Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  It was not till the car was slipping through Crowborough, that paradise of villa-dwellers who have “done well in business,” that the thought came to him, had she, after all, gone back to her aunt? Had she thought better of it, and just gone humbly back with confession and submission in both hands? It was then that he remembered that Miss Davenant had seemed to signal . . . perhaps she had some errand to him . . . perhaps submission had been given as the price of a farewell message, aunt-borne, to meet him at the farm? Mr. Basingstoke was not subject to attacks of indecision, but now for a moment he wavered. Then imagination showed him himself on the door-step of the Hall asking for Miss Davenant, and Miss Davenant receiving or not receiving him — in either case he himself cutting a figure which he could not for a moment admire. Common sense reinforced imagination. The handkerchief said General Post-Office. It could only have said that if the handkerchief’s owner meant him to go to the General Post-Office. If the handkerchief’s owner had meant him to go back to the Hall, the handkerchief could just as easily have said the Hall. He went back to his questionings, and the car drew near Tunbridge Wells.

  Charles, exhausted by the morning’s combat, had slept heavily, but now he roused himself to take the rôle of Arbiter of Destinies. He roused himself, sat up, snuffled and blew, and then, with wide smile and lolling tongue, proclaimed himself to be that pitiable and suffering creature, a bull-terrier dying of thirst. In vain Edward sought to calm him; he insisted that he was, and that he had a right to be, thirsty. His insistence affected his master. Edward became aware that he, also, was thirsty; more, was hungry. His watch showed him that the chauffeur had every right to consider himself an ill-used man. A bright-faced hotel whose windows were underlined with marguerites and pink geraniums beckoned attractively.

  “After all, one must live,” said Edward, and breathed an order. The car drew up in front of the White Horse.

  Another car was there — unattended — a very nice car. Edward wished it had been his. It had all those charms which his own hired one lacked, and his experienced eye dwelt fondly on those charms.

  “Get yourself something to eat,” he said to the chauffeur. Charles, straining toward the horse-trough, seemed anxious to prove that his thirst had not been simulated. Edward indulged him. Arrived at the wet granite, however, Charles lapped a tongueful or two, as it were out of politeness and merely to oblige, and then looked up at his master expressively. “You have sadly misunderstood me,” he seemed to say. “What I wanted was breakfast,” adding, reproachfully, “You will remember that there has been none to-day.”

  He dragged his master to the hotel door, where they passed in under hanging-baskets of pink and white flowers, and in a coffee-room adorned with trophies of the chase Edward ordered luncheon for himself and biscuits for Charles. Now mark the vagaries of Destiny: Charles, impatient for the biscuits, dragged his chain about the coffee-room, empty at this hour of all but himself and his master; he upset the tongs and the shovel and brought them clattering to the fender. Edward replaced them in their stands. Then Charles put his feet in an antimacassar and dragged it to the floor. After this he went to the writing-table under the wire blind in the middle window and snuffled curiously in the waste-paper basket, upsetting it almost without an effort, and a litter of letters and envelopes and torn circulars was discharged.

  Edward, hastening to repair these ravages, scooped the torn fragments in his hands — and on the very top, fronting him, was an envelope bearing his own name — Basingstoke.

  “ — Basingstoke,” the envelope said plainly, adding as an incomplete afterthought, “General Post-O” — and there ending. The handwriting was, like Hypatia’s, graceful and self-conscious. That is to say, it was legible, clear, and the letters were shaped by design and not by accident. He never doubted for an instant whose hand it was that had written those words. He went through the waste-paper basket’s other contents for more of that handwriting. There was not a scrap. The waiter, coming in with accessories to the still-withheld luncheon, stared at him.

  “Something thrown away by mistake,” he said, and pursued the search. No — nothing.

  But that she had been here was plain; that she still might be here was possible. She must have come by train or by motor — what motor? Train from what station? He went out into the hall to question the highly coiffured young lady whom he had noticed as he came in, the lady who sits in the glass cage where the keys are kept, and enters your name in the book when you engage your room. The cage was empty, the hall was empty. On the hall-table’s dark mahogany lay a shining salver, and on the salver lay a few letters. He picked them up. The one on the top was addressed fully — to

  Mr. Basingstoke,

  General Post-Office,

  London.

