VI

Mr Edward Coe and Olive Two arose from their bed the next morning in

great spirits. Mr Coe had told both his wife and Mimi that the hour of

departure from Rottingdean would be six o'clock. But this was an

exaggeration. So far as his wife was concerned he had already found it

well to exaggerate on such matters. A little judicious exaggeration

lessened the risk of missing trains and other phenomena which cannot be

missed without confusion and disappointment.

As a fact it was already six o'clock when Edward Coe looked forth from

the bedroom window. He was completely dressed. His wife also was

completely dressed. He therefore felt quite safe about the train. The

window, which was fairly high up in the world, gave on the south-east,

so that he had a view, not only of the vast naked downs billowing away

towards Newhaven, but also of the Channel, which was calm, and upon

which little parcels of fog rested. The sky was clear overhead, of a

greenish sapphire colour, and the autumnal air bit and gnawed on the

skin like some friendly domestic animal, and invigorated like an

expensive tonic. On the dying foliage of a tree near the window millions

of precious stones hung. Cocks were boasting. Cows were expressing a

justifiable anxiety. And in the distance a small steamer was making a

great deal of smoke about nothing, as it puffed out of Newhaven harbour.

"Olive," he said.

"What is it?"

She was putting hats into the top of her trunk. She had a special

hat-box, but the hats were too large for it, and she packed minor

trifles in the hat-box, such as skirts. This was one of the details

which first indicated to an astounded Edward Coe that a woman is never

less like a man than when travelling.

"Come here," he commanded her.

She obeyed.

"Look at that," he commanded her, pointing to the scene of which the

window was the frame.

She obeyed. She also looked at him with her dark, passionate, and yet

half-mocking eyes.

"Yes," she said, "and who's going to make that trunk lock?"

She snapped her fingers at the sweet morning influences of Nature, to

which he was peculiarly sensitive. And yet he was delighted. He found it

entirely delicious that she should say, when called upon to admire

Nature: "Who's going to make that trunk lock?"

He stroked her hair.

"It's no use trying to keep your hair decent at the seaside," she

remarked, pouting exquisitely.

He explained that his hand was offering no criticism of her hair. And

then there was a knock at the bedroom door, and Olive Two jumped a

little away from her husband.

"Come in," he cried, pretending to be as bold as a lion.

However, he had forgotten that the door was locked, and he had to go and

open it.

A tray with coffee and milk and sugar and slices of bread-and-butter was

in the doorway, and behind the tray the little parlour-maid of the

little hotel. He greeted the girl and instructed her to carry the

tray to the table by the window.

"You are prompt," said Olive Two, kindly. She had got up so miraculously

early herself that she was startled to see any other woman up quite as

early. And also she was a little surprised that the parlour-maid showed

no surprise at these very unusual hours.

"Yes'm," replied the parlour-maid, wondering why Olive Two was so

excited. The parlour-maid arose at five-thirty every morning of her

life, except on special occasions, when she arose at four-thirty to

assist in pastoral affairs.

"All right, this coffee, eh?" murmured Edward Coe as he put down the

steaming cup after his first sip. They were alone again, seated opposite

each other at the small table by the window.

Olive Two nodded.

It must not be supposed that this was the one unique dreamed-of hotel in

England where the coffee is good of its own accord. No! In the matter of

coffee this hotel was just like all other hotels. Only Olive Two had

taken special precautions about that coffee. She had been into the hotel

kitchen on the previous evening about that coffee.

"By the way," she asked, "where's the sun?"

"The sun doesn't happen to be up yet," said Edward. He looked at his

diary and then at his watch. "Unless something goes wrong, you'll be

seeing it inside of three minutes."

"Do you mean to say we shall see the sun rise?" she exclaimed.

He nodded.

"Well!" cried she, absurdly gleeful, "I never heard of such a thing!"

She watched the sunrise like a child who sees for the first time the

inside of a watch. And when the sun had risen she glanced anxiously

round the disordered room.

"For heaven's sake," she muttered, "don't let's forget these

tooth-brushes!"

"You are so ridiculous," said he, "that I must kiss you."

The truth is that they were no better than two children out on an

adventure.

It was the same when down in the hotel-yard they got into the small and

decrepit victoria which was destined to take them and their luggage to

Brighton. It was the same, but more so. They were both so pleased with

themselves that their joy was bubbling continually out in manifestations

that could only be described as infantile. The mere drive through the

village, with the pony whisking his tail round corners, and the driver

steadying the perilous hat-box with his left hand, was so funny that

somehow they could not help laughing.

