Of course you will have known all along whose voice that would be.
Edward was less discerning. He had been far too much occupied with
Charles and the horse to do more than realize that the two people in the
cart were women--and now when he heard again the voice that had talked
to him yesterday in the freshness of the morning, the shock sent his
blood surging. He looked up--face, neck, ears were burning. Men do not
blush, but if they did you would have said that Mr. Basingstoke blushed
in that hour.
He looked up. Holding the reins was a hard, angular woman of fifty, the
sort that plays golf and billiards and is perfectly competent with
horses. Beside her sat the girl, and under her white hat the crimson of
her face matched his own. The distress he felt at this unpropitious
coincidence deepened his color. Hers deepened, too.
"You can't do anything, thank you," he said, just a moment too late. For
his pause had given the aunt time to look from one to the other.
"Oh!" she said, shortly.
The girl spoke, also just too late.
"At least, let us take the poor, dear dog home for you," she said.
"By all means," said the aunt, with an air of finality. "Where shall we
leave it?"
"I am at the Five Bells, in Jevington," said Edward, and was thankful to
feel his ears a shade less fiery.
"I see," said the aunt, with hideous significance. "Put it in at the
back, will you?"
She spoke as though Charles were a purchase she had just made and Mr.
Basingstoke the shopman.
He would have liked to refuse, but how dear of her to suggest it. "Thank
you," he said, and came through the dust to the back of the cart.
Almost before he had replaced the second pin the cart moved, and he was
left alone in the white road.
The way home was long and dismal--its only incident the finding of a
little white handkerchief in the dust about a mile from the scene of the
tragedy. It was softly scented. Of course it might be Aunt Loo's
handkerchief, but he preferred to think that it was Hers. He shook the
dust from it and put it in his pocket. As he came down the village
street he remembered how, only yesterday, he had heard, just here by the
saddler's, that strangled, choking bark which betokened Charles's
recognition of his master's approach. Well, there would be no such
barking welcome for him now.
Some other dog was choking and barking, though, and in that very stable
where Charles had choked and barked. And Charles's body would have been
put in the stable, no doubt. He would go round and see. He went round,
opened the stable door, and next moment was struck full in the chest by
what seemed to be a heavy missive hurled with tremendous force. It was
Charles, who had leaped from the end of his chain to greet his
master--Charles, alive and almost idiotic in his transports of uncouth
affection. Edward felt the dog all over--to see if any bones were
broken. Charles never winced. There was not a cut or a bruise on him!
The two sat on the straw embracing for quite a long time.
"Yes, sir, seems quite himself, don't he?" said Robert. "Miss Davenant
she brought him. Told me to tell you the dog come to himself quite
sudden on the cart. Must have fainted, young miss said, and when he come
to it was all she could do to hold him down. He seems to have come to
quite sudden and all wild-like among their legs in the bottom of the
cart till miss dragged him out--nearly upset the old lady right out of
the cart, coming up sudden under her knees. Awful nasty she was about
it. Said the dog must have been shamming. Thank you, sir. I'll drink
your health and the dog's."
"Shamming, indeed!" said Edward to himself, and resented the cruel and
silly aspersion. Yet, stay, was it really quite impossible that Charles,
fearing that the same punishment might visit this last exploit as had
followed his earlier outrages, had really shammed, to disarm a doting
master? Edward put away the thought. It was impossible.
The main thing was that Charles was alive. But, after all, _was_ that
the main thing? Now that the dog was alive it suddenly ceased to be. The
main thing was that he had not seen her that morning and that he must,
somehow, see her again.
Somehow. But how? This gave him food for thought.
He went into his parlor and sat down--to think. But, try as he could,
there seemed no way. Of course he could go next morning--of course he
would go next morning--and every morning for a week. But if she hadn't
come to-day, why should she come to-morrow 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