THE CARAVAN
How long she had been there she did not know. She looked about her,
wondering where she was; how she had come there. She was in the open
air; above her were the stars in the sky. She seemed to be lying on
some rubbish; but something hard was underneath. How her head ached;
it made her feel so stupid. Putting up her hand to soothe it, she
found that it hurt her almost as much as her head. Staring at it, in
the dim light she could just make out that it was covered with
something wet. All at once she remembered, hazily; and sat up
straighter. She had dropped from the window--it must be somewhere
above her; she could not see it from where she was. This rough surface
which she touched when she put out her poor, hurt hand must be the
outer wall of the hotel.
One thing was plain: she was not dead; and so it behoved her not to
stay where she was a moment longer than she could help; she had not
dropped from the window to spend the night on the ground immediately
beneath. She raised herself to her feet; the process occasioning her
more pain than she had expected. It was all she could do to stand. One
ankle showed a disposition to double up; her left leg smarted so that
the pain of it brought the tears into her eyes. Indeed, there were
smarts and aches all over her; her arms seemed limp and her hands
nerveless; her whole body felt hurt, and bruised, and shaken. Her
first impulse, when she learnt the plight she was in, was to sink back
on to the ground, from which she had with such difficulty raised
herself, and cry. But, even in the half-dazed condition in which she
was, she recognised that such a mode of procedure would be worse than
futile. Since she had risked so much to get so far she might at least
try to get a little farther. Now, in all probability, only a little
courage was needed to enable her to get at least clear away from that
immediate neighbourhood.
Which way should she go? She looked about her. The light, if dim, was
sufficient to enable her to make out something of her surroundings.
Seemingly the place in which she was had nothing to do with the hotel.
It was apparently a yard which was associated with the adjoining
house. What kind of house it was she could not see; she could see
windows, but behind them no lights were visible; the whole place
seemed to be in darkness. There were buildings on three sides of the
yard. She could just see what seemed to be a door which led into the
house; it was hardly likely to be of much use to her--she would be
little better off in the adjoining house than in the hotel which she
had just now quitted. She looked for another door; and saw that there
was one in the wall which bounded the yard on the fourth side. She
moved towards it, stumbling over unseen obstacles as she went.
Reaching it, she raised the latch; the door was open. Passing through
she found herself in a narrow alley, which ran between two walls.
Since, to her, direction mattered nothing, she turned to the left;
then, when she had gone some little distance, to the left again; and
presently came to what was apparently the principal street of the
town. Conscious of the singularity of her appearance: dressed, as she
was, for indoors; hatless; with her attire in disorder; being
unwilling to attract notice, she peered anxiously about her alley. At
that hour of the night even the town's chief thoroughfare was nearly
deserted. Gaining courage from the fact, passing into it, she pressed
forward with hurrying footsteps, leaving the hotel more and more
behind her as she went.
Occasionally she met both pedestrians and vehicles; but no one seemed
to take any special heed of her. Either they were too occupied with
their own affairs; or else they saw nothing about her to rouse their
interest. On and on she went; always along the same broad street; the
farther she went the fewer people she encountered. At last it seemed
to her that she had gone some distance without meeting a soul. Looking
round she perceived that she seemed to have left the town behind; the
high street seemed to have become a country road. Here and there by
the roadside were detached villas and houses; but the long unbroken
line of buildings had come to an end. Pressing on she found that the
villas and the houses were becoming fewer and farther between; she was
in the open country. On a sudden even the fertile country, with its
fields and trees and hedges, seemed to have gone; the road seemed to
be passing over an illimitable expanse of open heath.
