It was at Hurstmonceaux that they opened the picnic
basket--Hurstmonceaux, the great ruined Tudor castle, all beautiful in
red brick and white stone. Less than a hundred years ago it was perfect
to the last brick of it. But its tall old twisted red chimneys smoked.
So a Hastings architect was called in. "I cannot cure your smoky
chimneys, sir," said he, "but with the lead and some of the bricks of
your castle I can build you a really comfortable and convenient modern
house in the corner of your park, and I pledge you my word as an
architect that the chimneys of the new house sha'n't smoke." So he did,
and they didn't. And Hurstmonceaux was turned from a beautiful house to
a beautiful ruin, and no one can live there; but parties of sightseers
and tourists can be admitted on Mondays and Thursdays for a fee of
sixpence a head, children half-price. All of which she read to him from
the _Guide to Sussex_, as they sat in the grass-grown courtyard, where
moss and wild flowers have covered the mounds of fallen brick.
"But this isn't Monday or Thursday," she said. "How did you get in?"
"You saw--with the big key, the yard of cold iron. I got special leave
from the owner--for this."
"How very clever of you! How much better than anything _I_ could have
arranged."
"Approbation from Sir Hubert Stanley," he said, drawing the cork of the
Rüdesheimer. "I do hope you _really_ like lobster salad."
"And chicken and raspberries and cream, and everything. I like it
all--and our dining-room--it's the most beautiful dining-room I ever
had. I only thought of a wood, or a field, or perhaps a river, for
Thursday."
"You did mean to have a picnic for Thursday?"
"Yes, but this is much better. It's a better place than I could have
found, and besides--"
"Besides--?"
"It isn't Thursday."
When luncheon, a merry meal and a leisurely, was over, they leaned
against a fallen pillar and rested their eyes on the beauty of green
floor, red walls, and the blue sky roofing all. And above the skylarks
sang.
"There's nothing between us now," he said, contentedly--"no cloud, no
misunderstanding."
"No," she answered, "and I don't want there ever to be anything between
us. So I'm going to tell you about Chester--the thing that worried me
and I couldn't tell. Do you remember?"
"I think I do," he said, grimly.
"Only you must promise you won't be angry."
"With you?" he asked, incredulously.
"No . . . with him . . . and you must try to believe that it is true.
No, of course not; I don't mean you're not likely to believe what _I_
say, but what he said."
"Please," he pleaded, "I'm a patient man, but. . . ."
So she told him the whole story of Mr. Schultz, and, at the end, waited
for him to give voice to the anger that, from the very touch of his hand
on hers, she knew he felt. But what he said was:
"It was entirely my fault. I ought never to have left you alone for an
instant."
"You thought I was to be trusted," she said, a little bitterly, "and I
couldn't even stay where you left me. But you do believe what he said?"
"I'll try to," he answered. "After all, he needn't have said
anything--and if _you_ believe it-- Look here, let's never think of him
or speak of him again, will you? We agreed, didn't we, that Mr. Schultz
was only a bad dream, and that he never really happened. And there's
nothing now between us at all . . . no concealments?"
"There's one," she said, in a very small voice, "but it's so silly I
don't think I _can_ tell you."
"Try," said he. "I could tell of the silliest things. And after that
there's one more thing I wish you'd tell me, if you can. You _are_
happy, aren't you? You are glad that we're together again?"
"Yes," she said. "Oh yes!"
"And this morning you weren't?"
"Oh, but I was, I was! It was only-- That's the silly thing I want to
tell you. But you'll laugh."
"It wasn't a laughing matter to me."
"I know I was hateful."
"It was--bewildering. I couldn't understand why everything was all wrong
and then, suddenly, everything was all right."
"I know--I was detestable. I can't think how I could. But, you see, I
was disappointed. I meant to arrange for you to meet me at some very
pretty place and I was going to have a very pretty luncheon. I'd thought
it all out . . . and it was exactly the same as yours, almost, only I
shouldn't have known the name of the quite-perfect wine and, then . . .
there you were, you know, and I hadn't been able to make things nice for
you."
"Was that really all, my Princess?"
"Yes, that was all."
"But still I don't understand why everything was suddenly all right."
"It was what you said. That made everything all right."
"What I said?"
"You see, I meant it all to be as pretty as I could make it, and I'd got
a new dress, very, very pretty, and a new hat . . . and then you came
upon me, suddenly, in this old rag and last year's hat and scarf I only
wore because aunty gave them to me. And I felt caught, and defrauded,
and . . . and dowdy."
"Oh, Princess!"
"And then you said . . . you said you liked my dress . . . so, then, it
did not matter."
It was then that he lifted her hand to hold it against his face as once
before he had held it, and silence wrapped them around once more--a
lovely silence, adorned with the rustle of leaves and grass and the
skylark's passionate song.