought of something else he could perceive the thought of her behind those other thoughts, waiting, alluring, and sure of itself, to fill his mind the moment he let it in.
“Idiot,” he said at last, got up from the turf, and pocketed the map, “to-morrow she’ll be quite ordinary and just like any other girl. You go for a long walk, young-fellow-my-lad, and think out a water-mill for Tommy.”
This had, indeed, been more than half promised. Mr. Basingstoke was one of those persons whom their friends call thorough; their enemies say that they carry everything too far. If he did a thing at all, he liked to do it thoroughly. If he wrote a duty-letter to an aunt, he wrote a long one, and made it amusing. As often as not he would illustrate it with little pictures. If he gave a shilling to a beggar he would immediately add tobacco and agreeable conversation. One of his first acts, on coming into his inheritance, had been to pension his old nurse, who was poor and a widow with far too many children — too many, because she was a widow and poor and had to go out to work instead of looking after her family, as she wanted to do. Any one else would have written and told her she was to have two pounds a week as long as she lived. Edward sent her a large box of hot-house flowers — her birthday happening to occur at about that date — the most expensive and beautiful flowers he could find, anonymously. Then he sent her a fat hamper bursting with excellent things to eat and drink — and a box of toys and clothes for the children. The lady who “served” him with the clothes was amused at his choice — but approved it. And in the end he told his solicitors — smiling to himself at the novel possession — to write and tell the woman that an old employer had secured her an annuity. Later he went down to see her, to find her incredibly happy and prosperous, and to hear the wonderful and mysterious tale. So now, in the case of Tommy, most people would have thought an aeroplane and a motor-ride as much as any little boy could expect. But Mr. Basingstoke liked to give people much more than they could expect. It was not enough to give them enough. He liked to give a feast.
That evening after tea, Tommy breathing hard on the back of his neck, he sketched the water-wheel with the highest degree of precision and a superfluous wealth of detail. But the thought was with him through it all.
Next morning he went to the trysting-place, through the fresh, sweet morning. He climbed the wall, sat down on the log, and waited. He waited an hour, and she did not come. It says a good deal for his tenacity of purpose that when he went home he began at once on the water-wheel.
In the afternoon he took Charles out for a walk. Charles chased and killed a hen, and was butted by a goat, before they reached the end of the street; knocked a leg of mutton off the block at the butcher’s in the next village; bit the rural police to the very undershirt, and also to the tune of ten compensating shillings; and was run over by a bicycle, which twisted its pedal in the consequent fall, and grazed its rider’s hands and trousers knees. After each adventure Charles was firmly punished, but, though chastised, he was not chastened, and when they met a dog-cart coming slowly down a hill he was quite ready to run in front of it, barking and leaping at the horse’s nose. The horse, which appeared to Charles’s master to be a thoroughbred, shied. There was a whirl of dust and hoofs and brown flank, a cry from the driver — another cry, a fierce bark from Charles, ending in a howl of agony — the next instant the horse had bolted and Edward was left in the dusty road, Charles writhing in the dust, and the dog-cart almost out of sight.
“Charles, old man — Charles, lie still, can’t you? Let me see if you’re hurt.”
He stooped, and as he stooped Charles did lie still.
His master lifted the heavy, muscular body that had been
so full of life and energy. It lay limp and lifeless, head and hind-quarters drooping over his arm like a wet shawl.
Basingstoke sat down on the roadside with the dog across his knees. For him the light of life was out. Men do not cry, of course, as women do when their dogs die, but he could not see very clearly. Presently he found himself face to face with that question, always so disconcerting, even to criminals — what to do with the body. He was miles from his inn, and Charles was no light weight. He could not leave the dog in the road. His friend must have decent burial. There was nothing for it but to wait till some cart should come by and then to ask for a lift.