She was so tired; so stiff; and in such pain. Her ankle hurt her so
that she could hardly put her foot to the ground. The leg which she
had grazed against the wall, as she had lowered herself from the sill,
smarted almost beyond endurance. Her bruised body ached all over; her
head ached worse than her body. As she paused to take her bearings all
these things forced themselves on her at once. She became conscious
that, however great the need, she could not go on much farther without
a rest. Where was she to rest? Out here the world seemed brighter; the
stars brighter. Certainly the air was clearer. She could see on all
sides of her, by the light of the stars, ever so far; little enough
there seemed to see. Here and there, the way she had come, were the
outlines of houses; but in front, and on either hand, was nothing but
the open moor; broken by what probably were clumps of furze and
bushes. Should she lie down by the side of one of those clumps, to
rest? The turf ought to be dry; there was promise of fair weather; she
would be better there than alone in a room with Mr Emmett, be he alive
or dead. The thing to be desired was to get at some distance from the
road, so that she might escape observation from passers-by. She began
to pick her way, as best she could, across the grass. Her objective
was a patch of brushwood which, so far as she was able to judge, was
at a distance of perhaps a couple of hundred yards; far enough from
the road to ensure her privacy. Gaining the edge of the patch, she
began to thread her way among the bushes; determined, if she could, to
reach the centre, so that they might stand up round about her, and so
serve as an effective screen. She had just decided that she had got as
far in among them as she need, and was about to allow herself the
luxury of sinking down upon the turf, when there was a rustling sound,
and, looking up, a man seemed to rise out of the solid earth, within a
few feet of where she was standing.
Which of the twain was more surprised there was nothing to show; the
man was the first to speak; which he did in a voice which at least
hinted at cultivation:
"Who are you?"
The girl, taken wholly unawares, replied, in faltering tones, as a
child might have done:
"I'm--I'm Dorothy."
"Oh, you are Dorothy; that's good hearing. And pray, Dorothy, from
where did you happen to have sprung?"
She echoed his word.
"Sprung?"
"Yes; literally and correctly, sprung; for since a minute ago there
was no one within a mile, one only can conclude that you have sprung
clean out of mother earth. If you haven't, how do you come to be
there?--from where have you come?"
"I've come--from the road."
"From the road. That's very illuminating. Did you come to this
particular spot because you knew that I was here?"
"Knew--that you were here!"
Her manner seemed to strike him. There was an interval before he spoke
again.
"I think, if you don't mind, I'll come and have a better look at you."
He came striding towards her through the bushes. Her impulse was to
turn and flee. But, partly because she was no longer capable of
flight, partly because there was something in his tone which spoke
pleasantly to her ear, she stayed quite still, without making an
effort to move. He advanced until he was within a yard of her; then he
stopped. She had watched him coming with sensations which she would
have found it hard to define; when he stopped she trembled. In silence
he stood and looked at her; while she, on her side, looked at him. She
realised, with a distinct sense of relief, that there seemed to be
nothing to offend her in his appearance. So far as she could judge, in
that uncertain light, he was not old, nor very young. He had a small
beard and moustache. His head, like her own, was uncovered. He seemed
to be decently attired--though he wore no waistcoat, and his shirt was
open at the neck. In his left hand he had a pipe, which, as he
continued to inspect her, he placed in his mouth. She could see the
smoke issuing from between his lips.
When he spoke, the question which he put to her was as unconventional
as their meeting:
"How old are you?"
Without hesitation she replied:
"I'm nearly eighteen."
"Nearly eighteen? That's a great age. Aren't you a lady?"
"I--I don't know."
"Don't you? Then you're wise. Very few women do know if they are or
are not ladies; they only think they know; and how often they think
wrong. However, as a matter of simple fact, I think we may take it for
granted that, for present purposes, you approach as near to the
accepted definition of what a lady is as needs be; and, therefore, I
should very much like to know why, at this hour of the night, you're
here."
"I came to rest."
"You came to rest?--where?"
"Here."
"What do you mean by here?"
"Here, among the bushes, where--where they won't be able to see me
from the road. I didn't know that you were here. If I am in your way
I'll--I'll go."
"It isn't that you're in my way that's the trouble. The difficulty
which presents itself to my mind is, why do you want to rest among the
bushes?"
"Because I'm tired."
"That's a good reason, so far as it goes; and you both look and sound
as if you were tired; but why the bushes, when you might be safe and
snug at home in bed? Where is your home?"
"I have no home."
"Is that true?"
"Quite true. I never have had a home."
He seemed to be considering her words.
"There's a quibble about that statement somewhere. Girls like you
don't attain to the ripe age of nearly eighteen years without ever
having had a home; you're not a product of a vagabond life. However,
I'll feign to believe you, if I don't; since, just now, the point
seems to be that you do propose to spend at least this one night with
no canopy above you but the sky. Is that so?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Then you're dull; my meaning's not opaque. Am I to understand that
you seriously propose to spend the night out in the open?"
