Mr. Basingstoke dragged at the chain of Charles, who was already
gardening industrially in a bed of begonias, and walked straight to the
arbor. It could not, of course, be she whose skirt he saw through the
dappled screen of leaf and shadow. The waiter would never have called
her a "party"--still, one might as well make sure before one began to
make inquiries of the hotel people. So he walked around to the arbor's
entrance and looked in. A man and woman were seated with a little table
between them; coffee, peaches, and red wine announced the meal's
completion. The man was a stranger. The woman was Herself. She raised
her eyes as he darkened the doorway and they stared at each other for an
instant in a stricken silence. It was a terrible moment for Edward.
Recognition might be the falsest of false steps. On the other hand. . . .
The question was, of course, one that must be left to her to decide. The
man with her was too young to be her father; he might, of course, be an
uncle or a brother. Untimely recognition on Edward's part might mean the
end of all things. It was only a moment, though an incredibly long one.
Then she smiled.
"Oh," she said, "here you are!" And before Edward had time to wonder
what his next move was, or was expected to be, she had turned to her
companion and said, "This is my brother; he will be able to thank you
better than I can for your kindness."
The stranger, a strongly built man with blue eyes and a red neck, looked
from one to the other. It may have been Mr. Basingstoke's fancy, but to
him it seemed that the stranger's glance was seeking that elusive thing,
a family likeness. His look said that he did not find it. His voice
said,
"Not at all. Delighted to have been of the slightest service."
"What's happened?" asked Edward, feeling his way.
"Why," she hastened to explain, "when you didn't turn up I started to
walk, and I didn't put on sensible shoes." A foot shod in a worn satin
slipper crept out to point the confession and vanished at once. "And I
sat down on a heap of stones to wait for you. And then this gentleman
came by and offered me a lift. And I couldn't think what had become of
you--and you know how important it was to get to London--so, of course,
I was most grateful. And then something went wrong with the motor, so
we stopped here for lunch--and I can't think how you found me--but I'm
so glad you did. And all's well that ends well."
Edward felt that he was scowling, and all his efforts could not smooth
out the scowl. She was patting Charles and looking at Charles's master.
"We are very much indebted to you, sir," said Edward, coldly.
"Nothing, I assure you," said the gentleman with the red neck. "Only too
happy to be of service to Miss--er--"
"Basingstoke," said Edward, and saw in her eyes that he had not done the
right thing. "I suppose you forgot to write to Aunt Emily and Uncle
James," he said, seeking to retrieve the last move.
"Indeed I didn't," she said, with plain relief. "I wrote directly I got
here, and gave them to the waiter to post."
Another silence longer than the first was broken by the waiter, who came
to announce that the gentleman's lunch was ready in the coffee-room. The
other gentleman--red-necked--asked for his bill.
While the waiter was gone for it, Edward put a sovereign on the table.
"For my sister's share," he said.
The red-necked gentleman protested.
"You know," she said, in a low voice, "I said I should pay my share."
The red-necked gentleman rose. "I will tell them," he said, "to make out
your bill separately. And now, if I cannot be of any further service to
you, I think I'll be getting on. Good day to you."
"Good day," said Edward, "and thank you for your kindness to my sister."
"Good-by," said she, "and thank you a thousand times." She held out her
hand. He bowed over it and went away through the sunlit garden,
resentment obvious in every line of his back.
Neither Edward nor the girl spoke. There was no sound in the arbor save
the convulsive gulpings of Charles absorbing the sponge fingers which
she absently offered him from among the scattered dessert.
It was she who broke the silence. "I did write," she said.
"Yes. I got the letter." He laid it and Miss Davenant's on the table.
"What does it mean?"
"What it says--"
"You won't let _me_ help you--but you let that man, right enough."
"What was I to do? The important thing was to get away."
"What tale did you tell that man?"
"The truth."
He scowled with bitter skepticism.
"I did. Except that you're not my brother. I told him I'd missed you and
that I'd got to get to London to-day as early as I could. And he was
awfully nice and kind."
"I can well believe it."
