The Incredible Honeymoon. Nesbit Edith
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 gray 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.
When at last she did come he saw her very far off, and heard the rustle of her dress even before he saw her.
He would not go to meet her across the starlit space; that would be very dangerous. He stood where he was till she came into the shadow. Then he went 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 put one – it was so difficult to write – and, of course, I couldn't look at it to 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 was serious. I shouldn't have asked you to come in the middle of the night to 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 child in 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 more closely 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 I went in. She asked me where I'd been. I said I'd been out to swim in the lake. That was quite true. That was why I had gone out. I've often done 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, waiting for me. She asked me if I was going bathing again, and I said, No, I was 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 her seeing you."
"Suppose she had chosen to walk that way."
"Yes, of course I thought of that. So I led the way and walked straight toward you. Then she thought whoever I was going to meet must be the other way. So she insisted on going the other way. I knew she would."
"That was subtle of you."
"No; it's only that she's stupid. It wouldn't have taken any one else in."
"So she was baffled."
"Yes, but she has instincts, though she's so stupid. She knew there was something up. And then when we met you – oh, I am so glad the dog's all right – when we met you I knew she thought you'd something to do with my being 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 you hadn't. Though unjust suspicions like that are enough to make anybody blush. Yes, they were unjust because you had nothing to do with my going out the first time – why, I didn't even know there was a you. And now all the fat's in the fire, and she's taking me to Ireland or Scotland to-morrow – she won't say which. And I couldn't bear to go and have you think I'd made an appointment and not kept it. It's so unbusiness-like to break appointments," she said.
"Does she suppose, then, that we – that I am – that you have – that I should – ?"
"I don't know what she supposes. At least I do. But it's too silly. Now I've explained everything. Good-by. I'm glad you found the handkerchief – 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 nearly knocked him down. It's a darling dog – but isn't it strong! Good-by!" She held 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