The Incredible Honeymoon

by E. Nesbit

  X

  OAK WEIR LOCK

  "IF it weren't for your finger--" said she.

  "My finger is the just reward of idiocy and doesn't deserve any kindthought from you."

  "If it weren't for that, I should rather enjoy it," she said. "There'splenty to eat left in the basket. Shall I get it out and let's havesupper before it's quite dark? I do really think it's fun. Don't you?"

  "That's right," said he, with a show of bitterness, "make the best of itout of pity for the insane idiot who landed you in this fix. Be bright,be womanly, never let me guess that a cold, damp lock and a 'few bits ofbroken vittles' are not really better than a decent supper and a roofover your head. A fig for the elegancies of civilization and thecomforts of home! Go on being tactful. I adore it."

  "I meant what I said," she answered, with gentle insistence. "I dorather like it. I'll whine about my dinner and my looking-glass, if youlike, but I'll get the supper first. Isn't it glorious to think thatthere's no one at home--where the comforts and the elegancies are--noone to be anxious about us because we're late, and scold us when we gethome? Liberty," she ended, reflectively, "is a very beautiful thing. Isuppose no one is likely to come along this way till the shepherd comesin the morning?"

  "We'll hope for better luck," said he. "I say, you'll never trust me totake care of you again after this silly business--"

  "I don't know," she said, deliberately, "that I ever asked you to takecare of me. Did I? You were to help me--yes, and you have helped me--butI don't think I want to be taken care of, any more than another manwould want it. I was in a difficulty and you helped me. If you were in adifficulty and I helped you, you wouldn't expect me to take care of youforever, would you?"

  "I don't know," he said. "If you hadn't been extraordinarily sensible Ishould still be there with my hand in the thumbscrew."

  "Did you think," she asked, sweetly, "that all women were inevitablysilly?"

  Charles raised his head and growled.

  "There," said she, "you see, even Charles repudiates the idea."

  If this was so, Charles instantly repudiated the idea with more growlsand the added violence of barks. She muffled him in the cloak andlistened. A footstep on the towing-path.

  "Hullo!" she called, and Edward added, "Hi, you there!" and Charles,wriggling forcefully among the folds of the cloak, barked again.

  "That ought to fetch them, whoever they are," said Edward, and stood up.

  Even as he did so a voice said, urgently and quite close above them."'Ush, can't yer!" and a head and shoulders leaning over the edge of thelock came as a dark silhouette against the clear dark blue of the starrysky. For it was now as dark as a July night is--and that, as we know, isnever really dark at all. '"Ush!" repeated the voice. "Shut up, I tellyer!" and, surprisingly and unmistakably, it was to the two in the boatthat he was speaking. "Make that dawg o' yours choke hisself--stow it,can't yer! Yer don't want to be lagged, do yer? Yer aren't got 'arf achants once any one knows you're 'ere. Don't you know you're wanted? Thepolice'll be along some time in the night, and then you're done for."

  "I think," said Edward, with extreme politeness, "that you are, perhaps,mistaking us for acquaintances, whereas we are strangers to you. But ifyou could be so kind as to open the gates and lend us a crowbar to getthrough the other locks you would not be the loser."

  "I know yer, right enough," said the man. "Yer ain't no strangers to me.It was me as 'ired yer the boat up at the Anchor. The boss 'e sent meout to look for yer. Only 'e doesn't know I know about your beingwanted. Least said soonest mended's what I allus say. Where's yer crowgot to?"

  "In the water," said Edward; "dropped off the lock gate."

  "Clumsy!" said the man, giving the word its full vocative value."Whereabouts?"

  "Just over there," said Edward.

  "Then yer tuck up yer shirt-sleeve and run yer 'and down and pass thatthere crow up to me. There ain't not above two foot o' water in 'er, ifthere's that."

  To your Medway man the lock is as unalterably feminine as his ship to asailor.

  It was she who plunged her arm in the water, and, sure enough, there wasthe crowbar lying quietly and tamely beside them--"like a pet poodle,"as she said.

  "Give me ahold of that there crow," said the man. He lay face downwardand reached down an arm. Edward stood on the thwart and reached up. Thecrowbar changed hands, and the head and shoulders of the delivererdisappeared.

  "I don't see what he wants the bar for," said Edward. "The lock's empty.Perhaps he means to go on ahead and open the other locks for us. Iwonder who he took us for, and what the poor wretches are 'wanted'for--"

  "It's a sinister word in that connection, isn't it?" said she. "Wanted!"

  They pushed the boat toward the lower lock gate and held on to thelock-side, waiting till the lock gate should open and they should beable to pass out and begin their journey down the river to the Anchor.But the gates did not open, and almost at once a tremor agitated theboat. Edward tightened his grip of the boat-hook as the incoming rush ofwater took the boat's nose and held it hard.

  "The idiot!" he said. "The silly idiot! He's filling the lock."

  He was, and the rush of the incoming water quite drowned anyremonstrances that might have been addressed to him. Boat and water roseswiftly, the upper gates opened, and, as they passed through, theirdeliverer laid his hand on the gunwale, as though to aid the boat'spassage. But, instead, he stopped it.

