by E. Nesbit
VII
TUNBRIDGE WELLS
AN earnest and prolonged struggle with Charles now occupied Mr.Basingstoke. Charles was determined to stand on the seat with his pawson the side of the car, to look out and to be in readiness to leap outshould any passing object offer a more than trivial appeal. His masterwas determined that Charles should lie on the mat in the bottom of thecar, and, what is more, that he should lie there quietly. The discussionbecame animated and ended in blows. It was just at the crisis of theaffair, when Edward had lightly smitten the hard, bullet head andCharles was protesting with screams as piercing as those of a locomotivein distress, that the car wheeled into the highroad and narrowly misseda dog-cart coming up from Seaford. As they passed, Edward's hand went tohis hat, for the driver of the dog-cart was Miss Davenant.
Charles, partially released, leaped toward the lady, only to hang byhis chain over the edge of the car. By the time he had been hauled inagain and cuffed into comparative quiescence Miss Davenant was left farbehind, a little, gesticulating figure against the horizon. Her gesturesseemed to Edward to be gestures of recall. But he disregarded them. Itwas not till later that he regretted this.
A final struggle with Charles ended in victory, not because Edward hadenforced his will on that strong and strenuous nature, but becauseCharles was now exhausted and personally inclined to surrender. He layat last on the floor of the car, his jaws open in a wide, white-toothedsmile, and his pink tongue palpitating to his panting breaths. Edwardsat very upright, his hands between his knees, holding the shortenedchain of Charles. Mile after mile of the smooth down country slippedpast, the car had whirled down the narrow, tree-bordered road intoAlfreston, past the old church and the thirteenth-century, half-timberedClergy House, where three little girls in green pinafores were seekingto coerce a reluctant goat along to Polegate and across the railwaylines, and still Mr. Basingstoke never moved. His mind alone was alive,and of his body he was no longer conscious. He thought and thought andthought. Why had she left the farm? Had she been frightened? Had shebeen captured? Where had she gone? And why? And behind all thesequestions was a background of something too vague and yet toocomplicated to be called regret--or something which, translated intowords, might have gone something like this:
"Adventures to the adventurous. And three days ago the world was beforeme. I had set out for adventures and I found nothing more agitating thanthe pleasant pleasing of one little child. Then suddenly the adventurehappened. And now no more charming wanderings, no more aimlesssaunterings in this pleasant, green world, but rush and worry and hurryand dust, uncertainty, anxiety, . . . the whole pretty dream of theadventurer shattered by the reality of the adventure."
Suddenly, and without meaning to do it, he had mortgaged his future to astranger. The stranger had fled and he was--well, not pursuing, butgoing to the place she had named as that from which he might gain a clueand take up the pursuit. It was not exactly regret, but Mr. Basingstokefound himself almost wishing that time could move backward and set himin the meadow where the red wall was, and give him once more the chanceto fly or not to fly his aeroplane. Perhaps if he had the choice hewould not fly it. But all this was among the shadows at the back of hismind. In the foreground was the small, insistent cycle of questions:Why had she left the farm? Had she been frightened? Had she beencaptured? Where had she gone? When? How? Why?
It was not till the car was slipping through Crowborough, that paradiseof villa-dwellers who have "done well in business," that the thoughtcame to him, had she, after all, gone back to her aunt? Had she thoughtbetter of it, and just gone humbly back with confession and submissionin both hands? It was then that he remembered that Miss Davenant hadseemed to signal . . . perhaps she had some errand to him . . . perhapssubmission had been given as the price of a farewell message,aunt-borne, to meet him at the farm? Mr. Basingstoke was not subject toattacks of indecision, but now for a moment he wavered. Then imaginationshowed him himself on the door-step of the Hall asking for MissDavenant, and Miss Davenant receiving or not receiving him--in eithercase he himself cutting a figure which he could not for a moment admire.Common sense reinforced imagination. The handkerchief said GeneralPost-Office. It could only have said that if the handkerchief's ownermeant him to go to the General Post-Office. If the handkerchief's ownerhad meant him to go back to the Hall, the handkerchief could just aseasily have said the Hall. He went back to his questionings, and thecar drew near Tunbridge Wells.