  The one below was addressed to —

  Miss Davenant,

  The Hall,

  Jevington,

  Sussex.

  Edward glanced round; he was still alone. He put the letters in his pocket and went back to the coffee-room. Charles’s attentions had been directed, in his absence, to the waiter, who had thus been detained from his duties.

  “Any one else lunching here to-day?” he asked, restraining Charles.

  “Mostly over by now, sir,” said the waiter. “That dog — dangerous, ain’t he, sir?”

  “Not a bit,” said Edward; “he only took a fancy to you.”

  “Wouldn’t let me pass — like,” said the waiter.

  “Only his play,” said Edward. “He merely wants his dinner. You’ve been rather a long time bringing his biscuits. I expect he thought you’d got them in your pocket.”

  “Sorry, sir,” the waiter said, and explained that, being single-handed at that hour, he had had to attend to the other party’s lunch, “in the garden, sir,” he added, “though why the garden when everything’s nice and ready in here — to say nothing of earwigs in your glass, and beetles, and everything to be carried half a mile—” He ceased abruptly.

  “I should like to see the garden,” said Edward, “while I’m waiting.”

  “Lunch ready directly, sir,” said the waiter. “Hardly worth while to have it out there now, sir—”

  “Which way?” Edward asked, and was told. He went through the hall, under a vine-covered trellis, and the garden blazed before him — a really charming garden, all green and red and yellow; beyond the lawn was an arbor with a light network of hops above it. In that arbor was a white-spread table. There was also movement; people were seated at the table.

  Edward stood in the sunshine between two tall vases overflowing with nasturtiums and lobelias and opened his letter.

  “Good-by,” it said, “and thank you a thousand times. I shall never forget your kindness. But when I had time to think I saw that it wasn’t fair to you. But you showed me the way out of the trap. And, now I am free, I can go on by myself. I don’t want to drag you into any bother there may be. It would be a poor return for your kindness.”

  Initials followed—”K. D.”

  Mr. Basingstoke dragged at the chain of Charles, who was already gardening industrially in a bed of begonias, and walked straight to the arbor. It could not, of course, be she whose skirt he saw through the dappled screen of leaf and shadow. The waiter would never have called her a “party” — still, one might as well make sure before one began to make inquiries of the hotel people. So he walked around to the arbor’s entrance and looked in. A man and woman were seated with a little table between them; coffee, peaches, and red wine announced the meal’s completion. The man was a stranger. The woman was Herself. She raised her eyes as he darkened the doorway and they stared at each other for an instant in a stricken silence. It was a terrible moment for Edward. Recognition might be the falsest of false steps. On the other hand. . . . The question was, of course, one that must be left to her to decide. The man with her was too young to be her father; he might, of course, be an uncle or a brother. Untimely recognition on Edward’s part might mean the end of all things. It was only a
moment, though an incredibly long one. Then she smiled.

  “Oh,” she said, “here you are!” And before Edward had time to wonder what his next move was, or was expected to be, she had turned to her companion and said, “This is my brother; he will be able to thank you better than I can for your kindness.”

  The stranger, a strongly built man with blue eyes and a red neck, looked from one to the other. It may have been Mr. Basingstoke’s fancy, but to him it seemed that the stranger’s glance was seeking that elusive thing, a family likeness. His look said that he did not find it. His voice said,

  “Not at all. Delighted to have been of the slightest service.”

  “What’s happened?” asked Edward, feeling his way.

  “Why,” she hastened to explain, “when you didn’t turn up I started to walk, and I didn’t put on sensible shoes.” A foot shod in a worn satin slipper crept out to point the confession and vanished at once. “And I sat down on a heap of stones to wait for you. And then this gentleman came by and offered me a lift. And I couldn’t think what had become of you — and you know how important it was to get to London — so, of course, I was most grateful. And then something went wrong with the motor, so we stopped here for lunch — and I can’t think how you found me — but I’m so glad you did. And all’s well that ends well.”

  Edward felt that he was scowling, and all his efforts could not smooth out the scowl. She was patting Charles and looking at Charles’s master.