  "See 'ere, gov'ner," he said, low and hoarse and exactly like aconspirator, "I couldn't bleat it out for all the country to hear whileyer was down in the lock, but I knows as you're wanted and yer may thinkit lucky it's me as come after yer and not the gov'ner nor yet thepolice."

  "I do really think," said she, softly, "that you're making a mistake.The police don't really want us."

  "Oh, I got a bit of candle," was the unexpected rejoinder. "Get theyoung lady to hold the cloak up so as it don't shine from 'ere toTunbridge to give yer away like, and yer light the dip and 'ave a squintat this 'ere."

  He held out the candle and matches and a jagged rag of newspaper.

  "'Ere," he said, "'longside where I'm 'olding of it."

  She made a sort of screen of the cloak. Edward lit the candle, and whenthe flame had darkened and brightened again he read as follows:

  MISSING--Young lady, height five feet six, slight build, dark hair and eyes, pale complexion. Last seen at Jevington, Sussex. Wearing black chiffon and satin dress, black satin slippers, and a very large French circular cloak with stitched collar. Has no money and no hat. Twenty pounds will be paid to any one giving information as to her whereabouts.

  "Well," said Edward, blowing out the candle, "this lady has a hat, asyou see, and she hasn't a black dress and satin slippers. Thank you forletting us through; here's something to get a drink with. Hand over thecrowbar, please, and good night to you."

  "Not so fast, sir," said the man, still holding on, "and don't make tojab me over the fingers with the boat-'ook, like what you was thinkingof. I'm your friend, I am. I see that piece in the paper 'fore ever aone of them, but I never let on. That's why the gov'ner sent me, 'causewhy--'e didn't think I knowed, and 'e means to 'ave that twenty poundshisself."

  "But," said she, "you see, I have got a hat and--"

  "Yes, miss," said the man, "an' you've got the cloak, large and blackand stitched collar, and all; it's that what's give yer away."

  "But supposing I _was_ the young lady," she said, grasping Edward's armin the darkness, and signaling to him not to interfere with femininediplomacy, "you wouldn't give me up to the police, would you? I wouldn'tgive you up if the police wanted you."

  "'Course I wouldn't," he answered, earnestly. "Ain't that what I'ma-saying? I'm 'ere to 'elp yer do a bolt. The minute I saw that therebit in the paper I says to myself, 'It's them,' and why shouldn't I 'avethe twenty pounds as well as any one else?"

  "There," said Edward, in a low voice, "you see! Let me deal with him."

&n
bsp; But again her hand implored. "You're going to give us up to the policefor twenty pounds?" she said, reproachfully.

  He groaned. "'Ow yer do talk!" he said. "Women is all alike when itcomes to talking. Stop talking and listen to me. Can't yer understandplain words? What yer got to do is to leave the boat at Mutton WorryLock--that's three locks up--bunk across the fields to Tunbridge. If yergot money enough--and I'm sartain yer 'as, by the looks of yer--yer 'ireone of them motors and get away as fast as yer can. Get one at theCastle. Say yer going to Brighton, and when yer get away from the towntell the chap to drive t'other way."

  "That's a good plan," said she.

  "I mapped it all out as I come along," he said, with simple pride. "And,mind yer, I'm trusting yer like I shouldn't have thought I'd 'a' trustednobody. 'Ave yer got the twenty pounds about yer?" he asked, anxiously.

  "No," said she.

  "Can't be helped, then." He breathed a sigh of resignation. "I'll justgive yer my direction and yer send the ready to me. 'Oo says I don'ttrust yer?"

  "You mean," said Edward, slowly, and would not be checked any longer bythat hand on his arm--"you mean that you expect us to give you twentypounds not to give us up to the police? The police have nothing to dowith us. The whole thing's moonshine. Take your hand off the boat andget along home."

  "Any man," said he who had been called Neptune--"any man as had thefeelings of a man would think of this--young lady. Even if yer was toprove to Poad as yer wasn't wanted for nothin' criminal--it's none soeasy to make Poad see anything, neither"--he ended, abruptly, and begananew. "Look 'ere, gov'ner, on account of your lady I say do a bolt. An'why should I be the loser? I only got to stick to the boat, whicheverway yer go--up and down--and soon as yer land where there's a copper,lagged yer'll be to a dead cart, and only yourself to thank for it.Whereas I'm only trying to be your friend, if you'd only see it."

  "I don't see why you should be so friendly," said Edward, now entirelylosing control of the situation.

  "Nor I shouldn't see it, neither, if it was only you," was therejoinder.

  "He's quite right," she whispered. "Promise what he wants and let's getaway. I know exactly what Poad is like. We should never make himunderstand anything. I couldn't bear it. Let's go. If you've got twentypounds, give it to him and let's go."

  "Think of your young lady," repeated the voice out of the darkness. "Ifyer promise to let me 'ear by the post, I'll take your word for it. I'myour true friend, and I knows a gentleman when I sees one."

  "If you were a true friend," said Edward, "you wouldn't want paying forminding your own business."