So he sat there, thinking such thoughts as men do think in adversity. After a calamity, when the first excitement of horror dies down, one always says, “How different everything was yesterday!” and Mr. Basingstoke said what we all say. Yesterday Charles was alive and well, and his master had not taken him out because he wanted to be at leisure to think — he realized that now — about the girl whom he was to have met to-day. And he had not met the girl. And Charles was dead.
“I wish I hadn’t left you at home yesterday, old boy,” said Mr. Basingstoke.
And then came the sound of hoofs, and he prepared to stop the vehicle, whatever it was, and beg for a lift for himself and what he carried. But when the wheels came near and he saw that it was the very cart that had run over Charles he sat down again and kept his eyes on the ground. It wasn’t their fault, of course, but still. . . .
The cart stopped and some one was saying: “I hope the dog isn’t much hurt.” A hard, cold voice it was.
Edward got out his hand from under Charles to take his hat off, and said: “My dog is dead.”
“I am extremely sorry, but it was the dog’s fault,” said the voice, aggressively.
“Yes,” said Edward.
“There’s nothing to be done,” said the voice. “It was nearly a nasty accident for us.”
“I apologize for my dog’s conduct,” said Edward, formally.
And then came another voice, “But, Aunt Loo, can’t we do anything?”
Of course you will have known all along whose voice that would be. Edward was less discerning. He had been far too much occupied with Charles and the horse to do more than realize that the two people in the cart were women — and now when he heard again the voice that had talked to him yesterday in the freshness of the morning, the shock sent his blood surging. He looked up — face, neck, ears were burning. Men do not blush, but if they did you would have said that Mr. Basingstoke blushed in that hour.
He looked up. Holding the reins was a hard, angular woman of fifty, the sort that plays golf and billiards and is perfectly competent with horses. Beside her sat the girl, and under her white hat the crimson of her face matched his own. The distress he felt at this unpropitious coincidence deepened his color. Hers deepened, too.
“You can’t do anything, thank you,” he said, just a moment too late. For his pause had given the aunt time to look from one to the other.
“Oh!” she said, shortly.
The girl spoke, also just too late.
“At least, let us take the poor, dear dog home for you,” she said.
“By all means,” said the aunt, with an air of finality. “Where shall we leave it?”
“I am at the Five Bells, in Jevington,” said Edward, and was thankful to feel his ears a shade less fiery.
“I see,” said the aunt, with hideous significance. “Put it in at the back, will you?”
She spoke as though Charles were a purchase she had just made and Mr. Basingstoke the shopman.
He would have liked to refuse, but how dear of her to suggest it. “Thank you,” he said, and came through the dust to the back of the cart.
Almost before he had replaced the second pin the cart moved, and he was left alone in the white road.
The way home was long and dismal — its only incident the finding of a little white handkerchief in the dust about a mile from the scene of the tragedy. It was softly scented. Of course it might be Aunt Loo’s handkerchief, but he preferred to think that it was Hers. He shook the dust from it and put it in his pocket. As he came down the village street he remembered how, only yesterday, he had heard, just here by the saddler’s, that strangled, choking bark which betokened Charles’s recognition of his master’s approach. Well, there would be no such barking welcome for him now.
Some other dog was choking and barking, though, and in that very stable where Charles had choked and barked. And Charles’s body would have been put in the stable, no doubt. He would go round and see. He went round, opened the stable door, and next moment was struck full in the chest by what seemed to be a heavy missive hurled with tremendous force. It was Charles, who had leaped from the end of his chain to greet his master — Charles, alive and almost idiotic in his transports of uncouth affection. Edward felt the dog all over — to see if any bones were broken. Charles never winced. There was not a cut or a bruise on him! The two sat on the straw embracing for quite a long time.
“Yes, sir, seems quite himself, don’t he?” said Robert. “Miss Davenant she brought him. Told me to tell you the dog come to himself quite sudden on the cart. Must have fainted, young miss said, and when he come to it was all she could do to hold him down. He seems to have come to quite sudden and all wild-like among their legs in the bottom of the cart till miss dragged him out — nearly upset the old lady right out of the cart, coming up sudden under her knees. Awful nasty she was about it. Said the dog must have been shamming. Thank you, sir. I’ll drink your health and the dog’s.”