  “We are very much indebted to you, sir,” said Edward, coldly.

  “Nothing, I assure you,” said the gentleman with the red neck. “Only too happy to be of service to Miss — er—”

  “Basingstoke,” said Edward, and saw in her eyes that he had not done the right thing. “I suppose you forgot to write to Aunt Emily and Uncle James,” he said, seeking to retrieve the last move.

  “Indeed I didn’t,” she said, with plain relief. “I wrote directly I got here, and gave them to the waiter to post.”

  Another silence longer than the first was broken by the waiter, who came to announce that the gentleman’s lunch was ready in the coffee-room. The other gentleman — red-necked — asked for his bill.

  While the waiter was gone for it, Edward put a sovereign on the table. “For my sister’s share,” he said.

  The red-necked gentleman protested.

  “You know,” she said, in a low voice, “I said I should pay my share.”

  The red-necked gentleman rose. “I will tell them,” he said, “to make out your bill separately. And now, if I cannot be of any further service to you, I think I’ll be getting on. Good day to you.”

  “Good day,” said Edward, “and thank you for your kindness to my sister.”

  “Good-by,” said she, “and thank you a thousand times.” She held out her hand. He bowed over it and went away through the sunlit garden, resentment obvious in every line of his back.

  Neither Edward nor the girl spoke. There was no sound in the arbor save the convulsive gulpings of Charles absorbing the sponge fingers which she absently offered him from among the scattered dessert.

  It was she who broke the silence. “I did write,” she said.

  “Yes. I got the letter.” He laid it and Miss Davenant’s on the table. “What does it mean?”

  “What it says—”

  “You won’t let me help you — but you let that man, right enough.”

  “What was I to do? The important thing was to get away.”

  “What tale did you tell that man?”

  “The truth.”

  He scowled with bitter skepticism.

  “I did. Except that you’re not my brother. I told him I’d missed you and that I’d got to get to London to-day as early as I could. And he was awfully nice and kind.”

  “I can well believe it.”

  “Nice and kind,” she repeated, with emphasis. “And you were most horrid to him. And I do think you’re unkind—”

  “I don’t mean to be,” said Edward, “and it’s not my province to be horrid and unkind to you, any more than it is to be nice and kind. In this letter you say good-by. Am I to understand that you mean good-by — that I am to leave you, here — now?”

  She did not answer, and there was that in her silence which laid a healing touch on his hurt vanity.

  “If my manner doesn’t please you,” he went on, “do remember that you have brought a fairly solid Spanish castle about my ears and that I am still a little bewildered and bruised.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I didn’t think.”

  “You see,” he went on, “I thought I’d found a girl who wasn’t just like other girls. . . .”

  “I’m afraid I am,” she said—”just.”

  “I thought that you were brave and truthful and strong — and that you trusted me; and then I find you haven’t the courage to stick to the way we planned; you haven’t even the courage to wait for me and tell me you’ve changed your mind. You bolt off like a frightened rabbit and make friends with the first bounder who comes along. I was a fool to think I could help you. You don’t need my help. Anybody else can help you just as well. Good-by—”

  “Good-by,” she said, not looking up. And he perceived that she was weeping. Also that he was no longer angry.

  “Don’t!” he said, “oh, don’t! Do forgive me. I don’t know what I’ve said. But I didn’t mean it, whatever it was, if it’s hurt you. I’ll do just what you say. Shall I call that chap back?”

  She shook her head and hid her face in her hands.

  “Forgive me,” he said again. “Oh, don’t cry! I’m not worth it. Nothing’s worth it. Charles, you brute, lie down.” For Charles, in eager sympathy with beauty in distress, was leaping up in vain efforts to find and kiss the hidden face.

  “Don’t scold him,” she said. “I like him.” And Edward could have worshiped her for the words. “And, oh,” she said, after a minute, “don’t scold me, either! I’m so frightfully tired and everything’s been so hateful. I thought you’d understand, and that if you cared to find me, you would.”

  “How could I? You sent no address.”

  “I did. On the handkerchief. . . . But I suppose you couldn’t read it.”