Then they had left the village and were climbing the exposed highroad,

with the wavy blue-green downs on the right, and the immense glittering

flat floor of the Channel on the left. And the mere sensation of being

alive almost overwhelmed them.

And further on they passed a house that stood by itself away from the

road towards the cliffs. It had a sloping garden and a small greenhouse.

The gate leading to the road was ajar, but the blinds of all the windows

were drawn, and there was no sign of life anywhere.

"That's the house," said Edward Coe, briefly.

"I might have known it," Olive Two replied. "Olive One is certainly the

worst getter-up that I ever had anything to do with, and I believe

Pierre Emile isn't much better."

"Well," said Edward, "it's no absolute proof of sluggardliness not to be

up and about at six forty-five of a morning, you know."

"I was forgetting how early it was!" said Olive Two, and yawned. The

yawn escaped her before she was aware of it. She pulled herself together

and kissed her hands mockingly, quizzically, to the house. "Good-bye,

house! Good-bye, house!"

They were saved now. They could not be caught now on their surreptitious

honeymoon. And their spirits went even higher.

"I thought you said Mimi would be waiting for us?" Olive Two remarked.

Edward Coe shrugged his shoulders. "Probably overslept herself! Or she

may have got tired of waiting. I told her six o'clock."

On the whole Olive Two was relieved that Mimi was invisible.

"It wouldn't really matter if she _did_ split on us, would it?" said the

bride.

"Not a bit," the bridegroom agreed. Now that they had safely left the

house behind them, they were both very valiant. It was as if they were

both saying: "Who cares?" The bridegroom's mood was entirely different

from his sombre apprehensiveness of the previous evening. And the early

sunshine on the dew-drops was magnificent.

But a couple of hundred yards further on, at a bend of the road, they

saw a little girl shading her eyes with her hand and gazing towards the

sun. She wore a short blue serge frock, and she had long restless legs,

and the word _Formidable_ was on her forehead, and her eyes were all

screwed up in the strong sunshine. And in her hand were flowers.

"There she is, after all!" said Edward, quickly.

Olive Two nodded. Olive Two also blushed, for Mimi was the first person

acquainted with her to see her after her marriage. She blushed because

she was now a married woman.

Mimi, who with much prudence had managed so that the meeting should not

occur exactly in front of the house, came towards the carriage. The pony

was walking up a slope. She bounded forward with her childish grace and

with the awkwardness of her long legs, and her hair loose in the breeze,

and she laughed nervously.

"Good morning, good morning," she cried. "Shall I jump on the step? Then

the horse won't have to stop."

And she jumped lightly on to the step and giggled, still nervously,

looking first at the bridegroom and then at the bride. The bridegroom

held her securely by the shoulder.

"Well, Mimi," said Olive Two, whose shyness vanished in an instant

before the shyness of the child. "This _is_ nice of you."

The two women kissed. But Mimi did not offer her cheek to the

bridegroom. He and she simply shook hands as well as they could with a

due regard for Mimi's firmness on the step.

"And who woke you up, eh?" Edward Coe demanded.

"Nobody," said Mimi; "I got up by myself, and," turning to Olive Two,

"I've made this bouquet for you, auntie. There aren't any flowers in the

fields. But I got the chrysanthemum out of the greenhouse, and put some

bits of ferns and things round it. You must excuse it being tied up with

darning wool."

She offered the bouquet diffidently, and Olive Two accepted it with a

warm smile.

"Well," said Mimi, "I don't think I'd better go any further, had I?"

There was another kiss and hand-shaking, and the next moment Mimi was

standing in the road and waving a little crumpled handkerchief to the

receding victoria, and the bride and bridegroom were cricking their

necks to respond. She waved until the carriage was out of sight, and

then she stood moveless, a blue and white spot on the green landscape,

with the morning sun and the sea behind her.

"Exactly like a little woman, isn't she?" said Edward Coe, enchanted by

the vision.

"Exactly!" Olive Two agreed. "Nice little thing! But how tired and

unwell she looks! They did well to bring her away."

"Oh!" said Edward Coe, "she probably didn't sleep well because she was

afraid of oversleeping herself. She looked perfectly all right

yesterday."