"I am tired; I want to rest; I must rest somewhere; I--I can't keep
walking all night."
"No; you certainly can't; and, since that is the case, you had better
come with me."
He turned, as if to go. She drew back.
"Where to?"
He noted the gesture.
"Not far; only a few steps. Are you afraid of me?"
"No; I don't think I am."
"Be sure, please. Doesn't your instinct tell you that there's nothing
about me which you need fear? It's hard on me if it doesn't, since my
one prayer is that no one who is helpless, hopeless, and in trouble
shall ever be afraid of me. So please be sure that you are not afraid;
and come." He moved off; this time she followed; though still a little
doubtfully. He led her, between the bushes, to where the ground began
to fall away; pausing on the crest of the slope, he pointed to a
caravan which was immediately in front, at the bottom of a little
hollow, which was just deep enough to hide it from view till one was
right upon it. "You say that you've no home; that's mine--_pro
tem_.--for this summer time, which flies all too quickly. And, while
it's summer, it's a home fit for a lord; a king need want no better;
and, for this night, it's yours." He stopped; then, seeing that she
looked at him askance, went on: "By that I mean that if, instead of
spending the night in the open, resting beneath the bushes, you will
accept the hospitality of my caravan, and take up your quarters in it
till the morning, I shall be honoured, flattered, and obliged."
She was staring at him with wide-open eyes.
"Do you mean that you wish me to sleep in there?"
She pointed to the structure down below.
"If you will so far honour me--if you will be so very good."
"But--where are you to sleep?--if that's your home?"
"I'll show you." She went beside him down the slope till they came to
where some things were lying on the ground. "That's my bed; my
sleeping-place. There's a waterproof sheet stretched out upon the
grass, pegged down at each of the four corners. On it are all the
wraps I need for covering. On a night like this I'd sooner lie under
those"--he pointed upward to the stars--"than under a painted ceiling.
So, since my house is empty, it'll be glad to have a tenant. You'll
find in it all the bed and bedding you require. I'll be out here,
sleeping, like a watchdog, at your door. You've only to bolt and bar
it, and you'll be as safe from molestation as you could be in any
hotel that ever yet was built." He ascended the two or three steps
which mounted to the door of the caravan, and went inside. "If you'll
wait till I've lighted the lamp I'll show you what excellent
accommodation my establishment has to offer." Presently she found
herself standing with him in the queerest room she had seen. Tired
though she was, she could not help noticing its spotless cleanliness;
and, in spite of its small size, how dexterously its contents were
arranged, so that not only was nothing in the way, but there were
conveniences of many kinds which one would not expect to find in such
cramped quarters. On a sort of shelf on one side a bed was made.
"That's your couch for to-night. I always get it ready for immediate
occupation when the shades of evening fall. In this dear English
climate prophecy is vain; one never knows what may happen between
sunset and sunrise. You go to bed under a cloudless sky, to wake, an
hour later, because you are being pelted by the rain. Since my
education has not yet gone far enough to enable me to enjoy sleeping
in the rain, under those circumstances I pick up my bed, and beat a
hasty retreat in here. And as one generally wants to get to sleep
again with the least possible delay, I make a point of having this in
readiness, so that I may tumble in upon the instant. See; here's a
bolt, and here's a bar; push them home, when I am gone, and you'll be
as safe as if you were in the Tower of London."
When he had gone she acted on his advice. Apparently he was listening
without; because, when the door was made fast, he called to her.
"Good-night!--sleep well!--may the angels touch your eyelids if you
dream!"
She bade him good-night, in her turn; though hers was spoken scarcely
above a whisper. Her desire was to look about her; to take some stock
of her new and strange surroundings; but her weariness was greater
than her desire. Half unconsciously she sank down on the bed upon the
shelf, just as she was. As she touched it, she sighed; and was asleep.
