the bolts of the back door did not creak at all when, at twenty minutes to twelve, edward basingstoke let himself out. tommy always saw to the bolts, for his own purposes, with a feather and a little salad oil.
the night was sweet and dark under the trees and in among the houses. in the village no lamp gleamed at any window. beyond the village, the starshine and dew lent a gray shimmer to field and hedge, and the road lay before him like a pale ribbon. he crossed the meadow, climbed the wall, and dropped. the earth sounded dully under his feet, and twigs crackled as he moved. there was no other sound. she was not there. he dared not light a match to see his watch's face by. perhaps he was early. well, he could wait. he waited. he waited and waited and waited. he listened till his ears were full of the soft rustlings and movements which go to make up the silence of country night. he strained his eyes to see some movement in the gray park dotted with black trees. but all was still. it was very dark under the trees. and through all his listening he thought, thought. did it do to trust to impulses—to instincts? did it do, rather, to disregard them? a gipsy woman had said to him once, "your first thoughts are straight—give yourself time to think twice and you'll think wrong." what he had felt that morning while he waited, vainly, for her to come had taught him that, fool as he might be for his pains, the feeling that possessed him was more like the love poets talked of than he would have believed any feeling of his could be. and, after all, love at first sight was possible—was it not the theme of half the romances in the world? he felt that at this, their second meeting, he must know whether he meant to advance or to retreat. always when he had trusted his impulse his choice had been a wise one. but was a choice necessary now? his instincts told him that it was. this midnight meeting—planned by her and not by him—it was a meeting for "good-by." no girl would make an assignation at that hour just to tell a man that she intended to meet him again the next day. so he must know whether he meant to permit himself to be said good-by to. and he knew that he did not.
the day had been long, but it seemed to him that already the night had been longer than the day. could he have mistaken the hour? no, it was certainly twelve—or thirteen. then his heart leaped up. if it had been thirteen, that meant one o'clock. perhaps it was not one yet. but he felt that he knew it to be at least three. yet if it were three there would be the diffused faint illumination of dawn growing, growing. and there was no light at all but the changeless light of the stars. again and again he thought he saw her, thought he heard her. and again and again only silence and solitude came to meet his thoughts.
when at last she did come he saw her very far off, and heard the rustle of her dress even before he saw her.
he would not go to meet her across the starlit space; that would be very dangerous. he stood where he was till she came into the shadow. then he went toward her and said:
"at last!"
she drew a long breath. "oh, i was so afraid you wouldn't come!"
"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[50] 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[51] 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.[56] 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.