Charles, exhausted by the morning's combat, had slept heavily, but nowhe roused himself to take the role of Arbiter of Destinies. He rousedhimself, sat up, snuffled and blew, and then, with wide smile andlolling tongue, proclaimed himself to be that pitiable and sufferingcreature, a bull-terrier dying of thirst. In vain Edward sought to calmhim; 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 chauffeurhad every right to consider himself an ill-used man. A bright-facedhotel whose windows were underlined with marguerites and pink geraniumsbeckoned attractively.
"After all, one must live," said Edward, and breathed an order. The cardrew up in front of the White Horse.
Another car was there--unattended--a very nice car. Edward wished it hadbeen his. It had all those charms which his own hired one lacked, andhis 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 histhirst had not been simulated. Edward indulged him. Arrived at the wetgranite, however, Charles lapped a tongueful or two, as it were out ofpoliteness and merely to oblige, and then looked up at his masterexpressively. "You have sadly misunderstood me," he seemed to say. "WhatI wanted was breakfast," adding, reproachfully, "You will remember thatthere has been none to-day."
He dragged his master to the hotel door, where they passed in underhanging-baskets of pink and white flowers, and in a coffee-room adornedwith trophies of the chase Edward ordered luncheon for himself andbiscuits 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 tongsand the shovel and brought them clattering to the fender. Edwardreplaced them in their stands. Then Charles put his feet in anantimacassar and dragged it to the floor. After this he went to thewriting-table under the wire blind in the middle window and snuffledcuriously in the waste-paper basket, upsetting it almost without aneffort, and a litter of letters and envelopes and torn circulars wasdischarged.
Edward, hastening to repair these ravages, scooped the torn fragmentsin his hands--and on the very top, fronting him, was an envelope bearinghis own name--Basingstoke.
"--Basingstoke," the envelope said plainly, adding as an incompleteafterthought, "General Post-O"--and there ending. The handwriting was,like Hypatia's, graceful and self-conscious. That is to say, it waslegible, clear, and the letters were shaped by design and not byaccident. He never doubted for an instant whose hand it was that hadwritten those words. He went through the waste-paper basket's othercontents for more of that handwriting. There was not a scrap. Thewaiter, 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 waspossible. She must have come by train or by motor--what motor? Trainfrom what station? He went out into the hall to question the highlycoiffured young lady whom he had noticed as he came in, the lady whosits in the glass cage where the keys are kept, and enters your name inthe book when you engage your room. The cage was empty, the hall wasempty. On the hall-table's dark mahogany lay a shining salver, and onthe salver lay a few letters. He picked them up. The one on the top wasaddressed 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 hispocket and went back to the coffee-room. Charles's attentions had beendirected, in his absence, to the waiter, who had thus been detained fromhis duties.
"Any one else lunching here to-day?" he asked, restraining Charles.
"Mostly over by now, sir," said the waiter. "That dog--dangerous, ain'the, 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 beenrather a long time bringing his biscuits. I expect he thought you'd gotthem in your pocket."
"Sorry, sir," the waiter said, and explained that, being single-handedat that hour, he had had to attend to the other party's lunch, "in thegarden, sir," he added, "though why the garden when everything's niceand 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 tohave it out there now, sir--"
"Which way?" Edward asked, and was told. He went through the hall, undera vine-covered trellis, and the garden blazed before him--a reallycharming garden, all green and red and yellow; beyond the lawn was anarbor with a light network of hops above it. In that arbor was awhite-spread table. There was also movement; people were seated at thetable.
Edward stood in the sunshine between two tall vases overflowing withnasturtiums and lobelias and opened his letter.
"Good-by," it said, "and thank you a thousand times. I shall neverforget your kindness. But when I had time to think I saw that it wasn'tfair to you. But you showed me the way out of the trap. And, now I amfree, I can go on by myself. I don't want to drag you into any botherthere 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 alreadygardening industrially in a bed of begonias, and walked straight to thearbor. It could not, of course, be she whose skirt he saw through thedappled screen of leaf and shadow. The waiter would never have calledher a "party"--still, one might as well make sure before one began tomake inquiries of the hotel people. So he walked around to the arbor'sentrance and looked in. A man and woman were seated with a little tablebetween them; coffee, peaches, and red wine announced the meal'scompletion. The man was a stranger. The woman was Herself. She raisedher eyes as he darkened the doorway and they stared at each other for aninstant 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. Theman with her was too young to be her father; he might, of course, be anuncle or a brother. Untimely recognition on Edward's part might mean theend 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 wonderwhat his next move was, or was expected to be, she had turned to hercompanion and said, "This is my brother; he will be able to thank youbetter than I can for your kindness."