She was roused by the sound of knocking. She was vaguely aware that
someone was making a noise for some little time before she succeeded
in waking sufficiently to make quite sure. Lifting her head she
perceived that though the lamp still burned its light was quite
superfluous, since the sun was streaming in through the narrow window
which ran along one side of the caravan. There was no mistake about
that noise. Rat-tat-tat! Someone was keeping up a sustained and
vigorous rapping against the door.
"Who's there?" she asked.
"No one in particular; only me. I was beginning to wonder if you were
going to sleep the clock right round. You must forgive me for
disturbing you; I wouldn't have done it only I've a sort of feeling
that it's nearly breakfast-time; especially as, in a general way, I've
had my breakfast, washed up, and put away the things, a couple of
hours ago. The trouble is that all the cooking utensils of which my
establishment boasts are inside with you; so, if you're awake wide
enough, if, at your convenience, you could manage to come outside, I
could come in, and start upon that morning meal." For some seconds, in
her drowsy state, she could not conceive who it could be who was
talking. When she remembered, although she was alone, she put her
hands up to her face to hide her blushes. In that convent of hers
maidens were taught to be maidenly; it burst upon her, with some
force, that there was that about her situation which was scarcely
conventual. The voice without went on: "There's a can of water just
outside the door; if you put two fingers out you'll be able to get it
in. If you'll open the cupboard above your head you'll find a
looking-glass--which you'll be able to hang on any one of a dozen
different hooks--a basin, and, I believe, all the essentials necessary
for an elementary toilet."
Getting off the bed, she was conscious, although she still ached, of
feeling distinctly rested; and that though she had slept with all her
clothes on. Unbarring the door she drew in the can of water; saying,
as she did so:
"I am so sorry to have kept you waiting; but I--I did sleep so
soundly. I won't be a moment longer than I can help."
Nor was it long before she threw the door wide open, and came out on
to the ledge at the top of the little flight of steps. He was lying on
the turf, with a pipe in his mouth, a newspaper in his hands. She was
conscious, as she came out into the open, of the glory of the morning.
He seemed to be conscious only of her. Jumping up he saluted her with
his hand.
"Why," he exclaimed, "you're a living advertisement of the excellence
of my domestic arrangements; you look as fresh as a new pin. If you
had been able to indulge in the luxury of a marble bath, and a barber,
you could look no fresher. Good-morning--I need not ask you how you've
slept--and here's the sun in a cloudless sky to greet you."
She came down the steps, all blushes; smiling as she had not done
since she left the convent. The process of preparing breakfast began.
She was conscious that she ought to intrude no longer on this
stranger's hospitality. But, in the first place, her shyness kept her
from giving expression to that consciousness; and, in the second,
something told her that, say what she might, he would not let her go
till she had shared with him his morning meal. So, making a virtue of
what really was necessity, she held her peace upon the subject of her
going; and helped him with his preparations for the meal.
Girl-like, she found those preparations most amusing; she had not been
so entertained for many a day. There were eggs and bacon to be fried;
the kettle to be boiled; bread and butter to be cut; the table to be
laid. Acting on instructions, this latter she made her special
business. The table was the ground. On it she spread a tablecloth; on
the white cloth were placed the necessary cups and saucers, plates and
spoons, knives and forks. The cooking was done on an oil-stove inside
the caravan.
"Read the advertisements," exclaimed the stranger, "and an oil-stove
can do anything that the most unreasonable camper-out can possibly
require--up to cooking a dinner for any number, anywhere, in a torrent
of rain and a storm of wind. As a matter of plain fact it won't really
cook out-of-doors at all; that's the one advantage of a house on
wheels: you can keep it under cover, though it smells the place out.
Humour an oil-stove; coddle it; and it may cook something, sometimes,
which a hardy stomach may be able to digest. Subject it to any one of
the ten million conditions it dislikes, fight as you will, it will
beat you out of sight; and, in spite of all your struggles, you'll go
hungry in the end. I know! I've tried every sort that's made; each is
worse than the other. Now where's that dish? I've a constitutional
objection to eating my food out of a frying-pan, if it can possibly be
avoided; so if you'll be so good as to take the dish out of the oven,
where it's supposed to be getting hot, I'll turn these eggs and this
bacon out upon it, and we'll start on them while we still have
strength enough to do it."
Presently the girl and the man were seated on opposite sides of that
impromptu table.