  "Aw, naw," he said, "'old 'ard, gov'ner. Ain't it a man's own businesswhen there's twenty pounds to be made? Says I to myself, if it's worthsome one's while to pay the money to catch 'er, it's well worth thegentleman's while to shell out and keep 'er, and. . . ."

  "Oh, hold your tongue!" said Edward. "Go on ahead and get the next lockready. I'll give you the money. The lady wishes it."

  "She's got her 'ead the right way on," said the friend in need. "Pullahead, sir."

  "But you can't, with your finger like that," she said. "I'll pull."

  "Why not let me?" Neptune suggested. "We'd get there in 'alf the time,"he added, with blighting candor.

  So Neptune pulled the boat up to Mutton Worry Lock and the two crouchedunder the cloak. Charles, who might have been expected to be hostile toso strange a friend, received him with almost overwhelmingcondescension. At Mutton Worry Lock the deliverer said:

  "Now 'ere yer deserts the ship, and 'ere I finds 'er and takes her back.And look 'ere, sir, I'm nobody's enemy but my own, so I am. And ofcourse if I was to 'ave the twenty pounds it's my belief I'd drinkmyself under the daisies inside of a week. Let me 'ear by thepost--William Beale, care of the Anchor Hotel--and send me ten bob aweek till the money's gone. It'll come easier to yer, paying it alittle at a time like--and better for me in the long run. Yer ought tobe a duke, yer ought. I never thought you'd 'a' ris' to the twenty. I'd'a' been satisfied with five--and that'll show yer whether I'm a truefriend or not."

  "I really think you are," she said, and laughed gently. "Good-by."

  "Good evening, miss, and thank yer, I'm sure. Never say good-by; it'sunlucky between friends."

  "Here's a sovereign," said Edward, shortly. "Good night. You're jollyfond of the sound of your own voice, aren't you?"

  "Sort of treat for me, sir," said Beale, always eagerly explanatory."Don't often 'ear it. D'you know what they calls me at the Anchor, owingto me 'aving learnt to keep my tongue atween my teeth, except amongfriends? 'William the Silent's' my pet name. A gent as comes for theangling made that up, and it stuck, it did. Bear to the left till youcome to the boat-'ouse, cater across the big meadow, and you'll hitTunbridge all right, by the Printing Works. So long, sir; so long,miss."

  Thus they parted.

  "What an adventure!" she said; "and I believe William the Silentbelieves himself to be a model of chivalrous moderation. He would havebeen satisfied with five pounds."

  "I believe he would, too," said Edward, with a grudging laugh. "It'syour _beaux yeux_. The man has gone home feeling that he has as good assacrificed fifteen pounds to a quixotic and romantic impulse. Wretchedblackmailer though he is, he could not resist a princess."

  "I like William," she said, decisively. "After all, as he says, one mustlive. Let's leave the cloak under this hedge. Shall we? It's likegetting rid of the body. And I'll buy a flaxen wig to-morrow. And do youthink it would be a help if I rouged a little and wore blue spectacles?It will be the saving of us, of course."

  "I hope to heavens we get a motor in Tunbridge," said he. "You must betired out."

  "I'm not in the least tired," she said. "I'm stepping out like a man,don't you think? I've enjoyed everything beyond words. What a world itis for adventures once you step outside the charmed circle of yourrelations. Look at all the things that have happened to us already!"

  "I didn't mean anything to happen except pleasant things," said he.

  "Ah!" she said, with a fleeting seriousness, "life isn't like that. Butthere's been nothing but pleasant things so far--at least, almostnothing."

  "Won't you take my arm?" he said.

  "What for?"

  "To help you along, I suppose," he said, lamely.

  She stopped expressly to stamp her foot. "I don't want helping along,"she said. "I'm not a cripple or a baby--and--"

  He did not answer. And they walked on in silence through the starry,silent night. She spoke first.

  "I don't want helping along," she said. "But I'd like to take your armto show there's no ill-feeling. You take an arm on the way to dinner,"she assured the stars, "and why not on the way to Tunbridge?"

  The way to Tunbridge was short. They found a car, and the night held nomore adventures for them.

  But in a sheltered nook in the weir stream below Jezebel's Lock a candleset up on a plate illuminated the green of alder and ash and the smoothblackness of the water, shedding on a lonely supper that air as of afestival which can only be conferred by candle-light shining on thegreen of growing leaves. There, out of sight of the towing-path, Mr.William Beale, charmed to fancy and anticipation by the possession of agolden milled token, made himself a feast of the "broken vittles" in thederelict Midlothian basket, and in what was left of the red wine ofFrance toasted the lady of his adventure.

  "'Ere's to 'er," he said to the silence and mysteries of wood and water.'"Ere's to 'er. She was a corker, for sure. Sight too good for a chaplike 'im," he insisted, adding the natural tribute of chivalry tobeauty; drank again and filled his pipe. Edward, from sheer force ofhabit, had smoothed the parting with tobacco.

  "Not but," said William the Silent--"not but what I've known worse than'im, by long chalks. Ten bob a week--and 'e'll send it along, too--goodas a pension. 'E'll send it along."

  He did. William the Silent had not misjudged his man.