“Shamming, indeed!” said Edward to himself, and resented the cruel and silly aspersion. Yet, stay, was it really quite impossible that Charles, fearing that the same punishment might visit this last exploit as had followed his earlier outrages, had really shammed, to disarm a doting master? Edward put away the thought. It was impossible.
The main thing was that Charles was alive. But, after all, was that the main thing? Now that the dog was alive it suddenly ceased to be. The main thing was that he had not seen her that morning and that he must, somehow, see her again.
Somehow. But how? This gave him food for thought.
He went into his parlor and sat down — to think. But, try as he could, there seemed no way. Of course he could go next morning — of course he would go next morning — and every morning for a week. But if she hadn’t come to-day, why should she come to-morrow or the next day, or the day after that?
Or the handkerchief. Wouldn’t it be natural that he should call to return it and to thank them for taking care of the lifeless Charles, and apologize for that thoughtless animal’s inconvenient and sudden change of attitude? Yes, that would have been natural if the girl had not blushed and if he had not turned scarlet.
He took out the handkerchief and spread it on the table — what silly little things girls’ handkerchiefs were! Then he looked at it more closely. Then he took it to the window, stretched it tightly, and looked more closely than ever. Yes, there was something on it, something intended — not just the marks of the road. There were letters — pencil letters an inch or more long, very rough and straggling, but quite unmistakable — Ce soir 12 heures. At least, it might be 13, but, then, she wasn’t an Italian.
The light of life blazed up, and the world suddenly became beautiful again. She had not forgotten — she had wished to come to meet him — something had prevented her coming in the morning. But to-night she would come. Twelve o’clock! A strange hour to choose. Bah! who was he to cavil at the hour she chose to set? How sweet and soft the handkerchief was!
V. LA MANCHE
THE bolts of the back door did not creak at all when, at twenty minutes to twelve, Edward Basingstoke let himself out. Tommy always saw to the bolts, 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. In the village no lamp gleamed at any window. Beyond the village, the starshine and dew lent a gr
ay shimmer to field and hedge, and the road lay before him like a pale ribbon. He crossed the meadow, climbed the wall, and dropped. The earth sounded dully under his feet, and twigs crackled as he moved. There was no other sound. She was not there. He dared not light a match to see his watch’s face by. Perhaps he was early. Well, he could wait. He waited. He waited and waited and waited. He listened till his ears were full of the soft rustlings and movements which go to make up the silence of country night. He strained his eyes to see some movement in the gray park dotted with black trees. But all was still. It was very dark under the trees. And through all his listening he thought, thought. Did it do to trust to impulses — to instincts? Did it do, rather, to disregard them? A gipsy woman had said to him once, “Your first thoughts are straight — give yourself time to think twice and you’ll think wrong.” What he had felt that morning while he waited, vainly, for her to come had taught him that, fool as he might be for his pains, the feeling that possessed him was more like the love poets 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 theme of half the romances in the world? He felt that at this, their second meeting, he must know whether he meant to advance or to retreat. Always when he had trusted his impulse his choice had been a wise one. But was a choice necessary now? His instincts told him that it was. This midnight 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 a man that she intended to meet him again the next day. So he must know whether he meant to permit himself to be said good-by to. And he knew that he did not.
The day had been long, but it seemed to him that already the night had been longer than the day. Could he have mistaken the hour? No, it was certainly twelve — or thirteen. Then his heart leaped up. If it had been thirteen, that meant one o’clock. Perhaps it was not one yet. But he felt that he knew it to be at least three. Yet if it were three there would be the diffused faint illumination of dawn growing, growing. And there was no light at all but the changeless light of the stars. Again and again he thought he saw her, thought he heard her. And again and again only silence and solitude came to meet his thoughts.