"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 does your aunt think I am?"
"I would rather not tell you; you'd only laugh."
"But please tell me. I shouldn't."
A troubled silence answered him.
"Look here," he said, "I know there's a lot you haven't told me. Do tell
me, and let me help you, if I can. You're worried and unhappy. I can
hear it in your voice. Tell me. Things look different when you've put
them into words. First of all, tell me who your aunt thought I was."
She sat down again with the air of definite decision. "Very well," she
said, "if you will have it, she thought you were the piano-tuner. Why
don't you laugh?"
"I'm not amused yet," he said. "What piano-tuner? And why should he--why
should you--"
"The piano-tuner is a fence," she said, "and she thinks you're it."
"I don't understand a word you're saying."
"I don't care," she said, desperately. "I'll tell you the whole silly
story and you can laugh, if you like. I shan't be offended. Last autumn
father brought a man to lunch, quite a nice man--sensible, middle-aged,
very well off--and next day he told me the man had proposed for me, and
I'd better take him. He'd accepted for me."
"Good heavens!" said Edward, "I thought it was only in the _Family
Herald_ that such fathers existed."
"Laugh as much as you like," said she; "it's true, for all that. You
see, I'd refused several before that. It's rather important for me to
marry well--my father's not rich, and--"
"I see. Well?"
"Well, I wasn't going to. And when it came to this luncheon man I told
you about there was a scene, and my father said was there any one else,
and I said no; but he went on so frightfully and wouldn't believe me. So
at last I told him."
"Told him what?"
"That there was some one."
"Yes?" His voice was only more gentle for the sudden sharp stab of
disappointment which told him what hope it was that he had nursed.
"And then, of course, I wouldn't say who it was. And he sent for my
aunts. Aunt Enid's worse than Aunt Loo. And they bothered and bothered.
And at last I said it was the piano-tuner. I don't know how I could
have. Father turned him off, of course, poor wretch, and they brought me
down here to come to my senses. Aunt Loo never saw the miserable
piano-tuner, and she thinks you're him. So now you know. And that's why
they're taking me away from here. They think the piano-tuner is pursuing
me. I believe Aunt Loo thinks you trained the dog to bark at horses so
as to get a chance to speak to me."
"Do you care much for your father?" he asked, "or for any of them?"
"It's a horrid thing to say," she answered, "but I don't. The only one I
care for's Aunt Alice--she's an invalid and a darling. Father thinks
about nothing but bridge and races, and Aunt Loo's all golf and horses,
and Aunt Enid's a social reformer. I hate them all. And I've never been
anywhere or seen anything. I'm not allowed to write to any one. And they
don't have any one here at all, and I'm not to see a single soul till
I've come to my senses, as they call it. And that's why I was so glad to
talk to you yesterday."
"I see," he said, very kindly. "Now what can I do for you? Where's the
other man? Can't I post a letter to him or something? Why doesn't he
come and rescue you?"
"What other man?" she asked.
"The man you're fond of. The man whose name you wouldn't tell them."
"Oh," she said, lightly, and just as though it didn't matter. "There
isn't any other man."
"There isn't?" he echoed, joyously.
"No, of course not. I just made him up--and then I called him the
piano-tuner."
"Then," he said, "forgive me for asking, but I must be quite sure--you
don't care for any man at all?"
"Of course I don't," she answered, resentfully, "I shouldn't go about
caring about any one who didn't care for me--and if any one cared for me
and I cared for him, of course we should run away with each other at
once."
"I see," said Mr. Basingstoke, slowly and distinctly. "Then if there
isn't any one else I suggest that you run away with me."
It was fully half a minute before she spoke. Then she said: "I don't
blame you. I deserve it for asking you to meet me and coming out like
this. But I thought you were different."
"Deserve what?"
"To be insulted and humiliated. To be made a jest of."
"It seems to me that my offer is no more insulting or humiliating than
any of your other offers. I like you very much. I think you like me. And
I believe we should suit each other very well. Don't be angry. I'm
perfectly serious. Don't speak for a minute. Listen. I've just come into
some money, and I'm going about the country, seeing places and people.
I'm just a tramp, as I told you. Come and be a tramp, too. We'll go
anywhere you like. We'll take the map and you shall put your finger on
any place you think you'd like to see, and we'll go straight off to it,
by rail or motor, or in a cart, or a caravan, if you'd like it.
Caravans must be charming. To go wherever you like, stop when you
like--go on when you like. Come with me. I don't believe you'd ever
regret it. And I know I never should."
"I believe you're serious," she said, half incredulously.
"Of course I am. It's a way out of all your troubles."
"I couldn't," she said, earnestly, "marry any one I wasn't very fond of.
And one can't be fond of a person one's only seen twice."
"Can't you?" he said, a little sadly.
"No," she answered. "I think it's very fine of you to offer me
this--just to get me out of a bother. And I'm sorry I thought you were
being horrid. I'll tell you something. I've always thought that even if
I cared very much for some one I should be almost afraid to marry him
unless I knew him very, very well. Girls do make such frightful
mistakes. You ought to see a man every day for a year, and then,
perhaps, you'd know if you could really bear to live with him all your
life."
Instead of answering her directly, he said: "You would love the life in
the caravan. Think of the camp--making a fire of sticks and cooking your
supper under the stars, and the great moonlit nights, and sleeping in
pine woods and waking in the dawn and curling yourself up in your
blanket and going to sleep again till I shouted out that the fire was
alight and breakfast nearly ready."
"I wish I could come with you without having to be married."
"Come, then," he said. "Come on any terms. I'll take you as a sister if
I'm not to take you as a wife."
"Do you mean it? Really?" she said. "Oh, why shouldn't I? I believe you
would take me--and I should be perfectly free then. I've got a little
money of my own that my godmother left me. I was twenty-one the other
day. I don't get it, of course. My father says it costs that to keep me.
But if I were to run away he would have to give it to me, wouldn't he?
And then I could pay you back what you spent on me. Oh, I wish I could.
Will you really take me?"
But he had had time to think. "No," he said, "on reflection, I don't
think I will."
But she did not hear him, for as he spoke she spoke, too. "Hush!" she
said. "Look -- look there."
Across the park, near the house, lights were moving.
"They're looking for me," she gasped. "They've found out that I'm away.
Oh, what shall I do? Aunt Loo will never be decent to me again. What
_shall_ I do?"
"Come with me," he said, strongly. "I'll take care of you. Come."
He took her hand. "I swear by God," he said, "that everything shall be
as you choose. Only come now--come away from these people. You're
twenty-one. You're your own mistress. Let me help you to get free from
all this stuffy, stupid tyranny."
"You won't make me marry you?" she asked.
"I can't make you do anything," he said. "But if you're coming, it must
be now."
"Come, then," she said, making for the ladder.