  “And still,” he said, but quite gently now, “I don’t understand—”

  “Don’t you? Don’t you see, I thought when you’d had time to think it over you’d be sorry and wish yourself well out of it, and yet feel obliged to go on. And I thought how horrid for you. And how much easier for you if you just thought I’d changed my mind. And then I set out to walk to Seaford and take the train. And then my shoes gave out, and I was so awfully afraid of aunt coming along that way, so that when Mr. Schultz came along it seemed a perfect godsend.”

  “So that’s his foreign and unhappy name?” said Edward. “How did he come to tell it to you?”

  “He had to,” she said. “I borrowed ten pounds of him. I couldn’t have gone to Claridge’s without money, you know.”

  “Why Claridge’s?”

  “It’s the only hotel that I know. And I had to have his name and address to send it back.”

  “May I send it back this afternoon?” Edward asked.

  “Yes—”

  “And you take back all you said in the letter? You don’t mean it?”

  “Not if you didn’t want me to.”

  “And it wasn’t really only because you thought I. . . .”

  “Of course. At least. . . .”

  “Well, then,” said Mr. Basingstoke, happily, “it never happened. I fetched you as we arranged. We go on as we arranged. And Mr. Schultz is only a bad dream to which I owe ten pounds.”

  “And you’re not angry? Then will you lend me some money to buy a hat, and then we will go straight on to London.”

  “Yes,” said Edward, controlling Charles, who had just seen the peaches and thought they looked like something to eat. “But — if you won’t think me a selfish brute I should like to say just one thing.”

 
; “Yes—” She wrinkled her brows apprehensively.

  “Neither Charles nor I have had any luncheon. Would you very much mind if we—”

  “Oh, how hateful of me not to remember!” she said. “Let me come and talk to you and feed Charles. What a darling he is! And you do forgive me, and you do understand? And we’re friends again, just as we were before?”

  “Yes. Just as we were.”

  “It’s curious,” she said, as they went back through the red and green and blue and yellow of the garden, “that I feel as though I knew you ever so much better, now we’ve quarreled.”

  Mr. Schultz had, it appeared, after all, paid for the two luncheons. Edward sent him two ten-pound notes and the sovereign, “with compliments and thanks.”

  “And that’s the end of poor Mr. Schultz,” she said, gaily, and, as it proved, with complete inaccuracy.

  VIII. THE ROAD TO ——

  THE drive to London was a silent one. Mr. Basingstoke did not want to talk; he had come on one of those spaces where the emotions sleep, exhausted. He felt nothing any more, neither anxiety as to the future nor pleasure at the nearness of the furry heap beside him under which, presently, his companion slumbered peacefully as a babe in its cot. His mind was blank, his heart was numbed; it was not till the car reached the houses spilled over the pretty fields like ugly toys emptied out of the play-box of a giant child, that mind or heart made any movement. Then it happened that the breeze caught the edge of the fur and lifted it, and he saw her little face softly flushed with sleep, lying very near him, and his heart seemed all at once to come to life again with an awakening stab of something that was not affection or even passion, but a kind of protective exultation — a deep, keen longing to take care of, to guard, to infold safely from all possible dangers and sorrows her who slept so happy-helpless beside him. Then his mind awoke, too, and he found himself wondering. The Schultz episode, his suspicions, resentment — the explication — all this should, one would have thought, have brushed, like a rough hand, the bloom from the adventure. And, instead of taking anything away, it had, even as she had said, added a soft touch of intimacy to their friendship. Further, he now in his heart had the memory that, for an instant, his thoughts had wronged her, that he had suspected her of wavering, almost of light-mindedness, though his thought had taken no such definite lines even to itself in its secret heart — and all the time there had only been thought for him, sincere, delicate consideration, and, in the matter of that man’s accepted help, the trust of a child, and that innocence of Una before which even lions like Schultz become shy and safe. Imagine a subject who has suspected his princess of being, perhaps, not a princess at all, but one masquerading in the robes and crown of a princess . . . when he shall find her to be indeed royal, to what an ecstasy of loyalty will not his heart attain? So it was now with Mr. Basingstoke. He caught the corner of the fur and reverently covered the face of his princess.