The stranger, a strongly built man with blue eyes and a red neck, lookedfrom one to the other. It may have been Mr. Basingstoke's fancy, but tohim 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 voicesaid,
"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 towalk, and I didn't put on sensible shoes." A foot shod in a worn satinslipper crept out to point the confession and vanished at once. "And Isat down on a heap of stones to wait for you. And then this gentlemancame by and offered me a lift. And I couldn't think what had become ofyou--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, sowe stopped here for lunch--and I can't think how you found me--but I'mso glad you did. And all's well that ends well."
Edward felt that he was scowling, and all his efforts could not smoothout 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 toohappy to be of service to Miss--er--"
"Basingstoke," said Edward, and saw in her eyes that he had not done theright thing. "I suppose you forgot to write to Aunt Emily and UncleJames," he said, seeking to retrieve the last move.
"Indeed I didn't," she said, with plain relief. "I wrote directly I gothere, and gave them to the waiter to post."
Another silence longer than the first was broken by the waiter, who cameto announce that the gentleman's lunch was ready in the coffee-room. Theother 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 outyour bill separately. And now, if I cannot be of any further service toyou, 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 herhand. 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 savethe convulsive gulpings of Charles absorbing the sponge fingers whichshe 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 andthat I'd got to get to London to-day as early as I could. And he wasawfully nice and kind."
"I can well believe it."
"_Nice_ and kind," she repeated, with emphasis. "And you were mosthorrid to him. And I do think you're unkind--"
"I don't mean to be," said Edward, "and it's not my province to behorrid and unkind to you, any more than it is to be nice and kind. Inthis letter you say good-by. Am I to understand that you meangood-by--that I am to leave you, here--now?"
She did not answer, and there was that in her silence which laid ahealing touch on his hurt vanity.
"If my manner doesn't please you," he went on, "do remember that youhave brought a fairly solid Spanish castle about my ears and that I amstill 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 likeother girls. . . ."
"I'm afraid I am," she said--"just."
"I thought that you were brave and truthful and strong--and that youtrusted me; and then I find you haven't the courage to stick to the waywe planned; you haven't even the courage to wait for me and tell meyou've changed your mind. You bolt off like a frightened rabbit and makefriends with the first bounder who comes along. I was a fool to think Icould help you. You don't need my help. Anybody else can help you justas well. Good-by--"
"Good-by," she said, not looking up. And he perceived
that she wasweeping. Also that he was no longer angry.
"Don't!" he said, "oh, don't! Do forgive me. I don't know what I'vesaid. But I didn't mean it, whatever it was, if it's hurt you. I'll dojust 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'sworth it. Charles, you brute, lie down." For Charles, in eager sympathywith beauty in distress, was leaping up in vain efforts to find and kissthe hidden face.
"Don't scold him," she said. "I like him." And Edward could haveworshiped her for the words. "And, oh," she said, after a minute, "don'tscold me, either! I'm so frightfully tired and everything's been sohateful. 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 itover you'd be sorry and wish yourself well out of it, and yet feelobliged to go on. And I thought how horrid for you. And how much easierfor you if you just thought I'd changed my mind. And then I set out towalk to Seaford and take the train. And then my shoes gave out, and Iwas 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 cometo tell it to you?"
"He had to," she said. "I borrowed ten pounds of him. I couldn't havegone 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 addressto 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. Ifetched you as we arranged. We go on as we arranged. And Mr. Schultz isonly 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 peachesand thought they looked like something to eat. "But--if you won't thinkme 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 mindif we--"
"Oh, how hateful of me not to remember!" she said. "Let me come and talkto 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 werebefore?"
"Yes. Just as we were."
"It's curious," she said, as they went back through the red and greenand blue and yellow of the garden, "that I feel as though I knew youever 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 complimentsand thanks."
"And that's the end of poor Mr. Schultz," she said, gaily, and, as itproved, with complete inaccuracy.