"_Nice_ and kind," she repeated, with emphasis. "And you were most
horrid to him. And I do think you're unkind--"
"I don't mean to be," said Edward, "and it's not my province to be
horrid and unkind to you, any more than it is to be nice and kind. In
this letter you say good-by. Am I to understand that you mean
good-by--that I am to leave you, here--now?"
She did not answer, and there was that in her silence which laid a
healing touch on his hurt vanity.
"If my manner doesn't please you," he went on, "do remember that you
have brought a fairly solid Spanish castle about my ears and that I am
still a little bewildered and bruised."
"I'm sorry," she said, "but I didn't think."
"You see," he went on, "I thought I'd found a girl who wasn't just like
other girls. . . ."
"I'm afraid I am," she said--"just."
"I thought that you were brave and truthful and strong--and that you
trusted me; and then I find you haven't the courage to stick to the way
we planned; you haven't even the courage to wait for me and tell me
you've changed your mind. You bolt off like a frightened rabbit and make
friends with the first bounder who comes along. I was a fool to think I
could help you. You don't need my help. Anybody else can help you just
as well. Good-by--"
"Good-by," she said, not looking up. And he perceived that she was
weeping. Also that he was no longer angry.
"Don't!" he said, "oh, don't! Do forgive me. I don't know what I've
said. But I didn't mean it, whatever it was, if it's hurt you. I'll do
just what you say. Shall I call that chap back?"
She shook her head and hid her face in her hands.
"Forgive me," he said again. "Oh, don't cry! I'm not worth it. Nothing's
worth it. Charles, you brute, lie down." For Charles, in eager sympathy
with beauty in distress, was leaping up in vain efforts to find and kiss
the hidden face.
"Don't scold him," she said. "I like him." And Edward could have
worshiped her for the words. "And, oh," she said, after a minute, "don't
scold me, either! I'm so frightfully tired and everything's been so
hateful. I thought you'd understand, and that if you cared to find me,
you would."
"How could I? You sent no address."
"I did. On the handkerchief. . . . But I suppose you couldn't read it."
"And still," he said, but quite gently now, "I don't understand--"
"Don't you? Don't you see, I thought when you'd had time to think it
over you'd be sorry and wish yourself well out of it, and yet feel
obliged to go on. And I thought how horrid for you. And how much easier
for you if you just thought I'd changed my mind. And then I set out to
walk to Seaford and take the train. And then my shoes gave out, and I
was so awfully afraid of aunt coming along that way, so that when Mr.
Schultz came along it seemed a perfect godsend."
"So that's his foreign and unhappy name?" said Edward. "How did he come
to tell it to you?"
"He had to," she said. "I borrowed ten pounds of him. I couldn't have
gone to Claridge's without money, you know."
"Why Claridge's?"
"It's the only hotel that I know. And I had to have his name and address
to send it back."
"May I send it back this afternoon?" Edward asked.
"Yes--"
"And you take back all you said in the letter? You don't mean it?"
"Not if you didn't want me to."
"And it wasn't really only because you thought I. . . ."
"Of course. At least. . . ."
"Well, then," said Mr. Basingstoke, happily, "it never happened. I
fetched you as we arranged. We go on as we arranged. And Mr. Schultz is
only a bad dream to which I owe ten pounds."
"And you're not angry? Then will you lend me some money to buy a hat,
and then we will go straight on to London."
"Yes," said Edward, controlling Charles, who had just seen the peaches
and thought they looked like something to eat. "But--if you won't think
me a selfish brute I should like to say just one thing."
"Yes--" She wrinkled her brows apprehensively.
"Neither Charles nor I have had any luncheon. Would you very much mind
if we--"
"Oh, how hateful of me not to remember!" she said. "Let me come and talk
to you and feed Charles. What a darling he is! And you do forgive me,
and you do understand? And we're friends again, just as we were
before?"
"Yes. Just as we were."
"It's curious," she said, as they went back through the red and green
and blue and yellow of the garden, "that I feel as though I knew you
ever so much better, now we've quarreled."
Mr. Schultz had, it appeared, after all, paid for the two luncheons.
Edward sent him two ten-pound notes and the sovereign, "with compliments
and thanks."
"And that's the end of poor Mr. Schultz," she said, gaily, and, as it
proved, with complete inaccuracy.