The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile "Sapper". Sapper
there was a new and wonderful secret to share with him. And to the girl, still under the influence of her mood of the night before, the secret forged the final link in the chain. She wondered how she could ever have hesitated; it all seemed so very easy and obvious now.
Baxter, Blandford—what did anything matter? She had gone to Derek; the matter was decided. . . .
Her maid came into the room, and advanced cautiously to the bed.
"Ah! but Mam'selle es awake," she said. "And ze tea, mon Dieu, but it es quite cold."
"What time is it, Celeste?" asked Joan.
"Nine o'clock, Mam'selle. I have ze dejeuner outside. And a note from M'sieur le Capitaine." She held out an envelope to Joan, and busied herself about the room. "Ah! but he is gentil—M'sieur le Capitaine; young and of a great air." Celeste, it may be stated, viewed Baxter rather like a noisome insect.
"Bring me my breakfast, please."
Joan waited till the maid had left the room before opening the envelope. There was just a line inside, and her eyes grew very tender as she read the words.
"I've got something to say to you, little Joan, which has got to be said in the big spaces. Will you come out with me this morning on to the Downs?"
She read it through half a dozen times and then she turned to Celeste.
"Tell Captain Vane that I will be ready in an hour," she said.
* * * * * *
Vane was standing in the hall when Joan appeared. A faintly tremulous smile was on her lips, but she came steadily up to him and held out both her hands.
"Good morning, my lady," he said gently. "Would you to be liking to know how wonderful you look?"
"Oh! Derek," she whispered. "My dear!"
"Ostensibly you are going into Lewes to shop," he remarked with a grin. "I am dealing with Boche prisoners. . . . At least that's what I told our worthy host over the kidneys at breakfast. . . ."
She gave a little happy laugh. "And in reality?"
"We're both going to be dropped somewhere, and we're going to tell the car to run away and play, while we walk home over the Downs."
"And my shopping?"
"You couldn't find anything you wanted."
"And your prisoners?"
"Well the only thing about my prisoners that is likely to give the show away is if I turn up at the prison," smiled Vane. "Let us hope Mr. Sutton doesn't know the governor."
And suddenly he added irrelevantly. "Our host was a little surprised that you failed to appear at breakfast, seeing how early he packed you off to bed." He watched the slight quickening of her breath, the faint colour dyeing her cheeks, and suddenly the resolution he had made seemed singularly futile. Then with a big effort he took hold of himself, and for greater safety put both his hands in his pockets. "I think," he remarked quietly, "you'd better go and get ready. The car will be round in a moment. . . ."
Without a word she left him and went upstairs to her room, while Vane strolled to the front door. The car was just coming out of the garage, and he nodded to the chauffeur.
"Glorious day, isn't it?"
"Pity you've got to waste it, sir, over them prisoners," said the man.
"Yes," agreed Vane thoughtfully. "I'll want you to drop me in the town, and then I'll walk back over the Downs. . . . Splendid day for a walk. . . ." He turned and found Joan beside him. "And lightning performance," he smiled at her. "I won't be a moment."
He slipped on his coat and handed her into the car. "Drop me in the High Street, will you—opposite to the Post Office?" he said to the chauffeur. "I'm expecting a letter."
"I'm afraid," she said, as the car rolled down the drive, "that like most men you're rather prone to overact." With a little, happy laugh she snuggled up to him and slid her hand into his under the rug.
"I shall be walking home, thank you, Thomas," said Joan as she got out of the car, and the man stood waiting for orders.
He touched his cap, and they stood watching the car go down the High
Street. Then she turned to Vane.
"You'd better see about your letters," she said demurely. "And then we might go over the Castle. There is a most wonderful collection of oleographic paleographs brought over by the Americans when they discovered England. . . ."
"In one second," threatened Vane, "I shall kiss you. And I don't know that they'd understand it here. . . ."
"They'd think we were movie actors," she gurgled, falling into step beside him. "Do you know the way?"
"In the days of my unregenerate youth I went to the races here," he answered. "One passes a prison or something. Anyway, does it matter?"
She gave a sigh of utter contentment. "Nothing matters, my man—nothing at all—except that I'm with you. Only I want to get out into the open, with the fresh wind blowing on my face—and I want to sing for the joy of it. . . . Do you think if we sang up the town here they'd give me pennies?"
"More probably lock us up as undesirable vagrants," laughed Vane. "It's a county town and they're rather particular. I'm not certain that happiness isn't an offence under the Defence of the Realm Act. Incidentally, I don't think there would be many convictions these days. . . ."
She stopped for a moment and faced him. "That's not allowed, Derek; it's simply not allowed."
"Your servant craves pardon," he answered gravely, and for a while they walked on in silence.
They passed two ragged children who had collected on their faces more dirt than seemed humanly possible, and nothing would content Joan but that she should present each with a sixpence.
"Poor little devils," and her voice was very soft. "What a life to look forward to, Derek—what a hideous existence. . . ."
"It's all they've ever been brought up to." He put sixpence into each little grubby paw, and smiled down at the awestruck faces. "Go and spend it all on sweets," he told them, "and be really, wonderfully, happily sick for once in your lives. . . ."
And then at last they turned a corner, and in front of them stretched the Downs. On their left the grim, frowning prison stood sombre and apparently lifeless, and as Joan passed it she gave a little shudder.
"Oh! Boy," she cried, "isn't it impossible to get away from the suffering and the rottenness—even for a moment?" She shook herself as if to cast off the mood, and stretched out her arms to the open hills. "I'm sorry," she said briefly. "Come into the big spaces and tell me what you want to say. . . ."
For a while they walked on over the clean-cut turf and the wind from the sea swept through the gorse and the rustling grasses, and kissed them, and passed on.
"There is a hayrick, I see, girl o' mine," said Vane. "Let's go and sit under it. And in defiance of all laws and regulations we will there smoke a cigarette."
They reached the sheltered side of it, and Vane threw down his coat on the ground for her to sit on.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" she whispered, and he drew her into his arms and kissed her. Then he made her sit down, and arranged the coat around her shoulders.
"You come in too," she ordered. "There's plenty of room for both. . . ."
And so with his arm around her waist, and his cheek touching hers they sat for awhile in silence.
Then suddenly Vane spoke. "Grey girl—I'm going away to-day."
"Going away?" She echoed the words and stared at him incredulously.
"But . . . but . . . I thought. . . ."
"So did I," he returned quietly. "When I came down here yesterday I had only one thought in my mind—and that was to make you give up Baxter. I wanted it from purely selfish reasons; I